I’m in the not-so-great-but-trying wine store near my house, looking in vain for the $6 Hungarian pinot grigio that seems to have now vanished, and one of the employees is counseling a woman on her wine choice.

“I’m tired of jammy,” she says. “I want something lighter, dryer.”

“How ’bout this?” he suggests, pointing to the “Spanish wines” section, which really means “wines from countries where they speak Spanish.”

“Malbec?! Isn’t that a little heavy?” She’s a little confused. I am too. _I_ secretly would like a lighter, dryer red myself.

“Darlin’, I don’t want to be crude,” he says, “but think of it like this: firm grip, gentle touch.”

Now she’s _really_ confused: “Oh. Uh. Like, hard on the outside, soft on the inside? Am I using the right metaphors?”

I grabbed whatever bottle was in front of me and ran. (By happy circumstance, it happened to be a bottle of dry “white” port! It’s tasty!) White, red, who cares. I’d rather drink about it than talk about it, or hear other people talk about it, that’s all I know.