Last night, a few of us from work went to a monthly wine tasting class. Usually, it’s a few people from work, and other friends. Last night there were nine of us, seated around a large table along with 30 or so other people trying to decipher whether glass #4 was a Pinot Noir, or Chianti.

Most of the group is pretty good at distinguishing varietals, however, there remains a small faction, myself included, that attends purely for the social aspects of the class, preferring to drink our five glasses of wine before the class begins, culminating in scrounging around tables, and stealing the glasses of those who had failed to show up.

They always serve amazing hors d’oeuvres, and I won a Jose Cuervo t-shirt, one of the door prizes, which is probably too loud to not wear as an undershirt. Then again, perhaps I’ll rip off the sleeves and fashion a Seymore Butts muscle shirt.

After the class, we spent the evening getting drunk on expensive wine, which puts me in mind to share this story.

During football season, there are a few of us at work that have formed the “Mr. Football” league. The goal is to pick ten teams out of any game played that week (college, or pro) and the team with the most wins, wins; the team with the most losses, loses. There are three teams. The winner wins lunch (up to $10) which has to be purchased and delivered by the loser in a humble fashion. The overall winner at the end of the season gets all he can drink and eat at a bar, paid for by the losers.

Jack, the lab manager, and Tanya, another engineer are one team. Tom, the comptroller, is another team. And Sung, the maintenance manager, formerly an engineer, is the third team. For about five years straight,

Sung enjoyed a dynasty where he was unbeatable. Then he got married. He hasn’t won since. Tom went down to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic and went to see a voodoo priestess who gave him a magic tiki idol. Tom has won for the past two years. Now Jack and Tanya, need all the help they can get. They win every few years, just enough to be respectable.

So I, amongst others, help them each week by giving them a “beer pick” in which if my pick loses, I owe them a beer. By the end of the season, even if they lose, they usually have a few pitchers coming to them.

Not to get off topic, but a few years ago, Jeff, another engineer, owed them four and a half pitchers of beer going into the playoffs. He doubled his bet to Jack and Tanya, and lost, making it a grand total of nine pitchers he had to pay off. Then, Jeff got married, and his wife won’t let him out of the house. He’s still working off that debt.

Last year, my picks were so bad, Jack and Tanya actually did fairly well going opposite of me. That way, they earned the win, and a beer, much to my chagrin.

But anyway, back to our story. One night during football season, Tom, Jack, Tanya, and myself, along with some others, were at a bar drinking. Why? Who knows? Just a night out, I suppose. Anyway, we’re talking football trying to keep it hush-hush since Tom, their rival, and known poor loser and a poor winner, is sitting a few seats down, when a guy at the end of the bar asks what we’re doing.

So we explain the “Mr. Football” concept to him and he replies, “Cool. I know football.”

Jack’s ears perk up. “Do you know a lot about football?”

The stranger took a moment before responding, “Yeah.”

Tom seized the opportunity to exploit this gentleman’s knowledge before we had the chance and moved his seat next to the stranger. “Well alright, buddy,” Tom said, putting his arm around his shoulder.

Naturally, we objected to such a brash move and voiced our objections.

The stranger said, “In fact, I think I can pick more winners than you.” He was pointing to Jack and me.

“Oh really,” I asked, my football-picking integrity challenged. The guy looked like he knew nothing about football.

So Jack and I came up with the bet that he would pick his ten teams, and we would pick ours, and then we’d see who wins.

The stranger asked, “So what do I get if you win?”

We told him that his prize would be all-you-can-drink at a bar of his choosing. Tom solidified his position in this by tightening his grip on the stranger’s shoulder and adding, “For him, and a friend.”

Then he told us what our prize would be, and our eyes bugged out of our heads. It seems, our stranger, was the day chef at XXXX, a rather exclusive seafood restaurant. He would cook us a four-course dinner.

“Deal,” we agreed, Jack and nonchalantly giving each other high-fives under the bar.

So we gave him the line for the weekend’s games and he started picking his ten teams. Jack turned to me and worried, “What if he knows something about football. We know absolutely shit!”

“Not to worry,” I told him.

“Not to worry? You’re into us for a pitcher and a half!”

I just smiled, and sipped my beer, the plan silently hatching in my alcohol-fueled brain.

The chef passed his sheet over to us. It seemed likely that he had about seven winners out of the ten. Jack was starting to sweat.

“Jack. Just pick the same teams as him.”

“Huh?”

“Pick the same exact teams as him.”

“Same exact?”

“Same exact.”

“You’re drunk and we’re screwed.”

I smiled. “The bet was for him to pick more winners than us. How can he pick more winners if he has the same picks we do?”

Jack’s eyes grew wide with the realization that we had this bet locked up. So he made a big show of picking our teams, scratching his head, conferring with me, etc. After we made our picks, Jack nodded, and folded the sheet, and put it into his pocket.

“Well who did you pick?” the chef asked.

Uh oh. So we grudgingly passed the sheet down the bar, hoping that the chef was too drunk to notice our coup. Those were pretty safe odds.

“Let’s see. I have Washington. You have Washington.” He smiled, thinking we were all on the same train of thought.

He spent another few moments perusing the sheet when his brow furrowed and I knew we had been caught.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “we have the same picks.”

Jack smiled. “Then I guess we win.” Jack and I high-fived above the bar.

Tom narrowed his eyes and turned to the chef. “I think these guys are trying to cheat you.” Some friend.

Jack explained our logic, that while it may seem that way, that our strategy was acceptible to the wording of the bet, which the chef had agreed to, and had even proposed. Jack’s good in a sticky situation. We knew we cheated the fucker.

The chef relented. “Alright. The spirit of the bet was to get drunk and have food right? So I’ll get the food, and prepare it, and you guys get the booze.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I added, signaling the bartender for another. She was too engrossed in our situation to notice.

The chef added, “So you bring the booze, and I’ll cook the food, and Tom, here, will serve.”

Tom quickly drew his hand off the chef’s shoulder. “Now wait just a minute.”

“What?” the chef asked?

“I don’t serve.”

“Well do you cook?”

“I don’t serve and I don’t cook. That’s woman’s work.” Yes Tom is chauvanistic in that regard. He also won’t drink from a pint glass because he knows that it hasn’t been properly clean. He’s exteremely anal in that manner.

So Tom stomped off and retook his seat next to me. “What happened, Buddy,” asked Jack.

“Hell, I’m not serving anyone, let alone you too,” he said, pointing at us.

So I agreed to be his sous-chef and we picked a date for sometime after New Year’s to get together.

“One more thing,” the chef added. “If Tom’s not cooking, and if Tom’s not serving, then Tom’s not eating.”

We bought the chef, our new friend, another drink.

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