Grapes of Wrath

Brighton and I stopped at a winery one afternoon whilst in Alabama. It was located on the second floor of an old building-right off the square. Charming and bucolic are two words that come to mind, but since I don't want anyone to go into diabetic coma, I'll refrain from using them.

Oops.

The proprietress, a flourishing transplant from Indiana gave us a lovely tasting and sold us a glass or 5 over the course of a couple of hours. How could an afternoon so drenched in good company and wine possibly go wrong?

SHE walked in. No, it wasn't Paris Hilton. But, Lawsie did it come close.

"Excuse me," she sniffed.

Yes. My hand to God. She sniffed.

"Where is the 'vin-yard'?"

Now must folks I know pronounce that word 'vinyerd'. Not SHE. She even prolonged the second syllable-vinyaaaaard.

Gulp. My wine soured.

Our hostess explained that they buy the juices and then make the wine there on site. She then offered her a tasting of the peach chardonnay.

"Oh, no thank you. No need. I have a very experienced palate."

WTF? Did she just say what I think she said? A very experienced palate? Well you know what, Sweetheart? I know the difference between Boone's Farm and Dom myself (and trust me there is room in this world for both) but that doesn't give me the right to be a snob for God's sake!

I hate people who make themselves feel superior at the expense of someone else. Which is usually how they have to get it done.

She then looked around for a few minutes and creaked back down the steps and out the door. I was dumbfounded. Why did she even come in?

Brighton and I immediately bought another glass and a few bottles to take home.

We had a lovely afternoon.