I tried to hide my disgust and keep hold of my professionalism. “I’ll find something for your cat. Jeffrey, right?”
“Yes, Jeffrey. Named him myself. Pick something good, okay? He meows on most of your picks, but last week he was pretty quiet.”
Well, fuck me, Jeffrey’s disrespectful ass didn’t like my songs.
A part of me wanted to defend my honor, but I’d grown tired of this cat soap opera. “I have something that Jeffrey will like. Best of luck to the both of you, and I appreciate you listening.”
I typed a message to Jamie and requested “What’s New Pussycat?”
Grabbing the marker while Tom Jones lulled Jeffrey to catnap land, I drew an upside down “L,” the post for a stick man to hang from. Next, I drew the head, the body, and the arm.
A red flashing light signaled the next caller, and this time, Jamie preemptively covered her mouth and clutched her stomach. Great. I cradled my head and massaged my temples. Tonight was going to be a long one.
CHAPTER 2
The Nose Knows—Kara
“Dried green apples. Lime and melon and mango. Ripe.” I swirled the glass and dipped my nose to sniff and sleuth out the golden liquid’s history. “Green pineapple. Freshly cut grass. There’s definitely a green theme here.”
“Cut out the commentary and focus, Kara. Go with the system.”
Dipping my head to acknowledge my crotchety mentor, I continued my practice exam. “The wine is clear, bright. Medium intensity.” My fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. I inhaled the aromas and took a deep gulp. I swooshed the wine, using my taste buds to take it all in. After forming the story, I spat the wine into a plastic container. “This wine is dry with a chalky note. This wine has flowers, white flowers,” I clarified quickly, knowing that Roddy would chew me out after the practice exam. I took another swirl and spat. “No evidence of oak. Green herbal notes. Medium acidity. Nicely structured. This wine is from a cooler region, possibly somewhere in France.” Pausing from my assessment, I took another sip. “This wine is from Northern France, the Loire Valley. Sauvignon blanc. Produced in 2012.”
Taking a deep breath, I moved on to the trio of red wines, utilizing my deductive tasting techniques.
Roddy grunted and nodded his bald, shiny head in approval. “Nicely done. But I’m not surprised. You’ve got a good nose, and you’ve already passed the service and theory portions of the test.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned away from the table. “Have you been practicing blind tasting outside of our meetings?”
With everything else in my life, I was Superman, but blind testing was my archnemesis, my kryptonite, and I acted like a weak-kneed, nose-bleeding swooner when it was waved in my direction.
I knew the theory, in theory, but it always tripped me up during my exams. “Yes. I’ve got my taste cards in my purse.” I patted my slender crossbody Coach bag that mostly held my three-by-five notecards.
“Good. Study with Eduardo, Claudia, and Martin. They’re hungry and talented and will make good partners. You’ll be ready to take the test next year.”
Pretending to pluck lint from the pristine white linen table, I avoided his keen blue eyes. Kevin, the head server for Pie Squared, a five-star Italian restaurant, milled about the tables, setting up to open at noon.
“Hi, Kevin.” I waved at my colleague.
Kevin smiled and looked as if he was coming over, but after a quick glance at Roddy, the slender waiter pivoted.
Wuss.
“Kara,” Roddy leaned closer, lowering his eyebrows to a father-knows-best stare, “tell me you are taking the Master Sommelier Exam next year.”
A bitter black coffee taste blasted my mouth. I couldn’t blame the tannins from the wine, it was the fear of the test—this Herculean task had bested me three times over. “I . . . I’m not sure if I’m ready.”
Roddy’s beet-red face moved closer to me. This time I leaned away.
“Then why in the hell are we here practicing? Why did I get up from my warm bed and warmer wife, drag my carcass downtown to quiz you on this shit? You think I have time for a wishy-washy somm who’s afraid of her own shadow?” His voice rose with each word.
I wasn’t prepared to go to blows with my mentor, but I wasn’t going to let him chew me up and spit me out like the rest of the trainees either. This man made Gordon Ramsay seem like Father Frank, my sweet old Catholic priest.
Gearing up for battle, I mentally played “Eye of the Tiger” and dropped my voice to sound cool, firm, and confident. “Roddy. I’ve taken the test three times already, with two years in between. I’m just being cautious and giving myself time to prepare.” I gave him the small, practiced smile I usually gave to my know-it-all wine patrons and reveled in my quick win. He couldn’t argue with logic.
“What’s in your head, girl?” He tapped a wrinkle on his forehead. “What happened to that young lady who practically harassed me to hire her because she’d read in Wine Enthusiast that I was the best and she refused to be taught by anyone less than the best?”
I didn’t need his lecture. I wanted to swipe a bottle of wine, take it home, and not spit it back into a bucket. But when Roddy was on a roll, he was on a roll, and there would be no victories for me today. I could not win this battle.
Roddy’s meaty hand slapped the table. The glasses clattered from the force. “And who was the young woman who bet me a thousand bucks that she would become an Advanced Sommelier in a year?” His voice rumbled like an old Chevy engine.
That was easy money. I was young, cocky, and thought I could take over the world. Now I was an old worrier, if you considered thirty-two being old. That was all before I’d buried someone I’d loved. That Kara was fun and energetic—now I checked the weather, listened to podcasts and NPR, and thought about hitting fifty and taking advantage of AARP discounts.
He didn’t wait for my answer. “And who was featured as one of the top ten sommeliers on the rise?”
I shivered remembering the photo of seven white men, two white women, and my token black ass grinning in the middle. The photographer for the magazine had forced me to smile. Can’t be black and unhappy. And of course the interview questions they asked me and only me were about diversity in the industry and not about my experience as a wine expert. “Why don’t more black people pursue this career?”
“Oh, I don’t know. After trying to catch up from four hundred years of enslavement, Jim Crow laws, segregation, and other forms of inequality, some of us don’t quite have time to think about tannins and acidity.”
The editor didn’t print my quote. It’s not that I thought my career was unimportant, and I loved doing what I do, but let’s be real; I wasn’t saving lives, just food pairings.
Roddy, however, believed wine was life, and although I was feeling a bit spicy today, I thought it prudent not to share my negative experience with my mentor. “Yes, that was me.” I raised my hand. “Top ten sommeliers on the rise. And I’m still right here, Roddy.”
“No, you’re a damn ghost! And you have been ever since your mother, God rest her soul, passed on.”
A sharp pain struck my chest. I knew this. Since my mother passed nearly two years ago, I lacked motivation, creativity, and zest. Being a sommelier required storytelling, and one needed to have a certain je ne sais quoi.