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sweet—some Germans put a drop or two of cognac on the top just to cut the sweetness, which seems somehow to miss the point—and stunningly expensive. Eiswein—literally, “ice wine”—is made from grapes that have frozen as hard as marbles in temperatures of at least 18°F. In Germany, on the first November or December day when this temperature is reached, pickers stumble out into the dark and, between 5 A.M. and 8 A.M., pick the grapes, which are then taken straight to the winery and pressed. The water has frozen out as pure ice, so the acidity, sugar, and flavors are concentrated in the remaining liquid. When the juice runs, the ice crystals are left behind in the press. Riesling Eiswein, a mouthful of which is a celebration of fragrant sweetness and racy acidity, commands a phenomenal price.

But Germany is not the only country that has both grapes and frost. Strong competition for Eiswein comes from Canadian Icewine. Canada has a real advantage over Germany. German winemakers are not guaranteed such cold weather, while in Ontario, 18°F in winter is normal. The Canadians wrap themselves up in parkas and fur hats, head out to the vineyards, and pick the grapes while kneeling in the snow. Because winter in Canada is pretty predictable, the cost of Icewine is rather less than that of Eiswein. This matters, but it is also the case that, although the mode of making the two wines is similar, the results are very different. While Eiswein is sweetness with a streak of acidity, Icewine, with higher sugar levels at harvest time, is higher in alcohol and a marvel of opulent, honeyed sweetness.

Of course, what you are really paying for is rarity. In Canada, the right natural conditions are more common than in Germany. However, a freezer operating at the right temperature will achieve exactly the same effect. So there is another choice: the use of cryoextraction to artificially produce the same type of wine—though not with the same rarity. Freshly picked grapes are frozen overnight in a special cold room and then pressed immediately. (The colder the room, the more concentrated the juice, but the smaller the volume. Therefore, the winemaker can create what he wants at the retail price he wants.) In England, where the right natural conditions are hardly ever likely to prevail, one wine-maker uses freezing to produce what he calls “cryogenic wine.” Since the early 1980s this technique has been used increasingly in Sauternes, even by the most notable producers. The 1987 weather in Sauternes was so wet that many estates marketed no wine at all; those who did may have saved their wine by a little freezing. You could be tempted to look on a bottle of 1987 Sauternes with a speculative eye.

Ceremonials: why did Alcibiades arrive drunk?

FOR ONE OF THE foundation stories of Western thinking, Plato’s Symposium begins in an alarmingly confusing way. Written around 385 BC, it tells the story of a dinner party and, more important, of a long discussion by the guests on that most enduring of topics, the nature of love. But it is not narrated by Plato himself: the story is told by one Apollodorus (literally, “God’s gift”), yet even he doesn’t tell it straight. Apollodorus tells us that he was asked about this party “the day before yesterday” by one Glaucon, who thought it had just happened. “Not at all,” says Apollodorus; “it was when we were children, and I was told about it by Aristodemus, who said he was there, and I asked Socrates about it, too, and he agreed with what Aristodemus said, so since I already told Glaucon about it, now I’ll tell you …”

There can be few more irritatingly oblique ways of starting a story, and one might suspect that, before sitting down to write, Plato himself had been at the Chian. But he pretty soon gets a grip on himself and begins his tale.

The discussions of love run smoothly enough until, well into the party, their debate is interrupted by a roaring and shouting in the courtyard. It is the rugged and heroic Alcibiades, reputedly the most handsome man in Athens (and with whom Socrates is madly in love; this