In 2008, I attended my first Taste Washington. It was like a hazy dream. Over 230 wineries pouring a few wines each, and we had to taste them all. Or, at least, we tried.
After five hours of dumping wine down our gullets, we decided we should drink even more wine. We clown-shoed back to the little art gallery we had in Belltown with three bottles; and after a couple of glasses, I decided I was the next Sammy Davis Jr.
I am not what you’d call a “dancer,” and I have the coordination of a muskox with palsy; but the acoustics in the gallery begged for a good tap dance, and I was there to oblige with the encouragement of my friends.
This is why you spit at wine tastings.
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