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Fiction Short Story

by Wayne Scheer

Selecting the Right Wine

Whenever Phyllis brought up the idea of attending a wine tasting, Ben had a standard response: "I'd rather drink than taste." The more Ben resisted, the more Phyllis persisted.

"I'm just curious, is all," she said. "Let's try it. It'll be fun. You'll see."

Ben had been married long enough to appreciate the inevitability of attending a wine tasting soon.  Still, he tried getting as much mileage as he could out of his barbarian role before giving in. He had learned that if he yielded too soon, there was nothing to be gained. But if he presented the proper amount of resistance (just enough to show his reluctance, while not stepping over the line into obnoxiousness), he would get a chance to play the loving husband, sacrificing for his wife. He could then cash in at a later date. He didn't really care one way or the other about the wine tasting, but he might get the movie of his choice next time they were at Blockbuster.

After thirty years of marriage, Ben understood the fine art of the deal.

"Okay," he said the next day. "I know you want to go to the wine tasting. Didn't I see Angelo's advertising the wines of Northern Italy this Thursday? Let's go. And afterwards we'll eat dinner there."

"You are the sweetest man," Phyllis draped her arms around his neck and hugged him gently.

"Do you want me to make reservations?" he asked, knowing that, too, would earn him extra points.

"No need." She smiled. "I already made them. They pour the first bottle promptly at six, they told me. We have dinner reservations for 7."

When they told the young woman at the door they had reservations for the wine tasting, she showed them to a room in the back of the restaurant. Eight tables set up with small plates containing crusts of bread, slivers of cheese and specks of berries welcomed them to the event.  The room was empty except for waiters and one other couple.

"For this we paid twenty bucks," Ben stage whispered. The hostess, smiled politely, and showed them to their table. The other couple, turning their heads to look over Ben and Phyllis, avoided any sign of polite smiles.

"Be good," Phyllis warned her husband.

Waiters arranged six empty wine glasses and a water glass at each setting.

"Maybe it won't be so bad after all," Ben said, rubbing his hands together.

At just a few minutes before six, people gathered, greeting each other like old friends. Phyllis smiled. "Isn't this nice? It's like taking a class that meets once a week and seeing old friends."

Ben calculated the price of tuition at twenty bucks a person per class. "I wonder if they arrange loans like they did at Paul and Cindy's colleges?"

Phyllis tried not to smile.

A balding man with a ponytail, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, a light brown sports jacket and well-pressed jeans, kissed and patted his way to the front of the room. The chatter hushed as if God, Himself, had come down from the mount.

"Tonight," he said, "we will taste the charming wines of Northern Italy, particularly the Piedmont region and the North Eastern Provinces."

"Ahhs" and "ohhs" passed through the room as if the participants were amazed at their good fortune for happening to be present on this evening. "What a surprise," Ben said. "Except it says that here on the program and it's been advertised all week." The man at the nearby table turned and glared at him.  Embarrassment heated his face.

Mr. Pony Tail detailed the climate and soil conditions of the Piedmont region, explaining that the environment was perfect for Dolcetto, "Italy's answer to Beaujolais."

"When do we start drinking?" Ben whispered.

Phyllis shot him the look she had perfected after twenty-six years of teaching elementary school.  He immediately lowered his eyes and checked his zipper.

I'm pushing it too hard, Ben thought. Time to dial back. Say something positive.

After more lecturing about the state of the grape, the waiters began pouring.

"Ah, that's more like it."

He tried hard to keep the smile on his face as he saw how small a portion graced his glass.  He decided to hold his tongue. At least there was enough for a swig.

Ben looked around and watched as the couple across from him sniffed, sipped and sloshed the wine from cheek to cheek. He heard the man describe the wine as "fruity, but graceful." The woman complained it was a bit "plummy."

"Oh, for crying out loud."  Ben tossed back the small amount of wine in a single swallow. "Not bad."

Phyllis said she preferred a dryer wine, but was glad to have tried this one. She turned to Ben and winked. "It is, after all, Italy's answer to the Beaujolais."

Ben smiled.

"You're starting to rub off on me," she said.

"I love it when you talk dirty," Ben said, popping berries into his mouth like they were peanuts.

After experiencing a "non-assertive but far from passive" Merlot and a couple of wines whose names escaped him, one of which reminded him of cough medicine, Mr. Pony Tail assured them they were now in for a special treat. "We have an excellent Borolo for your tasting pleasure."

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Ben said to Phyllis, adding, "What the hell is a Barolo?"

"Barolo and Barberesco are, of course, the most famous reds of the Piedmont region."

"Damn commies," Ben said. "The Sacco and Venzetti of wines."

This time Phyllis laughed, dribbling the water she had been sipping.

The man sitting nearby increased his glare to a glower. His wife uttered a barely audible "hmmph."

Ben saw Phyllis's face redden. Afraid he might have gone too far, he took her hand.

"It's okay," Phyllis said loud enough for the couple to hear. "That was funny."

The crowd "cleansed their palates" in anticipation of the pouring of the Barolo. Ben had already eaten his allotment of food. A waiter filled his water glass.

But the bottles of Barolo remained unpoured as Mr. Pony Tail shared an involved history of the Nebbiolo grape with his attentive audience. Ben watched as a number of people took notes.

"Will this be on the test?" he asked.

"Not as funny as the Sacco and Venzetti line," Phyllis said. "But if we don't get some food into us soon, I'm going to eat this tablecloth."

Finally, the waiters poured the Barolo.

Ben drank it without fanfare. "Mmm, this is good."

Phyllis agreed.

"Dry, but not arid," said the man across from Ben and Phyllis.

"This one is dry enough to suck the spit right out of you," Ben declared, as the sippers sniffed and sloshed. "I bet this would go well with a pork chop, maybe lamb."

"You talked me into it," she said, grabbing her purse. "It's getting rather stuffy in here."

As they stood, Ben reminded her there was still more wine to be tasted.

"Wine," she said, "is like men. Once you select the right one, there's no reason to keep looking."

Ben wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they made their way out the back room and into the restaurant. He looked back at the wine tasters and wondered if they were staring at him with envy. Of course, it could have been the wine. After all, Mr. Pony Tail assured them they would be "absolutely charmed" by the Gavi.


About the Author
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write.  His work has appeared in The Pedestal, Laughter Loaf, Dana Literary Society Online Journal, Flashquake and Cynic Magazine.  His writing awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination.  Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife. He can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.