In Vino Verisimilitude

“Savannah !” I called as I saw her enter the patio from the street. I made an effort to say her name in the perfect timbre; happy recognition, a little bit excited, but not overly so. I recognized her from the dress. She’d said she would be wearing a summer dress with big red flowers on a black background. She also wore a floppy brimmed summer hat with a ribbon that matched her dress. I couldn’t immediately make her out from pure facial recognition because of the hat, but i couldn’t miss her chosen semiotic; dark and exotic. For a moment I worried that the hat might conceal that she was much older than her profile pictures, a common sleight in modern romance known as 'catfishing'. But when she was closer I saw that she more than did her pix justice. And I liked that she had dressed up. The beauty of going around a second time in your forties is that you know what you like. I myself had spent hours considering the raw silk trousers, pale blue linen shirt, and brown suede driving loafers I wore. I had agonized about a sport jacket, but finally decided against it because of the heat. It might be too much and I might sweat too much.

I stood up and cranked my smile wattage up. As she approached I held my hands up at about waist level, palms up as I’d read this was the least threatening way to meet someone for real the first time after virtual exchanges. I would try to determine from her body language at close range if this was a hug or a handshake deal.

“Myles,” she said “So enchanting to finally meet you…for real.”

She held out her hand, almost horizontally and I wondered for a moment if I should kiss it. Thankfully a quick judgement told me doing that would just be weird. I took her hand in both of mine and didn’t shake it, but held it momentarily and bowed my head slightly. I wondered if I should step behind her and pull out her chair for her, but decided that too might be too much archaic chivalry. She was dressed for a garden party, but on my own part I wanted to make sure I wasn’t too much. I knew that about myself; sometimes I’m just too much. She pulled out her own chair without any indications it was a problem, and sat down.

I let go with my practiced line: “What a perfect day. The sunshine, and now I’m having dinner with the most beautiful woman in the place !”

Savannah pulled down her PerSols and looked around coquettishly as if to judge whether I was sincere or merely slightly hyperbolic. It was also my first glimpse of her eyes, live.

“Why thank you, Sir.” She said affecting momentarily a Southern accent. We had exchanged emails, texts and a few charming but awkward calls prior to this date. Our profiles had been matched up on one of the better apps. The one that actually required you to complete an extensive survey about what you believed, liked and disliked before it matched you up. It allowed you to upload pictures too, but these weren’t supposed to be something that potential matches looked at before deciding which way to swipe. The pix would only be shown to people that the algorithm had determined were a potential suitable match. This didn’t feel cheap at all, and it had been set up by an exclusive app boasting a high success rate in successful matches.

I passed her one of the menus our server had left when I’d been seated at the hour of the reservation. Savannah had been a decent fifteen minutes late. I had ordered a bourbon and bitters on ice to start. I figured we would decide on wine when she arrived. I certainly did not want to seem presumptuous.

“Would you care for a cocktail, or might I order something from the wine list ?”

I knew that as a generously tipping regular in this place I’d receive excellent service. I also knew my way around the wine list. Savannah and I had agreed over the phone that we were sympatico enough to get together for dinner, and not just a tentative coffee or cocktail as was often the case when you met through an app. Sometimes everything was right except for the chemistry. And you couldn’t know that over texts or even over the phone. We deliberately decided to forego video chats. When we’d meet, it would be for real. Video stuff would always be there. But both of us knew from experience that sometimes when you got together in what’s crudely referred to in ‘meatspace”, sometimes it just didn’t feel right. Maybe it was a stray antithetical pheromone or some detail of personal grooming that just sent things sideways. But since I had seen Savannah walk through the patio gates in her summer dress and floppy hat, I was pretty much hooked.

“I think I’ll just start with a glass of merlot,” Savannah said.

Merlot.

I relaxed back into my seat in an attempt to non verbally emanate self confidence: “You know Savannah. I actually love this place. I’m here fairly often and I wanted everything to be just right when I got together with you. There is a spectacular Malbec on the list here. If you will allow me, I would love to share a bottle of it with you…”

She smiled at me: “Aww. That’s so sweet Myles. It’s a lovely place. I love it. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be fine with a glass of merlot. I checked it out online. They have that temperature controlled bottle dispensers that pump nitrogen into the bottles so every glass is perfect. And they have like four nice merlots. You choose one for me.”

Now it was my turn to smile. She had revealed something of herself. She was meticulous. She had checked out the restaurant to which I had invited her. I imagined what between the lines information she might have gleaned from this research: I was not cheap; the wine list was extensive by the bottle or glass; the place was a celebrity magnet during the film festival. But perhaps I had overshot the mark by suggesting a bottle. From our conversations I had not really gauged what her drinking tolerance was. Perhaps suggesting a bottle was…too much, especially while I still nursed a bourbon. I reviewed the wine list again to see what was served by the glass.

“Ah, alright. I see a spectacular Amarone here. May I order a glass of that for you. I assure you that it will not be disappointing.”

“Well Myles, I am sure if you recommend it, I would not be disappointing. But I’ll have a glass of merlot. I note that on the back of the list you’re holding that they sell Castellare by the glass. Be a darling and get me one.”

I smiled. I just learned so much. Her powers of observation were spectacular. She knew what she liked. She stood her ground. She could read upside down. But did she know why she liked what she liked. We seemed to have been perfectly matched by the app in every way, social views, economics, personal hygiene, literature (although I found she was overly critical of sexism of the earlier Phillip Roth), including a knowledge of wines. But Merlot…

“You know,” I said starting slowly. “Merlot became incredibly popular a few years back. When people started appreciating decent wine, there was hard shift to Merlot, because it had a nice name and was easy to drink. But Merlot is mostly just a simple and resoundingly uncomplex little something that you mix with other varietals to settle them. It is the other grapes that give Merlot any character. Merlot on it’s own is just plummy and sweet. It ripens early so a lot of producers like it. But we can do much better for you than Merlot.”

She pulled down her sunglasses again. But this time it wasn’t good. I think the gesture signified; ‘are you for real’. She was smiling but there was some other expression developing too. I didn’t know her so couldn’t fathom it.

“Myles,” she said. “You either order me the glass of Castellare, or I get up right now, and walk out of this restaurant.” Hmmm. Merlot means Merlot. I respect that.

“Uh….OK. You feel pretty strong about the Merlot…”

“Well Myles, at this point it may not be about the Merlot anymore. Maybe it’s that we’ve just met and you’re so dead set at changing my mind about something that shouldn’t matter at all. I can’t but read that as some kind of character flaw. Why can’t I just have a glass of Merlot ?”

I swallowed. She had called me on latent wine chauvinism and denying it would only make it worse. Savannah was beautiful. She liked French food, was just progressive enough in her political leanings, didn’t mind pornography if it reflected equitable and realistic sexual practice, and matched up with me like 80% the Likert scale. Despite my passionate feelings regarding Merlot, I really didn’t want to blow this date. I summoned our server.

“Hi. I’m Tamara. What can I get for you ?”

“One glass of the Castellare, and a bottle of Cornas Syrah.”

“Certainly Sir.” Said Tamara and went to get our wine.

“Do you always drink a bottle of wine on the first date ?”

I laughed: “Well, I was hoping you might help me with it when you are finished your glass of Merlot.”

“Ah.” Said Savannah. “So tell me. How did you develop your antipathy to Merlot ? Did you feel an affinity for the anxiety guy in Sideways ? He freaked out about Merlot too.”

I laughed again: “Please Savannah. I would hardly characterize my trying to redirect you to wine with more depth as a ‘freak out’. And yes I saw the movie, but can’t quite remember that scene.”

She smiled. “So you’re going to drink a botte while I drink a glass ?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“What if I want another glass ?”

“You can have it. And another. Against advice. Feel free to share a glass of the Cornas.”

She smiled at me again. “I am glad how we settled that argument. But what do I make about our first words pretty much being an argument about wine ?”

“Well,” I said “I like wine and not really by the glass. My thing is actually splitting a bottle with a friend. Nothting better. Can’t drink Merlot though. Bit simplistic and sweet for me. And please believe me this is just about wine and not some kind of Freudian date code.”

“Got it,” she said. The wine had come and we’d both had a sip and a draught.

“But I’m happy this is resolved, and you’re happy. People do argue about way crazier sh… stuff than wine.”

“For sure,” she’d been offered a choice of nine or a five ounce and coquettishly ordered the five, and it was pretty much gone. “But what should I think of someone who drinks so liberally on the first date ?”

“I’d say at most we will drink two bottles of wine. I’ll even help you finish the Merlot if it comes to that. With dinner of course,” I watched her closely to try and figure out when I was overdoing it. I was trying really hard not to be too much. She lowered the PerSols again. “And I assure you I am and shall remain a gentleman regardless of how much wine I drink,” I added.

She took off her sunglasses and put them on the table. She held her near empty glass slightly up and tipped it forward into the line of sight of a passing staff person.

“May I say that I love your dress and hat. Summer noir romantic. Like something Barbara Stanwyck could've worn…”

The server nodded back in acknowledgment. Shortly another glass would be making its way to her, so Savannah returned her attention to me.

"Barbara Stanwyck ? Have you seen any films made less than like, a hundred years ago ?"