Post by Grubb.
Tooling through the Luján de Cuyo vineyards noted for their Malbec, I was often, when we were seated for wine tasting, given the chair next to the traveling tennis player from Toronto. He and his young wife had flown into Mendoza from Santiago where he had played a match. We didn’t talk about his game. For one thing, he didn’t look like a tennis player. He was tall, but he was carrying a little weight around the middle. As a jock, I would have tabbed him more as a golfer. The closest we got to conversing about tennis was when he complained how loud the pickle ball courts at his tennis club were, the popping sound of the pickle ball disturbing the fuzzy muffle of the volleying tennis players.
Since we were in wine country sampling the wares, the big thing with this big guy was how he wouldn’t drink American vintages. “If I want something American, I drink whiskey.” “But Napa Valley—“ “No, no, no, I go to Tennessee. Americans are not wine drinkers.” The things I learn on our travels!
Even with our substandard grape, he and his wife were thinking of moving to Texas. Toronto was becoming too expensive. And I guess if one is to resettle in a place where denigrating California wine comes naturally, Texas is the spot.
Sound’s like Texas would be a good move for him. Place is filled with sour grapes.
Oddly, they knew nothing about Texas.