(no subject)
I ran across this blog Liquor Store Stories that is full of interesting stories. I used to clerk in a liquor store myself. I know I've posted the story about shaking the bottles of flavored vodka, but I don't think I've told this one...
One of the few perks of working at the store was the distributor convention. This was when all the representatives of the various distilleries would gather in a cavernous space at the fairgrounds and try and convince us that we should be pushing their particular wares. The did this year round by coming in and giving us free t-shirts, sunglasses, cooler bags, etc., the difference with the convention is that in addition to the swag they also served up samples. (Convention day also being known as "the day that everyone holding a current liquor license gets shit-faced for free".)
One of the tables at this particular convention was run by Courvoisier, the spendy cognac people. And they were not going cheap this time, they were offering samples of Courvoisier Napoleon, which, at about $150 a bottle, was not a big seller at our particular store. Or at any store, for that matter. The Courvoisier table was very popular, as everyone wanted to taste the cognac that was older than most of the people in the building. Alas, the thing about cognac, especially very old cognac, is that it's an acquired taste. In other words, that shit is strong, and it burns like jet fuel laced with tabasco sauce going down.
Nevertheless, I approached the table and asked for a sample. The rep working there looked like Alfred Pennyworth, in a tux and white gloves. He poured the cognac into a paper shot glass, and handed it to me. I took a sip. Cue the cough and the watering eyes. I didn't feel the need to be all macho, so I set it back down on the table.
"You didn't like it, huh?" Said Alfred to me. "Most people don't. Me, I love the stuff!"
And he picked up my shot glass, finished the remainder, and tossed the crumpled empty in to a nearby wastebasket, where, I noted, there were a lot of identically crumpled cups.
By the time I'd finished making the rounds, and walked past the Courvoisier table again, it was unattended, and Alfred was slumped in a folding chair, drooling on his white tie.
One of the few perks of working at the store was the distributor convention. This was when all the representatives of the various distilleries would gather in a cavernous space at the fairgrounds and try and convince us that we should be pushing their particular wares. The did this year round by coming in and giving us free t-shirts, sunglasses, cooler bags, etc., the difference with the convention is that in addition to the swag they also served up samples. (Convention day also being known as "the day that everyone holding a current liquor license gets shit-faced for free".)
One of the tables at this particular convention was run by Courvoisier, the spendy cognac people. And they were not going cheap this time, they were offering samples of Courvoisier Napoleon, which, at about $150 a bottle, was not a big seller at our particular store. Or at any store, for that matter. The Courvoisier table was very popular, as everyone wanted to taste the cognac that was older than most of the people in the building. Alas, the thing about cognac, especially very old cognac, is that it's an acquired taste. In other words, that shit is strong, and it burns like jet fuel laced with tabasco sauce going down.
Nevertheless, I approached the table and asked for a sample. The rep working there looked like Alfred Pennyworth, in a tux and white gloves. He poured the cognac into a paper shot glass, and handed it to me. I took a sip. Cue the cough and the watering eyes. I didn't feel the need to be all macho, so I set it back down on the table.
"You didn't like it, huh?" Said Alfred to me. "Most people don't. Me, I love the stuff!"
And he picked up my shot glass, finished the remainder, and tossed the crumpled empty in to a nearby wastebasket, where, I noted, there were a lot of identically crumpled cups.
By the time I'd finished making the rounds, and walked past the Courvoisier table again, it was unattended, and Alfred was slumped in a folding chair, drooling on his white tie.