The Case of the Don’t Cry Over Spilled Wine
It was a sunny Tuesday morning, the kind of Florida day where the air’s already thick by 9 a.m. and the coffee tastes just a little stronger when it’s served with a smile. I had parked the Woodie out front of the usual greasy spoon, the kind of joint where the bacon’s always crispy, and the regulars have their own stools.
I was at the counter, trading some friendly banter with Flo—you know Flo, the sassiest waitress this side of the Gulf. I might’ve been laying it on a little thick that morning. I had just complimented her on her “new” hairdo from three weeks ago when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Stone Detective,” I answered, still grinning like a schoolboy caught passing notes.
The voice on the other end was trembling, like she’d just run over her neighbor’s petunias.
“I… I don’t know what to do,” she sniffled. “I was watching my friend’s kids while she was out, and I… I spilled a glass of red wine on her brand-new white countertop. She’s going to kill me!”
I leaned back on my stool and waved Flo off from topping up my coffee. This one had a ring of urgency to it.
“Take a deep breath,” I said in my best calming tone. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
The caller’s name was Lisa, and she was house-sitting—or kid-sitting, to be more accurate—for a friend who had just installed a gleaming white stone countertop. She didn’t know what kind of stone it was, just that it was “very white, very pretty, and very expensive.”
And now? It had a fresh splash of Cabernet soaking right into it like a crime scene.
“I wiped it up right away!” she cried. “But there’s a big pink blotch and I feel awful!”
I asked her to send me a photo, and when it came through, I took one look and knew what I was dealing with.
“Lisa,” I said, “you’re gonna be okay. And so is the countertop.”
From the photo, it looked like a honed white marble, probably a Carrara or one of its cousins. Beautiful stone, but like a sponge for anything with a strong pigment—like red wine, coffee, or tomato sauce.
Now, this wasn’t my first wine rodeo. I walked her through it, step by step.
“First,” I said, “don’t scrub it. That just pushes the stain in deeper. What you need is a poultice.”
“A what?”
“A poultice. Think of it like a little paste bandage for the stone. It draws the stain out. Mix baking soda and hydrogen peroxide into a thick paste—like peanut butter. Smear it over the stain about a quarter inch thick, cover it with plastic wrap, tape it down, and let it sit overnight.”
She was taking notes like she was about to take a final exam.
I checked in with her the next day. She’d followed my instructions to the letter.
“It’s almost gone!” she said, sounding like she’d won the lottery. “There’s just a tiny shadow left!”
I told her to repeat the process once more, and sure enough, by the next evening, the stain had vanished. Her friend never even noticed.
Lisa called me a hero. I told her I was just a guy with a soft spot for stone and a strong cup of coffee.
Back at the diner a few days later, I told Flo the whole story. She chuckled, refilled my cup, and said, “You know, for a guy who solves rock problems, you sure have a knack for people problems too.”
Maybe she was right. After all, in my line of work, it’s not just about stains and cracks—it’s about the folks who live with them.
So, next time you’re sipping wine near a white countertop, take it from me: don’t cry over spilled Merlot. Just call the Stone Detective.
Because the stone never lies…
But it sure knows how to drink.
