Wine

In my piano room, an honored place in my house, I have my wine chest, constructed to my specifications many years ago by a cabinet maker. Its approximate measurements are four-and-a-half feet wide, a foot-and-a-half deep, and three-and-a-half feet high. The right side of the chest consists of six drawers, each designed to hold two magnums of wine. The left side has seven drawers, each large enough to hold three standard-size bottles. The middle section of the chest holds eighteen chardonnay-size wine glasses hung upside down in racks.  It is made of a medium blond wood, maybe maple.

I only eat two meals a day and usually have wine with both. That means that I need to refill the chest when a half dozen drawers are empty—two or three times a year—requiring a trip to a huge wine store named Total Wine about a half an hour from where I live.

I have loved wine since I was a young man. My taste runs to the reds, and these days that means almost exclusively cabernet sauvignon—though I always keep a couple of bottles of champagne on hand to be ready for celebrations. I specialize in cheap cabernets which, as it turns out, come from all over the world: California, Australia, France, and various countries in South America.

I pity the majority of Americans who, unlike our European counterparts, have never learned to enjoy wine. It’s their loss.