""He's not a nice person, he's a *******," HI is telling me at 9:45 on a Wednesday Jazz Night at Bistrot.

We've just got busy again.  The Italian couple has come upstairs.  Gray and elegant, with spectacles, Mr. Italian Diplomat, who once revealed to me the necessity not for a post-prandial walk but for, rather, a nap, for the good of the heart, comes over to shake my hand in particular.  We share a few quick laughs about the Tour de France.  "The Italian guy didn't win," each word separate just right, from Mr. Diplomat.  We joke of how we all used to smoke here upstairs at the Wine Bar.

And a three top, more traffic, for dessert back in the wine room.  The order is in for food, three entrees, for the band, singer, guitar, bass.  And then a couple comes in, a former semi-regular to the wine tasting, known as a kind of weird sort of taster but never really ordering more than a single glass of wine, with his date.  Not seen them in a  while.  Getting busy, all of a sudden, at the end, when it's been kind of a evenly slow slog all night long.

Busy things to attend to.  We are full still, and added on to, at the bad time of dessert.  The kitchen, a floor below us, reached through passing through the entire length of the main dining room, has gotten sluggish, inconsistently attentive.  They want to clean up and go home.  Water will soon be poured on the tile floor.  HI is busy.  This, that.  Busier with ten minutes to kitchen close.

HI:  You can go wait on cock******.

And a few minutes later.  HI:  "Give them tastings.  Give them 5, 6 tastings.  Give them all they want!" he says, shouts, really, with a raised voice, staring at me, sweaty face, through wire framed glasses, staring at me again.  The boss comes by, hears this, takes a bread basket and olive oil back to the office, a hint of a shrug, but not getting involved, no, not at all.

Gomer, the busboy:  "what's up with HI."  Tone of a statement.  We share a small chuckle.  "Fuck, what did I do?" emphasis on the I, I wink to Gomer, not really wink, but some form of short hand that when you do is just a whole body thing.

Over to table of longtime customer, referred to as c.s. by HI, who has dealt with him in my absence, and reached said conclusion.  "Hey, what's up, what's going on.  Good to see you, my brother.  Yeah, got up to my 25th college reunion, train goes right up there."  I go back to the bar and bring them three tastings, a pinot noir, a Languedoc, and a Bordeaux.  Mr. P is usually a Bordeaux fan.  He probably has something to do with aircraft.  He has a family up outside of NYC.  He is in good shape.  A smart guy.  A guy worth talking to on personal level.  Like mine, his favorite wines are from the Languedoc.

"Meet my friend, Wes.   Ted here, now if you come in 5 months from now, Ted will remember your name and everything about you."

Wes, how you doing, nice to meet you man.  What did you guys do for the Fourth?

"Oh, we had a family reunion, in Chicago, and we had a little pool for the kids.  Hot, it was hot.  60 people by."

HI still fuming, getting worse maybe.  Glass of sauterne, glass of lbv port, out of Jurançon, an Armagnac VSOP.  Coffee, a decaff cappuccino, two espresso.  A bottle of sparkling water.  Clear the appetizer plates on table 54.  Bread for the coming cheese plate on 60 back in the wine room.  All the last customers from the dining room have come upstairs for dessert it seems, at an uneasy time.

The pinot is a hit with Mr. P.  HI looks at me.  The squirrelly cheapo wine taster, HI shouts at me, will have three tastes, one of the Corbieres, one of the Ventoux, and the Malbec.  This too is all my fault.  Ted the Enabler.  Special Treatment.  Give the house away.  They won't even order any wine.  HI is almost about to point at me with his finger, as if to say, 'you, you...' Yup, it's all my fault.  Free wine tasting Ted.

"I can't stand that guy.  Really, he's not a nice person."  I have explained, I think, to HI, that Mr. P's great second cousin made an important astronomical discovery in 1922 from an observatory in New Mexico.

I bring the two glasses of wine over to Wes and Mr. P., who've already had dinner, so we don't have to deal with that, cool.

I ask Mr. P. how the kids?

"They're good."  Mr. P, as calm as could be.  That's all it takes.  About ten words, a question

"Are you watching the Tour?"

Conversation ensues,  a fellow road biker, the history of doping, the joy, the beauty of the sport, and both of us, Mr. P and I, have been back riding again lately.  He on a LeMond, a sweet bike, me, Cannondale or Bianchi depending.

I've come to learn about them over the years, in the absence of a particular waitress with a low voice to match, about the kids, about what they eat, when on vacation, what dad cooks for them.

"We have a neighbor, an older woman who lives by herself, right next door, with a beautiful swimming  pool.  She's invited us over...  once, maybe, in the ten years we've been there.  So every summer, I inflate the little kiddie pool next to our house on her side.  This year it's a dragon, so when I put the hose through the dragon shoots water and the kiddies go nuts.  And I tell them to scream, yell as loud as they can, as we look over the fence at the swimming pool that never gets used."

I smile, and enjoy that.  I get that.  And Mr. P is a good friend, a good heart, once you make the effort to know him.

"That's cool, man," I say, to Mr. P.  And to Wes, I say, "This man knows me better than I know myself."  Smiles all around.  Wine is a great thing to bring people together, if for but a moment.

Happy Fourth of July to everyone.

Disclaimer:  HI, fictionally, completely fictive, is a nice guy.  A dear friend, actually.  A good person, un comrade.