Page 29 of Que Será, Syrah

“Yeah. And you know who they are, right? They’re the same people who open bougie restaurants that only tourists eat in.”

“Well, yes, that’s quite possible. But that just proves my point. They obviously feel just as strongly that it’s a good name for us.”

“And what do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t count,” she says, shrugging it off so quickly, that I find myself frowning.

“I can’t imagine that’s true. In what way?”

“I’ve been away too long. I’ve got the whole, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ thing going on. I was homesick and learned to appreciate all the stupid little things that used to irritate me. Which, I’d like to think was what my uncle intended when he shipped me off to Italy; although I’m not convinced it was.”

Before I can question her further, our server returns with our drinks. Allegra spends the next several moments sniffing and sipping and swirling her wine. She even pulls out her phone to take a picture and make some quick notes.

“Sorry,” she says when she notices my surprise. “But I’ve been thinking of starting a wine blog. We don’t have any of our own wine to blog about yet, but I figure maybe I can start off talking about other local wines, as a way to build an audience ahead of time. After all, it’s never too soon to start branding.”

“If you say so.” Lifting my glass in a small toast, I say, “Hey, maybe I should start one, too. I could highlight local beers.”

Her eyes are twinkling as she raises them to meet my gaze. “A Napa based beer blog? Wow. You really like to buck the trend, don’t you?”

Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know the half of it. But that’s a dangerous thought, so I keep it to myself.

“You know,” she says after a moment. “Here’s a thought. There is a winery-slash-brewery operating right in downtown Napa. I’ve been meaning to check it out. Maybe we could go there for our first tasting. Afterwards, we could both blog about it, or do a joint video, or… Oh. Wait a sec.” She pauses, her eyes going wide. “What if we did a collab? It could maybe even be a regular feature where we could both talk about the same wine or beer from two different perspectives. Like a ‘he said, she said’ sort of thing. I bet people would find that interesting.”

I’m sure my bosses would find it extremely interesting; I think to myself. And not in a good way.

Thankfully, it’s at this point that our food arrives, and I’m spared the trouble of having to explain that I’d only been joking about the blog. That commenting on specific, local businesses when I should at least be preserving the appearance of neutrality is a whole lot more than merely ‘bucking the trend’. It’d be more like career suicide.

Allegra snaps a few more pictures, and then we settle in to eat. I have my own version of her “are you a local?” test—a non-verbal one, which she passes by not even hesitating to pick up her tostada with her hands.

“Good?” I ask, amused by the happy little noises she’s making.

“So good,” she responds between bites. “How’s yours?”

“Also good,” I say. The meat is perfectly smoked, with just the right amount of heat from the chipotle glaze. The blue corn tortillas are pillowy perfection, and the paper-thin sliced radishes add a note of crispy, spicy freshness. Before I think better of it, I find myself asking, “Wanna bite?”

She’s chewing, so she doesn’t answer right away, but the calculating look in her eyes makes me wary. Too intimate, I think to myself, as she puts down her tostada and carefully wipes her fingers clean. Too much like a date.

“On one condition,” she says at last, then quickly amends, “Two conditions. If I can also try your beer, and if you’ll try my pairing as well, and let me know what you think.”

“Fair enough,” I say as I hand her my plate. She pushes hers across the table. We exchange drinks, and dig back in.

The tostada is also excellent. The crab is sweet and buttery, the avocado and crema are offset by fresh green notes from the jalapeno and cilantro—but that’s all as I’d expected. The wine, on the other hand, is a revelation. It’s got…a weight to it and a creaminess. Almost like a Stout, except that (of course) it tastes nothing at all like a Stout. What it also doesn’t taste like is anything at all like my memory of what a typical white wine tastes like. Cheap. Generic. Yep, the lady may have a point.

“Well?” she asks, after I’ve gone back for a second sip. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right,” I say as I hand her the glass, and we go back to our original dishes. “I think I could learn to tell wines apart.”

Not that I will, of course, because…well, I don’t know how far I’d get on my own. I’m pretty sure I’d need assistance from someone like her. And that’s never going to happen.

In fact, none of the things that she’s suggested tonight—not the blogging, or the collaborating, or the hanging out with each other at wineries or breweries or whatever—are ever going to happen. At least not in the foreseeable future.

Still, she’s nodding happily. So rather than saying any of that and spoiling the mood, I say the first thing that pops into my head. Typically, it’s also about the dumbest move I could make.

“So how did you end up going to Europe,” I ask. “You said it had something to do with your uncle?”

I don’t miss the flicker of pain in her eyes, the way her smile dims ever so slightly at the mention. This is a mistake; I tell myself as my heart begins to pound. Am I about to learn the answers to the questions that have plagued me for the past five interminable years, the reasons why she ghosted me without a word? Will dredging up those memories cause her to put two and two together and realize who I am?

And how the hell do I respond to it, if she does?

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