You see, it was one of chilly late November afternoons, the kind where you’re already longing for a speedy return of those hot summer days you complained so much about. I was feverishly working my pencil down to the nub, massaging numbers on an impossible cost proposal for an ambitious project and a demanding client. That’s just about when I received an intruding tweet that read “Beaujolais tonight 18:00#wine.” Who sent it, I was a little irritated. I could not imagine which of my dear friends was trying to funny or worse cute. My attempting to reverse engineer the message just led me down one empty alley after another on the tweeting super highway from Hell.
I was bothered, yes but yet intrigued after all the mysterious sender was somehow knowingly tempting me with red wine. That’s serious business where I come from. But where was I supposed to go? A restaurant or private party? Or was it someone’s idea of a bad joke. As if reading my mind, a second tweet arrived,”X marks the spot#wine.” I was confused, apprehensive. I wondered, could this be an international agent reaching out for my priceless recipes, baiting me with wine? Had my recipes risen in such value that people were now resorting to stealing? Who could be the culprit? Was it the little man who called himself “Chan” the one I saw every morning when I purchased my cup of Java? Or maybe it was that exotic looking young lady at my book store who always seemed more than just a little interested in my crazy cuisine project. I thought a moment longer, there was also a British couple who lived one floor above me, he’s Indian I believe, charming fellow really, but I bet he could handle a curved dagger across my throat with about as much ease as saying “jolly good of you, ol’ chap.” My list of conspirators was growing by leaps and bounds. A third tweet interrupted my thoughts, “you should leave your office soon.” They were watching me! I looked around, the office was empty, I peered out into the street but only saw the faceless rush hour crowds on their way home.
I pulled on my hat and overcoat and decided to take the stairs rather than the elevator. I didn’t want to leave my head on the fifth floor and my body on the lobby level. I’m particular about certain things like that. Out I went into the madding crowd matching umbrellas against umbrellas, mine with multiple spokes showing, gave me a clear advantage in forging my way ahead. Once home I checked my mail and there it was, a small envelope that obviously had been slipped in the letter box. Inside, an invitation, you are invited to an Xceptional Nouveau Beaujolais Wine Tasting Soiree, formal attire suggested. Below was the address, 1603 Spaniard’s Neck Lane. I knew the area but not that well. It was quaint part of town, slightly Bohemian and near the water. Definitely an interesting address.
I hailed a cab and gave him the address. The cabbie looked at me “you sure that’s where you’re going mister?” “That’s right” I answered. “Is there a problem?” “Not for me there ain’t.”
He let me out on the corner, I paid him and before I could manage a tip, he disappeared into the night fog. Spaniard’s Neck Lane was barely wide enough for one car to pass let alone two. I listened quietly for a moment and heard the muffled sound of music which only grew louder as I neared my destination. The occasional sound of high pitch laughter, the clinking of glass and the umistakable sound of French music, I thought I recognized Aznavour. I pressed the bell and waited then pressed it twice, this time longer. Finally the door was answered by a young lady who asked for the password, thinking for a slit second, I replied quickly “Beaujolais Nouveau.” She giggled, “Mai oui, perfect Monsieur, please come on in and join the party.” I was in!
It was all there and more. Opulence at its finest. I had only imagined places like this. It was as if I have ventured into a turn of the century mansion fitted out with chandeliers and silver everywhere, thick Persian rugs, painting and portraits adorned the walls. No sooner had I stepped into the crowded living room than a butler presented me with a glass of Nouveau. Seeing her standing there just like that made me catch my breadth for just a second. There she was on a silver platter in a delicate fluted crystal glass looking at me, smiling, new and as charming as she could be. She knew what she was doing. I tempted fate and dared to bring her closer to me, to risk a whiff of her aroma. It was captivating, an exotic combination of forest fruits with notes of ripe wild strawberries. I inhaled, deeper this time noting beautiful scents of red currants, and occasionally almost teasingly, vine peach aromas. With a nod of appreciation, I brought her to my lips and exulted in the very full body, voluptuous, generous and bountiful flavors that filled my mouth. I screamed silently with joy. Yesssss! I was somewhere in heaven, that much I knew for sure and far away from Spaniard’s Neck Lane.