Wine Cabinet

My wife Babs heard about a history professor who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for me. We saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later we brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car. We were so impressed we decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink Paul Arnold, and his wife June. I brought the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when to drink them during the meal.

The christening came on a warmish evening, beginning with #1, Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese. 

#3, Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, was uncorked when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair, Brick Wall, hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?”

June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You should see mine.”

“Can that be arranged?”

She laughed, “Mm-hmm.”

“In that dress?”

“It won’t kill you pro-fes-or.”

“Call me Al,” said the professor, reaching for the smoked salmon. “Here, taste this. It’s absolutely delicious.” June took a mouthful. “Mmm. Why is there never any wine?” she said, filling their glasses.

“I could’ve done that.”

“What stopped you?”

“Leave the man alone!” Paul yelled from the kitchen.

“You can light my cigarette if you’re a mind to, Al.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you think we learn anything from history?” said June, plopping down beside him, releasing the smoke suggestively. “Try me,” she whispered.

“Myles Standish.”

“Myles Standish? Like when we came over from England and started populating the country?” June picked a piece of lint from Al’s black turtleneck, “What was he all about? Didn’t he marry Priscilla? Wasn’t that it?”

The professor laughed. “Not a chance in hell. He couldn’t tell one woman from another.”

“Go on Al,” June urged, tucking her legs up for an eyeful.

“Myles had John deliver a marriage proposal to her.”

The professor’s veins were popping. “Priscilla flat refused. She craved John, a tasty young man, and got his blood up: “John Alden, are you a gentleman? Speak for yourself.”

“Do you think she has nice hips?” asked June.

“Who?”

“The naked lady on the fireplace.”

“Jealous?”

“I have a Formula One ass. Ask Paul.”

Al rose. “Where’s the—”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” I said.

Entrees were served at the dining table in an alcove, with a pass-through to the kitchen: #5, Graves Superieures Chateau Belair, with fish, then cleansing palates with apple sorbet and a shot of Calvados before finishing with #6, Burgundy Cote-d-Or Macon Blanc Villages, and prime rib. For dessert, we left the dirty dishes on the table and spilled back into the living room, feeling at ease.

After I located #9, a Mosel Ockfener Bockstein-Herrenberg Auslese, Babs left the room to check on the kids, and June flared up: “You couldn’t keep your eyes off her tits all night, could you, Al?”

“Not as much as you did.”

“Kiss off.”

At the end of the evening, the professor and I emerged from the house, holding onto blades of grass to keep from falling off the earth. I poured him into his VW bug and watched it zigzag away.

A month later, the professor was caught in a prostitution sting.

Caveat emptor.