Sometimes I try to figure out why I am the way I am. Mostly I come to the conclusion that this is just simply being a woman in America. But last week, I traveled back to Minnesota, where I grew up. And when I ordered a bottle of wine that had to be sent back, I had a major, major revelation about my wild people-pleasing tendencies and my absolutely paralyzing fear of coming across as “extra” or taking up too much space.
Minnesotans, in case you didn’t know, are notoriously nice. It is such a core value of Minnesota that there’s a phrase for it. They call it “Minnesota Nice.”
From Wikipedia:
Minnesota nice is a cultural stereotype applied to the behavior of people from the U.S. state of Minnesota, implying residents are unusually courteous, reserved, and mild-mannered compared to people from other states. The phrase also implies polite friendliness, an aversion to open confrontation, a tendency toward understatement, a disinclination to make a direct fuss or stand out, apparent emotional restraint, and self-deprecation.
(See also: being a woman.)
For example, when it is 93°F with 90% humidity and you get into your friend’s car, instead of saying, “I am dying, could you please turn up the AC for the love of God?” A Minnesotan would say, “Wow! It’s so hot out!” If your friend does not get the message, thou shalt simply accept the heat and wither and die. But under no circumstances will you outright ask for what you need. Because being nice is more important than being alive.
My entire group of best friends from high school still lives in Minnesota, and when I travel back there we make it a priority to have a girls’ dinner. We were at a sleek, delicious restaurant in Minneapolis when I ordered a bottle of wine and it became screamingly apparent that even though I moved to California 25 years ago, “Minnesota Nice” still runs through my veins. (Also I am still a woman.)
At Girls’ Night Dinner, I’m always put in charge of ordering the wine for the group, and although everyone clearly likes completely different things, they will each appropriately insist they are “fine with anything!” It is my job to satisfy their collective palate, so I settled on a favorite California producer’s light skin-contact Pinot Gris: a “rosé” for my less ambitious sisters and an “amber” for the wild ones. (Pinot Gris is a pink-skinned variety, so soaking the juice and skins together for a short period of time makes a coppery-colored wine one could equally argue is a rosé or an amber/orange wine.)
The bottle was off — somewhat cooked and oxidized, like a mealy peach simmered in stale cinnamon until it was listless; not at all the snappy, cheeky-spicy, melon-scented favorite I’ve enjoyed several other times — and I needed to send it back. With my entire high school friend group watching, horrified. “Can you even do that?” one of them asked me in a whisper.
You can! You can (and totally should) send a bottle back if it’s off or even if you’re simply not that into it. But if, like me, you are from Minnesota — even worse, a woman from MN — you must follow some very important qualifying parameters and an exact, carefully rehearsed script. Here, I will show you.
First, the qualifying parameters:
Off the bat, you must know whether you’ve ordered something reasonable or something quite rare or expensive. Because, let’s assume for a second that the wine is actually perfectly fine; you just don’t like it. If the wine is already on the restaurant’s by-the-glass list (and you simply ordered a bottle of it), or if the wine is $100 or less, the restaurant can easily sell this as a special glass pour later that night to recoup their costs. NBD. Proceed.
However, if you are aware you’ve ordered a very special bottle that, upon arrival, you determine is either unfit for your consumption or just not your cup of tea, you should proceed with a bit more caution (and extra niceness), since the restaurant will likely be more sensitive to a $400 bottle being sent back than a $60 one.
Next, try to ascertain whether there is a sommelier or wine director working at the moment. If so, ask if they’re available to chat with you about the wine. They will be much more in-tune and aware of how to handle these situations. If not, know that your server might not actually be trained in how to handle a returned bottle. They have probably never had this happen. And their response might be incredibly awkward. Stay the course. You’re not crazy or evil (just a woman… in MN!).
Once you’ve assessed the above, and you are in the presence of the staff member who is serving you, and you’ve tasted the wine once, and you’ve paused intentionally to demonstrably contemplate, to swirl, sniff, and taste more carefully a second time, say these lines exactly:
“Hmm. I’m actually not sure about this one. It could just be me! But it could be an off bottle. I wonder if it would be possible to open another of the same wine to compare? If not, I’d love to maybe see the list again. I’m so sorry for the hassle, but this just isn’t what I expected.”
Now, let’s pick all this Minnesota Niceness bottle-send-back protocol apart:
Hmm. I’m actually not sure about this one.
Off the bat, we are establishing our sense of curiosity and openness! “It’s probably a me thing.” I am not sure. I have an aversion to open confrontation, a tendency toward understatement, a disinclination to make a direct fuss or stand out. I am very self-deprecating! Please don’t hate me for making this difficult.
It could just be me!
Next, we must reiterate that we are a nice person and very likely flawed ourselves. Our vulnerability is designed to diminish our status and endear the server to us. I am not confrontational! I hate to make a fuss!! I’m probably crazy!!!
But it could be an off bottle.
Now that we have put our own comfort and sanity well aside, we can point out the unlikely but also teensy tiny possibility that the wine is flawed. Hopefully, the server will be sufficiently intrigued and not too angry and also not too busy to help us. (If the server seems busy, definitely insert several apologies here!)
I wonder if it would be possible to open another of the same wine to compare?
Once again let us demonstrate our curiosity — “I wonder” — rather than our conviction. Once again, let us showcase that we are a very nice person who is likely just flawed herself. Please do not hate me for my very human-like vulnerability. I am just wondering if you would be so kind, since you seem like a nice and understanding person. I am just asking…
If not, I’d love to maybe see the list again.
Now that we have subjugated our feelings and practiced sufficient self-hatred, and we are already groveling around, we can politely ask for what we want without really saying what we want. I would love to maybe just take a look at the list… at what could have been. Just for funsies. If you, blessed server, decide out of the kindness of your heart and the generosity of your beverage margins to let me order something else, I promise I will not ask for anything else this entire meal even if I am missing a fork. I will eat with my hands and apologize for that too and then thank you one million times over and tip you extra fat for being so patient with my ridiculousness.
I’m sorry for the hassle, but this just isn’t what I expected.
We will wrap up by swearing on our heart (hope to die) that we feel really, really, really bad about all of this. We will apologize: I am such a horrific pain in the ass for having feelings and this is all my fault. Not yours. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry for being this way. I am sorry for my expectation of pleasure.
So what happened at the restaurant in Minneapolis? Well, I did exactly this, dear reader, while my friends sat rigid and stared straight ahead, hands folded in their laps. They may have been mortified, and our server may have been shocked, but you know what? We got a different bottle, and we — or at the very least I — ended up happier in the end.
And you know what the biggest takeaway was? I am learning that perhaps, at least sometimes, my happiness counts for something maybe even more than niceness.
Gods this is exhausting