This post is another chapter from my new book, Strong Water: Tales of a Master Sommelier’s Life in Food, Wine, and Restaurants. It’s a collection of essays written over the last ten-plus years that will be published this fall. One of the sections of the book is called “Tales of the sommelier.” It’s about various experiences working the floor, both strange and tragic. Here’s one of the more memorable incidents.
One night at the Cypress Club, I was assigned to work a party in the private dining room. The guests comprised three families with little kids who were staying at a nearby hotel. The kid part was unusual because the restaurant was known as a night spot. Regardless, even though the party wasn’t in the main dining room, it was only a matter of time before the all kiddies were underfoot, getting in the way of everyone trying to work the table.
As dessert was served, one of the guys in the party called me over and said they wanted one more bottle of red wine. Something special. I brought over the list. He looked it over for several minutes and then chose an older vintage of Cabernet from a noted Howell Mountain producer. I confirmed the order, then went downstairs and retrieved the bottle from the cellar. Then I set up new glassware for everyone, brought the bottle to the table, and presented it.
At this point, I noticed the little girl who was the daughter of the guy who had ordered the bottle. She was climbing all over his lap and, frankly, being a nuisance. She had also been pest numero uno for the entire evening; the one kid in the group who was always right in the way when you were trying to pour wine, clear glasses or dishes, or just get around the table. I also noticed that she was wearing pink slip-on jellies, or plastic shoes. My daughter Maria, who was four at the time, also had a pair and often wore them. The shoes would soon come into play.
After presenting the bottle, I decanted it per usual protocol at a side table within sight of the guy who ordered it. I then placed the bottle on an under-liner in front of him and quickly returned with the decanter. Just as I went to pour a taste for him, his daughter interrupted, saying, “Here, Daddy, taste the wine out of my shoe.” Turns out she had taken off one of her pink jellies and was holding it out to him. In response, he looked at her, looked at her slimy little pink plastic shoe, and said, “OK, honey.” He then took the shoe from her and held it out to me. What followed in the space-time continuum was like the part in the movie Dodgeball when the team from Ordinary Joe’s comes out on the court wearing BDSM gear. Then the referee looks at them and says, “OK.”
In my role as sommelier, it was my charge to take care of the guests and not bias their experience with my opinions. Given that, I simply smiled, nodded, and poured a splash of the wine into the proffered pink jelly. Dad made a big theatrical show out of swirling the shoe, somehow not spilling. Then he smelled the wine (it must have been god-awful) and took a sip. He smiled, turned to his daughter, and said, “It’s delicious!” Then he motioned for me to pour for the rest of the table. I did just that, keeping a wary eye out for the now besmirched jelly to see what would happen to it. It went right back on the kid’s foot. I should have known. Meanwhile, the conversation at the table went right on without pause.
In the weeks to come, the incident became known as “jelly terroir” among the staff at the restaurant. I wonder if the guy remembers it. As for his daughter, she’s probably married now with her own kids. And I wonder if she even remembers it. I know I do.
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