Courvoisier

My father is a waiter. Always has been. Recently we included visits to his house, as bookends to a 4,000 mile family road trip: one on the way out, one on the way home. While I was there, he gave me this:

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He said that his manager had gotten it “about 20 years ago” when the restaurant where he worked closed. So it had been sitting at a restaurant bar for a really long time, but it was still in the original box with the seal intact. My father has worked in some pretty nice restaurants, so he knows a bit about expensive drinks. When this fellow offered him the brandy, dad said, “That’s way too expensive for me.”

“Will you give me twenty bucks for it?”

“Hell yeah.” My dad will probably have been the one from whom my children learned to cuss.

So he gave it to me, and I brought it home, not thinking it was more than, say, a thirty dollar bottle. Tonight I did a search for it—did you know that the online alcohol retail business is not really all that big?—and found this:

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I’m not a brandy connoisseur, but I enjoy a good Calvados. But I was surprised at the price tag and I thought I probably won’t ever drink anything this expensive again. So that’s the best thing I read today.

So I called my father when I read this, and said, “Dad? Did you know how expensive this is?”

“Yeah, I was hoping to try some with you before you left.”

Oops. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know. I didn’t think you were interested.”

“That’s alright; we’ll see you again before too long. You’re not going to drink it all tonight, right?”

Thanks, dear reader, should you ever find me, for drinking brandy.

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About philokalos

Philologist, historian, and lover of great books, I started this blog to keep myself alert to the beauty of what I see amid the demands of my work.
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