Can't Keep My Mouth Shut
by Tracey Toomey

Everyone that knows me will tell you that I like to talk. A lot. Part of the reason why I enjoyed bartending was because I could interject my opinions into other people’s conversations. I always had a captive audience. Well, my bartending days are now a whiskey-soaked memory, but I still feel the urge to put my "two cents" in when I overhear a conversation. I realize this sounds obnoxious – not only am I eavesdropping, but I also think my opinions are so valid that I’m doing someone a disservice if I don’t share them. To avoid not coming off as an insufferable know-it-all, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes it’s downright painful for me.

Case in point: this weekend I was on the North Fork with my husband, Matt, visiting some vineyards and doing a little wine tasting. It was a seventy-degree day filled with radiant sunshine, and the verdant farms of the north shore stretched as far as the eye could see. I was in an excellent mood – relaxed, glad to be out of the city, and (full disclosure) more than a little buzzed. After visiting several vineyards and (much to Matt’s chagrin) a goat farm where we tasted a variety of different goat cheeses and even goat fudge (yes, I realize this sounds gross), and purchased some over-priced handmade goat soaps and goat lip balm, we headed over to the North Fork Table and Inn where we had a reservation for dinner. Housed in a residence that dates all the way back to 1771, we settled in for some of the best food I’ve had in years (if you make it out there, don’t miss the duo of beef with truffled mashed potatoes – it’s amazing). Anyway, seated at the table right next to us was a young couple dining with an older couple (presumably the young man’s parents). They sat down after us, and when the waiter came over to take their drink order, the older man ordered a bourbon and ginger ale, and I heard the young man say rather authoritatively, "You know what makes bourbon, bourbon, right? It’s made in Kentucky."

I cringed. It took every iota of discipline in me to not shout back, "No, you’re wrong! While most bourbons are produced in Kentucky, bourbon can legally be made anywhere in the US. As long as whiskey is made with at least 51% corn and is distilled to no more than 160 proof and aged in new charred oak barrels for a minimum of two years, it can be called bourbon."

I shared these facts with my husband. Now it was his turn to cringe. "You’re just dying to go over there and set him straight, aren’t you?" Matt commented.

He knows me too well.

I turned back to my beef (which was so tender it was literally falling apart on my fork), and my big glass of Zinfandel, just as I heard the young man say, "And you know why some whiskey is called rye, right? Because it’s made in Canada."

Also wrong! I gritted my teeth and tried my best to ignore the misinformed man when I heard him tell the table that there really "is no difference between Johnny Walker and McCallan, because they are both scotch."

I restrained myself from loudly proclaiming the enormous differences between blended scotches and single malts. Matt, noticing my strained expression said, "So he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Why do you care?"

I took a generous sip of the velvety Zinfandel and responded, "If you were standing at a bar and the person next to you said that the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1775, wouldn’t you be dying to correct him?"

Matt just laughed and rolled his eyes. Apparently not everyone is as eager to share their knowledge as I am. I did my best to tune out the neighboring table’s conversation for the rest of the evening, which was easy to do once our waiter delivered a warm chocolate caramel tart and I had something far more worthy of my attention.