Stories that travel in this direction, then that.
A day without rosé is no day at all.
If Bruce had a Personal Beverage Statement, that would surely be it.
Months before he, Jason, and I—mostly our wives—puzzled-out the family logistics for our annual Sunday-in-October/Get-the-Hell-Away-from-the-Kids Wine Tour in Central Virginia, Bruce dreamed of exotic adventures in pink fields of sweet- to semi-sweet flowers.
Anyway, he really likes rosé.
To be sure, Bruce is absolutely secure in his manhood, but, of late, he has changed tactics.
Instead of defending the right of rosé to exist in a multi-varietal world of wine, he has begun to show his faithless friends the profound merits of rosé'.
Like, for instance, the time he paired rosé with vodka and some sort of creamy liqueur, then poured it all over crushed ice and into an aesthetically pleasing mason jar.
Even I can admit: the drink tasted exactly like summer, with or without the pastel polo-shirt and popped-up collar.
But not everyone is ready for rosé.
And, aside from the cliché, not every rosé turns up roses.
Several weeks ago, in the market where I manage Produce and Cheese, a scruffy middle-aged man attempted to steal an inexpensive bottle of rosé.
After the heist, he was quickly apprehended—one block away from the store; in front of the police station (yep)—by the store owner and an assistant manager.
According to our store's Chief Stock Person, however, before making the lift, the man had allegedly asked him if we carried malt liquor.
This information, I thought, will not be welcome news for Bruce and other ardent fans of rosé.
Although strongly desiring something like a Colt 45, the perpetrator had settled for pink wine.
More details emerged.
The story would go on to define (thankfully!) an otherwise lackluster Tuesday surrounded by Bosc pears, kale, and yellow squash.
What we learned was this: the man who would rob for rosé was actually on his way to see the county judge for a court sentencing.
In vino veritas was having a good blush.