Hal and the White Wine Incident

Hal was rooted in the grocery store aisle, considering  his options: Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Viognier. She had insisted — no, she had demanded, imagine that, a demand after only a second date — that he produce a white wine with supper. Berringer’’s Founders Estate ($11 a bottle). A Robert Mondavi Moscato d’Orpo Napa Valley, twenty bucks, described on the label as a lovely, sweet dessert wine with white peach, green apple, and tropical fuit flavors. And here was a 2004 Elkcove Williamette Valley Riesling for seventeen bucks a bottle. He recalled seeing on the cooking channel that Rielsing works well with almost any dish.

The choices went on and on into some kind of white wine infinitum illuminated by the harsh buzzing glare of the halogen tubes concealed behind the ceiling tiles overhead. Were those ceiling tiles made of asbestos? Asbestos causes cancer. He should know. His grandfather died from painful asbestosis, six years after he gave up smoking. Working in Navy shipyards for three decades had done more to his lungs than tobacco ever did.

Hal finally settled on a Sonoma Valley Chardonnay. It was a random selection; he was always being told that he had poor instincts so any choice he made was bound to be wrong anyway.