I wish I knew all about wines. It’s a great art that one should not be ashamed of. Yet when I was a lot younger I used to think wine people were snobby and snooty. Maybe they were. I had an uncle and aunt who went to a few wine tasting seminars. When they came over to our house they were nearly unrecognizable due to their snootiness. They brought their own wine. Our was not good enough for their newly refined sensibilities. I remember it well. It was 1968, Thanksgiving Day. It was a cool 68 degrees with an easterly wind at 5 mph coming off the ocean in Miami.

My mother was bringing a turkey out of the oven when my aunt and uncle came in through the front door. “Just in time for dinner,” my mom said excitedly. She loved to be with her sister. Even though they lived two blocks away and spoke four times a day on the phone, they couldn’t get enough of each others’ company. How nice for them. Our dinner table was laid out to the nines. We had everything you’d ever want for a Thanksgiving dinner.

My brothers and I were watching the Detroit Lions play the Dallas Cowboys on TV until we were called for dinner. My aunt started helping my mom carry stuff to the table — forks, napkins, glasses and the like. That’s when things started to get rough. My aunt started things off…

Aunt Tina: George and I brought wine.
Mom: What?
Aunt Tina: We brought a couple bottles of wine. It’s really quite good.
Mom: What’s the matter with our wine? We have wine already. I got a great buy too — four bottles for $11 at the grocery store.
Grandmom: I like your hair, Tina, did you do something with it?
Aunt Tina: I’m sure your wine is good, but we’d like to share our wine with you.
Mom: Put it on the table.

Okay, now you can imagine we had a stressful situation brewing. Too early to call in the SWAT team, but too late to use the fire extinguisher.

We all took our places at the table. There were about ten of us, kids and adults. My mom was now no longer looking at Aunt Tina. She was miffed. Her own wine wasn’t good enough, that was obvious. But Aunt Tina didn’t take the hint. She was the younger sister and still had no sense. Uncle George watched as my Dad started pouring everybody a glass of wine. When it came to his own glass, Uncle George put his hand over it. He had learned this technique in his wine seminar. It’s a polite way of saying, “No, thanks. You shall not pour into my glass, my friend.” My dad took no notice. He poured wine for Grandma, Grandpa and even the boys. Aunt Tina used the hand-over-the-glass trick as well.

Grandpa raised his glass and said, “Over the lips and past the gums, look out gizzards here it comes.” Then Grandpa drank an entire glass in one single gulp, followed by an immediate burp. We kids laughed at this until our own wine came out of our noses. It burned but looked funny. We pointed at one another, “Yooo, yuck, you have purple coming out!” Then we shoved special Thanksgiving dinner rolls into our mouths and laughed with food falling out all over the place. We breathed through our noses as our eyes ran with tears. Grandma laughed at us; she thought we were cute. Mom told us to take smaller bites of food or we might choke to death and ruin the whole dinner. We stifled our guffaws and took to sword fighting with green beans.

Aunt Tina passed her bottle of wine to Uncle George. My father saw this and offered Uncle George the wine opener. George shook his head and produced his own wine opener from his jacket pocket. It was encased in a leather, engraved pouch that closed with a snap. The wine opener had a pearl handle and rays of light bounced from its shiny coils as Uncle George stuck the sharp point into the cork while flaring his elbow. In doing so he smacked Grandma in the head and made her glasses go askew. She hardly noticed. She was from New York. Aunt Tina looked around to see if all the others were as impressed as she was at Uncle George’s gleaming corkscrew. Nobody hardly noticed except my mom who continued to drink her cheap, crappy wine and act as though it was any good. She smiled at my dad and asked him if he would like more. Dad eagerly said yes, and she poured him a glass to the rim. He winked at her.

Uncle George worked on the cork like a pro. We later learned from Aunt Tina that Uncle George was the best wine opener at the seminar for which he was given a certificate with his name typed on it. It was signed by Earl Fillmore, Head Instructor. Mr. Fillmore said Uncle George’s technique was better than most sommeliers he had worked with in and around the Orlando region.

Uncle George took out the cork with nary a pop then sniffed it. This caught my attention. Why would he sniff the cork? This was odd. I picked up what was left of my dinner roll in an attempt to emulate this behavior. I inhaled deeply and a large crumb was sucked up into my left nostril and I began to make sounds like a sea lion calling to its mate. Nobody noticed but the other kids. The parents were too embroiled in wine wars at the other end of the table.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” my brother asked. I couldn’t tell him. I was still squealing. I could hardly breathe. In those days the Heimlich maneuver was yet to be invented. My brother did the next best thing. He threw a pecan at me. Then he took advantage of my indisposal and stole the remaining dinner roll off my plate. Twisting my face and shutting my eyes tightly to summon all my concentration, at last I sneezed and shot the crumb out of my nose and across the room where it bounced twice before landing dead center in Grandma’s fruit cup. Without noticing, Grandma ate it in her next spoonful. All the boys who were following the trajectory of the projectile while drinking more wine like it was water, now began to laugh hysterically. Wine was coming out of every orifice of every kid. If it was bright red we would look like hemorrhaging hyenas. My sinuses had never been so clear in my life.

Uncle George was now sticking his nose into his wine glass where he poured himself about an ounce. He swirled the wine round and round and held the glass up to the light. “Nice,” he mumbled. “Nice,” my aunt repeated. My mother rolled her eyes and refused to watch. Then Aunt Tina and Uncle George tasted their first mouthful of the grape. They both made noises that sounded like two humpback whales making love. Here’s the conversation that ensued…

Aunt Tina: You should really try our wine.
Grandpa: All wine is the same. It goes in one end and comes out the other. If it’s still the same color when it comes out then you make an appointment with Dr. Schwartsman.

Grandma: Are you sure you didn’t do something with your hair, Tina? It looks very refreshing.
Mom: Please pass the cranberries.
Dad: What was the name of the seminar you took, George?
Uncle George: How to Become A Wine Expert in 4 Easy Lessons. I was the best in the class. I won the award for being able to open the bottle. I was the best one. I’m having my certificate framed. It’ll be on my wall by Monday.
Aunt Tina: You can’t just drink your wine. You have to really taste it. Mmmm, honey, mine tastes like vanilla and oak.
Me: I wanna taste!
Mom: I guess some people’s wines are better than others. I baked a cake for dessert. Or did you bring one from Andalusia’s Bakery?*
Aunt Tina: You can’t just buy a cheap wine and enjoy it. Wine making is an art, isn’t it George?
Uncle George: This wine has great nose. I think I detect some cherry.
Dad: How come you’re not drinking it, George?
Uncle George: I’m just letting it sit. I’m opening it up.
Grandpa: Give me the bottle, I’ll show you what to do with it.
Mom: If you need me I’ll be in the kitchen.
Aunt Tina: Try some of our wine first, it’s really a good wine. We paid $25 a bottle. It’s from the coast of a river in France.
Mom: I have other things to do. Boys, behave yourselves or leave my table. Take that green bean out of your ear.

This was my introduction to the world of wine. After thirty years I have finally come to recognize that there is actually an art to all of this. Although I hardly know the difference now between a Shiraz and a Maseratti, at least I’m starting to discover the nuances that have attracted so many to this hobby. I no longer chug my wine. And I will let a single glass sit, to be sipped a little at a time, during the entire course of dinner. As it sits it changes flavor and mellows. Very enjoyable. Hopefully, though, I will one day become the master of the cork. Whatever that means.

*Andalusia Bakery was a high priced, popular bakery in Coral Gables.

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