My uncle worked in a dry cleaning plant. The work was hard, dangerous and didn’t pay well. To make extra money he rented a small truck and collected clothes to clean. One day, I went with him. He stopped in an old Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, locked up the truck and told me to come with him; there was a man he wanted me to meet. We entered a house. Seated in the center of the living room was an old man surrounded and attended by the women of the family. My uncle introduced me. The old man looked at me, slowly smiled, and asked,”Sonny, would you like some wine?” I was nine and the question surprised but pleased me. Thinking of the only wine I had ever had, heavy sweet Manischewitz , and only at services and on holidays, and only served in small amounts, I happily said yes. A woman left and returned with a bottle wrapped in what looked like straw. She poured the wine into a brightly colored aluminum tumbler, circa 1950’s, and gave it to me. I sipped. Wow! This was not Manischewitz, it was something else. I thought about stopping but had the feeling that would have been rude, an insult. I forced myself to finish. It was bitter, I suspect a chianti, and truth to tell, tasted better with each sip. I finally put the empty tumbler down. “How was it?” asked the old man, now smiling broadly. “It was good. Thank you.” A few minutes later, my uncle and I Ieft. I walked beside him - at a slant.