Sweet Valley Wine

When it comes to catfights, there’s one phrase that’s a good catalyst for an aggro-estrofest throwdown: “You better watch your mouth.”

We heard that spoken recently at J.J.’s, when a friend of a friend of a research assistant nearly got into it with the owner of a local boutique. It might seem odd that a mellow wine bar and restaurant on the west edge of the Plaza would inspire such antics. But it’s a little-known fact that pinot noir often carries the bouquet of fisticuffs. And by “pinot noir,” we mean “Thunderbird.”

As usual at J.J.’s, the L-shaped bar area was fairly packed when we arrived on a recent Friday with our research assistants. At the relatively early hour of 11 p.m., the average age veered toward the gray-haired. As the night wore on and the diners started trickling out, the younger lushes arrived in waves. J.J.’s attracts an eclectic late-night crowd, thanks to its 3 a.m. closing time. Naturally, wine was the beverage of choice for most, but J.J.’s also has an impressive Scotch selection (complemented by PBR on tap). In fact, the shelves behind the small bar area are so laden with alcohol that there’s a ladder for the bartenders to reach certain bottles — very Pierpontlike but on a more intimate scale.

We stuck with Boulevard Wheat, our predrinking beverage that night, and staked out a spot by the hostess stand. We were immediately distracted by an extremely wastoidal guy staggering from the dining room, supported by a friend. Mr. Drunko, clad in a stiff, brown cotton shirt tucked into jeans, paused in the doorway by the hostess station and clutched the big metal wine rack for support. J.J.’s manager went over and deftly extricated the guy’s hand from the rack, and off went that merry party into the night. We peeped outside; the guy was still alert — barely — propped up by two friends as they waited for their ride. That reminded us of a previous visit, when we spotted a very drunk couple making out against the same rack. In fact, they came in, didn’t order anything and just started going at it before leaving. We don’t know whether the guy popped his cork, but we do know this: J.J.’s should probably move that rack.

Little did we know that more drama was occurring within our own social circle. The fight involved a friend of one of our RAs — we’ll call her Blondie — and her friend, whom we’ll call Brunette. It began when Blondie and Brunette were checking out the flamboyant wardrobe on Kelly, the 38-year-old boutique owner.

Kelly, who vaguely resembled fashion designer Betsey Johnson, was dressed in a bright-red, long-sleeved blouse with a high, ruffled collar, which she paired with a black corsetlike top and jeans. Completing the look: a leopard-print purse, a studded belt, red cowboy boots and a mass of rhinestone necklaces. It was an outfit that might have made Project Runway‘s Kaine reach for a drool cup. Or signaled the return of 1980s Madonna.

When Kelly noticed Blondie and Brunette checking her out as she walked by, she reportedly snapped, “Yeah, it’s strange.”

Brunette retorted: “You better watch your mouth.”

What is this, seventh grade? So far, this fight seemed straight out of a Sweet Valley High book.

Kelly told us her side of the story. She said she was standing with her friends next to J.J.’s infamous Wine Rack of Random Encounters. She said she was having a good time, except for the fact that some women were being mean. As she spoke, she shot Blondie and Brunette dirty looks.

That’s when heated words flew back and forth again, along the lines of “Who are you?” and “What’s your problem?”

“That ugly girl there is being a B,” Kelly’s friend complained to the manager. “She’s verbally attacking Kelly. Kick her out!” We’re glad to see that the “Start Snitching” campaign is working somewhere.

Blondie and Brunette left, and after the drama died down a bit, we went back to ask Kelly about the fight. “It’s all good,” she said. “Women are jealous of women.” She said they had snidely looked her up and down. Then she saw one of them mouth about her rhinestones: “Are those real?”

Oh, no matter what the context, them’s fighting words!

We’re not sure if we can attribute the fight to sour grapes, but what the hell. We started circulating and barged in on 28-year-olds Matthew and Ben, who were sitting at the bar. Matthew and his wife were in the process of moving to Washington state to manage a bed and breakfast, and they stopped in KC on the way to visit Matthew’s college buddy, Ben.

Both guys went to school at Western State College in Gunnison, Colorado. Ben’s from KC and came back to work in his dad’s law firm. When we asked him about sour grapes, he couldn’t really think of anything. All he said was, “I’d rather be riding my mountain bike. I’d rather be in Crested Butte.”

Wouldn’t we all? We moved on to 36-year-old Eric, a lithe, tall man wearing a blue-bandanna head wrap. The friendly, talkative massage therapist said he’d just moved back to KC after spending a year and a half in Springfield. When he lived in Italy, he dated a guy who owned a vineyard. They were kind of playing around — “not sex, we were just messing around,” he says — and they fed each other grapes off the vine. However, the grapes weren’t quite ripe yet, so they made a joke that they’d never have sour grapes with each other. “It was hot at the time,” he said.

Could the night have been more soap-operatic? We thought not. Francine Pascal couldn’t have scripted it better — though she could have thrown in some Strawberry Hill, the underage drink of choice. We’re sure Jessica Wakefield would have been all about that.