I miss my old liquor store; they always described their wines in vivid and compelling ways. "Tastes like grape jelly." "One evening, I drank four bottles by myself." "Good with bacon." "Will get you laid."
I think of this because I've just returned from a wine shop here. The sales boy - I say "boy" because he could not have been more than twentyf*ckingtwo - managed to be simultaneously obsequious and condescending, which made me want to do violent things. Here's a snippet of our conversation:
Him: You look like a lady in need of my assistance! Choosing a good wine can be overwhelming, and, since we don't sell anything that comes in a box or with a handle, I can understand that you might be confused.
Me: Well, I'm looking for a wine we had last night... It was French. A grenache something or other."
Him: It was probably a grenache-shiraz from Australia.
Me: No, it definitely wasn't from Australia, and I don't really care for shiraz.
Him: Right. Why don't you taste this Australian grenache-shiraz. I'm sure it's very similar to the one you enjoyed.
Me: Keri likes free booze.
(He pours a glass for me and one for himself)
Him: slurrrrrrp. ftttt-ftttt-ftttt. garglegarglegargle. Mmmmm, this wine really features the softness of the grape. Very nice body.
Me: Bleech! Yack! Plah! This bilge tastes like batteries! It just burned off my taste buds!
Him: You've got quite the palate! You're referring to what we call the acid of the wine - technical term. Is this not just what you enjoyed last night?!
Me: This is urine.
Him: Aren't you funny! It's ninety percent shiraz, so the acid is very bright. Can I interest you in a case?
In an effort to make myself feel more sophisticated, I may have gone overboard with my purchase of forty-seven stems of pussy willow. Now the apartment is simply rife with double entendre.