Sips: The last rigatoni

Also, who the fuck is Wesley?

“Hi yeah, we’re looking for something with not too much oak, but like a bit of oak, but also some minerality like salinity you know? And also some under-ripe acidity — it has to be under-ripe or else I will get indigestion. Oh and it also mustn’t be too floral, thanks!”

“…Maybe you should try a blend?”

They tried the blend and loved it. The blend was neither oaky, nor floral, but they still nodded with earnest approval and said “Wow, exactly what we wanted. Fantastic.”

A woman asks for a taste of skin contact Chenin, then another taste of the Grenache Blanc. Then another taste of Chenin, not skin contact. Then she asks for a taste of Cinsault, and then of Grenache Noir and lastly, she asks for a taste of the Cab Sav. Then she orders half a glass of the first wine she tasted and says ‘I’m driving!’ Well, you’ve just had half a glass worth of tasters lady, and you’re not kidding anyone.

A man told me the Force Celeste Cinsault was too ‘malolactic’ and I had to quickly look up what ‘malolactic’ meant on my phone. It’s when wine tastes buttery. The Force Celeste Cinsault is definitely not buttery, it tastes like a cherry Fizz Pop, but I said ‘Okay’ and gave him the imports wine list. He then ordered a bottle of French wine because, “Ah, it’s just what I’m used to, all this South African wine, I don’t know, it just feels you know, not so interesting.”

The bar is full of German and Dutch people. Everyone’s asking me for recommendations for dinner, lunch, swim spots, cocktails. I like telling people to go to the Gin Bar for a martini, and NYB for a bagel. I tell them to go to South Yeaster for a croissant, to Maggy Lou’s for breakfast, to Ouzeri for dinner and to House of Machines for a negroni (hot take). Everyone is either coming from a week on safari, or going to a week ‘in the bush’. I’m realising how many people come to Cape Town with no plan and no clue.

An almost daily exchange:

“So, what language do you speak usually?”

“English,” I respond with my very South African-Capetonian English accent.

“Oh, not Afrikaans?”

“No, I speak English.”

“Ah, but most people speak Afrikaans right? And for Afrikaans people, things aren’t so good for them here?”

“That’s actually very wrong. Stop believing everything Trump says,” is what I want to say, and do.

I find myself telling Americans to please stop giving me their cards every time they want to pay. PSA to Americans: No one else does this. The thought of giving a stranger my bank card gives me hives. Please don’t put the responsibility of your CVV number on me.

I order a plate of pickles from Chef and ask him for extra sugar snap peas because he pickles them in rice wine vinegar and they make me feel alive.

A woman comes in and elbows her way to the bar. She orders a glass of bubbles and when I ask her if she wants to start a tab, she yells over the noise, “I’M WITH WESLEY!” and runs off. Who the fuck is Wesley?

Another lady comes to the bar and before she orders, whips out her mascara and starts applying it with no mirror. She’s incredibly adept at this and looks fabulous. I allow her to take her time before ordering and give her plenty of tastes.

I watch a lady eating only the crusts off the sourdough and dip them into the whipped butter and think she’s a genius. Then I think of asking Chef for some butter so that I can dip my pickles into it, but before I can, a man makes eye contact with me and raises his eyebrows up and down up and down in quick succession which is the universal signal for ‘I want more wine.’

He wants a rosé, which is boring so I’m bored, but when I start pouring him a taste, he grabs the wine bottle out of my hand, spilling more than a few drops on the bar counter. Suddenly I’m not so bored anymore and look directly at him, saying nothing.

“What wine is this???” He asks looking skeptically at the bottle of very pink wine.

“The rosé. We only have one on by the glass.”

“Ah! It doesn’t look like a French rosé?”

“That’s because it isn’t,” I say as I pour him a glass, no taster.

Three women come for dinner and a few glasses of wine. They share an order of the rigatoni, broccolini and the white anchovies. At first, I can’t tell if they’re friends or work colleagues, but when they ‘finish’ their pasta, it’s clear they’re not friends. There’s one lone rigatoni left and no one is eating it. Fifteen minutes go by and still, it lies there waiting to be put out of its misery (to put me out of my misery). After half an hour, I can’t avoid it any longer. I’ve cleared all their other plates and glasses, but I’ve purposely left the rigatoni in front of them, as a test. No one eats it. I pick up the plate, put it down in the scullery and think to myself, “What a waste.”

This incident gnaws at me, because it’s not the first time. It’s not even the second time. It happens with everything — the pasta, the charcuterie, the anchovies, the olives! No one says, “Can I have the last ____?” Or, “Anyone want the last slice of bread?” It just lies there, evidence of an uncomfortable friendship, diet culture and shame. On occasion, I’ve asked the table when clearing plates, ‘Are you still working on this?’ as I gesture towards a cheese and charcuterie board with one pathetic slice of salami left. “Oh! No no no. We’re STUFFED! Please, take it away.” God forbid being hungry.

I taste a wine that smells round and briny and tastes like a salt pan. I taste another wine that smells of thyme and tastes like clementine skin. I make a habit of drinking a negroni at 9pm to get me through to the end of shift. When I sip it, I invariably get a few comments, mostly from men, along the lines of ‘Ooh, drinking on the job are we?’ and I respond with a “Yes. You too can work in a wine bar if you want to drink on the job.” (I don’t, but I wish I do.)

I realise how much people expect of me. They have a bad day and they want me to make it better. They have a good day and they want me to validate it. They feel bad for having a wine on a Tuesday and they want me to commiserate with them. They’re unhappy with their jobs, they poke holes in mine. Bartenders are the last stop for people on their way home. Whatever they don’t get from their day, they seek from us. Some days, it’s just conversation and on these days, I love my job. Other days, people just want to speak at me and when I respond, they’re surprised. The worst days are when people expect me to be invisible. I see a couple deliberating on the wine list for longer than usual, so I go up to them and ask if they’d like a suggestion. They look at me for a second too long before saying, “No, we don’t need your suggestion. We’ll have two glasses of the whatever-they-have.” Firstly, rude. But also, I realise that some people really do only come to bars to be served, and not to be in community with other people — or at the very least, their bartender.

After I serve them their wine and leave them the fuck alone, I catch the eye of a regular who, with wide-eyes, pans to the mean couple and then back to me and mouths “WHAT DICKS” and my utopian hope is restored: that people do actually leave the house at night to be joyful with other people.