If they were somewhere upscale, then Dionysus could make a guess that the petite sirah that was brought would be an American, and he would have requested a 2015 or 2017 as preference, but if this place stocked petite sirah at all, it wasn't going to be more than one.
And so Dionysus left preferences behind to focus only on his true preference: Ariadne, queen of his world, his prize snatched back from death and the underworld, drawn up the heights of Olympus and made immortal. She had been a goddess long before he'd ever laid eyes on it: he'd just provided some technicalities.
But he knew the older stories too. He knew (they said) that she had once been the Great Goddess of Crete, the Mistress of the Labyrinth, The Utterly Pure, The Very Holy, perhaps the form of the Snake Goddess of Knossos herself. Forgotten now those things were from her personage, but Dionysus gladly trembled before his Holy Mistress is awe, whoever she now happened to be.
So many names, but always she was his Ariadne.
"We'll have to bring our own stars to this city," he said, kissing her hand again. "Your face will put every one of them to such shame they won't dare appear."