Reject

It feels like a significant milestone.  A rite of passage.  The dawn of a new era.  Like a caterpillar bursting from a chrysalis, I have become a man or least a gangly moth.

Of course, lots of my friends have done it already.  Always the cool sophisticated ones.  Naturally, they did it easily, without effort or embarrassment.  As if they’d done it before.  And well.  They didn’t blush.  And there wasn’t an awkward silence afterwards. 

Some people assume I am an old hand, what with having a family and all.  But no, this was my first time.  And although I feel different now, more grown up, more worldly wise (I suspect there’s even a glint in my eye), the whole experience felt rushed and clumsy - I can’t say I really enjoyed it.  Maybe next time will be easier.

Of course, it wasn’t really my fault at all.  Peer pressure.  You know how it is.  I’d have put it off till I felt ready.  Actually, they made me do it. 

Putting us together like that - it’s always a dangerous combination.  Risky business.  Just ask the friends I took to Prague.  Still, there I was.  In the situation.  They’d asked me to choose the wine.

Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m a Country Hick.  Of course, I’ve picked wine before.  I know a vine when I see it.  All those summers hitching up skirts and dancing around in those barrels didn’t go to waste.  Ah, Maria and her juicy grapes.  It’s a vivid image, even now.

No, choosing is not the issue.  Choosing, schmoozing.  That’s fine.  No, it’s the ritual tasting when the bottle is brought to the table.  Always a bit of a joke in the past.  “Yes, that’s fine” I’d say even without tasting it.  Afterall, what do I know? 

Tonight though, I sat in the midst of the Company Directors.  My new Company Directors.  Like a prize winner on the Captain’s table.  Or a jester.  Or a performing monkey that can balance a spoon on his nose.  And they’d asked me to choose the wine.  It was obviously a test.  Clearly, my future depended on my not being an arse.  Just for once.  Just once not to see an arse reflected in that shiny spoon.

The waitress was clearly in on the joke.  ‘The wine, Sir.’ she said, mockingly.  I knew it was The Wine - I am not a fool.  Even if I am a fool, I know a glass of wine when I see it.  I looked sagely at it.  “Yes, it is” I replied after some consideration. 

I took the goblet.  I rubbed my nose delicately around the rim.  I made the glass whistle.  I looked up.  The Directors were clearly impressed.  I took a sip.  But then - catastrophe.  It tasted fishy.  Not actually of fish, you understand, although I haven’t eaten jellied eels so I can’t be entirely sure, but definitely not right.  Or possibly not right.  Or maybe a little wrong.  My initial confidence ebbed away.  Perhaps this wine was meant to taste like this.  Oh god.  Whatever I did next, I was going to fail the test.

The Directors were still looking at me.  So was the waitress.  So, it seemed, were the people standing in the bus queue outside the window.

“I think this wine is off” I said as apologetically as I could.

The waitress pursed her lips and took the glass from me.  She glowered with more loathing than I’d seen since the incident at the haberdashery during the January Sales.  She tried the wine.  ‘I don’t think it is, Sir’ she hissed.

The Boss, who is, of course, used to taking charge, tried the wine.

I held my breath.

‘It’s definitely corked’

I nearly kissed him and then remembered the reason I had to leave my last three jobs.

The glass went around the other Directors.  They agreed with the Boss, naturally.

Scowling, the waitress took the bottle away.  We watched as the Chef tried it.  He looked over.  He shook his head.  I could see him gathering phlegm in his throat as he prepared the Au Poivre sauce.

She brought new bottle over.  It didn’t taste of fish.  I was saved.  I was a hero.  I had correctly rejected a bad bottle of wine.  I was not going to be unemployed. 

I knew I had become a man.  I tucked into my particularly flavoursome steak.

Comments

[simon hb]

The late John Walters used to complain that his only problem with sending wine back was that he then felt obliged to choose a different, more expensive wine from the list, to make it clear that he wasn't just pulling a flanker in order to get an extra couple of free sips from the returned bottle...

[Mrs RW]

Well played. You had a 50-50 chance and it worked. I think you should be in Las Vegas...

[Carlton]

Simon, I know I can always rely on you for erudition. But you may have something there - by the time we'd all tried the wine, we had made a considerable dent in it.

Mrs RW, I've been to Vegas and I know the odds don't work the same way as in the real world...

c.