Ye Ole Wine Seller in Ponte Vedra…
Isn’t the English language awesome? Such opportunity for miscommunication and inaccuracy. I was driving down the street from my old house yesterday, and I passed my favorite, erstwhile wine seller. I’m assuming he’s still in there – his name is Pom and he does lunges with handles of whiskey when business is slow in the liquor store. He cooks curry in a hotpot in the toilet. He calls me, “Dear.”
There was a time when I went through so much wine, I had to go to three different stores to buy it. Otherwise the friendly shop keepers would KNOW. There are only so many times you can say you have company, or you are having a party before it becomes obvious you have a serious wine jones. (Note to purveyors of alcohol – do not be too friendly to your “best customer”, do not give them free wine carriers or hail them like they are the reason for your “best week ever” or pout and say, “Where have you been? We’ve missed you…” when they don’t turn up for a day or two. They want to be ignored.)
To an alcoholic, there is nothing like the coming home feeling of a local liquor store. The neon-blue “open” sign, the jingle of the bell on the door, the faint smell of cigarettes and cardboard and dust (and in my case burnt vindaloo).
Every alcoholic has a liquor store story. I spoke to a woman who said that before she quit drinking, if she “went left” at a certain busy intersection, she would drink because her liquor store was on “her side of the road.” That’s a boozer’s reasoning if I’ve ever heard it…
And what about the stories liquor store workers could tell, right?
One time I was in St Martin with Kim and my children and their friends. The children were young. We had a policy, that like Las Vegas, “what was gossiped about in St Martin was not shared with too many people once we got home, unless it was really juicy.” Kim and I were drinking a fair amount of wine at dinner (in fact my worst ever hangover was in St Martin) and it was the perfect time for all of us to share our deepest thoughts and feelings without fear of reprisal.
One of Jon Jon’s friends (who shall remain nameless) was saying, “Well my mom drinks a lot of wine. I mean a lot.”
I said, “Oh?”
He said, “Yes. Like hundreds of bottles a week.”
I asked, “Do you have a wine cellar?”
He said, “We sure do! His name is Mark at Wine Superstore.”
Ah the English language, and wine sellers and liquor stores…
Oh my!
Today I’m not drinking because I am not going left.
How come you’re not drinking?
