The Wino
Yes, another story, though not quite so serious this time. This is my attempt at an O’Henry-like twist, and it also seems to take on some of P.G. Wodehouse’s style, which I count as an honor. Enjoy!
Leonard Bricker is a man of discerning taste.
Well, you can’t really say something like that anymore, can you? That particular turn of phrase, “man of discerning taste,” has become so overused as to be utterly useless in speech and literature. Such a clichéd compliment is tossed about like beads at a Mardi Gras parade, and with about as much regard for class or deservedness. Nowadays any man could be said to have discerning taste who chooses quiche over a meatball sandwich, or any woman who buys a brand name perfume instead of the stuff in the checkout aisles of the supermarket. No, it won’t do at all. So instead we must draw Mr. Bricker in a more verbose though ultimately more meaningful light.
Picture if you would a fine, though small dinner table cast in the pink-purple glow of early evening, adorned between meals with a shimmering red silk cloth (situated, in the fashion, at an angle, so that the corners of the rare fabric intersect the sides of the fine table) and a single silver candlestick holder engraved with Latin adages sure to impress all those who gazed upon it dumbfoundedly. On any given day at this particular time and place you may find Mr. Bricker sitting so that he may face a portrait of his lost wife directly, with the setting sun on his left and the interior of his dining room on the right. Before him, you must imagine, are these: one bottle of wine, usually a deep red (he could be pressed to the light reds if the circumstances especially called for it, though whites must be more or less forced on him by those with means to do so); one crystal wine glass; one chilled glass of purified spring water; one sliced and lightly vinegared cucumber (both this and the water are present only to cleanse the pallet of Mr. Bricker between sips); and a plate bearing assorted cheeses. The wines and cheeses of course vary, but for the purposes of our description we shall presume that Mr. Bricker has sat down to a full bodied red wine (since this is most often the case), and, since later in the story he is found reading a book on such, the cheeses are made up of selections from southern France.
The ceremony then proceeds thusly. First Mr. Bricker takes a slice of cucumber and places it on his tongue for no less than fifteen seconds. After consuming the cucumber is immediately followed by a large drink of water, which is swished about vigorously around his gums and under his tongue before swallowing. His orifice now pure of any biased taste, he turns his attention to the unopened bottle of wine. Like a true gentleman he begins with the back label, reading over the winery’s own handcrafted notes as he makes his own in a small steno pad (My God I forgot the steno pad! I knew that I would. My apologies, I am not quite so thoughtful as our Mr. Bricker). Next, coming ever closer to the inevitable climax of actually drinking wine, the bottle is expertly uncorked (at this point I must admit another folly for I know not whether Mr. Bricker uses the old fashioned cork screw… it makes no difference to me, but we can be sure it does to him). He presses the fresh cork to his nose, inhaling deeply as his head tilts back in solemn rapture. He then passes the cork back and forth below his nose, sending out waves of that bitter grape incense like an aromatic Doppler effect as he breathes in once more. When his olfactory has been duly satisfied, he deigns to give his taste buds a turn. At first, a small splash is poured into the virgin wine glass, reaching precisely the height of a third of Mr. Bricker’s pinky finger. If the wine requires decanting, as most of the best wines do, Mr. Bricker will then sit until the alloted time has been met, partaking of neither the cheese nor the cucumber, but occasionally an ounce of water. When finally the time is right Mr. Bricker cups the glass in his right hand (a glass of red wine must be cupped to keep it warm, or so Mr. Bricker has informed me on occasion) and swishes it thrice. He then makes further notes in his steno pad on matters such as tannins, opacity and so forth. And just when any onlooker would be on the edge his seat in anxious anticipation, Mr. Bricker takes the glass to his nose, and inhales yet again, mocking our suspense. Then, at long last, when all trials have been met and all obstacles crossed, Mr. Bricker takes a sip of his wine. As with the water, the wine is deftly moved about his mouth, covering every bump over the landscape of his tongue, until every possible taste has been accounted for, and every ingredient has been identified. And if the wine cascading through his mouth can then be deemed worthy of Mr. Bricker, if through every step he has been pleased and his ritual has not been in vain, Mr. Bricker will swallow.
If you have not already guessed, Leonard Bricker earns his living as a wine critic, and he writes a weekly column for a New York newspaper I have not been released to advertise. A consistent man, Mr. Bricker’s discerning manner follows him into other areas of his life, such as friendships, of which he has few. There is in fact only one man whom our hero considers a true friend, a fellow critic and rival, Marlon Horowitz. Mr. Horowitz is Mr. Bricker’s west coast doppleganger, critiquing wines in San Francisco. The two have never met, but instead write the occasional letter to one another, and at times each man will refer to the other in one of his columns with a soft poke or a light sarcasm, denouncing a recent review as an empty promotion, or calling the other a competitor’s patsy for underrating a perfectly good wine. The two got along splendidly on paper, and given Mr. Bricker’s penchant for the finicky, it would seem best that it stay that way.
But it was not a week ago that Mr. Bricker received a letter from Mr. Horowitz revealing the details of his upcoming sojourn in New York City, along with his promise to bring two bottles of Chateaus Briane, the most elusive and highly valued wine in Europe (it should be noted here that Mr. Horowitz’s position as wine critic was merely hobby, for he was by birth among the richest men in California). The letter continued:
“I am staying at the Peabody Hotel and will expect you to call on me there. On the third day I will be freed of my duties before my flight home, and will wait for you outside the hostelry. If by four o’clock you have not appeared, I will be forced, or rather, I will have the pleasure of finishing the above prized elixir myself, with no regard to patience or company.”
Mr. Bricker was struck with an unusual excitement, for which he could not decide to thank the final meeting of his most cherished friend of nearly a decade, or the chance to taste what was said to be the most exquisite wine ever poured among mortals. But despite his enthusiasm, fortune’s wheel spun against him, and it was not until the final day that his social chains were broken and a cab left him at the steps of the Peabody Hotel. A half hour early, he left his name with the front desk and returned outside to a bench situated nicely before the warm sun and took out his book on the cheeses of Southern France.
As he began chapter seven on the Pélardon of Languedoc-Roussillon, a wild-haired hobo, brown bag in hand, walked up from the street and plopped down on the right side of Mr. Bricker’s bench. His clothing, while not dirty, was blatantly ragged and worn, and his breath reeked heavily of the berry Mr. Bricker based his life around. Instinctively withdrawn, Mr. Bricker turned away in his seat and attempted to bunch himself up, in hopes that if he took up less space the wino would leave him be. But Mr. Bricker, of course, had no such luck.
“You wanna swigga dis?” The brown bag was thrust in front of his face. Mr. Bricker turned sharper still and pulled his crossed leg closer to his chest.
“I asked if you wanted some?” The voice was rough and demanding, and intimidated Mr. Bricker. But the last thing he would do was stain his lips on some liquor store special just before partaking of the Chateaus Briane.
He tried to sound firm when he said, “No, thank you, I am waiting for someone.”
“Well, so am I. And ‘des a lady over dere and I bet she’s a waitin’ for someone, too. What difference does it make? Have a taste!” Mr. Bricker checked his watch: 3:50. He looked around for any well dressed men going in or out of the hotel, but no one met his line of sight besides the aggressive bum.
“Sir, please, either be on your way or leave me alone.”
“What? You ‘tink you’re too good for ‘dis? Trust me, nobody’s too good for ‘dis!” As you may guess, Mr. Bricker is easily annoyed under even the best of circumstances. And now, waiting for what was sure to be one of the best experiences of his life, he was infuriated to have it so callously marred by a street vagrant forcing some wine unfit for cooking in his face. But he temporarily took the high road and simply tried to ignore the man a few minutes more until Mr. Horowitz arrived. Upon completing his chapter he glanced at his watch again: 4:15. Already in his mind he prepared harsh words for Mr. Horowitz, whose tardiness left him prey to such harassing circumstances. As he tossed around favored expletives in his head, the hobo attacked again.
“Alright, jus’ two good sips left. ‘Dis is your last chance.” And again the bottle was thrust near his face. His ears began to blush with rage.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Look,” the hobo insisted, “the guy I’m waitin’ for obviously ain’t coming, and I’ve had plenty for meself, so take the rest and be happy for it. You’ll ‘tank me, it’s good wine.” Mr. Bricker had had enough, and uncharacteristically burst from his seat and railed on the poor man.
“You listen to me! I decide what’s good wine in this city, and a glass of what I had with dinner last night cost most than a man like you could hope to make in a year! I am waiting for a friend with a plane to catch and the best wine yet barreled to share with me, so there is no way on this earth that I’m going to put that stale vinegar you call ‘good wine’ anywhere near my mouth. Now either leave me be or I will summon the police!”
The hobo eyed him sharply, but didn’t speak. He held out the bottle to his side and poured the remainder on the grass, letting the bottle drop to the ground after it. From somewhere beside or behind him he pulled out a suitcase Mr. Bricker had not seen before, and walked to the street. A moment later he was in a cab and gone. Flustered but relieved, Mr. Bricker righted himself and made his way inside to question the desk manager on Mr. Horowitz’s disappearance.
The brunette behind the counter replied with a look of embarrassed horror.
“Mr. Bricker, I’m so sorry, he checked out just a few minutes ago. He’s so scary to talk to, I forgot all about giving him your name. You must have seen him go out… I couldn’t remember anything with him here, he acts like a crazy person! Oh please, Mr. Bricker, I’m so sorry!”
Mr. Bricker left stupefied and enraged. That hobo had tied him up so well that Horowitz had passed by and he never caught a glimpse of him. And the wine! When would he ever get another opportunity to taste such wine! He sat back down on the bench outside and sighed at his loss. He saw the discarded brown bag and picked it up, ready to smash it over the sidewalk and vent his frustration. But Leonard Bricker was a proper man, and would do no such thing. Instead he stood and took slow, scuffing steps towards the nearest trash can. Then, perhaps out of habit, or perhaps to satisfy his scorn for the intrusive hobo, he slid the bottle from its brown bag and read the label: Chateaus Briane, 1967.