Kerosene with a cork.

"Michelle, we need to talk" said a man I will call Mr. A for the sake of his privacy and to save him face here [not that I will be sharing my blog's address with him any time soon]. "What is going on with this wine list?" he continues to inquire.

Seeing as how my name is printed along with the other sommeliers on the list, it is pretty ignorant to screw it up, especially since Mr. A is unfortunatly a regular in the bar and dining room. Many of my regular guests and I are on a first name basis, and I have new wines for them to try set aside as soon as their reservation hits the book, but he and I aren't quite on those terms yet and aren't likely to be in this century.

"Good Evening Mr. A" I respond with my plastered smile. "So preceptive of you to notice" [sometimes flatery is your best option]. "I broke the entire list down by AVA, AOC, and other regions and added all of the winemakers name's from the United States." This was my winter project for the maintence of the wine list and was no small feat, considering that over half of my selections are American.

"Yeah, yeah, looks nice." he grumbles, in his Hoboken dialect. "Why don't you have X chardonnay for God's sake?"

Because it is Kerosene with a cork I refrain from screaming at him. "We have decided to focus more on single vineyard production for the Chardonnay selections than multiple vineyards," I reply thru gritted teeth. "But I am sure that the Darioush Reserve will be a nice replacement for you this evening [as a small disclaimer to the good folks at Darioush, I do not believe your wine tastes of Kerosene, I needed to throw something at this man that he has never had to make him leave me alone for 5 minutes]. "Shall I open a bottle for you?"

"Is it cold?" he replies?

"Straight out of the Euro-Cave at 43 degrees" [too cold for me] but I know what is coming next...

"Well, bury it in ice. I guess that will have to do" he mutter about the $95 dollar bottle as a chill runs down my spine similar to the one that occurs when I watch people ruin things like short ribs, Kobe beef and the like by cooking it too much.

To move this story along, Mr. A did not feel that the wine would ever be, in fact, cold enough for him, and had me pour a glass into a cocktail shaker over ice and serve it table side. While I wasn't surprised by this occurance, I was shocked that he decided to take it this far. Not that he can taste the wine anyway: he constantly reeks of cheap cigars and pounds 3 Single Malts at the bar prior to gracing the dining room with his presence.

We later agreed that I would order X Chardonnay and keep it off of my list and in the wine room for him only.

The moral of the story: Money can not by you class or taste.