A Night in the Caves
He walked down the beautifully tiled staircase leading into the depths of the wine cave. Like so many architectural details in Europe, these tiles and their ancient patina added to the feeling that he was not only descending into something dark, but descending into time itself.
These stairs were like so many others, different others. Downward stairs leading beneath an Italian castle, upward stairs leading into an Austrian ex-ballroom, and, most recently, just a few steps down into a German Rathskeller, a younger one from only the 1600’s.
Today? France. Bordeaux. The Left Bank of the River Garonne. He preferred the wines of the Right Bank, but they were all exquisite, weren’t they?
He reached the heavy wooden doors, and gave the large wrought iron ring a firm pull. The door dragged open, revealing an interior today that he was expecting, but still a bit of a shock.
It was a party, a celebration of those who frequented here under usually darker circumstances, to commune their together practices of the sensual arts.
He was expecting this, but the new perspective this day was still a bit of a jolt. It was always social and cordial in the corners of the cave dedicated for this, but today this entire cave was set up for levity.
Greetings, hugs, handshakes, chats, catching up. Satchels full of the implements of pain and pleasure placed off to the side, even for this light, jovial party. Because there always was an after-party, wasn’t there?
The only rite of passage into this room, ever, was an invitation, followed by crossing the threshold of those heavy doors. Rightly, there was never any requirement to go beyond one’s desires and free will.
But tonight there was an opening bit of fun, to set the light tone of the evening, one in which many, but not all participated. As always, no bonus points or subtraction of points for joining or not joining any exercise.
When it was his turn, he picked up the large pair of dice, hand-carved maple about six inches on a side, and rolled them across the table. The first one said “Wicker Cane”, the second the number 15. Fifteen strikes with the rattan cane.
As he removed his leathers and assumed the position, since this was a lighthearted activity, he quipped, “Be gentle with me, I’m usually on the other side!”
As the strokes came, he was having fun in this rare experience (for him). Fun because of the joviality and comraderie of the crowd. Fun because the sensations were pleasing. Fun because the person behind the tool of pain was trusted. Fun because the response of the crowd to these strikes was infectious.
Unbeknownst to him, the cane had fractured somewhere around the thirteenth stroke. He was very familiar with the vagaries of artisanal products, especially ones made with natural materials. Despite the quality of the carefully chosen materials, the deft experience of the craftsperson, even the experience of the one wielding the cane… things happen.
Even in this very cavern, there would be a leaking wine cask or two from defective barrel staves. This, no matter how much work, love, and experience the world-class coopers put into the selection of these staves, cut from the finest French Limousin oak, then seasoned outdoors for three years and constructed into casks by those with decades of experience.
Meanwhile, as this fine wine aged, the party continued, witnessed only by these silent casks.
Story Notes:
I had so much fun writing this, and wrote it even more quickly than I would usually write even a piece of this brevity.
I know it’s a rattan cane, but the site where I have the largest readership is going to know it as a wicker cane, so I snuck in both.
I’m fascinated by everything artisanal. From years of wine studies, including spending time with winemaker friends in vineyards and cellars, to industry certificates in classic cocktails and spirits. My latest journeys include (accredited) certifications in Scotch Whisky, Irish Whiskey, and Gin, from field to glass.
I can also tell you what makes Parmigiano Reggiano, Parmigiano Reggiano, and what makes Prosciutto di Parma, Prosciutto di Parma. The rules are old, and the traditions stubborn. But that’s what make these things good… still, and hopefully always.