I wake up, and the thought is, "no, it is not right to portray fictional work scenes..."


The big fellow who helped us do the Languedoc Wines promotion comes up the stairs.  I've already got the Chablis chilled and ready at a greater volume than I will need.  "I'm here to do a wine tasting," he says.  "Oh."  "Yes, Cyrille asked me to come in for two hours..."  Okay, fine.  I run down to the basement, put my thumbprint on the lock to open the wine cave, "the cav," and grab some St. Eugenie  Corbieres Reserve, and a bottle of Minervois, admonished by downstairs coworker, "don't take that, we're serving that by the glass..."  Okay, yeah, just trying to think on my feet, no biggie.


It's fairly smooth, then a familiar face comes up the stairs with a colleague, a tall Belgian man in a crisp suit, she's a Ph.D., some sort of scientist involved in defense stuff, moved to Boston, and finally, after the tastings, confused by the big fellow, who's pouring hearty reds before I can even get over and pour the white, maybe a touch of sparkling flute maison, champagne method chardonnay from Burgundy, when they are finally ready to order a bottle of wine, a Billecarte Salmon Brut Rosé, the system says we have one left, but when I go look for it, all I can come across, in my stress, because I also have the Dutch climate scientist with his elderly wife at a nearby four top, plus people at the bar, regulars, all I see is the dark label regular Brut...  I look through the wine bar cooler, champagnes on the top shelf, can't find it, okay, they'll take the regular Brut...

I've lost time during all this.  People are looking at me as I hustle.  Glassware has piled up on top of the glassware washer machine, cluttering the space by the water cooler.  Downstairs the busses is placidly setting table 14 by the front window, aligning a butter knife with the plate by the folded napkin.  Jeremy notices I'm in the weeds.  "I'll be back," he says.


The night gets longer, the kitchen about to close, and the couple has ordered escargot, then pig's feet, then chicken liver foie gras mousse, then another order of snails, and then another pig's feet, and finally, a cheese plate, and meanwhile, another bottle of the Chablis on special for the Dutch scientist, along with cocktail for the guy of the regular couple and some wine tastes to keep the gal entertained, while I order dinner for them, yes, that's a good thing to get, just the right size, the grilled seafood salad, for him the veal cheeks, bread, butter, check on champagne table, order dessert.


The night is now too long, and I sit down finally, turning my back to the window couple still with plates to nibble on, I eat my mousse de foie gras, without much gusto, a glass of wine on the rocks, and then I take off my tie, change out of my Brooks Brothers work shirt, and take upon myself the project of straightening out the tie situation in the closet, the ties stashed on top of the power amp, getting the iron out.

Finally they are done, and while I wish they would simply disappear back into the night, they are interesting to talk to.  He has a nice early 2000s light orange red sleekly contoured Carrera across the street, and we end up talking about his father's Karmann Ghia that he took to the Central African Republic in the early 60s, had to abandon when Kinshasa went up in flames, leasing an airplane for the last flight out...  His first language was Afrikans, and meanwhile I let her entertain herself by making a cocktail, and that's what she did to get through grad school in Chicago, and I don't even bother to taste the cocktail she has made, with cream, just have a little more wine.


Finally I get out of there, Uber home, forgetting to drop off the rent check like I meant to earlier.

Life is complicated.

The ragweed numbers go back up from moderate to high, and my head is feeling it again.