Pairings With La Somme

Note: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of any characters to any persons, real or fictitious, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Note 2: This work includes themes of a graphic sexual nature and involves person who, although entirely fictional, are all above the legal age of consent. If you find anything in this work objectionable or offensive, please move on to other content.

Note 3: This work is my own personal intellectual property. Copyright © 2017 Audrey07. All rights reserved.

**************

"No, no," she said, "for THAT, you'll want this." She pulled out a bottle of Nicolas Feuillette pink champagne. "Why don't we go somewhere more private so that I can show you properly?"

**************

Why me?

It's because I'm a people pleaser. I never learned to say, "No." I started out in this company as a summer intern ten years ago and worked my way up to project manager by putting in more hours, working hard and accepting every B.S. assignment that management threw at me. Now, here I am, second in charge of the Norfolk satellite office, with a corner office, a personal assistant, a staff, and an expense account that is three times the size of the full-time salary they offered me when I first started with the company... And I STILL can't say "no." Arrgggh.

Every year, the company throws an elaborate party at the end of its taxable year (October 1). Ostensibly, the purpose of the party is to thank the employees for their hard work all year, but in reality, it's just an excuse to write off a bunch of expenses right before they close the books. There's no exception for the satellite offices, so, every year, we have to pick a committee to organize the damn thing and every year, I get roped into some gawd-awful job. Last year, it was picking the location and the menu, and I told them that I was never, ever doing that again. Not after getting flak from every single person in the department over every choice I made.

So, this year, they put me in charge of the wine. No problem, right? I like wine. No problem, at all. I'll just swing by Total Wine and grab 20 bottles of cheap red whatever and 20 bottles of cheap white whatever, and have it all delivered to the venue. No fuss, no muss. That is, until my boss comes to me the Friday before the event and casually mentions that the Corporate VP is flying in for the event and, oh by the way, he's a wine connoisseur, so I should probably get "something good" and make sure it "goes with the food," because "he'll notice." Hey, thanks for the warning... Jerk... I thought to myself.

The thing is, while I like DRINKING wine, I don't really know that much about it. My feeling was always that, if you got enough bottles, it didn't matter how good or bad it was. I was guessing that that was not the sort of approach that was going to curry any favor with the corporate VP. Crap. I was going to fuck up this one, simple task. Why? Why did I volunteer for this?

I needed help, so I called my friend, Shelly. Shelly married a doctor and I assumed that they probably ate at a lot of fancy places, so she probably knew more about wine than I did. She didn't. "Bob hates wine," she told me. "He only drinks bourbon and beer. I mean, not mixed together... look, do you have the menu?"

"Yes. I think..." I replied. "They keep changing it. Someone is always vegan and there's always someone else who can't eat bread or whatever... I don't know. But I have the latest version. Why?"

"Meet me at the club," she said. "I'll be there in an hour. They have a sommelier. We can grab dinner and you can show the somme the menu and she'll tell you what to get."

It was a fantastic idea. The "club" was the North Shore Golf and Country Club where Shelly and Bob were members. I, personally, would never spend that kind of money for a country club membership, but Shelly invited me to lunch or dinner there at least once a month. Apparently, they were charged a monthly "maintenance" fee whether they used it or not. It was outrageously expensive and excessively gaudy - totally a "new money" kind of place. Exactly the kind of place that pretentious wine snobs would go to, so they would need to have a sommelier who knew his stuff.

"Ok," I said. "Let me find something to wear and I'll meet you there." I could normally get by with my business attire when Shelly and I had lunch at the club, but dinner on a Friday night was a tad different. I opted for my favorite LBD and some sparkly stuff for my ears and neck. I put my hair up and overdid my makeup. I finished it off with black nylons and a pair of fuckme heels.

When I got to the club, I had to withhold a giggle as the pimply-faced 19-year-old in an ill-fitting tuxedo fell over himself to valet park my ratty, 12 year old Volvo among the shiny new Jags and Beamers. He was almost cute in a sad, puppy-dog way. If the night went badly, maybe I'd blow him later. Anyway, I went into the club and up to hostess desk at the restaurant. The hostess was one of those women who looked forty but was probably 60 and wore one of those smiles that suggested that she considered herself above you, but would tolerate you because it was her job to do so. I gave the hostess Shelly's name and, after scrolling her finger down the long page of the ledger, she tapped an entry and looked up.

"This way," she said through the teeth of her sanctimonious smile in a way that conveyed "you don't really belong here." She seated me toward the rear of the dining hall by the fire exit and left without offering a menu or telling me who my waiter would be. I took my seat and sat. And waited. A while later, a waiter came out and poured water in my glass and took my drink order. I told him that I was waiting for a guest, and that I would have a glass of chardonnay, pointing to the cheapest wine on the card. His eyeroll at my selection appeared a little too practiced, so I gave him my best fake gofuckyourself smile.

Then... I waited some more. And some more. The waiter came back three times. On the third visit, he politely offered that perhaps my guest was not coming after all and suggested that I either go ahead and order or would I be kind enough to let someone else have my table. Great. Shelly was a no-show.

I checked my phone. No messages and no missed calls. I ordered an appetizer. Fuck. Now what? The event was the next day and, instead of spending the evening googling wine like I should have been, I was sitting in a pretentious country club dining on someone else's account. I made up my mind to leave after I ate the appetizer.

But before I could go, an attractive woman in a red tuxedo jacket came to the table and asked my name. "Yes, that's me," I said, suddenly wondering if I was about to be tossed because I was not with a member and therefore not permitted to be dining here. This night just kept getting better. Too bad for parking lot boy - I was in no mood to blow anyone.

"Hello," she said, "My name is Gina. I'm the sommelier. Michelle Granby called me and asked me to tell you that she could not come out. She also asked me to help you with your wine problem." I must have looked flummoxed because there was a sort of pause, before she said, "Er... May I sit?"

I gathered my wits. "Oh! Of course! Yes. Please," I said, gesturing to the empty seat across from me."

She took her seat and began, "So, our mutual friend, Shelly, told me that you have some corporate bigwig coming to an event and that you have been tasked with getting the wine and you need a crash course, ASAP. Is that about the size of it?"

"That's the short version, yes," I replied. "Here," I continued, taking a folded-up piece of paper out of my clutch and handing it to her. "This is the menu and I need to have a wine to suggest with each pairing."

I watched as Gina mused over the menu. She was attractive - 30ish and fit with sandy blonde hair done in a very sensible, yet elegant chignon and I noticed that her short nails were done in a deep red that matched her outfit. She had the polished mannerisms of breeding, yet her hands betrayed a woman who was used to working with them. I could imagine that, when she was not entertaining guests in the dining room, she was probably more at home in blue jeans. There was something else about her, something subtle in the way that she moved - something about her set off my gaydar.

I am not gay. At least, not exclusively. I love all people and I have no set preferences and no hang-ups. If I'm attracted to someone, I'm attracted to the person. I have taken both men and women to bed and each has their positives and negatives. Men, however, are simple. It takes about six seconds to figure out if a man wants to sleep with me. But women are more complicated. There's more of a mating dance - more back and forth, testing and checking out. Women who are just curious are the toughest - any little thing that doesn't go perfectly, any missteps or wrong choice of words will send them fleeing and you end up going home frustrated. I wondered if Gina was just curious or fully bi or gay. I'd have to see how this played out.

"Well," Gina said. She paused. "The menu is schizophrenic. It's like it was written by a committee with the goal of pleasing a lot of different people rather than creating any sort of coherent meal..."

"Shocker," I said, sarcastically.

"Look," she began, "A meal is like a piece of music. The food is the melody and the wine is the rhythm that pulls it all together. This isn't just artsy-fartsy talk. Every food is made up of complex chemicals; chains of proteins, sugars, carbohydrates, acids, fats, fibers and flavoring chemicals. The combination gives each food its structure and character. A top chef knows how to use those structures to build a meal, component by component, in much the same way that a good writer constructs a novel, with a beginning, middle and end that flow together and that tells a compelling story.

"Wine, similarly, has a structure. The grape has incredibly complex acids and sugars, and there are thousands of varieties of grapes, each with its own special combination of stuff. Then, you throw in the variables, such as the weather, the soil, the amount of sunlight the vine gets, and a hundred other factors, and suddenly, you realize that there are almost infinite subtle variations, even among grapes from the same vineyard. When you take those grapes and turn them into wine, you get a product with a highly complex structure that is unique and which changes from vintage year to vintage year. It's why a somme has to be constantly learning and adapting.

"My job is to intimately understand both the structure of the food and the structure of the wines, and, using that knowledge, marry the two sides together. When it is done right, and the food and wine fit together perfectly, the meal becomes a beautiful symphony."

Gina paused and looked at me to see if I was even slightly getting what she was trying to say. "So... What sort of music is THIS menu?" I asked, not quite sure that I was.

"An eight-year-old learning to play the tuba," she said flatly. "I'd suggest a nice Bartles and James for the appetizer and a Mad Dog 20/20... orange, I think... for the main course."

I laughed. "Ok, but seriously, can you help?"

"Let's go down to the wine cellar and we'll see what we can come up with," she said. She took a pad of paper out of her inner jacket pocket and a ballpoint pen. She scribbled a few things and then flagged down the waiter. She handed him the note and told him to send it, whatever it was, down to the wine cellar.

With that done, I followed her into the kitchen, past a cacophony of noise and activity, to a door in the rear leading down to the basement. We came to a door with a coded lock which she opened and I followed her inside. It was almost, but not quite chilly. Inside, the room was long and narrow and the walls were fitted floor to ceiling with tall racks of hundreds upon hundreds of wine bottles. At the far end of the room was a messy desk. It was here that she had me sit and she told me to wait.

After more than a few minutes, she returned with a cart. On it was a platter of petite food samples and about a dozen bottles of wine, each opened with a pour spout fitted into the neck, along with two glasses. She pulled the cart up alongside the desk and sat down across from me. She grabbed up all the papers on her desk into a single stack and placed them on the far corner of the desk

"Ok," she said. "I'm going to give you the crash course in wine basics, and THEN we will pick your selections. Sound good?"

I had the feeling that this was not the sort of thing that Gina did for any of her other customers and it almost seemed as if she were flirting with me. "Sounds perfect" I replied with a smile, doing my best to return the flirt and hoping that she would see that I was open to her advances.

Gina produced two short tasting glasses and poured a small amount of white wine into each one. It was a light, translucent gold color. "Ok, taste this." I did. It was crisp and floral. I told her so. "Yes," Gina replied. "It's the one you were drinking upstairs. It's a blend of Chardonnay and Traminette. It's aged in steel barrels and it's relatively cheap. The winemaker can vary the blend of the two varietals to ensure that the flavor is consistent year to year. The aging in steel takes a lot less time than aging in oak barrels, meaning that the wine can be made much faster, and it leaves all of the acids in the wine, giving it a crisp, almost soda-pop quality."

"Mmm. I like that." I said.

"It's for stupid sorority girls. Don't ever drink this again." Gina moved on. She poured us a sample of a different white wine. This one had a deeper yellow color. When I drank it, it tasted dull and flat. I sighed. Clearly, this was the "sophisticated" wine that I was supposed to like, but I thought it tasted like...

"Tastes like chilled pee, doesn't it?" she said. I agreed. "It may as well be. This is cheap, over-oaked chardonnay. The oldest grape vines produce the best wines... but the fewest grapes. Mass production wine operations know that they can get a lot more quantity by using grapes from young vines. They can mask the poor quality by oaking the crap out of it, producing this dull, yellow, pisswater with all the character of wallpaper paste. This method was all the rage back in the 70's and 80's, which is why your 60-year-old aunt still drinks it. Out of a box, probably. But it's fallen out of favor lately."

I giggled at the thought of my mother and her boxed wine when I was a kid. "Ok, so, show me something good, then."

Gina sliced a hunk off of a block of white cheese and split it in two. She then poured us each a glass from a new bottle. I sipped it. "Oh, hey" I said. "That's... interesting... sort of a ... peppery thing going on there."

"Indeed," replied Gina. She turned the bottle so that I could see the label.

"Veeeee.." I squinted as I tried to pronounce the name, "...OG-ner?"

"Vee-ahn-YAY" she corrected. Viognier. "Now, take a bite of this cheese and then immediately take a sip of the wine." We both did. I couldn't identify the cheese, but it was a hard cheese with a sharp kick to it. When I took a sip of the wine, it was weird. Both the cheese and the wine took on a new flavor. The combination was like a wake-up call on my tongue. The look of surprise on my face made her smile. "THAT, is what happens when you get the right wine with the right bite of food. In a perfect world, there is a wine that marries perfectly to each food. Ok, hand me your glass. I'm going to rinse it and show you what we can do with some reds."

She reached for my glass just as I reached to hand it to her and the tips of her fingers brushed across the back of my hand. Was it my imagination, or did they linger there for a moment?

For the next hour, she poured wines and talked wines and I sat and drank and listened the best I could. She explained things like tannins and sulfites and malolactic acid and I nodded and pretended that I had even the slightest clue what she was talking about. Still, I not only hung on her every word, I did my best to convey that I was hanging on her every word. I was getting hopeful that this was all leading somewhere. Somewhere, in this case, being either her bed or mine. And even if it didn't, the wine and food she was serving me was incredible. I found myself having a really good time with her.

"Ok, now it's your turn," she announced. We had been at this for a while and, even though we were just taking small sips of each wine, it had begun to add up. I was feeling warm and slightly goofy and I was wondering how Gina, no bigger than me, was managing to stay sober. Gina held up a square of rich, dark chocolate. "What do you think would pair with this."

"That's easy," I said. I reached for a bottle of port. Even I know that port is a sweet desert wine. Gina just grinned as I twisted the cork out and poured some in my glass. I took the bite of chocolate and sipped the sweet, almost syrupy port. And I was instantly disappointed. "Blech!" I said, nearly choking on the sickly-sweet combination.

Gina laughed at me. "Here," she said, pouring something into her own glass and handing it to me.

"Chambourcin?" I asked suspiciously, reading the label. "But that was the red wine that you said to pair with pork dishes..."

"Just try it," she insisted.

I was certain that she was just teasing me and wanted to see me gag again. I took the glass, eyeing it with hesitation. To my surprise, Gina leaned forward and popped a square of the chocolate into my mouth. She was suddenly very close and this time I was certain that her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary, touching my bottom lip. I bit down on the rich, decadent chocolate. She covered my hand that was holding the wineglass with hers and prodded the glass to my lips. I pursed them shut, almost playfully, but she pressed the glass against my lip and began to tip it. There was a gleam in her eye and I had no doubt that she would let it spill down my front it if I didn't drink. I relented and allowed the wine to flow into my mouth.

In an instant, the opposing flavors of the dry red wine and the sweet dark chocolate began to dance a slow, mesmerizing ballet in my mouth. Both flavors became even more pronounced and more decadent. I swallowed.

"Oh my gawd!" I said. "That's... like... easily the best thing I've ever tasted!" I was even blushing and I think Gina noticed.

"Wait," she said, "You have something on your lip... right... there..." as she spoke, she leaned closer and kissed my bottom lip. It was ever so soft and gentle that I nearly melted into my seat. I started to part my lips, encouraging her and hoping to prolong the kiss, but instead, she quickly pulled away. Suddenly, she looked frightened, as if she had just done a very bad thing. She looked down and away and started to look as if she were searching for something clever to say to cover her mistake. Except that it was no mistake.

"Damn these curious ones" I thought to myself. It was time to stop being subtle. "So," I said loudly, looking her straight into her eye. I picked a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the cart and held it up. "Do you think this one will pair nicely with your twat?"

Her eyes popped open wide. For a moment, she just sat there in shock, not knowing how to take my question. Then, her face split into a wide grin.

"No, no," she said, "for THAT, you'll want this." She pulled out a bottle of Nicolas Feuillette pink champagne. "Why don't we go somewhere more private so that I can show you properly?"

***********

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to her apartment building across the water in Portsmouth. We rushed upstairs, and I was practically brimming with raw, sexual energy. I couldn't wait to get her inside her apartment, rip her clothes off, and fuck her senseless. Gina, however, had other plans.