Once Upon a Wine: Be the Man

by David Lee

The incident about to be described involves real people: a young man embarking on his initiation into the adult world of rated restaurants with actual wine lists and someone called a sommelier.

Once upon a time, in a restaurant not far away, a boy-man was about to make his maiden voyage upon one of life’s defining adventures: selecting the correct dinner wine.  When the evening began, he was really quite green; when it ended he was a shade short of Cabernet red.  This is how it all began…

I had carefully designed the evening to favorably impress my date with the savoir-faire and worldliness of her inexperienced yet earnest companion. The restaurant was highly rated, the menu extensive, and the wine list well regarded. To create a good first impression, the setting filled the bill.

All was going well.  She was on time and looked stylish. I had recently showered and there was gas in the car. Upon arriving at the only five-star restaurant within a $10-worth-of-gas radius, we were courteously shown to our table. The table was set with polished silver, the candles were flickering and our waiter was efficient and discreetly unobtrusive, all the makings of a memorable evening.

Then the temperature in the restaurant suddenly seemed to elevate when the wine list—a foreign body at this stage—was placed in the hands of, unfortunately, the least likely connoisseur: me. Actually, who else should it have been given to? I was the man, right?  I’m the one looking to rate at least an appreciative goodnight-kiss here.  For my money, though, I would have just as well preferred that the stranger at the next table select the bottle. No such luck, and besides, from my vantage, he was way too old for my date. This was up to me.  Damn the beef tournedos, full speed ahead. Bring on the wine list.

You’ve probably guessed that, at this point in my social development, I wasn’t even sure what color wine went with what color food. I hailed from a family proud to serve Mogen David, a kosher Concord grape wine dispensed from an attractive screw-top bottle. It was served only on seriously festive occasions, such as Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s.

Suddenly, there was this guy from Sommelier or someplace, hovering at my shoulder. What purpose he served, I wasn’t quite sure. I’d heard he had something to do with making sure you pick the right wine, maybe on pain of punishment?  Perhaps Sommelier was famous for its wine. Anyway, he handed me the dreaded wine list. Surely, I thought, he wasn’t all dressed up in a tuxedo just for that? Another thing: he was continually smiling, which only made me more insecure with my selection abilities. But maybe that’s how they are in Sommelier: you know, happy.

Suddenly, I snapped to and realized I was holding the fate of our evening in my hands. Sweating profusely under my best shirt and tie, I tried to maintain a James-Bond-like cool. Fat chance. I studied the wine listings, turning each page slowly and deliberately in a hopefully believable attempt to portray that I knew what the hell I was doing.

The ever-smiling guy from Sommelier waited patiently just off to the side. I thought he thought I knew what I was doing because he made absolutely no move to help me. I was beginning to wonder if he was simply enjoying my awkward attempt at naive bravado.

After what I thought was an appropriate period of time, I slowly closed the book, nonchalantly handed it back to the guy from Sommelier, (who, I suddenly noticed, was wearing a spoon-like implement around his neck.  What the heck was that for? Maybe they’re happy and spoiled in Sommelier).  Trying not to get totally distracted and lose the upper hand here, I refrained from asking and proceeded to order a “full-bodied but not overpowering” Cabernet Sauvignon in my most resonant voice. (Mainly I ordered it because I thought the words “kah-behr-neh so-vee-nyon” sounded cool and would seriously impress my date. I had taken some French and eaten a filet mignon or two so figured I could at least pronounce it.)

Anyway, figuring I had just kept the evening running smoothly by nicely avoiding any display of gauche, I turned to my oh-so-impressed date with my most self-assured look.

I was The Man.

Just as I was adjusting to this classy new level of testosterone display, he reappeared at my elbow, extending a dark bottle of wine. What now? He continued to hold it out and, after a minute, ever-so-slightly extended his arms a bit more towards me. Oh, I get it. I’m supposed to look at the bottle, maybe read the label. Ok, cool. I pretended to study the blurry script: pressure, not wine, was making me woozy. It really could have been balsamic vinegar for all I knew. After a somewhat “pregnant pause,” I nodded slightly, which seemed to work. Cool again.  The ever-smiling guy from Sommelier then glided smoothly into action and deftly uncorked the bottle.  Impressive.  Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.

He ceremoniously placed the newly freed cork on the snow-white linen tablecloth — egad.  There it lay like a beached whale. Will this never end? I stared dumbly at that cork, like a marathoner after the finish, until my date whispered to me, “I believe you’re supposed to sniff the cork.” What the heck for? I looked at her like she just asked me to smell someone’s shoe.  She prodded, “You know, to see that it doesn’t smell like balsamic vinegar or something.”  Well now, that made sense.  If it did, I guess that would mean the guy from Sommelier had brought the wrong bottle, huh? I picked up the cork, rolled it slowly between thumb and forefinger for effect, looked at the damp end and brought it stylishly up to my nose to smell, as I would later learn, the nose. Good thing it smelled like wine — a red wine, possibly a Cabernet Sauvignon. Again, I nodded since it seemed the thing to do here.

Once again, the Sommelier (somewhere near Hawaii, maybe Fiji?) person took action. He picked up my glass and poured a small amount. Hey, I thought, fill it up for cripes’ sake! The pitifully filled glass sat there. The Sommelier guy stood there, looking at me with an unsmiling look of restrained exasperation.  My date again came to my aid, moving her eyes ping-pong-like from the glass to me. I caught her drift, picked up the goblet, looked at the contents astutely, brought it to my lips and sipped.

With all eyes on me, I managed not to make a face (full-bodied wines being new to me) and produced the requisite nod. Wonder of wonders, our glasses were filled to the five-star acceptable level. Mission accomplished. Whew. I breathed a sigh of relief and that Sommelier guy, without so much as a pat on my back or even a nod, vanished.

Needless to say, the wine, the attendant meal and the rest of the evening were really quite good but, on that night at least, I never did find out where Sommelier was or why they wear that darned spoon.