An Exceedingly Presumptuous Wine
My wife and I do have meaningful conversations, but the one we had last Saturday afternoon wasn’t one of them. We had just heard a news item on TV that a small bottle of wine was sold for nine thousand dollars. In contrast, the most expensive liquid in our possession was a gallon of extra virgin olive oil.
It was a French wine with a two-word name—one of those throat-clearing, tongue twisting names that if a French Berlitz instructor spent a week coaching me I’d still screw it up. The nearest I’d come to describing it would be, “It’s French and red.”
“What if,” my wife said, “somebody gave us that bottle as a gift?”
Normally we wouldn’t go to any great lengths in pursuing such a “what if,” but it was a rainy Saturday. I got out my calculator and converted a seven hundred and fifty milliliter bottle into ounces. It came to a little over twenty-five. After briefly whistling, I announced that a bottle like that costs about three hundred and fifty bucks an ounce. My wife also briefly whistled.
“Do you realize,” she said, “that if a little spills when you pop the cork, say a half ounce, we’d lose one hundred and seventy-five dollars?”
I mentally went down a list of relatives and friends who had the wherewithal to give us such a gift and concluded that we would not be in danger of losing one hundred and seventy-five bucks. I then added fuel to the conversation by throwing this in: “Let’s say we each had a glass of it, say three ounces each. That would mean we would’ve swallowed over two thousand bucks of the stuff.”
Both of us nodded, our eyebrows involuntarily rising to the occasion. We sat quietly for a minute—each trying to put this into perspective. I pictured this extremely costly liquid swishing around my taste buds and could actually hear the buds discussing their dilemma: “Well, who’s gonna tell him we’re not sure how to interpret this stuff? It’s obviously exotic, and our guy here is strictly a Coke and McDonald’s man.”
I knew my wife’s thoughts were moving along these same lines. Her cheeks were puffed up as though she was at the bathroom sink with a mouthful of Listerine. We were both much concerned—the two of us in just a few minutes’ time had already consumed over two thousand bucks of wine and we’re still holding off buying a bigger refrigerator. I estimate our cold food stock to be some three cubic feet more than the fridge’s capacity.
She gave me a real worried look and asked, “What if we don’t like the taste?”
This gave me pause—not only would my first glass, one thousand and fifty bucks worth, not be as gratifying as that kind of money should gratify, but it also might taste funny.
“What if,” she continued, “we drank some and put the bottle in the refrigerator?”
“So?”
“Will it go bad after a while?”
“Shit.” I said, “I’m sure it’s the cork kind. I’ve always had trouble with re-corking.” She was what-iffing the two of us into a mild depression. I looked out the window at the dull, rainy day, wondering why those expensive wines never give you the luxury of a screw-on cap.
With my thoughts on the cork, another observation came to mind. The cork itself would have absorbed some wine—maybe a fiftieth of an ounce? That means that the cork alone would steal some seven bucks of wine; enough to buy a half-gallon of domestic burgundy.
Less costly, but if I were a chemist, still calculable: how many molecules would disappear if I decided to sniff its bouquet? Since my nose, wine-wise, is just as uneducated as my taste buds, that would be one foolish sniff.
We were not enjoying this wine.
Another whistle, but this time it was the kettle calling us to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
She poured the steaming water into the cups. The teabags swirled and gradually colored the liquid. After prying the container of milk from the refrigerator, I sat down and sipped my tea. It was hot and comforting and familiar. With a broad smile my wife lifted her cup as though about to make a toast, “About a penny an ounce.”
We were much relieved.
- end -
Published in The Front Porch Syndicate (copyrighted)
It was a French wine with a two-word name—one of those throat-clearing, tongue twisting names that if a French Berlitz instructor spent a week coaching me I’d still screw it up. The nearest I’d come to describing it would be, “It’s French and red.”
“What if,” my wife said, “somebody gave us that bottle as a gift?”
Normally we wouldn’t go to any great lengths in pursuing such a “what if,” but it was a rainy Saturday. I got out my calculator and converted a seven hundred and fifty milliliter bottle into ounces. It came to a little over twenty-five. After briefly whistling, I announced that a bottle like that costs about three hundred and fifty bucks an ounce. My wife also briefly whistled.
“Do you realize,” she said, “that if a little spills when you pop the cork, say a half ounce, we’d lose one hundred and seventy-five dollars?”
I mentally went down a list of relatives and friends who had the wherewithal to give us such a gift and concluded that we would not be in danger of losing one hundred and seventy-five bucks. I then added fuel to the conversation by throwing this in: “Let’s say we each had a glass of it, say three ounces each. That would mean we would’ve swallowed over two thousand bucks of the stuff.”
Both of us nodded, our eyebrows involuntarily rising to the occasion. We sat quietly for a minute—each trying to put this into perspective. I pictured this extremely costly liquid swishing around my taste buds and could actually hear the buds discussing their dilemma: “Well, who’s gonna tell him we’re not sure how to interpret this stuff? It’s obviously exotic, and our guy here is strictly a Coke and McDonald’s man.”
I knew my wife’s thoughts were moving along these same lines. Her cheeks were puffed up as though she was at the bathroom sink with a mouthful of Listerine. We were both much concerned—the two of us in just a few minutes’ time had already consumed over two thousand bucks of wine and we’re still holding off buying a bigger refrigerator. I estimate our cold food stock to be some three cubic feet more than the fridge’s capacity.
She gave me a real worried look and asked, “What if we don’t like the taste?”
This gave me pause—not only would my first glass, one thousand and fifty bucks worth, not be as gratifying as that kind of money should gratify, but it also might taste funny.
“What if,” she continued, “we drank some and put the bottle in the refrigerator?”
“So?”
“Will it go bad after a while?”
“Shit.” I said, “I’m sure it’s the cork kind. I’ve always had trouble with re-corking.” She was what-iffing the two of us into a mild depression. I looked out the window at the dull, rainy day, wondering why those expensive wines never give you the luxury of a screw-on cap.
With my thoughts on the cork, another observation came to mind. The cork itself would have absorbed some wine—maybe a fiftieth of an ounce? That means that the cork alone would steal some seven bucks of wine; enough to buy a half-gallon of domestic burgundy.
Less costly, but if I were a chemist, still calculable: how many molecules would disappear if I decided to sniff its bouquet? Since my nose, wine-wise, is just as uneducated as my taste buds, that would be one foolish sniff.
We were not enjoying this wine.
Another whistle, but this time it was the kettle calling us to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
She poured the steaming water into the cups. The teabags swirled and gradually colored the liquid. After prying the container of milk from the refrigerator, I sat down and sipped my tea. It was hot and comforting and familiar. With a broad smile my wife lifted her cup as though about to make a toast, “About a penny an ounce.”
We were much relieved.
- end -
Published in The Front Porch Syndicate (copyrighted)
posted by rich at 12:21 AM
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