No sign gives away its presence. Through the dirty windows, nothing is visible except tools and scattered boxes. Only a few unwashed wine glasses on a side table give any hint that this is not just another refuge for industrial jetsam.
"Isn't that great!" exclaimed Ziskind. "Nobody has a clue what we're doing here!"
Behind closed doors are rooms full of rough cages made of two-by-fours and chicken wire, filled with cardboard boxes and wooden crates of Chateau Rothschild and Chateau Beychevelles and Chateau Latour. There are 4-by-4-foot cages that hold 50 cases, 8-by-8 cages that hold 200 cases. There is an expanse of 100 shrink-wrapped cases piled in the middle of the floor.
"That's a guy hiding the wine from his wife. She'll kill him if she finds out."
For a dozen years, Ziskind, 49, has been cellar-keeper to the rich and anonymous.
This is where cautious spouses hide expensive caches from their more frugal mates. This is where a doting father preserves his 8-year-old daughter's future wedding present. This is where divorcees-to-be stash their liquid gold to keep it out of the settlement.
"That belongs to a well-known orthopedic surgeon in the city," he said, pointing to a six-foot-high stack of wine cases. "He's never been here in 11 years."
Another client, Ziskind said, surprised him by bringing in 30 to 40 cases every few weeks and then buying the same amount at a wine store on his way home. It became clear after a few months, Ziskind said, that the client was covertly replacing his expensive wine collection with a much cheaper supply. By the time he divorced his wife a year later, he had exchanged $350,000 worth of wine for $50,000 worth.
