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believe that?” I laughed. “He’d been raising and selling about a thousand pounds a year for the past twenty years. He told the feds that he only used what he needed and sold the rest to other medicinal users.”
    “How did he distribute it?”
    “He used to sell it mail order through some group of medical users in California. Now he sells it over the Internet. He’s got a guy on the west coast that packages it up for him and ships it from out there.”
    “Amazing,” said Pete. “A real entrepreneur.”
    “Well, not any more,” I said. “Ah, here comes lunch.” I picked up the corner of the rye bread to peer inside. The ingredients were all there and looked to be in correct proportion. All was right with the world.
    “Hey,” said Pete, “what kind of pants are those?”
    “Regular pants,” I said. “Nonexpanding.”
    “You’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time.”
    “Is Bud working today?” I asked, through a mouthful of fries. “I need a recommendation for a nice, reasonably-priced Chablis.”
    “Yeah,” said Pete, getting up. “I’ll get him. This soldier’s dead anyway.” He picked up his empty beer bottle and headed back to the kitchen.
    I was two bites into the sandwich when Bud came out. Bud McCollough was Ardine’s oldest son. He was fifteen years old and had gotten a job at The Slab washing dishes and doing odd jobs, but his passion was wine. He’d been studying it for years. Ardine had two other kids as well as Bud. Her husband, PeeDee, in his paternal wisdom, had named them all after beers. In addition to Bud, there was his thirteen-year-old sister, Pauli Girl, and the youngest boy, Moose-Head, who was seven. We all did him a favor and called him “Moosey.”
    “Hi, Bud,” I said, when he walked up to the table. “Listen, I need something good for Saturday night. I was thinking of a Chablis.”
    “What’s on the menu?” asked Bud.
    “Grilled salmon with capers, couscous, spinach salad, maybe cheesecake for dessert.”
    “Appetizers?” asked Bud.
    “I think so, but I don’t know what. Meg is bringing them, and I think I heard talk of mushrooms.”
    “Okay,” said Bud. “Here’s what you need to do. Got a pencil?” He waited while I dug one out of my pocket and grabbed a napkin to write on.
    “For the main course, I think you’ll want a Las Brisas Rueda. It’s a Spanish white from the central region of Spain. Las Brisas has a wide-open array of flowery and grassy aromas that almost attack the nose at first sniff. The taste is bright, fruity and filled with white peach, apricot, Granny Smith apples, grapefruit and just a hint of lime, but it’s got a touch of acidity that lets it really complement the salmon, especially if it’s grilled. I’d also recommend that you grill some yellow bell peppers, by the way. They’d set the Las Brisas off nicely. Got that?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “How do you spell ‘Brisas’?”
    He ignored me. “For dessert, you’ll want a tawny port. Graham’s 20 Year Old is a good choice with cheesecake. But just a small glass —
    don’t overdo it — and serve it with coffee. It’s a true port; you know, from Portugal.” Bud got a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s wonderful: mixed aromas of cola, pecans, brown sugar, citrus peel and crème brûlée. It’s a bit shy at first, but then quite daring: spirited and charming, with an elegant nose.”
    “Got it.”
    Collette had wandered over to the table and was looking at Bud as though there were lobsters crawling out of his ears.
    “The appetizers are tricky, since we don’t know exactly what Miss Farthing is planning, but I’m going to go out on a limb and steer you toward a Luis Felipe Edwards Carmenere. Very earthy. We’re talking wet leaves, dirt, and maybe just a hint of tobacco.”
    “Sounds…lovely,” I said, probably sounding a little leery.
    “No, really,” Bud replied, full of sincerity. “It’s one of the new Chileans. Old wood and earth,