Some Like It Haute

I once belonged to a group called the Military Order of Wine Tasters, the purpose of which was not to savor the gentle aftertaste of fine wines, but to get falling-down drunk.

It was just after I’d been discharged from the Marines and still had a tendency to cling to those who had worn the uniform, a dependency I have long since abandoned in favor of less primitive associations.

We’d con some winery into donating their products, meet at a member’s house and then dive headfirst into the vats. Red, white, pink, who cares, mix ‘em all together and down the hatch.

I’ve changed. Pressured over the years to adopt a more civilized attitude at wine tasting tables, I am now quite able to sip without swilling and to adopt the puzzled, thoughtful expression that characterizes those who really do know the difference between Chianti and Blanquette de Limoux.

What you do, see, is lift the glass by the stem, wave it under your nose in a circular motion, sniff the bouquet and look serious. Then you take a cautious sip, stare off to the distant hills, snap back into focus and, in words that won’t embarrass your host, criticize.

Armed with the style if not the knowledge of a wine snob, I was therefore able to function Sunday at the Bon Appetit Wine and Spirits Focus without appearing to be some boob from Oakland with red stains down the front of his cheap Penney’s Outlet shirt.

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I have additionally mastered the art of food tasting as a result of observing culinary experts over the years savoring succulent bits of this and that without drooling or otherwise disgusting those seated nearby.

If one dislikes the bite, for instance, one simply signifies distaste by frowning, not spitting into a napkin. If, however, one simply adooores that little nibble of canard sauvage, one blows a baby kiss into the air. I’m not about to blow a baby kiss, but frowning is something I do quite well.

The Bon Appetit soiree is held annually to benefit the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Citymeals-on-Wheels USA, which adds a higher moral purpose to what we do best in L.A., which is eating and drinking.

Two thousand of us gathered at Paramount Studios in good old Hollywood to mingle with borderline celebrities and to nibble the goodies and sip the wines at booths arranged like a chow line in heaven along the storied pathways. I say borderline celebs because you know when they start announcing the presence of disc jockeys that Tom Cruise isn’t in the crowd.

The food came from 22 of the best restaurants in L.A., which meant, sadly, that Mike’s Truck Stop Cafe wasn’t represented. Even served on little crackers, scrambled eggs smothered in catsup just doesn’t make it in this kind of uptown environment.

My wife liked a potato dish at a booth she asked me to remember but I forgot. I also lost the recipe, but basically what you do is slap together some spuds, onions, oil and mustard and bake it.

May I suggest a fine Beaujolais to accompany your meal, or, if you’ve been half-blinded by martinis by the time you eat, just something red?

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There is always a danger at such a massive wine tasting event, which also included various brands of vodka, Scotch and cognac, that I might revert to type and go bouncing off the booths, as it were, until I collapsed in my wife’s arms. This was not the case at the Bon Appetit event.

Instead, I adhered so strongly to the Rules of the Taste that Cinelli thought I might be ill. It was the far-off look after sipping that worried her. As I recall I had just tasted a nice Baron De Ley Reserva 1994 Rioja and was savoring the mild aftertaste when she said, “Are you having gas pains?”

“No, I’m wine tasting. You know, sip, savor and criticize.”

“You have a sick look.”

“That’s a look that says I’m considering the aftertaste.”

“That’s about your 12th aftertaste. You’re not a drunken jarhead anymore, Martinez. Slow down.”

I liked the Scotch best. It was an 18-year-old single-malt Glenmorangie which sells for about $75 a bottle. I sipped it next to a fat man in a T-shirt with a logo that said, “Feed the Baby First.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked as we bellied up to the booth.

“Don’t know,” he said, “but I believe in it. You want another? I’m buying.”

Down the hatch.

Al Martinez’s column appears Tuesdays and Fridays. He can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com