The Whine List

Bubba looked me right in the eyes and said, “You be one sick puppy. Drinking a woman’s milk! Well, I ain’t havin’ nothin’ to do with them doin’s. I want me a beer. Better yet, since this is your treat, I want me one of dem ‘ported beers. I wants me a Hind’kickin Beer, made in the Holy land or some place near Germany.”

I figure the waiter spoke fluent redneck for some reason, because Bubba soon had a beer in front of him. But, it was from Holland, not the Holy land. I guess it didn’t matter much to Bubba, long as it was cold.

My wine arrived at about this time and so did the oysters. The waiter pulled the cork from the wine bottle and handed it to me. Bubba looked at me expectantly and very seriously, and then I heard him say, “Son, take that cork and make ya a float fer fishin’ with. I don’t need it, ’cause I got a tackle box full of lures and stuff.”

I felt the cork and made sure it was wet. I held it up to my eyes and read the name of the wine and date. Yes, this was a very good one. The name on the cork and the name on the bottle were the same. I then placed the cork on the table, next to my plate. The waiter poured a splash of wine into my glass waited for my reaction.

I heard Bubba say to me in a low voice, “You paid fer the bottle, but he’s just givin’ you a little bit. Cheap place here I thank. I bet he is a-hopin’ ya leave some fer him after the meal.”

I swirled the wine around a bit and then raised the glass to my nose and took a long dramatic sniff. I then looked the waiter in the eye and nodded my head once. He immediately left our table.

“Ya ain’t got all that garbage with a good bottle of Rapple, Mule. You just untwist the top, pour ya a water glass full and eat yer beans and franks.”

I reached over, took up an oyster fork and poked me a nice raw oyster off the half shell. I plopped it into my mouth, followed by a small sip of wine. What a great taste combination! I was surprised when I saw Bubba take an oyster, put it in his mouth and then chugged about half his beer.

Well, he coughed once and the oyster flew across the table and landed on my right knee. He gagged a few times and then stood up. “Y’all get me a waiter here and right now!”

He screamed in a very loud voice. His face was beet red and the veins on his neck were swollen and throbbing. He was livid!

“Yes, sir?” A nervous waiter stood there in front of our table. Bubba was still standing as well.

“Ya take these thangs back and tell yer cook they ain’t been cooked. I don’t see ‘nough people in heah where he could have gotten so busy he fergot to cook ours. You make shore you tell him we don’t eat no cut fish bait! Now, get a move on man!” Bubba handed the poor waiter our oysters and I took a large gulp of wine.

Well, the night lasted much longer than I wanted it to, but soon we were on our way back to Rolla. As we passed Salem, Missouri, Bubba looked over at me and said, “Shore was a innersting ev’nin. I was fed cut bait, you got a new cork fish bobber, you drank some old woman cow’s milk, the steaks had blood in em, and you paid mo’ than ten dollars fer a bottle of wine.”

Years have pasted and Bubba brings the dinner up every once in a while. When he does, I just tell him I have the meal…..and he has the whine.

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