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The man nods, seemingly satisfied.
“I love this,” Blondie gushes. “I’ll take three bottles.”
Dale smiles. “Don’t you want to try the other wines before you decide what to buy?”
“I can’t imagine I’ll like any of them as much as this.” She flutters her eyelashes.
I smile, self-satisfied. In Dale’s eyes, she just made a huge error.
“Would anyone like to try more of the apple?” I ask. “Otherwise, we’ll move on to the Cab Franc.”
“I’d like another taste,” Blondie says.
“Of course.” I approach her and pour another tasting portion.
“More please?” she says.
“This is a tasting, ma’am,” I say, well aware that I just called a woman who is likely younger than I am “ma’am.”
“Yes,” she says, “and I’d like another taste.”
Dale takes the bottle from me and pours her a couple ounces. “Of course.”
Did I do something wrong? I’ve done tastings before in class and in labs. We always pour no more than an ounce. But this is practice, not theory. Blondie likes the apple wine, which should not endear her to Dale. However, he gives her what she wants.
Dale hands the bottle back to me with a smile. I resist the urge to frown. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be getting sad because Dale is paying attention to a customer. That’s what we’re both supposed to be doing.
The customer is always right.
Those words were from the manager at the grocery store where I worked when I was in high school to help my mom pay bills. I’m not in a classroom here. I’m in a commercial setting, and part of my job is to sell this wine.
I just made a big mistake. I know better. And I know exactly why I did it—because Dale is paying attention to Blondie.
So immature. Nice job, Ashley.
“Take a bite of cheese, everyone.” I set down the bottle of apple wine and pick up an already opened bottle of Cab Franc. “Cheese is a great palate cleanser. Save the fruit for after the tasting.”
While the tasters munch on cheese, I pour tasting portions of the Cab Franc. Once all the jaws stop moving, I hold up the bottle.
“I’ll be honest with you. I know a lot about wine. I’ve studied it in depth, and I’m almost done with my PhD in oenology.”
“What’s oenology?”
Oddly, the question doesn’t come from Blondie. It comes from the auburn-haired woman.
“It’s not a word a lot of people are familiar with.” I smile. “It’s the study of wine.”
“You can study wine?” This time from Blondie.
“Yes. I have a master’s in oenology, and I’ve almost completed my doctorate.”
I glance at Dale. His jaw is still tense. Not surprising, since I know how he feels about my doctorate of wine.
“That’s fascinating,” the woman says. “I love wine and I always thought I knew a fair amount about it, but I had no idea there was actually a discipline related to wine.”
“A lot of people don’t know that,” I say.
“I’m too old to go back to college now,” she says. “I wish I’d known.”
“There are a ton of online courses you can take,” I tell her. “Some from the world’s most famous sommeliers.”
“Do you have an online course?”
I laugh. “Goodness, no. Maybe someday, though. Is everyone ready to try the Cab Franc?”
Syrah man smirks. “It’ll have to be exceptional to impress me.”
“It is.” I smile. “And I should know. After all, I’m almost a doctor of wine.”
He smiles, then, and I know I’ve won him over. He’ll like the wine. I hand him a glass and then distribute the Cab Franc to the others.
“Swirl it around in the glass,” I say again. “This time, notice the color as well as the aroma. Red wines vary a lot in color. What do you notice about this one?”
“What should we be looking for?” a quiet-until-now taster asks.
“Good question. Let’s start with intensity.”
“If by intensity you mean darkness,” Syrah man says, “this is lighter than a Syrah.”
“Yes, it definitely is.” I pick up a glass and swirl the wine in it. “Notice the color doesn’t cling too much to the glass. The color is less intense than a darker wine, such as a Syrah or Zinfandel.”
“You mean white Zinfandel?” Blondie says.
God, please help me. “No. Zinfandel is a black grape. I’m talking about the red wine made from that grape.”
“What’s white Zinfandel then?” she asks.
Dale’s jaw tenses up again. If I had x-ray vision, I’m sure I’d see his teeth clenching.
“White Zinfandel is a blush wine made from the Zinfandel grape. It’s made in a sweeter style than red Zinfandel.”
“I love white Zin,” she says. “It’s almost as good as this apple wine.”
Oh, God. Dale’s whole body is rigid now. He may very well explode on the spot.
“Is a blush wine anything like a rosé?” another taster asks.
I look toward Dale. He nods his head slightly. I take that as my cue to explain a little bit about pink wine.
