Last night at the company Christmas party I cliqued about with Friends #2-4. It was quite nice; an open bar and dinner at Trattoria Branica. They fed us salmon, assorted vegetation, and a hunk of beef. The beef must have been from Montana, but the salmon was divine.
So we were hanging out by the bar, where it was oddly quiet, and I smelled the wine and thought, "Wine. Perhaps I should give wine another try. All my friends like wine. It smells good. I should like wine."
I don't like wine. Every time someone offers me wine and they say, "Here. Ellen, you'll like this, it's sweet; it's a Riesling." This is why the word "Riesling" now makes bile rise in my throat, from all the swigs that turned out to be as sweet as black coffee.
But, like coffee, it smells good, so I keep trying it.
I bellied up and asked the bartender for a Blush wine, because Friend #2 had said it was sweet. "Not Manischewitz sweet, but pretty sweet," Friend #3 agreed. When I accepted the Blush, I asked suspiciously, "Is this sweet?"
"Oh no," he said, "It's not at all sweet."
I handed it back, then I realized he'd just have to pour it out. "Oh. Well, I'll drink it anyway."
"I can make it sweet," he said and I thought, "What is he going to do? Add four packets of Equal and cream like I do to coffee?"
He glanced about the bar, went for a bottle, stopped himself, then went for the Chambord. Friend #3 intoned "Oh Lord, bless this thy hand grenade," because that joke slays me.
And you know what? Wine and Chambord are really good together. I called it Chwine, because Winebord sounded too much like a blatantly cruel interrogation technique. (I looked up Chambord recipes to see if it already had a name, but it would appear the people who name Chambord cocktails are the same ones who populate www.urban-dictionary.com.)