Wednesday, March 10, 2010

酒, Vino, Vin, Wijn, Wein, Вино, ワイン, Wine…

Ordering Wine will not cuase vomiting or self urination.....A Guide...By Wolfgang.



So imagine if you will Lee Majors, and Sharon Stone on a raucous jaunt across the land with bloodstreams full of psychotropic drugs, a tank full of gas, and a long-winded editorial from Wine Spectator. This is better known as the modern day, live action, pop-influenced hieroglyph representing your relationship with wine. Let’s put the black out lens on this roving nightmare and get a hold of ourselves. Let’s order some wine. Suck it up and pick up the wine list, come on, it’s not laying on a side street in Falluja with a wire running to it. It is on the table. Lets Begin...



Picking your wine:

Use your budget as your starting point. If you know you can spend 40 bucks on a bottle…that eliminates the majority of the list. Then determine what you want. Red or White…the list narrows again. Don’t waste time panicking about the super Tuscan that’s 289 bucks on page 6…no one is going to make you order it jack ass.
Fuck what you’re eating. Order wine you like. If you know what pairs well with what you’re going to have with dinner then select away. If not, and your worried about it, ask your server. But don’t think it’s a cardinal sin; no one gives a shit if you order a Pinot with your poached mahi mahi. Besides, if you haven’t developed the pallet yet to determine what the hell the wine is doing with the flavors of your meal, then just experiment…everyone starts somewhere.
Ok, so we’ve got through Dante’s seventh circle of hell and our wine is ordered. Not to back track or anything…but you didn’t order a white zin did you? Please God don’t tell me you asked for something “sweet”. If you did either of these things…off yourself…thanks. Sweet wines are called wine coolers and Zinfandel is a red grape for Gods sake.
Now for the bottle presentation. The waiter or someone like him is going to bring the wine over and show you the label. Don’t panic. He’s simply verifying that this is indeed the wine you ordered and that the year on the bottle is the same vintage represented on the wine list. A simple nod will suffice. Don’t start sweating and try to crack a joke with your guests at the table. Just nod your fucking head. The end.
Here is the point where things fall apart for most people. As soon as the waiter starts opening the bottle everyone stares at him like he’s the closing act in the fucking cirque du solei; now he’s nervous, making you nervous. And now everyone at the table wants to be in a Denny’s ordering omelets. Way to go. Instead of this, just keep conversing with your table. He’s opening the wine. Big fucking deal. Act like you’ve seen it before.
When the server removes the cork from the wine he’s going to place it in front of you on the table. If you learn anything from this simple little blog for the rest of your life, please let this be it: Do not, under any circumstance smell this fucking cork. You have succeeded in two things by smelling the cork. You’ve needlessly verified that it’s a cork and you’ve made everyone in the vicinity, that’s not an idiot, aware that you indeed are a flaccid penis. The cork is only put there for two reasons: One, to identify the vintage and or winery listed on the cork so as to attest that the bottle has not been tampered with. And two, to feel for any mushiness on the cork. This “softening” of the cork is an indicator the wine is bad.
The server will then pour a small tasting portion into your glass. Its called a tasting portion because your supposed to taste it. Don’t mollest it, don’t gargle it, don’t tell everyone what it tastes like…just fucking taste it. A simple nod to the server and then he or she or it will walk around the table and fill everyone else’s glass, then return and top you off. Then the bottle goes on the table. They may come back to pour wine, and they may not. It’s up to the establishment’s style of service.
Do not ask for an ice bucket for your white wine…its already colder than it should be served…I promise.
If you orderd a red wine…your teeth are purple. This is a fact. Live with it.


See…nothing to worry about. Now get out there and look like you know what your doing, and if you still don’t…well then at least try to look good doing it.

So…Flying Biscuit…lets talk…


Ok so Im guilty here. I went through a whirlwind move from my beloved Atlanta to Raleigh and obviously took an eye off of the news feeds. I totally missed the whole "Flying Biscuit sold to douchie franchise pimping inc." storyline...My bad. So when I ran in to the Raleigh edition in Cameron Village I was overcome with mediocre joy! (I must admit I was not in love with the original...but it had its place). But here was some of home! I'm a breakfast guy. I think its completely underrated. So this killed two birds for me. Because Ed's and Finch's were simply not getting it done for me....oh...and if anyone cares...they still aren't.
So here I am...ignorantly walking into Flying Biscuit expecting the charmingly sunny bohemian flower grove of a cafe that it was for most in Atlanta, and I get the shit slapped out of me by the grim croakies wearing truth. This place was a fucking TGI Fridays. Its not your fault Raleigh...its really not. But do not be fooled. There is nothing charming, bohemian, or even remotely likable about what the "douchie franchise pimping inc." company has done with the soul of this place. Flying Biscuit was opened by Delia Champion in The Candler Park neighborhood of Atlanta in 1993 with the help of indigo girl Emily Saliers. It was vegetarian friendly, it was healthy comfort food, it was the best grits in town, and it was fun. I'm not knocking Delia...take the money and run baby! But this franchised nightmare of mass consumer middle class douchbaggery....is disgusting. Now on to the food. Biscuits are wrong and bad, grits are wrong and bad, my eggs were less than over easy...I think I would describe them as Over gently for just a sec. And that's all I'm saying. You don't deserve more detail. Go fuck yourself. FB you will serve as a memory for me. Even if I happen past your original Atlanta front again. You have sold your soul...and Raleigh appears not to mind at all...but they don't know...and that's ok. From the looks of the crowd in there...Outback was for dinner anyway.

NO STARS This place dosent deserve a rating.
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