The Wine Tasting
A few weeks ago, I was invited to a wine tasting party. A couple days later, I learned that my friendly neighbor wasn’t actually offering to get me and a handful of other moms toasted, nay, she wanted us to come and buy wine from a German wine-seller who was going to be present. I figured what the hell, I don’t have to buy anything if I don’t want to, right? I went, assuming I could, at the very least, learn a little bit about German wine and maybe meet some new people.
I arrived a few minutes early and made the rounds meeting the other women, got a handful of snacks, and set Dash loose with the other kids. I assumed it was a pretty informal gathering, considering almost everyone brought their children, and no one was really dressed up. I was pleased to see the wine salesman setting up the bottles of wine on the coffee table, carefully labeling each one and making sure our glasses were squeaky clean, but was a little startled at his body odor. Apparently there is no time for bathing in the fast-paced world of selling wine.
Finally, the tasting began. I was seated next to an acquaintance that I liked, which was good. Dash seemed to be ok in the other room playing with the kids, so everything seemed peachy. Suddenly I was being handed a piece of paper and a pencil. I looked at my friend, puzzled, and she shook her head, intimating that she also had no idea what was going on. The smelly wine salesman informed us that we were going to take notes on all the wines, so that we will remember which one is which when it comes time to buy. Having already decided I wasn’t going to buy anything, I set my pencil and paper down on the couch and quickly forgot about them.
Smelly wine guy proceeds to give a thirty-minute lecture on wine, complete with horror stories of heart attack victims that could have been saved had they only consumed more alcohol. He asked us to raise our hand if we drank soda, and nearly everyone raised their hand. This spurred another thirty-minute lecture on the evils of soda and how all of us were going to die young if we didn’t immediately stop drinking soda and replace it with wine.
We’re an hour into the wine tasting and I have yet to taste any wine. Bored, I decide to excuse myself to go check on Daschel. I find him underneath a pile of children, clinging on to Bunny with a death grip Kirstie Alley’s Twinkies would admire. I notice my friend standing behind me, she sighs and offers to help reorganize the children.
“Is he still talking?”
“Oh yeah.”
“No wine yet?”
“Not when I left.”
We step outside and split a cigarette (yes I know, EVIL), then return to the “party”. Blank expressions fill the room. One woman actually shakes her fist at us, jealous that we had an excuse to leave. The wine guy looks at us with displeasure. He has started the wine tasting, and we missed the first wine.
As he begins to pour the second wine, my friend says, “Sir? We missed the first wine, is there any way we can taste that before going on?”
He looks at her with disbelief. “No tasting! No. You missed first wine, you have no notes for first wine. First wine no exist for you!”
My friend quietly lowers her glass and misses the second wine as well, due to her red-faced giggling fit. I can’t help laughing as well, but I don’t say anything becuase damnit, it’s been two hours and I can’t risk missing another wine.
Things go well for the next couple of wines, then Dash comes running in claiming to be hungry. I excuse myself and make him a plate of snacks from the buffet. Returning to my seat, I ask if I can have a sample of #10, as I just missed it taking care of my son. I am told to “forget about #10″ and sit still. The hostess looks at me apologetically, shrugging. Ok, no #10.
By the time we reach #17, several of us have been scolded, and more of us are tipsy, therefore a bit more bold. I am just starting to take a sip of #18 when wine guy notices that I have no notes. He grabs my paper off the couch and holds it up in the air.
“No notes! No notes! She has no notes, and will not know what she wants to get later! Learn from this to take notes!” He grabs my glass out of my hand and sets it on the table. “Think about it before you try this. Think about taking a note!”
Trying hard to stifle my laughter, I pick up my pencil and write “Number 18 = good wine.” I slowly reach for my glass, and he watches me, peering over the table to make sure I wrote something down. The rest of the evening was spent scribbling notes to my friend under the guise of “taking notes”.
Wines 19-21 were all “very good wines for taking notes.” The after dinner sweet wine we tasted last was “surprisingly un-smelly.” Worried that he might require us to turn in our notes, I folded mine up and went to the bathroom to “change Dash’s diaper” the instant the tasting was over. When I returned, I found a roomful of bewildered women, milling around, asking each other if they were buying anything. Guilt set in, and all of us ended up purchasing something from the smelly wine guy.
The moral of the story is this: don’t go to a wine tasting if you have a problem taking notes. Also, plan on sitting very still, and let your children throw themselves off the balcony so you won’t rudely interrupt a speech about storing wine horizontally by getting up to rescue them.
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