Messed up by a Semillon in the mid-80s, she has not touched white wine for 25 years.
Won't do it. She can't prove it was the wine, either. It could have been the guacamole dip, the shrimp, or just a garden variety nausea that bagged her later that evening.
But now neither her girl friends nor wine guides or me nudging her to give the Inama
Soave a sip will budge her to consider it. Since all whites are off limits, even pro seco and champagne, we wind up with a dozen bottles (mostly gifted) in our tiny cellar, aging nicely, but unlikely to find their way to the recycling center.
Unless they are rare vintages or special occasion gifts, I find new homes for them. I have fed a few to Grandma, who will sip a red wine if it resembles the ones Grandpa used to brew (out of a bucket of blackberries or a pail of plums from his own orchard). She likes them sugar-laden, but on the white side will tolerate a Pinot Grigio if I don't have a sauterne or Gewurztraminer in the house. What some of us consider cooking wine is her cuppa tea. At Thanksgiving I coaxed her to try a glass of Semillon and it lasted her all afternoon.
This dilemma leaves me with too many whites on the teeter-totter I call my wine cellar --a rustic rack over the armoire in the kitchen. Its contents range from a Pomerol to a couple of Red Mountain chards from Terra Blanca (Washington State). I may stuff them in someone's stocking this Christmas...but not hers. That morning she's only after chocolate. Has anyone considered making a Chocolate Chard?
Stuck on reds, I have plenty to drink, from the 2009 Dante cabernet--left over after our daughter's wedding in 2009: its berry-riddled finish makes it great with steak in midsummer--to an Owen Roe cab we've been saving for the right moment, a Dunham Cellars Syrah I consider one of the best wines I've tasted, and a long-savored Napa Valley cabernet from Heitz cellars due to be opened on our 45th anniversary.
That reminds me: too many winesites from too many vineyards make the fatal mistake of featuring photos of wine fields, chateaus, or connoiseurs ganged up around a cask like a family reunion shot. You can't drink a wine field, and we're not that interested in your cousins. To help us single bottle buyers who are curious, but not ready to haul home a case, smart guys will put pictures of their best bottles in plain sight. That's how most of us remember what we like.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
WINE FROM FRIENDS
Tis the season to be winey. Tons of vino will trade hands in the the next three weeks.
Some will be stunning. Some mediocre. Some will never be tested or tasted.
When friends give us wine, the issue is never the prestige of the vineyard, but the drinker, his habits and preferences, not the thin skin of sophistication that makes someone claim he prefers Rhone style reds over Paul Masson.
I got a bottle last night from a friend. He asked me to try it soon, and to be candid about it. I did and will.
Knowing he has a good feel for the wines I like, but shuns those that cross the $25 barrier (like me) I did not expect to be transported to a 19th Century Chateau. I expected something better than two buck Chuck, but not in the league of Tablas Creek.
So I opened it...let it breath, sipped, found it too cool (the house today hovered around 60 degrees in chilly December). I waited 20 minutes and tried again.
It opened to a place I'd call broad as a meadow but not big as a hill. I like big wines: Tuscans that bomb the palate. Chunky cabs. They can begin fruitfully, but I want more, a quality I remember from German lessons: "schmecht gut." For me that means the wine leaves the tongue, thumbs the palate --just about where I make the soft "k" in kerchoo, then rolls into my throat like a hunk of earth.
This one--a Nero D'Avola 2009 Red Wine--made me think for a moment of plums, but did not hold that note. Not berry, either, but some sweet dark produce I tasted as a kid. I let it rinse my tongue, then got a faint medicinal twinge. It faded, too.
I was left wondering if he hoped I'd think it was BIG. It's not. If I had to pick a well-known wine from a multiple choice quiz, I'd guess Barolo. In saying that, I realize I'm not a fan of hefty fruit. I want to taste the grape, but only on its way to a quality that makes me want to sit down.
Seasoned tasters probably have a phrase for that. I'll call it lush. Big like a cushion, but not big like an idea. I like this wine enough to drink it again, but it needs a little help..not a cheese, something edgy to offset its plump fruit. A slice of smoky flank steak would work.
(Checking a few reviews, I find others feel the same. They mention pairing it with steak. They mention its "young grapiness." They say it needs time to mature.
Price range? $6-10 in the online sites I found. But you might find it at a decent supermarket. If your friend likes this wine, I'd return the favor with a Sangiovese
Some will be stunning. Some mediocre. Some will never be tested or tasted.
When friends give us wine, the issue is never the prestige of the vineyard, but the drinker, his habits and preferences, not the thin skin of sophistication that makes someone claim he prefers Rhone style reds over Paul Masson.
I got a bottle last night from a friend. He asked me to try it soon, and to be candid about it. I did and will.
Knowing he has a good feel for the wines I like, but shuns those that cross the $25 barrier (like me) I did not expect to be transported to a 19th Century Chateau. I expected something better than two buck Chuck, but not in the league of Tablas Creek.
So I opened it...let it breath, sipped, found it too cool (the house today hovered around 60 degrees in chilly December). I waited 20 minutes and tried again.
It opened to a place I'd call broad as a meadow but not big as a hill. I like big wines: Tuscans that bomb the palate. Chunky cabs. They can begin fruitfully, but I want more, a quality I remember from German lessons: "schmecht gut." For me that means the wine leaves the tongue, thumbs the palate --just about where I make the soft "k" in kerchoo, then rolls into my throat like a hunk of earth.
This one--a Nero D'Avola 2009 Red Wine--made me think for a moment of plums, but did not hold that note. Not berry, either, but some sweet dark produce I tasted as a kid. I let it rinse my tongue, then got a faint medicinal twinge. It faded, too.
I was left wondering if he hoped I'd think it was BIG. It's not. If I had to pick a well-known wine from a multiple choice quiz, I'd guess Barolo. In saying that, I realize I'm not a fan of hefty fruit. I want to taste the grape, but only on its way to a quality that makes me want to sit down.
Seasoned tasters probably have a phrase for that. I'll call it lush. Big like a cushion, but not big like an idea. I like this wine enough to drink it again, but it needs a little help..not a cheese, something edgy to offset its plump fruit. A slice of smoky flank steak would work.
(Checking a few reviews, I find others feel the same. They mention pairing it with steak. They mention its "young grapiness." They say it needs time to mature.
Price range? $6-10 in the online sites I found. But you might find it at a decent supermarket. If your friend likes this wine, I'd return the favor with a Sangiovese
About this blog
The best wine I ever tasted:
--was at a funky old Italian restaurant, defunct now, where two temperamental brothers often hollered at each other from kitchen to table and back, but always treated guests like long-lost cousins. One night I went there ...with a couple of cousins. One picked out a predictable pesto pasta. I chose the veal marsala, and when asked what wine we'd like I turned to my cousin Ken --a former wine steward--and he picked a bottle of Gattinara. It was neither pricey nor prestigious. I doubt that it would rise or vibrate on the Parker Scale.
But when paired with that marsala, its resiny finish made the meal. It was my first sip of Nebbiolo, which was memorable enough, filling my mouth and raising my eyebrows.
30 years later the restaurant is gone...the testy brothers went home to Italy. I've poked around the Internet looking for a clue, but haven't found one. I report this moment because it was a benchmark for every wine I have tasted since then. I've tasted some fine ones: cabs from Paso Robles, Pino Gris from New Zealand, even a few Rhones
from high tone cellars of serious connoisseurs.
In a sense, I hope I never find it. My tongue is 30 years older. I know it was not a garden variety Travaligni, in that distinctive bottle. In my mind's eye, a medieval knight may have ridden a prancing horse across a tan landscape. It may have been Antoniolo, or Castello de Lozzolo (a rare vintage now found mostly in sales of antique wines).
In this blog, I will keep that moment in mind. I will guide me away from preferring wines purely for their alleged prestige or their price or their standing with sommeliers.
Whatever I say about the wines I like, I qualify with this wisdom: let the wines you
drink decide for themselves if they fit in your mouth. Wine is like music.
--was at a funky old Italian restaurant, defunct now, where two temperamental brothers often hollered at each other from kitchen to table and back, but always treated guests like long-lost cousins. One night I went there ...with a couple of cousins. One picked out a predictable pesto pasta. I chose the veal marsala, and when asked what wine we'd like I turned to my cousin Ken --a former wine steward--and he picked a bottle of Gattinara. It was neither pricey nor prestigious. I doubt that it would rise or vibrate on the Parker Scale.
But when paired with that marsala, its resiny finish made the meal. It was my first sip of Nebbiolo, which was memorable enough, filling my mouth and raising my eyebrows.
30 years later the restaurant is gone...the testy brothers went home to Italy. I've poked around the Internet looking for a clue, but haven't found one. I report this moment because it was a benchmark for every wine I have tasted since then. I've tasted some fine ones: cabs from Paso Robles, Pino Gris from New Zealand, even a few Rhones
from high tone cellars of serious connoisseurs.
In a sense, I hope I never find it. My tongue is 30 years older. I know it was not a garden variety Travaligni, in that distinctive bottle. In my mind's eye, a medieval knight may have ridden a prancing horse across a tan landscape. It may have been Antoniolo, or Castello de Lozzolo (a rare vintage now found mostly in sales of antique wines).
In this blog, I will keep that moment in mind. I will guide me away from preferring wines purely for their alleged prestige or their price or their standing with sommeliers.
Whatever I say about the wines I like, I qualify with this wisdom: let the wines you
drink decide for themselves if they fit in your mouth. Wine is like music.
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