To me, Mozart is like a bottle of Château d’Yquem: sweet and silky, but more complex than it initially seems. Beethoven is like a petite sirah: ill-bred, brutish, chewy, but once tasted, never forgotten. And Scarlatti”—she laughed—“Scarlatti is like a cheap prosecco, full of bubbles that bother your nose.” “And Brahms?” Constance asked, irritated at the aspersion cast on her beloved Scarlatti, but not wishing to be impolite. “Ah, Brahms! Brahms is like…one of the best Barolos.”
