St. Hubbins

Companion is a dolt. "Espadrilles finally opened back up - we should go!"


I was nonplussed. Even at it's height Espadrilles, with marginal cuisine and a chancy wine cellar, was never at the top of my list. But do I protest? No; I simply shrug into my Clayton Fleece-Lined and step out into the rain for the interminable ride to w42nd and 8th Ave.


With a table overlooking the indescribably beautiful Port Authority Bus Terminal, we reviewed the wine list. Companion's heart was set on the St. Hubbins, a Shiraz I thought to be of questionable pedigree - nonetheless it soon arrived at the table in the hands of bow-tied extra from An American in Paris. With the first sip, I realized that my concern about pedigree was unjust. This was, in fact, the embodiment of Pedigree - as I sipped I could almost hear the can opener and feel the knife scraping its gelatinous contents into the expectant bowl of a salivating Fox Terrier. My gag reflex at once recalled the waiter, who asked if there was anything wrong. "Not at all," I replied, and summoning a courage not unlike that of Aquinas before the Tribunal, I smiling took a healthy draught to validate my words.


I have never been to a vinegar farm, but I imagine that with the air full of a caustic cleanliness, one observes a humble gathering of buildings; buildings that shelter what must be an abuse of fruit so severe that the acid is drawn from them as is poison from a wound. These at least were my fleeting impressions as I slid unconscious from my chair, coming to rest in the comparative dark and cool under the table cloth. The apologies of the house, the free dinner, the rejuvenating carafe of Pain de Pita were all salve to the start of the meal, yet in all it was long ride home. I feel that sometimes silence is the best rebuke.