I’ve been to wine tastings all over the world. I’m no expert, but I know how to judge red wine by color, aroma and “legs”. Never mind I haven’t a clue what I’m looking for or what the scent means. I know what I like. Total Wine was packed when we arrived that day. People were stacked up at the wine tasting bar like vertical cord wood. John was off shopping. I sauntered up to the edge of the bar, saw an almost half-full glass of deep red calling my name. I grabbed it, checked the “legs”, breathed in the aroma and swilled a large gulp, swishing before swallowing. Aren’t I so sophisticated?
“Um, Excuse me, ma-am!” the female sommelier said, with me looking at her like the wine expert I was pretending to be. “Ma-am, you can’t drink that. That glass is not for tasting. It’s the sample!” Then she handed me a little communion-sized Dixie-cup with a dribble of red in it. “Of course, it is!” I said, swilling the thimbleful like I was drinking shooters at Joe’s Bar, then walking on, flipping my short hair like it was a mane, head held high, thinking. . .”I swilled the sample? I’m glad it wasn’t the spit-bucket!” Yuk. Mortified!
We’ve laughed over this story for many, many years. I end each story with, “I’m sure they have my picture up with a warning to not let the crazy woman near the wine tasting. I can never go back there!” Until the other day when our friend who loves wine arrived from Wisconsin and we decided to stop at Total Wine before heading to my son’s place, which is nearby.
Imagine my joy when I saw the printed signs resting on top of the sample wine glasses, “Please Do Not Drink”. That means that I wasn’t the only one who made that mistake. I felt so relieved. . .validated. . .born-again! And unlike the last time I had visited, looking wretched. . .and just in case my picture actually was up on the wall. . .no way would they recognize me. . .this time I looked good! Fool me once. . .