I was fiddling with my mobile phone a couple of days ago, since most of us have nothing better to do these days, when I came across one of those short videos that had gone viral, as the expression is, rather like dengue or the Zika virus. The Instagram or Tik-Tok reel was about a couple of minutes long and featured a fetching young lady, walking around a new premium liquor outlet that had just opened its doors somewhere in a ritzy suburb of Mumbai. It was a promo, of course, and the lady in question was introducing the viewer to this luxury wine and liquor store. The word luxury is a much-abused term to mean anything that is perceived as upper crust, rare and consequently obscenely expensive. The more expensive, the more the luxury quotient kicks in. While mine hostess was jabbering away breathlessly about single malts and vintage wines, she stopped in front of a swank, blood-red Ferrari, parked plumb spang in the middle of the store. It was not clear if the car itself was up for sale, but the general idea seemed to be to accentuate the luxury feel in the store. And what better than a Ferrari, to a. the l.f. A bit out of place I thought, a car in a wine shop but what the hell, drinking and driving is kosher in the luxury segment. The number of Audis, Mercs, BMWs and Jaguars, under the ministrations of sozzled millionaires that have climbed pavements, wrapped themselves round trees and lamp posts, slaying six, are too numerous to mention.
However, since this is a wine store and not a retailer for upmarket automobiles, we were also helpfully informed that customers will be waited upon by sommeliers to aid the process of selecting the right libation for their specific needs and palates. Note the ostentatious choice of the word sommelier, which is nothing more than a fancy French expression for a waiter who can gab on endlessly about wines and spirits, in the process confounding our confusion. What is more, if you are a wine connoisseur, and even if you are not, this is probably the only such store in the country (if the girl is to be taken at face value) where you can actually sample a variety of wines and / or spirits before making up your mind which brand of potion you wish to lavish your ill-gotten gains on.
The girl on screen was doing precisely that, sampling the stuff while still steady on her feet, and gradually, almost imperceptibly becoming incoherent towards the end of the film. ‘Neapolitan, sorry Napoleon brandy, cognac, what’s the difference, 1875 vintage, fill quarter of the goblet, no ice and swirl, swirl, swirl, inhale the fumes and down the hatch. Neat? Hic! Sorry. Retake yaar!’ Some outlets in big airports like Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle provide this kind of exclusive service at their duty-free shops. The passenger, probably travelling business or first class, is looking for something rare to take home. He sips from one goblet, takes a swig from another, downs a third and before he knows it, the sommelier, whose small talk is as smooth as the drinks being purveyed, has convinced the sodden sod to buy all three bottles. Nice work, if you can get it.
The one thing that impresses me most is the amount of knowledge these fast-talking liquor sales folk have garnered and how persuasively they can communicate the various subtleties of the beverage they are promoting. (‘Feel the nutty walnut and cashew flavour in this dry sherry.’) It is almost insidious. Before you can say ‘bottoms up,’ you are eating out of their hands. More accurately, drinking out of their hands. Most of the sommeliers I have come across, even those outside the United Kingdom, appear to have been recruited from the U.K. That is quite understandable, English being the lingua franca of the world. Chances are many of them must have started life out in English pubs, serving veteran elbow-benders and moved on to higher things. It is also possible they have special schools for training in the field of liquor small talk, so you come out with a degree, your head crammed with deep insights on the subtle intricacies of el vino.
Speaking for myself, though not a toper by any stretch of the imagination, you will not find me averse to indulging in the odd drop of vin rouge or vin blanc, if the occasion calls for it. However, it is the conversational gambit of these sales chappies at the duty-free counters that fascinates me. It is an extraordinary amalgam of knowledge, wit and banter that cunningly inveigles you into their web. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. Next thing you know, you are a goner, three bottles heavier and a few hundred pounds lighter. And there’s still the chocolates and perfumes left to take home.
I have been an active witness to a couple of these encounters, notably at London Heathrow’s exclusive Terminal 5, reserved only for British Airways. Walking into one of these spacious duty-free spaces, redolent of rich wines and single-malts combined with ‘all the perfumes of Arabia.’ I was clear that I will merely loaf around the shop, admiring the big brands and vowing to myself that earthquakes will not loosen a pound coin out of my pocket. A voice spoke from behind me.
‘Good morning, Sir. Are you looking for anything in particular or can I guide you in any way?’ He spoke impeccably, could have been an Englishman from Oxbridge, though why an Oxonian or a Cantabrigian should be selling wines at Heathrow was not for me to reason why. In the event, he turned out to be a young Sikh lad, probably from Southall. Gurmeet, his badge proudly announced. For some reason, they don’t display surnames. I was wondering if he would suddenly break into some popular Punjabi rap. Rapper Gurmeet.
‘Hi Gurmeet,’ I responded chattily. It was good to see an Indian face, though truth be told, he was no more Indian than Rishi Sunak. ‘Just browsing, not that this is a book shop or anything, ha ha.’
‘No Sir, not a book shop,’ responded Gurmeet tartly. ‘Could I interest you in some fine wines, Sir? If you could step this way, I will introduce you to Reginald, our highly qualified sommelier this morning. He will take you through some of our best wines and perhaps something even stronger. Reg, please help our guest travelling to India, I think. Ta.’
Gurmeet sidled out of sight and I was left with Reg and half-a-dozen bottles of varying shapes and sizes, plus several sparkling goblets. We were all set for a right, royal booze-up. Reg cleared his throat. His parents migrated to the U.K. from Jamaica during the 50s, so there was not a trace of the Michael Holding accent in him. More like Benedict Cumberbatch, if you closed your eyes.
‘Good morning once again, Sir. As Gurmeet has just told you, I will introduce each of these exclusive brands briefly, at the end of which you will be invited to sample them. And depending on which of these superb offerings you decide to buy, we will be giving a special 25% discount. With your permission, I will begin.’
‘Er, I am not sure I will buy anything. So my sampling your wares should not be conditional upon an actual purchase. I wish to make that clear at the outset.’ I was glad I got that off my chest. I mean, a Chateau Lafite 1956, priced at 1550 pounds discounted at 25%. They were virtually giving it away!
Reg was most polite. ‘No problem, and if you don’t mind my asking Sir, are you travelling Business or First Class?’
That got my dander up. ‘What has that got to do with anything, Reg? If you must know I am travelling cattle class. Is that a problem?’
‘Not at all Sir.’ He was a bit flustered. ‘It’s just that we have special offers for First and…oh, never mind. Let’s turn our attention to the drinks.’ In this vein, he carried on, offering me generous sips from different brands of wine (I have had tastier cough syrups), whisky and liqueur until I had become cross-eyed. In fairness, he had placed a silver spittoon next to me. Apparently, I was supposed to spit out the liquor sample into it, after the customary swirl in the mouth, but I kept swallowing the stuff. I wasn’t even listening to his endless banter. I could only hear the sommelier droning on about the pluses and minuses of corks and screwcaps, ’99 Canalicchio Brunello, Napa valley, 2% Petit Verdot, sedimentation and so on. I could barely stand, but I managed to blurt out, ‘Thanks very much, my old sommelier. You can talk the talk, though I can barely walk the walk. Tell you what, I shall pick up that mini bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. 3 quid? You will give it free? You are a prince among men, Reginald, and I shall write to your bosses telling them so.’
Feeling flushed, I staggered out towards Gate 47, 11 minutes by foot the digital sign said. Woof! And not a courtesy transport, golf cart in sight.
I commenced my trudge. Stirred, but not shaken.
Suresh's Corner 