While we were in Nova Scotia, we visited Jost Vineyards, the province’s biggest and oldest winery. The main building had walls of bottled wine surrounded by a steampunk décor that reminded me of Restoration Hardware. Ugh, more quaintness. How can the locals take so much quaintness? I would just die.
A staff woman approached and greeted me. A few words of mundane pleasantry ensued. My eyes hopped over to a sign that advertised the wine tasting. Her eyes followed mine. “Would you like to try our foreskins?” she asked.
“Huh?” I stilled. My face flushed, although I had forgotten to slap on sunscreen that day so I might’ve been somewhat burnt anyway. I scanned around to make sure I was still in a winery.
“Foreskins.” She smiled. In a completely innocent way.
I stared at her, still wondering if I heard wrong.
“Foreskins,” she said again, louder and her smile wider.
I tried my best to muffle giggles from the juvenile boy within me. “Uh, I was actually hoping to try—”
“Our foreskins are really good.”
“I’m sure yours are,” I lied. To be honest, there was no way I’d know whether her foreskins were any good, but I had to be polite. After all, I was a foreigner in her country, her province, her store. “However, I already have—”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have some too?”
“Really?” she asked as if I lied.
“I think so.”
She frowned a little. “I bet ours are better than what you have.”
That was quite presumptuous. I should’ve been offended, but I really wasn’t. Not a big deal. What makes foreskins better or worse, anyway? Some like them one way, others another. Many, regrettably, don’t like them at all. It’s all subjective. Still, I had to defend my honor, or whatever. I wondered if there was a way to prove myself without violating local laws. “Well,” I said, shrugging, “mine is probably not that bad.”
She waved a hand as if to say, whatever. “I insist. You must try ours before you go. You won’t regret it.” This woman sounded like someone who really knew her foreskins.
“Our foreskins are even more exquisite when paired with the local artisanal cheese.”
I wasn’t sure if “cheese” was code for something, but I was afraid to ask.
“The result is a long, smooth buildup to a deeply satisfying finish bursting with fruity flavors amidst a woody subtlety,” she moaned. “It’s sooo good.” Her eyes closed as if to savor a celestial moment.
“Wow. Fruity flavors, eh? I’ve never heard that before.”
“See,” she said smugly. “I told you ours are better than yours.”
“Oh, okay,” I said meekly.
In the end, I did sample some local foreskins. Who knew Nova Scotia would have such fine foreskins?
(The above exchange was very loosely based on what actually happened.)