In Vino is Slightly Too Much Veritas
G&G -
On many occasions, when arriving at a friend’s home, I present the host with a bottle of wine.
Each time, they politely set aside my wine aside and serve their own to me, keeping the bottle I brought for themselves (when in fact it’s a much better wine, and I bring it so I can drink it with them, naturally).
Can I comment on that, and request my own wine? Because, really, I have much better taste, and they always serve us the cheap stuff and hoarde my gift for later. That’s just wrong.
Wondering about wine,
Vinny
Dear Sir,
Miss Verity was on the brink of suggesting you find new friends, but she caught herself just in time. Presumably some strong bond–affection, maybe, or blackmail–ties you to these persons of inferior taste, and it is hardly Miss Verity’s place to pry into the nature of such relationships.
Moving swiftly on, then, she would first of all suggest you approach this in the right frame of mind. Do give your friends the benefit of the doubt, and attempt to believe (or at least attempt to convey the impression that you believe) that they are acting from the best possible motives. This is one of those polite social fictions of which Miss Verity is so fond. It is entirely possible your hosts don’t realize they’re inflicting inferior vintages on you.
There isn’t, Miss Verity regrets to inform you, anything you can actually do to stop them serving whatever they choose. Just as one of the joys of providing hospitality is planning menus and selecting wine, one of the duties of accepting said hospitality involves acting graciously towards whatever is offered. Miss Verity has, herself, been forced to pretend to enjoy things made of “jello,” once carrying the pretense so far that she actually consumed a fragment of the horror in question, so rest assured she understands exactly how difficult such efforts can be.
It pains her to think of your wine sitting there, unopened and unimbibed. Her advice is that you open it. No: you may not suggest that it replace anything your hosts have chosen, however erroneous their belief that their choices complement anything in view. What you may do is cheerfully suggest a pre-dinner drink and start pouring out your own offering without pause or delay. The speed with which Miss Verity and her compatriots here at G&G can whip a cork out of a bottle would bring tears of pride to a vintner’s eyes. It is a skill well wirth cultivating, and ensures you get to consume at least one drink that is entirely to your taste. After that, she suggests you make your most valiant effort, and swallow your pride along with a sporting serving of whatever else is on tap.
Best of luck,
Friend Seeking Benefits
A Gentleman writes:
Dear G&G:
I have a problem that is perhaps not unique, but nevertheless, it bothers me enormously. I am in love with someone who, as far as romance goes, doesn’t know I exist. He considers me a good friend and we chat every day – in fact, I see more of him than I do a good many other people.
I have carried this torch for so long; I hardly remember. I have, from time to time, dropped subtle hints, but my friend doesn’t seem to catch on – or, he does catch on and is pretending not to understand, for both our sakes.
I am between the devil and the deep blue sea: on the one hand, I wish to make my feelings known to him, but on the other hand, I am afraid I would lose his friendship if I made just such a confession. My friend is a very close-mouthed man, and one who does not easily show his emotions; I cringe to think what his reaction would be if I have got it wrong and he doesn’t care for me as anything more than a friend!
Tell me: should I risk telling my friend how I feel? Or should I nurse my love in secret – even if this secret is tearing me apart?
Sincerely,
Brokenhearted
Dear Brokenhearted,
Miss Verity sympathizes with your conflicting urges to preserve your friendship while reaching for something more. It is for just such dilemmas as this that the Gods gave us gin–and if you don’t believe gin is a gift divine in origin, she thinks your religious situation is much more perilous than your romantic one, and will wait here patiently while you hie thee hence to a site of worship and put your soul in order.
Is that sorted? Good. Now, then, you must arrange to be alone with your friend at a time when you are visibly, but not unattractively, tipsy. To drive the point home with perfect clarity, she suggests you pour up a refill in his presence, having first seen to his needs–his alcoholic refreshment needs, she means; let’s not jump the gun here. Once you are reasonably sure he knows you are under the sway of Benign Spirits, she suggests you lean in and kiss him passionately, then confess your feelings.
If he flees in terror, you always have recourse the next day to that useful social fiction of having entirely forgotten whatever it is you did while inebriated. Make a point of stating so, clearly and with embarrassed laughter, and the friendship at least should survive.
wishing you luck,
Of Husbands and Other Men
A reader writes:
Dear Gin & Gentility,
Many years ago I was in love with a fascinating man who didn’t realise I was actually married; I didn’t mean to keep it from him. It just slipped my mind. We lived together in Paris for several months and had a great time. He was the best lover I’d ever had, very inventive in bed, very exciting.
I recently ran across this guy again in a…certain vacation spot…yes, that’s it, a vacation spot…that my husband and I were visiting. This man was very rude to me and, although I tried to explain to him, he didn’t want to hear it. Instead, he kept drinking whisky and listening to sad piano music.
Is it too late to repair the damage I have done? Can we ever get back what we had in Paris?
A Fascinating Lady
PS: My husband is a bit of a dolt and doesn’t know. All he cares about is his “work.” I use the term loosely.
Dear Fascinating Lady,
Miss Verity understands all too well how minute details, such as being married, can so easily slip one’s mind when one is frantically busy doing other things, particularly in Paris.
She herself once forgot her husband’s name just as she was introducing him, and you can imagine how this distressed her, because Miss Verity takes very seriously her moral duty to perform introductions correctly. She eventually solved the problem with a nifty little divorce, and encourages you to do the same. This will free up even more of your husband’s time to devote to his putative “work,” which shows a nice degree of consideration for him, and will leave you better able to pursue your own hobbies and friendships.
She does strongly urge you to find friends with less alarming vices, however. Rude whiskey drinking men have their charms, but sad piano music is, she is told, something of a gateway drug.
It’s also worth bearing in mind that often gentlemen appear more interesting than they really are, having been lent a certain air of dash and intrigue by their inaccessibility. Don’t, dear reader, rush to commit to this fascinating man of yours. You may well think you’re getting an anti-hero, only to find yourself tied to some dreary bean-counter.
