Much like Jesus, wine is in my blood

Once a month my mom gets together with a group of her girly friends to drink wine and eat dinner. Each month, there is a different wine theme, and a different member of the group has everyone else over. This month, the theme was Pinot Grigio (“one of my least favorites,” my brother said, to which my dad exhaled audibly through his nose as he nodded his head back in accordance). My mom was excited that this wasn’t her month to host the dinner at our house because this meant she had few responsibilities. In addition, she had a friend pick her up to take her to the dinner, leaving her with even fewer responsibilities.

Mom’s absence prompted a relatively unusual group to be left dinnerless at our house: my brother (Ryan), his fiancé (Ali), my dad, and myself. Not having planned some overly elaborate dinner (i.e., like he usually would), my dad thought we could have a fun little trip into town for dinner. We would even be bold (in a Dr. Steers sort of way) and not even decide which restaurant we were heading to until we were in town. All of the suspense and excitement made perspiration spring from my forehead as we intrepidly pile into the car and set off down the road.

When we are only a few minutes from downtown, the discussion about where we should have dinner begins.

“How about C&O? They have one of the best American wine menus in central Virginia,” my dad suggests.

“Or even better, what about La Boheme? Their French wine selection is the best in Charlottesville,” he tops himself.

“Let’s just go to Tastings,” he finally decides out loud. Tastings is his favorite wine shop in town, they also happen to have a small kitchen and dining area. “The food is overpriced, but there’s only a $5 corking fee on each wine, so you practically save money on the meal,” he reasons.

My dad presses the accelerator hard to jump in front of a car right before a red light. The light eventually turns green but we have to wait for the left arrow. I feel bad for the people behind us we just passed.

“Wait, no, Italian,” dad turns suddenly in the opposite direction into a tiny parking lot and finds a space.

I’ve never been to this restaurant before. The little space it’s in used to be a really good Italian place but the owner sold it before she moved back to Italy. My dad tells us that the food is just as good as the former residence, but more importantly, the wine list is just as good. “The best Italian wine list in Charlottesville,” he assures us. My brother grins, Ali grins because Ryan is grinning, and I shove my hands into my pockets. It kinda sucks being 20 in a family that loves wine so much. I think about what my dad would do to me if he knew that during Spring term alone I had at least 4 bottles of wine to myself, 1 per sitting, the total cost of which couldn't have topped $45, with no fancy stemware.

We’re the only ones in the joint. It’s about 7:45. The interior decorations look almost identical to the previous restaurant that occupied the space. The guy who seats us looks like he’s the manager: young, well groomed, nice clothes, but not nice enough to make any of us seem underdressed.

“All right, and here’s the list of wines by the glass, and here’s the list of our bottles,” he sets two menus in front of us. My dad reaches immediately across me to get the list of bottles. My brother nods slowly in approval.

There is a brief discussion about which items on the menu every person (except me) is considering. My dad would probably die from embarrassment if he mismatched the wine with anyone’s meal. It becomes clear that some kind of red will do (my words, not his; the words he uses to refer to wine are fancy). He orders a bottle.

“We’ll have the [something I can’t remember],” he says. The young manager perks up. He seems to know a little about wine. He’s had this one before.

“Ah yes,” he says, “a very nice red, it has fruity flavor.”

Oh boy, my dad gets excited. They’re talking wine.

“Yeah, the tannins aren’t as strong on this as the previous year. This grape really picks up the pear flavor from the orchards in the region. The volcanic soil leads to a very unique taste that this winemaker’s other vineyards don’t have,” he gushes, probably way more pretentious sounding than I got across in writing.

The conversation is stolen from the manager, his wine knowledge clearly trumped. He’s already made the sale and there’s no way he can push my dad towards a more expensive bottle (which, for realz, lots of waiters do). His face reads, “this guy knows his shit.” Manager guy leaves.

“You know, two columns in our cellar are from this vineyard. 1998s. Their best year. They only had the 2001s here, still good though,” he says.

Returning with the bottle of wine and four wine glasses, the manager gives each of us a glass. My dad eyes me. It’s usually not a big deal if I have a glass of wine or something with dinner, in fact, dad is usually happy to bestow upon me his knowledge of wine when I have something to learn from in front of me. Last night, however, I had a glass of wine with dinner, and then when Ryan’s friends came over a little later, I had a glass of some of our homemade wine. After drinking these 2 glasses over 3 hours I was invited out to say goodbye to my best friend from Charlottesville who was leaving the next day and wouldn’t return until 3 days before I head back to Northfield. My mom thought that I had had too much to drink that night and shouldn’t drive because “what if a deer jumps out in front of the car, and you swerve to avoid it, and a cop pulls you over because he saw you swerve, and breathalizes you?” (Note: word for word, that was her reason). I became upset and I have no doubt that my mom talked to my dad, pressuring him to curb the alcoholism of their youngest child.

The manager starts pouring me a glass.

“Only give him a sip,” my dad says. “He’s DD.”

I get a little uncomfortable. I’m carded about 70% of the time I go out to dinner with my family, and this is the first time my dad hasn’t been excited that I was being poured some wine. I don’t actually worry about the consequences of getting caught, because I’m pretty sure the restaurant would be in trouble for serving me alcohol, not me, but I didn’t want this guy to think “oh no, I just served some underage kid.” He looks at my dad before finishing pouring me a medium sized glass.

“You can have more next year,” my dad says, being totally uncool and unsubtle. I glance up at the manager who is now looking at me, but then pours wine for everyone else without saying anything.

Once he leaves, my dad says without being prompted, “you know, I wouldn’t trade your mom for any bottle of wine.”

“What about a lot of bottles of wine?” my brother asks.

“Even then, I wouldn’t trade her in.” He stands firm.

“What if someone offered to trade a couple bottles of wine for Colin?” my brother ventures.

My dad paused for a while and sips his wine.

“I dunno.”