Bacchus
Wine molecules began coursing through my bloodstream at an early age, in the womb I think. Mom read children’s stories and sang lullabies to me. She also drank wine. When I was a young chap, but old enough to realize the difference, I asked her if I could have a glass of wine at the kitchen table. I told her tales of Europe where parents allow their barely teenage sons and daughters to imbibe. “It’s indicative of a culture that appreciates the important moments in life,” I think I said. She told me to get a job. I started working in restaurants, somehow wrangling my way into some of the finest dining rooms of upstate New York. Within the walls of restaurants with award-winning wine lists, I began cutting my teeth on the wine regions of the world. But the wine tasted like vinegar. Then the sommelier politely told me that bottle of red I was drinking was “corked” and I said, “yes, I can see there is a cork in the bottle.” He said, “No, the wine is corked, meaning that bottle of red wine has been open for over a month.” I spit it out and he told me to try an Italian Brunello di Montalcino. And I fell in love. At least, that’s how I remember it. Santé!
