Merlot Memories

Do you like Merlot? The assortment of answers I got was annoyingly comical. There were a rare few who could name the year and brand they preferred. For me it wasn’t so much a culture test as a test of how they would respond. Did they pass over the question quickly, did they answer it succinctly and leave it at that, or did they dig in to find out why I asked the question in the first place. I’ve had many first dates, used all the apps, tried all the things, but still had not found the connection I was looking for. The kind that feels like a comfortable sweater settling onto your body. Lately I had been searching for that real connection at my local hang outs. The kind you see in romcoms, the kind that Ross and Rachel had after they got past all their relationship screw ups. With my new opener I was certain I could find someone who would care enough about me to dig into the question and hear my story about why I liked Merlot so much. The time between the question and answer was often milliseconds but it often felt like an eternity waiting to see if a connection would spark. The more times I asked the question the more disappointment I received, until that one day. He had a long overcoat, dark hair, and all the smatterings of a successful man from the finance world, without the stiffness that often accompanied these types. The day he walked into my favorite café, I knew I had to get his attention and secure a date. After several encounters, lots of flirting, and a tasteful scrawl of my number on his to go cup, he got the hint. Our first date was set for an upscale restaurant that was classy but not stuffy and semi-posh. Earlier that day he had confirmed the details of our encounter, 7 p.m. he would meet me there. The reservation was set and I should go on inside because he would likely have to work a few minutes late. As I waited, I poured nervously in my head over the possible outcomes of the question: “Never heard of it,” “You don’t drink beer?” “I don’t know much about wine.” You see the real reason for the question was to see if they would care enough to ask me why I cared about merlot. It was not so important that they knew much about the wine or could spout off the best brands, although it was an added bonus, but that they cared enough to find out why I cared about it. You see I was raised in a vineyard and all of my fondest memories involve pressing and gathering grapes with my family to mix the special merlot we sold at our local markets. It was the only wine my grandpa would allow us to produce because he said it was the best. When he cooked, he infused it in all his dishes, and it was a staple at every family meal to have a glass for dessert. He said that it was a wine that was fit every occasion, not to light, not to dark, but a dry satisfying taste.

The man who won my heart would have to be willing to hear my stories about all my memories associated with the wine and assure me that we would be able to create some of our own together with it. My pensiveness was interrupted when I glanced down at my watch to see it was ten after seven and glanced up to see he had arrived. After a short stop at the concierge to leave a tip for the bottle of wine he had instructed them to bring me, he strode confidently to our table. We exchanged greetings, he sat down, and pleasantries about the day were exchanged. I finally saw my moment and asked, “Do you like Merlot?” He paused, smiled wryly, and said, “My dear have you checked the label of the bottle?” I looked down and saw it was the brand that my family produced. My heart skipped a beat and I knew I had finally received the answer I was looking for. I gazed into his eyes, we clinked our glasses in cheers, and the warmth from my heart spread into my whole body as the murmur of the room and the sparkle in his eyes allowed me to fade into the comfort of our conversation and our budding romance.