I went to Binny's on Marcey for the Thanksgiving wine: whites for sixteen, a case of something good that wouldn't require discussion, and two Beaujolais for the cousins who ask for “something fun.” I knew what I needed and expected to be quick.
The man from my September visit was in the Burgundy aisle again, reading a Gevrey label. This time he looked up first. “The 2019,” he said. “Did you open it?”
I had bought two bottles of what he was holding last time. Both were still in the cellar. I told him I was saving them.
“For what?” he asked. He wasn't unpleasant about it. I started to explain that I had pictured a quiet Tuesday in November, with the garden lights on and no one coming over. Then I realized I was describing that evening.
“They're drinking beautifully now,” he said, and went back to the label.
The Thanksgiving wine is home. Tonight we will open the first of the other two bottles. I've told Jonathan to wear something decent. He doesn't need to know we owe the evening to a man at Binny's.
— Ash