I met Algernon Thaddeus Triton in 1959.

He was 25—a bit past his prime but nonetheless fully fit and eager to host me in his expansive hall. His mansion rose high atop the escarpment where it seemingly overlooked the whole world.

You will never find a more eager host or one who is more engaging and curious.

It was widely known that Algernon preferred to be called “Thad.” Invariably, he would address his company as “mon ami,” and his lingering gaze left no doubt as to his sincerity.

After a delectable meal, he browsed the wine rack while prompting me to share my habits with him and to tell him of my dreams.

How at ease he was. Selecting a Tokaji Aszu 6 Puttonyos, vintage 1949, he opened the slender bottle with aplomb and motioned for me to sample the bouquet.

I accepted the offer letting my nose linger above the bottle as the scent wafted forth. Our eyes met and my smile spoke approval.

Thad poured two ounces for me to taste.

“Aszu-Eszencia extraordinaire. Nonpareil,” was my tongue’s response.

He poured our crystal vessels half-full.

With his slow yet purposeful manner, Thad gently raised his glass and I tipped mine towards him. His countenance became frank just then. His expression distant. In his eyes, a deep well of hope.

“The freshest bloom,” he said, “Is not always the prettiest. And yet—it holds the most promise.”