Isaiah 53: Your Suffering Servant, the Wine Importer

I ran into a familiar figure today, a bent, hollowed-out man with haunted eyes who was muttering, "One fifty-nine," over and over as he shuffled down First Avenue.  I found it hard to believe that this miserable wretch was the hale and laughing demigod I had met at tastings over the past few years.  Care had drained the roses from his formerly-jolly, rounded cheeks.  Deprivation had shrunk his once-rotund frame.  He had stopped dyeing his hair, which now had a grey, gritty tone.  And his costly raiment -- his duds -- were worn and torn, perhaps intentionally. 

Clearly, this man

was despised and rejected by men;

a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;

and as one from whom men hide their faces

he was despised --

And I esteemed him not. 

Actually, I thought he was putting on an act for sympathy.  People in the wine business tend to get a bit melodramatic.  Great representatives of a "nation of whiners," to be completely topical.  I'd say Bacchus puts them up to it, but I have trouble with any Higher Power, even one I support with my gelt, my stained choppers and my now-ruined health. 

But, not devoid of all compassion, I said to the guy, "Hey, let's go get some coffee.  You look like a friend of the friendless."

He eyed me terribly, as if about to spit venom,

but he nodded and followed as I led him to the Starbucks at the bottom of my building.  Except it's not there anymore.  Closed because the landlord had doubled the rent and, besides, the tenants had been complaining about the rodent problem on the lower floors; Starbucks are not always too clean. I bought us wine instead.

Quindi the Suffering Servant and I sat on the brick steps near the hurly-burly of the Middle Eastern fruitmonger at the corner of First and 54th, taking surreptitious nips at our newly-acquired paper bags of dirt-cheap Georgian wine as we talked in the hot sun and bathed in diesel fumes.

He took a long draught of the wine and sighed profoundly.  "Wine is a gift from the ancient mists of civilization to us.  It's a necessary part of what keeps us human and sane.  People need wine.  I am performing a valuable service.  I bring good wine to the people.  I invest.  I risk.  I pass many sleepless nights.  I agonize over whether the people will like my wines or not.  If they will appreciate them.  And pay my price for thm."  Another deep deep sigh.

After a respectful silence, I ventured, "So, the exchange rate's killing you."

He bent his head. "Euro's over 1.59 today. With fees it's over 1.64. I bought on the assumption that it wouldn't go over 1.55.  I can't afford to order too much.  And when I do..."  He stared off in the distance at Tal Bagels.   

"When you do...?"

"Prices.  Will go. High.  Very very high."

"Well," I said, trying to be helpful, "everything's so expensive now--"

"You don't understand.  Wine's a luxury in this benighted country.  People will quit drinking it.  They'll go back to beer.  To bathtub gin.  Crystal meth. Airplane glue.  Any cheap high to forget how horrible their indebted American lives are."

"Tonight on the News Hour, David Brooks said the economy was fundamentally sound!"

Laughing bitterly, Suffering S swigged again and sneered, "That guy's never held a real job in his life.  Working for Bill Buckley -- that was a real job?  Don't make me laugh!"   He stopped laughing and became so very still.  "No, Terry --"

"Call me Strappo."

"What?"

"Strappo.  That's my nickname now."

He cackled till he hawked up a big clam and spat it at the feet of a skinny matron wearing multi-colored Belgian shoes.  She attempted to contort her botoxed face, spitting back, "Importer trash!"

"See that bitch?  She used to fall all over me, telling me how great my wines were and how she gave cases of my producers' second labels to her servants at Christmas.  Now she gives them $50 gift certificates at Century 21.  Where's the wine?  Where's the joy?"  He paused, looking daggers at the woman as she glided down to Sutton Place.  "Where's the respect?"

The Suffering S looked like he was about to cry, so I rushed in with, "But you have some nice Chilean and Argentinean wines, haven't you? They don't cost too much, do they?"

He favored me with a sour face.  "Yes, if you like stuff that tastes of pesticide and wood chips.  It's cheap enough, but how the hell can you drink it?  Besides, they aren't much into biodynamic and organic wines down there -- and that's what I'm all about." There was a bit of sanctimoniousness in that statement.  Still, referring to his superior selection criteria seemed to buck him up.  "I won't even walk into places that would take it.  One of my people does it."

"Well, what about finding some new producers?  Even in France and Italy, even with the supersized euro, you can find good deals.  And wines that are clean and tasty.  But you have to go rooting around in the countryside.  It's like truffle-hunting."

He bristled.  Maybe he didn't like the image of a Suffering Servant as a pig rooting for fungus.  "I have a great portfolio.  And if I want to add to it, I simply read one of the guides and ask the producers for samples.  Or they come to me. End of story."

I was at a loss.  It seemed to me his portfolio was growing whiskers; it was full of yesterday's wine sensations.  I took another tack, always with the intent to be helpful and upbeat. Finally I ventured, "A dear friend of mine, who's in your business, is always writing about the value of shoe leather."

He stared at me as if I'd started speaking Turkish.  I persisted.

"Getting out there -- wearing out the shoe leather on the sidewalks -- hittin' the bricks.  Being relentless."

"Look, I've paid my dues in the wine business.  After 30 years I don't have to prove nothin' to no one.  I used to have it made.  And I will again. When the exchange rate improves, watch out.  When biodynamic Alsatian reds take off -- and with global warming they will -- really watch out.  Till then, schmendrick, don't hand me any of that try, try again garbage." Big swig. And another.  He peeked into the paper bag and checked out the back label.

Quietly I got up and handed my wine bag to a homeless guy dozing not too far away.  He swigged, grimaced and put the bag at an arm's length.  I stood over the wine importer, who was lost in his mental realm. 

"You know, this stuff's not bad. A little dirty, smells like a chicken coop.  We'll call that natural winemaking.  Authentic etc. Marginal little dipshit importer.  Email the Georgians, promise national distribution, importer's history.  Buy 40, 50 cases, sell it into all the best vegetarian restaurants in Brooklyn.  It could work..." He gazed at some misty point in the distance of his mind.  A dreamy look came upon his ravaged visage.  "I wonder if they make this in amphorae."

Comments

[Marco]

Not bad for a Brunonian

[Marco]

Not bad for a Brunonian

[Lisa Qiu]

LOL @ natural wine. Watch all hipsters drink natural wine from Vella-like bags in 3... 2..

[Strappo]

OK, Lisa Qiu, I [heart] you again. Baci.

[Sharon]

You're kinda talented there, Strappo!

[Strappo]

Grazie, Sharon. Funny, I am mad talented and have lots of "followers" as they say on Twitter.

Love ya, Shar.