"Warning" Not for those offended by profanity or intimidated by a wall of words.
We had finally been seated when I took a second to look around the room. It had taken some finagling but the wait staff had agreed to make room for us. It was still early so, with the understanding that we would be gone by 7:30, they agreed to give over one of the large reserved tables. With all eight of us making helpful suggestions to three different staff members about how they could fit us in, I think they were just desperate to quiet the ruckus. I too was a little desperate by this time.
The place was cavernous, as any former train depot ought to be, and it reminded me of the Flying Saucer in Nashville. Like most of these old renovated structures that used to be horse stables, apothecaries, or distilleries, it was renovated to a “T.” Whatever that means. Unlike most, its location near where the Indiana ramp to the Big Four Bridge will finish up was easy to get to and featured a huge parking lot.
I'm speaking, of course, of the new River Falls Wine Depot in Jeffersonville. The RFWD was not our first stop on Saturday. Hell, it wasn't even our first winery! We had started partaking the grape at noonish up on the Knobs and had gradually slithered down the hill checking in at Banks Tavern, River Bend Winery, and The Exchange.
When we got there, the Exchange was full up so we decided to check out the new place before the reviewers got a hold of it and it was over-run by the inevitable horde of eater lemmings. Of course as RFWD is not grinding up all the Serengeti animals or torturing geese for the foodistocracy they might go unnoticed for a while yet.
I was somewhat concerned about taking this group to such a place without checking it out myself first. They were a bit loud and the most “mature” member, a bottle blonde, who'd likely emptied more bottles of blonde than I had bottles, was hitting on every male of opportunity she spied. Roxanne owned a bar “and I'm on Spring Break!” was her mantra.
As we were leaving the first place she wriggled herself between two twenty-somethings of the bearded face, earring set. They were sitting side by side and I could see shock on their faces as she began making suggestions too bawdy for anything less than a late night Kathy Griffin Cinemax special. I couldn't hear all of what she was saying but she had wrapped a price tag around one of her fingers marked $8.99, and I'm pretty sure she was offering them change from her till.
Her daughter, who must have seen this show many times, roughly pulled her away from the young men saying, “Mom, I'm pretty sure they're gay!” “Hell no!” Roxanne said. “Their wives just went to the bathroom.” We hurried off before they got back.
At our last stop, Rox inexplicably fell off her chair and lay sprawled on the floor. I was alarmed when she didn't immediately pop back up. I raced around the table to see if she needed help. My attention was focused on her unmoving form while I wondered if I remembered CPR. I sensed that the room had gone quiet around us. I kneeled down at her shoulder, leaned over, and went to turn her head to clear her airway. “Can you hear me?” I asked. She turned her head and whispered “Is he coming over here?” I was stunned!
Rox had been hitting on our bar tender hard since he brought over her first bottle of Bud Light. She had trapped his hand around the bottle with hers and stroked down the top of the bottle with her other hand. She had clearly done this before. The bar tender had laughed it off but I thought he looked a bit queasy as he walked away.
Rox had been making requests to get him back to the table ever since. Each time she made a show of eyeing him as he walked off. He had been a good sport about this at first. He'd replaced her first beer for her when she said that it didn't taste right. He brought her a glass when she remembered during her second beer that she never drank beer from a bottle. Now he was ignoring her claims that she had dropped his twenty dollar tip under the table and couldn't reach it. It was while she was making a show of bending over to get the non-existent money that she hit the floor.
Dear God, I had to get them out of here or I'd never be allowed back! When she realized he wasn't coming over, Rox hopped back up with no assistance. She tugged her shirt back below her waist and acted as if nothing at all had just happened. Two of our party were laughing strangled tears, at Rox or possibly at me still standing there with my mouth open trying to pretend everyone else in the room wasn't staring.
Rox's daughter was ignoring her so I turned to look at my wife who immediately excused herself saying she was going to the bathroom while favoring me with a glare that made it understood that this was all my fault. The only person reacting normally, in other words, like they had just discovered the bowl of dates on the table was horse turds, was Rox's son-in-law who appeared about to cry. So was I. I suggested we leave and to my relief everyone got up.
Instead of waiting for the check, Jack went up to the bar holding out his credit card like a just found twenty at the strip club. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were glazed and his forehead was pebbled with shiny sweat. I hoped he'd tip more than the promised twenty.
On the way out, we passed behind the young guitar player near the door. Roxanne had been shouting at him after each song to play “Sweet Caroline.” Either he didn't hear her or pretended not to but I was relieved as I'd already heard her favorite version of the chorus and knew it wouldn't play any better here than it did at the last place.
Still, Rox slipped away from her daughter and before anyone could block her she was right up against the guy's back. I'm not sure whether the song had just ended or the young man stopped playing in mid song but suddenly there was no sound coming from the speakers. The young man's head started to nod up and down and I couldn't even imagine what she might be saying to him.
I didn't stop but headed outside feeling like I might be hyperventilating. Everyone else, including Rox followed me out the door to the sidewalk quickly. I didn't ask but I suspect the bouncer may have facilitated Rox's exit. I kept looking over my shoulder but no one else came out and I didn't hear sirens so I just got in the car and sat there trembling a little. Donna had to remind me start it up.
The ride to Jeffersonville was uncomfortable yet we all pretended the silence was normal for a while. As uncomfortable as the silence was, I didn't dare turn on the radio for fear that Mr Diamond might decide to join the party. As we drove along, I loosened up a little and began to point and provide some site-seeing commentary to fill the silence. As there really wasn't much along the ride to see I mostly just made shit up.
“On the right is the old Garretson Mansion owned by a famous river boat captain. His daughter killed him and his wife with an axe. Now it's haunted and is a popular spot for weddings and bar mitzvahs.”
“That's the very first White Castle. It was brought over brick-by-brick from Scotland.” We traded them a bunch of used bourbon barrels to put their whiskey in.
“That giant old clock used to be part of the very first Buddweiser brewery. The owner, Amos Budd who was from New Albany, had just invented Budd Light beer when he was run over by a team of Clydesdales making the first delivery. It's said the old clock stopped then and hasn't moved since.
In honor of that event, Angst The Brain Brewery is producing a special batch of beer in Amos Budd's memory. The beer will be triple hopped using road apples from actual Clydesdales descended from the team that ran Amos over. The working name for this beer is “Would You Look at the Head on That!”
When that last comment was met with silence, I feared I'd gone a bit too far. Then Rox asked, “What the hell kind of name is that? “Oh don't worry” I said. “You probably won't get it but you can trust that the thirty-something brewers at AtB are way smarter than the rest of us! You'd like them.
So, as I was saying we had just sat down at our table and ordered a bottle of white and a bottle of red. I was thinking about ordering a bottle of rose instead but I wasn't sure if rose was Merlot and I know enough about wine to never order any fucking Merlot!
It's a good thing I didn't disgrace myself too because who should I spy the table nearest the stage? None other than R. G. the famous food critic. He was sitting alone at a table the same size as the one comfortably accommodating the eight of us. The table was covered with food and wine bottles. It appeared that he had ordered every appetizer, entree, dessert, and wine on the menu.
I prepared to look away in case he should notice me. I wanted to observe the man whilst he performed his craft. I've always been a fan of G's reviews. Oh not so much what he writes about the food or the service or the restaurant but you know, the other stuff. The entertaining bits he always puts in.
You see, unlike all these other stick-up-the-ass reviewers who think they are providing diners with some kind of service by telling them where they should eat next “because said reviewer just did,” Mr G knows, that no review of any meal has any real relevance to any other diner or dining experience they might have.
He knows that people who read reviews of restaurants then rush out to them are just lemmings who can't make up their own minds. If fact, were Mr G to write that he just had the lemming burger at Lame washed down with Foie Groin beer then Lame better well be prepared to sell out of lemming burgers and Foie Groin beer. You can then count on six hundred and eighty four subsequent posts saying “I just had the lemming burger and Foie Groin beer at Lame it sure was good!”
Of course diners unlucky enough to have eaten at Lame before the review came out may suffer remorse as they realize that the baby gazelle burger that they had eaten washed down with Dirty Monkey Pen beer that they thought they liked was rubbish and swill! Not so!
The baby gazelle burger while not having quite the panache currently enjoyed by the lemming burger, thanks to Mr G's review, is quite acceptable if the lemming burger is not available. These baby gazelles are hand raised in pens made for medium size rabbits and so cannot even move until they are led on trembling legs to slaughter. By this time, they are so tender they can be easily ground up in their entirety bones and all using only a potato masher. Yumm! I hear BG tartare is under development.
So Mr G, instead of just trying a couple of things and saying they were the best things he has ever eaten like all the other reviewers do, tastes everything and says it's all the best thing he's ever eaten. No its true! Well, he doesn’t actually eat it. He just chews it and spits it into a bucket between his legs. When the bucket gets full, it's hauled out to the car and emptied into a fifty-five gallon drum strapped securely in the back of his 79' El Camino. It's rumored that this specially modified car combusts the fatty run-off siphoned from the spigot at the bottom of the barrel. I personally don't believe that.
I heard recently that Mr G has entered into a partnership with Angst The Brain and they will be producing their newest foodie beer based on locally sourced bone marrow. I understand that it will be fermented in the wild using only yeast also locally sourced (also Mr G?) and the initial fermentation will occur in the back of Mr G's El Camino. Yumm! The beer will only be served in over-sized pepper shakers and the working title is “Would You Look at the Beard on That!” I know – genius!
Well, you can bet I was thrilled to get to watch Mr G's technique up close. Some time ago I had asked to accompany the great man himself on a review to which he had readily agreed. As no invite was ever issued I assume that he must have lost my number, e-mail, and forgot that I post regularly on his forum, sometimes saying nice things about him but not always.
Our wine came just as his team of eater lemming sycophants began to wheel Mr G out of the restaurant on his customized hospital bed. The young singer who had been tuning up on the stage launched into his first song. “Dear God No” Sweet Caroline! Roxanne jumped up on the table shouting her profane lyrics. (Due to the explicit content of these lyrics I must be given at least three session-strength beers before I will repeat them). You could just ask Mr G, he seemed to enjoy them.
I must say we all enjoyed ourselves at the River Falls Wine Depot in Jeffersonville. I definitely recommend you don't go there. If you do, you're lemmings. But if you must, don't order the fucking Merlot. The white is quite nice if a bit foamy. Cheers!
Thanks Margie!