“Do you have any Merlot?”
My roommate’s mom looked down at the small wine menu printed on thick paper. I was sitting next to her at the bar of a trendy, high-end restaurant near Dumbo, Brooklyn—along with my roommate and one of her friends. We’d just beelined from Manhattan to my roommate’s poetry reading nearby; she was a finalist in a writing competition.
The bartender paused for a fraction of a second too long. “No, we don’t serve that kind of wine here,” he said, giving an obvious look over her tailored black suit dress, which stood out from the crowd of jean shirts and leather jackets. “But perhaps you’d like to try the Saperavi from the Republic of Georgia. It’s somewhat similar.”
We saw the gears in his head in action. Book club wine, he was thinking. Of course she’d ask for that. Bet she’s from the Upper East Side.