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“Does anyone have a corkscrew?” Ask this at any random gathering, and you’ll likely be handed a medieval instrument of cork torture, the winged auger. Here’s how it works: you angle the “wings” upward, push the screw into the cork, and attempt to twist the too-tiny handle. You’ll have to push down, too, because the dull point of the auger won’t penetrate the cork without significant pressure. Finally, after the application of sufficient force, the auger descends – its passage completely shredding the interior of the cork – until it plunges through the other side and deposits a shower of cork crumbs onto the surface of the wine. You then clasp the neck of the bottle and the bottom of the corkscrew in one hand, while squeezing the winged levers together with the other, Given a new wine, this extracts the cork about ¼ of the way, after which you must tug and wiggle and twist and grunt until the mangled cork pops out of the bottle…a few teaspoons of wine chasing its release and landing on the nearest stain-prone surface (usually, your shirt). Or, the cork breaks, necessitating an 45 degree-angled approach for the second attempt (since the center of the cork is now completely stripped, and thus useless). If the wine’s old, the initial attempt at extraction causes the auger to rip back through the gaping wound opened by its entry, leaving a ragged cork still in the bottle, though one newly equipped with a tiny hole through which you can pour wine infused with a hail of cork dust.

(In case the previous paragraph is unclear, the winged auger sucks.)

What you really want is the workhorse of the uncorking industry, the so-called “waiter’s friend.” Shaped like a pocketknife, it has a helix-shaped screw (wine geeks call it a “worm”) without that cork-destroying central pillar, a one- or two-stage brace, and a small knife for cutting through the capsule (the metal or plastic prophylactic that covers the end of a bottle). Two-stage versions are the nicest, because they aid in the removal of the ultra-long corks that tend to shop up in pricey bottles. Even better are those with Teflon-coated screws, which slide in and out of corks with ease.

Feel free to make your own joke here.

If a waiter’s friend sounds like too much work, the Screwpull is made for you. It’s a worm with a handle that fits through a clothespin-shaped brace. Clockwise twisting pushes the screw into the cork, then extracts the cork into the welcoming arms of the brace, all without any sort of levering or pulling. If you go this route, you’ll need a foil cutter (sold separately).

The blu-ray, high-def, home theater version of the corkscrew is the Leverpull. It’s a Screwpull without the (minor) effort. I’d need a series of diagrams to demonstrate how it works, but it’s really slick (for the price, it had better be), and a skilled user can uncork a bottle every two seconds or so. However, buyer beware: there are dozens of cheap knockoffs, and the only alternative that seems to be worth a damn is the Rabbit. No, it’s not related to that Rabbit. Though if you can figure out a way to open a wine bottle with the latter device, send pictures.

Some corks are impossible to remove, no matter what kind of corkscrew you use. Either they’re too tightly-wedged, or years of storage have adhered them to the bottle. That’s when the two-pronged cork remover, popularly known as the ah-so, comes in handy. Two slightly curved metal protuberances are slowly wedged, via a careful rocking motion, between the cork and the bottle, after which a steady twisting pulling motion slowly removes the cork. Be careful, though: employed too aggressively, these openers can explode the necks of fragile bottles. If you think wine with floating cork is bad, try glass shards.

Now that you’re armed with the proper tools, here are two important things to remember. One, don’t use any sort of Teflon-coated corkscrew with those hard, rubbery synthetic corks; they’ll abrade the Teflon, making future insertions of the screw more difficult. Use a corkscrew with a metal worm instead.

And two, watch out for screwcaps. It’s quite possible to push a sharply-pointed worm or a razor-edged foil cutter right through a metal cap. I’ve seen unsuspecting waiters do just that; the screechy metal-on-metal noise makes people at neighboring tables gawk and stare. Who wants that sort of audience for an unexpected screw?

(First published in stuff@night, 2008.)