Memorable moments with wine

Some time ago, I had a student at my class at the university ask me what my most embarrassing moments in the World of Wine have been. After 40 years of retailing wine, writing about wine and being a commercial wine judge, the moments have been almost too numerous to count. I guess in this week's wine article, it is time to fess up with a few doozies.

I would have to say the first big boo boo wine moment was in France in the very early '70s. I had signed up for a wine program in San Francisco, wherein I would go to the wineries in France and work at various jobs such as harvesting grapes, winemaking, lab work and getting everything ready for fermentation.

I arrived in July and was assigned to work in Beaujolais but was required to attend a welcoming dinner on the outskirts of Paris so that we could all meet and have a few glasses of bubbly before the workers were led off to their prospective wineries. There were kids from Scotland, England and France in the program. I arrived in Paris with my letter of introduction and took a taxi (I think — it's hard to remember that far back) to the bar-restaurant where we were all to meet.

Of course my bags did not arrive on time so I showed up wearing (circa 1971) what every self-respecting West Coast beach boy wore on the road; worn, broken-in Tony Lama cowboy boots; bell bottoms, paisley cowboy shirt with double snap pockets; obligatory, three-inch-wide leather belt with buccaneer-type, two-pound, brass buckle; my trusted pea coat that went everywhere with me; and a nifty Thomas Jefferson pony tail (sans ribbon, except for red, white and blue on the Fourth — and I can't believe I'm telling you all this!)

Anyway, I'm sure I was a sight to behold but I was ready to get to work! We were supposed to meet in the large bar area and be introduced to one and all, including about 10 winery owners who were going to pick and choose who was to start out with them. It was then, about five minutes into introductions, that I decided to have a quick pit stop.

In France at the time — I don't know if these still exist — were toilets called Le Toilette du Champagne (pardon my French, please) that were simply ceramic plates with a hole in the middle and two raised steps for one's feet. You can figure out the rest, I am sure.

What I did not know was that the light switch in this joint was on the outside of the door so that, before entering, one could flip the switch and the room would light up, instead of what we do, which is open the door, fumble for the switch and hope that we find it so we might continue our journey.

I opened the door to the toilette and it was as dark as sin so I went in to find the switch, not thinking about looking on the outside of the door jamb. Of course the door had some sort of spring closure, so there I found myself in this small room with absolutely (absolutely!) no light. Yes, I went stumbling along, trying to feel a light cord or something when —wham! — down I went with a boot through the opening of the hole in the toilette! There I was with my leg, just past my knee, in a solid tight grip in the hole and my hands on the foot pads with my other leg splayed out behind me.

So, in the pitch dark, knee swelling quickly, aroma swelling quickly, I struggled while I could hear the introductions going on in the next room! When they saw that the surfer boy was gone, they went looking and found, to my everlasting embarrassment, me stuck in the toilet within my first few hours in France. It took three strong guys to pull me out with that swollen knee and with one boot forever missing, having been sucked down to the very bottom of France.

So, there you have it. Even I couldn't make that up! See you next week.