Earlier today I was a fashionable two hours late for the Zachys wine auction of "The Magnificent Private Cellar of Dr. Nils Stormby." Despite a title that sounds like a movie within a Wes Anderson movie, it was one of the most interesting auctions of the year, a Swedish diplomat and inventor's thoughtful collection of more than 5,000 bottles divided into 135 lots with vintages ranging from 1858 to 2001—including a stunning range of Chateau d'Yquem.

It's one of the most comprehensive collections of d'Yquem ever assembled. The highlights are enough to make a grown sommelier swoon: fifteen bottles from the nineteenth century, five bottles from 1921 (the greatest year ever, with the possible exception of 1847), two cases of 1945 in the original boxes, three cases of 1949 also in the original boxes, plus an assortment of impossible-to-find sizes (a magnum of the 1924, another of the exceptional 1945, 24 half-bottles of the 1958). For fetishists, there was the added detail that the cases of 1945s and 1949s came with their original straw, and the hardbound catalog has the glossy pictures to prove it.

But I had two reasons for walking in at noon, instead of at 10 am when the auction began.

First, Dr. Stormby's private cellar is truly magnificent, and as convention dictates that red Bordeaux are auctioned first, then whites, it would be at least two hours until they came to the first of the Chateau d'Yquem. Before Lot 352, a single bottle from 1858 (with a foxed and smudged label, and contents, to use the overplayed term applied to old d'Yquem, "the color of mahogany"), there were:

• More than 100 lots of macho Bordeaux premiers crus, including Lot 40, a case of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1949 in the original case with original packing straw tissue (a high estimate of $60,000, it sold for $89,250)
• Some fascinating second- and third-growth selections, the sort of stuff you actually drink, like Cheval Blancs from the 1940s to the 1980s
• Two cases of Chateau Palmer 1983, a cult wine with the raw talent to cellar for another 25 years despite being from one of France's most mismanaged vineyards (thumbnail history: founded as Chateau d'Gasq, it was renamed in 1814 for a British general on the winning side of the Napoleonic Wars, who sold it 29 years later to pay off debts)

Second, it was being held at the four-star temple Daniel, and lunch didn't start until 11:30.

Which has a backstory. Once, wine auctions were serious, somber affairs, almost always held in London, almost always at Christie's. That's because wine auctions were illegal in New York until 1994. (Earlier this year, Governor Spitzer repealed another blue law, and soon New York will be able to auction spirits—hold tight for the ancient Scotch, the eighteenth-century calvados). At first, Christie's partnered with Zachys (and Sotheby's with Sherry-Lehmann), but six years ago, Zachys set out on its own, and in a stroke of genius held its first auction at Daniel.

Finally, glamour and comfort! No more auction auditoriums, with their gray carpeting and coffee urns—instead there would be hushed waiters and rich entrees. Soon New York knocked London out of the way (and has controlled the market ever since: $130 million in sales last year, to London's $40 million), and Zachys dominated New York. So Christie's took the cue and set up shop at Per Se.

Then last year, in a further twist, Acker Merrill Condit shook up the established order by auctioning a staggering $60 million in wine—more than sold in all of London, leapfrogging Christie's, Sotheby's, and Zachys to become the number one auction house in the world.

If you've never been, Acker Merrill Condit is a sweet, modest-looking wine store on West 72nd Street, a good place to get an upmarket St-Julien on your way to a dinner party at the Dakota. Owned by the Kapons since the 1930s (and dating to 1820, the store claims to be the oldest in the U.S.), young John Kapon used his Jedi skills to convince a still-anonymous seller that Acker Merrill Condit should auction his collection, widely considered to be the best in the world outside of royalty. Immodestly titled "The Cellar I" (auctioned last January) and "The Cellar II" (last October), they brought in a combined $35 million (and were held in Cafe Gray).

Zachys wants to reclaim the pole position, and Dr. Stormby's magnificent d'Yquems will help.

So I timed my arrival to coincide with the appearance of the $60 buffet—pistachio-studded mortadella, pork and foie gras pate, ricotta ravioli (sauced, oddly, with a wine-killer: artichokes), braised veal cheeks with polenta—all served from chafing dishes. It was Daniel, so the technique was perfect, and the ingredients impeccable, but a chafing dish isn't a friend to veal cheeks. It was confusing.

There were the trademark DB Burgers, a hamburger stuffed with foie gras and truffle, quartered and sitting under a heat lamp. I took two portions, and dotted ketchup from a ramekin on one. Now I might say with confidence that foie gras and ketchup aren't meant for each other.

To the side they were pouring one-ounce tastes from some lots. A d'Yquem 1981 was already gone, but I tried the Chateau Le Dome 1996, young and tannic despite being more than a decade old (a bottle to be savored in 15, maybe 20 years), and a beautiful Cote Rotie Brune et Blonde Chapoutier 1990 that battled the burger, but was a perfect match for the veal cheeks. I settled in and watched as Lot 287, an imperial of Chateau Petrus 1970 (six liters of magnificent Pomerol), sold to a telephone bidder for $17,000.

Lot 290, a case of Petrus 1981 in the original wood with the original tissue paper (you could see the fetishists shift in their seats), went for $48,000, again to a telephone bidder.

As it approached 1 pm, and I helped myself to dessert (a parfait with poached pear and cinnamon marshmallow, assorted macaroons), I noticed that almost all the sales were going to telephone bidders. When a bid originated within the room—auctioneer Fritz Hatton, with his bow tie and historical jokes ("It's a 1921, the year of the Teapot Dome Scandal!"), seemed taken aback when a paddle was raised on the floor—it was outgunned within seconds.

So when the first of the d'Yquem lots came up—that single bottle from 1858, the one the color of mahogany—a bidder in the room dropped out at $8,000, leaving it to, as Hatton put it, "Jeff's bidder" and "Julia's bidder" to slug it out. It quickly ping-ponged to $16,000, double the high estimate, then Julia's bidder snatched it at $18,000. The room erupted in applause.

Which made absolutely no difference to Julia's anonymous bidder, paddle #8, who was likely on a boat or in a boardroom. And who took the next lot, an 1861 ("The year of the Emancipation Proclamation!") for $9,000, three times the high estimate.

Would somebody who pays $27,000 for two bottles of d'Yquem (plus a 19% premium to Zachys, plus New York sales tax), spend their afternoon sitting around at Daniel? Most likely not, even with the veal cheeks. It was difficult to characterize the crowd at Daniel, other than that they were mostly men over 40. One gentleman shuffled in with a worn Gracious Home shopping bag, took a complimentary Wine Spectator from a stack, then shuffled out. A few minutes later another gentleman with a Gracious Home bag walked in, took a seat, and pulled out his bidding paddle.

And it was back to the phone lines: The next two lots went to Jeff's bidder, an 1868 for $7,500 and an 1871 for $7,000. Not a paddle was raised on the floor.

Not that the people in the room weren't enjoying themselves. A gentlemen sitting next to me ordered a Clos des Lambrays 2002 from the sommelier. "It's two and change on the list, but my buddy said you can get it for one at auction," he said to me. (Actually, you can find it at Garnet Wines & Liquors for a little less.) Even though he knew his wine and had a long, erudite conversation with the sommelier as to whether one should decant a young Burgundy, he was a poor match for Julia's bidder, who took two bottles of 1890 at $8000 each, and an 1893, one of the great years, for $12,000.

Hatton was punchy through the end of the century, then there was a lull in the early 1900s. Everybody was waiting for 1921, a colossal vintage and the greatest of the last century: Five bottles, with labels and capsules in various states of repair, went for $14,000, $11,000, $15,000, $12,000, and $11,000.

The 1924 magnum went for $13,000—a bidder in the corner dropping out at $12,000—and I got myself coffee and a chocolate torte with a caramel center, a Michelin-starred Rolo. A half-bottle of 1938 sold for $2,200.

By 2 pm the energy in Daniel was lagging. Every lot was basically a short conversation between Hatton and Julia's bidder, with Jeff's bidder and a third, Michel's bidder, chiming in.

Everybody was waiting for Lot 416, and the first of the 1945s.

Julia's bidder won the first bottle for $7,500 and exercised the right to the following three, a total of four bottles for $30,000. Then a case—original wood, original straw—started at $40,000, quickly rocketed to $100,000, then stalled at $105,000. Jeff's bidder was hemming, then leapt back in it, and the price soared. There was a roar of applause and the click of cameras: sold to Julia's bidder for $150,000.

Not long ago that would've been a record-setting price for a case, but a few years back cases went for $300,000, then $350,000. Still, $150,000 is a strong showing, like getting an A- in a class graded on a curve. When a second case of 1945 (wood, straw) came up, a bidder in the room stayed with it to $115,000, a high watermark, before dropping out. Once again, it went to Julia's bidder for $150,000.

The last of the 1945s was a magnum: Julia's bidder, $50,000.

Julia's bidder dominated the 1945s, spending $380,000 (plus that 19%, and tax) in four minutes on 30 bottles of dessert wine.

Lot 430, a case of 1949s, sold for $100,000, but Julia left the room, and the energy lagged. Julia returned for Lot 457, 24 half-bottles of the 1962, and snatched them up for $55,000. Julia and her bidder soft-pedaled the rest of the d'Yquems, and the remaining lots sold briskly, and almost all for more than the high estimate—double or triple the high. In fact, one that didn't make its high estimate, five half-bottles of the 1959, is one of the few lots that was sold to a bidder in the room.

My back of the envelope calculation for the Chateau d'Yquem: $1.7 million total.

The entire auction took in more than $4.5 million, not nearly the blockbuster numbers as The Cellar I or II, but a good showing. Will it help return Zachys to the top? Has the buffet at Daniel outlived its appeal? Or is there another spectacle up somebody's cufflinked sleeve?

But one question might take 30 years to answer: who is Julia's bidder? I'll keep an eye on the auctions to see who's offering two cases and a magnum of the 1945 (I should hope Paddle 8 will enjoy the four individual bottles between now and then). Until then I'm going to wait before opening the bottle of Chateau d'Yquem 1989 that's been carefully stored in the coolest, most humid corner of my closet, and which, according to what I saw at Daniel, is worth $550 on the open market.