A
Note from Sergio
Last week,
my brother Sal called to check in. He lives
with his family in Scottsdale and we rarely
get to see each other, but we talk on the phone
at least three times a week.
"So what's the next place
you're jetting off to–Aspen? Palm Beach?"
he asked. Sal knows that most of my days are
spent staring at numbers on my computer in my
fluorescent-lit back office next to the store's
packing facilities, but he likes to make fun
of the more glamorous aspects of my job-especially
the fact that my staff and I present wine dinners
around the country. That weekend, I was holding
one for 132 people in California. I had been
sitting in my office contemplating the wine
list when he called.
"Sonoma," I said.
"I'm actually trying to decide what to
give them."
"Oh, wine country,"
he said. "I have a lot of friends out there.
Can I give you some advice? Those people really
do not want a challenge."
"That's probably true,"
I said.
"Give them Chianti and
Super Tuscans and they'll leave happy,"
he said.
"Right," I said. "Okay,
thanks."
"Oh no," Sal said.
He knew what he'd done.
He was probably remembering
all the times he'd given me some simple, common
sense advice over the past 38 years. Like the
time he told me to ride the souped-up dirt bike
around, not over, that pile of rocks,
or the time he warned me not to break open that
aerosol paint can with a hammer, or the time
he told me not to congratulate Lisa Waltzer
on her pregnancy. As the result of his suggestions,
I had received, respectively, a broken arm,
a torso stained industrial green, and a curt
"I'm not expecting." He knew
that I'd only do the opposite of what he said.
"You're going to make things
hard for yourself, aren't you?" he said.
But what's the fun of having
a dinner if you can't introduce people to new,
interesting things? And what's the fun of giving
a lecture if you can't talk about obscure varietals?
And what's the fun of having a big brother if
you can't at least try to prove him wrong? I
scratched out Chianti on my notepad: I'd be
showing these Californians some stuff they'd
never seen before.
I left my apartment at 5:45
am on Friday and my VP Chris and I flew to San
Francisco. On the plane, he looked over the
menu we'd planned.
"This is a little...esoteric,"
he said.
After a two hour drive, we reached
the venue. My chefs Katherine and Daniel had
been preparing dinner since Wednesday, and the
dining room looked beautiful. Soon, attendees
began filing in. I knew many of them-some from
San Diego, some from as far away as Hawaii and
Chicago. Everyone was hungry and excited, myself
included.
We began with antipasti misti-assorted
appetizers-paired with Ruggeri NV Prosecco and
Bruno Verdi 2005 Sangue di Giuda. As everyone
ate happily, nodding at me in delight, I scanned
the room with pride. Take that, Sal,
I thought, I think that after this many years
in the business, I know what people want; they
want novelty, they want excitement, they want-
I felt a small pointy finger
poke me on the shoulder. "Excuse me,"
said its owner.
I turned around and looked down.
A stout woman with a short gray bob stood looking
at me. "Yes?" I said. Another satisfied
guest, I thought. I readied myself for a
compliment or two.
"Your red wine was cold
and sparkling," she said flatly.
Another chance to educate
an eager student, I thought. All in a
day's work. "Yes, it was sparkling.
You see, it's a Sangue di Giuda, and it's meant-"
"Red wine shouldn't be
sparkling," she said, and walked away.
I gulped; we had a problem.
In the early '90s, when I was
working in the restaurant business, I learned
that people go to restaurants for many different
reasons: Some go to enjoy the food or the ambiance;
others go to celebrate or to conduct business;
and a select few get dressed up, make a hefty
withdrawal at the ATM, and hail a cab to a fine
establishment with the single-minded goal of
taking all their frustrations-failed marriage,
crappy day at work, mom never told them she
loved them, they hated their thighs-out on the
staff.
"We have a live one,"
someone would say, and that's when a good serving
team would whip itself into shape. In this situation,
you employed a complicated and sophisticated
combination of techniques to make them happy
despite themselves. In the same way that even
the most savage dog can be tamed by a talented
and experienced trainer, even the most furious
diner can be treated to a delightful meal by
a skilled and insightful wait staff.
But I had been out of that game
for over a decade, and I couldn't quite remember
how to handle an unhappy client. This was unfortunate,
because I also recalled a lesson I learned in
my consulting days: if you don't change the
miserable customer's attitude, they'll inevitably
make everyone in a 100-foot radius miserable,
too.
I watched helplessly as the
pasta course came out: Spaghetti with bottarga,
parsley, and lemon, paired with Movia 2002 Pinot
Grigio and Ferrando 2004 Erbaluce di Caluso.
I walked around the room. "This
is great," one woman said. "I've never
had anything that tasted so different but that
I liked so much," said another. "We
can't wait for our next course," a man
said. Then I got to the gray-haired woman's
table.
"If this is a Pinot Grigio,
why doesn't it taste like one?" she asked,
her brow furrowed.
"That's an interesting
question. The producer took time and care to
work with the varietal, so-"
"Pinot Grigio should taste
like Pinot Grigio," she said. The rest
of her table seemed to be caught in her thrall.
None of them would make eye contact with me.
I had a sinking feeling that this person might
be patient zero in an epidemic of dissatisfaction.
I felt helpless; if she didn't like these incredible
wines, what could I do?
I sat at my table and surreptitiously
glanced at her. When the pappardelle with braised
wild rabbit was served with Fattoria La Rivolta
2001 Aglianico del Talburno, and Cos 2003 Cerasuolo
di Vittoria, she rolled her eyes.
"Maybe she'll get drunk
and forget about it," Chris said, taking
pity on me; he knew that even one irritated
person was one too many for me.
"The amount she's drinking
wouldn't get a fruit fly buzzed," I said.
Out came the roasted prawns
with stewed cannellini beans, Dettori 2001 Tuderi,
and Ada Nada 2001 Barbaresco Cichin. I could
have sworn she glared at me.
"It's just one lady,"
Chris said. "Everyone else loves everything."
Then the waiters served braised
short ribs with mascarpone polenta and horseradish
gremolata, Quintarelli 1997 Ca' del Merlo, and
Il Poggione 1999 Brunello Riserva. She sniffed
the glass. I couldn't hear what she was saying
but I was pretty sure she was plotting her final,
intricate critique.
As everyone finished up with
a flourless chocolate cake, assorted biscotti,
and Felsina 1997 Vin Santo, I planned my exit.
On the plus side, the woman's displeasure seemed,
miraculously, not to have spread throughout
the room. But I still felt a little defeated-
I'd lost my ability to change someone's experience,
and, worse, I'd proved Sal right. I had 131
happy people in a room, but the only one I was
thinking about was that lone unhappy one.
As I walked through the crowd,
shaking hands and saying goodbye, I felt that
pointy finger on my shoulder again. Drat,
I thought, Caught. All I wanted was to
go home, watch the US-Italy game, and drown
my sorrows by playing Star Wars with my four-year-old
(a medical-grade anxiety release). But instead,
I had to hear her out.
"I only like Chardonnay
and my husband only drinks Pinot Noir,"
she said crossly. "I'm too old to start
drinking wines I never heard of before."
"Fair enough," I said.
I wasn't even going to try. I waited for the
dagger.
"I'll be honest: I resisted,"
she continued. "But you know what? Even
I have to admit it: Those wines weren't just
different-they were also remarkable." She
put her small hand on my shoulder. "Good
job, kid," she said. "Do you ship?"
"Of course," I sputtered.
"Well, then send us a case,"
she said.
I called Sal as soon as we got
in the car.
"So, how'd it go?"
he asked. "Did they demand their Chardonnay?"
"We had a 100% success
rate," I said. "They loved everything-even
the most obscure stuff."
"Really?" he said.
After a few moments he added, "In Hamlet
a father gives advice to his son as he leaves
home for good, and as he leaves, the father
says, "to thine own self be true, And it
must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst
not then be false to any man."
"Yup," I said. "I
can't do but what I do. And this time I knew
it all along."
And it's true, except for the
"all along part," but that's a minor
detail. So this week, in honor of that lesson,
which I learn all over again every time I witness
someone taste something innovative and excellent,
I'm suggesting a few mixed cases of "different"
wines. Because I figure that if I could please
that gray-haired lady, then pleasing you should
be a cinch.
My best,
Sergio Esposito
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