Sommeliers and the Like

I’m from the Bronx.



I have never really been able to explain this to my wife in a way that she can appreciate; it’s hard for her to understand that, between my "Bronxing" and my "coppering," food for me has always been a result of hunger—and then later, as a cop, something I had to eat swiftly. Nothing worse than to order a meal, fast-food or in line at a store, and then suddenly have to run out, unable to return to the ordered meal (they rarely saved it). If you're lucky, you can throw money at the checker as you dash. (Of course it has to be more than the three-day-old, pre-made sandwich costs.)

I tell you all this because Sally lives, lives, to go out to those restaurants where the portions are, let us say, "limited" in size.

Sally:

"Now I want you to appreciate the presentation—the time it took to create that presentation, the artful way the food is dressed on the plate. There will be several courses, and I know this will challenge your patience. But this is important to me, and since I've shown my patience while you watch those monotonous crime ... Well, I just think you might show some appreciation for the fact that I am taking you out to ...”

I hold up my open palm, nod, and say, "I'll try" (without a fraction of honesty in either word). Going out to one of these places requires all the patience (and alcohol) I can consume before we leave, driving or not! I'm getting dressed, over-dressed, for a meal that wouldn't sate a Lilliputian, so I'm trying to sneak some Ritz crackers into my sports-jacket pocket. I turn around and Sally is staring that glazed stare that makes me feel numb and dumb at the same time. "Just in case?" I quickly throw two into my mouth in rebellion.

I just love pulling up to a valet who looks back at my Subaru as he accepts the tip from the $200,000 Benz in front of me. His look says enough to piss me off, and I send my best angry-cop look back at him.

"You're starting already; we haven't even gotten out of the car and you're starting already."

I open my mouth to explain and finally just say, "Hey, why do we have to come to these places where the valets are better dressed than me?"

Before she can reply, her door is opened and her dream for the night is coming true. I, on the other hand, open my own door. The valet waits patiently. I reach into my coat and slap a Ritz in his palm. He thanks me. Sally doesn't see this. A coup. I can’t stop looking at a vintage Cadillac—you know, the kind where there’s a different time zone between grill and trunk? Sally tells me to close my mouth and pulls me to the door. 

Now, seated, there is a silent shift of power. The threat of embarrassment looms over the black napkins. Those same pantry eyes 30 minutes ago have now softened into a blinking plea for fairness, for reason. I start thinking of the valet and an involuntary smile pushes the side of my mouth upward. Sally pats my hand and says, “See, I knew you’d begin to enjoy this, once …” I nod back gently.

Here I am, once again about to be stalked and given involuntary lessons on “the grape.” Each course would be supplied with a different wine. The sommelier holds the bottom of the bottles as he pours. The splash appears to be exactly the same as the one before. I wonder how many years it took to become that accurate. This is a man who is exceedingly proud of every ounce he introduces. I want to see some expression on the man’s face. I need emotion to continue! I know, I’ll …

Sally grasps my hand and mimes the words, “Don’t you dare!” Something on my face gave me away—a tell. Now I’m wondering if my poker group can see it!

I suggest we take a picture of every tiny offering that comes (every fucking hour). Look, portions that size don’t require digestion. If my stomach could talk after I swallowed, it would say, “Wait, wait, what was that?”


The wine is finally striking a chord. I have a small buzz, which of course fits the portions perfectly. Shifting in my seat finds me resigned and surrendering to the situation. I lean the wrong way in my jacket. The clear and present muffled sound and vibration of the demolition of the remainder of my Ritz crackers solicit an “Are you okay?” The lying nod, heroic smile, and fake anticipation for the next pour works.

Dessert is a combination of whatevers. I’m wondering if it will taste like something I am able to identify. Sally’s eyebrows hit her hairline and she nearly swoons. All I can think about is my favorite dessert, butterscotch pudding.

The valet seems not to recall me and quickly gets my Subaru. When I reach for a tip he says, “No thanks, I’m full.” I start laughing and give him a real tip. Sally asks and I just shrug. The quiet drive home is broken when she suddenly blurts out, “You’re impossible! You’re like climbing Everest … in slippers!” 

“Sherpa Sally?”

Okay, the laughter was concessionary but hearty. We both know there will be another dinner with more warnings (and a few more Ritz crackers).