The only time champagne seems to show up with any regularity these days is in R&B and rap videos (I love this song, btw).
It doesn’t have to be this way, peeps. Champagne is for a special occasions, but it doesn’t have to be all that special of an occasion. Merely attending a sellout Brewers game on a beautiful Sunday afternoon is a perfectly acceptable cause for celebration.
Posh doesn’t like beer but she loves champagne, naturally, because she’s classy like that.
We walked down to the Giants 3 lot with a couple of bottles on Sunday (Martini & Rossi Asti for her and Freixenet Cordon Negro Brut for me, for all you oenophiles out there — it doesn’t have to be Veuve Clicquot, and it better not be Cristal).
In the parking lot, we were able to watch the corks fly as high into the bright blue sky as they wanted. Posh polished off her asti before I even made a dent in my brut — she’s a champ like that — and I had to take the bottle along for the walk into Miller Park.
I think drinking champagne should be even more common that, like this scene from the F. Scott Fitzergerald short story May Day (I’ll leave it up to you how much I fancy myself Francis, and Posh, Zelda):
Mr. In and Mr. Out were meanwhile exchanging pleasantries concerning their future plans.
“We want liquor; we want breakfast. Neither without the other. One and indivisible.”
“We want both ’em!”
It was quite light now, and passers-by began to bend curious eyes on the pair. Obviously they were engaged in a discussion, which afford each of them intense amusement, for occasionally a fit of laughter would seize upon them so violently that, still with their arms interlocked, they would bend nearly double.
Reaching the Commodore, they exchanged a few spicy epigrams with the sleepy-eyed doorman, navigated the revolving door with some difficulty, and then made their way through a thinly populated but startled lobby to the dining-room, where a puzzled waiter showed them an obscure table in a corner. They studied the bill of fare helplessly, telling over the items to each other in puzzled mumbles.
“Don’t see any liquor here,” said Peter reproachfully.
The waiter became audible but unintelligible.
“Repeat,” continued Peter, with patient tolerance, “that there seems to be unexplained and quite distasteful lack of liquor upon bill of fare.”
“Here!” said Dean confidently, “let me handle him.” He turned to the waiter — “Bring us — bring us —” he scanned the bill of fare anxiously. “Bring us a quart of champagne and a — a — probably ham sandwich.”
The waiter looked doubtful.
“Bring it!” roared Mr. In and Mr. Out in chorus.
The waiter coughed and disappeared. There was a short wait during which they were subjected without their knowledge to a careful scrutiny by the head-waiter. Then the champagne arrived, and at the sight of it Mr. In and Mr. Out became jubilant.
“Imagine their objecting to us having champagne for breakfast — jus’ imagine.”
They both concentrated upon the vision of such an awesome possibility, but the feat was too much for them. It was impossible for their joint imaginations to conjure up a world where any one might object to any one else having champagne for breakfast. The waiter drew the cork with an enormous pop –and their glasses immediately foamed with pale yellow froth.
“Here’s health, Mr. In.”
“Here’s same to you, Mr. Out.”
The waiter withdrew; the minutes passed; the champagne became low in the bottle.
“It’s — it’s mortifying,” said Dean suddenly.
“The idea their objecting us having champagne breakfast.”
“Mortifying?” Peter considered. “Yes, tha’s word — mortifying.”
Again they collapsed into laughter, howled, swayed, rocked back and forth in their chairs, repeating the word “mortifying” over and over to each other — each repetition seeming to make it only more brilliantly absurd.
After a few more gorgeous minutes they decided on another quart. Their anxious waiter consulted his immediate superior, and this discreet person gave implicit instructions that no more champagne should be served. Their check was brought.