Chapter 30 – The Wine Drinking Challenge
The next day at 3pm I picked up Tommy the rat at the museum and we headed south out of town. Meeting the ZZ boys and getting a special, and drunken, recital of ‘Got Me Under Pressure’ and ‘Sharp Dressed Man’ had been great fun and had alleviated some of my pissiness, but not all. Some vinegar remained, having a new source in addition to Tommy, and that was the fact that I had driven home from CONFEDERATE NATION alone. Yes, Gale had decided to hang out with the boys, most particularly the non-rockin' brother, while Jinny had gotten chummy with the woman, who turned out to be their sister, also a non-rocker but still wild by any standard, and very funny. So there you had a fashionista of the highest order, someone who wore couture clothing to Home Depot, rubbing shoulders with a long haired, long bearded guy who was one big tattoo, and Little Jinny Blistov putting the moves on a babe ten inches taller than him, her with her own set of tats that included a rendition across her knockers of the back seat of a ’57 Chevy Bel Air. Despite courteous invitations by both of the rockin' brothers to join them, separately or together, in a little rub and tickle, I had driven home garnering only one speeding ticket on the way down the interstate.
I had resisted the temptation to keep drinking Budweiser when I got home, mostly because in all the years I have been married to Roger and lived with him on Church Street, never has a can of that stuff slipped past our guard and graced the interior of our refrigerator. Or should I say desecrated. The dog wanted to talk and asked me what I’d been up to, but I told him to screw off, went upstairs, had a bath, and went to bed, not bothering to imagine what he was saying about me downstairs in the living room. The next morning I was civil to him but not chatty, thought about calling Roger, but didn’t, thought about walking over to a bar on King Street and ordering a cold Bud, but didn’t, thought about going for a jog along The Battery, but didn’t, thought about calling Jinny and Gale and asking them if they had been eaten alive by their new friends, but didn’t, and thought about not letting the dog out into the back yard, let him suffer, but did. I’m not going to tell you what I did do, that being embarrassing.
On the other side of the Ashley River Tommy and I turned south to Kiawah Island, and I started to decompress on the windy rural road shrouded in moss hanging from oak trees. Tommy had kept quiet since leaving the museum, sensing my tinges of insanity, sensing that he had the upper hand in the relationship department but not feeling a need to exercise that moral strength, which I appreciated. I couldn’t open up the Mustang like on the road to Sullivan’s, but driving still felt good, and I let my negativity slip away behind with the 390’s exhaust. When finally I turned and smiled at him, he asked, “Where we going, hon?”
“The Sanctuary.”
“What’s that?”
“Hotel. Fancy place on the beach, nice restaurant.”
“You’re taking me to a hotel? You change your mind about the platonic thing?”
“When we parted last time you said you couldn’t go to lunch because you had to get back to catching crooks. That your idea of an endearment that would cause me to change my mind on the subject?”
He didn’t spit back at me, but said, “Sounds nice. A walk on the beach sounds nice.”
We went through the security gate just over the bridge onto the island, telling the guard we were going to the hotel, and in a few more minutes pulled up to the entrance where an older valet guy opened the door for me. When he saw Tommy get out the other side, he did a double-take, looking first at him and then at the car, then back at him, and finally at me, with a questioning look on his face.
I said, “Not the real thing, unfortunately, but close. Just like the car isn’t the real thing, but close. You like the dark green one or this yellow one better?”
“The yellow; this is a bomb.” Again he looked at Tommy and said, “You sure that ain’t him?”
“I’m married, not to him, and I love my husband. But if that was the real guy, with the real car, him driving, I’d crack like a walnut. Wouldn’t be here talking with you. Bottle of champagne from the bar, then upstairs.”
He smiled.
“We’re going to be a couple hours. You wanna take it for a spin, go ahead,” I said, and handed him the keys. Entering the lobby, guests are faced with a high wall of glass that constitutes the far wall, on the other side of which is the beach and the ocean. There aren’t any palm trees blowing in the wind, and the sand isn’t pearl white or black, but still it’s an impressive view. I took Tommy on a tour, walking around the lobby, through the bar and one of the art galleries, and then outside on the beach side to the landscaped patio and boardwalk over the dunes. We strolled around for a few minutes outside, but I was anxious to get down to business so I led us inside and up the wide staircase to the spacious dining room.
Some people are the boutique type, who like small, quaint inns, and restaurants made out of people’s homes with small little dining nooks. But that’s not me; I like hotels and restaurants in the grand European tradition, with big lobbies and large rooms and lots of people coming and and going and eating, all dressed to the Ts. The Sanctuary didn’t match up with the great hotels of Europe but it did a respectable job for the Carolina coast. It was about 4pm when I led the way into the dining room and we looked around, hearing faint noises coming from the kitchen but not seeing anyone. I picked a table dead center in the room, motioned to Tommy to sit down, and went through a swinging door where I ran into a waiter folding napkins.
“Hi,” I said. “Can we get some wine and a little something to eat? I know we’re early but we’re hungry and we need a drink.” He looked at me and said, “The dining room opens at six,” and went back to his napkins. If he’d said that to me yesterday, at the height of my pissiness, I might’ve let him have it, but I was mellower today, and decided to move up the chain of command. So I forayed farther into the employee area where I ran into the Maître d’, still in his street clothes, and repeated my request. He looked around, like who are you, and then repeated that the dining room opens at six pm. This took the edge off my mellowness, or should I say put an edge back on my pissy persona, but I didn’t let the fur fly. I just wanted to get back to the business of sitting across the table from Tommy Crown and getting sloshed.
I ignored this guy and went into the kitchen where preparations were in full swing by the entire staff, including the chef. Normally, after running into two obstacles, I would’ve adjusted my approach, adapted to the circumstances, employed tact and maybe a little gentle subterfuge, but in my current state of mind, read squirrely, I confronted my next opponent. “Good afternoon,” I said, with a voice tinged with belligerence. “I know we’re early and you’re trying to get things ready for tonight, but can we get a few appetizers and a bottle of champagne to wash them down?”
I knew I really was off my game when the chef brandished a knife at me and said, “Get the hell out of my kitchen. You can eat when I’m ready to serve dinner. Out!” I was glad Tommy wasn’t around to see me get chewed out like this, and I realized I needed to lose the attitude or I wasn’t going to get what normally I am able to get, which normally pretty much is everything I want. What is it about Tommy Crown that is making me crazy?
I waved to the chef and retraced my steps to the dining room where I saw Tommy patiently sitting at the table alone. I walked over to the window, looked out at the ocean, closed my eyes, and said to myself, ‘Do the Deneuvian. Do the Deneuvian.’ I felt a calmness wash over me that bathed me in a self-confidence I hadn’t felt in several days. Turning around I walked across the dining room, smiled at Tommy, went down the staircase to the Manager’s Office, and walked in. He looked up at me from his computer, and I showered him with the special force of feminine personality I had learned from Catherine Deneuve, first in Paris, and later when she came to visit me and Roger in Charleston. This was the juice that, when it came from her, brought very big boys to their knees, quivering like je
lly. I had the Grade B version, which is nothing to sneeze at, and I turned it on now.
Five minutes later I was seated at the table with Tommy, much more myself than my pissy alter ego, looking at the wine list the Maître d’ had given me while Tommy looked at the appetizer section of the dinner menu the chef had handed to him, with the napkin folding waiter standing bye. All four of the hotel’s gentlemen appeared complacent and content, waiting for orders, which was more like it. I said to Tommy, “I’m going to order us some wine. Can you ask the chef and Maître d’ for suggestions of food to go with?” He nodded, amused at the whole scene, and waited. All the boys waited.
With my finger on the wine list I started with the Champagne section, moved to the German section, then to the French section, and finally to the California section. I looked at the waiter and said, “We’ll start with a bottle of the 2002 Roederer Crystal, served in white wine glasses, not flutes. Then a bottle of the ’98 Donnhoff Niederhauser Hermannshohle Riesling Auslese ‘Goldkapsel’, not too cool. Then a bottle of 2007 Saint Prefert "Collection Charles Giraud" Chateauneuf du Pape, and we’ll end, maybe, with a bottle of the ’01 Screaming Eagle cab.” I looked at the Maître d’ and then the waiter, drenching them in the force, and said, “I want them all decanted immediately, including the champagne.” They nodded, and I looked at Tommy, who had his finger on the dinner menu.
“Tuna sashimi with the champagne. Crab cakes with the German white, no sauce or sides, just the crab. The roast chicken with the first red, double orders of the potatoes in cassolet.” He paused and said to me, “That’s the dish of layers of potatoes, butter, garlic, and duck fat. Unbelievable with the chicken and the Chateauneuf.” Then back to the chef, “What would you suggest for the last course with the cabernet sauvignon?” I saw Tommy was being diplomatic, asking the chef for his opinion, knowing he’d get special attention if he did that.
The chef immediately pointed to the bottom of the menu and said, “You have enough meat. I make a wonderful dish of fresh roasted vegetables served in a red espagnole sauce. It will be great with that wine.”
I smiled at Tommy and stood up, first touching the waiter on the shoulder, then offering my hand to the Maître d’, and then kissing the chef on the cheek. I said, “Thank you all, you’re wonderful.” They turned and went back into the kitchen, leaving us with the hotel manager.
With a hint of trepidation he said, “May I know your name? It is a pleasure to have you here this afternoon, both of you.”
“June. Gwenny June.”
He said, “And this is a special occasion, is it not?”
Looking first at Tommy and then back at him I said, “It is. He is Tommy Crown, and this is the start of my Tommy Crown Affair.”