When I ordered the bottle of wine with dinner, no one could have mistaken my taste. The waiter’s expression said it all. It said “You are a man of refined tastes far beyond the likes of the typical clientele of this restaurant.”
I waited for the table to quiet before I ordered the wine. When I ordered the wine, I used a confident yet arrogant tone, which indicated to the table that I was a rare man of highly refined tastes: a man who owned clothes for tennis and clothes for hunting with packs of dogs; a man who had tasted the art of falconry, but a man who shed tears during exclusive performances of Tristan und Isolde at the Met or Sydney Opera House.
When I ordered that bottle of wine, there was no mistaking my taste. The waiter even admitted that it was the best wine in the house, like he was some kind of authority.
There were at least 200 labels on the wine list, and many of the finest vineyards in Medoc and St-Emillion were represented. But not only did the list contain established wineries like Cheval Blanc or Mouton Rothschild, but also lesser-known wineries from the Duoro River of Portugal, or the many new vineyards in Pauillac. Not only was I familiar with all these wines, but my taste about wine was so refined that I was not satisfied with a familiar, if elegant, bouquet.
When I ordered that goddamn wine, the whole restaurant fell silent. Never had they seen a man of such rare and unique tastes, a man whose fine tastes caused him to reject all but the best: a man, in short, whose taste there is no mistaking.