As soon as the server’s back was turned, Chloe snatched the menu away. I laughed as she clutched the menu close to her chest. “Does that contain state secrets or something?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “But I want to put any wine snobbery to the test.”
“You think I’m a snob?”
“Not exactly.” Chloe smiled, her eyes lingering on me. “I think you are wonderful.” I had to fight a small blush at the heat in her gaze, the intensity all too much. “But I think you are a connoisseur when it comes to wine.”
“I am pretty passionate about wine.” It was nice that, no matter where I traveled in the world, I could always find a wine that took me home. Back to my mother’s dining table, stomachs achingly full with good home cooking, my father pouring out another glass from whichever was his new favorite bottle for us to sample.
“Teach me about tasting,” Chloe said excitedly. “Walk me through the process.”
Picking up the first glass, I ran through my own quick assessment before turning back to face Chloe. She looked mesmerized, leaning forward on her chair, her head held in her hands as she watched me.
“For the best experience tasting wine, we use the five senses.” I pointed to her selection of wines. “Pick up the first and look at itscolor. Hold it up to the light to get a good look. The red can be different shades, from a pale ruby to deep purple.” I did as I told her myself, showing her how to see the color best. In a place like this, it was a little difficult to see the color correctly; the romantic mood lighting was not the best, but it was still achievable.
“This one seems a little paler.”
“Excellent catch,” I said. “Next we swirl, so we see the legs on the side of the glass.”
“Legs?” Chloe repeated, looking a little confused.
I pointed to where I had swirled the wine along the clear glass, pointing at the almost-invisible band that was slowly rolling down the inside.
“It’s these streaks. This tells us the alcohol, the sugar,” I instructed, watching her as she copied me, her attention almost consumed by the glass.
“Where did you learn all this?” Chloe asked.
“My dad taught me.”
“The runner?” Chloe asked. For a second I was struck by her memory, how long ago I had told her that little detail of my family.
“Yeah, good memory,” I complimented. “He couldn’t have his children growing up and having a terrible palate, so he’d teach us. Just a sip, here or there, but for me it stuck.”
“That sounds nice.”
Memories of a hundred Sunday dinners long-gone filled my memory, the smell of my mamá’s braised pork, a fragrance of spices in the air. Sitting in our kitchen, practically the entire family stuffed into every inch of space, my dad testing us all on every note.I was the best, of course.
“Have you ever visited Spain?” I asked. There were some tournaments based there; it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
“I almost went last year,” she answered, “but we changed our plan, pulled out and focused on the grass season.”
“You should go.” I smiled, thinking of the beautiful streets of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, the narrow alleys and hidden courtyards, or the green region of Asturias with its charming centuries-old buildings and lush countryside. Something told me she’d love it there.
“I’ll put it on my list.” She smiled knowingly. “Maybe we can go together.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said back to her, my mind already lost in thoughts of home. I could picture us walking along the Playa de la Concha in Donostia, or sipping some of the best Rioja wine in a small bodega in Haro. I could show her the charm of Andalusia, with its whitewashed villages and the scent of orange blossoms in the air. There was so much to share.
I raised the glass again. “Next up, we smell.” I watched as she stuck her entire nose in the glass and laughed.Rookie mistake.
Chloe pulled away, her features screwed up as if her senses had been overpowered. “This one’s... fruity?” she answered. “Or spicy? Can wine be spicy?”
“Not like food,” I said, taking another careful smell. “This one is fruitier, but I think I can detect some cinnamon, which might be that spice you are picking up.”
“You know.” Her gaze turned heated. “You are making it very difficult to pay attention.”
“How is it my fault?”
“You are far too attractive when you talk wine,” she admitted, her voice low.
