THERE were six of us to dinner that night at Mike Scho,

field s house in London: Mike and his wife and daughter,

my wife and I, and a man called Richard Pratt.

Richard Pratt was a famous gourmet. He was president

of a small society known as the Epicures, and each month

he circulated privately to its members a pamphlet on food

and wines. He organized dinners where sumptuous dishes

and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke for fear

of harming his palate, and when discussing a wine, he had

a curious, rather droll habit of referring to it as though

it were a living being. "A prudent wine," he would say,

"rather diffident and evasive, but quite prudent." Or, "a

good-humored wine, benevolent and cheerful-slightly

obscene, perhaps, but nonetheless good-humored."

I had been to dinner at Mike s twice before when Rich-

ard Pratt was there, and on each occasion Mike and his

wife had gone out of their way to produce a special meal

for the famous gourmet. And this one, clearly, was to be