I don’t drink much.
(Okay, okay - I don't drink much ANYMORE!!!)
K doesn’t drink at all, but I’ll have the occasional glass of wine.
The problem is that I know so little about wine.
Recently, when I dragged Jen out for a drink against her will, we went to a wine bar.
“What are you going to have?” I asked her staring blankly at the list of whites and reds.
“I think I’ll have the syrah,” she said.
My first thought was, “the WHA?”
Because I believe (with all my Ethel Merman heart) that there IS a song for every occasion, my second thought, was:
“Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be.”
I am sure Jen is grateful that I didn’t break into song.
When the waitress came and Jen ordered the (que) syrah, I looked up and said,
“Uh. I’ll uh have that too.”
As the great knower of all great wine-isms you shall henceforth call me “The Nose of Joy, Wine Expert.”
K is no better.
One year, as a holiday gift from his office, he received a $200.00 restaurant reimbursement voucher.
We decided to go to a place run by the Michelin Guide’s Chef of The Year.
The restaurant was housed in an expensively renovated space in the fancy part of town and the menu was a prix fixe, seven-course affair.
The well to do and soft spoken clientele murmured to each other at their elegantly dressed tables.
The sommelier brought us the wine list and though he did not intend to order wine, K flipped through it.
“Jessica! This wine costs $250.00 a bottle!” he whispered aghast.
I raised my eyebrows and he flipped the page.
“This wine costs $1,000.000 a bottle,” he said (this time kind of loudly.)
I looked at my fork.
“OH MY GOD!” he nearly yelled, “THIS WINE IS $3,000.000 A BOTTLE!!!”
The low talking diners glanced at our table.
The sommelier hurried back and asked what he could bring us.
“I’ll take a ginger ale,” K told him, snapping the wine list shut and handing it to him.
“Mousier,” the sommelier apologized with a sneer “we do not serve ginger ale.”
“Oh. Do you have cranberry juice?”
[A look of disgust and a slight head tilt to the right reluctantly indicated the affirmative.]
“I’ll take the cranberry juice,” K said.
“I’ll just have water,” I added.
[I had to clarify that I meant TAP WATER, slovenly hick mailbox owner that I am.]
After seven courses from the best chef in America I remember thinking,
“That was great, but I’d have been just as happy with a burrito.”
Fast forward to last night -- I went out with my (not so new anymore) new mom’s group.
I looked at the wine menu and saw “Malbec.”
My only frame of reference was,
“OMIGOD, BECKY!!! I like, totally love this mall
– they have Old Navy AND The Limited!!!”
My friends had to edumacate me.
I came home around bedtime and told K of my wine foibles as we brushed our teeth.
We decided that from now on when we feel that we are being judged by the wine servers for being as ignorant as we are we are going to initiate conversations that go like this,
“Do you serve the Franille here?”Oh, the sophistication.
“No?! Well then surely you have the Portois de Grudeau?”
“No?! This is an OUTRAGE! I am EMBARRASSED to be seen here!”