When I dine alone, as I am tonight and did for several weeks recently when I was on the road in the northeast attending the annual antique wine-coaster shows, I still dine well. But there is something lonely about it. I don’t mean that Aldo stays behind in New York: he’s never in the right spirit when I’m trying to determine the true provenance of a wine coaster, a process of deduction that can take hours, even days. No, I miss the sight of a full 750 ml bottle of wine on my dinner table. Instead I share my meal with a half-bottle: It sits there, with the tinier proportions of its bottle, and it always makes me think of a puppy that wants to be taken for a walk. Or a hobbit that can only speak in a squeak, instead of the confident boom of a Gandolf.
There is no romance in the half-bottle. What there is is less alcohol, so that I don’t leave the restaurant swinging out through imagined saloon doors singing ribald songs that I don’t feel in my heart. Frankly, wine bought by the glass has more appeal, at least visually: You can imagine the larger bottle from whence it was spawned. But I can never be sure how fresh wine is by the glass: Watching the bartender pull the cork out of an already opened, half-empty bottle disturbs my spirit, and that is no way to have a good dinner.
And so, once again, the half-bottle it is tonight with my lovely meal at Hugo’s in Portland, Maine. There is summer corn bisque topped with apple smoked bacon, avocado fritter and oregano. Then on to two rabbit stuffed quail sausages, sweet and chewy, with a little braised apple and a roasted baby onion. Next comes a Chanterelle mushroom meatloaf in truffle foam with corn milk grits and green beans tempura. All ended with a chocolate malted Semifreddo. The flavors of this dinner are intense and sensual. No doubt this meal demands a statuesque bottle. Alas. With each serving I stare and pour from my mini-me half-bottle a light and supple 2001 Chateau Brillette Cru Bourgeoise from Moulis en Medoc. “Hello little Gidget!” “Not too much, Tom Thumb!” The half-bottle empties so quickly, doesn’t it? Like the grains in the hourglass, but much faster. I would never go on to a second half-bottle (see above: bawdy songs). Imagine the clutter, like milk bottles left out for the trash. That means, then, that I must monitor its depletion with great care. I wish I had an eyedropper to extract it from the bottle and squirt it into my glass. But what eyedropper has that sort of depth of reach?
I go on like this because I know wine lovers will feel my pain.
