A disagreeable alcohol adventure

Usually trips to the liquor store are fun, but I had a somewhat unpleasant encounter yesterday with the sommelier at my local store. I needed to buy a Christmas gift for someone, as well as a bottle for myself.

Since I’m pretty much an amateur when it comes to wines and spirits, I asked for help in choosing a nice bottle of bourbon for my friend, and vodka for myself. (I have half a bottle of white cranberry juice left in my refrigerator from a two-day-long, clear liquid diet to prep for a medical procedure I had a couple of days ago. I thought some vodka would go well with the rest of the juice, now that the procedure is in my rearview mirror.)

I had to wait a few minutes for the sommelier’s assistance, since they were understandably busy less than one week before Christmas. The gentleman was very polite and pleasant until we came to the vodkas. (No issues in picking the bourbon – I fully relied on his expertise. The bottle he recommended was not the prettiest one they had, but I’m confident that it will taste exceptional.)

I asked him what countries produced the various brands of vodka that he recommended, and mentioned that I specifically did not want a Russian one, whereas a Ukrainian brand would be fine. He correctly guessed that my country preference was based on political reasons, and then defended the Russian vodka producers, who are merely farmers growing potatoes and not soldiers fighting a war. He then added something about France, and since he did have an accent, I asked if he was French. No, he told me, he was from Israel. Normally I would be able to tell the difference between French and Israeli accents, but our conversation had now taken a disagreeable turn, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Attempting to smooth things over and appear unconcerned, I (unwisely) inquired whether he would recommend an Israeli wine or a Gazan one. He told me that they don’t produce wine (or much else of anything) in Gaza, and I now grasped that our previously congenial conversation had taken on a chillier tone. I nervously stammered something about “hoping for peace for everyone,” to which he replied that wishing peace for terrorists, rapists and baby killers was my prerogative, though he certainly didn’t agree. Trying to ease the tension, and appear as an ally, I mentioned how much I loved Shtisel, and that since my mother was Jewish I’m actually Jewish too. But it was too late now and I was sputtering out of control. I quickly thanked him for his help with the liquor selections and then headed towards the front of the store to make my purchases.

In case you’re wondering, I ended up with Absolut vodka, which is made in Sweden. I don’t remember the name of the bourbon, and since it’s already nicely wrapped as a gift for my bourbon-loving friend, I can’t tell you which one I bought. After we open the bottle for a taste, I’ll let you know!