His name was Bobo Olson Olson. Born an Olson, his father named him for boxing great Bobo Olson. Nobody much remembered the boxer. Ironically, Bobo lacked any sort of hand-eye coordination. The great boxer was long gone. The name was noticed only in that it seemed weird.

Bobo was a beer drinker. His lovely and talented wife, Larayna, was the wine drinker. The grocery store sold wine; Bobo bought a lot of wine. He’d grab some beer for his own use. Bobo was never known for his refined palate.
The grocery store wine specialist, Thomas, approached Bobo during one of his frequent trips to the neighborhood store. Bobo and Thomas often passed a few moments yakking in the store. This time Thomas had something on his mind.

“Bobo,” Thomas said, “corporate is going to be putting on a wine-tasting event. It’s part of a promotion we’re having with a big California vintner. The director of Winemaking is flying in to town. There will be a lot of wine people there, coming from our store chain’s central office, from the winery, and from the marketing firm in Chicago that promotes this wine. We’re going to include a few select customers. I get to pick one. Would you like to attend?”

Bobo was more than a little surprised by the invitation. Bobo drank anything that had alcohol in it. He liked wine just fine. He said yes to the invitation.

The appointed day arrived, and Bobo, generally a jeans-and-flannel- shirt kind of guy, put on a good pair of trousers, and wore a sweater over a nice shirt. I may be out of place, he thought, but I intend to look like I might actually fit in; I’ll blend.

The event was held in a private area at a very nice wine bar. People arrived, but no Thomas. Bobo may have been a little early, habit long held, now more pronounced in retirement. The other people seemed to know each other, but Bobo knew no one. One other person there didn’t know anyone; the director of Winemaking, Chris Davies.

The name had given no hint about gender. Bobo was surprised that it was a woman. She was young enough to be his daughter, and rather attractive. Bobo had been expecting a guy with some age to him, someone along the lines of Aldo Cella, or the winemaking brothers, Ernest & Julio Gallo.

Most people knew other people there, and had formed little groups, but Chris was standing by herself. Naturally, Bobo approached her and began to converse. Bobo would rather talk to someone than sit by himself, and he figured Chris would feel the same. Chris was appreciative to have someone interact with her as she pulled cork after cork from dozens of bottles of wine. They spoke at length about methods of closing bottles; cork, synthetic cork, screw caps, even the trendy, if silly, glass corks. Chris described the pluses and minuses of the different options. She seemed glad to be no longer standing by herself.

“Have you read Okrent’s Last Call?” Bobo asked her. He liked to read. “Many vineyards survived prohibition by making wines for churches and synagogues. It was amazing how much increase there was in the production of sacramental wines. Twenty fold, I think it was. Wine produced for that purpose was exempt from the law. It was a time of great religious awakening. Unless something else was afoot. As may well have been the case. Many vineyards geared production toward the increased demand by these self-described devout. Other winemakers got through that difficult time by producing blocks of concentrated grapes, taking out the water, producing what were essentially bricks of grape. These were easily reconstituted for home winemaking.”

Chris hadn’t read the book, but said it sounded interesting. She knew that Deep Lake Vineyards had gotten through prohibition by producing vinegar. “Interesting.” said Bobo. “There have been times in my life, less often now than when I was younger, when I’d have a little sip of wine and found it to be — not quite right. Just a hint of additional tartness. Yet drinkable. And so it was. And so I did. I wonder about that vinegar production of Deep Lake Vineyards — are any old records still around? Was the vinegar that was produced at that time acidic enough that it would now be thought of as vinegar — or was it just slightly acidic, as a way of gaming the system? Whadya think?”

Chris had no idea. Whether this question was mildly offensive to the director of Winemaking for a major vintner was not clear. Though her eyes widened slightly at the suggestion that Deep Lake Vineyards might have ever skirted the law, Ms. Davies gave no indication of being offended.

Thomas arrived and greeted folks. He seemed to know everyone. People moved from the reception room to another room, set up with tables and chairs and place settings. Everything was elegant; the glasses sparkled, the tablecloths were dazzlingly white. Thomas and Bobo found a couple of chairs at one table.   Every place had a wine glass, of course, and also a pint glass. Bobo wondered if there might be some beer sampling as well. Or perhaps the pint glasses were for ice water. Yet there were no water pitchers on the table.

There were, however, wines on the table. Chris stood up and described the plan. “We’ll be tasting reds today. We’ll try malbec, pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon, petite syrah, and merlot.”

Waiters came to each table and poured small amounts of one of the wines into each person’s glass. The process was repeated for each of the wines. Wines were revisited.

There were eight to a table. Bobo quickly discovered that one of the people at his table was a woman named Nan Trainor. She was seated next to him, on his right. There was something about her that was indefinably abrasive. It was not one single thing, but more of a cumulative effect. Her voice had a shrillness to it. She was not unattractive really, but yet something made one not attracted to her. She had facial expressions that tended to be off-putting, sort of a projection of superiority (a projection which struck Bobo as unlikely to be warranted).

Her disdain for others was undisguised. Her smiles, when briefly displayed, seemed forced and insincere — manipulative smiles. She never quite made eye contact. Was this a vision problem, or was it related to a strong level of self-absorption? She expected her opinions to be given nods of agreement, even when, as so often was the case, the opinions she offered had little to suggest any knowledge or even interest in the subject at hand. Bobo did not have much in common with the assembled group, but he did share this: they all were somewhat repelled by Nan Trainor. Her odd sort of power emanated from her obvious and general social antipathy.

When Nan would taste a wine, she would always manage to declare it to possess qualities that sounded as if she’s been reading a list of wine tasting terms. “This is autolytic,” she reported, “I note a slightly yeasty flavor, an acacia-like floweriness commonly associated with wines that have been done sur-lie, like a valpolicella that is not fully aged.” Wines she liked were “creamy, with an elegant mouth feel,” while other, less favored wines “may have fallen over a bit, with the edginess just a bit hollow.” Some wines were “holding back, perhaps a bit reticent due to youth.”

Bobo thought she was full of shit. So did everyone else at the table.

Chris Davies made the rounds to each table. She managed to hear enough from Nan to quickly come to the same conclusion as the others. Chris moved quickly to another table.

After visiting all of the tables, Chris stood up in the front of the room. “When I was in college, 14 years ago, at Cal State-Fresno, studying winemaking, no one — no one — could have ever guessed the popularity that now exists for the blended wines. At that time, everything was all about varietals, and blends were regarded as lower on the shelf. Now blending is very much a big part of the wine industry. Today, we’re going to have a little exercise, just for fun. We’ll split into teams, and each team will try to come up with a blend using those five varietals that we have on the tables. Have fun with it.”

There were open bottles on the tables, with fresh glasses for the new blend results. Using syringes marked to show milliliters, blends were to be concocted into the fresh wine glasses. The goal was to develop a blend that might combine the body of the cab with some fruitiness of the merlot, the color of the — well, you get the idea.

Bobo got the idea. His problem was that the all wines tasted very good to him. He and Thomas were a two-man team. Thomas suggested that they start with some cabernet, and then add a bit of merlot to soften it slightly. Bobo tried that. He liked it. “Perhaps add a little pinot noir, for color,” Thomas suggested. They did. Bobo liked that too. Thomas kept detailed records, so that the blend could be reported in exact proportions. Bobo kept nodding at Thomas’ suggestions. And Bobo kept tasting.

This task was really was quite beyond Bobo. Each of the five varietals tasted very nice to him. And every rendition of blend tasted very nice. It would have been impossible to have made a blend that Bobo would not have liked.

Bobo, as reported, was klutzy. People that knew Bobo were aware of his propensity for spillage. But no one there knew Bobo. Nan Trainor was seated next to him.

Coordination is not enhanced by consumption of alcohol. Even sipping little tastes of wine accumulates the level of alcohol in the bloodstream. That’s why there were pint glasses on the table, so that wine could be tasted without being consumed. The other pint glasses began to fill gradually. Bobo’s remained pristine.

Bobo was nowhere near intoxicated, but yet, he was a little warmer. More convivial. Edging toward festive.

As Bobo was taking yet another taste — a sip, just a tiny little drop for tasting purposes — a gentleman to his left casually mentioned the disappointing progress of the Detroit Tigers baseball club during the first month of the 2012 season. “I thought Jim Leyland had a chance to manage a pretty good team,” the man said.

“He did!” exclaimed Bobo. This was a serious topic for Bobo. So serious, in fact, that he threw his hands in the air, to emphasize his frustration. But of course, in Bobo’s right hand was a glass. It was not empty. The wine sloshed out of the glass, and onto the bosom of Nan Trainor.

“Damn it!” she cried. “It’s ruined! My new blouse! It’s silk. It’ll never come out.” Bobo wasn’t sure what to say. Everyone was looking at him. Nan, her white blouse now wine-stained, looked angry enough to murder.

“I’m sorry,” said Bobo. “It really was an accident. I just got a little excited, and sometimes I talk with my hands. I didn’t mean to spill wine on you.”

He thought about offering to pay for replacing the blouse. But then, thinking a bit more, he had no idea what the blouse might cost. Was it silk? Bobo didn’t offer to pay. Instead, he decided to lighten the tension a bit.

“Pinot noir,” he said with a smile, “is a wine most highly esteemed for richness of color. You know, Nan, perhaps you’ve never had your colors done. That white silk wasn’t doing a thing for your skin tones. The red won’t come out — but with a little effort it will lighten. Your blouse will have some pink and some white. Like blossoms of cherry and apple — it could be just the ticket. It’s gonna work for you. Think of it as a learning experience.”

Bobo was surprised that there weren’t any smiles of amusement.

The other women at the table shuttled the upset and wine-stained woman to the ladies’ room. They seemed like they were gone for 20 minutes or so, during which time the exercise in blending wine was suspended. The tasting, of course, continued, and Bobo, now a bit tense, probably tasted with a greater gusto, owing to his tension over his little mishap.

When Nan returned, she was wearing a blouse that was quite wet, especially in the bodice. As Bobo had foreseen, the stainage was actually lovely, variegated shades of pink, overlying white. Yet Nan was scowling even more than usual. People, especially male people, glanced furtively over at the chest of Nan, which, to be fair, was rather full-bodied. The erectness of her nipples was unmistakable, due no doubt to what must have been the large amount of cold water which had been applied.

This, as you might imagine, added some to her embarrassment and thus conspired to maintain the effect. Bobo considered the situation. He thought: what the hell, I’m the idiot here. It was unfortunate that this has happened. It added an element of tension to what had been relaxed little soiree. How can I make it better? He blamed himself for the downturn in atmosphere; once again, he wanted to lighten things a bit.

“It is,” he said, directing his comments to Nan, “a little cool in this room. Forgive me for saying so, but it’s a bit nipply, as one might say. If you know what I mean. Wet tee-shirt action kinda thing goin’ on. But I do have a warm-up jacket in the trunk of my car; I’ll go fetch it for you. It might be a little bit stinky from the last time I played racquetball, but at least it’ll be warm.”

Despite his thoughtful offer of assistance, Nan Trainor said, “Mr. Olson. Please. I think you’ve helped quite enough already.” The words, though spoken with an edge to the tone, did not entirely convey the malice that was clearly revealed upon the sullen face of the lady in the pink and white blouse.

Bobo got up to go fetch the warm-up jacket just as Nan was refusing his gentlemanly offer. He realized he needed to urinate. It wasn’t like he’d been drinking beer, but he’d had more than a few sips of wine. Since Nan didn’t want the warm-up jacket, he made his way to the men’s room.

He came back unzipped. Bobo became aware of this as he noticed people glancing at his crotch. Thomas, always the gentleman, was nice enough to offer comments as a distraction from his guest. Others joined in, so that the attention was diverted while Bobo sat down and attended to his trousers. Bobo zipped up discretely, maintaining eye contact with Thomas and whomever else might have chipped in conversationally.

Trying to recover, after what was turning into a difficult time, Bobo amused the table, perhaps, by telling of the time his uncle had made wine. The grapes were stomped by the some of the assorted young cousins assembled at a family gathering. “I could never figure out why only the girls were allowed to take off their shoes and get into the big tub of grapes,” Bobo said, “Back then I didn’t really understand what a virgin was, except for the dictionary definition — a young girl. The process was said to imbue the wine with some magical qualities, though the magic was never explained — least not to us kids.”

Bobo arose to revisit the men’s room. As he did this, there was an astonishing crashing at the table, an unexpected upending of bottles, breaking of glasses, and sloshing of wine (varietals, newly concocted blendings; even the wine that had been in the pint glasses, tasted but not consumed). This was unexpected because no one, including, and most especially, Bobo, knew that when he’d rezipped his trousers upon his return from his first visit to the men’s room, he had caught a bit of tablecloth in his zipper. In arising and moving a step back from the table, the tablecloth had come along with his trousers, with the very surprising, very noisy, and very messy results.

There was no chance of a discrete unzip-rezip now; everyone was looking his way. He freed the captured tablecloth from his fly. Nan, naturally enough, had gotten the worst of the spillage. It hardly seemed to matter. She had taken on some new cherry blossom highlights, but her blouse had already been enhanced. Attentive waitstaff addressed the mess, reassuringly saying that these things happen.

Bobo got through the rest of the wine tasting without additional difficulty. He and Nan were not destined to be friends. His embarrassment eased some, as time advanced, and with the continued tasting of some very nice wines. Things had been discomforting, at times, but he certainly had enjoyed drinking the wine. A lot of nice wine.

The event was drawing to a close. Thomas had been more moderate, and he offered Bobo a ride home. Bobo accepted; he’d get Larayna to help him retrieve his car the next day. Nan avoided speaking to Bobo, which Bobo considered to be no loss at all. Everyone at the event was sent home with a few nice bottles of Deep Lake Vineyards finest. Chris produced a gold paint pen, and autographed a bottle for everyone as they left.

The inscription on Bobo’s bottle said, “Bobo — what an unforgettable time — Chris.”