Author's Note: A post-Thanksgiving digestif, for your enjoyment.

- five: spit it out -
bella

Hi Edward,

The blinking cursor on the laptop screen is burning a matching black line in my retina. I have no idea where to go after that.

Yesterday was…a lot. I spent most of the night trying to process it. But regardless of all the thoughts and fears swirling in my mind, there's one undeniable truth: I really want to taste his scallop crudo dish, with a glass of that chardonnay alongside. Exactly as intended.

That seems like it should be enough.

But after hours of replaying the whole interaction in my head, I was still hesitating. Doubting. Questioning.

So this morning, I brought my concerns to Carlisle.

Not all of them—I couldn't bear to tell my elegant, even-keeled investor how much I'd lost my cool over Edward's looks. But the salient points, anyway.

"I trust your judgment," Carlisle said simply. "If you say he's good, I'm in."

I made a face he couldn't see on the phone. "He's good. But it's all the rest I'm worried about."

"Well, give him a test run, then," Carlisle said reasonably. "His idea to test out the creative collaboration worked, right? We can't exactly replicate a dinner rush but I'm sure there's a way you can see how he works in a more real-world situation."

It had seemed reasonable. But now that I'm at the point of actually putting it to Edward, I'm nervous. I don't want to seem insulting.

I give myself a little shake. What am I talking about? Of course I want to seem insulting. That would only help me in seeing how he deals with bullshit. Because if he's gonna blow, I'd rather know now.

I type the email and send it without reading it back.

Hi Edward,

I've talked it over with Carlisle—we'd like to do a test run. Nothing major, just a dinner at his house. We'll start with my wine selections, and then build the menu together.

What do you think?

Bella Swan
Owner & Wine Director
Cygnet

Let's just see what he does with that.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

A few days later, I'm digging through the wine cellar, looking for the bottle I know I spotted in here the other day…

"Hello?"

The sound of knuckles rapping unnecessarily against the open door to the street echoes down the old wooden stairs.

"Down here," I call up, and footsteps echo across the tiled hall.

"Whoa."

I glance up the staircase, where Edward's tall frame blocks the brighter light from the entryway.

"That's a pretty serious cellar."

"Charlie set it up," I say over my shoulder as I turn back to my task. "It was just storage originally, but it stays nice and cool, so he figured it'd work for wine."

The ancient pine treads creak under Edward's weight as he descends. "You mentioned he was into wine the other day," he comments, gazing around the packed shelves. "I didn't realize you meant he was a serious collector." He picks up a bottle of Penfolds Grange, scanning the iconic label. "1998, jeez."

"Yeah, he's—" I catch myself just in time. My throat tightens out of nowhere, and I feel a familiar burn behind my eyes.

Swallowing hard, I press on. "He was a big nerd about it. He worked for Waylon Forge at Forgery back in the day, before he bought the Dive."

Edward sets the shiraz back in its cradle. "Forgery?"

I snort. "You East Coasters are always so ignorant about the Willamette Valley." I'm needling him a bit now. "West Coast wine starts and ends in Napa for you, doesn't it?"

He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Enlighten me."

"There were a few OG pinot noir producers in the 70s and 80s who just knew that the terroir could stand up to the greats of Burgundy." I realize I'm unintentionally repeating the words Charlie always used to tell the story, and it makes me smile. "Shocked the hell out of the world when they started winning international awards in the 80s. They ended up doing a big showdown in '85, pitting Oregon pinot noir against Burgundies, and even the foremost experts of the day couldn't distinguish between them in a blind tasting."

"Well, I knew that," Edward says. "I'm not a total wine ignoramus."

"If you say so," I reply doubtfully, pursing my lips. The good-natured crinkling at the corners of his eyes tells me he knows I'm just ribbing him. "Anyway, Waylon Forge was one of those OGs, and Forgery was one of the wines they tested against the French pinots. My dad was part of the team for those harvests."

"Wow." He's browsing through the massive wall of Oregon pinots now, where the lone remaining bottle of the '83 Forgery pinot is displayed in pride of place. "Is this it?" he asks, running a thumb over the label.

"Yeah. It was the top pick at the Challenge." The lump is back. I clear my throat reflexively. "Past its prime, of course. But Charlie wanted to keep one for me."

He shoots me a quick look through those thick lashes, like he can tell I'm struggling. With a hum of acknowledgement, he replaces the bottle.

"So, like I told you," I continue, "Charlie was tight with lots of the Oregon wine community, and obviously the restaurant industry here in town. People liked to give him cool bottles. He bought some cases here and there, and I sent stuff home from France, but most of these were gifts from his adoring public."

He's got that butterfly-inducing half-smirk on again, and I discover yet again that I'm not immune. "Man, I need better friends."

I smile briefly in response and return to digging through the still-unsorted crates of bottles I'd shipped home when I moved back.

"So what's the plan, boss?"

I shoot him a sharp look. "I haven't hired you yet, you know."

That actually makes him falter for a second. "No, I know," he says, and I can tell I've poked a sizable hole in his natural ease. "Just a figure of speech."

I genuinely feel bad for smacking him down—I know he didn't mean anything by it.

But I brush the feeling away. Sympathy feels a little too close to actually liking the guy.

"I'm grabbing the last of the wine I want to base the menu around," I say, pushing the conversation back to safer ground. "I'd like to do a bit more of what we tried with the chardonnay the other day. But I thought we might run over to the Farmers' Market too. Get some more inspiration, see what looks good. We can order some ingredients for you to tinker with at home, too."

If we can finalize the plan today, Edward will have a few days to work out his recipes before we put it all together at Carlisle and Esme's house next week. It's an unorthodox way to test a chef's chops, but it's the best we could come up with under the circumstances.

I'm not quite sure if I'm hoping he'll succeed or fail.

"Works for me," he says. He's recovered that relaxed demeanor.

"There you are, you bastard," I mutter as I spot the bottle of Teran I'd been searching for. It wasn't an expensive one, but it's an uncommon variety in the States—one I think would make a good test for some of the more off-beat bottles I want to feature on the wine list.

"That should round it out," I say, holding out the bottle for Edward to take.

"Anything else you need me to carry?"

"Nah, I've got it."

I slot the crate cover back into place and pick up the other bottle I pulled from the archives.

Motioning to Edward to head back up the stairs, I follow him into the hallway.

"Not that way," I say as he starts for the door that leads back onto the street.

"Oh, is there a back way into the restaurant?"

"There is, but we're going up," I say, pointing to the staircase.

"Your apartment?" he asks, and I can't quite put my finger on just what's in his tone.

"There's an office up there, too."

I start up the staircase without looking to see if he's following.

I pause at the landing at the top—he's just a few steps behind me. "Office," I say, pointing to the door straight ahead, then to the righthand door that leads to the little two-bedroom flat over the restaurant, "and off-limits."

He laughs. "I think I can keep that straight."

Inside, I've got a few bottles lined up on the desk, along with my Coravin and a couple glasses.

"Any chance you have a spit bucket?" Edward asks as he takes a seat at the desk, pulling out a battered little notebook from the back pocket of his jeans.

"Yeah, let me grab one." I probably should have thought of that, with five bottles to try.

When I'm back from the apartment, stainless steel spittoon in hand, Edward's already examining the bottles.

"This is kind of an eclectic group," he comments.

That is, of course, the point, but I opt to hold back the snappy comment that rises in my throat. "I figured I'd give you a range," I say instead. "See where you go."

"What's your vision for the meal?" he asks. "Courses, family style, what?"

I start working the Coravin needle through the cork of the first bottle—a cheap and cheerful albariño I like to keep around for casual sipping.

"I think we lean into shareable plates," I say. "A few small, a couple large. No need for dessert—I know you're not a pastry chef."

He grins. "Oh, thank God."

"The intention is to get a feel for how you put ideas together," I continue. "Obviously we don't expect any of it to be ready to slap on a menu. We just want to see how things progress from concept to plate."

I tip a small amount in each of our glasses.

"Single-vineyard albariño from Uruguay," I say reflexively as I flick my wrist to finish the pour without spilling a drop. "Right at the mouth of the estuary of the Río de la Plata."

I watch him surreptitiously over the rim of my glass as he takes a careful sip, swirls it around in his mouth, and spits it neatly into the bucket.

The way his cheeks hollow, the jump of tendons in his neck, the purse of his lips—

Damn. And here I was hoping I'd landed on something that would make him look ugly. No human being should look that good spitting.

"Oysters," he says immediately. "I know it's basic but goddamn, it's too perfect. Can you get those little Olympias? I know they're a little tougher to source, but…"

I grin. "Oh, baby, I can get anything."

Baby. I freeze. The word hangs in the air.

For a heartbeat, I think he's going to—

But no. He blinks, and the heat I thought I saw in his gaze is gone. What had promised to become a smirk is just his normal half-smile. He tips his chin to look at his notebook, scratching his thoughts down without a peep about my slip.

Thank God.

"Great. I'll want to do a granita of some sort with them. Something more herby than fruity, I think, but we can see what looks good at the market."

I nod dumbly, and we move on to the next bottle.

Despite my verbal misstep, the rest of our tasting goes smoothly. It seems like the longer I'm around Edward, the more I relax. Call it exposure therapy.

Most of the game plan comes together in very short order. After the oysters and albariño, Edward wants something he can only describe as a "big green spring thing," made with miso butter and whatever crisp vegetables look best at the market, to go with a lightly bubbly Italian pét-nat.

I tell him I'm thinking trout would be best with the amber wine, a qvevri-aged blend from Georgia—just to see how he'll handle direction from me.

To my satisfaction, he does this snapping thing I'm noticing means his brain is firing faster than his mouth can follow. Then he's scribbling away again, talking quickly as he writes. "Brown butter, asparagus"—another sip—"charred lemon? Yeah."

When I pour a classic pinot noir from one of the vineyards Carlisle has a stake in, Edward surprises me with a slightly unhinged-sounding chicken liver mousse on brioche toast topped with homemade grape jelly and crushed peanuts—"it's gonna be like the most grown-up version of PB-and-J you've ever had, you'll love it, trust me."

The Teran, however, he has to spend some time with, sipping and swirling and spitting multiple rounds before looking up at me.

"Ok, this is a tougher one," he says, frowning. "What do they pair it with in"—he glances at the bottle, then back to me—"Istria? Where even is that?"

"Northwestern Croatia, just across the Adriatic from Venice," I answer, taking a sip of my own glass. "I will say it's at its best when it's had some time to breathe, to let the tannins smooth out."

Edward makes a rude sucking sound through his teeth that makes me laugh.

"I think that's the tannin theme song," I joke. "You don't like it?"

"I do," he says slowly, "but damned if I know what to cook with it."

"Istria has a pretty strong Italian influence on their food," I suggest. "I saw a lot of Teran drunk with cheese and cured meats, pasta with meat sauces—it holds up pretty nicely to tomato—pork," I list. "And game, too, which might be a fun direction. It's got so much body; it can hang with strong flavors."

That makes something click in his brain. "Is it crazy to do, like, a rabbit meatball?" he asks, sniffing at the last bit of the wine in his glass. "I could braise the meat with fennel and herbs, then serve it with a tomato sauce." He shoots me a wolfish grin. "Assuming you think this wine can stand up to fennel."

I laugh. "I think it could stand up to Novacane," I shoot back. "Yeah, rabbit meatballs would be great."

"Cool," he says, and we're smiling at each other.

He was right, I realize. We do bounce off each other well.

It's fun. And for that reason, I'm starting to suspect it's dangerous.

Footnotes:

Penfolds is a very highly-regarded Australian producer of shiraz (called syrah elsewhere). Grange is their most iconic tier of wine, made with the best grapes selected from all their vineyards. The 1998 vintage runs ~$1k a bottle today.

Terroir is a French term that means the total effect of the natural world on a wine—soil, elevation, climate, etc. Burgundy and the Willamette Valley have similar cool, wet climates that enable an elegant, subtle style of pinot noir.

Forgery is not a real winery, but the 80s Oregon pinot noir boom is true. Oregon winemakers earned major international awards with the '80-83 vintages that kinda stunned the global wine world.

And then there's the 1985 Burgundy Challenge story. Blind tasting with major Burgundy experts testing Oregon pinots against French Burgundies (some of the classic high end old world pinot noirs). No judges could get the origin of the glasses right more than 50% of the time, and the top 3 faves were all from Oregon (real top pick was from Yamhill Valley Vineyards).

Sorry Bella, there's no sexy way to use a spit bucket/spittoon. But it is a perfectly acceptable way to taste wines without actually imbibing the alcohol (or so I hear—I am A. always too embarrassed to do it, and B. fundamentally opposed to the concept of not actually drinking the wine I taste).

Albariño (alvarinho in Portuguese) is a white varietal native to the Northwestern corner of the Iberian peninsula (Galicia & northern Portugal). Dry, herby, acidic, with lots of citrus. Lovely oyster wine and usually very affordable.

Granita is flavored crushed ice. Traditionally it'd be a fruity dessert (like shave ice), but it's also a common oyster garnish flavored with herbs, vinegars, veggies, etc.

Edward's "big green spring thing" is based on the Spring Fling recipe in Dana Frank & Andrea Slonecker's fantastic cookbook, Wine Food. RIP Bar Norman, Frank's amazing and recently deceased wine bar.

Pét-nat (pétillant naturel) is a style of sparkling wine made using a very old method that actually pre-dates champagne.

Amber wine is the Georgian style of skin contact white wine (hey, that's the story title!) that's a really beautiful amber color (hence the name). It's very robust, complex, and almost spicy tasting. A very small number of winemakers there make the wine in the traditional qvevri, which are Georgian clay amphora/massive jars, and buried underground to ferment. This is like, literally Neolithic winemaking, folks.

Tannins come from the skins of the grape. A really tannic red has kinda like a grippy, squeaky eraser, astringent feel on your tongue? Also present in coffee, tea, & dark chocolate. All wines have tannins (white has less, red has more), but the structure and mouth feel of them varies based on the grape skin structure. Oxygen contact (through age, using a decanter, or just letting the bottle sit open) will soften the feel.