by Mae Wood
“I finished up school about a dozen years ago. Don’t,” I cautioned. “Don’t reply by telling me that you weren’t even in college at that point.”
“High school. I’d just started high school”
“Shhh . . . Seriously. Don’t even joke about it, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, with an affected bat of her eyes. “So, anyway, chef, this terroir has a lot of limestone in it, which gives the sparkling wine a great minerality. You know how sometimes Champagne isn’t paired with food because it’s viewed as exclusively for celebration in the States? Well, people don’t have that aversion to a Saint-Peray, so it’s good with a creamy fish dish. Go on, you apparently know what to do.”
And I did. Using all my senses to take in the straw colored wine. Rich aromas, warmer than most Champagnes, greeted my nose. The tiny bubbles tickled my tongue.
“Beeswax,” I announced.
She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated impatience. “You swear you don’t have a sommelier certificate you’re hiding, too?”
“Nah. Just an appreciation for the good things in life.” I squeezed her thigh with my right hand. “Slightly litchi, maybe?”
“Yes! I’m getting that too. And some quince. You feeling that?”
“I’m feeling that,” I replied with another squeeze.
“Later, my man. We’ve got a long way to go tonight and some friends to make.”
“So, how do you propose we go about making friends?”
“It’s not rocket science. You own a restaurant. You know how these things work. We’re at a bar. We have wine. People are here to have a good time. Watch and learn.” She pushed up to stand on the tabletop. “Wine tasting! Free wine tasting! Come one, come all. Free wine tasting!” she loudly announced like a carnival barker. She returned to her seat beside me and smiled. “Now, we wait.”
Less than a minute later, two women strolled up. “Umm,” said a brunette with a head full of curls. “Is this a wine tasting?”
“Yes!” said Drennan full of delight. “Grab a glass and let’s get you started. Have you ever had a French sparkling wine that wasn’t Champagne before?”
She launched into the description, enthusiasm and warmth spilling from her, and I became her assistant, pouring tastings and filling in later arriving new friends with details I’d pulled from her spiel patched together with some of my own knowledge.
“Bert! You working here now, too?” My friend Sid strolled up, a bright green T-shirt with What’s your Sine? above a graph spread across his chest. Dude loves some science puns. He’d taken the nerdy scientist role and adapted it into his signature pick-up style. With his good looks, quick smile, and research work saving kids at St. Jude, the ladies loved him. Introducing my wingman to Drennan was dicey. I hoped he didn’t amp up his accent. He could pedal that shtick elsewhere. “Not really, but she’s the boss tonight.”
“Drennan, this is my friend Sid.”
“Ah, beautiful lady, what are you doing running around with this gyalis?”
Fuck. He’s doing it. He was pulling out his Jamaican card. Give the guy a drink and a pretty girl and the patois and swagger were on full display. And damn, if it didn’t work. Like flies to shit, women ate it up.
“What?” She replied with tilt of her head. “Guy—what?”
“Ah, I’m just kidding, sweetheart. Bert, here, is a fine man. A fine, fine man.”
“Sid is one of the guys I ride with. And Drennan,” I searched for the word.
“I’m his plus one,” she supplied with a smile before turning to talk to some other soon-to-be friends.
“So how’s it going tonight?” I asked. “What you got going on?”
“Everything is everything, man. What ya’ pouring?”
“A little of this, a little of that. Join in. We’ve got enough for a crowd.”
“I texted you earlier about going out. Some new PTs just started and a bunch of them are going out late night. But now I see exactly why you didn’t get back.”
I poured him the Saint Joseph red that Drennan had selected. French, it hit me. They are all French wines. For a California vintner, shouldn’t she be promoting her own wines? Or at least espousing the virtues of Napa and Sonoma? “You’ll like this. Really nice stuff. So, appreciate it. The grape is a Syrah, so it’s got that pepper to it, but it’s blended a little bit and is softer than what you’d expect.”
“I heard “nice” and “grape,” so cheers to that.” He took a sip. “I mean, I like to eat and I like to drink, but I’ll never get this.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
Sid cast his eyes toward Drennan who was happily chirping away with three women around her age. “So what’s the deal? You off the market? Because Sunday night the hem-onc nurses are going out. One of the team is leaving, so it’s a send off party. And they are fun. Lots of fun.”
“I’ve got my hands full right now.”
“I’d say that. Seriously, where’d you find her?”
“She’s a wine rep for a distributor I buy from.”
“Pretty girl.”
“And not yours. Not mine really, either, but we’re having fun.”
“And is this part of her job?” he asked gesturing to the table of glasses and bottles.
“No, this is a date. She decided she needed to teach me about wine.”
“That’s funny. So, you just met, then?”
“We’ve been hanging out for a bit.”
“Tell me if you change your mind about Sunday night. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m planning on keeping that one all weekend. Grady’s out of town.”
“Well, have fun. And make sure you do everything I’d do. If you want some of my homegrown, let me know.”
“I’m cool, man. Now let me get her back,” I said, walking away from Sid and toward Drennan, the other girls, and the group of three preppy guys who had cozied up to them for a chat.
Chapter Eighteen
Drennan
I’d always heard about feeling someone’s presence, sensing them, but I’d never experienced it before. I knew he was behind me, over my left shoulder. Even though I didn’t see him, his strong presence was there, washing through me, sending out calming waves. My own Zen master. Buddha under a tree.
“Here’s one that you’ve got to try. I was surprised to find it here. Well, really, I was surprised to find it. Period. So, taste and see, my plus one.”
“What is it?”
“Just taste and see.”
“I’m terrible at blind tastings.”
“You got fresh litchi out of the Saint Veray, so don’t worry about identifying the AOC or grape or house or vintage. Just taste and tell me what you get.”
The amber liquid swirled in his glass.
“I got you a fresh glass, so you can have a clean taste. Check out the legs.”
“I believe I paid tribute earlier,” Bert replied dryly, holding his glass to catch some light so he could examine how it slid down the sides of the bowl. “Wow. Not kidding. Almost as long as yours.”
“Ha. I wish.”
“Deny it all you want, but you don’t wear those short skirts for comfort, do you?”
He got me there. I’d dressed tonight with the idea of luring him away from the bar, so I knew I had to bring it. I was single-handedly going to bring miniskirts back. I’d played the cleavage game with him before we hooked up but learned from my mistake. Bert liked my boobs, but he lived for my legs. Dark meat man, through and through. And I was staying the course.
“And the bouquet?” I said, lifting my glass to my nose and closing my eyes to focus on the aromas.
“You’d think heavy and slightly musky, but it isn’t. Briny but fresh and light like . . . a Castelvetrano olive. You know, the mild ones at bars in Italy. And that same richness that’s imparted from the oils. Keeps it lingering on the tongue—”
I felt my cheeks heat. He wasn’t talking about wine and we both damn well knew it. I wanted to
entice him to his knees, right there on the grass, and sit my butt on the table. In front of God and everyone. I wanted this man. Instead I kissed him, cutting him off midsentence, hungry and needy and wholly unrestrained. And he met me, thrust for thrust, nibble for nibble until the world started to spin around me. I broke away. We needed out of here. I needed to be under him. On top of him. However he damn well wanted me. But I wanted to tease him more.
“The wine?”
“Oh, the wine is—honey and pear and very rich.”
“Now, taste.”
“What is this?” he replied, his eyes big in surprise. He lifted his glass to catch light in the bowl once more before another swirl, sniff, and sip. This time he aspirated it. I heard the bubbly slurp and smiled to myself. Dude didn’t care if he looked like a pretentious fool. He just wanted to appreciate the wine. Pay respects to the harvest, to the land, to the science and the sweat.
His long arm shot out to snatch the bottle from me. “Oh, no. Tell me. Use your words, big boy.”
“Apricot and tea and honey and whiskey, but I’m not the wine writer.”
I snorted. “Sounds like you are. Want me to make some phone calls?” I asked only half joking.
“Nah, I’m good. So, what is it? Or are you going to hold out on me?”
“Hi, have we met? Holding out isn’t exactly my forte.”
“I noticed. And it is?”
“Roussanne. Another Rhone.”
“Okay, we’ll hold on to your hat, my friend because I’m about to blow your mind.”
“Done and done.”
“Again now. And then again in,” he held up his wrist and glanced at his silver dive watch, “about an hour.”
“I’m game.”
“I know you are.” He reached over to the tray of small glasses, and passed me one. “That’s what makes you awesome.”
I tried to be cool. He thought I was awesome? My heart skipped a giddy beat. “Now, taste this.”
I took the offered glass. “Taste it like wine?”
“Just like wine. But make sure to swallow.”
“Again, have we met?”
I was talking more game than I had. I liked sex, but was usually more circumspect, enjoying being chased and pursued. Been called a dick tease more than a time or two. But I enjoyed the hell out of sex with the right person. And Bert was definitely the right person. And with him, I was shameless.
I lifted the glass to my lips, but before taking a sip or sniff, I looked at him square in his eyes and licked my lips. He smiled, and ran his hand through his dark hair. Disheveling it a bit more from its normally rowdy state. Same page. Good to know.
Then I closed my eyes to focus on the whiskey. “Really?” I said, my eyes flying open to meet his.
“I know. So when I said whiskey about the Roussanne, I saw your face. But damn, the nose on that,” he said swirling his wineglass, “and this,” the rims of the glasses clinked together, “are so similar.”
“Like cousins. I always thought of whiskey as being smoky.”
“Yeah, and Scotch can be peaty. But whiskey is like wine. It’s not like vodka or rum where the two big classifications are gut rot or enjoyable. Each whiskey has its own voice. Its own temperament and history. But it’s just grain and water. This one, this one is corn. Corn is milder and sweeter. Like Merlot. Rye gives you a spice. Think Syrah or a Grenache. Barley is Scotch, traditionally. That “single malt” or “double malt,” that’s malted barley. And barley isn’t usually used in whiskeys, but this is an exception.”
He passed me another glass. “This is a single malt out of Waco. It’s not Scotch, because it isn’t made in Scotland, just like how that sparkling wine you poured earlier can never be Champagne no matter how good it is. But this has that same profile as Scotch. It’s probably my favorite.”
I sipped, timidly. The alcohol stung my mouth and throat and I struggled not to cough.
“Here, let me splash a little water in it. Whiskey straight is an acquired taste. No shame in a splash of water, or soda, or ice to cut it. But if I see you mix some Coca-Cola in it, this is over, okay?”
“As long as you swear you’ll never have a white Zinfandel fruit spritzer on the bar menu, we have a deal.”
“Done and done, as you said. Lesson over, Miss Drennan?”
“We’ve got glasses left,” I half-protested; wanting him but also enjoying making him coax me.
“And thanks to you, we have new friends who won’t even miss us.”
He placed his wineglass on the table, and took my barely sipped whiskey from my hand, taking his own small sip before abandoning it on the table.
He grabbed my hand and I followed him out, amid good-byes, nice to meet yous and thanks from our new friends.
“So if I recall, the plan . . .” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
Bert
Behind the bar may seem like a strange place for a restaurant owner to be, but I never work alone. Fischer was with me serving drinks and Patti was on duty as general manager. I typically only worked the bar on the weekends, but Max needed the shift off, so there I was on a Tuesday night.
Trip and I may own Pig and Barley, but he was smart enough to insist that we hire someone experienced to run the place. Something like fifty percent of restaurants fail in the first two years and as impetuous as Trip can be, he’s not known for making bad investments.
I smiled as I began to mix up a batch of Tupelo honey infused vodka, wondering if a cannabis honey is possible because that would be an exceptionally hot product, and how maybe Sid could hook me up, which turned into thoughts about Trip’s not strictly for personal use pot growing enterprise that almost resulted in his dad having a stroke.
Hell, we were, what? Twenty-three? Grady was already walking and I was out at his family’s Telluride place to do some mountain biking with some of his college friends. I’m not saying that I didn’t partake. I’m just saying that I’m glad as hell that it was his dad and not mine who made the surprise visit.
I thought the guy was going to blow a gasket when there was a red headed girl in bed-rumpled clothes propped on the breakfast bar while his boxer-clad son mauled her mouth. Nope, that garnered a disparaging head shake as he trudged down the hall.
A few minutes later Mr. Brannon joined me on the deck, handed me a cup of coffee, confirmed that those were marijuana plants growing in the bathroom and that I was indeed married with a son, then informed me that I was being booked on a flight out that afternoon back to Denver. Even though I hadn’t done shit other than smoke a few joints that weekend, his dad still makes me nervous.
Apparently I don’t have to speak of the devil, thinking of him must be enough. Mr. Brannon leans against the bar in front of me. “Hey, good to see you. Usual?”
“Yes.” He loosened the tie around his neck, looking worn around the edges.
I poured him a few fingers of his favorite single malt without ringing it up and looked to see if Trip or Marisa had arrived yet. It’s Tuesday, it’s their family dinner. In an effort to avoid all things uncomfortable, which includes Mr. Brannon, I usually make myself scarce on Tuesday nights. I wonder if he knows about Marisa’s pregnancy yet. I feel badly for the guy, losing both his daughter and his wife to cancer. With no Trip or Marisa in sight to keep him occupied, I stepped up to the plate.
With my tail somewhat tucked between my legs from all of my youthful indiscretions he was privy to, I struck up a conversation about his plans for his annual pheasant hunting trip in England. I went once when Trip begged me, thinking that we’d go tromp around in some fields and drink some true British cask ales in the afternoon. But after the second day of wearing a coat, tie, and hat, having a man assigned to me to load my shotgun, and shooting at what were essentially farm-raised birds, I bid a fond adieu and headed back to London. It was there, straight from the train and sitting at the bar in the boisterous Caravan restaurant that stands in an old granary where my vision for Pig and Barley began to take shape.
/> That was six years ago, I realized. Six long challenging years, but I liked doing something of my own. Well, Trip’s and my own, but it’s not like he pays any attention to anything other than what’s on the menu and the financials. Directing the restaurant, that’s my thing.
The conversation about the upcoming hunt dwindled to empty air. “Get you another?”
He peered into the bottom of his empty tumbler and nodded his assent. I snagged the bottle and poured a few fingers more. “I’m proud of you, you know that?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve always stepped up. Do what men do. Took Trip long enough to get there and I hope he keeps it together.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, the word “gob smacked” popping into my brain. “He’s a good guy,” I finally spat.
“Yes, Marisa’s set him right. It’s not easy, but you know that.”
What is he talking about? Thankfully he continued, “Wife, kid, the whole thing. Life. You handle it well.”
A laugh escaped from deep within. Did he think he was talking to someone else? “Thanks, sir, but I’m not sure I deserve that praise.”
“You do. Married your girlfriend, been a good dad to your son, found what you like to do, and made it into a good business. Proud of you.”
“Thanks, but I can’t claim credit for Grady.”
“Sure you can. From what your dad tells me on the golf course he’s turning into a fine young man. Got into Vanderbilt, about to become an Eagle Scout, a top-notch soccer player. That’s your doing.”
My shoulders rolled in a shrug.
“Take the compliment, Bert. Take it from a man who spent a couple of decades wondering if his son was ever going to straighten up and fly right. Yours is well on his way and you should be proud.”
Trip had told me that his dad had been extremely sentimental since Mrs. Brannon died. I didn’t believe it until then. The intimidating Mr. Brannon of my childhood had completely washed away, leaving a stranger seated at my bar.