Somehow a 1.5 liter of Rene Junot Dry White Table Wine took up residence in my city flat.  Perhaps it came under the arm of a guest I don't recall.  Perhaps I was loaded one night and found it laying in the street and lugged it home.

Regardless, for months it ad been taking up a spot on my wine rack.  So I chilled it and uncorked it.  Pouring a glass I was put off by the color- a pale, greasy yellow like a man's urine after a night of drinking Pabst.

I didn't need to let it breath or twirl it under my nose- I could smell the reek from the table top.  Nervously, I lifted the glass and took a sip.  My face bunched up and my neck recoiled.  It tasted of rotten Chardonnay whose grapes had been stomped by someone  with fungus covered feet.  I dumped the rest of the glass, corked the bottle and stuck in the fridge.  Perhaps it can be used for cooking, I thought.

A week later, I had an esteemed and rather famous guest visit.  After sharing a cocktail or two he began cook calimari for Zelduh and I.  Within a few minutes Zelduh was screaming and my guest flailing at the stovetop with a towel and turning off the fire.  In the skillet giant bubbles were popping and flinging hot grease everywhere.  "What the hell?" I cried, my floor and walls spattered. "This wine!  It's this damned wine!" he raged, waving the Rene Junot bottle at me.  The wine had too much water in it.  Heating it transformed the water into hundreds of bubbles that rose to the top of the oil and burst.  "Not even Gallo