I’ve ordered a bottle of Grüner, $31. Not their most expensive, but not their cheapest either. It’s a special night; we’re celebrating.
The sommelier brings it to our table, displaying the bottle over his wrist. “Thank you,” I say as he pours me a sample. I twirl the wine glass, sniffing. I look at the sommelier suspiciously. I take a sip. I make a subtle face of distaste. “I’m afraid this is corked.”
The sommelier looks surprised. He surveys the patron in front of him: a woman in her late 20s that has already polished off two bread baskets and really butchered the pronunciation of “Grüner.” Doubting her, he takes a sip.
“Ah oui! Mademoiselle, I apologize. You are correct! This wine is corked, mon Dieu. Allow me to get you another bottle, on the house.” the sommelier says, dramatically spitting out the wine. He quickly retreats back into the wine cellar to find something more suitable.
My dear friend, Jeff Goldblum, sits across from me at the table and smirks.