Maybe it was in my blood -- my father served in the Navy during World War II. Or perhaps those Manhattan West side piers beckoned me. Whatever the inspiration: when I was young, I felt the call to sail the seas.
My vision of ship travel was very much the opposite of my father’s experience. I was a newly minted Manhattanite after all.  It turned out, that back then, the British owned Cunard Line was headquartered in New York City. And of course, they owned the great (recently retired) ocean liner QE2.

Fate was with me and at age twenty-three; I landed a sales position at Cunard.

As I look back, it’s clear this opportunity formed the foundation of my passion for fine food and wine.

Although the QE2 featured many cruises in the course of the year, it was the Atlantic crossings that captured my imagination. Five days of nothing but ocean is escapism at its most poetic expression. I can only describe it as being in a bubble, floating well beyond the drama of the world at large.

I remember my very first day at sea. At noon, there were chimes, and if you read that day’s calendar of events, it clearly stated that when the clock struck noon, it was “cocktail time aboard QE2.”

That was pretty much the spirit of the ship: No hour excluded the possibility of having a good time.

The head of QE2’s security was a chap the crew called Bob the bomb. He earned this nickname from his job during and immediately after WWII – he was on a bomb squad that detonated un-exploded German shells in London.  I guess when you consider that line of work, it comes as no shock when I tell you that I frequently had a beer or two with Bob the Bomb at 8:00 in the morning.

Until QE2, the experiencing of fine dining had eluded me. The ship’s restaurants became my Ivy League college education to appreciating food and drink.

I remember being mesmerized by all the classic European cuisine on the menus. I tried everything and sometimes the excitement of discovering great food overcame me and I made some eyebrow raising requests. For example, an entire dinner consisting of smoked salmon and caviar.

In their mission to please, the wait staff smothered my plate with the salmon, and then scooped about five ounces of caviar on top. They even suggested a Blanc de Blanc Champagne to accompany it. I repeated this special request the next night and a white Burgundy was the recommended pairing that night. I’ll never forget my embarrassment of saying out loud that I didn’t know Burgundy could be a white wine. I was thinking “Gallo’s hearty Burgundy” and thankfully -- as he was an English waiter, he probably thought me a little less dumb in that he imagined I was referring to red Burgundy ala Bourgogne Rouge.

After a number of crossings, the restaurant managers saw something in me that I was unaware of – a sincere passion for wine. Every night they invited me to the kitchen after dinner service. There before me was ten or so unfinished wine bottles ordered by the high rolling, wealthy passengers: First growth Bordeaux, aged red Burgundies and my favorite at that time: vintage ports. I wasn’t permitted to leave until each and every bottle was sampled.

It took me many years to realize that my palate favored French wine because of those evenings. I didn’t understand the context of what I tasted, but the British practically worshiped those wines and I caught their fever.

At the rear of QE2 (the stern) was an intimate nightclub. The entertainment was exclusively piano, either jazz or show tune in nature. I spent the late hours there drinking champagne. It became a tradition that when the club closed at 2:00 a.m. I would take my glass outside and in a silent tribute (or sacrifice?) to Dionysus the Greek God of wine and Poseidon, the God of the seas, I would toss my glass into the ocean.

One night at the club I met a young woman who, later on, wanted to join me in my ritual. After she threw her glass in the ocean she turned to me, laughed and then promptly fainted right into my arms. In the manner of the honeymoon across the threshold tradition, I carried her up four decks of stairs and half the length of the ship to my cabin, as I had no idea what her cabin number was.

This was not so long after the film “Animal House” was released and there were many moments that night that reminded me of scenes from it. I hate to confess, but I was a complete gentleman throughout her ordeal.

The other gift of knowledge I received from the British restaurant managers was my first experience with cognac.

One afternoon after lunch they rolled out a fancy carved wood cart featuring several cognacs. I went through a tasting of VS, VSOP, and XO cognacs. The manager patiently explained the process behind each category.  I got a big kick out of learning that VSOP translated to Very Superior Old Pale. I remember thinking Old Pale sounded like a name you’d give a pet dog.

What he didn’t recommend was that I spit or dump each and every brandy snifter placed before me. A long, unplanned nap was the result of this tutoring session.

To this day when at a bar and ordering cognac, I always think about that cart.

Before Cunard Line I was strictly a beer drinker. But in less than two years, I drank Rioja, Riesling, Champagne and browsed every wine store within walking distance of my Upper West apartment.  The cans of Rolling Rock started rapidly rolling into the past.

Also, I eschewed average quality restaurants and saved up my money for dinners at the best Manhattan eateries.

As the years passed, my fascination with food and wine escalated to the point where I cooked in starred restaurants and eventually became a wine professional. Thank you QE2.

Of course whenever I see the clock strike noon, I can’t help but thinking: It’s cocktail time!