Proud of My Trash

There I was, at the town dump (or if you prefer, "transfer station") bringing the empty wine bottles from a long weekend of house guests to the recycling area.  I had about two cases of assorted varietals, purchased and consumed to pair with the menus I had planned and executed.  The wines were slightly above the ordinary, every day table wine I buy for myself - some were offered as house gifts by the visiting cityfolk, some were purchased at the Wine & Brew festival at Hunter Mountain in the GNC, but most were from local wine merchants in Kingston and Saugerties. Of the two cases, only two bottles would I call "special", that is, more than $30 a bottle - a French Chardonnay, to go with the chicken dish.

According to the protocol of the dump (it's "dump" to us locals), I was sorting the clear glass from the green glass on the table provided for the purpose, before tossing the bottles into the dumpster and hearing the satisfying crash of a wine bottle at the end of its useful life.  "Wine is Life" it is said by the clever guy who designs T-shirts. An empty wine bottle is a souvenir of a meal enjoyed with friends.

There he was, near the sorting table, hovering, dressed in ragged, smelly, dirty clothes.  He had broken fingernails, unkempt hair and to put it kindly, poor personal hygiene in all respects.  He seemed fascinated by the labels on the bottles as I put them on the table.  After two or three had made it into the dumpster, he began his commentary:

"Ah, a good year and a good vintage - you know your wines", he said as a Cab went into the dumpster.  "Ah, an excellent choice, particularly with duck, a strong taste that cuts through the fat on the palette" as a Pinot made the trip. "Ah, the aroma of this one - I remember it well - hints of pomegranate and citrus."  "Ah, how I loved this one - California, but a vineyard situated north to south rather than east to west as most are in the Simi Valley.  Very crisp, clean finish. No, no - I don't care for these Chilean Malbecs, vastly overrated."

I kept tossing, but at a slower pace, so he would have time to read the labels. His commentary on every bottle had been accurate so far, though I quibbled about the Malbecs.  "Perhaps" I said, "but it was only $15 for the bottle."  He waved my opinion away into the air of the GNC as if I were a sommnelier in training. He waited  for the next case of empties to reach the table.  He continued his critique with knowledge of extraordinary scope and depth until the last bottle, a sweet dessert wine from the local Windham winery.  "Haven't tasted this one," he said and he looked inside the bottle for dregs.  (None, I rinse the bottles to keep the mice out of them.)

The transfer station attendant punches a card for the fee.  I approached with my card and asked who was the man with the French accent and encyclopedia-like knowledge of wine.  "Dunno," said the attendant.  "He shows up occasionally and doesn't stay for long.  Most of the time, the wine doesn't interest him."

For the first time in my life, I was proud of my trash!