Sideways Read Online Free PDF Page A

Barbara, the highway ribboning out in front of us with the promise of fun and adventure. The sun had dipped below the edge of the horizon and the sky was growing violet. Headlights started to snap on and the surrounding landscape broke out in a burning neon-lit iridescence, bringing to life a traveling city of light.
    “Hold the wheel a sec,” Jack said. I grabbed the wheel with my left hand and kept us on course as Jack reached behind the seat and rummaged around in his duffel bag. A moment later he produced a bottle of wine. He handed it to me proudly as he reclaimed control of the wheel.
    I held the bottle up and my eyes widened when I saw the label: Chateau Latour—1982. “Where’d you steal this?”
    “It was a gift from the lead on the show I’m directing. She gave one each to the entire staff. Is it any good?”
    “Is it any
good
? It’s a fucking ’82 Latour. One of the great vintages of the last fifty years, from one of only six
grands crus
chateaus in Bordeaux, is it any
good
? The
Wine Advocate
rates it a hundred points. And it’s drinking beautifully right now, I understand—of course how would I know, right?”
    “Open it up,” Jack said, unimpressed.
    I turned to him with an openmouthed expression of shock. “Are you joking? This wine will get angry if you don’t open it in a dark, quiet room, decant it and pour it into proper stemware, and pair it with a slab of very rare prime rib. It might spit in your face at such inadvertent contempt of its greatness. Andrea Immer would burst an aneurysm.”
    “Who’s Andrea Immer?”
    “Wine guru I’m besotted with. Of course I’ve only met her on TV.”
    “You and a million other wine geeks, probably,” Jack jested.
    “When my book gets published I’ll be able to afford the rare Burgundies to romance her.”
    Jack laughed. “Well, then open up a bottle of that Byron bubbly. I’ve got a mighty thirst that needs slaking.”
    “On the freeway?”
    “Fuck yes on the freeway.”
    I clambered into the back and slipped a bottle out of one of the cases.
    “There should be a couple of glasses back there,” Jack said.
    I found two flutes, uncorked the Byron, filled them to overflowing and handed one to Jack. “It’s warm.”
    “Who cares?” He held his glass back to me and we clinked. “Here’s to a great week.”
    “I hope so,” I said.
    “It will be,” Jack promised.
    I stretched out in the back and sipped the Byron. “What do you think of this?” I asked.
    “I like it,” Jack said. “If it’s a hundred percent Pinot, how come it’s not a rosé?”
    “Jesus, Jackson, don’t ask questions like that up in the wine country. They’re going to think you’re a fucking philistine.”
    “Just tell me, wiseass.”
    “The juice is free run. Color comes from the skin. There’s no skin contact in the fermentation, i.e., no color.”
    “I’ll try to remember that,” Jack said. “Damn, it’s delicious, though.” He drained his glass and reached it around for a refill. I obliged.
    “We’ve got to make a quick stop in Montecito,” I announced.
    “Montecito? What the fuck for?”
    “My mother’s.”
    “Your mother’s? I didn’t know you had a mother,” he cracked.
    “It’s her birthday today.”
    “It’s your mother’s birthday today?”
    “Yeah. That’s what I just said. It’s her birthday, and it would be remiss of me to drive right past her house, she being recently widowed and all and probably all alone on this special occasion, and not wish her a happy birthday.”
    Jack softened. “Did you get her a present at least?”
    “I’ll give her a bottle of the Veuve. She likes champagne.”
    “That’s not a birthday present for your mother. Jesus, Miles. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”
    “I can’t afford a real gift, okay? So don’t rub it in.”
    “It’s going to be late when we get to Santa Ynez.”
    “I know. I know.”
    We continued west on 101, as the sky darkened to night. On our left,