TO SPIT OR NOT TO SPIT
I’ll admit it, I love wine tastings, especially the trade tastings in Victoria where up to 500 wines are poured. On those days I can be found dressed and ready to go a full two hours ahead of time, chaffing at the door, repeatedly asking, “Is it time to go yet?”
“How”, people ask, “after trying maybe 100 or more wines do you find your car after the tasting?” There are two preferred methods. The trail of bread crumbs works well unless there is a large population of crows. And walking in ever-increasing radius around the tasting venue, pushing the lock button on your key fob thereby sounding the horn also gets results. If you reach Nanaimo, and still no car, you’ve gone too far.
Do I spit? No, I have other ways to embarrass myself, snoring at plays, that kind of thing. Wine merchants are notorious for hiring attractive young woman to pour wine. Chatting them up with gob hanging off your chin is just not the same. Spitting is like docking your boat on a windy day with the Commodore and pals watching. You must be aggressive, but not too aggressive.
The problem is the dreaded cling-on whereby an industrial strength strand of spit, as sticky as dental floss, tethers you to the spitbucket. Thanks to a coefficient of elasticity comparable to silly putty, retreating from the table only stretches it further. When you see a man walking backwards away from a table, by all means give him room.
I prefer the tiny sip method, 12 sips per ounce, which if you stretch it out over three hours, factoring in that you metabolize 5 oz per hour, 200 wines can be reached while ducking under .05. If this doesn’t work, pitch your tent on the Legislature’s lawn like the rest of them.
For value and flavour, this tasting’s pick: Paul Mas Grenache Noir (Fr.) $11.29
slightlycorkedandmore 