Many years ago, when I ran away from Victoria, I ended up picking apples in Western Australia. It was a hard job and come the weekend Paddy and I decided to head off an a driving tour of the south-west wine region. His sister came down from Perth to tag along too. So off we went and at a T-intersection somewhere near Margaret River we slid off the road on a patch of sand and crashed sideways into an embankment. There was not enough damage done to the old Holden to prevent us heading on although we were all a bit shaken so we stopped at the next winery up the road for lunch and er, wine. They had a very pleasant tasting area in a courtyard garden that was kind of 'indoors' within a giant barn. There were hushed whispers of tastingese, delicately clinking glasses, far off tweets of Saturday birds and the headiness of grapes fattening in the sun. Poor Liz had almost recovered some colour in her cheeks when the battleaxe running the food servery announced our food was ready with a howl of 'THREE CRUSTY ROLLS WITH SALAD! THREE CRUSTY ROLLS!' so loud that it shook the tut-tutting wine tank sentinels at the end of the barn. It took another two glasses of merlot to unclench her grip on the edge of the table.
Since then I've generally avoided wine and crusty things at the same sitting.