At wine kiosk, show ID, face camera, swipe card and blow

An adventure in high tech (only for the fully sober)

After nine swipes of a rejected card, five huffs into the Breathalyzer that didn't register and 20 minutes of a life too short to wait for chardonnay, Matt Dee pronounced the state's new wine vending machines cutting edge in every respect save one:

It wouldn't sell him a bottle of wine.

"This is new technology. We all know how new technology works -- it's terrible at first," said Mr. Dee, a 23-year-old nurse at UPMC Mercy. He was standing at the front of the Giant Eagle on Centre Avenue. And standing. And standing.

He tried his debit card, and the key pad wouldn't pop up.

Maybe, he suggested, it was the little plastic blocks that kept him from running the card all the way through.

An enthusiastic, get-it-done young woman from the state Liquor Control Board suddenly appeared. In the flesh.

"No," said Mallory Tomer. "They put those there because people were over-swiping their cards."

"The damned over-swipers are ruining it for the rest of us," Mr. Dee chuckled. He tried his card again. And again. And again.

Ms. Tomer, who was sent from her regular job as a state store clerk to help with an expected crush of pre-Thanksgiving customers, did what we're all trained to do when technology fails.

"Oh, pleeeeeeeeze work," she told the kiosk. The thing just stared back stupidly. Then she phoned the service desk.

"I used to be a debt collector. I don't take rejection well," Ms. Tomer said. She phoned. And phoned. And ...

"Reboot? How long?" she asked. Mr. Dee had to confess -- this could be the first time the term "reboot" was ever placed next to a wine selection. As minor comedy goes, this was "Waiting for Pinot."

Mr. Dee walked to the far end of the machine inspecting the bottles. There were mystically red shiraz, insolent spumantes, majestic bottles of champagne all but screaming instant consumption. But no, the machines are not refrigerated. Reds rest alongside whites and chilling a red can put it a bit off. That blonde waiting by the crackling fire with a crystal flute in her hand will just have to chill while the bubbly does the same.

"On top of all this, they charge you a convenience fee, too," Mr. Dee muttered. The clock ticked. The screen on the machine locked. Mr. Dee contemplated ways to retaliate. Could he charge the LCB an inconvenience fee?

In fairness, the machines do function and, when they do, the sale seems easy enough: Pick your vintage, insert your ID, stand in front of the camera so the person back at LCB headquarters in Harrisburg can see you match the photo on the license, swipe the card and blow into the Breathalyzer.

Just make sure you weren't standing in front of a bar anytime recently. Where state law sets the blood alcohol maximum at .08 percent, the LCB, invoking a surfeit of caution, has set its machines at .02. A little sign on the machine warns people that if they've used a mouthwash recently, they might want to wait.

"It's set to zero tolerance," explained LCB spokeswoman Stacey Witalec.

If the machines can be a bit finicky, the customers are, by and large, patient and somewhat intrigued by the kiosks.

"I didn't think this was legal in Pennsylvania," said Olga Brindar of Highland Park, looking over the machine at the Centre Avenue store. She tested it out, pressing the "help" button and seeing if the woman on the other side could suggest a wine that best accompanies a spicy lamb dish.

"They'll call and they'll ask what type of wine goes with seafood," said Mike Fox, a supervisor at the liquor board's bank of computers that monitor the machines.

Sometimes, they'll send odd messages, such as the youngster who was clearly bored as his mom went through the drill and ponied up her ID and stood in front of the video camera.

"It started as funny faces," Mr. Fox said. After the kid was done mugging, he vanished for a moment as mom completed her buy. Then a pair of short legs appeared, pointing upward.

"He was doing a headstand against the kiosk," Mr. Fox said.

Tracy Gold wasn't doing a handstand. He was hunched over. The Coraopolis steelworker was trying out the machine at the Giant Eagle in Robinson and, for him, it worked the way it was supposed to: transaction time under two minutes.

"Sounds like a good way to spread the flu, everybody putting their mouth on there," growled one passer-by.

Not quite. The "mouthpiece" for the Breathalyzer is about six inches from the customer. You blow in as if you're blowing out a candle.

"Well, it worked pretty well," said Mr. Gold, clutching a bottle of white wine provocatively called "Menage a Trois."

He'd have the wine for Thanksgiving. But anyone who waited until the holiday to hightail it to the kiosk would be disappointed.

The kiosks are open the same hours as the state stores.

First published on November 28, 2010 at 12:00 am