For those of you just joining us, I work at a Spanish store in Pike Place Market-ish. We have the largest Spanish and Portuguese wine selection in the country. Which means that in the 5 months I’ve worked there, I’ve learned a lot about Spanish wine. This also means that I know basically nothing about Spanish wine. Because there are TOO MANY OF THEM.

So when people ask me questions like, "is the Torres black label 2001 as drenched with black fruit and peppered with crushed stones and forest floor spice box aroma as the 1971 Marques De Roca LaShonda Fernando Ortega D’Paz green label??
I say things like, "uhhh…."
And, "Yes. No. I don’t think I know what that means."
And, "Brenda? This gentleman is wondering about the…uh….Marquees… Arigato…uhhh….DeVito….something…wine….something…"

So you can imagine my delight when I get someone as dumb or dumber than I am. Because they don’t even know enough to ask any questions. They just say things like.."I’m looking for a Spanish wine." And that’s pretty much all we have. So I just say, "Ahh…" and pick up a bottle and say, "This one." If they say,"No," then I say, "Well…there’s always…" and hand them a different one. If it’s still a "No," then I say, "OH!" and walk deliberately across the store, pick up another bottle and say, "HERE you go….THIS one is…" and they usually complete the sentence with "Perfect!"

Yesterday, I had a fellow who was even better. "Yeah," he said, "Where’s the place in Spain where they make wine?" His ignorance was thrilling. "You know, the good place."
"Well," I said, "there are a lot of wine regions. Navarra? Toledo? Rioja?"
"Rioja!"
"Ok, well, these are the Riojas."
"What do they taste like?"
"Well…" I took a breath, and made sure no other employees were listening. This is the only question I kind of know the answer to. "The traditional Rioja is very oaky, and uh….it’s made with this grape called Tempernillo…lots of red fruit to it…"
"Whoa! Fruit?"
"Yeah, well…like…uh…cherries?"
"Whoa! Like…IN the wine?"
"Well…"
"Whoa." And he left, mind blown. And I felt clever as a cuttlefish. Which is a simile I came up with while stocking the canned seafood later. "Cuttlefish!" I said loudly. "clever as a CUTTLEfish!"
"What?" said Brenda.
"Practically nothing."

We don’t have a store in Oregon, which is a point of contention for Oregonians. I say we need to give them their own store so they can keep their no-tax nonsense to themselves. They come in, they nose around for a while, and then they start stacking stuff on the counter.
"All set there?"
"Nope, still looking."
"Right." The pile gets higher.
"All set then?"
"Nope."
"Great!"
And finally, when I’m distracted,
"Um…Excuse me? Can I pay here or are you too busy?"

So I ring up their 50 or so purchases. Trinkets. Glassware. Little flags. Wine.
"Oh–can you wrap that up double? Thanks…we’re driving…"
"Ok…$627.88."
"Oh…we’re from Oregon. So…no tax."
"Great!" So I return every single stupid item individually, before ringing it up again in the no-tax departments.
The only thing that gives me solace is imagining them at ARCO later, cheerfully waiting for someone to come pump their gas for them.