Well, the wine class went fine. The Wine Expert was on time, which is more than can be said for some of the attendees. The hotel staff did a great job setting up, etc. Only a couple of things: the room was yellow. Now, we meet there monthly, we know full well that it is yellow. Yellow wallpaper, yellow ceilings, yellowish paintings on the wall. But it is a basement room, with a low ceiling, so the yellow makes it look more light and airy, at least in theory. The WE didn't want to have it there at first, because all that yellow makes all the white wines look the same, ie. yellow. But after the fiasco that was her restaurant choice, the yellow room looked a whole lot better. And the hotel was a better choice than the restaurant-- more quiet, more orderly, even more comfortable. And the WE performed better there; you can tell it's the type of environment she's used to. But when you fill a smallish, low-ceilinged room with long tables, and cover them with pale yellow tablecloths, then you really realize just how relentlessly yellow that room is. The wine did look very yellow indeed, even the reds. And we all looked jaundiced, like we were in hepatitis quarantine. Contrary to studies, all that yellow did not cheer anybody up.

The second thing is this: no one really enjoyed many, if any, of the wines. W didn't. His evaluations ranged from "unpleasant" to "what the fuck is this?", the latter accompanied by a drawing of a skull and crossbones suitable for a bottle of bleach. The cartoon, by the way, was at the behest of Angie, who was disappointed that he's abandoned the emoticon wine evaluation method he used in La Morra on the Alba weekend last fall. One wine did get an "ok" from W, and that was the biggest disappointment of all: a 1994 Barolo. It was just about past it, which for a Barolo really shouldn't be. The WE was disappointed as well, although it's not something she can be blamed for. It was from a super producer and that wine should have been fab. She and I had been looking forward to it since she told me she'd found it a couple of weeks ago. Oddly enough, it was the Italians that got the most upset about it: not at her, but at either the vintner or the enoteca where she'd bought it. Someone was to blame, and by God they did their best to pinpoint who. I'd vote for the vintner myself, as the cork appeared to be in fine condition. I enjoyed the wines, in any case. The Arneis was nice, I actually liked the Grignolino although many didn't (it should be served cool, though, and is a good summer wine, which the WE left it to one of the Italians to mention), and I thought the Barbera was excellent. The Nebbiolo (recipient of W's skull and crossbones rating) was just OK, although others liked it just fine. I'm not a big fan of tarry wood.

After, a bunch of us went to our (W's and mine) favorite restaurant. I couldn't get reservations for all nine of us at one table, so we had a four-top and a five, which worked out well, as us two and Bruce and Angie were up for a big time, slap up meal and the other lot just wanted to eat. George especially. I had reserved for 8:30, a bit early for Milan but acceptable. George and Martha, however, apparently have supper finished and the dishes done by seven. This meant George was very unhappy indeed, although it doesn't look like his missed many meals, if any. He didn't like the walk either, although I think part of that was that it was keeping him from food. Luckily, our route didn't pass a McDonalds, or we would have lost him for good. And they say smokers are out of shape. (Insert rude noise here.)

We had our favorite waiter, so we told him to minister to the heathens first. After, of course, we ordered our wine. I picked out a 1997 Barbaresco, which all agreed was the best wine we'd had all night. Fabulous food, as per usual. My bollito wasn't, though: it was tough and required a steak knife, when a fork is all that should be required. The Barolo sauce was excellent, though, as was the polenta. Told our waiter-god, who replaced it with a filet cooked perfectly: nice and red, yet warm in the middle. (Apparently, the chef said the bolito just wasn't a good batch, and suggested the steak instead.) The other table left before I finished it. We even had desert and digestivos (Braulio for me, Limoncello for W and Bruce). The waiter-god just brought the bottles and some glasses, which would have been fine, except they were bigger glasses than usual, which W didn't notice until he'd poured. Oh well, worse things have happened.

So, wonderful, full, rich meal. And that meant that, in the normal course of events, I wouldn't cook on Sunday to make up for it, maybe a salad, some sandwiches. On Sunday, however, we were scheduled to have lunch in the country with a friend of W's from work and his family. This event deserves an entry of its own, and it shall have it. I will say one thing here, though: We're on half rations until Saturday. Actually, Thursday might actually do it, but we're going to Parma next weekend so we'd better do penance in advance.

Today was pretty uneventful. Italian in the morning, grocery store, errands, and a long, frustrating yet eventually fruitful search for a bancomat that would give me money. It was at the last, eventually sucessful, sportello that I almost lost it. There was a line, which was to be expected, as it was actually in service. But this jerk in front of me was on his cell-phone, and he kept talking and talking. Loudly. I don't know who was on the other end. Possibly no one, as he talked non-stop, and whoever it was could have hung up ten minutes earlier and he wouldn't have noticed. Then, it's his turn. He does not move, he's still prattling away. I made a motion, you or me? Him, apparently, still yammering away as he arranged his possessions all over the sportello and searched for his wallet. Which took a while, as he's doing it one handed, given the other hand was urgently needed to keep the telefonino glued to his ear. It took him forever to complete his transaction and gather up his stuff, as most of his attention was on his phone call. He never missed a beat, never stopped for breath. He kept looking at me, though. "See how important I am!" And I think he really thought he was giving off that impressive-man-of-business aura. Except he was talking about what his mama thought of this and that, and what he was having for dinner and how long it took him to walk from Point A to Point B. And he kept dropping stuff, and even had a hard time inserting his card into the damn machine and completing his transaction, because he's not coordinated enough to do things one-handed.

Note to the git on the cellphone: If you are going to foist your phone conversations on all and sundry, you really ought to have something to say. Black corduroy pants do not look good with blue polyester suit jackets, especially ones that do not fit properly. And you should lay off Levi's entirely unless you have an ass of some kind to put in them. And the brown boots go with nothing unless you are actually at this moment on top of an actual mountain.