Hungry Woman in Paris by Josefina López

Author:Josefina López
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9780446544467
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-03-08T22:00:00+00:00

During wine class I sat in front of Yves and teased him with my eyes. Even though my mind was always distracted with sexual thoughts about him, I managed to learn a thing or two. I always thought the reason why restaurant sommeliers poured a little bit of wine in the diner’s glass was so that the person could sample the wine to see if they liked the taste. However, they actually do that so you can make sure the wine cork did not ruin the wine. If the taste of the wine was marred by a bad cork, that was the time to turn it away; otherwise, if you complained after a glass or two, the sommelier would probably take back the wine and just recork it—as Yves admitted to doing on occasion—and return it back to you as a new bottle. The other valuable thing I learned is that in Paris, at most nice restaurants, if you don’t finish your wine you can request to have it corked and take it home.

“No one is supposed to give you dirty looks if you do that,” Yves said, empowering his novice wine students. Throughout the class Yves and I would pretend nothing was happening between us, but when I walked by the metro he would pick me up in his black Jaguar and we would go back to his apartment. Things were fun, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Once you open good wine it has to end or go bad.

On the last day of our wine class we had a test. We had to answer questions like Where do the Beaujolais wines come from? and When are you supposed to drink them? There were also tricky true-or-false questions. When we were done with the written test Yves poured each of us a glass of red wine. We had to taste it and describe it using as many details as possible. The color, the smell, every possible nuance that would give us clues as to where it came from. I looked at the glass of wine and held it up to the light and studied the rich burgundy color. I tilted the glass to see how slowly the wine dripped down the sides of the glass. I stuck my nose in the glass and took in the aroma with my eyes closed. I could smell the earth. I could smell the sky. I could smell my past. The fragrance of the wine took me back to being eight. Everywhere around me were grapevines. On the vine were the most beautiful grapes in California and maybe on earth. My mother picked grapes in front of me and my father picked grapes behind me, with my siblings scattered around me. I imagined that the kind of grapes that made this wine were the kind of grapes that I touched and soiled with my blood once. Being undocumented, my family was used to hiding from the Migra, the INS, Immigration and Naturalization Service, or Homeland Security, or whatever you want to call it now.

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