The Mustard Festival

St. Helena's Greystone hosted the opening ball, and visions of Gaul ran riot.

By the time we arrived at Greystone for the Mustard Festival's opening ball, the celebration was well-advanced and guests found themselves immersed in a colorful world populated with frenetic Cajuns, worldly boulevardiers and escapees from French Impressionist paintings. On the third floor of the grand old edifice, an accordion serenaded diners who nibbled at the tasty bits prepared before their eyes in the Culinary Institute's shining kitchens, while on the second, a purple-satin Zydeco band ripped loose. Above the top-to-bottom staircase, a hotty in gold performed eye-popping contortions while dangling from a large ring suspended from the ceiling; a pedestrian traffic jam resulted. At the same time, in an alcove just opposite, pretty little ballerinas displayed their talents in pink tutus as a harpist perfumed the air with sounds of heaven. In a decadent little alley on the first floor we discovered an intimate caf� displaying a real imitation reclining nude (it's best if you use your imagination); but most attention focused on the woman playing a saxophone with liberal animation. A chubby Vincent Van Gogh immortalized the scene in paint.

During the auction, we observed with pleasure the many friendly rivalries that developed over this or that item, and win or lose, participants seemed satisfied with the results, some of which were new relationships with erstwhile strangers. Of special note was the man in a large cowboy hat surrounded by several of the most handsomely statuesque women we ever saw together outside of Las Vegas. I've never been on the back of a horse in my life! he proclaimed at one point; but you could forgive the imposture, since this was, after all, a masquerade ball, kind of. Costumes, black tie, and nightclub garb all rubbed shoulders, while some guests confounded convention by wearing nothing special at all.

It hardly mattered, and no one noticed or cared. The evening was so pleasingly surreal in any case, and the endlessly flowing wine discouraged snooty judgments. One could have tasted hundreds of different wines, we believe, and the proliferation of late harvest white desert varietals was a special treat.

Almost everyone we met had attended this event before, speaking well of their experiences with it. We encountered a telecommunications engineer who lived in Dubai when he wasn't traveling the world; a winemaker who also made music and renovated classic boats; and a dapper doctor, resplendent in his Knights of the Vine regalia, which he cheerfully explained he'd earned by going to the right web site.

In the course of the evening, someone called our name; it was a realtor we'd recently met when she brought a client to look at some of our land. We were gratified to hear that she thought the bottle of port had been a very nice touch, as was the tour we gave. Nonetheless, the client still wasn't buying�yet.

The clock struck midnight much too soon, and the building began to empty. Ten minutes later, we found ourselves on the Main Street of St. Helena, smoking a cigarette with a new lady friend.

A buxom twenty-something, she took special pleasure in deriding the sort of event we'd just left. A refugee from the wrong-side of the tracks--figuratively speaking--she'd married into a winery family after a whirlwind romance.

We got married three days after we met, she said meaningfully, meaning specifically that it had all transpired too fast for the groom to get a prenuptial agreement. She and her kid were set, she said, but she didn't care about the new Mercedes or any of that crap. She wanted to be around "real" people. A part Indian girl from Vallejo, "Jo" had been overwhelmed by the world enveloping her. Every social event, no matter how minor, served as an occasion for being snubbed in reality or imagination.

The rarefied social set of her in-laws included people who just couldn't stop confusing her with the help�did she speak English�could she get them a drink�. At her baby shower, a guest kept insisting that Jo get an education in order to be a better mother, without realizing that the focus of the party had, in fact, graduated from college.

At a dinner with one of the great wine barons of the valley, Jo found herself seated next to the great man, with whom she shared a special family connection. He asked her what kind of wine she liked, and Jo replied that she really preferred Budweiser.

People just dropped their forks on their plates and stared at us, she remembers. And then "Sam" told the servers to bring us a couple of Buds. We popped the tops, and toasted, and everyone clapped. Sam was nice to the stupid little girl, so it was cool.

Then there was the unfortunate tendency to show up in pants when all the other women wore cocktail dresses.

I didn't know it was prom night, she enjoyed saying.

She always felt insulted, and Jo made sure her husband and the offenders knew of her resentment. It seems they were always canceling wine deals with insensitive snobs.

Then she became aware of the fact that people were whispering behind her back that she wasn't fitting in. She certainly seemed to try not to fit in, so we wonder at her offense at this too. One can only imagine the conversations her husband had with his family, and, alternately, with Jo. It makes you cringe to think of it.

But the story is an old one. People can be snobs to newcomers who are out of their depths, but just as often, such newcomers enter different worlds with bad attitudes and burning resentments. It's unfortunate that people aren't more aware of the class or culture conflicts that become possible in an ever more diverse society; otherwise, they could prepare themselves for the games to come, and play with greater felicity.

After half-an-hour of this, we needed a stiff drink of�club soda. We saw the local constabulary pull over many cars during our talk, and we did not want to join the parade of inebriates to jail. As soon as we entered the bar, a young woman we recognized from the party walked up and said we looked "interesting." We bought her a glass of champagne, but while quaffing it, she apparently revised her initial impression.

I've got to go, she said abruptly. And she did, without a backward glance.

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Copyright WineMerchant.com 2006