He selects one of his personal favorites -- Spanish, actually, not that it frankly makes much of a difference these days, good wine and bad seem to flow in about the same proportions from everywhere now, and he will never forgive his homeland for some of what the Veneto is producing on the latter side, even if the Soave did make him see heaven's light -- anyway, it's a good Rioja, and he pours for Cesare. He takes his eyes off the byplay between his partner and his waitstaff long enough to hand him the glass.
"He's accustomed to favoring it," Iago says a little grimly, "and if you would care to tell him to sit, I shan't stop you wasting your breath." But he flashes a smile. "I thank you. He would be back tonight, you see, and I've learned better than to try to dissuade him of things he's set on."