As I sit behind our make shift table I watch two cowboys pass by. One is about six foot four and gay and the other is five foot nothing and Asian. “Interesting,” I think to myself as I figure out what wine to drink. It is 1010 AM and I’m already bored. I pull out a piece of paper and begin to document the number of times thing happen. Like the sausage maker, how many times he disappears from his booth for ten minutes or longer (8 Saturday, 6 Sunday, 4 on Monday but at one point is gone nearly two hours). Pregnant women trying wine (6 over three days). Kids trying wine with their parents (Under 10yrs old, 4. 11 and over, 9). Of course the age was a guess since I really have no idea when it comes to kids but it was my game so I played it as I saw fit. I did have one precocious six-year-old demand for me to give her some rosé. I told her no and after she just wouldn’t stop I told her to hit the road. She went and got her parents and they came back wearing a strange look as if to say, “why won’t you give her any wine?”
The day goes pretty much like that and we only sell half as much as we did on Friday and that trend would continue all the way up until we packed up and left on Monday. Benôit and I passed the time by wadding up paper and trying to make baskets utilizing the far away recycling bin. I find that I’m amazingly accurate and Benôit writes it off as all Americans can play basketball. I regress into juggling, which I literally do for two to three hours a day for the next three days. I’m a huge hit with the kids, sober and drunk alike, but it still sells us no wine.
For the next two nights I am on my own as Benôit and his future femme head up north to see her Godmother. I don’t mind. I like my alone time and he gives me cash and I decide to put my, “there is no bad Mexican food,” theory to the test by walking down to the strip center that houses, El Rancho. As I walk up to it I see a small sign that reads Tex-Mex and I instantly thought they should have called it Tex-Metz and I revel in my genius and decide to tell them but then I realize they won’t care or the most likely case, not be able to understand what I am trying to tell them. I go straight for the margarita, which comes with Cointreau but only comes frozen, and blue. I have to admit, it was pretty good and for it being frozen it was really good. Then the chips came and I realized they were Doritos but with a lighter spice and a thimble of salsa. This too was not as bad as I thought or probably have made it sound. I scan the menu and it’s the first menu I have been able to read front to back and know what in the hell it said. I also like that they have two drinks called the Bimbo & Mosquito. I wonder what the translation is on that. I get the Fiesta plate and it really isn’t bad but if I were in Texas I’d be pissed especially once I found out that I had paid 25 Euros ($30) for it. Oh, and my last bites of the enchilada were green beans. I guess they figured any beans would do. Luckily the vineyard gave me money to pay for my dinner so I looked at as, “hell yeah I got a free blue rita!”
Marie is apparently going to help us on the last day and I am happy about that since now there will be two people who know the language. After about twenty minutes she changes her mind and Benôit has to take her to the train station leaving me behind, all on my own. Wait a minute, all on my own?! When they leave I am standing off to the side and I have to admit I had a “fuck this” moment in my head as I realized I could just stand here and let people think the booth was abandoned or he was in the john or getting more wine but the crowd started to pile up and wasn’t going anywhere so I jumped in, head first it felt like and you know what, I did pretty good. Sold a few bottles, made a few laugh with my Stagiaire and American bit. At the end of it I could only wonder what these French folk were thinking as they bought/tried French wine in France from an American who didn’t speak French. They were really amused I was living in Alsace, which is basically like the old country to most of them. If I was in Bordeaux or Champagne I wouldn’t even have been noticed probably but the old country, please, I’m a riot. I tell you though the weekend was either a high or and absolute low with my French. Some accents I just can’t understand. I’m either a home run or a strike out. Oh well, what can I do, I’m only five weeks into this whole shenanigan.
As soon as Benoit returns it all dies and at 530 I pack up the camionnette and we are on the road at 620 and make good time back. We have a kebab in some town outside of Colmar that is impossibly long and even harder to spell especially when you fly by the sign like we did. It really was the loneliest wine faire of the three I’ve been to.
Above all my favorite thing about the salon des vins in Metz and even Paris was how many times I was complimented on my English. Of course I always replied, “Thanks, I’ve worked really hard on it.” God I’m a schmuck.
Can you tell how busy I am as I juggle the day away. 
No comments:
Post a Comment