Recommended wine for today’s entry: I actually have done a little online research on boxed wines, and suggest this French white for drinking while perusing my observations on karaoke night at the pizza place: 2005 La Petite Frog, Picpoul de Pinet from Hugues Beaulieu, Cave de Pomerols. Wine Spectator gave it an 87 and a 3-liter box runs about $34
It is described at http://boxedwinespot.blogspot.com/2006/11/2005-la-petite-frog-picpoul-de-pinet-3.html as “pale yellow color with green tints. Fresh and fine aromas of grapefruit and exotic fruit. Lime flavors, with typical focusing acidity, are hallmarks of Picpoul. Our best value, this wine impresses novices and hardened geeks equally. Known as ‘the Muscadet of the South’ in France, this is to the Mediterranean coast of France what Albariño is to northwest Spain…the default wine for fresh shellfish & seafood…”—K.M., Wine Spectator (August 31, 2006), 87 pts. Just for the record, I am not delusional enough to think that’s what I was served at the pizza joint.
In case you were not fortunate enough to stumble upon karaoke night at your local pizzeria over the holidays, I am going to be nice and share our experience with you. As you can see, I have suggested a boxed wine for sipping (read: slugging) with today’s entry, as that is what I was doing while enduring said evening.
To set the mood, I’ll start at the beginning.
I bolted from the car, not wearing a coat so that it wouldn’t smell like smoke later, and raced inside first, anxious to get in from the biting cold. There was a harried-looking, exceedingly thin man darting around by the hostess desk. “I’m not alone,” I explained lest this fine fellow think that he had a shot at a hook-up. “My husband is very slow.”
“I’m just going to pee, lady,” replied the undoubtedly enamored patron who continued on to the men’s room once I moved away from the door.
Suddenly the room filled with a screeching noise that seemed to come at me from all sides. As my husband entered the pizza joint, his eyes widened and he paled significantly. I was worried, but then the strobe lights came on from the bar area in the back and his face was filled with alternating hues of blue and red and he looked much better.
The screeching, we found as the REAL hostess seated us, was coming from what my daughter would call a “big girl” who was wearing either an attractive wrap skirt or a small pup tent, and had a lady mullet and a wide variety of festively colored tats. She was singing acid rock with everything she had. If her vocal cords were in proportion to the rest of her body, I would assume she didn’t even need the microphone. But she used it anyway and I have to say that I still prefer Kiss’ version of that song.
It was quiet for about 30 seconds, so we ordered our drinks swiftly and with confidence. Just enough time to utter, “White wine. Any.” and “Miller Lite. Big.” We had to wait ’til the next break to order our pizza.
The next singer sounded a little better. A man with a smooth, sultry delivery of an old Kenny Rogers song — not as loud, at least not until he wandered next to our table. Ah, the sexy tableside crooner had a cordless microphone and was wandering through the restaurant!
A nice touch, except he would have been better served to project his voice from somewhere behind the Asteroids machine like everyone else. His gut totally and completely eradicated his belt buckle, which, having glimpsed it up close and personal from the side view, appeared to be roughly the size of a dinner plate. He had an excellent presentation of facial hair, dominated by thick chops that emanated from seemingly nowhere on his mostly bald head.
There was one really cute guy, though. I think he was clearly the John Mayer of the karaoke circuit. He came and sat at a table with two very attractive late teen girls who had somehow scored a pitcher of beer. He perched for a minute, poured himself a beer, sucked it down quickly, swept one of the girls into his arms and kissed her for about a full four minutes. I might add that there was quite a bit of tongue action, and I will spare you the details, but I don’t know why because I can’t exactly eradicate it from my memory bank and my gorge keeps rising. I don’t know why I have to bear this picture alone, but I will.
Anyway, once that was said and done, he slapped her rather loudly on her thigh and went back to lean on the pool table, where he promptly put his arm around a chick in her late 20s and shoved his hand into what I first thought was her pocket, but soon discovered was her pants.
There were four little kids with recently buzzed hair (one had a nick with crusted blood) sitting two booths away. At the booth between us, a VERY sullen teen sat, texting frantically, one hand supporting his head and a look of sheer and utter MISERY on his face. Turned out that the burrheads were his little brothers and mama was next in line to sing. I know because right before she started she went over and smacked one of the burrheads on the butt and told him if he got up out of that damn seat again she was gonna do something I fortunately couldn’t hear because I would have certainly had to call child protective services.
Then she spun around and sang a sweet rendition of a Dolly Parton song. After trailing the final note out long enough for me to eat and swallow two giant bites of pizza, she threatened the swarming booth again and allowed a fine gentleman in a snappy black velvet blazer to buy her a Budweiser.
As we bolted through the cold to the car, I told my husband, “W-e-e-l-l, now I think I know where we’ll hang out once both kids are in college. Tuesday nights, at least.”
He laughed. But he didn’t know that I’d made eye contact with John Mayer Karaoke Dude.