​At some point in the past I read a piece about what's called the Marginal Utility Theory. It supposedly has to do with economics. The article explained the theory as follows: Imagine you have two farmers. Farmer A has three cows. Farmer B has 100 cows. If you give farmer A another cow, it's a big deal. After all, you've just increased his herd by 33%. But if you give farmer B another cow, it doesn't mean much because you've only increased his herd by a measly 1%. The bottom line is that the value of something can be relative to the recipient. At least that's the way I interpret it.
 
I witnessed the theory in action during a trip to Albertsons just before Christmas. On that particular day, my daughter Maria, son Patrick, and I had gone shopping for various victuals. We had already loaded up the belt at one of the checkout lines when a kid walked up behind me. In hand he had a couple of Christmas cards and a coffee mug. I asked him if that was all he had. He answered yes and I immediately told him to get in front of us. He did, thanking me in a snucky voice.
 
The kid got in front of Maria and Patrick and then put the mug and cards on the belt. He was 10 or 11 years-old and definitely on the nerdy side. He also wore a bulky winter jacket, jeans, and running shoes. I noted the shoes because I looked down to discover his feet were huge—close to the same size as mine. He would easily be over six feet tall when he grew into them. Or forever be relegated to looking like a capital "L."
 
When it was his turn, the kid told the woman who was our checker that he only had about $20, and that he hoped it would be enough to cover the purchase. At that point Maria turned to me and silently mouthed that he had a bad cold—and maybe not enough money. I told her we would cover the difference.
 
After the checker rang up the mug and cards, the kid pulled a piggy bank out of his jacket. And not just any piggy bank. It was in the shape of the BB-8 droid from the latest batch of Star Wars movies. As he went to take the rubber stopper out of the bottom, I could hear coins rattling around. Maria and I quickly exchanged one of those silent secret ninja looks that translates as "this does not look good." Sure enough, the kid was a couple of bucks short. Maria turned to me again and said, "I got this." She then told the kid not to worry and that she would take care of it. She quickly pulled out her ATM card and paid for the transaction. The kid was a bit taken aback but visibly grateful. He thanked her profusely. Then he leaned over, thanked me, and wished the three of us a Merry Christmas. And then he left.
 
As the checker rang up our goods, she thanked us for helping the kid out, saying it was generous. I said something to the effect of "it's Christmas and it was the right thing to do." But I was also glad Maria had helped the kid out. I'm sure the recipients, probably family members, appreciated the gifts. And he'll probably remember it too. Three cows.
 
The three cows thing comes to mind every time I dine at a restaurant and am presented with a check at the end of the meal. Over the years I've made it a habit to tip at least 20%--more if the service is good. If anything, I do this because the person waiting on us is the essence of the three cow farmer. Schlepping food for a living is hard work, regardless of whether one works in an IHOP or a three-star Michelin restaurant. As a server, you're stuck between a rock and a hard place: more specifically, the kitchen and the paying customers at the table. With the pandemic, the dynamics of both changed dramatically—and not for the better.
 
With so many places being shuttered during the pandemic, countless industry pros had to throw in the towel and look for work in another unrelated field, leaving a monumental dearth of experienced people working both the front and the back of the house. Gone are many of the pros in the kitchen who beforehand could crank out consistent plates of good food. They've been replaced in part by staff with a fraction of the experience. No surprise that in the last couple of years food sometimes takes longer to get out of the kitchen. When it does, it can be inconsistent.
 
As for the front of the house, inexperience has also been the name of the game. While Maria was home, the four of us had dinner at a popular local Italian joint. As we were munching on apps and yacking away, I watched surreptitiously as what looked to be a manager-type struggled to open a bottle of wine at a four-top. It was like her maiden voyage with a waiter's friend corkscrew--and the trip was not going well. She managed to make every possible mistake opening and serving the wine, including breaking the cork and dripping wine on the table multiple times. She also repeatedly reached across the table in front of everyone.
 
On the other side there's the paying public, some of whom completely lost their dining chops and manners during COVID. Rude and non-tipping customers are now more prevalent than ever. However, our server that night, named Max, was a pro. He definitely had skills. We thanked him for his good service and wished him happy holidays. I also threw in another cow by tipping him almost 30%.
 
In the end, I may not believe in karma but I do hold stock in the idea that what goes around comes around. So handing out an extra cow is needed now more than ever. When in doubt—and when you can—give them another cow. You'll be glad you did. They will too. Moo.

My tasting book is finally “live.” If you're dangerously excited by that prospect and don't want to bother with all the descriptive text below, you can just go to the following link on Amazon and order a copy or two:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1955750475/​
 
Otherwise, here's some pertinent information about the book. It's called “Message in the Bottle: A Guide To Tasting Wine.” The genesis of the book goes back over a decade. At that time in late 2011,  I had just stepped away from an Education Director position with the Master Sommeliers. I’d been in the role for nine years, during which time the organization grew exponentially. Originally, the job was part time and called “Education Chair.” It was more of a logistics position than anything, with a focus on interfacing with my counterpart in the UK as well as overseeing all the top-level exams in the U.S. Eventually, the class and exam load grew to the extent that the position became full-time in early 2010. Then the job kept me so busy with logistics, creating exam content, and traveling to teach and examine, that it left no time to write.
 
I started my blog in early 2012, shortly after going back to being an independent contractor. From the very beginning the emphasis of the blog was on tasting and my tasting project. Before then, I had worked with Tim Hallbom and Taryn Voget on their Everyday Genius project that involved two video sessions during which I tasted over a dozen wines with Tim as he tracked my language patterns and eye movements and patterns. Together we deconstructed my internal process of smelling and tasting wine. I followed those two sessions by doing over 20 in-depth interviews over the next few years with MS (Master Sommelier) and MW (Master of Wine) colleagues about their tasting strategies. Many of the best practices I learned during those interviews became the impetus for future blog posts.
 
My evil plan all along was to write for several years and then compile a manuscript for a tasting book. Little did I know several years would end up being over a decade. That’s how it goes. Then along came March 2020 and everything came to a screeching halt. Like it did for most people, the onset of the pandemic brought my work life—and life in general—to a full stop. Within weeks, I started to piece together all the blog posts and articles I’d written over the previous ten years and beyond into some semblance of a manuscript. I also started writing essays on a daily basis, just to improve my craft as well as my editing skills, which were shoddy at best.
 
Over the next 15 months, a book took shape in the form of four sections and over 40 chapters. I then made at least a half-dozen passes through the text, polishing it a bit more each time. Finally, in January of this year with the help of a good friend and former editor, I started to send out proposals to agents and publishers. All were met with a polite response along the lines of, “wow, interesting book. But the target audience is too narrow for me/us to deal with. Good luck with publishing it.”
 
Finally, through a series of fortunate events, I found Melissa Wilson, who owns a small publishing company called Networlding.com. She’s helped over 30 authors publish non-fiction books. And she’s been the best at leading me through the Byzantine process of publishing a book for the first time.
 
As for the book itself, the original intent was to write something for “Jedi Knights in training,” as a colleague calls students in the MS program. However, dear friend Madeline Triffon, MS, pointed out that once the book was released, there would be no controlling who would read it--meaning a lot of consumers and people just getting into wine would buy it. Thus I needed to make the text as user-friendly as possible. With that gentle admonition, I went back to the drawing board and rewrote all the chapters to include suggestions on how to use the information, adding in a few new chapters as well.
 
The result is a comprehensive text on the skills and strategies needed to become a professional taster. In short, this is the book I needed in 1985 when I first got interested in wine. This is the book I especially needed in 1990 when I started taking MS classes and exams. It contains detailed information about the basic and advanced skills needed to not only pass exams, but to become a competent taster. Beyond requisite skills, the book also has an entire section on strategies for improving focus, concentration, and smell and taste memory—all using visualization. Finally, the text includes a series of eight essays on various aspects of wine, from the dining experience to food and wine pairing to natural wine.
 
With that, here’s an outline of the book with a bit of descriptive text about each chapter included. A quick glance will reveal that it’s comprehensive and filled with useful information, especially for the wine student. But moreover, the book is for anyone who just wants to learn about tasting wine.
 
Message In the Bottle: A Guide To Tasting Wine
 
Section I: The Basics
 
1. Setting the Stage
Glassware basics and needs for setting up a tasting space.
 
2. Glassware Stance
Smelling techniques including active vs. passive inhalation and finding a consistent starting eye position for the tasting process.
 
3. The Deductive Tasting Grid Defined
A detailed breakdown of the deductive tasting grid with explanations for each criteria.
 
4. Assessing Structure
The structural elements defined (acidity, alcohol, phenolic bitterness, and tannin) and techniques for how to assess them.
 
5. Using a Decision Matrix For Conclusions
How to organize sensory information to make a good conclusion in deductive tasting.
 
6. Markers For Classic White Wines
Common markers and structural levels for classic white wines.
 
7. Markers For Classic Red Wines
Common markers and structural levels for classic red wines.
 
Section II. Advanced Skills
 
8. Cause and Effect
The concept of Cause and Effect and how it applies to every aspect of the deductive tasting grid.
 
9. Fruit Groups and Fruit Quality
A breakdown of fruit groups for white and red wines as well as categories of fruit quality.
 
10. Wine Faults and Context
A primer for common wine faults including a discussion of how context is import when assessing faults and wine quality.
 
11. Impact Compounds
A list and descriptions for the subset of most important aromas and flavors with corresponding grape varieties and wines.
 
12. Confronting the Evil Dwarves
Lists of easily confused white and red grapes/varietal wines and how to tell them apart.
 
13. The Impact of Bottle Aging on Wine
A primer on the effects of aging on wine including descriptions of young vs. aged versions of classic wines.
 
14. On Judging Wine Quality
All the factors that go into judging wine quality as a professional.
 
15. Objective vs. Subjective in Tasting
Noting which aspects of the deductive grid are objective, subjective, or a combination of the two.
 
16. Using Pattern Recognition for Blind Tasting White Wines
Using a subset of the most important markers and structural levels to help identity classic white grapes and wines when blind tasting.
 
17. Using Pattern Recognition for Blind Tasting Red Wines
Using a subset of the most important markers and structural levels to help identity classic red grapes and wines when blind tasting.
 
18. On Tasting Notes
A breakdown of what's needed for writing an effective tasting note. Includes my personal tasting note template.
 
19. A Tech Sheet Manifesto
A breakdown of what's needed for a good industry tech sheet.
 
20. Recommended Producer List
A list of producers for tasting practice.
 
Section III. The Inner Game of Tasting: Strategies for Tasting Practice
 
21. Clearing the Mechanism
A basic strategy for focus and concentration.
 
22. How to Find Your Zone Using Overlapping
Using layers of a memory to establish a deep focused state of concentration that can be used for tasting.
 
23. Front Loading and the Basic Set
Using internal visual, auditory, and kinesthetic to improve recognition and memory of the most common aromas and flavors.
 
24. Using Submodalities in Tasting
Using submodalities—the structural qualities of internal images, sounds, and feelings--to improve recognition, sensitivity, and memory for aromas and flavors.
 
25. Using An Internal Visual Cue to Help Calibrate Structure
Creating and using an internal visual cue to accurately and consistently calibrate structural elements.
 
26. Installing Olfactory Memories
Using submodalities to install olfactory/smell memories.
 
27. Label Check
Using labels of best wine types to represent memories of classic grapes and wines.
 
28. Associative Rehearsal: Tasting Practice Without Wine
How various aspects of tasting can be practiced internally--without actually tasting.
 
29. Dealing with a Dominant Aroma in the Glass
How to use internal imaging to help get beyond an dominant aroma in the glass.
 
30. Using a Coravin for Tasting Practice
Recommended exercises for tasting practice using a Coravin.
 
31. Eating the Elephant: Advice For Beginning Tasters
Advice for the beginning taster.
 
32. Tasting Exam Prep Strategies
A list of useful exam prep strategies for tasting practice and dealing with test anxiety.
 
Section IV. Various Thoughts On Wine
 
33. C is For Context
The importance of context in the wine experience and its many manifestations.
 
34. For Love of a Rose
The importance of how smell memories make us feel.
 
35. Food and Wine Pairing in Less Than 500 words
The basic tenets of food and wine pairing explained.
 
36. It's Only Natural
Thoughts on natural wine and judging wine quality.
 
37. The Tao of Tasting
Thoughts on how wine tasting has changed my thought processes.
 
38. The Dining Ritual
The value of sharing a meal regularly with family and friends.
 
39. Four Great Wine Experiences
Great wines vs. great wine experiences.
 
40. Taking Flight
Tasting, multi-sensory memory, and synesthesia.
 
Once again, there’s a great deal of information about tasting in the book that can benefit anyone—from consumers to students on wine certification exam track to seasoned industry veterans. I hope you’ll check out Message in the Bottle. The book is now available via Amazon in soft cover print-to-order and also formatted for Kindle at the link above. 
 
Cheers!

Message in the Bottle: A Guide to Tasting Wine, by Tim Gaiser, MS

This year's holiday reading roundup begins with a bit of shameless self-promotion about my new tasting book. I've been working on it for over 10 years, and the pandemic finally gave me an opportunity to finish it. Message in the Bottle is for anyone who wants to learn how to taste wine. But it's also filled with strategies that someone who wants to become a professional taster needs to learn. Students on a wine certification track, aka Jedi Knights in training, will find it to be an invaluable resource. Otherwise, you might ask if buying my book will be like voting for Pedro in Napoleon Dynamite, where all your wildest dreams will come true. Probably not, but I think it's a great read for anyone wanting to learn more about wine. Look for it to be released on Amazon in soft cover and Kindle formats by mid-this month. I'll also be sharing a separate post about the book with much more detail soon. Stay tuned. 

All About Me! My Remarkable Life in Show Business, by Mel Brooks

This was the first book of the year and a splendid way to kick off the reading calendar. Need I say that it was also outrageously funny? All About Me chronicles Brooks' life, from his early days in Williamsburg to his most recent work. It's also filled with insights and stories about all his movies and various projects. As I read it, I could hear Mel's voice reciting the text. You can't not do it. I also got a sense of the manic pace that Brooks' mind must keep as well as his constant need to create and be funny. He's truly one of our cultural treasures. 

​The Glitter in the Green, by Jon Dunn

The hummingbird book to end all hummingbird books. Dunn is a photographer and ornithologist based in the Shetland Islands. Glitter follows his travels from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego, as he tracks down dozens of species of these tiny aviary warriors. Throughout the book, the author provides a wealth of information concerning how climate change, urban encroachment, bad politics, and more are all destroying the habitats for the birds. Above all, Dunn is an outstanding writer who happens to be obsessed with hummingbirds. We are richer for it.

Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut

Listening to the third movement of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 one day last spring reminded me of the film adaption of Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Slaughterhouse Five. I first saw the movie in the 70's when it was released. In the movie, the Bach concerto was played when Billy Pilgrim, the protagonist, walks into Dresden among a group of American POWs. The time frame was 1945, just days before the Allies firebombed the city, killing thousands and wiping it off the face of the map. A young Donald Sutherland played Billy Pilgrim in the movie's enigmatic title role, as he traveled back and forth through time after being abducted by aliens. The story is Vonnegut at his quirky best. Both movie and book are highly recommended. 

Sirens of Mars, by Sarah Steward Johnson

A quote from Amazon about the book: “Sarah Stewart Johnson interweaves her own coming-of-age story as a planetary scientist with a vivid history of the exploration of Mars in this celebration of human curiosity, passion, and perseverance.” Glittering AZ-praise aside, Sarah Steward Johnson is assistant professor of planetary science at Georgetown University and a former Rhodes Scholar and White House Fellow. She received her PhD from MIT and has worked on NASA's Spirit, Opportunity, and Curiosity Rovers. She's also a visiting scientist with the Planetary Environments Lab at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center. Oh yes, she's also a mom with two kids. Man do I feel like a slacker. Sirens chronicles her career and how it's been indelibly linked to the research and exploration of the red planet. A great read.

Playing with Myself, by Randy Rainbow

A delightful and very funny autobiography by the one and only Randy Rainbow, master of political satire and YouTube musical mayhem during the last several years. The book follows Rainbow's sometimes rocky path to a successful career involving comedy, music, and parody. Love the pink glasses. 

The Golden Thread: How Fabric Changed History, by Kassia St. Clair

A delightfully written collection of 13 essays about the history of different textiles and garments, from space suits to athletic gear to clothing worn by polar explorers. Author Kassia St. Clair balances detail with wit and humor throughout. Excellent writing. 

Poe for Your Problems: Uncommon Advice from History's Least Likely Self-Help Guru, by Catherine Baab-Muguira

I found Poe for Your Problems from reading one of Jane Friedman's blog posts. It's a cheeky satire/parody of self-help books using Edgar Allen Poe as a twisted and dysfunctional model. The book is hilarious and cringe-inducing by turn. Somehow, Baab-Muguira manages to keep the ruse up to the very end of the book while also adding worthwhile insights.  

A History of the World in Six Glasses, by Tom Standage

A mid-summer re-read of a perennial favorite. Tom Standage writes for the Economist. His Six Glasses comprises the histories of beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and Coca-Cola, and how the beverages changed their respective cultures. Standage is a superb writer who balances a wealth of facts with good storytelling. 

The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern

One of my favorite fiction reads of the year. The plot involves a magical circus and two foes pitted against each other in a contest of magic, using two children as the competitors. The rules of the contest stipulate that only the winner can survive. A very enjoyable read and a wonderful first novel from the author.

Cumin, Camels, and Caravans: A Spice Odyssey, by Gary Paul Nabhan

Author Gary Paul Nabhan is an agricultural ecologist, ethnobotanist, and Ecumenical Franciscan Brother. He's also a pioneer in the heirloom seed preservation movement. Gary's work has been largely focused on the plants and cultures of the American desert Southwest. However, in Cumin, Camels, and Caravans, Gary takes us on a journey across continents and time as he examines the role the spice trade played in what he calls culinary imperialism. Nabhan uses his own family's history as Mideast spice traders to chronicle how Semitic peoples were an integral part of the global spice trade. Superbly written and a great read. 

Upgrade, by Blake Crouch

Blake Crouch's Upgrade is a Sci-Fi thriller/page turner. The plot involves a dystopian future in which DNA code changes are made using viruses, often with catastrophic consequences. Like Andy Weir's novels, Crouch's writing makes use of lots of hard science and maintains a quickly moving pace using short chapters and multiple cliffhangers. A perfect weekend read. 

Cuba: An American History, by Dr. Ada Ferrer

A superbly written history of Cuba over the last 400 years. Ferrer's book begins with the arrival of Columbus and then chronicles how the island became the epicenter of the slave trade and sugar industry, setting stage for centuries of poverty and unrest. Through Ferrer's meticulous research, one learns how U.S. policies have played a major role in causing the country's political and financial instability, especially with the Spanish-American war and Platte Amendment. It's no wonder Castro was able to hold power for so long and create a communist regime. 

Happy-Go-Lucky, by David Sedaris

Sedaris's latest collection of essays could be his best yet. All were written during the last couple of pandemic years. As always, David is a master storyteller, chronicling his experiences on the road as he observes the woof and warp of humanity, warts and all. The book is also wickedly funny. Highly recommended. 

There Are Places In the World Where Rules Are Less Important Than Kindness, by Carlo Rovelli

Italian physicist Carlo Rovelli is one of my favorite writers. Places is a collection of essays with Rovelli's thoughts on a broad range of topics from Newton's alchemy to Einstein's mistakes, from Nabokov’s lepidopterology to Dante’s cosmology, from mind-altering psychedelic substances to the meaning of atheism. Throughout the book, Carlo's insatiable curiosity, intellect, and wit shine through. 

The Sounds of Life: How Digital Technology Is Bringing Us Closer to the Worlds of Animals and Plants, by Karen Bakker

Karen Bakker is a Rhodes Scholar with a PhD from Oxford, and currently tenured at the University of British Columbia. She's also a well-known author, researcher, and entrepreneur known for her work on digital transformation, environmental governance, and sustainability. The Sounds of Life focuses on the field of bioacoustics, and how scientists have discovered an entire range of sounds emitted by animals, all beyond the human auditory range. Further, she explores how whales, bats, elephants, and even turtles use these sounds to communicate. The book's opening pages discuss infrasound, which is lower and potentially far more powerful than any sound that we can hear. Whales and elephants use it to communicate over dozens, even hundreds of miles. Bakker's Sounds is filled with similar revelations. It's also one of my favorite books of the year. 

As Frenchmen go, he wasn’t exactly Maurice Chevalier or Gérard Depardieu. But what he lacked in charm or good looks he more than made up for in expertise in smelling and tasting spirits--and I will forever be in his debt. I only wish I had learned his name so I could have thanked him.
 
It was spring of 1989. At the time, my wife Carla was pregnant with our daughter Maria, who would be born at the end of August. For the next few months we would live in a stylish sixth floor apartment in the City on Lombard St. at Polk, with spectacular views of the Bay, Alcatraz, and Russian Hill. However, impending parenthood would soon have us relocate to a place on Fillmore St. at Jackson in Pacific Heights. Although just 15 blocks away, the new neighborhood was a completely different universe.  
 
At the time, I was bartending at Bix Restaurant in the Jackson Square district. Within months of taking the job, I was helping with the wine buying. Part of that equation was to attend trade tastings and events. The most memorable of these industry gatherings—even now, over thirty years later—was a seminar put on by Remy Martin, the venerable Cognac house.
 
The session was billed as a Cognac master class and blending seminar. The venue for the event was a ballroom at the Ritz Carlton Hotel above Union Square. No surprise that parking anywhere near the hotel was non-existent. My options for two hours of temporary vehicle lodging were to either to use the Ritz Valet for a mere $35, or to park at the Sutter-Stockton Garage and walk several blocks up a very steep hill, even for the City. I opted for the latter only to arrive fairly sweaty just before the seminar began.
 
The presentation started off with a welcome from the importer. Then the presenter was introduced. He was Remy’s master blender, or chef de cave, the supremely olfactory-gifted individual whose job it was to do finalize the blends for the house’s Cognacs. These ranged from the humble V.S. to the sublime and sublimely expensive Louis XIII, which even at the time retailed for over a thousand dollars a bottle.
 
The chef de cave, or the CdC as I’ll call him, was shortish and stout with a large bushy mustache. He wore an ill-fitting blue blazer, white shirt, and dark slacks which had to make room for his generous midriff. His English was a bit fractured with an expected heavy French accent. CdC started the proceedings by talking about the history of Remy Martin vis-à-vis the rest of the industry: how Remy was the smallest of the four major houses but had ready access to vineyards in the top subzones of the Cognac region, those being Grande Champagne and Grande Fine Champagne. Ultimately, access to better vineyards resulted in higher overall quality in the Remy brandies vs. the competition.
 
We first tasted through several single component brandies made from the six subzones, including the two previously mentioned. Next, we made our own blends using information on the styles of all the brandies just tasted. Finally, we tasted through the entire range of Remy Martin Cognacs, ending with the aforementioned Louis XIII. I found the Louis Tres, as it is often called, to be sublime—one of the greatest spirits I’ve ever tasted. It was ethereal on the palate with remarkable concentration, depth, and complexity. 

At some point during the last tasting, CdC stopped for a moment and offered a primer on smelling Cognac. Taking a small tulip glass in hand, he told the group that to properly smell Cognac—or any distilled spirit for that matter—there were as many as five “positions” used to examine the contents of the glass. The first position used to hold the glass was 12-15 inches away from one’s nose. Then one moved the glass in closer slowly in increments of several inches. The penultimate smelling position was with the glass about two inches away. The final position was to smell the brandy with one’s nose in the glass.
 
CdC then took the group through the technique using one of the brandies to demonstrate. The result was immediately evident. Even with the glass far away, I could still smell faint floral qualities. Each successive smelling position brought new aromatics to the fore, with hints of various fruits, spices, earth, and oak notes.
 
As good is this new technique was, CdC wasn’t finished. “You know,” he said, “for some of you the alcohol in these brandies may be too strong for your nose. You need to pull the glass away from your face a bit. Then open your mouth slightly and smell by breathing through your mouth and nose at the same time.”
 
Being eager acolytes, we immediately followed his suggestion. The reaction from the group was mixed. The change made no noticeable difference for most in the group. For a few, trying to smell using mouth and nose at the same time seemed impossible. It was like someone had asked them to throw a baseball with their off hand. And then there were the outliers like me.
 
I quickly picked up a glass, brought it to within an inch of my nose, and then opened my mouth about a quarter of an inch. At first it seemed alien. But within a few seconds everything changed. I could smell at least twice as much as before. And all the aromatics in the glass jumped out faster than I could recognize them.
 
After a few seconds I put the glass down and stared ahead, somewhat stunned. Up to that point I had struggled with smelling wine and even spirits, for that matter. There were times when it seemed like I was missing half of what everyone else was getting. But now in an instant, things had changed dramatically. Somehow, the simple act of pulling the glass away and using both nose and mouth to smell changed everything. It was like the bright lights, chorus of singing angels, and free enchilada dinner all rolled into one.
 
Then I quickly went back and tried the technique of five different positions again. Even with the glass far away I could now smell considerably more by just opening my mouth slightly. The closer I brought the glass to my face the more detailed the brandy in hand became. It was like gradually turning up the volume on a good sound system so everything could be easily and clearly heard.
 
After the fact, I came to call this nose/mouth combo smelling technique active inhalation vs. the passive inhalation of smelling just using one’s nose. It actually makes sense given there are two distinct physiological ways to smell. One is using the nose only, called orthonasal smell. The other uses the oral cavity and is called retronasal smell.
 
Most of the human race uses orthonasal primarily to smell wine in that they stick their nose in a wine glass and go for it. Conversely, a few people like me consciously use ortho and retronasal in sequence when we smell. The combination uses a lot more internal real estate to process aromas, hence the dramatic difference the change in techniques made for me.
 
One of the things I also discovered after learning the new technique was how to improve my sensitivity in smelling aromas in wine. By pulling the glass away at varying distances, I could literally train my nose to detect thresholds of aromatics and even improve my sensitivity to them. It’s a strategy that’s paid off handsomely over the years.
 
I’ve taught the active inhalation technique to many students over the years. The results are usually mixed, not unlike that first seminar. Most people who try the technique for the first time experience no change. A few students can’t do it at all. But for some, it’s revelatory. One student came up to me after a class saying he had always had challenges smelling wine because of a cleft palate. But by opening his mouth he could actually smell something for the first time.
 
There are times when I think back to that seminar at the Ritz long ago and how the chef de cave from Remy gave me one of the most valuable industry lessons I have ever learned. I only wish I could have thanked him. In lieu of that, I’ll settle for just saying the following.
 
Mille merci, mon ami.

The floor was greasy that day my friends.
 
There’s an old saying that goes something like this. Comedy is when you stub your toe. Tragedy is when I stub my toe. The incident that night in the kitchen was actually both. But it made my wife Carla laugh. In fact, it caused her to get the no-breathers. That’s a good thing, after all. One should periodically try to make one’s partner laugh. Because if you’re funny, maybe--just maybe, they will tolerate your lame antics for another day.
 
As a preamble to describing the incident in question, I was just re-emerging from quarantine for the second time in more than two weeks after experiencing the Paxlovid rebound thing. I was eager to fuss up some dinner, Carla having manned KP duty the entire time I was holed up in my office. Dinner that night would be marinated boneless chicken thighs sauteed on the stove top and finished in the oven, accompanied by roasted potatoes, cherry tomatoes, and garlic. A salad would round things off. The vino would be a just-released vintage of a California Sauvignon Blanc.
 
As expected, the prep went without incident. The only hitch was my brain, meaning I had to stop momentarily from time to time to remind myself what the hell I was supposed to being doing. That’s COVID brain for you. Yes, everything was going just ducky. The table was set, bubbly water poured, and a small votive candle lit. Things were in the oven and the salad was ready to go. Then like proverbial lightning, major kitchen disaster struck.
 
When the timer on my phone went off I opened the oven door, potholder in the other hand. The goal was to take the large skillet containing the chicken out of the oven to check the temp. Two things before getting to the brief action sequence:
 
First, I always use a quick-read thermometer to make sure that chicken gets to the required 160-degrees. Medium-rare may be A-OK for beef but slightly pink chicken gives me the yeechies.
 
Second, the new fancy stainless steel pan Carla bought late last year is heavy. One Sunday in January during the NFL playoffs I followed the instructions on how to cure the cooking surface to the letter, only for the pan to end up looking like a mess of Rorschach ink blots. It definitely didn’t resemble the photo in the instructions--just like the sea monkeys of old.
 
Now to the incident. Rest assured that I’ve taken things out of a hot oven thousands of times. But for whatever reason, this time was different. COVID brain--or serious operator error--must have interfered. What happened next was this. Using the potholder, I grabbed the now very hot metal handle of the pan and removed it from the oven rack. But in microseconds, as I turned to put the pan on the stove top, I realized the entire palm of my hand wasn’t covered by the potholder. In fact, it was now registering all 375-degrees from the oven. Fire. Hot.
 
The result was, as noted earlier, simultaneously tragic and comic. I lost control of the pan just before getting it to the stove top. Then, just as with car accidents, time altered. It was like Sam Peckinpah movies when everything goes into super slow-motion and all the cowboys get shot.
 
Instead of witnessing a rain of gunfire, I watched in horror as the fancy big sauté pan filled with our winner-winner chicken dinner and the melted butter/olive oil combo slowly fell from the sky and hit the parquet floor. On impact, it made a great noise, as they used to say in the bible. I reacted by doing my best Little Miss Muffet imitation and jumped back several feet, lest I got splattered by hot oil. I also watched the chicken bounce a few times before finally settling on the floor.
 
At this point an expletive or two was definitely merited.
 
@#$%&!
 
@#$%&!       @#$%&!       @#$%&!
 
In days past I would have barked like a beleaguered sailor. But experience has taught me that hissing curse words is far more effective and satisfying. After all, it worked for Voldemort. Otherwise, I was somehow eerily calm. The damage had been done. Then I heard Carla calling out from her office. “Everything OK?” I responded with something along the lines of, “yes, everything’s great. And dinner just hit the deck.”
 
Immediately it occurred to me that the 10-second rule was now in effect, meaning that food dropped should only spend seconds on the floor. Only problem was that I had already spent those ten precious seconds staring at the scene of the accident and swearing. I wondered if there was such a thing as a 30-second rule. If not, there was now.
 
I finally roused myself into action, picking up the chicken with a pair of tongs and putting it on a plate. I gently and thoroughly wiped it with multiple paper towels in an effort to remove any unwanted floor detritus. I then used almost half a roll of paper towels to wipe up all the oil that had splattered on the floor. However, despite my efforts, the floor was still shiny and a bit slippety, as we used to say to Maria when she was a tyke.
 
From there, it was plating dinner and calling the kids to the table. Entering the kitchen, Carla took one look at the floor in front of the stove and then looked at me. Then she got the giggles. By the time she sat down, she had the no-breathers. I laughed too. After all, what the hell was I going to do? Patrick was flummoxed. I didn’t bother to explain.
 
As for dinner, the chicken was fine. But there were a couple of bites on the gritty side. Chalk it up to roughage. Beyond that, the good news was that I somehow avoided burning my hand. And I had survived the chicken catastrophe unharmed. Rest assured that I’ll use the largest oven mitt we own the next time I reach for a hot pan in the oven. Otherwise, if anyone would like the recipe for gritty chicken, I’d be more than happy to share. It’s called Chicken Floorentine. 

“Whenever life begins to crush me I know I can rely on Bandol, garlic, and Mozart.”
 
Jim Harrison
 
Recently I reread Jim Harrison’s last book called “A Really Big Lunch.” If not familiar, Harrison was a prolific writer of poetry and prose, with works including the much-lauded trio of novellas called Legends of the Fall. He was also a raging gourmand with enormous appetites not unlike the fabled Gargantuan of Rabelaisian fame. I don’t make that statement lightly. Harrison was obsessed with good food and wine. He made no bones about drinking two bottles of Bandol rouge a day. Mind you he never bothered with conventional wine glasses instead opting for a huge tumbler and 12-ounce pours that he “gulped.”  
 
What’s striking about revisiting the book is Harrison’s ADHD—which was significant. Reading his text is like being shoved into a cranial pinball machine and being smacked about with at least a half dozen topics on every page—all done with great elan and cleverness. To that point, Jim was an astute observer of the human condition and a brutal social critic. And he spared no one including himself.
 
Food and wine take center stage in the book. Throughout more than three dozen essays on topics varying from politics to the world going to hell in a hand basket, Harrison can’t resist the lure of what he calls “vivid” eating: hunting quail at his Arizona ranch, making bear posole at his cabin in Montana, and any number of ways of preparing tripe. There’s also no shortage of descriptions of dozens of meals enjoyed at high-end restaurants in France and beyond. The book’s centerpiece—and title essay—describes a certain lunch in 2003 at a French restaurant owned by Harrison’s favorite chef, Marc Meneau. In a marathon eight hour session (with breaks, of course), Harrison and eleven others including actor Gerard Depardieu dined on 37 courses washed down by over 15 legendary French wines, some dating back to the 1950s.
 
If you think 37 courses is the stuff of excess, you would be right. It’s hard to argue with that. It’s also hard to believe anyone was still alive the next day. This is French cooking after all, where using every possible source of fat is the norm and not an exception. Harrison also chronicles how he wandered around Paris for hours the day after in a food coma. But then he found himself peckish by dinner time needing to stop at one of his favorite bistros before boarding a red eye back to New York.
 
Harrison’s views on politics—and everything else for that matter—were strong water. No minced words, no middle ground. He hated the Bush administration vehemently, saying it drove him to eat, drink, and smoke to excess—which he already did. His opinions on wine were just as strong. To him, good wine had to be red—the color of blood.
 
“The great north from which I emerge demands a sanguine liquid. White snow calls out for red wine, not the white spritzers of lisping socialites, the same people who shun chicken thighs in favor of characterless breasts and ban smoking in taverns. In these days it is easy indeed to become fatigued with white people white houses, and white rental cars.”
 
No surprise that Jim was an acolyte of the wines from importer Kermit Lynch, the latter responsible for putting dozens of French wine appellations—many red--on the international map. Domaine Tempier, in particular, was an obsession with Harrison. White wines were a mere place holder in his universe, only to be tolerated if red wine was unavailable—or if a certain situation demanded it. Ultimately, he had to opt for white wine after being diagnosed with type two diabetes when “two bottles of red wine a day became inappropriate, a euphemism of course. One bottle a day is possible with a proper morning walk with the dogs, or rowing a drift boat for four hours in a fairly heavy current.”
 
Harrison is not the first I’ve come across who dismissed the white wine category outright. Over the years certain friends and acquaintances would eschew the white wine universe for various reasons, some vague and most arbitrary. The opposite could also be true. Some would profess not to be able to drink red wine because it gave them headaches. Of course they never connected the dots between over-indulgence and said headaches. However, the culprit behind the headaches could have been any number of things, including histamines and tannin in the wine to dehydration. Many times I suggested that someone take an antihistamine before slurping down that first glass of Merlot. Mind you there is always such a thing as too much wine.
 
In truth, everyone’s sensitivity—or lack thereof—to the structural elements in wine is different. Some crave white wines with insanely high levels of acidity, such that they could be used to make ceviche. Said acid freaks probably drank the vinaigrette remnants right out of the salad bowl as kids. Others like the monster truck pull experience from the tannins of a just-released Napa Cabernet. The same wine might cause another’s face to implode.
 
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention context at this point. It trumps everything. A particular bottle sipped during a gorgeous sunset on a first date can become a married couple’s perennial favorite wine. Or any number of first wine experiences enjoyed while in an exotic location. Then there’s the guy who was a regular when I bartended at Bentley’s Seafood and Oyster Bar in the financial district in the City in the 80s. He always wore a pink cashmere sweater. And he drank nothing but White Zinfandel. He once told me that he didn’t care for the wine so much as he wanted to drink something that matched the color of his sweater. I should also mention that he added Sweet’N Low to his White Zinfandel.
 
I can’t imagine not drinking white wine. To me it’s a vital part of the vinous spectrum—the Yin to the Yang of red wine, the day to the night, the Abbott to Costello, etc. More often than not, white wines are a much more precise lens of a place compared to their red counterparts, in which high alcohol, tannin, and new oak can muddy things. In particular, I’m a fan of unoaked, high-acid, and mineral-driven European whites, from Sancerre to Chablis to Pinot Bianco to Assyrtiko. Riesling is a favorite. Spätlese Riesling from Germany is my sweet spot. Literally. I think Riesling is transcendent and transparent. It offers a pristine representation of a vineyard and its microclimate like few other wines. Certain Rieslings also tend to be lower in alcohol. Combined with high acidity, it makes them a chameleon with food, matching well with just about anything aside from red meat or live game.
 
Age also matters. Not wine age, but carbon-dating our own world-weary carcasses. Specifically, the higher alcohol levels, tannins, and histamines in red wines are harder to metabolize as we get older. Not to mention that red wines are usually accompanied by some form of protein at the table with fat and salt on the side. Less red meat over time usually means less red wine. Perhaps that’s not a bad thing. One can always make exceptions.
 
In the end, it's often said that a picture is worth a thousand words. That’s definitely true with the image above. Harrison looks like pressed rat and warthog of 60s rock lyrics fame. The decades of hard living, chain smoking, and gargantuan eating and drinking eventually took their toll. First, diabetes and then several bouts of gout. In the end, he died of a heart attack on March 26, 2016, in Patagonia, Arizona, at age 78.
 
It makes me wonder about Harrison’s life and idea of “living vividly.” Is it better to play it safe than exit stage left at a younger age? I’m not sure, but there must be some sort of middle ground. Whatever it is, I’m pursuing it. And I’ll keep drinking white wine while I’m at it. 

Tom Standage’s “History of the World in Six Glasses” is a good read. Standage writes for The Economist and has published several books. This is by far my favorite. The book frames history from the stone age to the 21st century through each of the era’s signature beverages--beer, wine, spirits, coffee, tea, and Coca-Cola. Standage charts the history of each and shows how historical movements and even entire civilizations were influenced by particular drinks. How the workers in ancient Egypt relied on a diet of beer and bread to build the pyramids. How one of Washington’s first official acts in 1794 was to send a militia of over 10,000 men to Pennsylvania to put down a rebellion over whiskey taxes. How the tea industry in China was inexorably linked to the opium trade. And then there’s wine.
 
Standage writes that wine appeared later than beer by thousands of years. He then highlights what has to be one of the largest and most excessive celebrations in human history hosted by one Ashurnasirpal II, the king of Assyria from 883 to 859 BCE. During his reign, Ashurnasirpal II embarked on a huge plan of territorial expansion, conquering lands to the north and west, even exacting tribute from the Phoenicians on the Mediterranean coast. By all accounts, his methods were brutal. After conquering the Aramaeans and Neo-Hittites in what is now modern Syria, his armies put down a two day revolt. Then he had a monument raised in his honor with the following inscribed:
 
“Their men young and old I took prisoners. Of some I cut off their feet and hands; of others I cut off the ears noses and lips; of the young men's ears I made a heap; of the old men's heads I made a minaret. I exposed their heads as a trophy in front of their city. The male children and the female children I burned in flames; the city I destroyed, and consumed with fire.”
 
Yes, Ashurnasirpal II was a cruel rat-bastard of the highest order. But the man also knew how to throw a party. Standage writes that the feast held to celebrate the building of the new Assyrian capital in Nimrud lasted for ten days. Over 70,000 attended and were served 1,000 fattened cattle, 1,000 calves, 10,000 sheep, 1,000 spring lambs, 500 gazelles, 1,000 ducks, 1,000 geese, 20,000 doves, 12,000 other small birds, 10,000 fish, and 10,000 jerboa—a kind of small rodent. Vegetables, if you’re curious, were an afterthought, with just 1,000 cases served. Astounding as the previous list is, the most important part of the festivities was the fact that wine—not beer—was featured. No doubt beer was the common beverage at the time, having been extant for at least two millennia. But wine was a prohibitively expensive rarity, produced hundreds of miles away in mountain vineyards. It had to be transported down river to the new capital by boat. In serving wine, the king demonstrated his power and wealth to all his subjects and beyond.
 
After finishing the book, I forgot about Ashurnasirpal II until one cold fall day in London in 2008 when I was in the UK to help with MS exam. I flew in early to have a museum day, spending the morning at the Victoria & Albert, one of my favorite museums anywhere. After lunch, I took the underground to the British Museum. It was my first visit there and initial impressions can only be described as “overwhelm.” In a moment of rare common sense, I booked a tour. I’m glad I did. Our guide was named Emma. She was thin as a reed and about 5’5,” with wire rim spectacles and graying hair done up in a bun so tight she’d never need plastic surgery. Emma’s voice was a bit on the shrill side. It reminded me of Frau Greta Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies in that she shouted out directions, often startling those in our group as well as innocent bystanders.
 
Our first stop on the tour was the Rosetta Stone, one of the most remarkable artifacts from the ancient world. Emma warned us there would be a huge crowd and that it was imperative to stay close together and follow her instructions. From at least 30 feet away, she slowly backed up towards the exhibit with our group following close behind. Those already viewing the Rosetta Stone had no choice to move as our group made its way. Several people complained about our pushing them aside. One Italian guy even yelled at us. Frau Farbissina barked at them in response, telling them go somewhere else. And they did.
 
Once in front of the exhibit, Emma gave us a thorough history of the stone and an explanation of why it’s so important to the history of language. Finally, after the crowds threatened to go all wonky around us we took off for calmer locations, first stopping at the Elgin Marbles. When someone in the group asked her about the possibility of the museum returning the marbles to the Greek government, she responded with something along the lines of “that will surely happen when hell freezes over.” Otherwise, the tour lasted about 90 minutes and was more than worth the price of admission. At the end, I tipped Emma five pounds, more than anything because I was afraid of her. But she actually smiled and thanked me.
 
Afterwards, I had tea and a snack at the café in the Grand Court with its roof of 3,312 individual panels of glass held together by four miles of steel (!). Then I spent at least two more hours in the museum going from end to end, mind agog the entire time as I looked at the exhibits. Before heading out, I strolled through the antiquities one last time. At one point, I rounded a corner to find an enormous room with the walls covered in ancient Assyrian stone reliefs. As I scanned the scenes, I suddenly stopped cold. There in the middle of one of the reliefs was a large kingly sort holding a cylix—a shallow bowl for wine. No doubt he was fresh from having just slain a giant beast or two. Suddenly, I realized who he was. It was my buddy, Ashurnasirpal II.
 
In seconds, I became verklempt, even a touch misty-eyed. Maybe it was jet lag. But I knew it was him. I thought about this mighty but evil ruler from the ancient past who deigned to serve wine to his subjects. And how, in a way, king cruel shoes was responsible for my career. I silently thanked him but then immediately cursed him for his blatant lack of respect for human life. Regardless, it was a moment. Just me and Ashurnasirpal. And then the moment passed, but not before thinking about what kind of wine would pair best with small rodents.  

Though it may surprise you, I’ve only been to Paris twice. Both times were on the same trip in the fall of 1987 when my wife Carla and I went to Europe together for the first time. We stayed in the City of Lights at the beginning and end of our trek. Never having previously set foot on French soil, much less Paris, I utterly geeked out on art museums and cathedrals. Carla quickly had her fill of both, so we often split up for several hours at a time while I continued to gawk at incredible art in the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, and other museums.
 
We also saw a myriad of Parisian sights together. One of the most remarkable was Sainte Chapelle. If not familiar, Sainte Chapelle is a royal chapel built in the Gothic style. It’s located in the medieval Palais de la Cité, which is on the island of Île de la Cité in the River Seine. The palais was the residence of the Kings of France until the 14th century. Sainte Chapelle was built to house precious Christian relics including Christ's crown of thorns which had been acquired by Saint Louis. The chapel was constructed in just seven short years. It’s filled with 15 stunning floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows over 45 feet tall. The panes comprise over a thousand biblical scenes from the Old and New Testaments depicting the history of the world until the time when the relics were placed in the chapel.
 
I remember the day we saw the chapel. It was a sunny fall afternoon with the leaves on the trees showing shades of yellow and gold. I recall stepping inside the chapel and immediately stopping in my tracks, completely stunned. The interplay of light filtering through the majestically tall windows was dazzling to the point of almost being overwhelming. Trying to describe it fully is impossible. Words simply fail.
 
Sometimes words also fail with wine. To that point, I’ve spent the better part of the last three decades-plus trying to describe wine, both verbally and in written form. It’s a journey that’s involved a long, sometimes painfully slow process of building skill with olfactory perception and memory, not to mention pattern recognition--connecting the dots between impact compounds (a subset of the most important aromas and flavors), fruit character, and structure levels. It may sound like a lot—because it is. There is no hacking the process of becoming a professional taster. And one is never a great taster, but always in process of getting better at it. I’m reminded of the legendary cellist, Pablo Casals. When asked why he was still practicing daily at age 93 he said, “I’m beginning to see some improvement.” So it is with tasting.
 
Like many in the industry, my tasting notes are reductionist in nature. I break down a given wine into various components based on what it looks, smells, and tastes like. I learned this system over 30 years ago through the Court of Master Sommeliers and have used it countless times both in an internal context (when I think about and recall wines, which I do obsessively) and externally (when actually tasting and taking notes).
 
Some complain about using a reductionist grid, saying it coldly dissects wine. However, using any tasting grid is better than the previous old school philosophy of describing wines as “shy,” “insipid,” or “provocative.” Regardless, one needs a shopping list of sorts to evaluate wine in a meaningful way. Otherwise, being consistent in assessing a broad range of different styles would be a constant and daunting challenge. Regular use of a tasting grid also helps to establish benchmarks so future wines can be compared against a standard.
 
As good as any reductionist grid is, there are times when it fails--times when the combination of the wine in the bottle and context creates something that goes far beyond language. In this situation any attempt to describe what you’re smelling and tasting--either verbally or in writing—becomes difficult, if not impossible.
 
One of these “wordless wines” immediately comes to mind: the 1990 Domaine Ponsot Bonnes Mares. All great Red Burgundy is transcendent. Putting your nose in the glass is to be gently assaulted by a tsunami of aromas so complex it’s impossible to describe. The ’90 Ponsot was just that. The experience reminded me of standing in the nave of St. Chapelle and being inundated by brilliantly faceted light in infinite shades and colors that changed constantly with the slightest shift in atmospheric light outside.
 
Likewise, when I tasted the Ponsot, the aromas changed every time I put my nose in the glass. The wine showed extraordinarily complex layers of fruit, spices, sauvage, earth, and oak. The sum total shimmered like the surface of a quickly moving stream. After each time I smelled and tasted the wine, I’d put the glass down, smile, shake my head, and utter a quiet but emphatic wow.
 
The wine also had remarkable depth and concentration, but without being heavy. In effect, it was weightless. I’ve come to think that most great wines are just that—weightless. They show great intensity and concentration but without being heavy.
 
Scientists tell us that the left hemisphere of our brains specializes in reading, writing, speech, abstraction, and numbers. Regarding language, this area of our brain is where we put together concepts piecemeal by reading groups of individual words in sequence. The right, more ancient hemisphere of our brains perceives images as a whole, solves spatial problems, recognizes faces, and appreciates music. In thinking about the Ponsot Bonnes Mares, perhaps the overwhelming amount of sensory information presented to me in the moment confounded my left brain, forcing me to use my more ancient imaging/feeling right brain. Hence the difficulty in describing the wine.
 
There have been other wordless wine experiences over the years. Tasting five Goldkapsul Auslesen from the Saarburger Rausch vineyard made by the brilliant Hanno Zilliken was like sipping five variations of ethereal nectar. A magnum of 61 Krug was a perfect yet indescribable combination of aged fruit, dried exotic flowers, and truffled-earth, gently cradled by delicate bubbles. Over a dozen of Steven Henschke’s offerings tasted at the winery was a theme and variations on perfectly textured red wine made from ancient vine sources.
 
In the end, I know I’m not the first to struggle with words sometimes when it comes to describing what’s the in glass. And I won’t be the last. There will be times—and wines--when words will fail. In a way, it reminds me of how wine makes for a good life. And to always be on the lookout for the next wordless wine. 

The restaurant business. You may leave it at some point, but it never leaves you. And working in the business for any length of time will inevitably curse you for life with restaurant nightmares. Most of them have to do with being in the weeds—overwhelmed—sometimes to the extent that there is no hope, much less survival. I’ve had more than my share of restaurant nightmares over the years. I still do. But one of them was particularly malicious because it added an element of performance anxiety from my years of playing the trumpet.

The dream took place at Bix restaurant in the City. The scene was a variation of the very first Labor Day Sunday night I worked solo behind the bar there, which can be only described as an utter disaster. The restaurant had only been open for a couple of months at the time, and the press—all very positive—had started to achieve critical mass. Add to that the fact that it was a holiday weekend with a lot of people in the city. Finally, for whatever reason, we were understaffed for a typical Sunday night.

The dream took full advantage of what was one of the worst shifts behind a bar I would ever experience. Mind you, at the time I was an exceptionally fast service bartender and could keep up with just about anything. I could get weeded--but rarely ever overwhelmed.

In the dream, I was working the shift with another bartender. He and I enjoyed a pre-shift Fernet behind the bar as per usual. Then the evening started start off slowly. Everything was just ducky. But in no time we got slammed with a tsunami of people, and in short order we were both completely screwed. In the middle of it, a couple sitting at the bar waiting for their table ordered a bottle of Champagne from me. I think it was a bottle of Bollinger Grande Année. I quickly opened and served it to them and then put the bottle in my ice at the service end. I then raced off trying to put out various fires while the service register printer was out of control spitting out cocktail tickets like a cartoon.

At some point I went to pour more Champagne for the couple and the bottle was gone. I had a moment of utter panic thinking I had poured the rest of the bottle off for an order of house sparkling wine by the glass. I was stunned. It was like one of those wildlife shows on TV where the wildebeest is at the water hole and suddenly a crocodile the size of Buick rises up out of the water and takes it down. At that moment I looked down to the end of the bar only to see the other bartender about to go under for the last time too. Suddenly, he raced up to me and said something like, “Aren’t you supposed to go on now? Don’t you have to play?” I looked at him completely mystified.

Instead of answering, he pointed to the backbar which had somehow transformed into floor-to-ceiling black curtains. When I finally found the part in the curtains and opened it, there was a stage with an audience of hundreds of people staring at me. I looked over to see a grand piano with a woman wearing a formal black dress seated and also looking at me. She was irritated and pointing to her watch. Next to the piano was a music stand and a chair with my C-trumpet on it. I walked over to the stand much like the aforementioned wildebeest and picked up my trumpet. Suddenly, I realized there was no mouthpiece in my horn. And there was no music on the stand. Then I realized I hadn’t touched the horn for over six years. How could I possibly play anything? I looked out at the audience and then back at the woman at the piano. The silence was menacing. At this point I woke up in a sweat with my heart racing.
​
The restaurant business. You may leave it, but it never leaves you. 

One of my more memorable sommelier experiences happened early one Saturday evening at the Cypress Club. I was working with the late and great Randy Goodman that night. It was early in the shift and a party of four had just been seated on the main floor. The two couples were clearly friends and looking forward to sharing a night out. I immediately noted that one of the guys was carrying a magnum of red wine, which he placed in the middle of the table with a great flourish. No doubt he would attempt to impress-bore-torture his wife and friends with the wine. One more important detail: His wife was sitting across from him. And she was wearing a white linen dress.

The stage has now been set.

I approached the table, said hello, and offered the bottle owner’s assistance with opening and serving the magnum. The wine turned out to be a current release of a popular Napa Valley Cabernet. I also gently reminded him that there would be a corkage fee on the bottle. He said corkage was no problem and that he didn’t need help. He had things under control and would take care of opening and pouring the bottle for his wife and friends. I nodded and returned quickly and placed glassware and an underliner for the bottle on the table. I again politely offered to open the wine for him. Bottle guy again said he had everything under control. I clearly remember him using that phrase twice.

I then ambled over to the other side of the restaurant and stood next to Randy, who had watched the initial exchange with great interest. He turned to me and said something along the lines of “this is going to be rich.” What happened next can only be described as worst-case scenario.

Bottle guy retrieved a fancy corkscrew from his pocket. With a grand flourish he stripped the magnum of its capsule, demolishing it in the process. He then almost turned the bottle on its side as he inserted the auger of the corkscrew. Next, with enthusiasm not unlike a Jehovah’s witness approaching the first doorstep of the day, bottle guy quickly removed the cork from the bottle. He then removed cork from the auger of the corkscrew and placed it in the middle of the table so everyone could be as impressed as he was. Then, with what can only be described as deadly intent, he grabbed the magnum by the bottom of the bottle with his right hand to pour the wine.

I have to stop for a moment and note that pouring wine using this grip—holding the bottom of the bottle--is problematic at best, especially with a magnum. Unless you have huge Jesse Ventura hands, the likelihood of sloppy pouring, drips on the table, or other more catastrophic mishaps always loom. Moving on.

Bottle guy went to pour for his wife and guests. What happened next was like watching a Sam Peckinpah movie when it goes into super slow motion and all the cowboys get shot. As bottle guy reached across to pour for his wife, she of the white linen dress, he lost control of the magnum and dropped the bottle on the table, right in front of her. Wine immediately started sloshing out of the bottle at high velocity on to the table and glugging relentlessly into her lap.

As the bottle hit the table every head in the restaurant whipped around to see what was going on. Service came to a screeching halt. Instantly, Randy and I were across the room at the table. I grabbed the bottle, put my hand over the top, and set it upright on the table. Randy—and two other bussers who had appeared at the table out of nowhere—immediately started triage, cleaning up the table with cloth napkins. They also helped the poor woman sop up what must have been at least six ounces of bright purple Cabernet that had made its way into her lap.

The incident happened so quickly that she was stunned and could barely move, much less breathe. Bottle guy was also frozen. The other couple was horrified. With Randy and the busser’s help, clean up was quick. I then offered the four of them a glass of Champagne at the bar while we reset the table. After several awkward seconds, the other couple said something like “why don’t you give us a few moments.” We did, retreating a safe distance away awaiting further instructions.

The four of them sat in stony silence for about a minute. Suddenly, bottle guy’s wife stood up and forcibly threw her napkin in his face. She then grabbed her purse and stormed out of the restaurant. The other couple watched in shock as she left. They spent the next couple of minutes staring down at their cover plates. Then they looked at each other, stood up, wished their friend god speed, and left. Bottle guy sat in stunned silence looking at the comet trail of Cabernet that now adorned a goodly portion of the table top. I walked up quietly, put the cork back in the bottle, and handed it to him. Then I said, “we got this.” He nodded, got up, and left the restaurant.

​As the curtains of the front door billowed with bottle guy’s hasty retreat, dining in the restaurant resumed but with a great buzz over what had just happened. The cleanup and reset of the table took longer than usual. The rest of the evening went without incident.
​
After the shift, Randy and I were downstairs having a Fernet Branca in our office. We replayed the accident multiple times poring over every detail. We then pondered bottle guy’s fate, and whether he would be sleeping on the couch--or in the garage--and for how long. We also wondered if his wife would hound or even humiliate him every time he went to open a bottle of wine, especially in front of friends. Would she would forever remind him of the “incident,” and rightly so? In the end, we agreed that the matter was really simple. If the sommelier offers to help you, let them. And don’t be a schlemiel.