in San Francisco, at Monk’s Kettle, a beer haven recommended to me by a fellow sommelier. My problem with wine right now (besides the obvious competition tomorrow) is that I’d rather drink beer.
It’s been a major cram session, I have to say, and right now, I don’t feel like I could tell you the red grape of Chinon, if I had to. All right, it’s Cabernet Franc (just to make me feel good about myself), but the truth is, the only thing I’m sure of is that I am completely ready for tomorrow’s testing to be finished.
Villages that may add their names to Roussette de Bugey. The subzones of Ribera del Guijana. In what year was the first estate bottled Chateauneuf du Pape produced?
Can you say “Who gives a cork?”
I can. And I’m pretty sure the other nine competitors feel the same way.
Here’s the thing. If I win, nothing changes. If I lose, nothing changes. So, why am I stressing myself into a total wine oblivion? Why do I have an ulcer on the right side of my lip?
I guess it’s the nature of the beast. You work hard, you want to win. But the fact of the matter is, I still wine. I still wine no matter what. That’s my job. That’s my love. That’s my life.
It doesn’t matter if I come in dead last tomorrow. Nobody can take my wine away. No one can take my passion for grape juice from me. I love the nectar. I know the vino. I drink the juice.
So what’s the big deal? I’m going to have another beer, and be done with all this ‘wine’ing.