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"This '44 Schlumberger has a real Goebbels thing going on", I said slicing a razor thin section from the Jew eyeball I was enjoying with a bit of aged Explorateur. "As you know the great propagandist was strongly partial to Alsatian whites derived from the Riesling varietal." I smiled at my tiny dascshund Peter, who was cleverly bedecked in full Nazi regalia, right down to the leather cap and monocle. I weighed the merits of explaining how these wines run the gamut from bone dry and crisp quaffers to the complex, unctuous nectars made from Botrytis-affected, shriveled berries, individually late-picked, and known by the moniker Trockenbeerenauslese. Eventually I decided against it; I could go on forever about these things, but Peter has his limits.
A moment of silence went by as we savoured our delightful comestibles. I glanced over at Peter and smiled, but his expression was impossible to read. Was something wrong? Why was he being so quiet? My mind groped unsuccesfully for something charmingly understated to say. Soon I was fighting back panic. Think of something! 'Varietals are the spice of life'? Not casual enough...Hurry! What about 'Not bad, these vittles'? Too contrived?
It was the best I could muster up on short notice. I tried to make it sound spontaneous.
"Not bad, these vittles..."
My heart beat savagely and I took a deep breath. Would Peter intuit my enchantingly witty usage of the slangy WWII Yank spelling?
Date Written: August 12, 2004
Author: Jon Matza
Average Vote: 4.2