It was about halfway through his list of wine recommendations when I was struck by a single horrifying and inescapable truth: This restaurant’s sommelier is fucking the wines. He didn’t explicitly say it, but it was all right there, plain as day in the ways he described each bottle. Like …
When He Called a Bordeaux a “Full-Bodied Triumph of Mouth Feel”
He didn’t jump right into it. He ramped up slowly. It was like verbal foreplay. He did a great job selling it. I have to admit that I wanted to know what that vaguely erotic description felt like on my own tongue. It felt like wine.
When He Described a Cabernet as “Fleshy”
I’m far from an expert, so maybe I’m just being naïve. But there is no reason to describe fermented grape juice as having any qualities similar to flesh, human or otherwise, unless you are sexually aroused by the wine. I didn’t think that before, but now it is a firm belief.
When He Described a Pinot as “Velvety” Then “Flamboyant” Then, for Some Reason, “Well-Endowed”
Velvety I get. Flamboyant? Fine. Well-endowed is a stretch. Well-endowed with what? Alcohol? He didn’t specify. I would’ve asked, but he was too busy biting his lower lip with his eyes closed and I honestly felt like I was intruding on something.
When He Said the Merlot Had a “Creamy Finish”
Had the words “creamy finish” not been preceded by a lot of aggressively sexual descriptions of wine, I probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But it did, and those two words seemed to elicit a fierce emotional (and maybe even physical?) climax for the sommelier. By this point, I was sure that somehow, someway, he was fucking all the wine. I told him that we were fine with water, which was being spilled by his increasingly violent pelvic thrusts against our table. He seemed happy with our choice. I think it’s because he now has more wine to fuck.