"Canta pure, Grillo mio, come ti pare e piace"
Dining out the other night, we ordered a wine, a simple Rosso di Montepulciano. The server tussled with the cork, but eventually expunged it. On first sniffing the wine and then sampling it, I thought it had an ever-so-slight trace of corkiness. But it was so minute I chalked it up to watching the server struggle with the cork and imagined some sort of transference.
A few minutes into it though, the funk appeared to be magnifying. And then it vanished, only to pop up and disappear a few times. It wasn’t that the wine was bad, but the wine was making itself a larger part of the meal than it needed to be. All of this going through my head as other things were going on around the table. Little monkey-brain chatter, “This wine isn’t right.” “Stop griping and enjoy the experience.” “But something’s wrong.” “Shut up and let me enjoy the meal and company.” This mad little dialogue endured until the cloud drifted away sometime before desserts appeared.
Wine isn’t perfect. There is no ultimate experience, no "awesome beyond belief" crap - none of the usual throw-away words to mask the reality. Like humanity, wine is flawed.
No, wine isn’t perfect. But it is an adventure. All the mischievous little wines we encounter, like our fellow humans. Some very important. Some shy. Some well. Some sick. One doesn’t abandon a friend because they have an incurable disease, does one? Well, actually some folks do. I know of several fellows in the business that left their wives after the women contracted multiple sclerosis.
P.S. I’m taking time off from the blogosphere for routine maintenance. Will put up a few of my favorite posts from the last year or so. Back in the saddle in a week or so.