When he poured a taste of Madeira for the Master Sommelier at my table, a splash of wine hit the rim of the glass. The entire table grew silent and not a single person, Morgan included, breathed as we watched the fat, juicy brown droplet roll, as if in slow motion, over the outside rim, along the glass’s side, and down the stem to the foot of the glass. It was like a turd smeared on a wedding gown.
