Michigan microbrews have ruined my ability to drink wine with appreciation. It is scandalous to believe. Friday night, the waitress at Chuck Common's restaurant, the uncommon Common Grill, picked me out a nice Fume Blanc from California. The label said it had came from a serious vineyard in Napa Valley.
When I fly solo and dine with y own company, sitting at the front counter is the community table. Common Grill has a horseshoe counter, and the waitstaff get up drinks inside the shoe. Across the inside of the horseshoe, I saw two men accepting pints of Michigan brew and I had an immature response. I felt chiseled by the myth of wine. My white wine pleased me with crisp acidity,and yet my glass retained only a few ounces of light catching liquid after a few sips. The men lifted the pints full of amber to their lips and quaffed, plenty left in the pint. I wonder enviously what they were drinking, a slightly bitter India Pale Ale or was it a drinkable, affable Oberon from Bell's? Or maybe it was a full-bodied Belgian with a flavor that makes some think of fresh bread in the morning.
The men smiled, talked and had plenty to quench thirst with a lift to the mouth as my wine rain out.
I am hoping my next glass of wine doesn't leave me longing for a pint of microbrew from Michigan. Maybe this is a sign that I'll need to buy wine by the case for home. I'll drink that in my living room and save my money for pricey microbrews in public.