"Hello, my name is Mark and I am a wine snob..."

Or, The harmful effects of the Boston Wine Expo

I have come to a dangerous conclusion of my character. After yet another stressful day at work, I shrugged off my coat, left my shoes at the door still clinging onto one sock in desperation, and pour a glass of Merlot. I take a sip, swallow, and stare at the bottle in despair. The last of my stash from the holidays, it was a gift from my boss and has a crow on the label. And my praise stops there. I take another sip in hopes that it was a fluke--a bad sip--but the second one tastes the same. I used to be able to drink anything short of vinegar as long as it was made from grapes. I pour the glass out into the sink and look at my corked bottle as the realization sets in. I have finally become a wine snob.

Clearly the blame can be placed at Kelly's feet. The day of the Boston Wine Expo, he wakes me up extra early so that we can shower, dress, and grab a quick bite to eat before the unwashed masses take over the convention center. The massive blue room is broken down into grids, squares of tables arranged by country, wine produced, items sold, food. I snap my plastic badge onto by belt loop. "GUEST OF Kelly..." it screams above a bright orange bar proudly announcing "TRADE VIP" with its chest puffed out and fists on hips. "Oh great, now people are going to want to talk to me," Kelly says as he looks at his own badge with his restaurant under his name. His face says he's miffed, but I don't believe it. The man behind us mentions that we shouldn't miss the Barefoot table, and Kelly snorts. "Don't worry, we will," he says.

We grab our glasses and Kelly darts off as if he is trying to lose me. He pauses at the tables to see what's there, but darts as soon as it's clear he won't drink anything. We start with Prosecco and a sweeter white before dashing off to try some hearty reds. Cards are exchanged at every table we stop at for more than two glasses. Kelly cherry-picks vintages and varietals and shakes hands. I swallow a few of the whites, but spend the rest of the morning trying to master the spit bucket. Leaning over, I feel as if I just finished brushing my teeth and it looks like I cut a gum. Holding the bucket up closer has the dangerous risk of splash-back if the bucket is full, with one attempt ending in frantic scrubbing of my face with water and a napkin from the cheese table. It's only after our 20th table that I find the perfect height to hold the bucket (chest level) and the velocity to spit (just enough force to jet the wine like I'm a drunken fountain loose from my pedestal).

Running to the back, Kelly gasps at the square of tables tucked away forgotten before the seminar rooms. "Ooh, Greek wine," he says. The woman behind the table gets Kel's card and spends our time at her booth chasing him from bottle to bottle. "We would love to interview you for local carriers that feature our wines," she says with a whisper of desperation behind her earnest smile. Kelly promises to take her call and we sip the first, a Santorini. Sharp and clear, it tastes like nothing I have ever had before. I swallow it wishing I could get a second glass without seeming greedy. The people behind the table present each wine with a story--grape vines grown into basket shapes to protect the delicate fruit, clay slopes the color of brick that must be snacked on by the people visiting for the first time. Each wine from the first to the ending samples of Samos are perfect and make everything else seem lesser in comparison. Oh sure, the Georgia [the country, not the state] table was very good, but nothing else felt on par with the Greek wine. "You should blog about this and call it 'It's all Greek to me'!" Kelly says.

We pause for a seminar featuring most of Kelly's friends. But after an intelligent discussion (with one yahoo dominating a small part of it), I feel the morning catching up with me. My mouth gets dry from the many tastings and spittings. My gums are woolly and my teeth feel a little filmy. I grab a glass of water to rinse and continue on to the Grand Cru lounge, which has fewer wines at a higher price that don't speak to me at all (the best item there was the wine cookies that were designed to cleanse the pallet between tastings). By the end, I am tired, drained, and educated.

I plug the bottle of red in my kitchen and hope that it can be saved to cook with, but I have a feeling it won't. As they always say, you should cook with what you like to drink...and I apparently like to drink something of substance.

No. 9

Evie's boobs are so exposed that they are almost the fourth member of our dinner party. Her hair is still salon shiny and she nurses three drinks: a cocktail, an aperitif, and a glass of ice water. "I don't look too Housewives of Jersey, right?" she asks. Kelly and I assure her that she has stopped from reaching the HoJ point-of-no-return, but I can't help but keep looking down at the blue leopard print straining over her chest.

The day has been long and I'm a little cranky. Work hasn't been my favorite thing for a while, and I manage to go another day without (deservingly) eating someone's face or bursting into hysterics. Kelly rushing me to get from work to home to back into the city in record time didn't help, but (as always) he has the best intentions. I would have felt horrible making everyone late for our dinner plans...the nine-course chef's tasting menu. The idea of so many plates makes my head spin and I think it is one of the major factors keeping me from said face-eating (I wouldn't be able to do all those courses if I filled up at work on face marinated in idiocy).

Course #1 - Cocktails
Although not an actual part of dinner, I have come to learn that liquor is often a parenthesis to eating. Taking a seat with Evie at the bar, she flirts casually with the bartender who pours the same aperitif for Kelly and I. For Kel, he makes a bubbly tequila concoction. I get some strange, frozen potion with lemon and absinthe...a little green fairy for the fairy.

Course #2 - Chilled Maine Lobster with matsutake mushroom, Burgundy truffle, and corn jus
We take our seats and stare out into the park. Just before the Statehouse, the street is gorgeous in the late evening and the city blinks to make up for the lack of stars. The waiters, who all know Kelly and Evie, charm us with some stories of a past wedding they all worked together and bring over rolls. "Don't fill up on bread," Kelly warns, but I'm starving. I down my cocktail, a roll, and watch as something bubbly and pink is poured into our flutes.

Course #3 - Roasted codfish with artichokes, preserved lemon, and pickled peppers
The lobster is okay, but shellfish have never really been my favorite. The plates are cleared and I'm asked to approve the white. I stare up at the waiter. "You're kidding, right?" I ask. It's like having someone colorblind assess a Degas or Monet. I try to remember all the steps, but Kelly giggles to himself when I take the four quick, successive sniffs so I know I've forgotten something. The white is poured ("It tastes like fresh band-aid," the wine geeks agree and I shrug. I think it's great.) and the codfish is served. I stuff it quickly into my mouth and use the flake of skin along the top as a pita for my artichoke "burrito".

Course #4 - Whole wheat bigoli with littleneck clams, heirloom tomato, and bottarga
I have no idea what a "bottarga" is, but the pasta is nice. Set into a massive bowl, the center that holds the carb nest topped with tomato is no larger than my fist. I've been dreading not being able to finish, but I polish off the pasta and (like a good Sicilian boy) tear another roll to wipe the sauce off the bowl.

Course #5 - Prune stuffed gnocchi with foie gras, toasted almonds, and VinSanto
There's a choice for some for the fifth course, but I saw "gnocchi" as soon as I sat down and it was decided for me. "The chef here is known for her gnocchi," Evie says. "They switch everything off, but there was almost a riot when she tried to take it off the menu." Our waiter returns and begins to decant the red for the evening. Baring a bright orange eye (representing an apparent fire that ravaged the vineyard) Kelly is called to approve it. He goes through the motions and smiles wide. "Black tar!" he calls. "Oh I have to smell," Evie says and extends her goblet. The wine, a splash of red fresh from the vein, stains the glass and she swirls it expertly. "Black tar!" she calls back. The wine geeks call scent markers back and forth as I fend Kelly away from the gnocchi plated before me with my fork.

Course #6 - Assiette of rabbit with pistachio, baby carrot (kind of sick, right?) and vincotto
The plate seems huge since the rabbit pieces are each no larger than a quarter. The waiter kindly points out the belly (essentially rabbit bacon); loin (agreeably the tastiest part); and the ribs, which look like miniature pork ribs. It takes me a whole two minutes to suck the rabbit off of the ribs and all but lick the plate clean.

Course #7 - Calotte de boeuf featuring petite frites, arugula, and braised short rib
Another huge plate with teenie meat, I can almost hide one of the calottes under the stack of frites. I pop the entire bundle in my mouth as Kelly and Evie's eyes widen. "It tastes like raspberry compote!" Evie squeals as she sips the now sweeter red. I try to see for myself, but the liquor has caught up to me and my small portions. I sit as straight as possible, convinced that if I give just an inch that I'll be a giggling mess under the table. Kelly assesses me with an arched eyebrow (I hate that he reads people so well) and shares a secret smile.

Course #8 - Artisanal cheeses
The cheese expert, Brie, (I can't recall if they have an official title, but I'm sure they do) is a long-time friend of both wine geeks and our dinner conversation degrades to Kelly singing "I think we're alone now", much to the delight of the woman next to us who claims that particular song as her Karaoke jam. The three of us each pick a cheese and two others are selected by the professional Brie. "You know I used to go to school near the Von Trapp Farmstead," I slur to Brie, who claps my shoulders in a hug and laughs. "Too cool," she says and moves her cart onto the next table.

Course #9 - Chocolate marquis with roasted white chocolate, basil, and anise hyssop
The dessert is a little strange, but I drunkenly shovel it into my mouth. As it is a belated birthday celebration for Evie and Kel, theirs come with knobby candles that they blow out carefully as to not smudge the chocolate writing on the plate. I down the rest of my ice water, hoping to end the inevitable hangover before it comes, and give myself the hiccups instead. The night ends and Kelly and I kiss Evie good-bye, slinking back to the Park St. station giggling and satisfied.

2007 Panevino Ogu Isola dei Nuraghi - A delicious red that actually does have a slight asphalt taste that softens as it aerates. I feel the need to point out that one of the scent notes discussed was baby diaper (not here, but it has apparently appeared in the past). To quote Kelly, "Poopy diaper is the best!" Who'd have thunk it?

One of these things is not like the other

I can feel the sweat trickling down my spine. I would love to take my vest off, but I'm afraid of any dark spots that might be showing underneath. A part of it is from the heat, but another part is the spotlight my boyfriend, Kelly, keeps shining on me. He tells another story to the crowd in front of him, waits for the polite laughs to fade out before using me as another example in his wine talk.

I usually wouldn't mind, but the people around me are in a whole other social scene. Food writers, editors, critics, and the like all turn to me each time Kelly says "my boyfriend". They're wearing designer dresses and suits. Their jewelry shines in the overhead lighting and reflects against the sterling silver merchandise of the boutique we're borrowing. I am doing all I can not to sweat through my clearance rack dress shirt, pinstripe slacks, and vest (which is too damn hot for the summer, but is cooler than a blazer). Their conversations all surround the latest food trends and whether or not it was a good soft-shell crab season. Do I know if kumquats are a making a comeback? I would be hard-pressed to tell you what a kumquat tastes like...

The food editor running the tasting with Kel asks about pairing. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiles, and tells the crowd that you don't have to match reds with red meat and whites with white meat (it's apparently an outdated trend from the '60s...who knew?). Someone else asks why the sparkling wasn't served in a champagne flute. "It's all about finding what you like. It doesn't matter what the vintage is or what glasses you use...Your job when you go to the restaurant is to remember the last wine that you liked. Mine is to find something else like it you'll enjoy."

I mingle with the crowd while Kelly pours. By "mingle", I mean I hide along the wall and make small talk while wedged between a sterling silver table display and a decorative column. I pick at the delicious cheese platters and the skewers of olive, prosciutto, and pickle. I answer the same questions from all the industry people. "Yes, he is great. Four months. No, we don't. No, I'm a technical editor." I spare them the details of my work, but punctuate my ignorance of wine with the same joke. "Sometimes, when he gets really geeky, all I hear is muh-na-mo-na." I sing like a Muppet to the food editor of a prestigious magazine.

Out of nowhere, a woman approaches me. She's dressed up like the others, but she's a little tipsy and has a rougher edge to her voice. "So I hear you're the boyfriend? That's great. I get dragged to all of my girlfriend's office events, too." She slurs a quick history of being at the event with a few friends (one her ex-girlfriend) and says it's great that the gays are getting more visible. I swallow the rest of my white and nod innocuously. The ex is a WASP with wounded doe eyes, watching carefully for the tipsy lesbian to make the transition to drunk and scene-causing. She gives me a hug and disappears with her friends to another event, only to be replaced by a man in a polo, khaki shorts, and same slippery speech. He tells me what a wonderful time he's having, mistaken that I either had a hand in planning the tasting or that Kelly and I could pass praise to each other through osmosis.

As he left to find his buddies (he'd return for a handshake and an odd hug), I began to feel more comfortable. I had the same number of glasses as they did, but I was vertical, clear-headed, and the redness in my face could have easily been from the heat and sunshine. For all their gusto and vocabulary (One day, I'll ask Kelly to explain the importance of the cru to me), they were really there for the same reason I was...to get a little slippery and meet some interesting people. In the last 15-20 minutes of the tasting, I was told the same story twice by the woman I Muppeted, hugged again by the man in the polo, and invited to New York by one of the boutique's Manhattan representatives.

(Usually, the tastings provide you with a list of all the featured wines, but Kelly said that it was too formal for this particular event...and since I don't speak French and couldn't discern what was the vineyard and what was the grape, I have my assessment of the night's wines in a numbered list. I'll bother Kel for their names later...).

French #1 - Sparkling (not champagne); sharp and dry with a clean taste
French #2 - White; sharp and sweet with a hint of peaches in the background
French #3 - Rose; softer and almost savory with a mineral aftertaste
French #4 - Red (Beaujolais); earthy and peppery with a basil-like taste
French #5 - Red (Beaujolais); sweeter with a slightly floral taste (but only in the sense that you hear "oh it has floral undertones" and think "well, I guess that's what that is...")

Note: #4 and #5 were chosen specifically by Kelly because they were in the same region and only two years apart to show the variety of Beaujolais.