Cows and Feet (Or a Short Story Ending with Free Wine)

When I was a freshman in college, there was an older guy in our group of friends.  

You know the type.  

He was on his 42nd major, in his late 20s and liked to explicate the intricate symbolism and mystery in Bob Dylan lyrics.  Cigarettes were too banal, dipping was his choice of tobacco use, but it was strictly ironic.  

He also had an off-campus apartment and a valid driver's license. So of course, he was not only the key man for the purchase of many refreshments, his home was the location for many a shin-dig of sorts.

"Mi Casa es Su Casa!"

On one particular evening, the regular group gathered.  

We visited, sipping on our refreshments of choice.  The room was smoky from the cigarettes in every hand. The coffee table in the middle of the living room was slowly getting crowded with cups and cans.  

At some point, I put down my cup and eventually came back to retrieve it.

As I reached for it, think the slow motion that happens right before a car wreck.  

One friend from across the table said, "Nooooooooooooooooooo." Others just got wide-eyed.

Instead of my own refreshment cup, I grabbed the party host's dip cup.  

Instead of a cool cool sip of cheap beer, I had a giant gulp of tobacco'y warmth. 

It took me years to fully recover. 

At least I thought I had until about three days ago.  

In these parts, boxed wine is big.  And I don't mean the typical Riunite or Peach flavored Rose'.  I mean the pretty good stuff.  

Booze is so expensive* here that if you are the type that likes to have the occasional glass of wine with dinner,** often you get a box of really good wine. Then it doesn't go bad---as a bottle of wine might if it's not all consumed over the course of a day or two---because the spout reseals.

(In this house, we call it The Happy Box.)

But I don't know much about wine.  

I know what's good and what's bad.  I also know the particular kinds of grapes I tend to like, but that's about it. Also, my Norwegian vocabulary isn't so extensive that I can read the descriptions.

I tend to choose the Happy Boxes based on the box design.  

I like to assume if they cared enough about the design, then they cared about the wine.** Ridiculous perhaps, but it's always worked before.

Until last week.  

I choose Foot of Africa.  

I know, I know.  Why would I choose to drink anything that called itself foot?  Probably because I am constantly sleep-deprived and the box is red.  I like red.  Also, I like feet, particularly mine when they are rubbed by someone who is about to paint my toenails.

Whatever.  

When I took the first sip of it, I reverted back to my freshman year college self about five seconds after that fateful giant gulp.  

Foot of Africa does not taste like foot and it does not taste like Africa (as I may imagine either of them.)

About five seconds after it hits the tongue, it tastes like nothing less than strong strong tobacco, unlike anything I've experienced since that night.

We won't be finishing this particular Happy Box***.  

It's back to the cows of Argentina.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*A basic every day bottle of okay wine is about 120NOK (about $19 by today's exchange rate). And it's much more for a bottle nice enough for a hostess gift or to pour at a dinner party. The boxes usually start at about 299NOK.  Foot of Africa was 350NOK, about $55 US.

**Yes, I realize that a person could also make the opposite argument, "They spent all the money on the box and none on the product." Though, that is not what I have found in my experience.

***Would you like it?  I am serious.  If you live in Stavanger and are a fan of wine with intense notes of tobacco, send me a note and you can have it. This will tell you about it, though you'll have to translate from Swedish.