The Saint and the Templar Treasure

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Serious bibbers of wine tend to come in two classes. Discounting those who differentiate between bottles only by the color of the contents, there are those who know a little and talk a lot, and those who know a lot and talk little. Simon Templar was numbered among the latter.

The mystique that so often surrounds the appreciation of wine left him cold. He was indifferent to which side of the hill the grape had flourished on. Knowledge of the shoe size of the head grape treader left him unmoved. He found the family antecedents of the vigneron of yawning interest. All he was really concerned about was that the quality should be outstanding, without fretting too much over the technical trivia through which the quality had been achieved.

Fine wines, like good food, beautiful women, elegant clothes, and fast cars, were facets of a life style to which he had happily become accustomed. He could survive without such trappings, but he saw no reason to do so if he could afford them. They helped to make life exciting and that was a spice that he demanded.

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