The Ambrosia of Commitment

Help! What wine goes with a proposal?

I’ve never had occasion to research this. Never had occasion to think I would need this information.

Okay, it’s hot out. Scorching hot. White wine, then. Or champagne. Champagne! Only Andie doesn’t care for champagne. Dammit!

Should we go out? Stay home? Here I could crack the GSM. Or the Far Niente Cab. Or the Seghesio Old Vine Zin, or even the David Bruce Petite Syrah. All of them bound to be quite good. Unless they’re corked. Aargh!

Later that same evening. . . Whew. All better now. Andie – or, as I have decided to call her, “The Engagee” – opted for La Bodega. A solid choice, if one seeks wine and tapas. I still believe its predecessor, Boulevard Café, had a clear edge, but what the hey. It’s a fine establishment. Even with a new, distracted hostess and neophyte wait staff.

We sampled a $10 glass of some Albarino or another – there were quite a few on the menu, but all I can tell you is that it’s a pleasant-tasting white wine from Galicia, Spain. La Bodega has a number of Spanish wines on its list, and I’m always curious, but have yet to be wowed . . . in any event, the sample wine didn’t thrill, so The Engagee opted for the reliably good Guenoc Petite Syrah. I, sweltering in the heat – or was it nerves? – ordered up a glass of the Chateau St. Jean Chardonnay. I always try to give that vineyard another chance, on account of it has a BEAUTIFUL fountain out front and I might have been too cranky the day I sampled its wines and found them wanting.

The CSJ Chard was fine, especially with chevre and zucchini bruschetta, garlic mushrooms, and roasted red peppers wrapped around ahi tuna and rice. Such were our Mutual Proposal Accompaniments. We nibbled happily for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular. We were surrounded by boisterous, Friday-night-out hets, which I do believe put a bit of a cramp in our little lesbo commitment dinner.

La Bodega is a loud, open space where intimate conversations are challenging, to say the least. Andie – oops, I mean The Engagee – had to pull her chair around and lean in so we could hear one another. The good news is that in a place with that crashing wall of noise, no one else could hear us. The bad news is that I’m not sure we heard each OTHER.

I told The Engagee Previously Known as Andie that I loved her more than anyone; LIKED her more than anyone, which was just as important; and that I wanted us to share our lives. I asked her if she would marry me. She nodded, smiling. Who knows what she thought I was saying? I prodded her, “I can’t hear you.” “YES!” she said emphatically. I slipped the agonizingly-awaited, newly fitted ring on her finger, and she admired the sparkling art deco confection of white gold wrapped around sapphires and diamond. Circa 1920. Lilliane’s.

Then she launched into a speech about how she often took me for granted and was frequently too distracted with work and other stressors to think of me much. Surely this wasn’t her practiced proposal speech? I shook my head, trying to clear it of La Bodega cacaphony. “. . . amaze me, Kim. I’ve never known. . .” Crash of plates, clattering of silverware, chattering of diners. At least that last bit sounded more promising. The teeny bit that I heard.

The Engagee placed the ring on my finger, and I smiled down at the solid band of 18-karat etched yellow gold, deep emeralds flanking a lone diamond. I’m not big on diamonds. But I love this custom-made ring. To each her own.

We flicked our eyes sideways in homophobic reflex, then leaned in and sealed the deal with a kiss. On the lips. At La Bodega, on a June night in 2006, with me pushing 50 and the fertile young Engagee just rarin’ to have a baby. (God, who knows all about wine, and love, has a deliciously dark sense of humor, in case you hadn’t noticed.)

It didn’t really matter what wine we drank with dinner.