He edged closer to me after one waiter passed by with a tray of what looked like liverwurst on toast. “Sorry about this,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t realize we’d be dealing with the yuppies from hell.”
“Just as long as you promise to defend me,” I whispered back.
The host urged everyone to take their seats. Fortunately, Ethan and I were seated next to each other so we had a chance at private conversation. The array of silverware on the table was intimidating, not because I didn’t know how to use it (my mother is a good Southern woman who taught us proper table manners, so I knew to work from the outside in), but because of the number of courses it implied. A glass of wine with each course would mean I’d be horizontal before we got to dessert. My bigger worry was that alcohol might lower my inhibitions enough for me to talk about work, which was not a good idea with a job like mine. Then again, everyone would probably write off any weirdness to the drunkenness. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t finish each glass of wine.
At the head of the table, a well-dressed man stood up and tapped his water glass with his knife. He reminded me of the man who’d tried to start a community theater group in my hometown. Even though he was in a tiny Texas farming community, he’d acted like a theater impresario. It took him a while to figure out that avant-garde surrealist drama didn’t go over well in that setting.
This guy wouldn’t have looked out of place wearing a sweeping cloak and a monocle. He was introduced as Henri, a representative of the winery providing the evening’s selections. “Good evening, everyone,” he said. In spite of his French name, his accent was pure American. “Welcome to tonight’s dinner. You’ve already been enjoying our Estate Sauvignon Blanc with the canapés. I’m sure you noticed the lush texture and hints of passion fruit and pear.”
Frankly, I hadn’t noticed any of that. I pretty much just tasted wine. If it was all made out of grapes, how was it supposed to taste like passion fruit?
“With our first course,” Henri continued, “we’ll be serving our famous Pinot Gris. You may detect flavors of apple and lemon, with a midpalate burst of ginger. It complements the salmon with mango salsa we’ll be serving.”
Waiters brought out fresh wineglasses, then filled them with a wine that looked to me a lot like the one we’d just been drinking. I followed everyone’s lead in swirling the wine—only sloshing a little over the edge—and sniffing it. Yep, smelled like wine. Everyone then took a sip and seemed to ponder the flavors. I couldn’t taste anything but wine. No apple, lemon, or ginger. I was horrified when I noticed Ethan nodding sagely. Was he really into this stuff? On our first date, he took me out for hamburgers. This was a real switch.
Then again, was it so bad if he was a wine fanatic? Learning something new would be good for me. I complained all the time about feeling like a hick in New York, and here was my chance to do something to change that. I took another sip of wine and tried desperately to taste all those delicate flavors that were supposed to be there.
We went through another course that came with a wine Henri described as “creamy with citrus undertones.” I had a hard time thinking of wine as creamy. Ethan leaned toward me and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
After three glasses of wine—even if I didn’t drink the whole glass—I was feeling pretty good, regardless of whether this event was my cup of tea—make that glass of wine. “Sure!” I said cheerfully, raising my glass to him.
If I was feeling good, that was nothing compared with the rest of the guests. They were practically swooning in rapture with each sip. I’d thought I’d be a lightweight in a group of real wine aficionados, but they were acting drunker than I was—a lot drunker. The woman seated next to me was nibbling on her husband’s ear and halfway crawling into his lap, while he had a hand up her sweater. I fought back the impulse to tell them to get a room and turned to the other side of the table, where a man who’d introduced himself as a cardiologist was wearing his necktie around his head like a bandanna. This felt more like a frat party than a wine dinner. I appeared to be the most sober one there, except for Ethan.
I leaned over to him. “Do these things usually get like this?”
“I’ve only been to one other, and behavior there was a little more restrained. Frankly, this is a lot more fun.”
They switched to a red wine with the main course, which meant I could finally tell the difference from the last few wines. I still didn’t taste the clove, coffee, or wood flavors Henri promised, for which I was somewhat grateful. It seemed to me that if your wine tasted like wood or coffee, you’d throw it out. The other guests knocked back the wine like they were doing tequila shots, so I doubted they were noticing the flavor nuances, either.
