Do I Spit …..

 

Jenna Jameson was proud of David's progress.

 

If you’ve stumbled on this post hoping to read some erotic story, I am sorry to disappoint you. This post is about the awkwardness of spitting wine at wine tastings. Although there are a lot of parallels to the dilemma many couples are faced with behind closed bedroom doors (or for the more adventurous ones of you, behind your favourite bush, and not George W.), so there may in fact be a possibility of arousal.

The reason for spitting (we’re on wine now) at tastings is due to the sheer number of samples one would be tasting, and swallowing would impair you judgement of later samples. As a result, there are spittoons located everywhere for the so-called “experts” to utilise, however there are several reasons why I don’t spit.

After You…

Spittoons are  much like the version of watering holes. People congregate around them fighting for the right of way to “release” their wine. So the technique of spitting, is to take a large swigful of the wine, and swirl it around your mouth exciting all the sensory receptors in you mouth as well as naturally airing the liquid to bring out flavours. After 15 seconds or so, you spit. This means when the wine is to be spat, there is often a tussle for the spittoon, without getting the giggles and discharging prematurely down some poor woman’s back (we’ve all been there).

You’ve finally made it to the Holy Grail, and you’re faced with a good-looking blonde in the same position. Being a gentleman, you want to say “Ladies first!” but you have a mouthful of red. So you both stare at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move, only for that never to happen. So, after an awkwardly long time, the ethanol in the wine is beginning to burn the inside of your mouth, and you decide to throw manners out the window and begin to lean over the spittoon, only to see that she has decided exactly the same. And before you can stop yourself you have deposited in her beautifully dyed hair.

Technique

These days the Wine Trade is flooded with characters whom have become so-called experts overnight and the sad thing is that

No one was impressed with my premature discharge

 

 some of these turn their noses up to amateurs like me trying to learn way. These people are generally the ones who pride themselves on their spitting technique. The really gifted ones stand a good meter or two away from the spittoon and release a beautiful arch of wine from their lips to the centre of the spittoon (see picture above). Then you get me. I have to bury my face deep into the spittoon and spit the wine out, much like a geyser (see picture right), rather than a Las Vegan fountain. This has two pretty horrendous outcomes, firstly, spray back all over my white shirt and secondly the winemaker sees me as an amateur and will ignore me for the Tescos winebuyer standing five people back.

These are just two reasons why I don’t spit. I am sure, if any wine “expert” reads this post, they will not be impressed and I will be giving the Trade a bad name. So what?! I enjoy wine, and I’m going to appreciate it to its fullest, and if this means avoiding social faux pas’, then tough!

Life is just not Fair

A month or so after entering the Trade, and the largest annual event was coming to town, The London Wine Fair. Now for those of you that have never been…..it’s Massive!! Tables full of bottles for as far as you can see, with wine from all over the globe. Many from new winemakers, whom are desperate to find an importer into the UK market. For me, it was purely an exercise to experience new aromas and familiarise myself with all the different varieties. Obviously!!

I was accompanied to the event by a friend Ed Burnett, who was at the time an influential seller of Charles Taylor Wines. As a result I spent most of the morning hiding behind him like a little boy. However after visiting several of the Argentinian tables, dutch courage kicked in (I wasn’t really spitting for reasons I’ll explain in a later post).

I began to wonder off, like a bird fleeing the nest for the first time. Finally, I found an empty table and was engrossed in conversation for about fifteen minutes with a Portuguese winemaker. His wines were pretty good, and I was just so excited to be holding my own. The chat was flowing, and we were laughing at each others jokes whilst I complimenting his wines, he was complimenting me on my “shop assistant” role in my shop (it was written on my name badge). It was a kind of business flirting.

Ed suddenly appeared and before he had introduced himself, he had a half glass and the winemaker’s complete attention. And before I could say “Ed, back off! I saw him first!” The pair of them were swapping business cards. For a split second, I felt like the ugly friend. Then realisation hit, it’s all about who you are and who you know. I lacked on both!

Although I did manage to get one business card from a German winemaker, called Mr Kuntz….so I was happy.

To Burgundy or not to Bourgogne, that is the question?

You always learn form your mistakes, and I will definitely will never be making this one again. On my second ever shift, a customer saunted into the shop. He was middle aged man, oozing confidence and style. I turned round to find Samuel to get excited about selling a bottle of wine, and hopefully a fine one at that….but he was nowhere to be seen. Panic set it, and I was just living on the hope that the Pierce Brosnan will know exactly what he wants and pay and leave.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me out?”

Bollocks.

“Err, yes certainly…” I whimpered

“My wife is rustling up a Garbure this evening, and I was wonder what you’d recommend?”

Not to sound uneducated, I went along with it; but all that was running through my mind was, what the Chuck Norris was “Garbure.” (A thick French soup with bacon and cabbage wouldn’t be in my first 25 guesses).

“certainly, I’d suggest a powerful red, and in particular one from Burgundy, otherwise a nice Bourgogne would also be perfect.” For some stupid reason I felt confident in my response, to which I received a puzzled look and:

“Isn’t Bourgogne the French for Burgundy”

Double bollocks….

A new door is opened…

My first day was somewhat tame after the comical events in leading up to it. I arrived at the store at 10 am, only to be greeted by a closed shop. After waiting outside in the drizzling rain for someone to let me in a little voice came from behind me:

“Errr hello, are you Freddie?” in a strong Franglais (French/English).

After replying with a high pitched “yes,” I found out that he was in actual fact, Samuel, my manager. There was no mistaking that this guy was French, all he was missing was a beret and a baguette.

He kindly took me out for a coffee, where he started to fire questions at me. Much like the interview, however for some reason coming from a French guy it made me feel more relaxed as I could just blame any “poor” answers in being lost in translation. 

However after a while, he showed me around the shop and we opened the doors for the first time.

One hour passed….Two hours……Three…..Four…..Five……and six hours had passed and not a single customer had walked in. As it was my first day, Samuel kindly told me to go home early, and as I had done such a sterling job on putting the prices on the fridges.

So in reflection, the first day was very much a mixed bag; we had no customers for the six hours I was there, and I had the cliche of having a French manager. For some reason I drew comfort from this as I knew he would be able to sell wine to celibate monks if it came to it.

A long 17 days!!!

To quote an advert “Good things come to those who wait.” Whoever came up with that advertising slogan must have had the patience of a lion. Weeks and weeks passed since the shenanigans that was my interview, and there hadn’t been a single murmur from my proposed employers. However the longer I waited, the more the slogan seemed a mere fairytale.

I've got mail

Then on a rainy day, 17 days after the interview….. it happened! Reminiscent of Meg Ryan receiving a mushy e-mail from Tom Hanks……I “had mail.” My e-mail inbox had some activity for the first time in what seemed a lifetime, and sitting there was an e-mail titled “JOB.” My heart pounded as I opened it with such care, as if it were an expensive wedding present.

“We would like to offer you a part time job with the view of a permiment employment after a few weeks.”

To say I was ecstatic is an understatement, as to be honest I hadn’t applied for any other jobs and I was pinning my hopes on this one employment. The first person I told, was my father as I knew he would be happy as larry, for a number of reasons. Firstly, because I was following him and those before him in our family into the wine trade, and secondly it would hopefully mean that I would get out of the house and stop asking for “loans” (loans he knew he probably never see again). In actual fact, he was even happier than I was! Everyone Pistol Pete (aka my Father) saw that week was informed someway or another that I was entering The Trade; but such was the relief of getting the job offer, I wasn’t  at all embarrassed but proud of myself of following my family traditions.

Then realisation set in……I was over the moon about being offered part time employment in a shop.

The First Day of the Rest of My Life!

 
It has long been a passion of mine to work in the Wine trade and a few months ago, that dream never felt so far away. I was stuck in a nine to five job in London, working for a large “Professional Services” firm (and the only thing I was professional at was procrastinating.) Then, I found I was being “let go” after failing a couple of exams. Most of my close friends saw this as a “blessing in disguise” and I am sure most of them were just saying that so I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep every night. 

 

But they needn’t have worried! A few days later I saw an advertisement for a wine adviser (i.e. shop assistant) in a window of an independent wine store close to my flat. After sending my CV and stating my passion for the industry etc, I had an interview. 

 

 

Why does no-one want to hug me...?

This was like no other interview I had ever had. I had to meet my female interviewer under the clock at Waterloo station at 6pm one evening. Having met my interviewer, we walked and talked for ten minutes before we reached a bar on the bank of the River Thames. However, something wasn’t right, my mobile kept ringing. So after awkwardly asking if I could check whether is was an emergency, I found I had 5 missed calls from my REAL interviewer , Olivia. After an even more awkward conversation with whom I originally thought was my interviewer, I found out that I accidentally was on a blind date instead of being interviewed.

 

 

I left the poor lady holding two glasses of wine and £10 note I had given her; and ran back to the station where I met Olivia and had to explain myself.  Surely there was not a hope in hell that anyone would believe that story, and if one did; why would they give me a job. So, with the embarrassment of being on an accidental blind date; I had to face the questions which were being fired at me in possibly the hottest bar in London. I was pretty certain I was in Hell (with my lemonade being the only thing keeping me going, and the fact the exit of the bar was on the other side of the room). After spouting complete rubbish for the best part of an hour, it was finally over, we shook hands and Olivia left with a “we’ll contact you.” I immediately went to the bar and ordered a beer. 

Surely there was no hope following one of the most disastrous interviews outside the Dragon’s Den, and my dream had been slashed at the first hurdle….