Halfway through my first reading of Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Céline, I was crestfallen to learn that during the Second World War, the French author published a trilogy of pamphlets revealing himself to be a fervent partisan of fascism, a supporter of the German occupation and a rabid anti-Semite.
I rode over to Rotary Park to see the fireworks on Canada Day. It was quite the rager this year as many of you must have witnessed.
At one point, a raggedy skater guy on my left noticed that I was taking pulls out of a bottle of palo cortado and made it known that if I was inclined to share a sip with him, he’d be willing to compensate me to the tune of a cigarette.
There is definitely such a thing as a “Metrovino palate.” That is, a pattern of loose, general preferences amongst Metrovino employees for certain types of wine over others. There are significant variants and exceptions, but one unwavering consistency across the tongues of all 12 of us without compromise is an unyielding, unconditional, insatiable thirst for wines with modest but discernible sweetness. I also notice that any colleague in the wine industry whom I have the slightest semblance of respect for shares this obsession.
As is typical for a wine professional (I trust you can overlook my loose application of this word), I used to play in a punk band. In fact, I still do but at some point living in a van with a bunch of malodorous drunk guys got a bit tiring. It’s been much better for my finances and potential for repose to relegate puerile music to recreational-status, and instead spend the majority of my time in a beautiful shop with well-groomed and less conspicuous dipsomaniacs.
The feeling of invincibility can inspire in one actions almost akin to somebody on the purposeful path of self-destruction. Though the impudent mindset of a person who feels indestructible seems to be the complete opposite of someone acting out of self-loathing or despair, with both dispositions comes an inclination towards forfeiture of personal regard.
This morning at the conclusion of my bike ride, I saw an elderly man walking his inconspicuous-looking dog and for reasons I can’t explain, I was inspired to observe. It struck me that this man probably has a story, perhaps an interesting or even inspiring one, despite the fact that his apathetic face belied this.
One of the most beautiful things about wine is that it can (and should) be representative of its place of origin. The most rewarding wines are bottled stories of a hallowed setting in a particular growing season and the most articulate grapes can reliably communicate subtle variations in soil-type, aspect, altitude and mesoclimate.