As many of you may recall, I spent the last few days at the Wine Bloggers Conference out in Portland.  On the plane back, for some odd reason, all I could think about was what I was going to have for dinner. I got up at an insane hour to get to PDX in time for the flight and I knew I was going to be exhausted, in no mood for cooking. Additionally, my wife and boys were not going to be there—they are in California until the end of the month—so I would not have to listen to the cacophony of competing cries for pizza and hotdogs.

The choice was clear–I was going to our neighborhood BYO restaurant and have a burger. If you live in Philly and have not yet had the burger at Hickory Lane you really have to get some counseling. It really is that good; I started salivating over the burger before we left the gate. Only about 6 hours until I could ravage one.  This should be easy since I am sure they have some mind blowing culinary delight on the plane to tide me over.

There was another issue on the plane (at least try and be shocked). I thought the plane was going to be no problem at all—got there in plenty of time, ate some ‘breakfast’, made it to the gate.  No problem.  Got on the plane and found a little girl in my seat. The flight attendant came up to me right away and asked if I minded sitting across the aisle since the little girl (maybe six years old) was flying alone and wanted to sit next to the ‘girls’ (two young women were in the other two seats in the row).  I said sure to which the fight attendant said “Oh good. Thank you—no one wants to be the meanest person on earth.”  I thought about that statement for a bit, but let it pass since what could I say that would not make me look like a complete jack rabbit?

Still not the problem.

The problem: the guy next to me.  First, he was an arm rest hog.  Normally, I just let this pass since the guy was in the middle seat and, well, that is punishment enough. Second, it was clear that he worked for Nike. I am not 100% sure, but he was dressed head to toe in out-of-the-box brand new Nike gear (including the ubiquitous yellow wristband) and when he opened up his laptop, there was the giant swoosh as wallpaper.  So either he works for Nike or he seriously needs to work on developing a new approach to life.  He very well could be a nice guy, a saint even, but I decided to hate him–when I was a kid I used to dress head to toe in Nike gear, hoping someday to work for the company.

If that were the only issue.

He spent most of the first half of the flight doing two things: reading and eating.  I know, that does not sound like a problem at all, but as you know, I can turn just about anything into a problem.  First, he was reading a book: Baseball Codes or something like that., and every 37 seconds he would let out this bellowing chuckle that was not just unnerving, it was obnoxious (if there is one thing I know, it is obnoxious). Second, he was eating sunflower seeds. If he ate them the way my three (almost four) year old does it would have been fine (my son does not bother to remove the ‘fruit’ from the shell he just mashes it all together with his powerful jaws of life and swallows—my wife says it is good fiber or something so no need for concern). No. Instead, he would stuff about 40-50 seeds in his mouth at once and then proceed to spit out the shells into his empty Mountain Dew bottle every 12 seconds (or less). OK, I get it, your some sort of baseball fan/player/poser.  I have been there as well, pal.  I was never a good player, but I was the manager of the baseball team for ten years back when I was teaching high school. I used to cram just as many of those bad boys into my pie hole and spit out the shells, too.  With one important difference—I was outside. That is sort of the critical difference you are missing here, Mr. Ruth.  See, I have absolutely no desire to look at that nasty bottle that you have precariously placed ‘in the seat pocket in front of you’.  In fact, I can see us hit some turbulence and that bottle will come tumbling out and empty its contents all over my feet. It simply makes me want to hurl and we know how I feel about that.

I eventually made it home without incident and strolled down to the ‘Lane’ (that is what all us hipsters call it).  It was a beautiful night and nice and cool, so I ate outside. They had a great menu (it changes daily), and I was tempted by several other items, but I had been thinking about the burger for so long that day, there was no getting away from it.  It was as outstanding as always.  For the wine, I ended up going with a big Zin from Sonoma.

2004 Trentadue La Storia Estate Bottled Zinfandel: Retail $25. A much bigger wine than I usually have—strong nose of dark fruit and mocha.  On the palate, it initially felt a bit out of balance—big fruit up front without the structural acidity or back end to hold it together.  As I came home to compose my remaining muddled thoughts of the trek back across the continent, the wine really opened up and was drinking beautifully.  Still not my style, necessarily, but well crafted, with an extended finish. I’ll decant the next one. Excellent. 90 points.

That second glass I had out on the deck, taking advantage of the quiet at home.