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Not a Wine Person


Not a Wine Person

Me and the wine seller have a tradition. Each Passover I walk into the shop and say please, help, find me something good but I mean really really good. He gathers bottles from wooden boxes and in his pleasant demeanor explains about tingliness, roundness and richness. I lower gear, listen with all the tranquility and Italianness I can harness and finally choose the bottles that are least likely to look as if I took them from the cashier at the supermarket. He says, very nice choice, I tend to believe you’d enjoy them. The week after I walk down the street and meet him sitting on the bench at the entrance to the shop enjoying life. How was it, he asks in his charming manner. I fill the chest with air, take off the tingliness, round myself on the edges and confess with eyes glazed with regret that it was probably excellent because no complaint was filed, that I forgot to taste because I’m not a wine person and that next year I promise to try.


From → Folklore

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