CT > ATL > NY > MIA > SF > Oakland / sommelier with a degree in biological anthropology and culinary arts / trying to be environmentally conscience / obsessed with manicures, pedicures, and no headache wine
A New Haven native, Allegra completed a Bachelor of Science degree in biological anthropology from Emory University as well as an Associate in Occupational Studies degree from the Culinary Institute of America (Hyde Park, NY). Before her journey into wine and beverage, she was a pastry cook at Jean-Georges (NYC) for 2 years where she worked with Chef Johnny Iuzzini. For the next decade, she was a manager, beverage director, and sommelier for restaurants in Miami and San Francisco, creating and directing over ten unique wine and/or spirit programs. Her greatest influence was Chef Michelle Bernstein, whom she worked closely with for 6 years. As a consultant, she designed the original wine programs for Chef Jeff McInnis and Chef Janine Booth of Root n’ Bone (NYC), Chef Daniel Serfer of Blue Collar and Mignonette (Miami), and is currently designing two custom wine programs for Grove Bay Hospitality Group (Miami). Her primary role is California Director for APS Wine & Spirits, a national importer of 30 French and Italian family-owned and operated estates, many of whom she has had a relationship with for over a decade (sentimental favorites!) She is also the founder of Bottlecoat, a wine and nail polish pop-up, which is her passion. She will be opening a brick and mortar version of Bottlecoat, a wine and nail salon, in Summer of 2018. She has worked harvests in Burgundy, Tuscany, and Spain and holds a Level III Advanced certificate from the Court of Master Sommeliers. She has passed and holds the theory and tasting portion of the Level IV exam and is preparing to re-sit the remaining practical portion of the examination in September of 2017. She was the 2016 winner of TopSomm, the US National Sommelier Competition and was a national finalist in 2014. She has been a guest lecturer at the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, Florida International University and Locust Projects Miami, speaking-on the connections between wine and music, modern art, and historical figures. She has been featured and/or quoted in Wine & Spirits Magazine, Food & Wine Magazine, the Wall Street Journal, Imbibe Magazine, Southern Beverage Journal, Plate Magazine, Tasting Panel Magazine, Somm Journal, 7x7, and Edible South Florida Magazine. In non-wine time, Allegra is obsessed with a proper manicure, football, the Mikkeller tasting room in Rockridge, Oakland and see below...
STORIES ABOUT WINE, BART, AND SHOES
BY A.E. ANGELO
“C’mon Oakland, Get-up” (March 2017)
I recently moved to Oakland from San Francisco, via New York, Atlanta, Miami and “small town” New England. Oakland gets me, and I get Oakland… its graffiti core zippered with pockets of cozy green, its sidewalks of broken-in front-porches, its perky residents who read more books than iPhones. I’m sure those who live on this side of the Bay feel the same way. I tried to like San Francisco, I gave it three years, but we never became good friends. Did a vampire come and suck the blood out of San Francisco? The people make no noise, are they sleepwalking? People bump into you on the streets as they curate their latest emoji text, it’s annoying. My decision to move to Oakland was not induced by a rent hike, a need for a bigger closet, nor a job. It was one of those misty post-rain January mornings, the sidewalks were sneaky and slick, and I tripped on my heel and fell on my butt. It happens. Not one person came over to lend a hand or ask, “Are you ok?” Screw this place, I’m moving to Oakland.
Thank you, Oakland, for making noise and talking back. Thank you for your fist-pumps and high-fives. You are colorful American woman and man, but I feel the vampires looming. I’m a BART-er; I ride the BART 6 days a week. Despite its full-throttle shakes, frequent delays, and ugly hospital bed cushions, I am grateful for my yellow, orange, and red paths. A recent change in my work schedule has me riding the BART during peak hours. For those of you who haven’t been on a “Pittsburg/Bay Point” heading east from Montgomery station at 5pm, it’s New York-style tight. You’ll touch someone accidentally in an inappropriate place, and the same harmless, funny accident will happen to you. True, some people (locked-up in glass offices with ergonomic chairs) like standing, but most people need an ugly cushion from time to time. I’m amazed how grown, fit men hog these cushions. C’mon Oakland, pass a black handle for your ladies, get your head out of “swipe-right” and stand-up for someone who graduated before you. Get-up for your mother and father whether you love them or hate them, get-up for your grandfather and grandmother who gave you this world, get-up for your sister because sometimes she’s mean but she deserves it. Get-up for the teacher who punished you, the nurse who saved you, and the person who made you. C’mon Oakland, be tall and get-up.
"Farewell Beets" (February 2016)
It’s not status quo for a dish to remain on the tasting menu at AQ for more than 12 months. Everyday Chef Mark and Chef TJ are constantly fine-tuning the notes of a dish: sub Hedgehog mushrooms for Trumpets, add shiny dots of Meyer lemon and then take them away, move the pink glow of Hamachi from the center of the plate to the threshold of its side… “Get the abalone dish a spoon!” as the sauce instantly evolves from thin to saucy. As contrary, great chefs can be linked to a steadfast dish, a masterpiece that has remained deliciously constant over the years. Jean-Georges is “Scallop with Caper-Raisin,” Daniel Boulud is “Sea Bass wrapped in Potato,” Corey Lee is “Oyster and Kimchi.” The “Beets and Green Walnut” have been our front-line soldier at AQ for more than a year, maybe not as Instagram-hearted as a scallop dressed in caper-raisin, but nevertheless, a quiet hero.
On Thursday, February 4th, the beets made their final appearance at 1085 Mission Street. As a sommelier, I persistently struggled in finding the perfect pairing for a 4th course beet. A light and fruity German Riesling, obvious and perfect, but undoubtedly 1 out of 3 ladies proclaimed, “Ew. No, I don’t like sweet wine, please, a Sancerre!” Ok, onto the Tripel-style Abbey Ale spiked with Crème de Cassis… a handsome "Fidi" banker commends “Brilliant pairing!” followed by 6 gluten-free, beer-loathing vegans, courtesy of Berkeley. I’m excited to see the beets retire, as we look forward to the fun and adventurous off-dry pairings with foie gras! Yet, there is a part of me that is sad, a part of me that will miss the smear of electric magenta on the bone-white plate. Here is the farewell speech I wrote for the beets, which I recited to our staff in line-up on that unusually grey Thursday in February:
As some of you know (and others don’t) – tonight is the last service for... The Beets. The Beets have been an integral part of our team at AQ and one of our most reliable employees over the last 2 years. From Day 1, from that first day they rolled through the door, they have been on time. They have never complained, they always put their head and stem down… and got the job done, always looking polished and pretty and most importantly tasting sweet and tangy for Chef Mark. Whether alongside a dry Riesling, a rosé Sangria or an Abbey Ale, the beets have been our quintessential team player, and we will miss them. From huckleberry to elderberry, we have seen the beets evolve and grow into a professional and well-respected root vegetable. We wish them luck as they head east and move onto the next chapter of their cooking career at Eleven Madison Park in New York City. Thank you Beets, you will be missed.
"Cats and Littorai" (Summer 2015)
“…And next, for the veal consommé with Jerusalem artichokes… a local Pinot Noir with a little age, Littorai Pinot Noir Les Larmes (a blend of different vineyard sites) from Anderson Valley… 2004, an excellent vintage for Pinot in Northern California…” It’s May 2015 in San Francisco – the Golden State Warriors are hot, Grüner V is back again, and I’ve willingly listened to FourFiveSeconds about six hundred times. Now, like the movie Memento from my college days, let’s play a little game called “Wine Pairing Rewind.”
It’s May 2010, thick and humid in Miami. The LA Lakers are hot, Sherry is back, and I’m sick of Lady Gaga. Meet Rachel, my new sales rep., fresh from Hawaii via Southern California with long legs, a warm cozy smile, and black hair so shiny like a Pantene commercial. New cities and unfamiliar landscapes are tough for a newcomer; you have to comb through the fluff of gold and silver to find the brown and green. At the time, I lived in a house with my best friend, Berenice, who is my favorite chef. I miss that house, the old “Melrose Place.” We had an ugly sea foam color deck that faced north, overlooking an untamed yard of furry green calmed by a gigantic salt water pool. We had enough lounge chairs to entertain a high school graduation party, and I was convinced our landlord, Bob, won the collection of 1986 patio furniture on the Price is Right. There was the “Margarita Tree,” which bore a strange mutated citrus fruit, giant like a pomelo with the flavor of ruby red grapefruit and key lime. Needless to say, these fruits made excellent Sunday margaritas. The bonus of the house was the hot tub. Looking back, I now realize that our Wednesday “after hours” blind tasting group was not an infamous success because of my hospitality and silly puns, it was the charm of the hot tub: drinking 1er Cru Meursault out of paper cups, littering the yard with chards of Riedel glass, and then somehow managing to make it home alive and well, ready to sling some 1990 Bordeaux the next day!
Rachel was a part of the old Miami crew, the late-night Burgundy debates, the unsuccessful blind sabering of Champagne, and the constant roll of giddy and glee. It makes the expression “those were the days” feel so true. Yet, convincing friendships endure the lows as well as the highs, and we’ve had our stakes. Daylong hospital visits entertained by a tough mother pissing-off a nurse in the pursuit of her daughter’s overdue morphine dose. Divorce court: monotone wives and husbands lined-up like mad shoppers at the grocery store – “Next!” Dumps, break-ups, and heartbreaks coincidentally timed with the moving-in and moving-out of apartments, again and again. In between the lows and highs, there is the sweet cream that fills the middle: free rides to the airport with the comfort of silence and hip-hop, happy hour and Beau Soleil oysters at the River Oyster Bar, and cat-sitting Hana. If there is a “Yoda” of animals, then it is Hana, reserved but wise with a piercing intuition. For someone who is not a huge animal lover, Hana has turned me from cold to warm. I loved when Rachel traveled those romantic ten-day excursions, train rides to Beaune, day trips to the Jura, sleepovers in Alba. While Rachel was day tripping with Savagnin and Chardonnay, I was snug on the couch with a dense book by Jasper Morris, Hana at my feet, overlooking the unbroken strip of scandalous hotel lights on Miami Beach. The hardwood floors, high ceilings, granite counter tops, even my own washer and dryer, I was hooked. But the best part, as usual, was the wine, Rachel’s modest but well curated stash of limey Meursault, big and rocky Etna, and highly gulp-able Sta. Rita Hills Pinot Noir. Hana and me… we had it good.
As my friendship progressed with Rachel, it also did with Hana. My native Taurus reliability coupled with a strange domesticated love of cleaning pots and pans secured me a cat-sitting role for life. Now, by circumstance and a little bit of luck, we find ourselves far from Miami, a place where an ambient and foggy 65 is a refreshing pause from the wild and sunny 90. And this time, the stakes are higher: me, a sommelier in pursuit of my yellow brick road, overwhelmed and over-involved with projects (but loving every minute of it) and Rachel, serving almost a decade at the Four Seasons, then transitioning into distribution… selling big and winning big with natural charm and polish, deservedly connecting the right dots to represent Littorai.
One can’t discuss benchmark California Pinot Noir and Chardonnay without mentioning Littorai and Mr. Ted Lemon. He worked at the best estates in Burgundy and is well noted for being “the first American” to be hired as a winemaker and vineyard manager at the legendary Domaine Guy Roulot in Meursault. The wines translate the finest vineyard sites in Anderson Valley, the Sonoma Coast, and the western edge of the Russian River Valley. The Lemons (Ted and his wife Heidi) champion sustainable farming. In addition to using only natural materials, they abstain from using fertilizers in favor of their jewel, the estate compost. Just recently (April 2015), Littorai received the esteemed Environmental Stewardship Award. The philosophy in the vineyard overlaps into the cellar – natural light, wine movement via gravity flow, and recycled water are the Littorai standard. Like the greatest wines of Burgundy, production is tiny. Last week at the restaurant I added four bottles of four different, Littorai Pinot Noirs to the list… after five nights of medium steady service, they are gone. To have and drink Littorai is a moment all within itself.
“And don’t forget to take the Littorai I left for you, it’s on the kitchen counter!” ~Rachel’s last text before she boarded the plane to someplace far and subzero cold. Holding my breath as I peeled back the silver lid to brown mush, I eyed the bottles, my reward for this week’s daring cat duties. I gave Hana a kiss, cradled the Littorai in between the legal pads in my messenger bag and headed towards my second home on Mission Street. I could pair this with the sweet and crusty soft-shell Crab… maybe the fat-glowing Winkler Pork loin, or the Vacaville Quail, ripe with game and butchered to master symmetry. I converse and confide with Chef Mark, “Let’s do the consommé,” he says. It’s eight o’clock on a Friday night. Che just broke a wine glass at the bar, there is a team of grown men with kiddie backpacks hungry at the door, and I’ve got twelve pairings to put down in the next three minutes. My spiel, “And next, for the veal consommé with Jerusalem artichokes… a local Pinot Noir with a little age, Littorai Pinot Noir Les Larmes (a blend of different vineyard sites) from Anderson Valley… 2004, an excellent vintage for Pinot in Northern California,” attempting to be in-and-out and onto table 57. The gentleman immediately looks-up from his fixated tunnel of conversation in spreadsheets and finite numbers, and we make brief, awkward yet pleasant eye contact. He says, “Oh my, Littorai… I looovvve Littorai… thank you, thank you.” As I sidestep my way to table 57, I look down at the iconic label, the charcoal sketch of a storybook valley and forest and feel instantly grateful… for good friends, good cats, and Littorai.
"Pumped-Up on Chianti?" (January 2015)
It was an “on-again off-again” affair with me, and Castello di Ama. I was familiar with the Tuscan estate, a touted and very respectable producer in the Chianti Classico region with a flair for international varietals like Cabernet Franc and Merlot. I’d considered them not-so traditional and not-so modern, but somewhere safely in between the two over-played wine genres. I tasted their “Chianti Classico Riserva” many times… I liked it. I had it on my wine list, took it off the list, and then put it on again six months later. Looking back, I realize my annoying habit. Then in October of 2013, something clicked.
I encountered Lorenza Sebasti Pallanti at a mutual friend’s apartment in Florence. We were chatting in the kitchen enjoying an appetizer of tangy and crusty bread when a confident fist knocked on the door. In walked Lorenza, an angled face too cool for make-up, with boy-short hair that was a little messy but fitting, dressed in thick greys and black. But nothing about Lorenza was grey or black. The conversation of the evening was the wines of Chianti Classico and the perception of the wines in the market in the United States. Are the wines big and bold, fattened with Cabernet and the alluring sweet spices of new oak? Are the wines red-fruited, pure and charming, aged quietly in used old barrels? I listened to Lorenza speak with her anxious shoulders and the up-and-down curls of her brow. Antinori had just completed his new monumental winery in Chianti Classico and Lorenza vocally applauded him, “He could’ve built a winery anywhere in Tuscany, and he chose Chianti!” Lorenza was a stoplight of colors to me, selfless green then a fiery red softened by yellow. She spoke about the frustrations with the changing laws with the Consorzio (her husband Marco was the former president) and the innate obligation of producers and owners to improve and protect the quality of the region (once wrongly belittled by an outpouring of average quality and market bliss in the 1980s).
Sitting there, listening, in awe of her energy and passion, I thought, “I’m so pumped… on Chianti?” Lorenza was leaving for Moscow the next day on a business trip, and I was driving back to the outskirts of Siena. Before our goodbye she insisted that I visit Ama. “Marco is hosting a tasting on Friday, you must meet Marco! You must go to Ama!”
Lorenza is Roman. Her family was one of the original families who jointly purchased Castello di Ama in the 1960s. Marco Pallanti, her husband and proud Tuscan, arrived to the estate in the early 1980s after graduating from Enology school in Florence. Almost 32 years later, he is still there. It’s where he met Lorenza; it’s where he would raise three children and unknowingly stamp the letter of an Italian wine legacy. When Marco came to Ama he grafted Merlot vines over the older vines of Malvasia and Canaiolo. These re-grafted parcels evolved into the L’Apparita vineyard and its celebrated namesake wine, the first purely Merlot “Super Tuscan” in 1985, just a year before the release of celebrity “Masseto” in 1986. Lorenza and Marco admire international grapes and play with them well. In the cellar there’s a collection of big and little barrels, but it doesn't feel right to call their style “modern” when they’ve been living and breathing Ama together for over thirty years. Their “Chianti Classico Riserva” has a proper stuffing of Malvasia Nera, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc, and in “Il Chiuso” you can smell the lip gloss of Pinot Noir but the wines, like Marco, are Tuscan at the core – underneath the skin of shiny fruits, there are seamless waves of sultry iron and stone.
It was Friday, and I was sitting kitty-corner from Marco at a thick wood country table, the kind of table built for big eating and conversations initiated by midday drinking. Lunch was Sangiovese, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc with a platter of veal meatballs and bowls of peppery spaghetti, followed by a basket of autumn fruits married with a day-cap of Vin Santo. If Lorenza was a stoplight, then Marco was a beacon, quiet and reserved but powerful by constant. Marco recalls:
"Lorenza she’s…. she’s…. so funny you know… I remember at the winery when we I first met her she use to drink the must from the tanks… ah how she loved drinking must (laugh). Ah, I have to call Lorenza! She’s flying… I have to see if she landed ok, excuse me."
As I reached over to pick-out the nicest-looking fig from the bowl, I saw a bird looking right at me, staring me down. It was the type of stare that makes you feel you did something wrong, and then you stop and think. I can still feel the stare. But the bird didn’t flinch or tweet; it was a strange kind of bird. Its head was the nubby top part of a pear, its beak was a pointed brown stem, and its eye... was the perfect imperfection, a small indentation bruised to the darkest brown. Upon Marco’s return I pointed to the bowl, and he saw the image right away, surprisingly even more amazed and amused than I. From that moment on, Ama stuck with me, wherever I go. Now, I always have the wines on one of my lists, I pass-on the story of Ama, and I’m still pumped to sell Chianti.
"Just Another AQ Sunday" (April 2015)
Some of my favorite moments at AQ happen when the blinds roll-down and block-off the ever weird and lively world on Mission street. During the last hour of Saturday night’s service everyone smiles a little bit more and laughs a little bit more as the anticipation of the weekend settles to-the-bone. As restaurant people we are fortunate to have our protected Sundays, no high-chair brunches, no line-cook crying about the missed football game, no 9:45 pm reservation running late for their romantic Sunday night chef’s tasting menu. For some of us, Sundays are moments to be outside, camp, ski, swim, and hike into Northern California’s extraordinary topography. For others, Sundays are moments to be with family, lay low in the neighborhood or rightfully catch-up with a good book or that secret junkie television series. For me, I look forward to my Sunday walk down Larkin Street past the confectionery smell of almond-laced pastry at Mr. Holmes followed by the savory scent of potted pork at Saigon Sandwich. I always cut-through the farmer’s market at the Civic Center where I like to watch the hunched Chinese ladies buying lots of green leafy things, thinking that these women, right here, are the best chefs in San Francisco. Then I pass the steps of the courthouse (where I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly patriotic and think of my father and brother who are passionate lawyers), and I know I am close to AQ.
As I type these words, it is just another AQ Sunday. I am enjoying an afternoon snack of Amaro CioCiaro over a ice cube that patiently melts. When I arrived earlier, I found stickies of silver duck tape on the downstairs prep table, a sign that Chef Mark and Chef Jimmy were here, moments before, packing their coolers of abalone and stinging nettles for their special dinner in New York. An hour later, a few of San Francisco’s most talented sommeliers knocked on the back door, academic satchels and tasting grids in-hand, ready to tackle a lethal blind tasting of thirty wines. The room is in need of a deep-cleaning by me, decanters lined-up like soldiers on tables 51-55, broken corks and plastic spit-cups married in the blue bin, and a squeaky dishwasher cart, turned fancy guéridon, decorated with corkscrews, wire decanting baskets, and hot pink lighters. I’ll get to cleaning-up in a couple of hours, after I binge on some 64% dark chocolate discs while looking-up market prices for the 2010 Bordeaux vintage, followed by Burgundy. Then maybe I’ll do some Rhône or even Australia, if I’m in the “new-world” mood.
In the next hour Matt will stroll-in with plastic crates of arugula, borage, and wood sorrel, fresh and zesty from the farm in Cloverdale. Then something that is broken (and requires a power tool) will need to be fixed, and he will fix it. Then Guy and Melissa will park the motorcycle in the back and turn-on a "feel good" Pandora station as they prep their "feel good" pita dough for tomorrow’s pop-up (and soon-to-be falafel craze), Sababa. I’m not sure who it will be next… maybe Ryan will pick-up his bicycle after a friendly night’s excursion with beer and whiskey, or I’m hoping Sonja will swing-by to work on next week menus – so I can find-out what happened on date #3 and the other date #1 (slowly becoming more intrigued and rather tempted by online dating). Whoever it will be, a moment will proceed. A small conversation or act will be next week’s memory, and these memories will slowly join together to become stories and to me, the real rhythm of AQ.
"Thank you Michael Jordan" (February 2015)
The pale lady with the chunky emerald glasses and an all-too-serious face coolly replied, “Let's do the 99 Gratien... nice shoes by the way.” My response, “Great. I’ll get that right away for you… thanks!” Eager and giddy to open the special bottle of vintage Champagne, which I just added to the wine list that day, I thought, “Could it be that easy?” (Submissively shifting a guest out of his or her $100 per bottle Champagne comfort zone to something a bit more rare and pricey). Well, yes of course it could be, if you were a dapper sommelier with the right big talk and right big attitude. Then I thought about myself… a different type of person and thus a different type of sommelier, more reserved, maybe a little too honest, and a sucker for the underdogs and bargains. “I know you’re interested in the bla-bla-bla for $150, but you should really try the bla-bla-bla for $100, it’s totally underrated.” Making my way down to the cellar, freely gliding and bouncing down the steel-cut stairs, I looked down at myself, past my black tuxedo pants and wondered – “Nah, can’t be, it’s the Air Jordans.”
As sommeliers, we are constantly judged. There are villages of respectable eaters and drinkers out there who have experienced an unfortunate or awkward moment with a sommelier. Maybe it was the ridiculous over-pouring of Riesling, too full and too top-heavy to swirl and catch the aroma of fresh peach and lime. Maybe the folly was the delicious bottle of Pinot Noir that surprisingly ended in one too many zeros or the cute and perky know-it-all “somm” in the perfectly tailored midnight blue suit that rubbed you from lukewarm to cold. Whatever the sorry circumstance, certain guests will look you up-and-down, and in an instant judge you – I like her, I don't like her, let's call over the sommelier for help or… let's not. I’m a sommelier, but firstly I’m a girl, and I like shoes. I like all types of shoes: high shoes, higher shoes, and sometimes, low shoes. Tuesday is my Monday, and I’d start-off the week strong, 3-inch heels. Wednesday, no problem, 3-inch Italian black patent leather. Thursday, take it down to 2-inch, a busy Friday, go 1. Come Saturday, 3 private parties, 120 covers confirmed in the main dining room, we’re rolling with one food runner, Chef Jimmy is working and sweating the fish station… give me my Air Jordans!
My shoe pattern began to stick, and Saturdays I properly dubbed “Air Jordan Saturdays.” Over a three-month period I mentally documented the nights I wore my black sneakers with the bright pink swooshes and noticed two things: guests were more likely to randomly initiate conversations with me as well as request my assistance in selecting a bottle of wine. I’d walk-up to table 41, an abbreviated, loose version of our dialogue would be:
“Hey nice sneakers (Bob)… Thanks (Me)… What do you think between this wine, this wine, or that wine? (Bob)… I'd get that wine, it’s awesome (Me)…. Ok, we’ll go with that wine (Bob)… Ok great… I’ll bring that right away for you (Me)”
Then table 43, then 57, then the bottleneck of techies at the food-bar, “Hey nice sneakers,” all night long. Would I have the same luck if I swapped-out my Air Jordans for Chuck Taylors or throwback Pumas? This experiment, part 2, I have not tried. I am, although, secretly looking forward to “Adidas Stan Smith Saturdays” with the arrival of AQ Spring Menu.
Enthusiastic about this correlation between sneakers and a guest’s behavior, I consulted Teresa, Chef Mark’s wife, a sharp girl I could trust. She's the kind of lady that if she smoked cigarettes, it would be ok. She could hang with the boys and talk-back, and she could get her nails painted with the girls and smile. We were standing by the cooks’ pass as Saturday night’s final tickets were seamlessly birthing out of the little black box. She diplomatically listened to my theory and asserted, “Did you ever think that maybe it’s not the sneakers, maybe it’s YOU in the sneakers …and that is the difference.” Sure she had a point. I was more comfortable in my sneakers, more relaxed, possibly even exuding an extra smile as I glided down the stairs towards the 99 Gratien. So in the end, who did Jordan seduce… was it the Champagne lady or was it me? I’m not convinced it was all of me, but I am grateful for #23, my sneakers, and the special wines I get to taste and drink every night. Thank you Michael Jordan…