The snowfall had completely stopped by the time we reached the harbour. A thin, even white layer covered the boats, made to shimmer by the moonlight. Only patches of snow remained on the narrow gravel path leading to the restaurant, trampled down by the shoes of those arriving for the New Year’s Eve dinner.
I was disappointed when the waiter led us not to a table for two, but to one set for eight. I had never attended a prepaid New Year’s celebration before, but it never occurred to me that we would be seated with strangers. Still, I smiled when I saw the place cards. Four couples, all bearing the surname Varga, had been seated together. It was a decent joke, even if I wasn’t particularly in the mood to socialise. I couldn’t help calculating how many hours I would have to spend with these people at the very least. And since we had arrived first, I also had time to worry about what sort of company we were in for.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Within minutes, all the Vargas had arrived. Our New Year’s Eve table consisted of two very young couples and one retired pair. Conversation started, predictably, a little stiffly, and given the size of the table, there was no chance of anything resembling a private exchange.
Eventually, the older man took the floor.
“I suppose I’ll start with introductions,” he announced loudly. “Though it’s quite possible you already know me, seeing as until a few years ago I was the biggest businessman in the area.”
He glanced around, as if granting us time to rummage through our memories. My husband and I had moved there the day before, so we looked to the others, who exchanged uncertain glances.
The man clearly wasn’t waiting for a genuine reaction.
“No matter,” he continued. “These days I work as a taxi driver. Toward the end, unfortunately, the market I played a major role in collapsed. Still,” he added, clearing his throat meaningfully, “there weren’t many bigger businessmen around here than me. Even politicians used to come to me—I had that much influence. I had a vast fortune, which the business eventually swallowed whole.” He waved a dismissive hand.
His gaze landed on the wine bottle in the waiter’s hand beside him.
“That’ll do,” he said curtly. Then, reconsidering, he added, “Actually—let me see it, son.”
The waiter didn’t even blink at the rude address. He politely handed over the bottle.
“Right, put this straight into the fridge,” the man snapped. “It’s undrinkable like this. What were you thinking—that this lot would drink horse piss too?”
The young waiter went pale, his lips thinning. The coarse tone both stunned and infuriated him. His hand trembled slightly, yet when he spoke, his voice remained calm and velvety.
“All our beverages are stored at their recommended serving temperatures. The ideal temperature for this wine—”
“Don’t you dare lecture me on proper serving temperatures,” the former tycoon barked. “I told you to put it in the fridge! You’re not going to argue with me, are you? I’m the one paying!”
The waiter gave a short bow and hurried off. The man’s wife shook her head in sympathetic indignation. The rest of the table fiddled awkwardly with cutlery or whatever happened to be within reach.
Once we were alone again, he spread his arms theatrically.
“To me…” he muttered. “To me he wants to explain at what temperature Pinot Noir should be served? To me?”
His thick grey eyebrows shot up toward his forehead, and a mocking smile crept into the corner of his mouth. He lifted his fork, only to toss it casually back onto the table. His wife gently, silently stroked the arm of his dove-grey jacket.
The tension was broken when dinner was served. In fact, there was something almost cheerful about the discovery that the Vargas shared not only a surname, but the same taste. From the two menu options, every couple chose the same one. The identical plates provided fertile ground for a more relaxed conversation to take hold.
The taxi-driver-turned-magnate checked the temperature of his wine from time to time, then, with a dissatisfied shake of his head, sent it back to the fridge again.
I was beginning to worry that the eldest Varga might never get his drink at all when, during one of the tests, he finally let out an enthusiastic cry.
“Now that’s it! That’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaimed, clicking his tongue with satisfaction.
The entire table breathed a collective sigh of relief. The temperature of the wine had inevitably become the central topic of the evening. Mrs Varga’s carefully powdered, reddish-brown face lit up as well—perhaps from the shared joy, perhaps because the unfortunate waiter was finally being spared further harassment.
Mr Varga, his eyes gleaming, watched as his glass was filled halfway. With a courteous smile, he thanked the waiter, then reached for the bottle of cola standing in the middle of the table. He twisted off the cap with ease and diluted the Pinot Noir—chilled for nearly an hour and a half—with the room-temperature soft drink, with the calm confidence of a true gentleman.