A Layman's Wine Explorations 20

by William Powell

 No matter how old I get and no matter how much I experience, I simply cannot shake the feeling in these joints that I am constantly doing everything wrong somehow. Including breathing. The food can be as good as you like — I just cannot relax in places like these.

The Fear of Dogs and Horses

Incidentally, I think the waiting staff in there can smell it. The way dogs or horses supposedly scent fear. And then they approach. With a smile about as friendly as a cynical shark's — and the damned wine list in their hand. Naturally, the smile gets a little broader as they hand me that diabolical creation and give my wife a friendly (and knowing) nod. The meanest among them then stay put and watch as your eyes stumble helplessly through the wine gobbledygook the bastards have put in front of you. They just stand there — behind you to the right — without moving a muscle. Just waiting ... and savouring the cold sweat forming on your forehead, trickling down your neck and fogging up your glasses.

The Wine Waiter Approaches

A friend had told me that the mistake was to surrender the initiative. You had to — according to his theory — show the fellow that you had the situation under control. Ideally by putting the ball back in his court. Oh yes — brilliant trick ... I have now tried it, by asking the waiter which wine he would recommend with the homemade ravioli with porcini mushrooms and lamb. 

The wretched lackey gave a brief bow, disappeared and sent me the wine waiter. These are torture specialists, purpose-bred in dark wine cellars in Provence. Naturally, the man needed just 14 seconds to notice (or perhaps smell) that my knowledge of wine was rapidly approaching zero ... from below. 

So he gave me a lecture on how perfectly the gently sparkling acidity of the 2011 Thingamajig would harmonise with the lamb's iron-rich proteins... at this point, I no longer even dared to look my beloved wife in the face, but merely nodded graciously. At least, I hoped it looked gracious and not too much like the twitching of a chicken's head. Because that was how it felt. 

The Wine Scratches Your Throat

And what does the fellow do? Brings the bottle, uncorks it and pours me a little puddle to taste. Even though he knows that, at this moment, he could just as easily pour pig's blood diluted with brackish water into my glass and I would not put up a fight. But thank God, at that very moment my wife finally came to my rescue. “Oh please, Maestro,” she cooed. “We place ourselves entirely in your hands!” And then she had him fill her glass, gave it a quick swirl, raised it elegantly to toast me and the wine torturer, and knocked it back in one gulp. Completely ignoring the waiter's horrified and slightly disgusted expression, she finally put down the glass and simply said: “Yes, very nice ... although it does scratch your throat a little. 

And now I'm absolutely ravenous!” I swear to God ... next time I will dare to do that too. Perhaps in a slightly cheaper establishment ... and with 14 glasses of wine in me already — but then definitely!