“Ah, you have chosen the Amarone. A perfect choice,” enthused the maître d’. “This is the most beautiful of wines. The best in all Italy. It is produced in Valpolicella in the province of Verona, which is not far from here in Venice. Amarone is unique because of the process of drying the grapes… blah, blah, blah…”
“I didn’t think he would stop,” Alison said to me after he had gone. “I was stifling a yawn at one point. We probably know as much about Amarone as he does. We’ve drunk enough of it.”
“Aye, we should have stopped him,” I sighed. “I kept willing him to just pour the wine and fuck off. See us Scots, hen, we’re too fucking polite.”