NAPA VALLEY DAZE
Robert Smith
Published by Robert Smith at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 by Robert Smith
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
It may not be re-sold or given away.
Thank you for respecting the author's rights
Please enjoy!
Loosely based on the author's experience at a small Napa Valley Winery. Inspired by actual events and characters, all names have been changed in hopes of avoiding any legal messiness...
ONE
NEVER GIVE UP ON A SALE
"Thank you very much, George," I said to the man standing across the register from me. "I would start with a bottle or two of the Charbono, that's the softest one of the bunch. "
There were two of us working the Room. It was nice to get the first big sale of the day even though, unlike many Tasting Rooms, Scott and I split all our commissions, no matter who made the sale.
George Shapiro had come into the tasting Room about an hour before. He seemed knowledgeable about our wine and a favorable review in the Wine Connoisseur had prompted him to visit us. George was a thin, frankly mousey little man with a balding fringe around his ears, sort of a Friar Tuck look. Around his neck was probably the last bow tie in Northern California. At least he was wearing a Harris Tweed Keeper jacket. I had the same jacket, bought on my first and last trip to Scotland. It is still tall, rigid and unwrinkled in my closet, too heavy and scratchy to wear. I took a liking to him immediately.
As he tasted his way through the tasting list, he seemed nervous and in need of moral support. We were now on a first name basis, a practice we encourage in order to develop a friendly relationship. It certainly worked in the case of George, who between sips of wine was as much interested sharing troubles at home as in tasting the wine. So, while not a bartender at the corner tavern, I do lend a sympathetic ear when needed.
George needed it. He rambled on exhaustively adjusting his tie nervously. While tasting the Charbono, he noted that tomorrow was his 25th Wedding Anniversary and he was in turmoil on what to buy Gladys. She had hinted, none to subtly, about a diamond bracelet they had once seen at Shane's
While tasting the Zin, he said he had actually drove into the City to get it, but at the last moment changed his mind. Every year, he said, she hints and hints at what she wants. But, by golly, this year was supposed to be special. They made a pact to really surprise each other and, by George, he was going to do it. (He snickered at his little name joke. ) He asked if I thought he was doing the right thing by really surprising his wife. I told him I wasn't married which seemed to disappoint him.
Ever since their wedding he had been trying to get her to enjoy good wine with dinner. Depending on her mood she would take a sip and leave the rest. One evening he caught her spooning some sugar into a glass of Cab. That had caused quite a fuss. Well, this year was going to be different, he told me, over the Merlot, a tone of defiance in his voice. He was going to sit her down and really teach her to appreciate wine. Since he did much of the cooking he would carefully pair the food with wine. Did I know that he had once met Julia Childs, he asked me proudly. Gladys certainly loved to eat, George went on, and he'll show her how the right wine and can make the food taste even better.
By the time he got to the Cab, he had made up his mind. No bracelet for her---that was no surprise! "Give me a case each of the Charbono, Zin and Cab," he said. "They'll be my teaching materials. "
As a friend of higher education I was happy to oblige. I helped George out with the wine, then told Scott, who was helping me in the Room, that I would take the first lunch break.
When I returned 45 minutes later, Scott had only one customer in the Room. Since we were expecting a Limo at 2:00 o'clock, I said I would take over for him while he went to eat. For some reason he gave me a great big smile-perhaps he was just hungry.
Or perhaps not. . . as I took Scott's place I could see that all was not well. More than lunch was motivating him. The lady at the bar was quite short, and plump, wearing a bright floral dress and too much makeup. Her overuse of jewelry didn't help matters. She was somewhere in the mid-fifties I guessed---it was hard to tell since any wrinkles would have a hard time breaking through her pancake make-up. One thing that did stand out was her hair. It was striking not only for its almost neon redness, thanks no doubt to Miss Clairol, but because it was spiking out all over her head, a bouffant that had unexpectedly exploded.
Right then Miss Clairol looked like she was chewing on a lemon. She spit, none too delicately, but at least mostly hitting the bucket. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes glared at me in a most unfriendly way but the effect was rather spoiled by her smeared lipstick that rendered her mouth into a lopsided smile. Nonetheless, I'm pretty sure the eyes had it.
This was not shaping up to be a big sale. I should have given Scott first lunch, I thought.
"I take it, then, that you are not a big fan of our Zinfandel," I said, sliding the dump bucket under her double chin.
"That was absolutely horrible! "Clairol exclaimed loudly. Luckily she was the only one in the Room. "It tastes like...."leaning over, as if to tell me a secret, ". . . HORSE POOPY!" she yelled in my ear.
I jumped back, startled. I know not everyone loves our wines. Some people, especially those working in tasting Rooms, can develop a "house palate" but this is the first time I've heard of a "horse palate. "I'm tempted to ask her what aspects of equine scatology our wine resembled. Yet, we know the customer is always right and I better leave the horse's behind, behind. Better to stick with allusions of strawberries and raspberries as mentioned in the tasting notes.
"I'm sorry, madam, you didn't enjoy the Zin. Let's move on to the Merlot. You should find it more to your liking. "
"Hrumph," she said as she emptied the rest of her glass into the bucket and grabbed a cracker.
Taking that as a "yes," I poured her a small taste, but truth be told I was not brimming with optimism. In fact, I stood back a few paces in case Clairol missed the bucket entirely---or got really mad. There was a look of defiance in her eyes as she raised the glass to her lips. Edging back until I was in contact with the other counter, I tried to resist the temptation to close my eyes. Not being good at resisting temptation, I lost that battle and only heard the wine being expelled. As I opened my eyes, sure enough, there before me on the counter, was an abstract rendering, done in red, Jackson Pollack dribbling only in one color. Although I did notice a few flecks of cracker for accents.
"Oh dear," she said. "I"m so sorry," and indeed seemed genuinely embarrassed.
"Don't worry, it happens all the time," I responded, but of course when or ever, I couldn't remember. But the customer is always right.
"It's just that the wine was so sour, I gagged, you see," she mumbled, smearing her lipstick some more.
Yes, I do see---it's all over the counter, I mumbled to myself. Don't worry there's a lot more where that came from---the wine I mean. . . " I trailed off, as I wiped up her work.
She stared at me as if I were from outer space. "Don't you taste these wines before you pour them. " Now that the counter was clean she had regained her confidence. They must be spoiled. "
"I taste every bottle that I serve. Perhaps Madame is not used to fine wines. I immediately regretted that statement. A cardinal rule in the tasting Room: never criticize the customer. Remember, lose the battle and win the war, although in this case I was definitely out-gunned, I thought as I tossed the revolting rag in the trash.
Clairol pushed her shoulders back. "I'll have you know, 'young man', I know my wines and yours are bad."
Since I'm beginning to bump over thirty, I didn't mind the 'young man' remark but if I have any hope with this customer I certainly needed to educate her about our wines. A new tack was needed. I slapped on my brightest smile. "What kind of wines do you like?" I asked pleasantly.
"Well, wines are made from grapes, right? And wines should taste like grapes, not vinegar. " Clairol frowned at the dregs of the Merlot in her glass. "Now take a nice glass of Mogan David. There's a great wine. "
OK, lady, I thought to myself, you take the Mogan David, I'll pass. "Ah well. I see, I see," I replied politely. What I really saw was no hope for a sale unless I could dump some sugar into our last wine. I keep up my saccharine smile. "So, I gather Madame likes her wine on the sweet side. "
"Bingo!" she said, returning my smile with a fake one of her own. "You're a bright young man aren't you?"
I was smiling so much my teeth were getting cold. Suddenly I get an idea! Not just an ordinary idea but a super sweet idea that just might land a sale. I looked straight into her contacts, my teeth gleaming. "Now we're down to our last spitting---er, tasting. "
"Thank God," Clairol said. "I haven't had so much fun since my last root canal. "
"No, this you are going to enjoy. Outside the door on the left, we have one of Napa's only tasting vineyards. Each row of grapes is labeled. I poured her the last taste. "Now take this glass of Charbono outside---but don't drink it. "
"Don't drink it?" she asked. "That's silly! Then why don't I just dump it here like the others? I promise I won't miss this time. "
"No, what I mean is, go out and taste the Charbono grapes, then taste the wine. You' ll see where the fruitiness of our wines come from and that will help you appreciate them. Right now the grapes are at their peak of perfection, about 25% Brix. " I tried to sound convincing and hoped she wouldn't see me crossing my fingers.
Her eyes scrunched together. I've seen less skepticism on the face of Russ Limbaugh appraising Obama. "Aha, that explains it," she said. " How do you expect your wine to taste good, if you fill it with brick dust. "
I simply smiled, gestured toward the front door and Clairol bounced away, glass in hand, her hair ablaze. Just then a couple entered and I spent the next few minutes doing a normal pouring. They didn't wonder why the Zinfandel was red and not pink, they didn't ask how the flavors mentioned in the tasting notes are injected into the wine. They didn't even use the dump bucket. Heck, I even sold them two bottles of Merlot. Life was good.
Things got even better when Nacho walked in. Ignacio Blancas, aka 'Nacho' was one of my favorites at the winery. When I was first introduced to him three years before, I considered it to be rather demeaning that his nickname was a 'corn chip covered in cheese. ' At the time I knew very little about Mexican culture even though I had lived in California since I was eight. It turns out that 'Nacho' is a very common nickname both here and in Mexico. Anyway, better to be named after a snack than is the case with his nephew, Jesus. Those are mighty big shoes to fill. I admired Nacho because he was the hardest working person at the winery. He wore multiple hats, which is not unusual at a small winery. He was the winemaker but also the vineyard master and cellar master. All these tasks get done with only his brother, a cousin and his nephew to help him. If Nacho left, or something happened to him, the whole place, no doubt, would collapse. But mainly he is just a nice guy. "How's it going, mon amigo?" I said as he strode towards the bar. That salutation used about half of my non-restaurant Spanish.
"Hi, Bob. Actually, it's 'mi amigo' if we're talking Spanish here. No matter, I appreciate the effort. So, how's business? The parking lot seems pretty empty. " Nacho, now in his mid-30's, has been in California since he was a young teen-ager and is very fluent in English, unlike his relatives who are reluctant to verbalize their command of English although they understand it well enough.
"Yeah, things are still pretty slow, but the holidays are around the corner. "
"Speaking of holidays, I just wanted to tell you that Jesus and I have just moved two loads of the new 2008 Rosé to the front of the cellar. I'll check with Mike but I think we could start selling it soon. As you know, Rosé doesn't go through bottle shock and it's ready to go. "
"Sound great to me, the Rosé is always a big seller both during the holidays and when the weather gets hot. I'll start revising the tasting sheet as soon as I get a chance. "
"Oh, one other thing," Nacho said, pulling a bottle out of his carryall. Would you do me a favor and taste it, then give me your opinion?"
Wow, This is exciting, scary, but exciting, I thought. This is the first time he has asked me for my opinion. It's sort of like Picasso asking what Pee Wee Herman thinks of Quernica. At first I tried to remember whatever I'd read about dry rosés, their color, how they are made, but then, what the heck, I decided just to taste it and give my honest opinion. I opened the bottle and poured us each a good taste.
I looked at the nice cherry color, rather dark for a rosé but I remembered it was made from our Cabernet grapes. Even free-run juices of a Cab are going to have a nice color. Not a big bouquet, I thought as I removed my nose from the glass, but a slight hint of strawberries. It almost smelled sweet. Nacho looked at me expectantly. "Nice deep color, good fruity nose, light but fruity. "
Nacho smiled, like a proud father showing off his newborn, which in a sense he was.
I swirled the glass, took a good mouthful and sucked in some air like I'd seen Nacho and some of our guests do. Then I swallowed. Rosés are not 'serious' wines like a big Zinfandel or a big Cab with their deep, bold flavors and complex structures. I realized that the very lightness and subtlety of the wine made it all the more difficult to articulate my impressions. Nacho took a taste from his glass and looked at me expectantly.
I tried to look studious as if I were pondering a major philosophical question, but actually I felt like a fish out of water. At a loss for words I finally blurted out, "Hey, it's pretty good. "
Nacho recoiled in surprise. "Hey, it's pretty good?" he replied incredulously. "That's all you've got to say?"
"Ah. . . just kidding, Nacho. I didn't mean to pull your leg but you looked so serious," I said, as I tried desperately to corral my thoughts. I looked into the glass for inspiration. I had to say something quick, so I just opened my mouth and hoped something semi-intelligent would come out, trying for once to short circuit all my feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. "Well, I find it quite provocative that the fruity, sweetness of the nose, fools you into thinking the wine would have residual sugar when in fact it's quite dry and has a kind of minerally finish. One of the driest wines I've ever tasted. I would guess about . 05 residual. The deep color for a rosé, however, is carried through with a subtle intensity not found in most wines of this type. I paused. Where in the heck I'm I getting all this stuff? Sure, I picked up some knowledge over the last three years, but all this is spewing out like I'm speaking in tongues. I took a breath and looked up at Nacho to try and see how I was doing. "
The smile had returned so---screw it---I plunged on.
"On the other hand the wine is still frolicsome, sprightly and full of sunshine, like walking in a field of strawberries with their delicate fragrance wafting over you. "Gawd, I thought, I hope I'm not overdoing it. I'm beginning to sound like a deodorant commercial. "I hope you submit to the Wine Spectator for judging-I bet it will get at least a 92. "
Nacho stared at me, his mouth frozen in amazement. "Bob, mi amigo, you are fantastic. I also happen to think that the wine, is 'pretty good' as you say. " He smiled for the third time and patted me on the back. "From now on you are going to taste all my wines, in the barrel that is, maybe you can help me get the right blend. You have a great palette. "
It was my turn to be amazed. Wow, 'a great palette,' imagine that. The last time someone referred to my palette was in high school art class---and she said it was messy. My God, I thought, perhaps I do have a future in the wine business, "Oh thank you, Nacho, this is so exciting. That is great news. You've made my day. "
Nacho left with a friendly wave.
Then Clairol returned. . .
My day suddenly became unmade. I had completely forgotten about her. . . But, amazingly, as I looked at her, I saw that her face was lit up with a big grin. She seemed genuinely happy for the first time since she arrived. My plan, as desperate as it was, seemed to have worked. Embolden and with renewed optimism, I asked her how she liked the Tasting Vineyard as she approached the bar.
"Oh my God, it was wonderful! The grapes are fantastic--even better than the ones at Piggly-Wiggly, really nice and sweet. I didn't taste the bricks at all. "
" I'm so glad. " I replied. "Now, did that help you with the wine?"
"The wine? Oh no. That was just as crappy as the others. I poured it out, of course. I can't imagine you can actually sell that stuff. "
My heart sank---and matters didn't improve as she placed her glass on the bar. In it, filled to overflowing, was a bunch of grapes. Not just a few grapes but an entire bunch of grapes. Charbono I believe.
She smiled her slightly askew smile and said, "I'll take three pounds please. Plus these of course," as she popped one in her mouth. "
My smile was now in total tatters. "Madame, we sell wine not grapes. I wouldn't possibly know what to charge you, let alone go out and pick them. "
"But this is a Tasting Room and I just tasted your product. I don't see why I can't buy it, even if it is not in a bottle. If you insist, throw in a few empty bottles. "
My patience was not only tried---but convicted and found guilty. I'm afraid I was a bit testy, another definite tasting room no-no. "Madame, I'm sorry you don't like our wine---here is a paper towel, take the grapes. There's no way you'll ever appreciate our wine. I'll waive the tasting fee. "
Clairol winked at me, the make-up around her eye crackling, and said, "But I thought the tasting was free anyway if you bought something. "
"Yes, if you bought wine. . . "
"Oh, didn't I tell you. I'm sorry, I got so excited about your lovely grapes. I’ll take a case of each of those wines. "
My mouth dropped. "You mean after all this, you really like them?"
"Like them? Oh, they're horrible. I wouldn't serve them to my worst enemy. But my husband---that's another story. He just loves this kind of stuff. It's our anniversary and we promised to buy each other a surprise gift. Something that neither one of us would ever guess. Of course, after 25 years nothing is much of a surprise. He left one of his silly wine magazines on the coffee table. It was opened to an article about your winery. His way of giving me a subtle hint---subtlety not being one of his strong points. "
A strange feeling of deja-vue spread over me. I felt like I was trapped in an O'Henry short story.
"Of course, I just had to help guide him," she continued. "Men are such buffoons when it comes to gifts. He better be getting me that diamond bracelet from Shane's I've been hinting at for the last six months. He's off playing golf and I'm supposed to be playing bridge today. Wait'll the girls see my new bracelet. They are going to die. "
She handed me her credit card. As I rang up the sale my fears were confirmed. "You are Mrs. George Shapiro?'' I asked, knowing full well the answer.
"Please call me Gladys. And yes, have been Mrs. Shapiro for the last 25 years, at least I will be tomorrow." Again, the smeared smile.
"Well, congratulations, Gladys," I replied with a faint heart.
As I rang up the sale, it would be an understatement to say that I was rather less than optimistic about George's foray into wine education. The question of the moment was whether or not to tell her that George had already bought three cases. And I did hesitate-at least for a couple of seconds. Who was I to ruin the surprise-or a very good sale? Besides after six cases, maybe she will develop a palate, if not, let's hope George's wine cellar has room for a cot.
My smile re-invigorated, I said, "Well, Mrs. Shapiro, thank you very much. I'll put the wine in your car for you. I'm sure your husband will be totally surprised. And I just know you will be too. "
*********
A good percentage of wine in Tasting Rooms is sold as gifts, often by people who have rarely tasted wine or positively detest it. But they are sure that 'Uncle Henry,' Aunt Betty' or in this case 'Hubby George' will just love a bottle of our Sinton the other hand, occasionally all rooms get knowledgeable people who taste the wine---praise it-and all the servers rings up is the tasting fee. Should Bob have told Gladys about her husband's prior visit? That was a tough decision but, after all, his first job is to sell wine. Gladys will no doubt be disappointed at first. But with a little luck, they'll get a good laugh out of it. George won't mind having six of our cases in his cellar. And having met Mrs. Shapiro, Bob had a strong hunch she'll be getting that bracelet, even if a few days late. . .
TWO
LUCKY LIMO?
It was four o'clock and I started to close up. Sales were unusually slow for a Sunday, which is normally a good day. My two days off were starting to look mighty inviting. Scott, my weekend assistant, had washed and dried the glasses. I told him he might as well change his clothes and leave after he had emptied the trashcans. But please, I reminded him, turn off that awful noise he called music before he left.
Truth is, Scott and I haven't been getting along well. Sharon, the Tasting Room Manager, had hired him because he was her nephew. Ah, the joys of nepotism! He is a young guy, barely 21 and I think Sharon hoped he could be shaped into the perfect Host as well as doing her sister a favor. Unfortunately, I had been elected to do the shaping and it wasn't going well. To put it bluntly, Scott had some major obstacles in front of him.
Even though I'm less than ten years older than Scott, I found the music he liked dreadfully noisy and irritating. It would never do to play it on the Tasting Room sound system. Much to his disgust the satellite radio was tuned to soft jazz while we were open. On more than one occasion, however, I heard his noise playing when I came back from lunch. Nonetheless, he seemed rather impervious to my reprimands, no doubt due to his special family connections. In order to compromise, I allowed him to play it while we were closing up. That certainly helped me get the job done quickly and often, like today, dismiss him early. Silence can be so golden.
Another issue with Scott was the way he dressed. Tasting Room attire in the Napa Valley tends towards the informal, sort of Northern California Casual. But our winery is probably one of the few that has a dress code. Out of desperation, it was written by Sharon ostensibly to apply to everyone, but really aimed at Scott, who tended to dress in Northern California Grunge. The new rules weren't draconian---mainly no jeans, no shorts, no flip-flops, and heaven forbid, no shirts without a collar. Well, we might as well have been trying to dress Scott for his own funeral. After numerous excuses about 'having forgot,' having 'nothing else clean' and even after Sharon had called her sister to gently ask for help with Scott's attire, drastic action had to be taken. No, not the firing of Scott-that would be too drastic, sensible, but drastic. Instead, Sharon took the novel approach of buying him some clothes to be left at the winery and it was up to me to make sure he changed when he came in. In addition to my regular duties I had now become a valet cum baby sitter. That's what I get for dropping out of law school.
As I started to count the money to close out the register, I realized what irked me most about Scott was his attitude. He was a junior at the state university and had just wanted a part time job. He had no knowledge about wine. Okay, fair enough, I could help him with the knowledge if he were interested---which he most definitely was not. He tended to serve the customers with a glazed, bored expression, which drove me crazy. I have seen better customer relations at McDonalds. I sometimes wondered what he did on his frequent trips to the rest room. . .
Since treating our guests well and making them feel welcome is essential in the Tasting Room, I started giving Scott all the support tasks, away from the customers whenever possible. That he had to do such things as vacuum the floor, restock the bar, and wash the glasses did not improve his disposition. More importantly it did not solve the main problem that Monday and Tuesday were my days off and he had to wait on the customers.
As I was about to turn the closed sign, I had made the decision the time had come to once again approach Sharon about the 'Scott problem. ' Just then a limo came down the driveway. I have mixed feelings about limos. Usually, especially late in the day, you get a bunch of drunks who have visited too many wineries-and often worse-have been drinking cheap 'Champagne' in the back. More often than not, Limos are not lucky. You get a few winners and more losers.
Mostly, the groups are made up of young ladies more interested in keeping a buzz on than in tasting wine. Normally, celebrations of some ilk are the order of the day, birthdays and bachelorette parties being the most common. No matter what, they drink a lot and spent little. (Of course, I tend to think that male drunks spend more then female drunks-but then I'm probably being sexist-take you pick about the gender. )
One Limo that defied the odds belonged to a guy from Hollywood who came in last year. He wasn't famous, at least I didn't recognize him, but he sure dressed the part: black leather hat, a buckskin coat with tassels down the sleeves and cowboy boots, formerly the property of three or four lizards. The look was spoiled somewhat by the designer jeans, several sizes too small, that failed to contain his considerable paunch. Hence, his expensive silver and gold belt buckle twinkled into sight only occasionally, being hid under a bushel as it were.
He had flown into San Francisco and had his chauffer, who had driven up from L. A. , pick him up so he could go wine tasting. The plan was to fill the limo with wine, which the driver would take back while he flew home. It was a plan I certainly endorsed and the sales that day were a personal high. So not all Limos are losers and they cannot be dismissed out of hand. But I was soon to learn how out of hand limos could get. . .
Six women piled into the tasting room. It took me a minute to see what was unusual. While they were smiling and giggling as per the norm for 'limo ladies,' none of them appeared to be under forty. Well, probably not a bachelorette party but it still could be a birthday. Oh well, at least I won't have to check IDs with this group.
"Welcome, ladies," I said cheerfully-hoping to get through the tasting as quickly as possible so I could close up.
One of them, who I learned later was the ringleader, stared at my chest---rather unsteadily I thought. "Well hello, Boob, nice to meet you. Just pour what you want, it doesn't really matter. But we have worked up a thirst.
I realized that she had been trying to read my nametag. "Actually the name is Bob, Bob Spencer. " I said politely, apprehension growing by the second.
She closed one eye and squinted again. "Hey, you're right it, does say Bob, that 'o' seems a little slippery. You might want to get that fixed. "
There was certainly no doubt I was in a fix. She, too, was wearing a nametag that proclaimed her name as 'Betty '. There was some smaller printing beneath it and I leaned forward to see what it said.
"Hey, are you staring at my tits?" asked Betty.
"No I'm sorry. I was just trying to read your tag. "
"Humph," she said, sounding a little disappointed. "It reads 'Divorced and Proud of It. ' And by the way I like 'Boob' better. " She turned to the rest of the group. "Come on girls, belly up to the bar. Our new friend here, Boob, wants to serve us. I think he wants to get us drunk, the sly devil. "
As they all approached, I felt vastly outnumbered. For some reason I flashed on General Custer. . . As they lined up in front of me I noticed they all had similar tags.
"You ladies belong to some sort of club?" I asked tentatively, not sure I really wanted an answer.
The women next to Betty, whose nametag announced her to be 'Agnes' gave me a piercing look. "You better believe it, Booby Boy. "
My name had gone from bad to worse and to think I had almost made it to closing time. Just my luck. But I wasn't going to argue with Agnes who happened to be at least 6 feet 2 and probably outweighed me by 40 pounds.
"You see," Agnes continued, "we are all high school teachers. Divorced high school teachers, that is. We've formed this club and once a year we have an outing. You know nothing serious, just letting off a little steam. We decided to go upscale this year and visit a few wineries. "
A lady next to Betty, who seemed to have been dozing off, raised her head. "Yeah, last year was a disaster. Whose idea was it anyway for us to run the bases at At&T Park? My brother had to come all the way from Sacramento to bail us out. "
Not a lucky day. Sales had been slow and now I'm hosting a bunch of drunken teachers/jailbirds.
Betty put her arm around the woman. "Margaret be quiet or Booby here will get the wrong impression. We are being very civilized this year. Isn't that right, girls? Now be a nice fellow and pour us some of your wine. I'm sure it's just wonderful. "
One of the hardest jobs in the tasting room is deciding when not to serve someone. Some can appear to hold their alcohol a lot better than others and still be over the limit. Our job is to pour---and sell---wine. Cutting people off goes against our nature and makes the decision all the more difficult. Yet, here was a no-brainer.
I looked at the six of them lined up. Not only was this not the first winery they had visited, but we might be talking of double digits. Yes, they were swaying-unless the winery was experiencing some sort of slow motion earthquake, which seemed very doubtful, but they were swaying in unison. A kind of harmonious synchronicity, a kind of drunken wave they must have picked up on the tasting room trail. It was quite mesmerizing. I actually started to reach for the Chardonnay before I came to my senses and my ABC training kicked in.
"I'm sorry, ladies, but there's no way I'm going to serve you. Believe me, It just ain't going to happen. "
Margaret brightens up a bit. "Aren't," she says, "not ain't. "
Wonderful a drunken grammarian. "Ok, I aren't going to serve you?" I ask tentatively.
"Good," say Agnes. "At least you're questioning your decision. But don't mind Margaret, she teaches English. Now let's get on with it. "
"Actually, I'm questioning the syntax not my decision. I just can't serve you. "
Everyone stopped swaying and the temperature in the room seemed to get colder-or maybe it was just my feet.
My eyes swept down the row of frowning faces. "Look ladies, I'd really like to serve you, but you've had too much already. Legally, you should not even be in the room given your condition. We could lose our license. "
"Oh tsk, tsk," Agnes sneered. "Don't we feel sorry for little Booby and by the way, my good fellow, we're women not ladies. " Agnes seemed to grow even taller. "Do you know what I teach?"
"Ah. . . Football," I respond, only half in jest.
"No, that was my husband, the wimp. "
"Ah. . . Wrestling? Ah. . . Shot Putting? Breaking and Entering? I don't know. I give up. "
"Good, then serve us. "
"No, I mean, I can't guess what you teach. "
"I'm the librarian," she smirked.
"Really, for some reason I never would have guessed.
" Margaret perked up again. "It's been wonderful. Since Agnes took over, not one book has been stolen. " "Now that I can believe. " I said nodding my head. "Okay, listen everyone, it's been. . . delightful talking to you but it's past closing time and I must ask you to leave.
Betty steadied herself on the bar. "Sorry, Boob, no can do. I'm the principal at the school and sort of the informal head of this little group. I promised them one more winery and I don't renege on my promises. Just ask my Ex. Sued his fucking pants off just like I said I would."
Margaret opened her eyes. "For Pete's sake Betty, watch your language. What do you think this is, Study Hall?"
"Ok Betty, I get the picture," I said, "and I'm very sorry but I just can't do it. If you won't leave now, I'll have to go talk to your driver, Let's see if he can talk some sense into you. "
For some reason the whole group started chuckling.
A cloud of dread passed over me. "What's so funny?"
"Oh you'll see, Booby, you'll see. In the meantime let's all sit down in these nice chairs and wait. Till Hell freezes over if we have to. "With that Betty led them over to the sitting area.
A lady-woman-next to Agnes exclaimed, "Oh, this is so exciting, just like the '70's. A real sit-in. Just imagine. "
Betty looked at me and smiled. "That's Harriet, from History. "
"Of course, what else," I said.
Then, from the last chair on the left: "Vive La Révolution!"
I raised my hand before Betty could speak. "Don't tell me, French, n'est ce pas?"
"Très bien, monsieur," Betty replied. "That's Michelle. Also does an occasional class in Womyn Studies and sponsors the student club, "Vagins Sans Frontières. "
My high school French clicked in. "You certainly have a progressive curriculum," I said.
"It's never to early to teach girls the real facts of life. "
"With just a tinge of misogamy, no doubt. "
"Only when it is deserved-as all the ladies here can attest to. "
Betty seemed a little sad-but possibly it was just the wine wearing off. "Well, enough of this stimulating chit-chat. I'm off to see your driver. Don't steal any wine. "
"We're womyn, not thieves. How typically masculine," responded Michelle.
I bit my tongue and headed out the door. I couldn't help but notice the smiles on all the women.
And I soon found out why. . .
There was no driver. I called out. Maybe he was smoking or taking a leak. No response. Then I heard a muffled sound coming from the limo, coming from the trunk, to be more precise.
"Hello?" I shouted, leaning towards the rear bumper.
"Pleouse helmoe," came the response. The words made no sense but I recognized the voice. " They would kidnap one of my favorite drivers.
"Marty is that you? Speak loud and slow. "
"Bob, thank God! I thought they might stop here. I've been calling out forever. "
It was good to hear my real name for a change. "Marty, they've only been here 20 minutes. "
"Well, excuusse me. . . Time passes slowly when you're not having fun. Now just get me out of this damn trunk. "
"It's locked and I don't have the key. "
"There's a latch by the driver side power windows. "
Of course, I found that the limo was also locked. I could break a window but instead the germ of a plan was forming. "Marty, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere. "
"Always the comedian ain't you. Wait'll I get those perverts in court. They'll be sorry they messed with Marty Angel. "
"Aren't"
"What?"As I headed back to the room, I heard Marty mumble something about if he hung any tighter he be a pretzel. The closer to the room I got, the madder I got. I don't consider myself a particularly brave person. But enough is enough-and this was definitely too much. We're not talking a harmless prank here. The ladies-women-were right where I left them Mire was real and I laid into them.
"Are you women crazy," I yelled. "What the fuck did you think you were doing? Sorry, Margaret, but I'm really mad. You're talking major jail time here. Kidnapping is a felony, in case you didn't know. " A strange feeling was coursing through my veins---some long dormant gene waking up-I wasn't afraid. I felt powerful. It was great! "We had probable cause," Agnes said defiantly.
"Oh sure, probable cause for kidnapping? Give me a break, Agnes. "
"We rented the limo for all day," Agnes continued unabated, "and after only the ninth winery, that dirty devil had the nerve to say we had to quit. "
"Angel," I said.
She ignored my correction. "We had no choice but to relieve him of his duties. " Then she continued, almost apologetically, "It seemed like a good idea at the time and he actually did not resist too much. "
Margaret perked up from her stupor. "Agnes is the strongest librarian I know. "
Given the fact the Marty is about 5' 5" on a good day, I didn't doubt he climbed in peacefully, shouting invectives all the way. Okay, here's the deal, guys," I said with my renewed vigor. "You've got a choice. Give me the keys or I break a window and let Marty out-after I call the cops. Then off to jail you go. "
A moan escaped from the last member of the club. "I can't go to jail again," she cried. "Last time was horrible and I'm still trying to live it down. "
"Oh shut up, Blanche. It was only for a few hours. "
"Let me guess," I say. "Dean of Girls?"
"Close," Betty responded. "Vice Principal for Discipline. I run a tight ship. "
"So what's it to be?" I asked. "The keys or jail. And I can guarantee you, it won't be for an hour or two. "
I could see the hesitation and fear in their eyes. No doubt less due to my forceful eloquence than to the wine finall
"He'll still press charges," Agnes responded sullenly.
"I know Marty pretty well and I don't think so. Here's what we are going to do. . .
Ten minutes later the ordeal is over. We were all headed out in the Limo going back to the drop-off point. I rode shotgun to make sure everything went smoothly. The women were in the back with the partition firmly raised. Marty had been mollified by a hefty tip that averaged forty dollars apiece from the women and a free bottle of wine from me. (He's a big fan of our Cabernet. )Most persuasive, however, was his desire to avoid the humiliation that would entail if the story got out. (All names have been changed in this recounting to protect the innocent, the stupid and the misandric. )I extracted a solemn promise from Betty et al. to get out of the kidnapping business and to resist the temptation to return to my winery.
Next year I suggested they go to Chippendales for lunch. That would be something to see---or not.
THREE
DON'T FORGET THE MUSIC
I like Wednesdays. After two days off I felt full of energy. Truth be told I'm often bored during my 'weekend', in part because I like my job, which is good, and in part because I need to get a life outside of work, which is bad. So, as I set about getting the Room ready, I'm in a good mood, who knows what the day has in store?
My opening routine is always the same when I'm working the Room alone. Put on the music, which today means switching the satellite radio from the god-awful noise Scott likes to my favorite jazz station. I open the register, count the money and set about getting the tasting bar up and running: tasting sheets out, clean glasses in the racks and the cracker dishes filled. I go out to check the patio, putting the chairs in order and making sure the Bocce balls are on the court.
I had the last bottle opened when Jennifer, our accountant, rushed out of her office down the hall and yelled, "Battle Stations, everyone. He's coming! He's coming!
Well, so much for my nice peaceful Wednesday. There of course is only one 'He' that she could be referring to. Not Mike Winters, the titular owner of the winery, but his silent partner, Alfredo Borioso. Alfredo is anything but silent. I have no idea how much money he has invested in the winery but it must be a fair amount. He descends from his Park Avenue apartment two or three times a year to pay us a visit, and pay we do with everyone scurrying around getting ready. Usually these visits are announced weeks ahead but occasionally, like today, he springs them on us.
I happen to think that I run a pretty good Room and Scott, my weekend substitute, has left it in reasonable shape for a change. But as Jennifer announced that he'd be here in ten minutes, I fine-tuned the place. A trash basket had not been emptied and I saw some empty bottles that need to be recycled. I gave the counter a thorough wiping. Some day he'll probably walk in with a white glove to check for dust and strike me down with a bolt of lightening.
It's the rest of the office staff that would take the brunt of his visit, especially with the downturn in the economy. Sales in the Room have been good but I heard rumors about a decline in club memberships and a lag on the wholesale end where two-thirds of our business resides. I could foresee some long meetings with Mike and Jennifer as they go over the books. He also will have a word with Mike's wife, Sharon, who is technically the Tasting Room manager. Lucky for me, she is hands off on the daily operations of the Room and concentrates many on running the Club and doing email promotions.
Just as I finished my preparations, Mike came rushing in, out of breath. Jennifer has obviously called him. Truth be told, Mike is often out of breath, his schedule is a hectic one since he is our main distributor, gone for weeks at a time selling his wines all over the country. I believe he just returned from Chicago the night before.
"Hi, Bob, I guess you've heard," he said hurriedly as he headed for Jennifer's office. "We'll talk later-gotta check some spread sheets. "
I swear that man will have a heart attack before he's sixty. Seeing him rush around confirms my belief that there are only two really good jobs at a winery. The best job belongs to the customers who come to taste and, hopefully, buy some wine. The other one is my job, pouring the wine, talking to the customers and, hopefully, selling them some.
Sure enough, like clockwork, Alfredo pulled up ten minutes later. He is somewhere between 50 and 60, black hair, graying at the temples. He has the beginnings of a paunch, a testimony to his love of good food. Over an immaculate pressed and starched open-collar shirt, his tan sport coat proclaimed cashmere.
I am always curious to see what kind of rental car he will be driving. He is partial to Mercedes and BMW's with an occasional Jag thrown in. I am shocked to see him exit from a mid-sized Toyota. The economy must really be bad. I pretended to be busy as he walked in, lest he catches me staring at his downgraded ride.
Al greeted me with a big smile of relief, "Well, Bob, old chap, how are you? Nice to see that you are here today. Last time I was assaulted by that other fellow, what's his name?"
"Scott?" I replied questioningly. "You're kidding? He assaulted you?"
"Well, his music did. I was hit on the head with it. At first I thought something was wrong with the speakers, that the screeching was due to the speakers shorting-out. He assured me that was his favorite music, something he called classical scrunge or drunge, I forget. Worst stuff I've ever heard. After that little encounter, I talked to Sharon and I trust this Scott fellow is listening to his noise elsewhere. "
Sharon obviously had not fired Scott. I temporized "Well, I think his hours were cut back. "
Boris eyes lit up as he rubbed his hands together "But he's still here? H'mm, something else to talk about at our meeting. Sometimes making cut backs can be enjoyable. " Although he didn't realize it, he would be doing Sharon a favor-now she'll have to get rid of Scott but she won't have to take the blame. Perhaps he can get a job selling noisy CD's or drug paraphernalia. I think there's a store in Santa Rosa that does both.
He looked me straight in the eyes, "So, Bob, I trust you are not really listening to that radio station. Why don't you be a good fellow and turn on something more civilized. "
I rushed over to the receiver and turned on the classical station. Boris smiled and nodded his head. “So, Bob, I've always wondered what's an educated man like you doing in a tasting room. You did go to school, right?"
"Yes, Sir. I got my BA at Berkeley. "
A satisfied look came over his face. "Ah, well, that explains it. What did you major in?" He snickered. "Protests? Sit-ins? Sign painting?" Alfredo had gone to Yale for his BA and got his MBA from Harvard, not the most liberal of educations but certainly more profitable than mine.
"Well, Al," I responded, "Actually, I majored in Political Science.
"There you go, practically the same thing, right? All that liberal hogwash, leading our country down the drain. And look where it's got you-a glorified bar tender. "
I'm not sure what made me madder---his criticism of my job or his attack on Berkeley. But one thing was for sure: one of the rules stamped into the mind of every tasting room host is not to talk politics. That goes double when talking to one of the owners and triple when the owner is a narrow-minded snob. So I bit my tongue and said, "Al, have you tasted our new Cab? It was just released last week. "
"Well, it's a little early but don't mind if I do. I've got this meeting with your boss and I bet he and Jennifer are in there conspiring right now. I could use some fortification before I forge into the lion's den. "
I wouldn't bet on the lions, I thought, as I poured him a generous taste of the '05 Cab and searched for a neutral topic to steer him away from my educational and political inadequacies. I remember from his last visit that there are two things Borioso is passionate about-besides making money. He loves to eat and he loves Opera. He collects famous restaurants like some people collect stamps and he loves talking about them. Most of the ones he mentions I have never heard of. Last time he was out he had reservations at the 'French Laundry. ' He wanted to know what he should order. Since it as just down the road, he assumed it must be one of my favorite hangouts. I had to inform him that the only French laundry I frequented was during my trip to France after graduation. He didn't think that was very funny.
Don't get me wrong, I like to eat but my tastes are rather simple. My father was strictly a meat and potatoes man and my mother thought Bird's Eye had invented vegetables. Not surprisingly, I found the French food rather pretentious. A 'Croque Monsieur' turned out to be grilled cheese sandwich. Well, why couldn't they just say so? Who knew that 'Steak Tartar' was hamburger nobody cooked. I still remember the waiter glaring at me as I asked him in my best high school French to cook the meat, s'il vous plait. Good French fries, though, even if they call them 'fried apples'. . . weird.
Even more tenuous is my grasp of Opera. Leaning more towards Parker than Pavarotti, I have little to say on the subject. Every time Alfredo comes he mentions that he has season tickets at the Met and regales me with the latest production he heard, of a Wagner and how dramatic it was, or how the Puccini was so lyrical, but that he found the last Donizetti rather light. I remember thinking that the tomato and cheese sauce on the last Donizetti I had was quite tasty. I kept that thought to myself.
Luckily, Borioso was in a hurry to get to the meeting. He downed the Cab hurriedly and headed for Jennifer's office. The next two hours passed peacefully except for the occasional muffled outbursts coming from down the hall. It did sound as if the lions were losing. I think I actually heard a squeal from Jennifer.
I served a few couples and made a few sales as the normal routine of a Wednesday set in. I had almost forgot about Borioso.
Then at about 11:30 I heard a loud, rumbling noise outside and a minute later Maude and Tiny came bursting in.
All wineries, especially small ones like ours, depend on their club members for a solid base of fans-and revenue. They are treated like royalty, even if you have to work hard at it. With Maude and Tiny it was easy work. They were among my favorite club members, if also among the most unusual. If you were to judge by appearances they would be among the most unlikely wine aficionados you could find. They always wear a full set of leather, which is good because they always arrive on their Harley's, two of them. Maude is no back seat Mamma. I don't know anything about bikes but I don't imagine they make them any bigger then the ones outside.
They were in their mid-50's I would guess, trussed up in black leather head-to-toe with matching helmets. I couldn't help but notice the big peace symbol on the side of the headgear. Both sport ponytails. While neither one was skinny, Tiny, befitting his name was a big man, about 6 inches taller than Maude and very rotund, a medicine ball with appendages. He also possesses one of the scraggliest beads this side of Fidel Castro.
"Howdy," I said, "look what the cat drug in. "
They took off their helmets, which look like something a jet pilot would wear and plopped them on the counter. Tiny grinned and started one of those hand-shaking rituals that I can never get right: thumbs, knuckles, elbows and wrists. etc. "Well, Bob," he said as we fumbled through the routine, "you old retro bait, how're they hanging?"
Not sure if this was a rhetorical question, I answered, "just fine and yours?. . . I mean you?"
"Just dandy. Maude and I got an email from Sharon about your new Cab. So we just had to ride up and give it a taste. Ain't that right, gal?"
She smiled at me and said, "I swear this old coyote has the patience of a jack rabbit. We had to drop everything, even though the dead line for my article is next week. "
That Maude is a writer I found interesting. I have known them for about three years but unlike many club members I really don't know much about them. They are very friendly, very casual but tend to breeze in and out quickly. Probably it's all that zooming around on bikes. I do know that they live in the Piedmont Hills, which is a pretty ritzy area and, happily, are among our best customers. Jennifer once told me she thinks Al was an early dot. commer who got out before the crash and now does some sort of venture capital investing. Looks sure can be deceiving.
I pour them a healthy taste of the Cab. Club members always get a little extra. . . Just as I was waiting for their reaction, Jennifer's door opened and Mike hurried out the front door without saying a word. I've seen happier faces on gas chamber prospects.
Borioso emerged from the hallway with a big scowl on his face. He stopped dead in his tracks, the scowl turning into shocked disbelief as he spied Tiny and Maude. He probably thought we were about to be robbed.
I quickly tried to bring him up to speed. "Al," I said, "I'd like you to met Tiny and Maude Adams. Two of my favorite customers. And this is Alfredo Borioso, a major backer of the winery. "
Tiny offered his hand for a conventional handshake, a smile peeking through his beard, but Al recoiled as if he might catch something.
Borioso forced his gaze off the two and stared at me. "Is this some sort of practical joke, Bob? What are these, some of your Berkeley friends?"
Tiny lowered his hand slowly, his smile replaced by a scowl of his own. "No, Piedmont Hills, my friend, not that it is any of your damn business. "
"As part owner of this winery it certainly is my business. " He turned to me, ignoring Tiny. "You see, Bob, this is the kind of thing I was talking about with Mike. We've got to improve the image of this place, go upscale in this competitive market place. There was an article in the Journal just last week on the importance of image. But what are you doing? Trying to turn this into some sort of skid row pool hall?" Al looked disdainfully at Tiny and said curtly, "Will you please take those filthy helmets off the counter?"
Tiny stood rigid, his face frozen. Maude stepped up to Borioso. Her face close to his. "You're one of those up tight New York financiers aren't you. I've seen your type before. Mike must have been pretty desperate to hook up with the likes of you. "
I was speechless. No one has ever talked to Borioso like that. Bye, bye, job. I wonder who's hiring now.