Thursday, October 22, 2015
Please just stop talking now (or, tales from Wine Country, episode #7765)
Occasionally at my job I run into a person who I wish I could tap on the shoulder and say, "please just stop talking now" to.
Yesterday was a busy day at the winery, and I spent a pleasant few moments getting to know a party of four well-dressed, cultured, slightly European-looking men having a "guy's day out," while their wives had a Ladies Day. They were relatives to each other, one local and the others visiting from out of state.
There was a lady across the aisle at another table, who I was also serving, and who was one of those people who liked to be thought of as "in the know." After several numerous attempts to impress me with her knowledge of wine lingo, she turned to the four men sitting at the table across from her.
"You know, we just went to (name of a new, swanky restaurant in San Francisco) Have you been there yet?"
The men looked a little confused, and then one of them responded by saying that if they were ever in the Bay Area, they'd try it out.
"Oh, I figured you were from San Francisco! You mean you're not from San Francisco? I just assumed you were from San Francisco!" she said.
From this exchange you can read two things:
1. She (wrongly) assumed the four men having lunch together must be two gay couples because to her, they looked gay. (Straight people's gay-dar should generally not be relied on.)
2. She (wrongly) assumed all gay people in California live in San Francisco, therefore since they were obviously gay they MUST be from San Francisco and would therefore be impressed by the swanky restaurant her and her husband had just dined at.
Because as you know, it's mandated (ooo, a pun!) that all gays live in San Francisco, and all gays know the hip places to be seen at. Oh, and it's also a rule that all even-numbered groups of well-dressed men hanging around together must be gay couples.
I always feel sorry for these kinds of people, those who expend so much energy to project an image to the outside world, but that sympathy is also usually tempered with the strong urge to tap them on the shoulder and say, "please just stop talking now." Or hit them with something heavy, depending on how stressful my day has been.
Instead I just came inside and died of a combination of laughter and extreme embarassment for all involved. Some days behind the bar in wine country are like that.