Love the Wine You're With

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “I’m Giovanni Caro. I represent six Italian wineries that export to the States. I called a few days ago to arrange a tasting of several of my favorites, and to give everyone at your establishment some information about our wines. I thought she said to come at three o’clock Monday. I have an Orvieto that I believe your customers will be very pleased with.”

  The way he says “Orvieto” makes me wonder what swooning actually feels like. And am I doing it now? (That would be embarrassing.)

  “I can help you with that,” I say, quickly hitting Sleep on my computer and standing up to walk over to Giovanni. “I’m one of the owners, and have the authority to make purchases.”

  Giovanni puts out his hand. “Perfect. And you are?”

  “Jessie. I mean Jessica. I mean…” I start to put out my hand, then quickly pull it back to wipe the sweat off on my jeans. “Sorry,” I say, then put out my now dry hand for him to shake. “It’s Jessie. I’m a little scatterbrained today. I wasn’t expecting you, and you threw me for a loop.”

  That’s putting it mildly.

  Giovanni shakes my hand. “Delighted to meet you. Now, what can I interest you in?”

  Oh, I don’t know. A house with a view of the water, two bilingual kids with beautiful eyelashes, and whatever dog is popular in Italy?

  “Um … that Orvieto sounds good. Is that anything like Cabernet?” I ask him.

  “Actually it’s a white, but I think I can find you something you’ll like in red.”

  Perhaps you, nestled between some red silk sheets.

  Oh, my God … What is wrong with me? I’m acting like a fifteen-year-old with a crush on the Varsity quarterback, I tell myself as I accidentally sniff him. He smells woodsy. Like, woodsy enough to make a girl consider camping for the night.

  “Are you an adventurous person?” he practically purrs.

  Not even vaguely. “Sure.”

  Giovanni smiles brightly. “If you like reds, I have everything from a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo to a Super Tuscan to a Barolo from Piedmont. What would you say is the characteristic of Cabernet that most appeals to you?”

  I would say that it gets me drunk. But that’s probably not the answer I should give a wine rep. “You know what? I’d really like to try that Orvieto. Do you want to come out to the bar area, and then you’ll be all set up once Nat gets here?”

  “Wonderful,” he says cheerfully. He wheels his suitcase out of my office, toward our open-concept bar.

  I follow him out, unable to ignore the fact that he looks just as good from behind as he does in the front.

  Okay, obviously I can’t date him, because I have Kevin. But Nat must date him! He’s gorgeous. He’s charming. And, unlike Prick with a c, he’s not married.

  Wait, I don’t know if he’s married. I realize I need to look for a ring as he walks to one of the large wooden butcher block tables in the middle of the room, and stands at attention by a pink cushioned barstool. I scrutinize his left hand as he pulls out the chair for me to sit. No ring. (And also—how cute. When was the last time a guy actually pulled out a chair for a lady? I’m guessing 1958.)

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling my face heat up as he pushes in my chair, then makes his way around the table. “So do you need to put the bottles in the refrigerator for a bit to get them to the proper temperatures?”

  “That’s not necessary. I installed a wine refrigerator into the trunk of my car so that my wines are always ready to serve and the perfect temperature.”

  I watch Giovanni open his suitcase, which holds six bottles of wine.

  “Really?” I say, impressed. “Did you install it yourself?”

  “Actually, yes. I like to tinker with cars.”

  “Wow. The guys I know can’t even install a dimmer switch, much less a refrigerator. So … what do you drive? Like … a minivan or something?”

  Please say no, please say no, please say no.

  Giovanni begins fanning out the brochures on the table, “No. I don’t have kids yet, so I haven’t quite hit my minivan stage. Don’t judge—I drive a Porsche.”

  “A Porsche? Yowza!” I exclaim.

  “Yowza?”

  “A man who looks like you and drives a cool car and can fix one? Yowza. Times ten.”

  Giovanni laughs. “I wish my ex-girlfriend saw things your way. I picked up a 1994 model last year, cheap but very beat-up, deciding I was going to restore it. It has since become known as foro di denaro.”

  I let my jaw drop and my shoulders sink in exaggeration as I sigh, “Ooohhhh, that sounds so romantic.”

  “It’s Italian for ‘money hole.’”

  “Oh.”

  Giovanni pulls out a green bottle with a green-and-cream-colored label and gold lettering. “Orvieto is a city in southwestern Umbria, and the Orvieto zone is known for its limestone and volcanic soil. Orvieto wine is probably the best-known wine in Umbria. Have you been to Italy?”

  “No,” I am disappointed and embarrassed to admit. “I’ve always wanted to go, but life just keeps getting in the way. You?”

  “Oh, many times. My father also works in the wine industry, and my mother will use any excuse to travel, so we went back and forth a lot as a family. Plus I did a semester abroad at the University of Padua.”

  “Wow,” I say as I watch him pierce the green foil top with his corkscrew, then peel it off. “I almost did a semester abroad, but I didn’t think my French was good enough. Where did you go to college?”

  He smiles mischievously as he screws in the corkscrew with a smooth and practiced flourish. “The University of Hawaii at Manoa.”

  “Seriously?” I blurt out enviously. “You got to live in Hawaii? Did you surf?”

  “I did,” he tells me proudly. “I surfed the North Shore on Oahu and windsurfed in Maui. I also flew to the Big Island to ski on Mauna Kea, and I even went to Lanai to lounge at the pool at the Four Seasons for a long weekend and pretend I was a millionaire.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say, genuinely impressed. “So does your family live in Hawaii?”

  Giovanni pulls out the cork and hands it to me to sniff. “No, they’re up in Sonoma. Truth be told, I applied to Yale. But when I didn’t get in, instead of wallowing in self-pity, I decided, ‘Okay, life didn’t work out how I planned. Now what can I do to be happy anyway?’” Regarding the cork, he asks, “So what do you think?”

  To be honest, I never could get into the sniffing-the-cork thing. I never know what I’m supposed to be smelling (I’m guessing wine?), but I make a show of putting it up to my nose and taking a big whiff. Honestly? It smells like … crushed grapes. “Smells great,” I declare, as though I have the slightest idea what I’m talking about.

  “Excellent. Now, what glass would you use to serve your guests this type of wine?”

  Ummm … not a clue. I turn the question back on him. “What glass would you recommend?”

  “There are several that can do the job well.” He points to the area behind the long pink bar. “I’d love to see what our choices are. Do you mind?”

  I motion for him to go ahead. “Please.”

  Giovanni heads behind the bar. As he peruses his choices, I take his silence as an opportunity to continue my interrogation. “So you said ‘ex-girlfriend.’ Is there a current girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  He chuckles a little. “I’m going to assume you think I’m gay because I’m so well dressed and charming.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “No.”

  “No, you’re not gay, or no, you didn’t answer the question?”

  “No, I’m not gay,” he tells me, then bends down and disappears behind the bar. “Why? Are you?”

  “I wish!” I blurt out. “So can you find anything back there?”

  Giovanni pops back up. “Absolutely. You have great taste in glassware.” He holds up one of our narrower stemmed glasses. “And this one is made for Orvieto.” Giovanni walks back to my table
, places the glass in front of me, and pours a small amount of the wine into the glass.

  Then he waits.

  Oh. That’s my cue.

  Okay, I’ve been a customer at enough wine bars to be able to pull this off, I tell myself. I place my index and middle fingers under the bowl of the glass and swirl the wine a bit. Then I raise the glass and stick my nose into it.

  I inhale deeply, and fall in love immediately. The wine smells like a combination of apricots and peaches. I could put whipped cream on this thing and call it dessert. (I could also put whipped cream on … never mind. Nat. He’s for Nat.)

  I take a sip, expecting it to be too sweet for my taste. But, contrary to what I thought it would taste like, it’s not cloying, but instead tastes clean and crisp.

  “That’s … really fantastic,” I say, not bothering to hide my surprise. I put out my glass. “Can I have more?”

  “Of course,” he says, filling my glass halfway. “Now, the trick with this wine is never overpour. You need to give it lots of room in the glass to bring out its fragrance.”

  What I want to say is, “Hey, what are you leaving room for? Cream and sugar?” because it’s so good, I want more. But instead I ask, “Aren’t you having any?”

  “No. I have to drive. Plus I have two more calls today. I only enjoy wine in the evenings.”

  “Would you like to enjoy some wine this Thursday?” I ask abruptly (not to mention rather clumsily). Before Giovanni can answer, I quickly add, “That’s our opening night. Lots of beautiful single women will be here, and you could enjoy an Orvieto with one of them.”

  My mind wants to take half a second to try and read his reaction to my invitation, but my mouth refuses to stop talking. “Or we could serve your favorite wine, and you could have that on Thursday. What’s your favorite wine?”

  Giovanni thinks for a moment. “I’ve recently grown fond of our Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.”

  “Great. We’ll take six cases of that.”

  He seems almost startled. “Don’t you want to sample it first?”

  “Great idea!” I agree, hitting the table twice. “Set me up!”

  What am I saying? Who is this girl?

  “Okay, then,” Giovanni says, clearly pleased as he pulls a red from his wine suitcase. He fetches a wider wineglass from the bar. “Now you’ll want to let this one breathe for a bit…”

  I hear our back door open and Nat yell out, “I managed to track down a stud finder at the hardware store! Wouldn’t it be great if they sold those in real life? Go to the grocery store and tell it, ‘I’d like a young Stephen Colbert type … and the stud finder could beep beep beep until, ‘Oh there he is. In the frozen foods section.’”

  I jump up from the table and tell Giovanni, “That’s Nat. You have got to meet her. You are going to love her. And if you stay for the next hour and pour us tasters, we’ll take six cases of everything.”

  As I quickly trot over to the storage room in the back, I hear Giovanni say, “That’s fantastic. What should I pour after the Montepulciano?”

  “Whatever else you plan to drink this Thursday,” I yell over my shoulder to him as I enter the storage room and quickly slam the door.

  “I’m your stud finder!” I exclaim proudly (yet very quietly) to Nat once the door is closed. “And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m thinking you’d make an amazing October bride and … Oh, Jesus. What are you wearing?”

  Nat is wearing old stretched-out, elephant-gray yoga pants, a ripped battleship gray T-shirt, and—the pièce de résistance—a scrunchy. She turns to me. “Well, since I was heading out to the hardware store, naturally I spent quite a while debating between the Prada and the Gucci. You should see my room—clothes all over my bed.”

  I race up to her, so we can whisper. “Do you want to change and come back?” I suggest. “Maybe put on that purple dress that shows off your boobs.”

  “You’re all flushed,” Nat tells me as she puts her hand on my cheek. “I hope you’re not coming down with anything.”

  “Just a case of matchmakeritis. I have the perfect guy for you. He’s single, well traveled, drives a Porsche, and knows a ton about wine. Go home and change. Maybe pair your red mini with a kicky top.”

  “‘Kicky’?” Nat repeats, furrowing her brow. “How much wine have you had? Anyway, I’m not changing for some guy I’ve never met. Particularly not some douchebag who drives a Porsche.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot Prick with a c rides his bike to work,” I pipe back sarcastically. “I’m telling you, this is the most amazing man I’ve met in years. And he’s so cute, there should be a Disney prince modeled after him.”

  She gives me a dubious look. “You and I really don’t pick the same…”

  “He’s so good-looking, he could be a pharmaceutical rep,” I continue.

  “I’m sure he’s very nice looking. But I’m just getting over Marc and…”

  “He’s so cute, he served me an Orvieto. And I drank it.”

  “Plus I…” Nat stops, turns her head slightly to the right, then narrows her eyes into a squint. “Wait. You drank white wine?” she asks. “You?”

  My eyes light up, and I grin as I nod vigorously.

  “And a wine that doesn’t come from California?” she asks dubiously.

  “Yes. And I liked it so much, I bought six cases. Apparently, it comes from Italy.”

  “I know where Orvieto comes from,” Nat assures me testily. “Okay, I gotta see this guy.” She creeps over to the door, opens it ever so slightly, and peeks through. I can’t help myself—I tiptoe next to her to take another look. So, so pretty …

  Nat closes the door gently. “He certainly is very good-looking,” she concedes. “But, wait, if he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?”

  “I have Kevin,” I point out, taking offense.

  Nat shrugs a bit like she’s not convinced.

  “Oh, for God’s sake! We’re practically engaged,” I say as I yank the scrunchy out of her hair and fluff up her roots with my fingertips. “Now go! Let me live vicariously!”

  I yank open the door, put my hand on the small of Nat’s back, and shove her out to meet the father of her future children. “Giovanni, this is Natasha. And she would love to try your Orvieto!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  NAT

  Jessie shoves me forward into the room so fiercely that I stumble and have to regain my balance. I then hear her slam the door shut to give us our privacy.

  Subtle.

  I know this dude Giovanni saw her do that. But clearly he’s trying to make a big sale, so he’ll pretend he didn’t. “Hi,” I say awkwardly, forcing a smile. “I’m Nat. And I’ll be the one thrust upon you this afternoon.”

  “Giovanni,” he reciprocates, smiling. “So is there a wine I can interest you in?”

  “I believe Jessie would like me to try your Orvieto,” I say, trying to couch my embarrassment as I walk up to him.

  “Yes. I find her enthusiasm quite refreshing,” he says, pulling out a chair for me at the center table, which is now filled with six wines, each in appropriately shaped glassware.

  As I take the seat and allow him to push my chair in, I realize this is sooooo not going to work. I’ll admit: The guy is very, very cute. Like so much so, you expect a film crew to pop out of nowhere and say, “Surprise! You’re on that NBC show where we secretly record single women to see how they’ll react when we put a former prom king right in front of them.”

  The prom king looks make me uneasy, and not in the fun way. Too handsome. Notices-the-mirror-before-I-do handsome. Does-yoga handsome. Tries-too-hard handsome.

  So I decide to get that exquisite elephant out of the room. “You know, if you had longer hair, you could be on the cover of a romance novel.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t been?” he asks, deadpan, as he makes his way to his side of the table.

  “Really?” I ask, a bit intrigued.

  Giovanni smiles. “No. I just didn’
t know what to say to that. It’s like you’re passively-aggressively complimenting me.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. I was totally passive-aggressively complimenting you. I’ll try to control myself.”

  “Most women have to around me,” he says, opening his mouth and rolling his eyes to show me he’s just joking. “So, Natasha, which wine can I tell you about first? The Orvieto is the first glass on your left…”

  “I’m actually more in a red mood, if that’s okay. What are in glasses four, five, and six?”

  “Those are a flight of Brunello di Montalcino. I have a couple of good years here. Perfect with a rare steak and a gratin dauphinois.”

  “You’d mix a French potato dish with an Italian wine?” I ask him haughtily.

  Back off, Nat. The guy’s just doing his job. No need to pick a fight.

  Giovanni puckers his lips as though debating his answer. Finally, he gives me an almost wicked smile. “See, I believe it’s important to mix things up when you can. Indulge in a little bit of everything. And, like the contrast of a French cheese with an American potato, American beef, and an Italian wine can be just as intriguing as an exquisitely beautiful woman clothed”—he eyes me lasciviously, despite the sweats—“in a deceptively casual ensemble.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sorry, do you write romance novels in your spare time? Who talks like that?”

  “Oooo … she doesn’t like the compliment,” he pretends to say to himself. “I made her uncomfortable.” Then to me, “Try glass number four. It’s been aged five years.”

  I take a sip. Much like him, it is smooth, gorgeous, and I could roll my tongue around it for a while. “That would actually be very tasty with a medium-rare filet,” I concede.

  “See, I’d have pegged you for a rare girl,” he jokes.

  “Oh, I’m a rare girl indeed,” I counter effortlessly.

  “And your tastes lean more toward filet mignon than rib eye?”

  “Actually, I’m more of a Chateaubriand for two, for one, kinda gal,” I say, playing along. “But a perfectly cooked rib eye can make me happy.”