Bitter Dregs

The words have been changed, but the wine remains

Today's original post is being excised at the behest of an introvert, who had suggested that for her, wine was a more apt metaphor for love than life. "Love is more like wine. . . Life is something that happens to us - we are born, we die, today is cold, tomorrow is warm, yesterday there were floods. . . Life happens every day. Love/wine - now there's something we choose! And develop our "palates" for...."

As if one needs another reason to drink. . . The journal Diabetes Care tells us that drinking alcohol -- in moderation, folks -- makes one less likely to develop such yucky things as high blood pressure, a chunky waist and low levels of good cholesterol. (I can never remember -- is that HDL? LDL? LOL? AWOL? But enough about our Liar-in-Chief. . . ) Drink up to 19 glasses of wine a month and you're 35% less likely than those pitiable non-drinkers to have those symptoms, known as metabolic syndrome.

Drink more than 20 drinks a month, and cut your risk even more. Stick to wine, that's the ticket -- and don't overdo it, or your health will get WORSE, not better. You can also court health with a beer a day -- if you must. As for me, beer is only good ice cold, on a hot day. And even then, one is more than enough.

Another Saturday night, and I ain't got my honey. . .
Yes, let's hear it for the Virgo! My way belated birthday gift from Debra is the 2005 Wine Guide, and a bottle of wine that she left on the counter at home. She claims. We were forced to start the evening with my 2003 Concho y Tora Casillero del Diablo, an inexpensive Chilean Cab with vanilla and cherry notes that isn't memorable enough to buy again, despite its 90-point rating from Wine & Spirits.

Then it was off to Houston's for a veggie burger. Luckily, there was only a 40-minute wait. They claimed. So there we are at the crowded bar, all abustle on a weekend night, lucky to snag stools, and Debra is ordering her usual potion, Malibu and pineapple juice. Yo-ho-ho! I'm perusing the wine menu. . . Hmm, a Newton Claret. . . . I consult the bartender; she's of the opinion that if I like dry wines, the Newton is gonna be too sweet. I talk her into a sample. She brings over a more than healthy shot, two or three ounces, and it's. . . completely non-descriptive. Nothing to object to. A bit too warm - hey, it's Houston's -- and smooth.

Next, she suggests the Firestone Cabernet. I swirl, I sniff, I sip. It doesn't turn my crank either, although the service I'm receiving is turning a few heads. Another young bartender volunteers a smidge of the Clos du Val Merlot. So now, I'm at this packed bar and I have three large glasses in front of me in a matter of 90 seconds, all sloshing with a shot o' red wine, and I notice I'm being noticed by more than a few fellow bar sitters. I exchange a comment or two about "Sideways" with the person nearest me, as my friend swears I am NOT a wine rep, or a wine buyer. A bit shamefacedly, I order the Merlot. 'Cuz it may be a Merlot, all soft and non-challenging, but its TASTE beats the Newton lips down, and I can't remember a thing about the Cab.

And as a gray Kenny Rogers/Kris Kristofferson clone keeps his eyes pinned on me from across the bar, I wonder if it's the flashy blonde giggling animatedly at my elbow (friend Debra happens to be eye candy), or if it's that I'm so obviously a wine freak. I try to sniff and swirl inconspicuously, I swear I do -- all I want is to experience the nose and the first palate impression -- but still I must stand out, if nothing else by virtue of the wine glasses lined up before me. I wish that guy would stop staring.

Too bad I'm a Virgo, not a Leo, or I could leap up on the bar clutching my three glasses and yell, "Got WINE?" Then I'd smile at the graybeard, point to him, and say, "The gentleman there is buying a round for everyone!" I'm sure Debra and I could escape in the confusion of Musical Chairs that would follow.