Benjamin Hereford didn’t know how he’d gotten there — all he knew was in his right palm rested his weapon of choice: a wine key.
He’d always wondered why the hell they called it a “key.” It hardly resembled a key. He couldn’t understand it could be referring to the various worlds the handheld contraption could unlock — doors to worlds of oaky undertones and fruity layers, the cool bite of a blanc, the full-bodied richness of a good syrah.
Benjamin couldn’t understand why the peculiar tool grasped between his fingers was called a wine key because he had no such knowledge of wine. In fact, he’d never opened a bottle.
The guy was a poser.
But here, on the 27th floor of the Grand Merrimount Hotel in New York City, no one knew how he’d simply faked it until he made it — made it onto the serving staff at the hotel’s most prestigious restaurant, La Cave a Vin, thanks to family connections and an intricate web of lies regarding his supposed experience in high-class dining.
Admittedly, the guy could entertain a table with the best of them. He could serve up a flank steak bathed in gourmet mushroom sauce as if he’d followed that slab of meat from birth to plate, and compliment his patrons’ pocket squares while he was at it. Women flipped their hair, men fiddled with their ties.
Honestly, the transition from the corner diner to panoramic city views hadn’t been that hard. Benjamin had a knack for people, and people a knack for Benji boy.
And yet, in the four days Benjamin had spent serving at La Cave a Vin, his tables had yet to order an entire bottle of wine, which would require a noble presentation of the label, a brief description of the nectar’s origins and the oh-so-important task of performing the tasting ceremony.
Until Saturday evening, when New York State senator and self-proclaimed wino Claudia McClane strolled in for her 6:30 p.m. reservation, flanked by other political heavyweights from within her social circle — four of them in total.
Displeased to hear her regular server, Gerrard, was out with a cold, Ms. McClane requested the next best the Vin had to offer.
The hostess had spent the last four nights watching Benjamin charm the daylights out of country club elites and stuffy banker types, so she did what any logical hired-for-her-looks hostess would do. She gave the senator to the new guy, who then promptly ordered her favorite bottle of red.
And thus, Benjamin stood with the wine key in his right hand and one bottle of Californian cabernet sauvignon tucked in the crook of his left arm, hiding just inside entrance to the kitchen. It should be simple, really. He’d seen a couple of the other servers do it — carrying on light conversation, casually fighting their way through foil and cork to pour the juice with elegance.
Could it really be that hard?
Benjamin strode to the senator’s table and flicked open the knife on the wine key.
Crap, he thought when he saw McClane’s furrowed eyebrow. I forgot to present the label.
He did with a shaking voice, and the senator nodded with delight.
OK, cut the foil. Hold adequate pressure on the neck of the bottle with your thumb. Peel. Good, foil done.
Benjamin tucked the foil in his pocket just as the questions began.
First the senator — she wanted to know his name.
Then her counterparts — they wanted to know his hometown, what he thought of that particular blend of wine and the origin of the mushrooms that came on the prime rib special.
Benjamin could hardly remember his own name, not to mention everything else. As he adjusted his grip to force the key’s screw into heart of the cork, he felt his sweaty palm slide against the burgundy glass. Then, the dull thud and subsequent crash of glass breaking.
Benjamin ran before the river of red could leave its mark on the restaurant’s hardwood floor.
Lyndsie Kiebert
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