I Have Decided What You're Drinking

You’ve had a long week. You sat down, you opened the list, and you found the one thing on it you recognized — the Sancerre, probably, or the Oregon Pinot at $74. You pointed at it. You said, we’ll do this one.

We will not be doing that one.

I want to be clear that this isn’t about you. I’ve been doing this eleven years. I’ve been to Beaujolais twice. When you point at the Sancerre, what I hear is a person quietly asking for help, and I would be failing at my job if I let you walk out of here having had exactly the thing you asked for.

So I’m bringing you something else. It’s from the Jura. It’s orange. It’s $30 more and I’ve printed the number small. When I pour it you’re going to make a face, and then you’re going to glance across the table to see what face the other person is making, and I want you to know that I have watched that exact exchange four thousand times and it is still the best part of my night.

Here is what I know about the Sancerre: it is on the list. Here is what I know about you: you would have enjoyed it. Both of those things are in direct conflict with what I want for this table.

You’ll ask what it is. I’ll say the grape, and you’ll nod, and neither of us will pretend you’ve heard of it before. Then I’ll leave. And you’ll drink it. And somewhere in the second glass you’ll decide you like it, because the alternative is having spent $118 on a mistake.

That’s the moment I’m after. Not the wine. The moment.

And if you push back — if you say no, really, we’d like the Sancerre — I’ll bring you the Sancerre. I’ll bring it warm. I’ll bring it in twenty minutes. I’ll set it down myself without a word, and you will understand exactly what happened here.