Excepting a bottle of wine I stole from my parents basement one summer that had been opened for a holiday meal—I had no idea what wine should taste like at 18 years old—this was the worst wine I have ever in my life tasted. I gagged most of it down because the waitress declared that it was an exquisite choice when I ordered it.
I am certain it had been opened sometime around Christmas so that part of it had a certain festive familiarity to it.
