The Rombauer Date

The Rombauer Date

As I sit in this chilly, 55-degree cellar waiting for the dust to be wiped off me, I ponder the dinner I may be poured with. Will I sit next to a perfectly cooked filet mignon? A rack of lamb? Who will I bless the presence of during this fine evening meal? I, who will ignite the taste of their dinner. I, who will bring satisfied faces and a rush of goosebumps as I am sipped on.

And what do I bring the table, you ask? I exude an aroma of cherry and mint, one that cannot be ignored. On the palate, I bring together a luscious blend of blueberries and spice. Some consider me dry and prefer to sip on, but that just leaves the people wanting more of me. Who am I? I am Rombauer Merlot and today is the day I was chosen to leave the cellar.

The waiter wipes me off with a dirty towel and I feel myself gracefully swaying with each step he takes. He cuddles me into his sweaty arm, as if he is carrying a baby. He repeats to himself, “here is your Rombauer Merlot. You will find that it acquires notes of black cherry and hints of spices. A great choice, if I do say so myself.” We reach a couple sitting across from each other at a round, candlelit dinner table. The waiter proudly displays my label as he recites the sentence he practiced and pours a small amount into each round glass. I am ecstatic to be chosen.

The man at the table picks me up with a cold and shaky palm, pulls me up to his chapped lips and gulps me down quickly, attempting to hide a disgusted face. The woman, however, pauses and looks at me dead in the red. With her soft, skinny fingers wrapped gently around my stem, she twirls me around like a dancer lost in a song. She takes a small whiff of my elegant aroma and brings the glass to her painted lips. She takes a sip and sets me down with a smile. “I’ll take a glass, please,” she says. Wonderful! She chose me. “I’ll have a beer,” he says, “a bud light.” I take this moment to really see who I’ve joined for dinner. He is hunched over with both elbows glued to the table. He’s sporting long, unkempt hair and a white and blue striped shirt with wrinkles beyond the eye can see. He asks her what she does for a living, if she has any pets and if she watches The Office. And just like that, I find out that I am sitting through a first a date. Great. She is sitting with her hands in her lap, fidgeting with the white, silky tablecloth between her thumb and index finger. She has wavy brunette hair, thick glasses that expose her finely winged eyeliner along with red glossy lips. She responds telling him that she is a nurse with a black cat named Luna and that she does not watch The Office. She says she actually prefers reading books by Patrick Lencioni, her favorite author. She enjoys listening to podcasts by Dave Ramsey. But most of the time, she’s within the white walls of the hospital. He looked as though he was going to say something, probably a reference to the show she does not watch.

I sit and wait eagerly for her to take another sip. I just want her to like me. The restaurant was bustling with tables of customers chatting and laughing, waiters walking quickly with trays of expensive lobster and ribeye, bartenders shaking icy drinks in metal cups. And yet, the silence between these two was deafening. She pauses her tablecloth fidgeting and picks me up for another sip. To my surprise, she does not set me back down. Sip. Sip. Sip. She gives off a small moan of appreciation. At least she has me. It is, at this moment, I feel like I finally have a purpose. I'm going to help her through this date.

She asks him if he plays any sports, something any guy should be able to talk about. His eyes light up with immeasurable interest. He tells her that he was a hockey player and that she has the pleasure of sitting in front of one of the best players from his high school. She replied, “wow” in a bored tone. As he continues to gab about hockey stats, lifting weights and how he’s “still got it”, she looks at me with strained eyes. Sip. Sip. “Ahhh.”

Their appetizers arrive as she politely asks him if he still plays hockey these days. She wants him to think she was listening but doesn’t look at him when he responds. She begins to help herself to the charcuterie board, carefully plating her cheeses and fruit. Gorgonzola and dark berries, what an excellent pairing with me! He continues to talk, telling her that he had to stop hockey after high school due to an ankle injury. He tells her that he broke his ankle while trying to show off to a girl at one of those trampoline places. He said he left with a broken ankle but no girl and slapped his knee saying “ba dum chh”. Is that supposed to be the line of a joke? She chuckles in a fake manner, not knowing how else to respond.

I feel her grip my stem tighter, sips becoming gulps. Slow down girl, we can make it. He moves his one-way discussion into movies. She explains how much she loves 80s movies, clearly an inviting topic for her. He interrupts her and says “nah, the Marvel movies are where it’s at.” He starts discussing his love for Thor and that most people say Thor is his celebrity doppelganger. She looks at him with disbelief and tells him she doesn’t see it. He ignores her rude comment and begins to quote Thor from one of his movies “So take mine and end this!” he yells. People throw their heads around to look in their direction. She's nervous, she has never been one for attention or wondering eyes. Her grip is tight on me, other hand fidgeting rapidly with the table cloth. "Are you okay?" She whispers. He stands up and starts to swing his arms around and slams both hands on the table with a loud bang. He states that he loves reenacting the moment Thor gets his hammer back, and that no other scene can compare. Staring at him with wide, humiliated eyes, she takes another sip and slams me down on the table. My red threatening to spill over. She’s trying to calm him down, asking him to sit. “People are looking, Nathan.” “Let them!”, he yells. Swinging his arms around uncontrollably, I watch his large, filthy hand fly closer and closer towards me. I see my life flash before my eyes.

Gracing the Californian fields with my sumptuous grapes back in 2016 and fermented to perfection. I was a popular wine, everyone loved me. With my soft and silky texture, and a well-incorporated acidity that makes me want to enhance a steaming plate of pasta, I lived a short yet glorious life beyond the vineyards of California. As I come through, I see his hand connect at my side with a great force. I fly through the air, my luscious red dripping out of the glass as I soar further away from the table and close the distance towards the ground. I see other tables looking at me with sad eyes. I know it’s coming.

CRASH. “Check please,” she says.