Jerry Lewis, Call Your Sommelier

I once went to a house party on Winter Hill, Somerville where there were some actual French people in attendance. I had met the French crew a couple of months before, and they had been enthused about visiting the U.S., but on this evening they were full of complaints, about the Boston "Metro" not running late enough, about a lack of decent bread in the area, et cetera.

They had bought a mixed case of wine for the party and were holding an impromptu tasting. At one point I poured some white wine into a glass that I had just drunk red wine from. I did it on purpose to hear the oenophiles shriek, which they did. A nice French woman showed me that I should use a fresh glass, and she was as patient with me as a loving mother conducting potty training.

Later, a young man named Michele was swirling some sauternes around in his mouth and managed to spit some on his shirt. "This sometimes happens," he said, a tad embarrassed.

"That's okay," I answered. "We do that with beer at baseball games." I'm not sure if he knew I was kidding.