I am not a great fan of balsamic vinegars. Given the choice of oil and vinegar and just plain olive oil for a salad or dipping sauce, I’ll choose olive oil, please.
There are a number of flavored balsamics on the market; I saw them displayed at a gourmet food shop today. Balsamics with tiny bread pieces for sampling. I am usually the world’s best sampler, but today I moved to the left, toward the cheese aisle.
Smash! Shatter! Tinkle tinkle of glass!
I clapped my hands over my ears and peered around. A shopper had hit the display table with her large, heavy-looking shopping bag, knocking over all the bottles, splattering balsamic everywhere. Was she, like yours truly, a member of the balsam-ick club?
The incident brought to mind one that happened a few weeks ago. I was in a new pizzeria with two friends. Behind us was a widescreen TV. The TV program wasn’t visible to us, but the volume was quite loud and the noise of the characters’ dialogue competed with our conversation. My friends got a large pepperoni with balsamic onions. As they ate their slices, one friend said, “I’m not so sure I’d order these balsamic onions again, would you?,” just as a woman on TV said, “I like balsamic.”