THE TASTING OF ‘25
Tales from a Speakeasy Somewhere in What Was Once Par-Adise
BY ALAN GOLDFARB
Aug. 19, 2024
“This must be the place. They said the entrance to the cave was behind this forest of huge empty stainless steel fermenters. It’s dark as a back alley on West 45th Street. I have my phone flashlight.”
“Here it is; see that slot on the door?”
“I’m knocking three times, holding for two seconds and then knocking twice.”
“Carlton sent me.”
“Follow me. Watch your step. There are barrels all over the place. But don’t worry. They’re empty. But we got enough for tonight. Maybe through to tomorrow night. Then? I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”
“Damn. I just tripped over some hoses.”
“Yeah, we forgot to get ‘em outta the way. We was so busy emptying the casks and them damned barrels with what we have left. Sorry ‘bout dat.”
“There is an empty table over in the corner. Sorry it’ so dark, but we gotta keep it cool down here. Know what I mean? Although I know it’s already cool down here. Know what I mean? It’s my way of makin’ a joke.
“They’ll be somebody come over soon and pour some for youse. Hey, you’re not no narc or one a dem writers? We don’t wanna let no one know were still operatin’ down here.”
“I am a critic from The Wine Speakeasy. The rest of the writers are either now covering baseball, which I think is going to be outlawed too, soon. Or they’re blind tasting the non-alc stuff or rating pomegranate juice, whose wine, I mean juicemakers managed to slip a few large into the right hands. If you know what I’m talking about. With those guys you can tell the forest because, there’s no trees. That’s my way of telling a joke. Just trying to keep it light in the middle of all this darkness; and I know you know what I mean.
“Besides, Carlton told me, he tells me and he knows everything, I can document my experience down here – for posterity – because we all know it’ll probably be the last chronicled tasting. I’m no George Taber, but somebody’s got to write about what it was like tasting the last wines before the Feds shuts it down.”
“OK, you’re Jake with me George, or whoever the hell you are. But if Carlton approves of ya, I guess I gotta go along with the boss. And here comes your server.”
“What would you folks like tonight? I’m afraid all we have left is a Gamay someone found north of St. Helena that was once made by the guy who sold his good name to the big boys; and I hear he sold it for pennies on the dollar. And he could’ve had a lot of pennies by now though.
“We also have some Riesling made by that Berger fella. I hear it’s good but I don’t know because they don’t let me taste the good stuff. But I wouldn’t know a Riesling from a Resveratrol if they hit me upside the head with a wine thief.”
“Can we try them both? The white wine first and then that Gamay. If Napa had played its cards right, it could have been the New Beaujolais. It would’ve been a big hit in the marketplace because they would’ve gussied it up with more wood and hangtime. Besides, Beaujolais is sexier to say than Cabernet.”
“Coming right up sir. But I’ve got to warn you, all we have left is a thimble full of each. Kinda of like that skit on Saturday Night Live when they waited a half-hour to squeeze a tiny bit of raisin juice; and then asked for more. So, when the Gambling and Resling are gone, it’ll all be finis. Who knows when the Neos will be voted out of office.
“I hear there’s some woman out there who wants to bring wine back. Imagine that!”