- Musings
- March 19, 2018
Death By Bread Roll
A Michigan evening, a tasting followed by a dinner, and I am delighted because we will be discussing Volnay, an appellation with twenty-six premier crus and a quartet of brilliant domaines. Volnay has erroneously been described as being a light red Burgundy, a mistake once made then carried on year after year, century after century. I have chosen a half a dozen beauties from Lafarge, Lafon, and Pousse d’Or, in vintages ready to drink.
The crowd arrives in good spirits. I only notice later that there are several gentlemen who are perhaps too spirited, but this is Detroit, and it’s the end of the day.
My little speech, well prepared, historically sound, seems to please.
The wines are poured while I talk. They have been tasted by the sommeliers, I am very pleased with the bouquets.
We do the first wine, then the second. There are questions: intelligent, interesting.
And then… One of the gentlemen stands, glass in hand, and says, “What kind of shit is this?” He appears to be very angry. I answer that Volnay is highly regarded, the drink of kings, etcetera. He is not mollified. He repeats that he has never heard of Volnay and I am there to pull something over them. I look at my importer, at the retailer who has put this affair together. They both shrug and appear to be counting on me to do Something.
A second gentleman stands. He says, “I’m with Joe. Young lady, do you know what my cellar is worth? It is worth a quarter of a million American dollars and the Burgundies in it are……” (he names wines from the worst, the very worst company based in Beaune). I should not have answered. I did. I said that the evening’s Burgundies were domaine-bottled by domaines that were established after the Revolution… Joe shouts, “I can’t stand it! This bitch is telling me…” He picks up his dinner roll, a hard dinner roll, and throws it at me.
I am not athletic. I do not think to duck. The second gentleman follows with his roll, and by the time the group is escorted out of the room, I have taken blows from at least a half a dozen rolls.
Apologies. “They had a lot of martinis before.”
Now, at every dinner, I ask that bread be thrown before, rather than during.
