Sangria Froid

A PITCHER SAYS A THOUSAND WORDS ABOUT SUMMER’S LEGENDARY CHILL-OUT DRINK

- Michael Corcoran

WHEN THE WINE WAGON gently stopped, my head was atilt, as far back as the neck can manage these days. I was staring at the flowers atop a towering saguaro cactus, wearing the same dumbfounded expression that paints my face whenever my wife addresses me with a sentence that begins, “Why did you…”

“Are you okay?” said the woman driving the Wine Wagon. “Top of the world,” said I. “Just admiring those blooms.” As I turned to face the sympathetic inquirer, I noted her beer cart was named “Wine Wagon,” much the same way WWII airmen named their craft. I was entertained by this beyond any rational explanation. Did I mention this was on the golf course at Mountain Shadows, at the base of Camelback Mountain, in Paradise Valley, Arizona? It was. I was out for a morning stroll, marveling at the multitudes of newborn quail dashing across my path, scampering behind what I must assume were their parents or legal guardians. In any event, the idea that the buggy had been christened “Wine Wagon” was telling, I thought.