Fic - "The Reluctant Sommelier"
Title: The Reluctant Sommelier
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG
Summary: You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him appreciate the subtle notes of oak and spice in the bouquet.
Warnings: Alcohol. Lots of it.
Notes: Written for the prompt "pretentiousness and pomposity" over at fma_fic_contest. Special thanks to my dad, the home-styled sommelier, who eagerly obliged when I asked him to teach me about wine. For maximum pretentiousness, please imagine Verdi's La donna è mobile playing in the background.
“I didn’t even know you owned this many wine glasses,” Havoc mutters.
Roy doesn’t answer- he’s too busy arranging the wine bottles, labels turned out, all covered in fancy script and abstract sketches of trees and wildlife. Havoc dimly remembers once seeing a wine label that depicted a scantily-clad woman seductively offering the viewer a cluster of grapes. He eagerly scans tonight’s selection and is disappointed.
“There isn’t any white wine,” he observes.
“White wine is for women and the stable boys who steal it.” Roy sneers. “There are expensive white wines, but those are for the idiots who don’t know to take the same amount of money and put it into a good red.”
Havoc wonders, “Stable boys?” and Roy makes a dismissive gesture. He sets out a plate of crackers.
“To cleanse the palate,” he explains.
This must be important- Havoc nods. In truth, he’s not quite sure how he ended up here. He remembers that Roy came to the bar with him and Breda a few nights ago, remembers the colonel’s look of disgust when Havoc ordered cheap beer after cheap beer. Roy scoffed, “No wonder you can’t get a girl, with taste like that,” and somewhere along the line it went from an insult to a personal challenge. Now they’re in Mustang’s apartment, facing a small army of bottles and glasses, and Havoc already feels like he’s two steps behind because he’s not entirely sure what “cleansing the palate” even means.
Roy pours two glasses from the first bottle and offers one to Havoc, keeps one for himself.
“This is a Beaujolais,” he announces. “First, you- wait!”
Havoc takes a gulp before Roy can stop him. The colonel is not amused.
“This isn’t the piss-water you drink at the bar,” he growls. “This is fine wine. You have to do this properly.”
Roy demonstrates. He swirls his glass gently, causing the dark liquid to lift gracefully along the inside of the bowl. When it settles, he brings it to his nose and sniffs, pauses, then takes a delicate sip. He holds it in his mouth for a moment before finally swallowing. Havoc tries to look impressed.
“Now,” Roy gestures. “You try.”
It turns out, Havoc doesn’t have the skill to swirl his wine properly. After several awkward attempts that almost end in disaster, Mustang relents and teaches him a shortcut- he sets his glass on the table and cranks it in a circle, the level surface keeping everything from tipping. He sniffs and sips, then smiles widely.
“Pretty tasty, boss.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Roy releases the smug smirk he’d been hiding. “And if you were a fourteen year-old boy that just wanted to get drunk, I’d give you nothing but Beaujolais. It’s cheap and simple.”
Havoc’s grin fades and he feels foolish. He instinctively goes to console himself with another gulp, but Roy catches his arm.
“No,” he scolds. “Just one sip from each.”
Havoc suppresses a whine of disappointment and allows Roy to take his glass and set it back on the table next to its source bottle.
“At many wine tastings,” Mustang continues, “It’s common to spit out the wine after each sip to avoid intoxication.”
“That is-“ Havoc starts to raise his voice, building towards an accusation of insanity, but he quiets down and finishes, “That is very interesting.”
The lesson continues- after they each eat a cracker to cleanse the palate. The next bottle is a Burgundy. “A deep wine,” Mustang sniffs, “But not a lot of nuance.” The Pinot Noir is more complex, a good match for a salmon or chicken dinner. The Shiraz is a heavier, spicier red. Each wine gets a speech. Havoc counts the remaining bottles and realizes that it’s going to be a long night.
“What’s a wine for?” Mustang waxes rhetorically. “Some wines are for food, some are for conversation. A big, complicated wine is for conversation because it will open up during the time you’re talking. If you can make it last long enough, the bottle will change over the time it takes you to drink it.”
Before tonight, Havoc wouldn’t have thought anyone could take that long to finish a bottle of alcohol. Now he knows better. While Roy rambles and studies his glass, Havoc sneaks deep and desperate gulps of the forgotten Beaujolais, straight from the bottle.
Roy talks about tannins and clarity, varietal character and subtlety. He urges Havoc to find the notes of flavor, the hints of this and the shades of that, all with a sniff and a sip and a cracker in-between.
“A good wine is like a sophisticated dinner companion,” Roy smiles at his glass of Cabernet as though it can hear the compliment. “Other wines are louts and tarts, and always will be.”
He casts a disapproving glare at his glass of Beaujolais- fortunately he doesn’t look at the bottle, or he would notice that it’s almost empty by now. He doesn’t notice, either, that his lieutenant is not avoiding intoxication at all.
“Now,” Roy presents the final bottle with unmistakable pride. “The Bordeaux. This was set down thirty years ago, and we must take a moment to thank those who had the foresight to- Lieutenant!”
Havoc had quite forgotten that Roy was still looking at him as he raises the Beaujolais to his mouth and drains the last of it. He wags the empty vessel at Roy and slurs, “My grandfather used to say- there’s always one more drop in the bottle.”
“Then your grandfather never had a quality wine,” Mustang hisses, outraged, “Or he would have ended up with a mouthful of sediment!”
“Huh,” Havoc retorts.
“Here,” Mustang pours a glass of the Bordeaux and shoves it into his hand. “Now try this.”
Havoc swirls and sips. He smacks his lips and shrugs.
“Tastes the same.”
Roy cuffs him upside the back of his head and barks, “Try again!”
Havoc obeys, grabbing and drinking straight from the bottle while Roy howls in protest.
_____end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc. Fullmetal Alchemist.
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG
Summary: You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him appreciate the subtle notes of oak and spice in the bouquet.
Warnings: Alcohol. Lots of it.
Notes: Written for the prompt "pretentiousness and pomposity" over at fma_fic_contest. Special thanks to my dad, the home-styled sommelier, who eagerly obliged when I asked him to teach me about wine. For maximum pretentiousness, please imagine Verdi's La donna è mobile playing in the background.
“I didn’t even know you owned this many wine glasses,” Havoc mutters.
Roy doesn’t answer- he’s too busy arranging the wine bottles, labels turned out, all covered in fancy script and abstract sketches of trees and wildlife. Havoc dimly remembers once seeing a wine label that depicted a scantily-clad woman seductively offering the viewer a cluster of grapes. He eagerly scans tonight’s selection and is disappointed.
“There isn’t any white wine,” he observes.
“White wine is for women and the stable boys who steal it.” Roy sneers. “There are expensive white wines, but those are for the idiots who don’t know to take the same amount of money and put it into a good red.”
Havoc wonders, “Stable boys?” and Roy makes a dismissive gesture. He sets out a plate of crackers.
“To cleanse the palate,” he explains.
This must be important- Havoc nods. In truth, he’s not quite sure how he ended up here. He remembers that Roy came to the bar with him and Breda a few nights ago, remembers the colonel’s look of disgust when Havoc ordered cheap beer after cheap beer. Roy scoffed, “No wonder you can’t get a girl, with taste like that,” and somewhere along the line it went from an insult to a personal challenge. Now they’re in Mustang’s apartment, facing a small army of bottles and glasses, and Havoc already feels like he’s two steps behind because he’s not entirely sure what “cleansing the palate” even means.
Roy pours two glasses from the first bottle and offers one to Havoc, keeps one for himself.
“This is a Beaujolais,” he announces. “First, you- wait!”
Havoc takes a gulp before Roy can stop him. The colonel is not amused.
“This isn’t the piss-water you drink at the bar,” he growls. “This is fine wine. You have to do this properly.”
Roy demonstrates. He swirls his glass gently, causing the dark liquid to lift gracefully along the inside of the bowl. When it settles, he brings it to his nose and sniffs, pauses, then takes a delicate sip. He holds it in his mouth for a moment before finally swallowing. Havoc tries to look impressed.
“Now,” Roy gestures. “You try.”
It turns out, Havoc doesn’t have the skill to swirl his wine properly. After several awkward attempts that almost end in disaster, Mustang relents and teaches him a shortcut- he sets his glass on the table and cranks it in a circle, the level surface keeping everything from tipping. He sniffs and sips, then smiles widely.
“Pretty tasty, boss.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Roy releases the smug smirk he’d been hiding. “And if you were a fourteen year-old boy that just wanted to get drunk, I’d give you nothing but Beaujolais. It’s cheap and simple.”
Havoc’s grin fades and he feels foolish. He instinctively goes to console himself with another gulp, but Roy catches his arm.
“No,” he scolds. “Just one sip from each.”
Havoc suppresses a whine of disappointment and allows Roy to take his glass and set it back on the table next to its source bottle.
“At many wine tastings,” Mustang continues, “It’s common to spit out the wine after each sip to avoid intoxication.”
“That is-“ Havoc starts to raise his voice, building towards an accusation of insanity, but he quiets down and finishes, “That is very interesting.”
The lesson continues- after they each eat a cracker to cleanse the palate. The next bottle is a Burgundy. “A deep wine,” Mustang sniffs, “But not a lot of nuance.” The Pinot Noir is more complex, a good match for a salmon or chicken dinner. The Shiraz is a heavier, spicier red. Each wine gets a speech. Havoc counts the remaining bottles and realizes that it’s going to be a long night.
“What’s a wine for?” Mustang waxes rhetorically. “Some wines are for food, some are for conversation. A big, complicated wine is for conversation because it will open up during the time you’re talking. If you can make it last long enough, the bottle will change over the time it takes you to drink it.”
Before tonight, Havoc wouldn’t have thought anyone could take that long to finish a bottle of alcohol. Now he knows better. While Roy rambles and studies his glass, Havoc sneaks deep and desperate gulps of the forgotten Beaujolais, straight from the bottle.
Roy talks about tannins and clarity, varietal character and subtlety. He urges Havoc to find the notes of flavor, the hints of this and the shades of that, all with a sniff and a sip and a cracker in-between.
“A good wine is like a sophisticated dinner companion,” Roy smiles at his glass of Cabernet as though it can hear the compliment. “Other wines are louts and tarts, and always will be.”
He casts a disapproving glare at his glass of Beaujolais- fortunately he doesn’t look at the bottle, or he would notice that it’s almost empty by now. He doesn’t notice, either, that his lieutenant is not avoiding intoxication at all.
“Now,” Roy presents the final bottle with unmistakable pride. “The Bordeaux. This was set down thirty years ago, and we must take a moment to thank those who had the foresight to- Lieutenant!”
Havoc had quite forgotten that Roy was still looking at him as he raises the Beaujolais to his mouth and drains the last of it. He wags the empty vessel at Roy and slurs, “My grandfather used to say- there’s always one more drop in the bottle.”
“Then your grandfather never had a quality wine,” Mustang hisses, outraged, “Or he would have ended up with a mouthful of sediment!”
“Huh,” Havoc retorts.
“Here,” Mustang pours a glass of the Bordeaux and shoves it into his hand. “Now try this.”
Havoc swirls and sips. He smacks his lips and shrugs.
“Tastes the same.”
Roy cuffs him upside the back of his head and barks, “Try again!”
Havoc obeys, grabbing and drinking straight from the bottle while Roy howls in protest.
_____end.