As I walked into the Crazy Eight Tavern, I wondered what I was doing in the dive joint in a terrible part of town. The walls smelled of many a drunken brawl, the bar was full of notched graffiti and a brown mirror over the bar was stained from the bygone days when smoking was permitted in the joint.

I passed by a couple of smelly drunks and an old, overly done-up hooker with a bad, carrot-colored wig who was sucking down a light beer. She gave me a painted smile as I passed.

I saw Claude, who was racking up some billiard balls, and he called me over. I knew he was a great chef in his own right. He had worked with Chef Kenny for a number of years and was his chief assistant, but then had decided to branch out on his own.

Claude handed me a pool stick. He was a tall, bear-like man with a graying beard and friendly, beady eyes. I had always liked him. “Well, my amigo, what do you think of my new baby?” he said with his lovely accent, motioning me to break.

I was already self-conscious, being that I’m a terrible pool player. But I gave him a grin and gave it the ol’ college try. “Terrific,” I said. “What are you going to sell here? Microwave burritos?”

“No, amigo, wonderful French cuisine and wine,” he responded. “The entire area is being redeveloped with unaffordable condos and retail stores. This 60-year-old tavern will become a friendly eatery for all who love heavenly cuisine and good wine.”

Balls rattled over the faded moss-green table and, by some miracle, a solid ball went into one of the pockets. Claude handed me a light beer, and I tried to hide my dislike of watery beer.

As I set up my next shot, I asked him what he was going to call the place.

“I’m going to call it Renoir’s Table,” he said as I missed my shot.

“After the famous impressionist painter?” I asked.

“No, after his son, Jean Renoir, the film director whose greatness in the field of cinema is without question.”

“I’m familiar with his work,” I said. “La Grande Illusion and Diary of a Chambermaid – what masterpieces!”

Claude sunk his shot. “I have been collecting Renoir’s movie posters and photo stills for years,” he said. “I intend to use them to decorate the restaurant, and I have put everything I have into buying this tavern. In that respect, I’m like Jean Renoir, who sold his father’s paintings to finance his early films. It was painful – like losing a part of his childhood, he felt. But he had such a burning desire to create films.

“My friend, you know I need help,” he continued. “I love wine, and I want my wine list to be good, but I’m hopelessly addicted to light beer. I worry about burgundy.”

The burgs – I used to be confused about them as well,” I said as I took a hit of the bad brew. “So many names and different villages, and so outrageously expensive. I read every book I could find on the burgs and went to every tasting. I was frustrated. Then, like a cold slap in the face, I got it.”

“How did you get it?” he asked, anxious for the answer.

“Well, I thought how stupid it was for anyone to be intimidated by an overpriced bottle of fermented grape juice,” I said. “In wine, you have to get back to the basics. Burgundies are just chardonnay and pinot noir. All these wines are a little different because of the terrior. Just like here, a Russian River pinot noir tastes different than a pinot grown in Santa Barbara.”

“I understand that burgs are lighter than California pinot or chardonnay,” Claude said after sinking another ball.

“Yeah, they are in Burgundy because of the growing season,” I said. “The grape-sugar levels are low and, as we all know, grape sugar is what creates alcohol. To create alcohol, they often ferment pure cane sugar in a process called chaptalization. While California wines are high in alcohol, French wines are low, which results in chief differences. The alcohol is predominant on the palate and at times masks some of the flavor profile of the varietal.”

Only the eight ball was left on the table as Claude said, “So Pommard and Meursault are more complex and delicate.”

“That’s right. And the whites, there is a symphony of flavors when you get to the hyphenated Montrachets like Chassagne-Montrachet and Puligny-Montrachet,” I said. “And red wines like Corton-Charlemagne are bold in flavor, not alcohol.”

Claude sank the shiny black ball in the corner pocket and put me out of my misery.

Game over.

Frank Marquez has worked as a wine buyer, seller, writer and lecturer. He can be reached at (760) 944-6898.