All in the Presentation

Standing by that Photo of Fallen Trees, the one by that famous wilderness photographer. You know the one, at least you’ll recognize the image. It’s on display at the far back of the gallery, but you can see it when you are looking down the main hallway. There, under that very photo, your date awaits in a brown leather jacket, dark hair and holding a glass of wine. It will be merlot.

My friend knows I don’t drink merlot, it’s pretty obvious after fifteen years of dining together all over the world. I have a myriad of questions, even as I'm pretending I may not do this afterall. How can she know the glass will be merlot? What if there is another dark haired stranger in a brown leather jacket? Do I need to whisper “merlot” as the password for this date?

“Now that would be ridiculous,” my friend says. “They’ll all be drinking merlot. The gallery owner’s family owns a five-generation winery up in Napa. This weekend, beginning Friday, they’re hosting a photography exhibit by that famous guy with the trees. Most of the exhibited artwork will be about the people who work in their fields, the vineyard, and their winery. I know the wine will be merlot, because that is the wine they are featuring this season. It’s their show, so it will be their wine. Merlot.

No other wine will be served but merlot? I don't drink merlot, does not bode well for a first date.

“You don't need to drink it, just hold a glass.”

My good friend has set this up. Such friends seem especially concerned about individuals who have wandered around for years without getting partnered-up, as though this is a form of death.

"You can't have given up hope?" such friends blurt out when you request they don't try and set you up. They refuse to accept you have ended your search and could be relatively happy. Short of being happy, I have accepted wandering is preferable to floundering. Wandering can be fun, you can try to explain. But this, your three-quarters truth, is not heard by their closed minds.

When we all made it to our mid-thirties, still alive, the haphazardly collected friends during my twenties turned into solid social adults. Matching-up became the new mode. At forty-one I was someone they worried about, the single, the odd person out. Hey, I get it, it's almost common law. Think of the majority of rom-com movies of the past few decades, beginning with When Harry Met Sally, friends always struggling to help find the right partner. We were raised on these scenarios, from adolescence up. And while marriage and children aren't the big issue among my crowd, dying alone, the possibility of living your senior years alone can't be contemplated, tolerated.

And here is where my circle and I also differ, everything in my life has assured me I won't grow old and have to die alone. I'm not planning to die old, much less alone. As a fatalist, I see my ship going down in a storm, or the tanker's driver falling asleep and moving into my lane at seventy miles an hour, down hill. Then there is always the possibility of the hill behind my cottage in the woods (theoretical cottage in the future) submitting to the forces of global warming, sending the west side sliding down and across the path to my abode, smothering me, if not quickly, in less time than dying of a painful illness.

But this friend hasn’t given up on me. Doesn’t give up now. "You'll have a great time, what's to lose?"

My self respect, is what I'm thinking.

“And if it you know right away it won’t work, well, you just ditch it.”

The merlot or the blind date?

This attack on my freedom is taking place in the copy room of our architectural firm, over coffee and wrangling about a sticky element of design. Suddenly, it seems everyone in our department has a short stack of papers needing replication. All ears. I weaken, quickly agree, deciding I will not share one word about what happens on this blind date, which is already a non-date.

My non-date is either a member of the gallery owner's family, or works for them. This appears to be the reason for why we are meeting at this location on this night.

Okay, let’s get on with the denouement of the evening and my entire future. I'm standing outside the gallery, on one of a dozen tightly woven streets in downtown Napa. Studying the interior through the floor to ceiling front window, I do not recognize anyone, and am surprised at the multitude of people inside. It’s a crowd. Of course, this is all pre-covid. Late Fall 2018, a bounteous year for wine production in Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino Counties. Pinot, oh Pinot, How I Love You Solo. I'm humming this to a little tune I made up, standing outside in the chill of a Friday night, the first week of November, back when we and our world were still the innocents, mask-less and very much into touching-feeling, the perennial kiss-kiss.

If I don't like what I see, there is safety in obscurity, anonymity. I can still wander around and look at photos and see if it's true that only merlot will be served. Maybe water with lemon? With or without a partner, this is still my Friday night date. I take a deep breath and step inside. The place is humming and well-lighted, just the right touch of smooth jazz. Leather jackets I see aplenty, but I haven’t made it through the crowd yet to gaze down the main hall way. Finding this person might be harder than my friend thought. Just thinking about that scene today, it's like recalling all we've missed since Mid-March 2020, the heady buzz of conversation, convivial laughter shared by groups, smart, clever people, willing to share their bonne vivance with just about anyone, several who were more than willing to share it with me.

"We've been here since it opened two hours ago," more than one partner or another whispered to me. And then there was the only merlot, merlot flowing as I'd never seen it. Not merely a lone, unloved bottle of merlot amongst six or seven other varieties, the bartender for the evening trying to use merlot up on folks who'd had several glasses of something more splendid. No, merlot is definitely not the stepchild here, not the unwelcome guest at the table.

Merlot is the only cat’s meow in town tonight! Merlot is showing up, and showing off in big letters, people wearing cute party hats emblazoned with 10 Years In A Row. Banners with the winery's name, and one large gallery room devoted solely to pictures of the vineyard in all four seasons. In this close familial buzz, I found myself accepting a very full glass of merlot, poured by a very enthusiastic bartender.

His comment about having a ways to go to catch up, I barley heard as I edged my way through the crowds. My goal was to reach the entrance of the main hallway. Careful not to spill a drop, nor sip one. No potted palms to shelter behind, but there is a cluster of dark suits, wine bottles clenched to their chests, wrinkled brows, twitching noses as they sip away. Ah, suddenly, a few bodies shift, and a defined clearing all the way to the end of the hallway. There is the famous photo, as stunning and shocking as ever. There are also several people gathered down there, two of whom are wearing leather jackets. I drift towards them, keeping along the east wall, moving carefully by and amongst other people grouping beneath huge blow ups, magnificent scenes of faces and vines and sunsets. Coming to the end of what had begun to feel like a long tunnel, it dawned on me the person in the center of the group was also holding a bottle of wine, this one adorned with multiple ribbons and medals.

A stranger, suddenly half behind me, whom I can't really see, seems eager to supply an explanation.

“Ten years in a row, we’ve won Best in Merlot in Northern California.”

I want to say, how great is that, anyway? Are there any good merlots in Northern California, say even in California? Are there any great, even good merlots in the world? But I don't. Specifically I was asked not to debate the merlot.

"Have you tasted the wine?"

Ah, if only the wine were as smooth as this voice. As I turn to confront the face that goes with the leather clad shoulder blocking my view and movement, I almost fumble it all, an awkward half step to the side. A clean, manicured hand catches hold of mine and steadies both me and the glass of merlot.

"It looks over full. Have you tried it yet, or is this your second? I'm going to have to speak to the bartender, he's doing it a bit too fine with the wine."

I remain mum. Is the laughter about me? If it is a good wine, the glass would be empty. If it failed my taste test, I would have found a place to set it aside. Dark brown eyes now move below well trimmed eyebrows, casting a glance at a near table, a table filled with empty wine glasses. Why hadn't I dumped this glass onto one of these tables? Guilt?

The stranger's hand doesn't so much as guide mine, as supports it as I raise the glass and take a puny sip of through barley parted lips.

“Hey, that's not fair.” The voice is teasing me now. “Put some in your mouth and move it around, swallow, feel it slide down your throat, sit softly in your gut. Give it a chance.”

I have a choice now, do I wait until the glass is forced to my lips, poured down my throat? This is probably all in my mind, as no one has turned to watch us. Yet in the hall things are not all that clear except for the photos, which have been expertly lighted to complement the artwork, the rest of us are in muted shadows.

Give it a chance.

My god, I’m telling myself, this isn't Brussels sprouts and I'm not six years old. The shoulder feels warm and solid, the eyes are twinkling and the smile is bemused. I raise the glass and fill my mouth with this wine. Not the worse wine I've drank, I'd admit this later, but at the time I can only say, I was confused. I submitted against my own judgement, bemused by that bemusing smile. And swallowed. That face is so perfect it should have been on the walls, I remember thinking. I knew I wanted to take it home with me.

Later, after my second glass, wandering around attached to that shoulder, I realized that face was everywhere, in the photos, on the poster out front. And again, my thought was I want to take it home with me. I even bought one of the photos, as well as a case of Merlot. Not the last case of Merlot to enter the house. Just the first and only one I would ever buy.

Merlot, it's everywhere now, in the garage, in the basement, on the wine display in the dining room. The bedroom walls are even painted that color. We are awash with the stuff. Out at the winery, working in the vineyard during harvest, my hands are stained with the color of love.

Now this is my story of how a bottle of long maligned merlot featured in my last first date. But how, you may be asking, did how the second date go? You should ask. As I opened the door that warm Thanksgiving, a fabulous, world famous bottle of pinot noir was placed in my hands. A keeper.

My friend claims all the credit for setting us up. But we know better, it was the first taste of that merlot, good, bad or so-so. Because as is often with wine, it isn’t all about taste, presentation is a big part of the sale.