A corker of a dining experience

Last night we had dinner at Chez Panisse -- the café, that is.

(Wait, you say. Shouldn't you be posting this on your other blog? That food one with the funny name that no one can spell?

Nah. Because I'm not going to write about the food, I'm going to bitch about the service. And this is the blog where I rant.)

The occasion was the birthday of Marian, Hüsbando's first (and only other) wife. I've often wondered why they ever split up -- she's smart, beautiful, a great cook, funny, not to mention stacked -- but it helps that the marriage ended 20-plus years ago. Marian and I get along excellently. She told me last night that when referring to me, she often accidentally calls me her sister-in-law, which I thought was incredibly sweet until Hüsbando said, "You should meet her real sisters-in-law," and laughed.

As is often the case, this dinner for eight people started out awkwardly, with some guests early enough to order wine from the bar, while others were slightly late. The host was nice enough to seat us while we were still missing one, but then the waiter proceeded to ignore us. Hüsbando and I had been on the late side, and my stomach was audibly hungry. The reservation was for 5:15, so I had had a very minimal lunch, hoarding my calorie allotment in blissful anticipation. Others had done the same. It's possible we were cranky.

Marian took her time perusing the wine list. Her friend Summer flagged somebody down and ordered some cheese and olives for the table. The last guest arrived. Eventually Marian ordered a 2004 Ponzi Arneis from Oregon's Willamette Valley. She said she'd liked other Ponzi varietals, but never tried this unusual one. Arneis, which I'd never heard of before, is a Piedmontese grape that's notoriously hard to grow.

The waiter brought it. Marian swirled, stuck her nose in the glass and wrinkled it, then sipped.

"I think it's corked," she said, handing back the glass. "Well actually, I know it's corked."

"Oh dear," he said, and disappeared with the bottle.

Marian sniffed the cork and proclaimed it less offensive than the wine itself had been. I took a whiff: I could smell something slightly musty and sweet, almost port-like, but only faintly. Five minutes passed. Then:

"I'm in a slightly awkward position," said the waiter, a hipster with little round glasses who looked like he was probably writing a Charlie Kaufman-style screenplay in his spare time. I shall call henceforth call him John Big Britches.

"I don't think the wine is corked, actually." He said it in that fakey way that means, I'm attempting to be humble, but I don't believe you could tell a cork from your cute little nose, blondie.

"Well, it is," said Marian, firmly but politely. She's Dutch, and they're generally not a shy, soft-spoken bunch. And Marian, like me, tends to wear her opinions on her sleeve.

"It's just not a very good wine," he replied.

Jaws at the table collectively dropped. I must now explain that this was no ordinary audience. Marian is a wine buyer for a national high-end steakhouse chain. Her job is to fly around the country and find decent local wines to put on the wine list for each new store the chain opens, then train the wait staff on the list. Michael, the last arrival to the table, owns a well-respected winery in Napa. Summer trained as a chef but now has something to do with the business side of the steakhouse. Kent has a modern furniture store and considers himself an amateur wine expert.

The remainder of us have had plenty of exposure to good wine and food, and there's one thing we do know: Chez Panisse does not make a habit of putting "not very good" wines on its list.

Marian looked at John Big Britches. "Why don't you bring me another bottle so I can see?"

"Another of the Ponzi Arneis?"

"Yes. Please."

He nodded and sort of shrugged. I couldn't believe his nerve. Chez Panisse prides itself on its service, so much so that a 17% service charge is automatically added to the bill. (You can tip more if you're especially happy with the service, and most people do, but the servers will always ask you if you meant to.) As an ex-waitress, although not a very good one, I can say that someone obviously forgot to explain to this guy that the customer is always right. And if the customer is sure the wine is corked, you set the bottle aside in the kitchen and let someone else decide whether it is or isn't, and then sell it by the glass. You do not argue with the customer, and then proceed to insult the wine.

Eventually -- and none too speedily -- he returned with another bottle of the Ponzi. He poured it for Marian silently. She swirled, sipped, and smiled. "Much better, thanks."

I think I have pretty acute tastebuds, even better now that I've quit smoking, but I'm just now getting up to speed on the wine vocabulary. Here's my attempt to describe the Ponzi: light-bodied, fruity -- grapefruit and a hint of lemon -- with a slight almond finish. Way better than "not very good," but not particularly memorable.

Michael tried a sip and reluctantly agreed with the waiter. He was clearly seething, though, perhaps on Marian's behalf, or perhaps because no vintner wants to hear the wait staff dissing the wine on offer. A little later, he called Big Britches over.

"So you think Jonathan Waters puts bad wines on the list?" he said, so quietly that I had to use my special Spidey-strength hearing, which partly involves lip-reading. (Jonathan Waters, no relation to Alice, is the sommelier. His name does not appear on the menu. Michael was thus signaling that he was Someone to Be Reckoned With.

"No," backpedaled the waiter. "I misspoke when I said that. I meant that I just didn't think she was going to like the wine."

Michael handed him the cork from the first bottle. "Smell this," he ordered, a little less politely.

Big Britches sniffed and shrugged ever so slightly. "Doesn't smell corked to me," he said, but I could tell he was bluffing.

Michael looked at him and pressed the red button, metaphorically speaking: "In case you couldn't tell, we're all in the wine business here."

"Yes, I guessed that." The balls on this guy!

"Then you're aware that we know when a wine is corked."

At that point my Spidey senses failed me -- or the conversation that I was ostensibly paying attention to drowned out the sotto voce one going on at the other end of the table -- and I missed what Big Britches replied. All I know is that the whole thing kinda put a damper on our dinner.

The food was delicious, of course. I had decided beforehand that I would only order meat that I didn't know how to cook myself, so I had Elliott Ranch lamb loin and beet salad with anise hyssop, followed by Sonoma County Liberty duck breast with sweet corn, snap peas, savory, and onion jam. The lamb was smoky flavored, almost pork-y tasting, and the beets -- a vegetable I have only recently begun to appreciate -- were tasty, although I couldn't really discern the anise. I won the menu jackpot on the duck breast: perfectly cooked, juicy medallions of fat and tender flesh and crispy skin. The corn and snap peas were so sweet and crunchy that I could easily imagine them having been picked that morning. Although both dishes were modestly sized portions, at $10 and $23, they seemed like bargains to me, especially given how progressively exorbitant the Townhouse, our neighborhood bistro, has gotten -- its entrees are often in the mid-$20 range, yet the meat and produce are neither local nor organic.

We didn't have any more trouble with John Big Britches. Once the food arrived, the service resumed to being as swift, silent, and as efficient as I'm used to. But the damage was done, and I don't think we tipped JBB anything on top of the house 17%. I'm debating writing a letter to the management. Fortunately, the evening was young and thus hard to ruin: we all came back to our house afterward and tasted some delicious wines Marian had hand-carried on the plane from her supply.