“Very good, Gerald. Thank you.” Some indefinable note in that chasmic voice contains a warning: Get lost, if you know what’s good for you.

Gerald is gone in a blink, vanishing into the shadows.

I dip the spoon into the red liquid, lift it delicately to my mouth prepared for heat, unsure of the flavor about to meet my tongue.

“Oh! It’s cold,” I say, surprised.

“It’s a gazpacho.” This, amused, not quite condescending. “It’s a cold soup. The Andaluz was originally served after the meal, but here in the States it is most frequently served prior, in the English and American tradition.”

“Cold soup. It seems . . . antithetical,” I say, and then ladle another spoonful into my mouth.

“Perhaps so, in theory,” comes the response, between mouthfuls. “In practice, however, it is quite good. Prepared properly, at least, and Jean-Luc is one of the best chefs in the world.”

Despite the surprise of the soup being served cold, it is delicious, creamy and bursting with the ripe flavor of fresh vegetables. I wash it down with a sip of wine, and although I have a vague notion that white wine is supposed to be paired with similarly colored foods, the light, fruity flavor of the wine does indeed offset the cold vegetable soup in a delightful contrast. Neither of us speaks as we finish the soup, and Gerald appears as I am scraping the last smear of red from the bowl. He takes the bowl from me and replaces it with a salad, does the same on the other side of the table.

“Continuing with the Spanish theme, this evening’s salad is a simple affair of cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes, lightly flavored with red wine vinegar and olive oil.” Once again, Gerald rotates the plate in front of me, bowing, presenting the brightly colorful salad, artfully arranged in geometric shapes.

The wine goes even better with the salad, each bite feeling spritely on my tongue, the wine tingling and coruscating.

More long moments of silence as we eat the salad. My wine goblet is empty for perhaps fifteen seconds in total when Gerald appears yet again from the shadows and refills it.

“Dispense with the formality, Gerald, and pour the rest of the bottle.” The command comes quietly and cannot be gainsaid, so firm and confident is the voice.

Total authority. Absolute expectation of obedience, even in so simple a matter as pouring a larger glass of wine than is, apparently, formally acceptable.

“As you wish, sir.” Gerald pours the wine into my glass first, twisting the bottle to prevent glugging.

Alternating between the two goblets, Gerald makes sure each of us has exactly the same amount, down to the last drops. Remarkable precision, performed with ritual familiarity.

The salad is finished. The quartet lets a moment of silence pervade, and then they strike up again, in practiced unison. I sip at my wine, savoring each droplet. At last, however, I can contain myself no longer.

“Caleb, you said this was a special occasion, but I must confess, I have no idea—”

“Hush and enjoy the experience. I am aware of your ignorance, and I will enlighten you in my own time. For now, drink your wine. Listen to the music. I handpicked this quartet from among the most promising students at Juilliard. Each of the musicians is among the best in the world at his or her respective instrument.”

I am not expected to reply. I lean back, pivot slightly, rest an arm across the back of my chair. Attempt to appear at ease, comfortable. How long passes, I cannot say. Minutes, perhaps. Ten or fifteen. I fight restlessness. Cross my legs, uncross them. Glance at the windows, wishing I could stand and stare down, watch the people, examine the city from each new angle, see new portions of the skyline. I know the view from each of my windows as well as I know the sight of my own hands. A new perspective would be something to enjoy.

Eventually Gerald appears with an already-uncorked bottle of wine. The bottle is darkest red, nearly opaque, and has no label. He pours a thimbleful into a clean glass, too little to really drink. I watch with fascination a ritual clearly familiar to both men, the swirl of the tiny amount of liquid around the bottom of the goblet; inhale through the nose, goblet tipped at an angle, just so. A sip, then. A wetting of the lips, swish around the mouth. A nod. Yet instead of filling that glass, Gerald fills mine first. A strange ceremony, that. Present it to the man for testing and approval, but pour it for the woman first. Inexplicable to me.

“This is from the estate at Mallorca, yes, Gerald?”

Gerald nods, setting the bottle down with great care. “Correct, sir. Bottled and shipped here for your exclusive reserves. One of a thousand bottles available, I believe, although Marcos would be the better man to ask for precise numbers.” A gesture at the shadows. “Shall I summon him, sir?”

A minute shake of the head. “No, it’s all right. It just has a slightly more pungent bouquet than the last bottle, is all.”

“I think, sir, that this bottle is the first of a new batch only recently arrived.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

Gerald nods, bows. “I believe the main course is ready, sir.”

A wave of the hand, a dismissal.

I am puzzled. Overwhelmed. Estate in Mallorca? Exclusive reserves of a thousand, unlabeled bottles of wine? An entire building in the heart of Manhattan?

“Where is Mallorca, Caleb?”

“It’s an island in the Mediterranean Sea owned by Spain. I—or rather my family—own a vineyard there, among other places.”

Family? It’s hard to think of this man as having a family. Sisters, brothers? Parents?

Gerald appears with a large plate in each hand. Salmon, pinkish-orange, surrounded by grilled vegetables—cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, green bean sprouts—and thick, lumpy mashed potatoes topped by a melting pat of butter.

I have yet to taste the wine, which is ruby in color, the shade of freshly spilled blood. I put the glass to my nose and inhale; the scent is earthy, ripe, pungent, powerful. I try a sip. I have to suppress the urge to cough, to spit it out. I swallow, school my features into the blank mask. I do not like this, not at all. Dry, rolling over my tongue with a dozen shades of decadent flavor.

“Don’t like that wine as much, I take it?”

I shake my head. “It’s . . . so different.”

“Different good, or different bad?”

I am in dangerous and unfamiliar territory. I shrug. “Not like the Pinot Grigio.”

A noise in the back of the throat. A laugh, perhaps. If I didn’t know better. “You don’t like it. You can say so, if that is the case.”

I demurely slide the goblet away from me an inch or two. “I would prefer some ice water, I think.”

“More of the Pinot, perhaps?” My goblet is tugged closer to the other side of the table.

I shrug, trying not to appear too eager. “That would be wonderful, Caleb. Thank you.”

A single finger lifted off the tabletop, a turn of the head. Subtle gestures, made with the knowledge that they will be noticed. Gerald appears, bending close. “Sir?”

“The lady does not find the red suitable to her palate, I’m afraid. She’ll have more of the Pinot Grigio. I’ll finish this myself, I suppose. No sense wasting it.”

“Immediately, sir.” Gerald hustles into the shadows and is gone for only a few moments before returning with a single glass of the white wine.

I was expecting more of the uncorking ritual and find myself slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see it again. So strange, so lovely, like the waltz of a gourmand. No matter. I drink the wine and enjoy it. Feel it in my blood, buzzing warmly in my skull.

The salmon, of course, is very good. Light, flavorful, pleasurable.

Nothing is said during the course of the meal. The only sound is the quartet playing softly from the shadows, the clink of forks. At long last, both plates are pushed away, and I follow example by covering what I didn’t finish with my napkin. Gerald removes the plates, vanishes, and reappears with two plates, each of which contains a single small bowl, in which is . . . I do not know what it is.