My dad knows a fuck load about wine. He could lecture you and me on tannins and grape varietals and the importance of weather temps for months. I don’t know shit about wine because I don’t listen to my father. The entirety of my understanding is that wine is 12% alcohol by volume, so if I pour myself an entire pint glass, I get kinda drunk.
But in dating (and life, I guess) wine is important. You’re supposed to drink it in some fancy fashion with a technique I’ve never understood (sip?). And you, or me, the gentleman who picked this fine dining establishment that we (you and your date or me and my date, not you and me) are about to eat in, is supposed to know what to order.
So what if you don’t? Here’s the Bro's Guide to Wine Dining:
I got this: Sure, you could be open and adorable and honest about your lack of knowledge, but you aren’t a Jason Segel movie character. Did walking into the SATs and admitting you don’t understand the maths get you into Colgate? It didn’t for me, and I’m still pissed. So when they plunk down the wine list, grab it like it’s a Playboy. Confidently. Flip the pages slowly and nod. She’ll think you’re debating Bordeaux’s when really you’re wondering if any of the Berenstain Bears ever had sex.
Get that entrée order: You need to know what your date is eating before you pick a wine. This is the truth, but it also gives you an excellent opportunity to stall. Not so you can cram in last minute research, but so you can drink a beer while she’s debating between the chicken breast and well, yea. She’s gonna get the chicken breast.
XENOPHOBIA FOR THE WIN(E): Wine ordering is the one chance where it pays to be racist. White flesh, white wine. No, not you, idiot. Do you also think black people only drink black wine? No. I’m talking about the meat color of what you are eating. Chicken breast? Halibut? White wine. Steak? Red. Because it’s red meat. Salmon? No one fucking knows.
But there are no wines from New Jersey: I know. You’re going to have to go out of your comfort zone. Here’s a tip. People are opinionated assholes, and although all wine tastes the same, conceited drinkers have strong feelings about California, France and Italy. You know where they don’t? Spain. And Argentina. You buy those wines and people assume they are both delicious and a great value. It’s the “Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A” of wine selecting. Use this to your advantage.
This shit’s expensive: I fucking know. Why did you suggest going to dinner to begin with? And guess what, even though there’s absolutely no, repeat NONE, difference between the cheapest bottle of wine and the one that’s eight dollars more, you have to buy the one that’s eight dollars more. No one ever buys the cheapest wine on the list. Try to order it. Your date will leave before the cork is popped.
Don’t EVER do it again: Who the fuck did you think you were there? Thomas Crown? Don’t ever take a date to a fancy restaurant with nice wine. Save that shit for a relationship. When you can be honest and cheap.
[Wine image via ShutterStock]
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