Two women are sitting at Booth 3, presumably on a “Girls Night Out.” Under the misleading idea that wearing all black would be slimming and that sequins class things up, it is clear that these girls are ready to party.
“Hello, ladies. Can I get you anything to drink tonight? A Pear Cosmo? Or maybe a glass of wine?”
‘We were thinking of ordering a bottle of wine, actually but we don’t usually order a whole bottle. What do you suggest?” one of them asks.
I cringe at the question because I am the first to admit my lack of wine knowledge. In the types of restaurants I usually punch in at, bottles of wine are not a top seller. Seven years of serving breakfast and lunch didn’t really require me to know a lot about bottles of wine.
“Well, would you like red or white?” I ask.
“What’s the difference?”
I do a mental face palm and realize that even though I grew up drinking Boone’s Berry Farm and California Coolers, I am practically a sommelier compared to these girls.
“Red is served room temperature and white is served cold,” seems to satisfy their quest for wine knowledge.
The ladies hem and haw trying to decide what to get when they finally ask me the most important question that anyone who is ordering a bottle of wine can ask:
“Can we get a taste of the White Zinfandel?”
A taste of the White Zinfandel? What are you tasting it for, to see if it’s tastes like ass? I can tell you right now, it does. It will taste like Mr. Kool-Aid took a piss inside a wine bottle and then shit out a couple of Splendas. It will taste like a raspberry Fla-vor-Ice that was in the freezer too long and got a mean case of freezer burn and then sat outside in the sun for two days. It will taste as bad as your make-up looks.
“Absolutely, I will be right back with a taste of our finest White Zinfandel.”
I return moments later with two glasses. It would have been sooner, but the bartender had to dig deep into the reach-in to find a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. It was behind the whipped cream, the huge jar of olives and an old container of yogurt that the hostess had left in there about two weeks earlier.
I place the glasses before the ladies who each pick one up and sniff inside giving their olfactory senses a a workout trying to decipher between a “subtle floral aroma” and “nasty ass whiff of Hawaiian Fruit Punch.”
They swirl the wine around in their glasses and hold it up to the light to see if it “has legs.” Finally, they let it wash over their taste buds and I await their reaction.
“Hmmm, I think I like it, what do you think?” one says to the other.
“It tastes really good. That is a very nice bottle of wine. I say we go for it.”
They do indeed “go for it” spending a whopping $28 for a bottle of our finest White Zinfandel. They pair it with a hummus plate and spinach artichoke dip, because these bitches are fancy like that.
When they are done, the bottle is empty and they tell me how much they loved the wine. I can’t really judge because I have been known to drink wine out of a box, champagne out of a can and a margarita out of a plastic to-go cup on the Q32 bus. What I can do though is write a blog post about the two ladies at Booth 3 who think that a bottle of White Zinfandel is a sophisticated night on the town.