6.06.2004
Raising a glass
You can tell what someone does for a living by the condition of his or her hands. I know it’s been at least three weeks since I’ve left the food service industry, as the cuts on my hands have completely healed, leaving faint scars, smudges that remind me of bread cut too fast, shards of broken china, steam burns.
Now, I’ve got splinters. I break open pine crates filled with French wine that per bottle costs more than I earn in a week. I’m a peasant in the retail wine industry, catering to manor lords who toss down thousands of dollars monthly to keep their cellars (plural) well stocked. I use phrases such as “full-bodied,” “fruit-forward,” and “mouth feel” without giggling. I dust and stock and climb tall ladders in a warehouse that’s the size of a football field, filled with crates of wine from all over the world. And yes, I get to drink too.
As a fan of the grape, I thought I knew a thing or two about wine, carefully scouring wine lists at chic San Francisco restaurants and pronouncing French appellations with a fine-accented flourish. After my first day on the job, I considered myself lucky that I could at least point out the Chablis from the Burgundy--but not much more.
I’ve picked a hell of a classroom, however. This wine shop, located on the edge of nowhere, Emeryville, has a fairly dedicated class of consumer who knows exactly what they want and how much they are willing to pay for it. The shop's owner scours the world for top-notch wines, and maintains warehouses in both Paris and London. Most customers don’t even come into the shop, opting to buy cases by phone or over the Web, paying hundreds more to have thousands of dollars of fine wines shipped to Florida, to Washington, to Maine.
A few classes are starting to emerge. There are certain customers, primarily men, who collect bottles like they might collect cars or young wives. These status seekers are the ones who call 10 times a day, scrambling for a case or two of a 100-Parker point vintage, or other well-hyped bottle. A middle group of customers seeks out the nicer wines but isn’t above grabbing a cheap bottle or two to pair with pizza.
Some unknowing customers, however, blanch at the cost of the wines, accustomed to Costco or Trader Joe’s, the benevolent home of $2 bottles. Now, I’m starting to think that $25 isn’t too bad. $30 is my limit, so far, except for that bottle of Champagne that I needed, really, one night to cheer up my lover; then again, one cannot put a price on Champagne.
So, it starts. I make $14 an hour, and receive an employee discount. As long as I clear rent, I think, I may find it to easy to drink the rest.
With this liquid transition, I’m closing the doors of the Meat Lab, packing up--for now--my knives. Thanks to all who have slogged through the blog. I raise my boning knife in salute.
You can tell what someone does for a living by the condition of his or her hands. I know it’s been at least three weeks since I’ve left the food service industry, as the cuts on my hands have completely healed, leaving faint scars, smudges that remind me of bread cut too fast, shards of broken china, steam burns.
Now, I’ve got splinters. I break open pine crates filled with French wine that per bottle costs more than I earn in a week. I’m a peasant in the retail wine industry, catering to manor lords who toss down thousands of dollars monthly to keep their cellars (plural) well stocked. I use phrases such as “full-bodied,” “fruit-forward,” and “mouth feel” without giggling. I dust and stock and climb tall ladders in a warehouse that’s the size of a football field, filled with crates of wine from all over the world. And yes, I get to drink too.
As a fan of the grape, I thought I knew a thing or two about wine, carefully scouring wine lists at chic San Francisco restaurants and pronouncing French appellations with a fine-accented flourish. After my first day on the job, I considered myself lucky that I could at least point out the Chablis from the Burgundy--but not much more.
I’ve picked a hell of a classroom, however. This wine shop, located on the edge of nowhere, Emeryville, has a fairly dedicated class of consumer who knows exactly what they want and how much they are willing to pay for it. The shop's owner scours the world for top-notch wines, and maintains warehouses in both Paris and London. Most customers don’t even come into the shop, opting to buy cases by phone or over the Web, paying hundreds more to have thousands of dollars of fine wines shipped to Florida, to Washington, to Maine.
A few classes are starting to emerge. There are certain customers, primarily men, who collect bottles like they might collect cars or young wives. These status seekers are the ones who call 10 times a day, scrambling for a case or two of a 100-Parker point vintage, or other well-hyped bottle. A middle group of customers seeks out the nicer wines but isn’t above grabbing a cheap bottle or two to pair with pizza.
Some unknowing customers, however, blanch at the cost of the wines, accustomed to Costco or Trader Joe’s, the benevolent home of $2 bottles. Now, I’m starting to think that $25 isn’t too bad. $30 is my limit, so far, except for that bottle of Champagne that I needed, really, one night to cheer up my lover; then again, one cannot put a price on Champagne.
So, it starts. I make $14 an hour, and receive an employee discount. As long as I clear rent, I think, I may find it to easy to drink the rest.
With this liquid transition, I’m closing the doors of the Meat Lab, packing up--for now--my knives. Thanks to all who have slogged through the blog. I raise my boning knife in salute.
