Vermouth, Versooth

He was sure they had it. In fact, he swore up and down that it was somewhere in the aisle where they stocked the Marsala, sherry, and port. I told him I had already been down that aisle but couldn’t find it. He grunted, finished making notes on an Excel spreadsheet with a leaking Bic pen, and stood up-ready to take on the Retail Grocery Gods.

I had seen this man before—a manager of a Safeway near my university. The store may have been small, but he wasn’t. He loomed large in a black shirt that billowed, black trousers that sagged, and black shoes that squeaked on black rubber soles. He wore a beard and hunched over—no doubt from the pressure of retail sales. He reminded me of Orson Welles in those old Paul Masson commercials about not selling a wine before its time, except he did not have a cravat (see “Rosebud” for $430).

I followed him back to the Marsala aisle—not expecting him to pull a rabbit out of his hat but hoping that he might have hidden one under his shirt. Which wines pair with rabbit? I wondered. He checked bottles across rows, up and down columns. He disturbed dusty bottles, clinked others, turned over labels, and poked his fingers into hard-to-access corners. Still, nothing.

“I know we have it,” he kept repeating, mumbling over and over, “vermouth… vermouth… vermouth.” It became a two-syllable mantra—an obsession as mythic and clear as Ahab’s fixation on a certain white whale. In time, he forgot about me and went on searching with abandon. This wasn’t about finding an apéritif wine for a customer anymore. I didn’t even have to be there. As far as he was concerned, I had become as irrelevant as “tits on a telephone,” to quote the main character of The Gringo—which is yet another story, shamelessly promoted here.

“Look, I appreciate the help, but I’ll just have to do without a martini tonight,” I told him, accepting defeat and the cold reality that he did not have a rabbit under his shirt. “–There are worse things, I suppose.”

I added that last comment gratuitously. Yes, there are worse things, but for the average man in a gray flannel suit, not being able to sip a chilled, dry martini with blue cheese-stuffed olives on a Friday night after work is tantamount to striking out in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded in Game Seven of the World Series. Sure, there are worse things—but are there really?

I left him mumbling in the aisle and continued shopping. I usually have an eclectic list. This one contained eggs, avocados, and one of those rotisserie chickens that Safeway has the unique ability to make look like roadkill. This time, however, I opted for the higher-class chicken with a green label that used the kind of language one finds in marketing for dental offices.

By then, I had completely forgotten about Orson Welles and the vermouth, resigned as I was to having Riesling with the chicken—which ain’t a bad deal, especially since I planned to eat the climate-change rotisserie with grilled onions, my favorite. But as soon as I told the clerk I needed bags—I always ask for bags and have yet to accept the practice of letting customers leave the store with their arms brimming with things like milk, cans of sardines, and toilet paper—I heard a voice.

This was not the voice of God but the store manager’s. “Wait, don’t pay!” he yelled. “I found it, I found it!” To call this a eureka moment would be too easy—like bragging about a bushel of low-hanging peaches. Let’s just say it had all the melodrama of General Hospital, minus the lab coats and rendezvous in cleaning supply closets. I’m not sure if that’s still on the air, but you catch my drift.

The manager ran up, nearly lunging between me and the cashier. He held up a bottle of vermouth, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “I wouldn’t have been able to sleep unless I found it,” he explained—thrilled, clearly exhausted, and nearly sweating.

I told him I understood and thanked him repeatedly. I congratulated him on his success as shoppers and the cashier looked on. Then I noticed the familiar red label of sweet vermouth, not dry. Thus was defeat snatched from the maw of victory. But there was no turning back at that point. Nothing could compel me to do anything other than hold my tongue and let the sweet smell of success mingle with the sweet vermouth.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

---

Image credits: Johann Trasch, Giorgio Trovato. Want more? Click on “Amazon” for other publications or go to Robert Brancatelli. Visit other blog readers under “Who You Are.” Comment by clicking on “Leave a Reply” below, or contact us through the Contact tab above.