On May 30th, the day before Brittany’s 27th birthday, she and Robert took a trip to Bevmo for a bottle of celebration. She’s a sucker for the classic Veuve, but Robert thought they ought to have something new and exciting to celebrate. What they could agree upon was
a pretty bottle called Perrier-Jouët, brut champagne, which would hit the spot for both of them. However, Robert insisted on teaching Brittany how to saber (open with a blade) their champagne, but Brittany didn’t want to waste a sip of her nice birthday bubbly in the process, so Robert acquiesced to also get a bottle of Cupcake prosecco for the job.
Come May 31st, two juicy filets trembled and sizzled atop the burning grates of the grill. The couple stood on the porch looking at the trees. “Aim it at that thick tree trunk there,” Robert droned. “You don’t want the cork to land in the street.”
With the Cupcake in her left hand, and a gratuitously large, yellow-handled knife in her right, Brittany experienced a bit of empathy for the steaks. Robert’s voice would excite and agitate and slow each time Brittany told him to calm down.
“No, hold the bottle higher,” he said in frustration, “hold the knife the other way; you’re gonna use the blunt edge.”
“You want me to hold the knife toward myself? Why don’t you just do it?” Brittany was no happy camper.
“Yeah. Yes, don’t worry. No, you’re doing it. You’ll be fine, trust me! And it’s a punching motion, not a flick of the wrist.” Robert rambled off his instructions for the umpteenth time.
“Okay, I know, I got it. I got it! Shut up and let me do it!” And reader, she did it. A clean break, a cork made into a shooting star, and fewer bubbles spilling than usual. Robert caught what did fall with a glass held up to the bottle. Brittany chuckle-snorted in an instant of awe and they got on with it. The Perrier-Jouët didn’t touch any lips that night.