After a smell, a swirl, a taste, he said, polite as hell, “It’s excellent. My compliments. Tell me about your vineyard.” If she talked, he didn’t have to, particularly when it came to discussing her wine. While it was passable-not that he had expected more from the cold Midwest-he wouldn’t have been able to offer praise with any conviction.

She told him a little of how she’d decided to get into the business, a brief, edited account short on the passions that motivated her. She talked about her various grape varieties, her small winery, several of the people who had influenced her decision to start a vineyard. He was surprised to discover she had a chemistry degree-so much for the blonde bimbo designation-and more surprised to hear that she’d worked in several of the really fine boutique vineyards in France. Too fucking bad she had chosen Minnesota to practice her craft.

“I know Michel Chapoutier and Olivier Bernard, too. Nice places to learn your trade.”

“And the weather is better than here.”

So she knew and still had gone astray. Not that he said a word. “Let’s try the white,” he said instead.

“It’s made from one of our locally hybridized grapes. It’s a blend of an ice wine and a table wine and not bad, if I do say so myself.”

After tasting it, he offered his compliments and asked her some more questions about her vineyard.

In turn she asked him about what had prompted him to become a chef, their conversation a variation on the what-sign -are-you getting-acquainted discussions. His account was even more abbreviated than hers; Cornell, the Culinary Institute, and apprenticeships in some of the better restaurants on the planet.

“You’ve seen a lot of the world.”

“I expect you have, too.”

“More than enough, thank you. I’m in my Faustian stage now, and I’m pretty damned content.”

“I guess I’m on that same search myself.” He lifted his glass. “To fulfillment.”