The Customer is Always Right
A story from the wine bar philosophy group at the Withered Grape,
reported by Ian McLaren

Well, the king was in his usual fix. Bills everywhere, and hardly a penny of tax revenue to cover them. Even the Chancellor of the Exchequer had gone on strike – he couldn’t steal enough to live on. The king put down the latest threatening letter, and looked out across the town square. He smiled, as a 20-watt light bulb of inspiration flickered over his head. “The Royal Vineyard is producing wine at last: I’ll start selling it!” And within the week, the winter breakfast room had become the King’s Off Licence.

In less than another week, it was the talk of the town wine bars. Demanding double the going rate for a bottle of wine was one thing – and people might have paid if had been good wine. Unfortunately it was thin, acidic and only half-fermented. Not that it stopped the king declaring a monopoly, and preventing other wines from being sold in the kingdom.

The citizens soon found that they had to buy the wine and enjoy it. They knew the king was serious: sales had stopped for nearly half an hour while the king himself went down to the cupboard in the dungeons, and brought back the headsman’s axe to use on Old Grudgett. Mind you, he had managed to spit out half a glassful on to the portrait of the queen’s grandmother.

The townsfolk had organised a rota. You had to buy a bottle of the King’s Wine at least once a week. He had proclaimed “You’ll drink my wine, or I’ll close down all the taverns.” In return, the king not only cast a blind eye over smuggling, he got a commission from the principal traders on their wine imports. He had tasted his own wine – just the once.

Then the king started to get bored. People would just rush in with a full bottle of the King’s Wine, return it for the bottle deposit and buy a new one. Profitable, but rather depressing. There was a gratifying heap of silver in the till, but no-one would talk to him. And all those racing boots were scuffing up the hall floorboards.

It took a few more months to get the details right. The queen got her winter breakfast room back, and painted over her grandmother’s acid burns. The king could once again spend his evenings bullying his sons and frightening the foreign ambassadors. The townsfolk could again spend time drinking their favourite bottles, and they even had a new grumble – about the royal tax on each glass sold. And the royal debts kept mounting up…

February 2007