House of Nails by Lenny Dykstra

Author:Lenny Dykstra
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062407382
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-06-21T16:00:00+00:00

The next stop was Paris. On advice from my limousine driver, we went to dinner at La Tour d’Argent, where four hundred years ago customers apparently dueled to get a table. It was still one of the most celebrated restaurants in the world. When I walked in, a tall, tuxedo-clad maître d’ wanted me to take off my driving cap. Thanks but no thanks. I considered it elegant. It was made by Kangol, a premier brand of hats. When I wouldn’t give it to him, he started talking angrily in French to one of the waiters.

I knew that this guy was about to blow a gasket, so I said to my interpreter, Bob Schueller, “Tell him I have a baseball injury that it’s covering, and I don’t want to alarm the other customers.”

The maître d’ finally relented, but he was pissed. You can probably guess what this guy thought about Americans in general, and here I was bringing the stereotype to life. But I didn’t really give a fuck.

When they brought out a wine list bigger than The Baseball Encyclopedia, I turned to Bob and told him to order the best, most expensive bottle of wine in the whole place.

“Their dessert wine, Château d’Yquem,” Bob said, “is the finest in the world.”

Bob started speaking to the maître d’ in French, then looked back at me. “He will offer you a bottle of the 1936 Château d’Yquem for sixteen thousand francs.”

“Offer me?” I said. “Sixteen thousand francs? How much is that?”

“Three thousand dollars,” Bob said.

“No problem,” I replied without blinking.

Up until then, the maître d’ had been flashing me dirty looks, but after I ordered the Château d’Yquem, he became much more subservient. And at that point my Kangol hat became an absolute nonfactor.

The maître d’ brought out the bottle of wine and explained how difficult it was to produce, requiring a rare summer heat, and an autumn of moist mornings to properly rot the grapes. Each grape is picked individually, only after it has dried and shriveled on the vine. Picking this particular crop takes care and a lot of luck.

All of that aside, the Château d’Yquem tasted like liquid gold. I’m not kidding you. You have to drink it almost chilled, almost icy, then you sip it slow. It’s hard to explain to someone how it tastes, as there is nothing comparable.

The son of André Terrail, the founder of this famed restaurant, stopped by our table and explained that during World War II, his father had bricked off his stash of 1936 Château d’Yquem to hide it from the Nazis. The five bottles in his wine cellar were the last ones left in the world, and I had just ordered one of them.

“Monsieur,” said Mr. Terrail, “it has been a pleasure to meet you. You have just bought the best bottle of wine in the world.” I adjusted my hat and I said to him, “Let me get another bottle—to go.”

I wanted a third one, but Terrail refused to sell it to me.

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