“Where did you get that?”
The manager of Pelican Hill, the restaurant at a posh golf course near our home, demanded. He’d apparently been summoned by our waiter after we’d asked if our personal bottle of wine could be uncorked for us. The well-suited man towered over us, seated at our not-so-prime table. He’d adopted a Gestapo tone and glowered for all he was worth.
My husband and I were celebrating a milestone anniversary and wanted to commemorate it with a milestone wine. While we didn’t recall specifically where we’d purchased the wine, we knew we’d brought it from our personal wine cellar, laying it down for a celebration of significance. We were certain of ourselves, so my husband mildly replied.
We knew we weren’t thieves.
To make it clear that he didn’t like the circumstances, the manager didn’t reply, but turned on his heel to stomp away after a brief nod for our waiter to uncork and pout our cabernet, a Peter Ueberroth appellation we felt certain would be prime with our meal.
Was that why the manager grumbled at the presence of the bottle in his restaurant?
Neverless, the meal was sublime, the service was superb, and my husand and I spent a pleasant meal enjoying each other and the merriment of our marriage. Twenty-five years, many years older than the wine.
When the bill arrived, my husband gasped. It was our first meal total that exceeded a hundred dollars, a happenstance that occurs regularly in these post-covid, tariff-midst times.
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