american tacos & wine pairings
The deceptive thing about pairing is in the word itself. To pair implies a sense of compliment. But we all know pairings come in all sorts of flavors and sizes and not all adjoining parties obviously compliment one another. We taste, we touch, we feel, we smell, but most of all, we take into consideration the most important factor when deciding if “this good” or “this bad” in any given situation, and this factor is obviously our sense of self delusion.
The last time I ate an American taco, I drank a bottle of cheap Chilean wine with a man whose pleasures involved twenty-four hour sessions of Grand Theft Auto and his penchant for hatching plans of petty criminal intent. I wanted self delusion to be the sommelier of the party, but I lost my gateway to enjoyment somewhere between the overtly sweet twinge of grape juice on my tongue and the genetically lacking criminal babies hatching before my eyes, between the ground beef seasoned from a generic Mexican spice packet, between an apartment filled with thrift store vagabonding and my own sense of cheaper is not always better. This was not my ideal pairing.
If a good fuck is an ideal pairing then perhaps, maybe, this connection might pass as a green light addition to the menu, but I never came. His cock was nice enough, in fact enticing enough to garner a little bit of sucking, however short and sweet, but self deception was not on the side his cock nor my desire to connect.
I’m at the grocery store now, considering pairs. It’s a thoughtfully low-lit market and relatively empty considering the late night hour. The market is scattered with grocery isle wanderers like myself, tastefully disheveled, shopping to fill in the void of any implied pairing as in a wedding ring or an actual partner in tow. I read ingredients and pretend to contemplate things like the ply-sheet of toilet paper. It’s literally a consideration of how much I want to go down the toilet. Not an isle to dwell upon. I move on.
Ironically, I find myself in front of spice packets; the irony is lost upon everyone in the market beside myself. Ha-ha, I think. American tacos are sucky like short single fathers, like 5’6 short who play too many online computer games, and blame their thirteen-year-old sons for not motivating enough. Ha-ha.
I see a hand snatch a packet of Mexican spice. To what to my wandering eyes would appear but a picture of myself, tastefully disheveled with a magnum of cheap Chilean wine in her cart. To stop her would be ludicrous since I would be seen talking to myself in the market, a sure sign of insanity. But to let her go through with what might inevitably be a night filled with regret followed by the most wicked of hangovers would be cruel.
“You don’t want that spice,” I tell her.
The dark haired woman with an artful shade of red upon her lips replies, “What the fuck?”
“It’s really not a good paring with your magnum of Concha Y Toro.” I speak with quiet determination but she could see that I was trembling. Talking to your self in the market is never a good idea.
“Hmm. Well, would you suggest a different wine?” She twists her fingers around the green silk scarf upon her neck. “I mean, is there a better spice packet?”
Her eyes fill up with unexpected tears, melting my determination to end her spice packet purchase. “I just, I think,” I drop my basket of toilet paper on the isle floor to implore her, “I am convinced that wine and American tacos are a horrible pairing. Just walk away. Just walk away.”
She holds up her magnum of wine and shakes her head as if I should know what she means. “Really?”
The loud crack of her heels walking down the isle are stifled by the silence of the intercom music letting everyone know it was closing time.