“Can I help you with anything?”

“Sure. I’m looking for a good red for sangria.”

I’m in a new-to-me wine and grog shop in my neighborhood, looking to spend some of my Mother’s day money. My sweet angel of a brother did say to treat myself. But other than good wine and yarn, I never really want anything. When in doubt, always opt for wine. I drink white wine almost exclusively, but I’ve been looking to experiment and broaden my palate. I’m willing to admit that I need help, though, especially after a tongue-curdling dosey-dohhhhhh(!) with a Greek red at my mother’s day dinner just two days prior.

“How much do you want to spend?”

“Not a lot.”

“Welllll, good and cheap don’t always go together.”

Oh reallllly????? Is he really that much of a snob? Or is he just that much of a cheesy salesman? Do I really look that naive????? I believe the point of a sangria is to enable a wine that hasn’t quite seen its day to taste perhaps, better. One wouldn’t pour a Rothschild into a sangria, for instance. What would be the point??? I don’t believe in shelling out alot for any wine, unless it’s for a very, very special occassion. And, no, expensive doesn’t necessarily equate good taste….just sip some Dom Perignon, if you have a chance. Tastes like sawdust. I much prefer a Perrier-Juoet, preferably in the pretty lily decorated bottles, but I’ll even take their lower end offerings, or, hell, a Washington sparkling wine over Mr. Perignon (though, to his credit, he came up with this quote, upon discovering champagne: “Come quickly, I am tasting stars!” I suspect it sounded even more intoxicating in French. But that’s where I like to get when I’m partaking in wine…actually, to be more apt, I like to feel as though I were out there, floating among the stars…bibble-di-bobble-di-boo, and la-di-dah).

Anyway, this guy must be a cheesy salesman, because the dude disappeared right after tossing off that cheaply offered reply. Fucker! You know, you might expect this sort of bullshit when shopping for, say, a car (which I generally avoid. My last automobile purchase was negotiated by no less than an angel (I shit you not), or, say, a diamond (equally avoided). But a freaking bottle of wine??????!!!! Sheesh. I wanted to spit on him. I peered briefly at the reds, then opted for an inexpensive but well regarded Reisling (my usual standby. Almost like an old lover, comfy and reassuring. Because I have a sweet tooth. Sweet men, sweet wine, and I’m a happy kitten), and a dirt cheap Moscato. And like an old lover, I start to miss my usual haunt, The Cork, where the help treat you like a favorite student, patiently explaining the subleties of a good wine, unembarrassed to mention value. Because asking for assistance doesn’t mean one is stupid. But it’s way, way up on a steeeep hill (topographically speaking, I probably live in the San Francisco of Connecticut, where you can’t turn right or left without encountering a steeeep climb), and I’m on my sweeeeet bike, but without my “legs” yet.

Needless to say, unless I’m desperate (highly unlikely), I won’t be back.


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May 2010
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