Winery Tasting Notes: Forget the polo-field-sized pool and the bold-blackberry brass band. You’re here among the West Egg elite for one reason: Gatsby’s private stash. While the enigmatic mogul carouses with violet-sequined flappers and crème brûlée cabaret dancers, you’ve stolen away to the cellar. There, among the toasted rum barrels Jay may or may not have bootlegged, is the real flamboyance. Inky-cored opulence—resin-soaked boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the plum-jam past. You’re lost in it, and when you turn, there’s the man himself. Your move, old sport.