Sips: A Violent Wednesday

Chaos, anchovies and bad behaviour.

It’s date night. First date night, third date night, even last date night. There’s an electricity in the air that, at 5pm, feels exciting, but at 10pm turns violent.

A couple comes in early, they take a seat outside at the window. They stay until we close and order six bottles of wine between the two of them. At some point, the man moves to the bar and starts trying to have a conversation with me, but by his seventh glass of wine, his voice has reached a pitch that I’m struggling to endure without wincing, so I take a fake bathroom break.

His partner is sitting outside with a friend. There have been many ‘friends’ this evening. People walking past the bar who know the couple and stop for a chat. They come in, sheepishly, and ask for a glass to scoop some free wine, have a few and then leave. Each one has seemed close to the couple, as though they’re old friends. But old friends who haven’t stayed in touch and want to make sure they’re still important and thought of. They bark loudly at jokes and hug too effusively. It seems suspicious.

The man comes inside to take his seat at the bar, and orders another bottle, this time seemingly for himself. I sense a sourness. The night has turned.

I have a sip of Grenache Blanc and it tastes like rock. The kind that breaks off in sheets and shifts geological patterns.

His partner comes in to join him at the bar. They start talking. Softly, at first, but then very loudly. He starts telling her she’s been flirting with the man she was sitting with outside, how she “already has a lift home, it seems,” how she is shameless. Their friends who’ve stayed turn around and I realise they aren’t really their friends. They’re just people who vaguely recognise them and feel like some wine. When he’s finished, he turns to speak at the girl next to him. He tells her how he hasn’t always been this generous, how he hasn’t always been this rich. She smiles and says, “Really? Wow” and sips more of her glass of Vinum as she turns away. I make eye contact with her, to let her know I’m there and I see her. His partner’s eyes are swimming, and I struggle to catch them.

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A woman comes in and orders a glass of Sons of Sugarland Barbera and the lamb. She sits at the long table in the corner. She’s working on something and it seems serious. I admire her. Serious work deserves to be taken out for a wine and a meal. It deserves to be witnessed by others. I want to know what she’s writing in her spinal notebook and I resolve to ask her but then she comes up and asks to pay and I lose my nerve. On her table she’s left a napkin with tiny writing on it. I grab it, thinking it’s full of secrets or even a note and it’s both and neither. It’s sprawled with facts about American poets. Adrienne Rich “In America we have only the present tense” and Emily Dickinson “Hope is the thing with feathers” and Robert Lowell. Timelines of their lives, quotes and arrows, reasons. For a moment, I want to cherish it. To stick it up on the wall, this serious work. But then someone asks me what whites I have by the glass and whether we use the big ice in our negroni.

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I’m hungry and it’s a slow night so I order a plate of white anchovies with sliced sourdough. I take my time with them, cutting each tiny fillet in half, and scooping it onto the sourdough that I’ve been soaking in the oil and vinegar. I have to remind myself that people can see me eating, so I try not to look like I’m enjoying myself so much. This is difficult. It’s the perfect snack.

We run out of wine. First the Grenache Noir that, on first sip, tastes of bay leaves but then tastes of wild berries. Then it’s the Envinate Benje Red, that tastes of smoke and plums. It hasn’t been the most popular, because it confuses people, but I think that’s the point. A man asks me what the grape is. “It’s a Spanish grape, Listan Prieto,” “No. I asked you what the GRAPE is,” “Yes I know. Listan Prieto is the grape.” He asks for two glasses and turns abruptly.

Being a counter service bar, there are plenty of opportunities for me to be belligerent. If you order a bottle of wine and walk away, the wine will stay on the counter until you come and fetch it. If you walk in and don’t take notice of me placing two glasses on the bar after I've smiled and made eye contact with you, those glasses will remain empty. Plus, there’s a giant PLEASE ORDER AT THE BAR sign.

But, being a counter service bar, there are also plenty of opportunities to talk to people. Nice people. Interested people. A man and a woman come in and seem excited to be there. It’s quiet, so I spend some time giving them a few tastes of our wines by the glass. They taste the Benje and are taken by it, not because they love it, but because they can’t seem to pin it down.

“I’m getting some handbag,” the woman says. “Yes! Leather! But fresh leather?” I ask. I also can’t pin it down. For the past two weeks, I’ve tasted it during every shift, and each time I get something new. Last week it was juicy, and sour. This week it’s sour and metallic. They order the Pinot Noir and the Cab Franc. I can’t tell what their relationship is to each other. They seem close and comfortable, like old friends, maybe uni friends, or they’ve travelled together. They seem to have so much to say and for a moment, I feel jealous of them.

For their second glass they order The Liberator, by Minimalist Wines. It’s not my favourite, but it’s a good last glass. A medium bodied blend of Syrah, Grenache and Mourvèdre. It’s plums and dark berries and spice. They ask me what I do outside of the bar which is a difficult question right now, so I fumble through the last two years of poor decision making to land on “Writing, wine bar-ing and ceramics teaching." They both have very kind eyes, so I feel safe telling them that I’m basically starting over. They ask me for book recommendations based on my Master’s thesis and I get too excited and tell them the plot to A Certain Hunger. I hope they still read it, and I hope they come back.

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A man falls asleep at the bar. My manager decides to wake him up at closing by dropping the ice scoop on the stainless steel table. He starts and I laugh. He wasn’t very nice to me, or anyone else, and my tolerance for drunk people is low by 11pm. He stumbles out as we’re bringing the chairs inside. He looks ashamed. I wish he was more ashamed when he was telling a girl at the bar to marry him or grabbing another girl’s shoulder, or when we told him it was time to pay his bill and go home. But he just giggled to himself and fell asleep on his chest.

I didn’t think this kind of thing happened at wine bars, thinking people surely can’t get that drunk on natural wine alone. But then I kick myself for being naive and close the security gate behind him.