Last night, the missus and I went to a strange place nextdoor to one of those old men's fellowships that dot the city of Örebro, and attended a wine and cheese tasting.
It was far less pretentious than I had feared it would be, and something has to be said of a sommele...somi...wine expert who manages to talk about the qualities of fine wine without making you want to punch him very hard in the face.
Unfortunately, it was entirely impossible to avoid the fact that the topic of the whole affair was wine. In fact, it was all that the cheese could do to reduce the flavourly impact of precisely those qualities in wine for which I care the very least.
I can not with any honesty say that this event in any way caused an epiphany in me, or for that matter impacted my view or preference with regards to wine in any way, shape, or form.
Indeed, give me a box of Barefoot White Zinfandel Rosé, and I'm as happy a camper as can be.
Good night.
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