Page 28 of Que Será, Syrah

“Most of the time,” I admit. “But, like you, I don’t just stick to one type. In fact, that’s one of the things I like about craft beers—they’re not generic. I can always tell what kind of beer I’m drinking; there’s no guesswork involved. And I can choose what I order to match what I’m eating. I guess you’d call that pairing, right?”

Legs grins. “Look at you, all up on the lingo.”

“With wine, on the other hand, it’s either white or red—I can’t tell anything beyond that.”

“What? No, that’s?—”

“Beer is easier. If I order a Saison, I don’t expect it to taste like an IPA. If I ask for an IPA, I know it’s not gonna taste like a Lager or a Porter or a Pilsner.”

“Or a wheat beer,” she says. “Or an Altbier, or a Lambic, or a Doppelbock—yeah, I get it. And you’re not wrong about that.”

I have to admit, I’m surprised. And maybe a little impressed. “For someone who doesn’t like beer, you sure seem to know an awful lot about it.”

She frowns. “What do you mean? I like beer.”

“You do?” I blink at her foolishly while I adjust my thoughts. In my memory I can still hear her pretend-gagging: blech, blech, blech.

“Yes. I just don’t like cheap, generic beer. But, then again, I don’t like cheap, generic wine, either. There are a lot of really good craft beers out there. I like cider, too, for that matter. And whiskey, and…a whole bunch of other stuff. Tequila, for example. But this is Napa so…you know…when in Rome?”

I have no idea. So, I shrug and tell a little white lie, “Makes sense.”

“Anyway, wines are the same. They don’t all taste alike, either.” I must look skeptical because she rolls her eyes and says, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit that, possibly, especially to the untrained palate, the differences are maybe a little more subtle. But Master Sommeliers are able to distinguish between nearly every fine wine in the entire world with ridiculous accuracy. You could certainly learn to tell more about a wine than simply is it white or red. There are different types of grapes, different blends, different vintages. Have you ever had a vertical flight?”

“I wouldn’t know. I have no idea what that even is.”

“It’s when you try several glasses of what’s basically the same wine from the same winery, made from grapes grown on the same vines, but each glass contains a different vintage. It’s amazing how just one little factor—in this case how the weather changes from one year to the next—can make such a huge difference in the taste of.”

“Interesting. I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Well, no. Don’t do that. I mean, I’d be happy to show you, if you’re actually interested. Although, I’m somewhat hamstrung, at the moment. It’ll be a few years before I’ll be able to set up that kind of tasting at Caparelli. And Belmonte’s out, because apparently my uncle is being a dick. But there are plenty of other wineries around, and if you wanted a tasting buddy, I’d be happy to tag along.”

“Thanks. I’ll…keep that in mind.” I smile as I say it, trying to let her down gently; but, c’mon. She has to know how bad those optics would be, right? Or then again, maybe she doesn’t.

“If you think about it, it would be kind of a win-win,” she says musingly. “I really ought to be familiarizing myself with what’s out there and what’s selling right now, anyway. And that could be awkward if I were to go by myself.”

“I don’t know why,” I say in an effort to change the subject. Although since we’re still talking about wine, it’s probably not enough of a change. “You sound extremely knowledgeable. And even I can tell you’re passionate about the subject.” And to be honest, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve known a few people whose lives were ruined by drink. I’m related to most of them. Which, yes, is probably another reason that I tend to stick with beer. “I’m sure any winery owner would be thrilled to have you hanging out in their tasting rooms, talking to people about wine. And whatever awkwardness there might be, it probably wouldn’t last beyond the first few sentences.”

“Well, thanks,” she replies sounding doubtful. “I mean, I hope I sound knowledgeable. But I grew up here, you know? I think it would be more surprising if I didn’t sound like I knew what I was talking about. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just fooling myself. Because you don’t always know what you don’t know—if you know what I mean. And I didn’t go to school for any of this stuff like my sisters did.”

“Hey,” I tell her. “Don’t sell yourself short. I grew up here too. And dealing with winery owners is a big part of my job, at the moment.” A job I’m clearly ill-suited for. “And…I don’t feel like living here has given me any particular advantage, or inside knowledge—at all. I’m pretty sure I don’t know nearly as much about wine or the wine industry as I should.”

“You grew up here?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she studies my face a little more intently.

“Yeah, sure. I…” And suddenly I realize I don’t want to rehash the same conversation we had five years ago. I don’t want to mention Clear Lake, don’t want her to make the connection—or worse yet, not make the connection. And, mostly, I’m enjoying myself for the first time in months. I don’t want things to get weird. “I mean, not entirely. But…well, you know…mostly.”

“You don’t sound very sure, about that,” she says, lips twitching as she grins. “But not to worry. There’s an easy way to tell if you count as local. Just answer one question for me. Do you identify as a Napkin—yes or no?”

“Fuck, no.” I stare at her, appalled. “Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you even asked that.”

Legs gurgles with laughter. “And there you have it. Definitive proof.”

“Of what?”

“Of your status as a local. Obvs!”

“Why’s that? Because I think Napkin is a stupid name for Napa residents?”

“Nooo. Because you’ve clearly heard the term before, and you have strong feelings about it. Your actual opinion isn’t the deciding factor. There are people who live here who do use it to describe themselves, you know.”

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