No. 3. Out of town, in Hartford, on business. A spring night, neither cold nor warm. I go to a restaurant for my lovely evening meal. I study the wine list and the menu, order a half-bottle 2005 Robert Sinksey Pinot Blanc and grilled chicken over pureed white beets. A satisfactory pairing, I think. Tasty, even. The waitress takes the order and hops off, like a young rabbit that has known no sorrow. She returns a few minutes later, still with the energy of a young rabbit but slightly abashed, and informs me that the restaurant does not in fact have any left of that half-bottle. Well, I order a riesling instead but, tell me—couldn’t someone have draw a line through that now-depleted half-bottle on the wine list? I wouldn’t necessarily expect my server to know the inventory well enough to be aware of what had gone lacking—it would only burden her with information that might confuse her or dampen her innocent spirits. No, just a simple line, executed by the wine director (or by someone at his or her command) to save me those few seconds. All right, you say, life is made up of moments lost, like this. But if you know what you want, if you are at the mercy of someone else’s hospitality and you will be billed for it, if you have chosen the wine to fit the mood and the meal, if by this point in your life you have fewer hops to spare with mindless abandon—then let there be a line drawn. Yes?
