In Chicago till Wednesday. Great eats town, according to my colleagues, so I'm pretty psyched. Sure the conference was meanigful and all, but now the Main Event. Food! But my elation was short lived. We went to a place called Bin 36, a wine affecianado place. Don't get me wrong, the place was a lively, modern joint. It's just that....ok, I'll just say it. Wine and its rituals terrify me.
I order last in a table of six. Each person sounds like they're Alex Trabek, over-emphsizing and dramatically pronouncing French and pseudo-French words. My palate is not so distinguished nor sophisticated -- color and temperature is as far as I get. Red. White. Cold. Not Cold. When it got to my turn to order, I just stammered, "Um, Ann that, that...thing you ordered? Sounds delightful. I'll have that as well." Even after I drank the white cold wine, I still have no idea what she ordered.
I sat next to another colleague who tried valiantly to give me a crash course. "Suck air in as you sip -- it opens up the wine, " she says. I did, and sucked the damned drink into my lungs and opened up my nasal passages instead. "Lively and light, balanced with pristine minerals vibrant with acidity, right?"she remarked. I can think of some people that fit that description, but as for the wine, all I could think of was, "Yes, it is indeed white. And cold!"
And all this hubub about regions! Mosel-Saar-Ruwer? I know that's in Germany somewhere, but why don't they just say Aisle 3 of the Produce Asile? Heck, *that* is where I would get *my* grapes. There's a special this week ya know.