March 2010
Adventure #9
Perhaps I have watched one too many "Cheers" reruns, but I have always wanted to be a regular at a bar, a place where I could stroll up to the bartender, have my drink already poured and no immediate discussion of a bill - it's on my tab or better yet, on the house. At long last I have achieved this vice-induced dream, but it certainly has become the blight of many a morning.
About six months ago, an elegant wine shop and bar that exclusively sells Hungarian vintages, opened about 200 yards from my apartment. Its interior has the striking blend where contemporary touches like flaxen chandeliers meet antique elegance with old exposed brick that the owner laid by hand. All the brick imbues the feeling of being in a cozy underground cellar with the comfort of being on the street level. And, in the Eastern European tradition of bars so smokey that it takes two washing cycles to return one's post-bar hopping wardrobe to a neutral scent, this one has a delightful no-smoking policy.
Early on, my friends and I ventured inside a number of times, and it wasn't long before the owner began to recognize us. Unlike a snooty sommelier one might expect as a proprietor, our host is a hearty, outgoing Hungarian who has lived all over the world, including New York, and he looks like he could start a pub brawl with the same ease with which he uncorks bottles. Fortunately for my uncultured palate, he doesn't expect me to be a sophisticated customer; instead, he pours what he thinks we will like, and usually, he's right.
However, this generosity in sharing his wino wisdom can prove troublesome. I have done at least three wine tastings with the owner, and while he provides humorous, educational information on the wines, by about the fifth bountiful sample, the knowledge disappears and the cultural event transforms into a brouhaha. One thing any potential customer should know is that the shop does not house any spit buckets, so what you're poured, you must finish if you want the next sample. The other option is to add some soda water to the mix and make froccs - Hungary's answer to the wine spritzer. But, I certainly wouldn't want to feel any wrath upon pouring out a glass of Hungary's finest.
When my cousins and in-laws recently visited, I took them to a prolonged, enjoyable tasting, and the next morning, I definitely established myself as the weakest familial link when it came to processing wine. When I was finally feeling up to befriending wine again, I visited the wine shop and complained to the owner about my sad state of affairs. His response was, "There is no such thing as too much wine." Dare I reach his tolerance level?
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