The Spirit of Hospitality: Part One

A mysterious guest at table four

By Luis Romero

The icy rain fell hard. Small crystal daggers hit Alma’s trench coat, becoming liquid as they met the concrete path, exploding under her galoshes in a water show. The beep of the door code, with its sharp tones at the touch of every key, accompanies the light turning from red to green as the mechanical lock opens.

Once inside, Alma changes out of her coat and galoshes. The coffee maker finishes its drip from the timer set the day before. With coffee in hand, steam rising from the cup, Alma makes her way through the storage hallways, lights turning on in sequence as stacks of wine-case boxes transition from sparkling to white and red.

Alma began in the winery’s tasting room, fresh out of high school nearly thirty years ago. After working as a host and kitchen aid, she rose from tasting-room associate to director of hospitality in record time. Alma once spoke to the bottles, especially those in the library room, when no one else was around. She considered many of them acquaintances, some even friends, especially Shelley, a 1993 magnum she'd named years ago. Together, they had been through countless inventory counts and dust polishings, many overstaying their welcome for nearly as long as Alma had been there.

It’s December 28, and Alma must prepare for the New Year’s bash. She reaches for the iPad on the table, logging into the system, which demands a series of clicks and codes to unlock its inventory. It also allows Alma to control the room lighting, temperature and even the music– with various degrees of success– depending on the day.

The lights brighten, illuminating the granite countertops and the sleek black tables brought in during the renovation, each retaining every scratch and fingerprint with uncanny enthusiasm.

The fireplace embers glimmer through the metal screen, disguising the LED logs, churning heat through a fan and electrical coils. The entire place runs on electricity and solar– when the panels aren’t being pelted by rain.

Alma once loved her job. What started as a summer gig has become a career, complete with a mortgage and dog. However, after the winery was sold to a business capital firm, the focus has shifted to marketing, social-media presence, conversion rates and raising the average order buys at all costs.

Outside, the vines are in a deep slumber, the wooden canes twisting and twirling, bearing scars from every cut and wire that trained them. It’s another gloomy day in the Pacific Northwest. Tablet in hand, Alma reviews her checklist until a palm strikes the glass door. It’s Joe, who resembles a drenched chick in his yellow rain jacket.

Alma rushes to open the door; the locks haven’t changed since she arrived, occasionally sticking, making the wooden frame and door a vintage statement.

“Good morning, Joe,” Alma says.

“Good morning, Alma. It’s a gnarly day, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Alma grew up in the Valley and wears her countless Northwest falls and winters with the pride of a war veteran.

“What’s on for today?” Joe asks, kicking his boots onto the mat and removing his raincoat.

Alma’s eyes instinctively look at the screens, her fingers tracing the short reservation list.

“Not much. We have a few pickups; Mr. Hemmich is coming. Remember to watch the pours and stay strong— he always asks for more.”

“I’ll take care of the pickups. How are we doing on boards?”

“I’ll check the kitchen,” Alma says, locking eyes with Joe’s hazel ones. Both know their marching orders.

When Alma started, cheddar was on the menu. Decades later, the list of cheeses is taped to the fridge door, all with names too complicated to pronounce. She counts the boards— seven, more than enough. Business has slowed over the past few years.

She grabs her iPad and heads back out, Joe appearing through the frame of the cellar and storage rooms.

“We’re good,” he says.

Alma begins sharing the numbers.

“We’re down 17 percent on sign-ups; attrition rates are 12 percent. Average orders are down, too. We’re going to have to push today to make the numbers.”
A ping chokes her throat– she hates shop talk.

The first car pulls up, lights cutting through the rain and reflecting in puddles from the sinkholes Alma has learned to avoid like a milk-route horse.

“Showtime,” Joe announces, heading to the front door.

“Hello!” Joe greets the visitors in his tasting-room voice. Alma grins, turning her focus back to the screen.

This year will be a slaughter, she thinks to herself, clicking through more numbers. Nearly all are down.

The voices in the tasting room grow louder as Carly, a new hire, arrives. Working over her school holiday break, Carly reminds Alma of herself thirty years ago— minus the cellphone, clogs and Salvation Army thrift store finds Carly wears with pride, a borrowed identity designed from a mood board.

In the corner, a couple who drove to the Valley are freshly showered and holding the promise of the first months in a relationship. Two retired couples— impossible to know whom dragged the other— sit at another table. They ask about tasting fees and the complimentary voucher left in their Airbnb, one of the marketing department’s efforts to increase visitor traffic and sell, sell, sell.

Mr. Hemmich, sitting by the window, is already testing Joe, who smiles politely, though his eyes betray concern. He’s been a member for several years and lives down the road. After his wife’s death, Mr. Hemmich drops by a few times a month, perhaps doing the same with other nearby wineries to avoid overstaying his welcome. He is searching for a connection… and a drink.

Alma doesn’t recognize the guest at the fourth table— someone in a black wool coat with his back to her, looking at the memento wall in the corner. She approaches the table, iPad in hand, ready to click through the system to capture an email for the marketing team.

A chill runs down her spine, prompting her to glance toward the glass door leading out to the patio. Is it the cause of the draft? The rain is still pouring hard outside.

“Hello, Alma.” The stranger’s voice stops her in her tracks.

“Do I … know you?” she asks, clutching her tablet, wondering if she can turn it into a weapon.

“No, but I remember you.” She glances at the exits, counts the people, and looks for Joe.

“It’s alright, child, no need to be afraid. You were my host once, many years ago.” His eerie tone softens.

“I was?” Alma asks, stepping closer to the table.

“You were,” the voice confirms, as the sky lights up with an unexpected flash of lightning.

Alma opens her eyes after the shock– the blinding lightning slowly gives way to shadows, then colors and forms. Her tablet has vanished, along with the black tables, replaced by rustic wood ones, a cracked floor and an old fireplace.

As she looks toward the sliding glass door, Alma realizes it’s summer. The patio umbrellas are open, and she recognizes herself— well, her younger self.

Wearing white Adidas, jeans and a grunge shirt, she holds a bottle in her hand.

“Oh God,” Alma moans, regretting her past fashion choices.

“Do you remember me now, child?” the man asks.

Alma, unsure of everything, asks, “What’s going on? Who are you? Is this a dream?”

The man smiles, pointing at the woman.

“Hi, I’m Alma, and I will be your host!” Her younger self beams with abundant enthusiasm.

“I sat there,” the man says, pointing at himself. “You were just starting; you told me Pinots were bold.”

Alma’s suspension of disbelief breaks at the statement. “Bold?!” she retorts, puzzled, almost disgusted.

“Yes, bold,” he repeats. “You said a lot of things like that back then. It was fun.”

Fun. She holds on to the word. She did have fun before the added responsibilities, metrics and corporate mandates.

“Remember why you started here?”

“I needed a job,” Alma nonchalantly quips.

“No,” the man says. “You wanted to work at a winery for the view.”

“Oh, yeah– I used to drive up and look at the building perched high on the hill. If I had to work over the summer, at least I’d have a view.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Remember Shelley?”

Alma’s concern returns. “Shelley? How do you know?”

“It’s not important, child,” he says gently.

Shelley was one of the first bottles Alma named. She became Alma’s confidant through boyfriends, remodels and rotating marketing teams.

“I do remember,” Alma says, recalling years of confessions spent in the library cellar.

“She’s still there,” the man notes.

Another lightning flash— white, shadows, color, forms— and the corner table is empty.

“I need to stop drinking so much,” Alma mutters to herself.

She makes her way to the library cellar, looking for Shelley. Alma finding the magnum, covered in dust, after moving some boxes and marketing materials promoting the wine club.

“There you are,” she exclaims. “That was so weird— first the rain, then this guy, then I was …”

Alma grabs Shelley by the neck. “Let’s go,” she says, carrying the wine bottle into her office. A quick polish reveals the scratches on Shelley’s label. She hasn’t changed a bit. Alma places her on the desk.

“What is … that?” Joe asks as he bursts into the room.

“Oh, I found it in the library room. Everything okay?”

“I don’t feel comfortable serving Mr. Hemmich anymore.”

“I’ll handle it,” Alma says, instinctively grabbing the tablet, before setting it back down on the desk next to Shelley.

“Mr. Hemmich, how are you?” Alma asks, not in her tasting-room voice but with sincere concern.

“Oh well, you know, ever since …”

“I know,” Alma says. “It’s been hard for all of us— she was so great.”

Mr. Hemmich’s eyes meet Alma’s, awoken from the trance of grief.

“She was,” he repeats.

Alma sits with him for a while, trading stories about his wife. Over by the mat, the man smiles, nods and walks out into the rain wearing his black wool coat.
Alma thanks Mr. Hemmich, and he thanks Alma— sincerely— for the memories and stories.

As she walks back to the counter, Joe looks puzzled.

“What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

“You talked to Mr. Hemmich for like an hour.”

“Oh, that– I knew his wife. She passed during the pandemic. It’s been hard on him.”

“I didn’t know that” Joe says, with shame in his voice.

“It’s my fault,” Alma says. “I never asked you to engage like that.”

“I didn’t get any club signups,” Joe admits sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Alma says, with newfound resolution. “Did you have fun?”

Joe tilts his head like a puzzled puppy. “Huh?”

“Did you have fun? Today— working.”

“Oh… yeah, I suppose,” Joe answers, still confused.

“We’re going to change that,” Alma replies, knowing exactly what Joe’s confusion truly meant.

Luis Romero, M.S., M.A., is a wine, beer and spirits educator, certified sommelier, beverage specialist, and owner of the International Beverage Academy, an approved program provider offering WSET certifications in English and Spanish to professionals and enthusiasts alike. With more than a decade of university teaching and beverage education experience, Luis has spent his last two summers working in wineries across the West Coast. This season, he’s pouring at Elk Cove Vineyards while preparing for his WSET Diploma exam. His writing has appeared in Bon Appétit, Plate Magazine, among other digital and printed publications. His passion for life is only rivaled by his desire to learn and share new experiences with readers and loved ones alike. Sign up for his online courses at www.beveragecertified.com.