Wine People Can Be Dangerous People! Stay Clear!

Forget Zombies – Wine People Are Much More Dangerous!!

You don’t believe me? Then hearken to my tale of woe!

Let’s say you are engaged in the mate hunting ritual. You find a gal that has a lot of possibilities –

BUT – she might have dark secrets that need to be ferreted out before the relationship can progress.

Three Kinds Of Wine People

So you casually ask, “What do you think of Robert Parker?”

“I liked his song Simple Irresistible.”

“That was Robert Palmer.  I was asking about Robert Parker.”

“Who’s that?”

My friend, you have found a winner and a keeper. Get down on your knees, lift your hands to Heaven in prayerful gratitude, and ask for her hand in marriage.

Second scenario with the same question.  She replies:

“He’s retired now, but I often disagreed with him over his wine scoring. I think he was just too – blah – blah – blah – on and on and on.”

OK, this is why you always scan the room ahead for the nearest exit – so you can run out screaming in mortal terror.

Third scenario again with the same probing question.

“He’s God!”

You’re doomed! Even if you try to escape, this one will not only eat your brain but will sell your soul to the Devil for two bucks and a package of Twinkies if she’s promised a glass of Domain Potion d’Huile Moteur Imbuvable Grand Cru, Côte des Pieds non Lavés, France.

As you can see, there are some dangers in the Robert Parker or Wine Spectator quiz route. One solution is to wait until she makes a powder room run, then do a little surreptitious purse investigation. Let’s say you find a MAC-10 with three 30 round magazines and five M67 fragmentation grenades. This is not a problem as she isn’t likely to really be a terrorist. Besides, a woman has a right to defend herself.

BUT – if you find one of these Tools of Satan wine knives in her purse, particularly a feminine pink (rosé?) one with the sacred “code du vin” engraving, you need to immediately put several state lines between you and her before she returns. A name change and disguise would also be in order.

My Limited Wine Knowledge

OK, time for a minor confession. Back in school I was branded by my amis du vin as a “wine snob” because I refused to drink their vintage of choice – Ripple! Only the best, Boone’s Farm Apple Wine, would soothe my palate. Although I did find Ripple quite drinkable after a bottle or three of Boone’s.

In time, I eventually learned that there were two types of wine – red, except it was really purple, and white, which was clearly unlike the white of milk. But, hey, I was learning the lingo and well on my way to becoming a knowledgeable wine person.

Dating A Wine Snob?!

But then – disaster! I met a female with interesting possibilities but failed to pry out her dreaded secret passion before it was too late! She was a WINE PERSON and I was doomed. By the way, guys, have you ever noticed how women can easily get you into serious trouble?

It was a hopeless no win situation, so I was forcibly subjected to wine education, (brainwashing,) and learned that rather than just red and white, there were scores of different wine types, none of which had English names and none of which were pronounced like they were spelled. And then, once I’d mastered the nasally pronunciation of Cabernet Sauvignon, I found that only wannabe’s said that and to be sophisticated it was always referred to as a “Cab.”

And I learned that you had to select your meal before selecting the wine that would “compliment” it. (I’m still waiting to learn which wine compliments chicken fried steak or macaroni and cheese.)

I did however, manage to arrange a truce – my only hope of survival. When the sommelier, (fancy schmancy name for the wine serving dude or dudette,) presented me with the wine list I just handed it across the table to the “wine expert” and buried my “sophisticated” male ego before it acquired even more bruises.

Don’t Ask Me To Sample The Wine!

And speaking of injuries, I admit I had knuckled under to the wine tyranny but that didn’t mean my rebellious spirit had totally whimpered out. At an out of town restaurant, (from which I am now banned from both the town and the restaurant,) the snooty sommelier foolishly brought the wine, (that in price equaled a car down payment,) to me to sample and approve. So I went through the whole ridiculous rigmarole with all the gusto of a medieval alchemist, then said, “Hmmm – there are no bugs floating in it and it doesn’t smell like a wet sheepdog – this’ll be fine.”

It could have been worse. She was remorseful enough over the injuries she had inflicted to drive me to the hospital – and the casts came off in a couple of months.

Injuries aside, we did reach a happy medium – me 1% – her 99% – but, hey, it was a working relationship.

BUT – all of her friends were rabid foaming at the mouth wine people! It wasn’t just that I had to endure the prolonged wine sampling, (while I’m screaming to myself, “Just pour the damn thing!”) but then they had to talk about it – at length. Stuff like, “Ah – just a slight note of Pyrenean oak – obviously from a sapling transplanted to a hillside with a south southwestern exposure and pruned in the third, fifth, and sixth years by an horticulturist named Joseph.” Or, “Sadly a failed vintage. If they had only waited another seven minutes to harvest the grapes.” And on and on ad naseum.

Obviously, I needed to do something to quell this pathological outbreak of oenomania to preserve my dwindling sanity. One night while dining together, (after a bottle or two too many tongue lubricating vinos,) I expressed my frustration and revealed that the next time one of the jackasses sang their praises too long for a particular vintage, I intended once I finally got a glass of the God Blessed grape concoction, I was going to take a sip, gasp in mortal pain, roll my eyes up, fall to the floor, thrash around, and then play dead.

Her response was, “If you do that, you won’t be PLAYING dead.”

Remembering the casts, I figured that was a bad idea. Fighting back wasn’t the bad idea – revealing it was the bad idea.

But I didn’t give up!

We were to host a cocktail party (why are they called cocktail parties when we were only serving wine?) and we made a wine shop trip to select “suitable” vintages for the demanding invitees. AND – as the nominal “host” I would be doing the wine opening. BWAA – HAH – HAH – HAH!

How To Fool The Wine People

So I returned to the wine shop alone, took out a second mortgage on my soul and bought a selection of the identical wines – and I also bought a similar number of the Texas equivalent of Two Buck Chuck’s. (For some reason, Two Buck Chuck wines aren’t sold in Texas. Probably because we’ve got some of the most macabre alcoholic beverage laws in the country.)

Out of female eyes, I carefully slit the foil covers with an X-Acto knife, used a twin prong cork puller to extract the corks undamaged, and while cackling gleefully, swapped the “good stuff” and Two Buck Chuck stuff with funnels. With the cork carefully shoved back in and with a dab of glue stick on the top, I replaced the foil.  It wouldn’t stand up to close inspection, but I intended to keep my hand covering the top and not let anyone handle the bottle as I showed it around for approval.

What can I say?  It worked perfectly. They all did their typical crap, fawning over the vintage wine, etc., etc., etc., ad ridiculum.

I should have been content with my smug silent victory, but I too had consumed my share of the “vintage wine” so as the party started breaking up, I revealed my little subterfuge!!

Which explains why I now live in a different city under an assumed identity and look over my shoulder frequently. (Alas, the Feds turned me down for the Witness Protection Program.)

So like I said at the beginning, bring on the zombies, but God save us from the Wine People!!

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About The Author
Reeves Motal
Reeves Motal
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