AnotherDamnedFoodBlog goes wine-tasting exclusively for WineGoggle. First paid blog on this site! But hey, we think AnotherDamnedFoodBlog is worth it.
“Bon jour”. “Good day”. “How’s it hanging?” “Hoesit”. “Fuck you, prick”. “Your wife still take it standing?”
Wine Club time, and the greetings are diverse. Varied. Just like the Wine Club dude who invited me. Don’t know whether he’s straight or eight. Like the other assembled dudes. Other dudes are motley, like all over the show. Beards and biceps. Crocs and sandals. Some honcho arrives in RM Williams and a cravat, no shit.
?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+ëCause we’re all different. ?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+ëCause we’re Wine Club men tasting and snorting and discussing all kinds of different wine stuff. Men may have been created equal, equal as two plus two’s six, yo. But not Wine Club men, nor the wines they bring on round every month to discuss. We’re different, like. Exceptions to the rule. We’s wine guys.
And no, now women. Spoil the fun. Too serious. Don’t understand our jokes, our sharp sense of humour. Keep our boyish charms for each other, right?
Here we go then. Bottles get covered in material-like condoms that’d make Beyonc+¬ blush and JayZ call “time out”. The pouring starts. Goes quiet, quiet as a nun’s bedroom when Satan’s down the hall. Quiet as the wine steward at Caveau when you tell him the wine’s corked and there’s a piece of dried sashimi on the wine glass. Quiet.
Except for the sniffing. Wine Club guys they sniff. Snort, yo. Like Robert Downey Jnr on pay day. Except this is wine they’s snorting. Noses wrinkled up into the glass, taking deep breaths. Like your Mother when she sees the bill at Baia. Before tip.
“Raspberry!” a Wine Club guy announces. Looks like he’s just seen Darryl Hanna nekkid. Tears of joy in his eye. “Truffle!” says another, drips of red wine on his white beard. “Bullshit!” I say, unable to contain myself.
“Incorrect, sir,” I get corrected by old Grumpy at the head of the table, “it can’t be bullshit because the Pinotage is in the next flight.”
Okay, big shots, okay.
Then they slurp it. Slurp the raspberry-truffle not-bullshit stuff. Roll it around in their mouths like Linda Lovelace after two weeks in the desert. Look to the skies, they does. Looks to the skies, swallow. Sit back. Writing feverishly on bits of white paper with red drops on it.
“Merlot. Stellenbosch. Late ?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+ë90s”, says the dude with the Crocs. Other Wine Club dudes nod sagely. Guess the Crocs guy know something. Guess he’s the head honcho. Revered by others. Got to have better taste in wine than in shoes, that’s for sure.
“Cabernet-based blend. From sandy soils,” calls the dude with the RM Williams. Like what-the-fuck-hello?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-+?-+..what’s sandy soils got do with it?
RM Williams lays it down: “Gives the wine a lighter body due to deep, easy root development.” Wine Club dudes nod, whisper, smile at RM. The looks in them there eyes: Damn ?+¦-+???+¦-ú?-¦?+¦-ú?+¦+¦ don’t know if they want to beat him or screw him. Bitches.
RM Williams is but wrong. Crocs is the business. Wank-wank. It’s Merlot. 1986. Give the guy a Noddy badge.
Get the next bunch of wines. They call it a “Flight”. Flight of the Pussies if you ask me. Sitting around all day. Smelling, like, white flowers and fucking chalkboard and dried berries. Tasting like red fruit and mushroom and stewed prunes. Bring me a fucking Valoid while you’re at it.
Some short skinny dude with black hair hauls out a bottle with French writing on it. The others freak out. One goes on his knees. Begs the short guy not to open the bottle. “We are not worthy.” I catch an eyeball of the bottle. Black letter says something about a Roman Cont. Didn’t know they had one. Was that the thing Caesar was born from. Caesarean pussy.
I don’t get a glass of the stuff. I’m out of there. Down town. Hauling ass down town. Stop by for a beer. Cold. It smells and tastes. Like beer.
Or do I detect a hint of spring flowers and honey.
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