for the pearls, I eyed the ring I’d found yesterday, still isolated in its white jeweler’s box. I hadn’t tried it on yet. I realized, with a sinking heart, that in light of my current lakefront crisis, it might be a while before I could resume my Bob quest.
By seven o’clock, after a slow drive along dark winding roads, I pulled into the winery, navigated past the dim tasting rooms and toward the lights in the back. As I left the car I could hear the clink of glass and men’s voices in the rear workroom.
The processing area was high ceilinged, cold, full of tall steel vats with wine meters and gauges poking out of them. Some massive oak barrels lined the back wall, and complicated machinery loaded with conveyor belts and empty wine bottles stood against the wall closest to the loading dock. As I entered, David and Alex packed bottled rieslings into sturdy cardboard cases.
They turned around at my “hi,” and David walked over to introduce me. “Alex, this is my friend Roz, the writer I mentioned. If you ever need a pourer, she’s up for the challenge.”
“Great to meet you,” Alex said, reaching for my outstretched hand. A large, muscular man, bald head shiny with sweat, with a huge graying walrus mustache. “I hear you two have some fun plans for tonight.” His blue eyes twinkled.
“Oh, nothing fancy, just dinner at the new Greek restaurant in Southport. We haven’t been there before, so I wanted to try it,” I said.
“My wife and I ate there a couple of weeks ago. Make sure you taste the spanakopita, the spinach pie. My wife loved it, and she’s a great cook. Did you know the restaurant is BYOB? David, why don’t you grab a bottle of riesling from the front room when you head out for dinner. I’d give you one of these”—he gestured at the newly bottled wines surrounding them—“but the wine really should open up in the bottle for a little bit before we start drinking it.” Alex glanced at the clock. “I have to get going or I’ll be late for that Chamber meeting. Dave, can you close up here?”
“Sure, no problem,” David said, walking to the end of the truck loading dock and lowering and locking the metal bay doors.
Alex grabbed his coat and turned toward the door. “See you tomorrow, David. Nice meeting you, Roz, and you two have fun tonight.” He winked and ducked through the tasting room door.
“Alex seems nice,” I said, picking new bottles of wine out of their cases to study labels while I waited for David.
“He’s a great guy. As far as I can tell, Alex knows just about everything about grapes and wine. His wife, Sue, runs the tasting room. I’ve learned a lot working here with both of them.”
“Do they have children?”
David answered as he shut off the lights. “Two kids—grown—who live out on the West Coast. I know Alex and Susie want them to come back and run the winery, but I’m not sure how that’s all going to work out.” We left the processing area and navigated the dim tasting room. “Let’s pick up that riesling from the cooler. It’ll be perfect with dinner in a little bit. I’ll have to remember to tell Sue tomorrow so she can update the inventory.”
Twenty minutes later we were sitting in a red leatherette booth at the bright, cheerful Greek diner with our riesling chilling in a nearby ice bucket. Four-inch-high pies decorated a tall glass case placed strategically by the front door, close to the cash register. Ten pages long, our laminated, oversized menus offered exotic delights I’d only dreamt of in my snowbound home. Oh, how I’d missed Greek diners! A long-time devotee of spinach pie, I knew what I wanted without even looking at the menu. I started telling David about my lakefront project while he selected his meal and concluded with, “Stan’s going to help me with the biggest rocks, so I don’t think I’m taking a chance at hurting my back again.”
David stared at me for a moment and then reached for his wine. He sipped
By seven o’clock, after a slow drive along dark winding roads, I pulled into the winery, navigated past the dim tasting rooms and toward the lights in the back. As I left the car I could hear the clink of glass and men’s voices in the rear workroom.
The processing area was high ceilinged, cold, full of tall steel vats with wine meters and gauges poking out of them. Some massive oak barrels lined the back wall, and complicated machinery loaded with conveyor belts and empty wine bottles stood against the wall closest to the loading dock. As I entered, David and Alex packed bottled rieslings into sturdy cardboard cases.
They turned around at my “hi,” and David walked over to introduce me. “Alex, this is my friend Roz, the writer I mentioned. If you ever need a pourer, she’s up for the challenge.”
“Great to meet you,” Alex said, reaching for my outstretched hand. A large, muscular man, bald head shiny with sweat, with a huge graying walrus mustache. “I hear you two have some fun plans for tonight.” His blue eyes twinkled.
“Oh, nothing fancy, just dinner at the new Greek restaurant in Southport. We haven’t been there before, so I wanted to try it,” I said.
“My wife and I ate there a couple of weeks ago. Make sure you taste the spanakopita, the spinach pie. My wife loved it, and she’s a great cook. Did you know the restaurant is BYOB? David, why don’t you grab a bottle of riesling from the front room when you head out for dinner. I’d give you one of these”—he gestured at the newly bottled wines surrounding them—“but the wine really should open up in the bottle for a little bit before we start drinking it.” Alex glanced at the clock. “I have to get going or I’ll be late for that Chamber meeting. Dave, can you close up here?”
“Sure, no problem,” David said, walking to the end of the truck loading dock and lowering and locking the metal bay doors.
Alex grabbed his coat and turned toward the door. “See you tomorrow, David. Nice meeting you, Roz, and you two have fun tonight.” He winked and ducked through the tasting room door.
“Alex seems nice,” I said, picking new bottles of wine out of their cases to study labels while I waited for David.
“He’s a great guy. As far as I can tell, Alex knows just about everything about grapes and wine. His wife, Sue, runs the tasting room. I’ve learned a lot working here with both of them.”
“Do they have children?”
David answered as he shut off the lights. “Two kids—grown—who live out on the West Coast. I know Alex and Susie want them to come back and run the winery, but I’m not sure how that’s all going to work out.” We left the processing area and navigated the dim tasting room. “Let’s pick up that riesling from the cooler. It’ll be perfect with dinner in a little bit. I’ll have to remember to tell Sue tomorrow so she can update the inventory.”
Twenty minutes later we were sitting in a red leatherette booth at the bright, cheerful Greek diner with our riesling chilling in a nearby ice bucket. Four-inch-high pies decorated a tall glass case placed strategically by the front door, close to the cash register. Ten pages long, our laminated, oversized menus offered exotic delights I’d only dreamt of in my snowbound home. Oh, how I’d missed Greek diners! A long-time devotee of spinach pie, I knew what I wanted without even looking at the menu. I started telling David about my lakefront project while he selected his meal and concluded with, “Stan’s going to help me with the biggest rocks, so I don’t think I’m taking a chance at hurting my back again.”
David stared at me for a moment and then reached for his wine. He sipped
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