After my shift at the soul scratching, culinary monster called “Big Boy”, I would work myself into a thirst before going home and getting ready for the next night, slathered with anticipation. At that time I viewed drinking beer as a contact sport. And I was the fullback.
But on one fateful day, perusing the refrigerator aisle my eyes lit upon a new star. Boone’s Farm. The colors and flavors overwhelmed me. “Strawberry hill” “Country Kwentcher”. They seemed strange, mysterious, and tasty. So I bought some. It was love at $1.99 per bottle. You had to drink 3 bottles or so to really get a buzz on. Most of it sugar. I had a sexy 1972 Dodge Charger to drive around in, and the mullet wasn’t too bad, so after awhile I was turning my friends onto the same liquid heaven. I began to think anticipatorily about the next night’s rendezvous. Which one should be on this evening’s plate? Would the 1985 (this was 1985) be better than the ‘ 84 if I could find one? Would it have a more subtle, restrained “fizz?” The beer seemed to fall by the wayside. The Falstaff vanished. It was a campfire thing. For the guys with the Oldsmobile Cutlasses. The rabble.And instead of a teeny cup holder, each car came with a BIG DAMN HOLE in the floor.Where you put your Bourbon, Gin or Rum. And now for me – Wine.
A few years later I left Boone’s farm. Watching her disappear and get smaller in the mirror. I went to (shudder…) WHITE ZINFANDEL. Noooo! Revered in the kitchen fridge of 60 year old ladies all across the country. And, just for a moment, I was one of them. A 60 year old lady. With ice cubes. In. My. Wine.
But the Bordeaux was calling. At night when the crickets chirped you could hear “ Haut- Brion” “Cos D’ Estournel” “Margaux” “Lafite”.I started leaving condiments off all of my hamburgers, just to drink wine. To taste it, the subtlety, the beauty. And also to find out what the hell “sulfites” were. I remember my 1st Bordeaux – Chateau Kirwan. A 3rd growth, that had been frowned upon for a while, but seemed plenty good to me. I felt smart. The hamburgers tasted like filet mignon. I kept going. Bandols. Burgundies. California Cabs, and Pinots, Zins, and Cal-Itals. My path was clear.
I’d taken the long way to the great grapes. But every once in a while I find myself glancing, if just for a minute, next to the Bud Light, at the newest flavor created by a childhood friend. The farm. Boone’s farm.
