Do you remember way back
here when I posted...
Never have I felt quite so worldly as I did on my very first real date, when, after considered perusal of the wine list, I masterfully commanded the waiter at the Log Cabin restaurant in Lenox, Massachusetts, to fetch me a bottle of Mateus Rosé. In its distinctive Buddah-shaped bottle, with its slight spritz, it represented a step up from the pink Almaden that my friends and I sucked down in order to get into the proper Dionysian frame of mind for the summer rock concerts at Tanglewood. (And that seemed a classic accompaniment--rather like Chablis and oysters--to the cheap Mexican pot we were smoking at the time.) Later, of course, as I discovered the joys of dry reds and whites, I learned to sneer at pink wine; it seemed--as Winston Churchill once remarked regarding the moniker of an acquaintance named Bossom--that it was neither one thing nor the other. A few summers ago a bottle of Domaines Ott rosé in conjunction with a leg of marinated grilled lamb cured me of this particular prejudice; I thought I'd died and gone to Provence, though in fact I was at my friend Steve's birthday party in the Hamptons.
... and asked "would you turn the page?"
The time has come for a line-by-line, to discover what this author was doing and how he was doing it.
That's the first page from
Bacchus and Me: Adventures in the Wine Cellar by Jay McInerney. Five sentences; 201 words.
Never have I felt quite so worldly as I did on my very first real date, when, after considered perusal of the wine list, I masterfully commanded the waiter at the Log Cabin restaurant in Lenox, Massachusetts, to fetch me a bottle of Mateus Rosé.
Never have I felt ... is an unusual word order. Primacy of place in the sentence, and the whole book, to "Never." The author introduces his main character, who happens to be himself. The book is in First Person. "So worldly," combined with the never, tells us that the author feels less worldly now. "Very first real date" tells us that we're looking at a young adult (probably a teenager, from the days when the drinking age was 18). Certainly someone who's callow, and mistaken about being worldly at all. The "wine list" contrasts with the "Log Cabin Restaurant in Lenox, Massachusetts" to produce an irony--the waiter there would hardly have been a wine sophisticate--which leads us to the punchline "Mateus Rosé." This is a lovely description; we can see a young man trying to impress his date, (the "lengthy perusal"). What kind of a wine list would a place called the Log Cabin have? Nothing there would be anything other than common, and probably cheap.
In its distinctive Buddah-shaped bottle, with its slight spritz, it represented a step up from the pink Almaden that my friends and I sucked down in order to get into the proper Dionysian frame of mind for the summer rock concerts at Tanglewood.
Pure description at the head of this sentence, leads into a memory within a memory, from that first real date, to earlier, and even more callow teenager invoking the Roman god of wine. Dionysus (another name for Bacchus), suggests wild, larger-than-life, heroic drinking and merrymaking. We're tending to the orgy side of the scale. This, by someone who has never been on a date. He's trying, oh yes. The author is looking back on his younger self with amusment and fondness. The horrors of pink Almaden are explained by example: the use it's put to by young men heading to second-rate rock concerts.
(And that seemed a classic accompaniment--rather like Chablis and oysters--to the cheap Mexican pot we were smoking at the time.)
Comparison--Chablis and oysters--pink Almaden and cheap Mexican pot. We're putting rose wine in a category, one that only the young, inexperienced, unsophisticated, would enjoy. This parenthetical is the shortest, simplest one on this page. The other sentences are grammatically complicated, revealing the speaker's character as a someone who is infinitely worldly.
Later, of course, as I discovered the joys of dry reds and whites, I learned to sneer at pink wine; it seemed--as Winston Churchill once remarked regarding the moniker of an acquaintance named Bossom--that it was neither one thing nor the other.
"Of course." With a historical allusion, a slightly risque joke that slows us down to get the flavor. This sophisticated person speaks of the "joys of dry reds and whites." He sneers at pink wines. Three sentences in and we have a very good idea of this character. We also have the first inkling of the plot: the classic "The Man Who Learned Better."
A few summers ago a bottle of Domaines Ott rosé in conjunction with a leg of marinated grilled lamb cured me of this particular prejudice; I thought I'd died and gone to Provence, though in fact I was at my friend Steve's birthday party in the Hamptons.
Our speaker is a true gormand; "died and gone to Provence." No longer are we in Tanglewood, we're in the Hamptons (well known for being an expensive neighborhood just chock-a-block with urban sophisticates. Marinated grilled lamb is a world away from the Whoppers that we can imagine the author's younger self eating when the cheap pot gave him the munchies. We've also met a second named character: his friend Steve. The date he took to the Log Cabin and the nameless friends who went to rock concerts aren't important and the reader won't think about them. Now we have someone to keep in mind. The author is also breaking out of the total self-absorption of the young and into a wider head-space, developing his own character.
And who is Steve? Someone who lives in the Hamptons, serves grilled lamb, and is able to teach someone who thinks he knows about wine, and who apparently is a world traveler, something new about the drink.
So. Character revealed in every sentence. Complex compound sentences. Using the Flesch-Kincaid scale, this piece of writing is at the 16th grade level (senior in college).
We've seen several tricks used to slow the reader down, to make the reader sip the prose the way our narrator would sip his wine.
And so... would you turn the page?