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Every wine bottle has its own history. Some begin at vineyards that have been passed down through generations, with wine from vines that might be a hundred years old, or older. Or vines that have survived fires, droughts, and floods. Or that have traveled to the other side of the world to be planted in places where no one believed that wine-worthy grapes would ever grow successfully.
Whenever Bente Hammar recommended a wine to her customers, she always told its story. Tonight, her account of the grower who cultivated seventy-year-old vines in volcanic earth on the steep hillsides of Sicily, a stone’s throw from Mount Etna, captured the full attention of the wine bar’s first clients. The three young women watched expectantly as Bente walked from their table to the bar to fetch the bottle of red.Its fiery taste and slightly earthy tone will perfectly complement their seasonal vegetables with whipped herb butter,Bente thought with satisfaction. In moments like these—introducing people to new wines that elevated their dining experience, telling an interesting story—Bente loved her job.
She was just about to head back to the women’s table when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to meet her friend Ellie’s clear blue gaze.
“Guess what?” Ellie said. “The new wines have arrived, and I’ve persuaded Tomas to let us do a first tasting after we close.”
Bente grinned. “How did you manage that?” The idea that Tomas would let them taste the wines before he did sounded too good to be true.
“By pointing out it will help us match the wines with tomorrow’s menus. Increased sales!” Ellie tapped her temple with her index finger.
The place where they worked, Rendezvous, was a mediocre local bar and restaurant, but it had an excellent wine list. Bente had been the sommelier there for almost two years: creating the bar’s wine lists, advising customers about which wines went best with their meals, and ensuring that the wines were served properly. Tomas, the owner, insisted on stocking good wines, believing this would impress the choosy clientele around Mariatorget. He wasn’t entirely wrong; customers were impressed with Bente’s selections. But it would take more than a good wine list to improve the wine bar’s reputation.
Bente went over to the table and held up the bottle to the light flooding in through the tall windows. The sun was low in the sky, and it cast a golden shimmer over the room, making the deep-red wine glow through the bottle’s green glass.
The women nodded their approval. Bente then took the corkscrew from her apron pocket and opened the bottle, uncorking it with a satisfying plop. She waited for the first woman to taste it before she served the others.
She returned to the bar and, as the roofs of the buildings across the street swallowed up the last rays of the sun, sorted the previous day’s opened bottles on the solid wooden bar top framed by ribbed birch paneling. There was nothing wrong with the venue—dove-gray walls, pale wooden furniture, and low-hanging lamps with wide shades that spread a soft glow over the rectangular tables. The slightly darker wooden floor contrasted well with the cool color palette. Tomas hadn’t skimped on the decor or the building materials, but somehow the place lacked a feeling of warmth, despite the staff’s efforts to fill it with positive energy.
Some first-time guests did return, but by then it usually felt like a different place because Tomas had made changes and was trying something new. He was incapable of deciding what kind of business he wanted Rendezvous to be. When he took on Bente, it had been a simple wine bar; it later became a restaurant and bar. Now it was somethingin between. The one constant through all the changes was Tomas’s lack of engagement—he showed his face, counted the night’s receipts, and issued orders, and that was about it. He was never fully involved, yet he expected the business to run seamlessly, a disconnect that resulted in poor management on his part, insufficient staffing, and poor customer service.
And there was another problem. Tomas had recently informed the staff that he’d put the place up for sale, and now their hearts were no longer in their work because no one knew what was going to happen next. Their shared creativity was what had always made Rendezvous special. One example was this evening’s charred seasonal vegetables, which had been added to the menu by the impressive chef.
In a reversal of their usual problem, they actually had too many serving staff on tonight, so Bente and Ellie let the other waiter, a young student, finish early so he could get back to studying for his exams. After the kitchen closed, the chef went home too. A few guests lingered while, behind the bar, Bente and Ellie began to prepare their after-hours tasting. They unpacked the bottles and read the accompanying information, writing down the wines’ names and years and their expectations from the wines.
As soon as they were alone, they switched the music to soft Swedish pop and turned it up, setting out their glasses to the sound of Veronica Maggio’s singing. They took off their aprons and left the tall candles burning on the tables all around them.
Once everything was ready, six identical glasses sat in front of each of them. They lined up the wines and poured them—four reds and two whites. Tomas always left the writing of the wine descriptions to Bente; he felt that her skill lay in explaining wine in a way that people understood, and she didn’t disagree. This ability had once led her to a career as a TV sommelier. Tomas loved to mention this fact to customers, which made Bente feel like a performing monkey.
She and Ellie sat down opposite each other and swirled the first glass in order to release the wine’s aroma. Two of the red wines were fromBurgundy, one was from Portugal, and one was from Liguria in Italy. The oak-aged Chardonnay came from California, and the Sauvignon Blanc from Australia.
The soft glow from the overhead lights made the wine in the first glass look almost golden as Bente held it up to inspect the color and clarity.
“By the way, you haven’t replied to my invitation yet,” Ellie said.
Ellie had recently bought a house in Huddinge. The photos revealed an idyllic residential area, the sort of place that sent chills down Bente’s spine. Bente could already picture the May evening of the housewarming: late spring, with the smell of barbecues and the scent of hawthorn blossom in the air, and the sound of children’s laughter echoing among the houses. Ellie had been longing to buy, and was looking forward to moving in. Who wouldn’t, at this time of year? Piles of leaves and cut-back plants in the gardens after the spring clean-up, chatting over the fence or drinking flasks of coffee at rickety wooden tables that had been left outside all winter. Some kids might even be out grilling sausages. Bente hadn’t set foot in an area like that since she’d left home at the age of thirteen. In all the years since, she hadn’t known anyone who lived like that, at least no one she felt obliged to visit. It wasn’t that she couldn’t handle attending; for goodness’ sake it was only a housewarming. She just didn’t want to.
She smiled. “Of course I’m coming.”
Ellie gave her a searching look. “It’ll be cool.”
They’d met when Bente started working at Rendezvous, and had quickly become friends. Bente didn’t ever talk of her childhood, and Ellie respected her friend’s boundaries, which Bente appreciated.
They were well into the oak-aged Chardonnay, noting down words likecardamom,burnt butter, andtoffee appleswhen Bente’s phone vibrated with a message. It was from her friend Camille in France.
Mon chérie! You remember I was invited to join a diving expedition to a shipwreck off the coast of Brittany last month? It was crazy.
Another message immediately followed:
Look what we found down there—a genuine treasure. Some pretty average wines, but also some of real quality, plus this: a small box containing a single bottle, with something that looks like a Swedish inscription. Can you help with the translation?
Camille loved diving, and she was one of the best sommeliers Bente knew. She had a highly trained nose, and could distinguish between different wines from neighboring vineyards in Burgundy. She and Bente had met back when they were both pitching wine in a messy wine bar in Montparnasse, in Paris, fifteen years ago. Being well-qualified sommeliers wasn’t the only thing they had in common; both women had also long dreamed of joining an expedition to search for wines in a shipwreck. To Camille’s great delight, the French government had finally granted permission to investigate a wreck that had been located a few years earlier. The ship had struck a mine in 1945, just before the end of the Second World War; wine had made up a considerable share of its cargo. Bente guessed that her friend had been first into the water when the expedition got underway.
An image of a wine bottle appeared on her phone screen. The bottle had been cleaned, and the dark-green glass looked almost cloudy. In the middle was a small, round metal plaque, embedded in the glass, with a large tree—an oak—etched onto it. Among the oak’s branches, so small that they were barely visible, were four words.
Bente quickly replied:
