| 'The Contra-Connoisseur’s Guide to Wine, Beer, Spirits And Other Stuff The World Got Right'.

‘Tis Ignoble; The Grape’s a Bluffer…

Posted on May 23, 2013 by intoxreport

‘There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow wines; true nobility is being superior to your former plonk.’

- Ernest Hemingway, more or less.

Noble Grapes

Earlier today, I had a spirited discussion about the genuine translation and import of the term ‘noble grapes’, in part with some know-it-all whizbangs, a few die-hard douche-aches and a handful of patronizing penises, some of whom—granted—know more about wine than anyone else on Mother Earth. In their humble opinion.

Meanwhile, the aptly named ‘Wine Folly’ blog lists eighteen varietals that, in their humble opinion, bear the the title ‘noble’. Not should bear it, not could bear it, but do bear it.

Interesting. In my past eno edumacation, I learned that there were but six grapes truly considered ‘noble’ by vignoscenti: Sauvignon blanc, riesling, chardonnay for white wines; pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon and merlot for reds.

Charlie Frog Folly

Criticism of this list arose because, with the exception of riesling, these are all grapes closely associated with Bordeaux and Burgundy, and thus the list is skewed with prejudice first toward France, then toward Germany—or, in Medieval-speak, under the edicts of Charlemagne, toward the Frankish/Hunnic varietals.

But that’s ultimately a crock of shite, isn’t it, since each of these grapes have reached heights of majesty elsewhere? And that is one of the hallmark of a noble grape: The ability to produce wines of note outside of their native soil—or, that soil with which they have been historically identified.

I like six. The eighteen not so much.

Here’s Why, in Allegory:

The Whitney made the cut

In a quondam reality, I did restaurant reviews for a local rag, and every year I was called upon to list the top hundred restaurants in Detroit. You’d think that would be a fairly innocuous task, and do you know what? You’d think wrong: Listing the top ten restaurants was far easier. Because, as in every city, the top ten restaurants in Detroit know exactly who they are. On the other hand, every restaurant thinks they should be in the top hundred. But, with over three hundred restaurants in competition, two-thirds could not make the cut.

Likewise, groveling before pinot noir and cabernet sauvignon, cabernet franc may concede its pedigree, in comparison, as being somewhat deficient, even with such exciting peppery, spicy examples as Château Cheval Blanc, Tenuta di Trinoro and Saumur’s Domaine Filliatreau on the cab franc resume. But, when the six nobles are expanded to eighteen, cab franc would certainly expect a berth among the berries, especially with malbec and nebbiolo taking their bows.

Not so. Plus, a direct quote from the Folly follies:

‘As grapes like zinfandel become more common, they earn the right to become International Varieties.’

The article uses ‘International Varieties’ and ‘Noble Grapes’ interchangeably; a consuetude I contradict for reasons I’ll offer. But, the point is, even having made that statement about zinfandel, California’s lifeblood grape still does not make the Wine Folly list of eighteen.

‘International’: Incidents and Issues

By the definition of general consensus, an ‘international variety’ is a grape that is widely planted in most of the major wine producing regions and has widespread appeal and recognition.

Okay, I will buy into that; but recognition among the rabble no more makes a varietal ‘noble’ than the notion that everyone named King should wear a crown. Of course, we are crossing quickly from objective notes to subjective ones, but to me, the very term ‘noble’ constitutes something more than widespread consumer cognizance—in fact, it may connote the opposite. A noble grape is one whose wines have breeding, character and status; a grape which can rise to the occasion with elegance and produce wines of note under a variety of circumstances. Nobility in a grape is an x-factor certainly; a je ne sais quoi (French for ‘can’t touch dat’), but like hard-core pornography and Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio (1964), I may not be able to define it, but I know it when I see it. Or smell it, or taste it.

Good golly, Wine Folly: A Volley Internationale

So, Wine Folly’s eighteen noble—or so-called ‘international’ varieties—are for reds the classic three: Merlot, pinot noir and cabernet sauvignon, rounded out by grenache, malbec, sangiovese, tempranillo, syrah and nebbiolo. Whites are listed as (the big three), chardonnay, sauvignon blanc and riesling followed by sémillon, viognier, chenin blanc, moscato and gewurtztraminer.

J’avoue, Folly foolanos, I am not sure what drove this list—if you came up with it on your own or borrowed it from sources unaccredited—but either way, let me pose a couple of quick ones:

‘I don’t get no redox.’

By your own definition (lifted verbatim from Wikipedia, BTW), in order to qualify as noble or international, a grape must be ‘widely planted in most of the major wine producing regions’. So, perhaps your Board of Honchos could explain how nebbiolo—despite its lovely aromas of tar, truffles and tobacco—passes that smell test. Under 200 acres of nebbiolo planted in California hardly constitutes ‘widespread’, and where, outside of a few pockets in the Piedmont, does nebbiolo produce great wines?

Again, cab franc—the Rodney Dangerfield of cultivars—feels like the bridesmaid that never gets asked.

…Especially when grenache walks down the aisle. Grenache, seriously? Noble? Granted, as one of the world’s most ubiquitous red wine grapes it fulfills the ‘widely planted’ criterion, but the Wine Folly explicification requires equally that the grape has widespread appeal. Now, out of a hundred consumers chosen at random from the cesspool of modernity, how many do you think could describe grenache in even the most abstract of terms? My guess is that most of them would not even necessarily know that the wine is red. And why is that? Because grenache is almost always lacking in acid, tannin and color, and thus, serves as a blending grape far, far more often than as a stand-alone. Even Châteauneuf-du-Pape, around 80% grenache, requires thirteen other grapes to chip in before it is willing to show its face. Now, just because a grape requires a helping hand does not disqualify it from noble grape status; otherwise, the list could pretty much be whittled down to chardonnay and pinot noir. Point is, for the most part, outside of Southern Rhône, grenache is not a grape that needs blending, it is the blending grape that shores up something else.

Not much I can say about the presence of pinot grigio among the cépages nobles and keep a straight face. Because the third paradigm for nobility is an association with the highest quality of wine made at least somewhere between Venus and Mars. Now, we all know that pinot gris is the same grape vinified with stylistic differences based on climate and attitude. In fact, pinot grigio also goes by the names baratszinszoeloe, fromentot, spinovy hrozen, zelenak and everyone’s favorite nom de guerre, ouche. But Wine Folly, or whoever came up with the eighteen nobles, is not talking about the rich, full-bodied, unctuous pinot gris of Alsace, Russian Rivers or Oregon; they are talking specifically about the rather forgettable grigio incarnations of Northern Italy. We know this because, following the list, WF offers some descriptors, and covers pinot grigio like this: ‘Light and zesty high acid white wines…’

This is not a sketch of Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris Clos Windsbuhl.

Semillon

Finally, sémillon. Maybe. Of course the sweet wines of Sauternes, Barsac and Cérons and Hunter Valley hit the mark as wines of prestige, influence and elegance. Wines that undergo inexplicable alchemies with age. But, like grenache, I can’t see sémillon as a grape with ‘widespread appeal’. The French don’t put the name of varietals of wine labels, so it is entirely possible—even likely—that most fans of Châteaux d’Yquem, Olivier, Suduiraut and La Tour-Blanche have no idea what they are drinking. As for Australia, beyond Hunter Valley, sauvignon blanc rules the roost.

Hello, Dolly! Who’s Wine Folly?

Who knew?

It is a popular, Seattle-based website, I know that much. Rick Bakas likes it and intends to share ‘every damn thing they post’ no matter if Wikipedia wrote it or not. Big on self-promo and even bigger on ego—WF refers to its own features as ‘awesome’—the site contains an entire section where you can buy invaluable stuff like posters on how to clink wine glasses correctly and a lesson on ‘Wine Color’, where you learn that light-colored wine is ‘light-bodied’, medium-colored wine is ‘medium-bodied’ and full-colored wine is… oh, never mind.

Meanwhile, the blog’s war cry is: ‘Reinventing how you learn about wine’.

I guess, considering that the piece from which I have been quoting refers to pinot noir as ‘the lightest red grape’. As a lifelong fan of Côte de Nuits, Willamette Valley and Central Otago, I did not realize that these soaring, intense, hedonistic pinot noirs were light.

Consider my learning reinvented.

Madeline Morselette

Wine Folly’s editor is sommelier and self-described ‘head hustler’ Madeline Puckette, who assumes responsibility for editing those paragraphs that Wikipedia has not already edited and for tracking down the geekiest wine facts in the world, such as: Gevrey-Chambertin Les Cazetiers 2005 is not brawny and rich with great density and explosive perfumed fruitiness.

It’s light.

Justin Hammack

Justin Hammack, entrepreneur, refers to himself as an Alpha Hamster, and do you know what? Based on his photo, he could pass for one. But he is not one, because hamsters are restricted to hamster wheels, and in his 27-word bio, Justin manages to wedge in information on the size of his car’s engine. Busted!

And there is Rina Bussell, also of the healthy amour-propre, a sommelier who believes that her olfactory senses are superhuman because she can smell a watermelon in the kitchen from her bedroom. That is so sweet, so endearing, and self-love so rare among young people these days that one simply does not have the heart to tell her that such sensory acuteness is table-stakes for wine pros. So we won’t whisper so much as a word, agreed?

The Shadow knows… Or, maybe not.

There’s a handful of other holly jolly Folly mollies, but my overall equilibrium-upset is reaching critical mass, so I will jump ahead and point out my favorite, faceless member of the Wine Folly Crew: ‘The Shadow’, who calls herself the resident ‘Grammartologist’ and whose purpose on the blog, apparently, is to rewrite sentences to make them more accessible to me and you and a hamster named Boo. Why do I dig the Shadow so much? Because, in her role of translating big sommelier words to single-syllable words that Johnny Lunchbucket can grasp, she purposely peppers her bio with misspellings, and then challenges us to laugh.

Consider my sides duly split, Shadow. I feel like I have been run over by the Turbo-2.0L hamster wheel of humor.

I’m 18 And I Like It

Why doesn’t Rick spell it ‘Bacchus’?

Hey, I really couldn’t give a hamster’s ass if you want to accept six, nine, eighteen or fifteen trillion noble grapes. On the other hand, if you expect me to accept them, I’d like a rational explanation of your precedence and principals, and why they are not universally applied to your list. Beside cabernet franc, gamay could have appeared as easily as nebbiolo. And petit sirah. And zinfandel.

Personally, as a wine writer, am I not particularly interested in reinventing the way you learn about wine. In fact, I like the old way of learning about wine: Sans wine blogs, especially mine.

But will I write another column tomorrow? Will Rick Bakas? Will Wine Folly?

Prolly.

Posted in GENERAL | Tagged International Varietals, Madelini Puckette, Noble Grapes, Rick Bakas, Wine Folly | 5 Comments

Absinthe of ‘Alice’

Posted on May 21, 2013 by intoxreport

Bernard Black (proprietor of Black Books) referred to it as ‘the drink that makes you want to kill yourself.’
Oscar Wilde claimed, ‘After the first glass of absinthe you see things as you wish they were…’, by which he may or may not have meant, ‘that women had penises’, and when he wrote that the liquor was anise-flavored, he did not (as rumor has it) mistakenly spell it ‘anus’.
Johnny Galecki, the actor who played Rusty Griswold in Christmas Vacation, claims that he has but two vices: Sugary breakfast cereal and absinthe.
Lewis Carroll is said to have come up with ‘Through The Looking Glass’ following heavy bouts of absinthe and opium consumption.
And finally, when Choo Choo Charlie said, ‘It really rings my bell’, he wasn’t talking about absinthe—a potent, strange spirit which is, nonetheless, Good & Plenty flavored.

Brendan on the right

So, I recently had my clock cleaned by Brendan Edwards when I wrote—in my customary cocksure arrogance—that you can’t buy ‘real’ absinthe here in the States despite the lifting of the 95-year-old ban on the stuff in 2005. Brendan informed me, ‘Not only is this the real deal in all its genteel appeal, but if you’re willing to wheel and deal, it’s a steal.’

Anyway, that was his spiel.

Swiss people become transparent when they trip.

And apparently, according to Edwards, not only can you buy genuine, Lewis Carroll-approved absinthe here in the States, you can buy the thujone-thick original recipe, still made in its birthplace, Val-de-Travers, Switzerland. I happen to love the Swiss, not just because my father is one (born and bred forty miles from absinthe-zero), but because they also invented LSD. Something a bit deeper to these cheese-chomping, Badi-bathing, cowbell-clanging watchmakers? A penchant for psychotropic phantasmagoria ?

At any rate, Brendan then sent me a sample of ‘La Clandestine’ Absinthe Supérieure in its pretty blue package and label featuring a bare-breasted siren who—for some reason known only to those tripping on acid—is singing, ‘Charlotte…’ I’m sure there is a rational explanation for the image, but I don’t think I want to know what it is; I prefer the scene’s surreality.

The name ‘La Clandestine’, of course, refers to the fact that, despite being illegal since 1915, the Swiss never really stopped making absinthe—they just did it, like Bo and Luke Duke, on the sly.

Claude-Alain Bugnon

Well, it turns out that the hooch-hatchers of Hazzard have their European parallel in people like Claude-Alain Bugnon, an oil refinery technician who had developed a fascination for the drinks enjoyed by his ancestors, and thus, stumbled over absinthe—as many of his ancestors probably stumbled after absinthe. He began to home-distill in his basement and discovered that he had quite the penchant for lawbreaking. His reputation spread (is that a good thing when you are producing illegal substances?) across Europe, and in 2006, when the Prohibition ended, Bugnon was the first distiller in town to go legit. I will not comment on the persistent rumor that he replaced his basement still with a meth lab.

Bohemian Rhapsody

What I am happy to comment on is the product.

First, I really don’t like licorice. There, I said it. But I do like hallucinations and wanting to kill myself after one sip of anything, so I was game to go after the blue-bottled booze (often mistakenly called a ‘liqueur’—but there is no added sugar, so, no) with the fervent intensity of someone who missed the hippie movement by a few years.

L.: Hippie. R.: Boho

Rather than using the word ‘hippie’, however, I should have said ‘bohemian’. Historically, absinthe has been a societal ‘fringe’ drink, the drug-of-choice of many Parisian artists and writers—folks like Charles Baudelaire, Paul-Marie Verlaine, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and a generation later, ex-pat Ernest Hemingway. As such, it was considered gauche and uncouth by contemporary conservatives.

And thus, like marijuana in the fifties and sixties, that made it all the more attractive to those in the process of rejecting cultural norms to begin with. Plus, the psychoactive angle, largely imaginary, gave the drink a bizarre sort of attraction to those who were looking to escape the mundane monotony of the workaday world of fin de siècle Europe.

Wormwood

Absinthe draws its multifarious flavors from botanicals like green anise and sweet fennel, but above all, from Artemisia absinthium, also known as wormwood. It is the chemical substance thujone, contained within the flowers and leaves of wormwood, that was once thought to be the source of the absinthe’s alleged psychedelic undertow. But, in modern days, research has shown that absinthe contains only trace amounts of thujone—far too little to have the slightest effect on the brain—and in fact, vermouth and Angostura bitters contains more thujone than absinthe, and sage contains more thujone than wormwood.

What’s the Source of Absinthe’s Raunchy, Radical, Rockin’ Reputation Then?

For starters, the stuff that Brendan Edwards sent me is 53% alcohol—106 proof—which makes Wild Turkey seem like Kool-Aid and Jack Daniels like Similac. Doesn’t take too many shots of 106 proof liquor before you start seeing the verdigris visions of mescalito dogs of Carlos Castañeda.

And the version that the nineteenth century addicts drank had even more va-voom—the earliest absinthes were up to 74% alcohol.

And hence, the rituals, which were as much a part of the absinthe experience as the high itself.

l’heure verte

By the mid 1800’s, absinthe’s Parisian popularity had grown to such an extent that 5:00 PM was nicknamed l’heure verte (‘the green hour’) in homage to absinthe’s nickname: la fée verte; ‘the green fairy’. Although Bugnon’s ‘La Clandestine’ is crystal clear (until you cut it with water, at which point it turns milky white), traditional absinthe had a green tint, due mainly to the culinary herbs used in a process known as ‘maceration’, where the plants were soaked in cold spirits as a way to preserve their volatile essence. Bugnon, on the other hand, believes in distilling after macerating, and color does not survive that process. But, Bugnon’s method tends to remove bitterness from the liquor and adds complexity and smoothness.

At all events, during green hour, the Belle Époque ‘preparation’ of absinthe required certain tchotchkes—notably, a small slotted spoon which was placed over the absinthe glass with a sugar cube in the middle. Ice water was dribbled over the cube, and the sugar water evenly distributed through the liquor. The resulting cloudiness is the result of certain chemical components that have poor water solubility; the French call the transformation the louche, meaning ‘opaque’.

Ironically—or not, depending—among the first delivery methods for LSD was on a sugar cube.

The Jolly Green Fairy

Cult and culture have the same basic etymology, and, since 2006, when absinthe went from bootleg to bourgeois, a hardcore gang of absinthophiles have gathered annually in Pontarlier, France to hold the equivalent of the absinthe Oscars: The Absinthiades. Judged blind, Claude-Alain Bugnon’s various varieties of absinthe have consistently taken top honors: The Golden Spoon.

Lewis Carroll’s favorite book.

Clearly, Bugnon leads the pack with his purist potable, where ‘hand-crafted is the buzzword (pun intended). Everything, from botanical selection to small-batch distilling—even bottling and labeling—is done by Bugnon.

Oh, and a spoiler: Reading further, I found out what the ‘Charlotte’ on the label means. The recipe Bugnon uses is an old one from a local, well-known absinthe-maker named Charlotte Vaucher.

And here’s me thinking it was one of the spiders in his basement distillery.

Posted in Absinthe | Tagged Brendan Edwards, Claude-Alain Bugnon, La Clandestine absinthe | 2 Comments

Yo Ho Ho, And A Bottle Of Mosel

Posted on April 21, 2013 by intoxreport

Like the wine, the captain of the Vliegend Hert went down with the ship. Unlike the wine, the captain never came up again.

Background Check:

In 1980, a shipwreck was discovered off the coast of Holland that contained thousands of gold and silver coins (whoo-hoo!) as well as several hundred bottles of Mosel wine that had been destined for then hoity-toidy Indonesia (big whoop). The Vliegend Hert went down in 1735, and most of the bottles were found broken.

But a handful were intact, and these go on sale in a couple weeks at the Veiling Sylvies Auction House in Antwerp.

So, What Do You Buy For the Guy Who Has Everything Except For a Bottle of Three-Hundred-Year-Old Oxidized Riesling?

How about some shipwreck wine? If that sort of thing floats your boat, show up in Belgium on May 3, and prepare to shell out between $2500 and $5000 for a pair (apparently, auctioneers don’t want to break up a set) of Davy Jones Reserve. The bottles contain the original wine, but be forewarned if you are thinking of serving them at a Talk Like a Pirate theme dinner—auction house director Juris Scott had the opportunity to taste the pricey plonk and reports, ‘It was a difficult task to find anything else but a buttery smell and a very oxidized wine. It did taste a little like wine, with some secondary acids and some bitter notes.’

Don’t oversell, Juris.

And On a Similar Note…

‘Break time, Tom?’

And what do you give to a dude that has everything except a bottle of ‘yellow wine’ from the French Jura? How about a bottle of ‘yellow wine’ from the French Jura, circa 1774—the same year that Thomas Jefferson was securing his fortune via slave labor?

Indeed, it is too late. That bottle of wine went under the hammer for $49,200 at Christie’s in Geneva last year. Although, were I to sell a fifty grand bottle of wine, I think I would avoid hammering it. Tends to taint the final product with glass shards.

Okay, that’s all. Except that I am one of those people who feels obligated—obsessed even—to round out the word count. So, let’s talk about the Dutch, shall we? As a time-killer?

Dutch Treat? No ‘Treat’ at All…

Certain races amuse me. The Dutch are among them. What’s up with the Dutch? Nothing personal, Dutch people, but shoes made out of wood? How about brassieres made of yttrium? Granny panties made of fusible lead alloys-like-pewter-or-similar-82-isotope radiation-and teenage boy-shields?

Intra-uterine devices made of Uranium-235?

I know, right? Dutch people, please make sense for ten minutes.

All that bicycle riding? Two words (one hyphenated, granted) for you: Four-stroke engine. It works! Ask Henry friggin’ Ford, my Nazi-loving homeboy.

Cows: Yeah, we get it. They make milk. And then, hamburgers.

Shoes: Forget it, I already brought that one up.

Helaas, pindakaas: English translation: ‘Oh well, peanut butter’: Of course, Dutch people. Thomas Jefferson Carver, or whoever it was that invented peanut butter, figured that the peanut would save the world. And it did! We are still here, despite global warming, nuclear holocaust, white flight and similar species-ending nightmares. We have prevailed, and we thank you from the bottom of our boogity-boogity shoot hearts.

‘Lekker’: Somehow relates to taste in whatever language these blonde, buff, blatantly beautiful Europeans choose to choke-on-their-own-tongues over. Okay, alright already; you have to serve meals at specific times. Whatever. Here in the real world (the United States), we have a concept called ‘Breakfast All Day’. Get with the program.

French Fries and Mayonnaise: So, ick. French fries aren’t really French. Nor is French toast. Or French kissing or French Guinea or French-chop-off-their-heads because-they wanted-cake—or Napolean. But God, pus-colored-stuff on fried potatoes? Ketchup, my dear Lowlander brethren. Blood color; that works.

Thumbs In Dikes: More power to ya. Without estrogen on your fingernail, that is.

Whoa! I Am Out of Time Already?

So, good on ya.

Doe-doei!

Posted in GENERAL | Tagged Dutch, whatever, wine | Leave a comment

Baffled By Big, Bad Buffs? Bite Me, Barclay Brothers

Posted on April 18, 2013 by intoxreport

Davy and Freddy in their pretty purple cravats.

The Telegraph—a London-based newspaper owned by David and Frederick Barclay—has published a sort of strange piece written by Jasper Copping suggesting that the average wine consumer is ‘baffled’ by the descriptors we stiff-necked, too-big-for-our-smarty-pants wine writers use to describe various wine qualities, and sagely points out that consumers are even more confused if we happen to be be writing in Xhosa, the Bantu ‘click’ language.

This is but a single chapter in his larger, Pulitzer-worthy series ‘Competitive Ignorance’ that does an in-depth study of consumer bafflement at technical terminology used in various professions, including neuroscience, observational astrophysics, linguistic psychology specializing in the Sapir–Whorf hypothesis and Bantu bat baiting.

Turns out that the ‘Q’ in John Q. Public may not stand for ‘quick on the uptake’ after all.

Jaspery

Copping lists several descriptions that Johnny Lunchbucket find particularly irksome, although in fact, in my two decades of wine writing, I have never once encountered any of them—terms that, frankly, baffle me too: ‘Firm skeleton’, ‘old bones’ and ‘tongue spanking.’

But others are in common use, of course, by me as well as my colleagues-in-arms and Barclay claims that in the survey, a high percentage of wine drinkers were mystified by phrases like ‘leathery’, ‘wet stone’ and ‘minerality’. Had I an opportunity to lead these confused, confounded consumers gently toward a Funk & Wagnalls, I should have pointed out that in wine reviews, ‘leathery’ can be translated as ‘having the olfactory qualities of leather’, and that ‘wet stone’ means ‘having the olfactory qualities of wet stone’ and that minerality can be seen as ‘having the olfactory qualities of not-wet stone’.

See that, Joe Sixpack? Not so tough on the ol’ noggin after all, is it?

Apparently, the terms that Everyman (and Everywoman, evidently) found most useful are ‘fresh’, ‘zesty’ and ‘peachy’. See, to me, these are Madison Avenue buzzwords, and not wine descriptions—even ‘peachy’, which I assume means ‘having the olfactory qualities of a peach’. That said, why ‘peachy’ is a concept more graspable than ‘leathery’ I leave to my betters, unless of course these mystified masses are drinking a steady regimen of Annie Green Springs Peach Crisp, which granted, rarely shows notes of saddle leather.

But, to the larger question: Is Copping suggesting that critics dumb-down tasting notes to avoid making John and Jane Simple-Tastes uncomfortable? Everything reduced to sunshine and lollipops, cherry and peach? In the first place, I will guarantee that for every ‘wet stone’ you’ll find in your typical critique, there will be a three or four fruit descriptors alongside it—unless, of course, the wine has no fruit left due to age or mismanagement.

As baffling as some of these terms are to those less interested in chemistry than in self-medication, many of the more subtle flavors that professionals pull from a glass of wine are non-subjective. Butteriness, for example, is the result of the formation of diacetyl during secondary, or malolactic fermentation—diacetyl is the same compound that food chemists add to margarine to make it taste like butter. Vanilla notes come from vanillic acid found in oak barrels, and when these barrels are toasted, the natural sugars in the oak sap caramelize, imparting the taste of coffee, cocoa and similar ‘roasted’ flavors to the wine.

Humans can taste or smell about 1800 individual flavors, and of these, grapes—among the most complex tasting foods in the world—contain 1100 of them. They include the identical compounds that make an apple taste like an apple or a pineapple a pineapple—and yes, a peach a peach. And as grapes ripen, these flavors change on a molecular level: There are a lot of citrus notes in young grapes, apple and pear in middle age, apricot and peach later on, and when fully—or even overly ripe—pineapple and coconut. During harvest, grapes of all these levels will likely wind up in the primary fermenter, so chances are, an experienced taster may pick up on many of the subtle, individual flavors that appear in various stages of ripeness.

The ‘darker’ notes that supposedly baffle the benighted may be related to small doses of brettanomyces, or brett—a strain of yeast that can appear in a wine before or after bottling. In large doses, it is a wine—and sometimes winery—killer, but at smaller levels it may lend the kind of complexity to wine that has Jasper Copping’s test subjects scratching their heads. Barnyard, bacon fat, smoke, and most notably leather, may all be signs of a brett infection.

Curators at the Louvre worry that the oils in the painting appear to be breaking down more rapidly than in the past.

Curators at the Louvre worry that the oils in Mona Lisa appear to be breaking down more rapidly than in the past.

The point is, wine tasting notes may not necessarily be written to help a Piggly Wiggly shelf shopper know (as Copping writes) ‘what the wine tastes like’ any more than ‘oil on a poplar wood panel with the subject centered in a pyramid design as a modification of the classic Seated Madonna’ would help a hayseed from Hattiesburg understand what the Mona Lisa looks like.

But both could—learning to appreciate wine as a fine art as intense and marvelous as any other is a complicated process that requires practice, desire and resulting dedication. There is a canonical maxim in psychology that says, ‘It may be stating the obvious, but it may not be obvious until it is stated.’ I can’t tell you how many novice, but earnest wine drinkers I have asked to identify what specific fruit they experience in glass of Marlborough sauvignon blanc, and they’ve replied—pun intended—that the elusive flavor is on ‘the tip of their tongue’, but just beyond their current reach and taste-associative expertise. When I suggest, ‘Pink grapefruit?’, it’s all knee-slapping and ‘Day-um! That’s it!’

Next time, they will know what to look for.

Rather than sit around being baffled, I suggest that you puzzled proles actually think about terms like wet stone, leather and minerals when you pop the cork on a wine thus characterized, and not so much the zesty and fresh.

And if you couldn’t care less? Bollocks to all y’all in that case: Let us highbrow upstart parvenu writers stick to our guns and you can finish off the Peach Crisp.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/wine/9992014/Baffled-by-wine-buffs-Youre-not-alone.html

Posted in GENERAL | Tagged Barclay brothers, Piggly Wiggly, Wine tasting | 2 Comments

Earth Day, 2013: Mirth First, Earth Second. Booyah!

Posted on April 15, 2013 by intoxreport

Personally, I am a sucker for Earth Day. Especially compared to other inane holidays such as Talk Like a Pirate Day, Christmas Day and whatever that one is where we celebrate veterans who had the good sense not to get killed for Memorial Day—I forget what that one’s called.

Anyway, I am especially enamored of Earth Day and our national Earth Day traditions—as firmly entrenched in American culture as slaughtering Thanksgiving turkeys and grilling pureed, artificially-colored animal stomachs, snouts, lips and spleens jammed into pig intestines on July 4^th. They are evidence of a genuine commitment to stemming the tide of environmental disaster currently enveloping Spaceship Earth.

To name but a few of Earth Day ‘Commandments’:

Mow not thy lawn; let the grass grow freely, as God intended.
Likewise, allow Mother Nature to thrive for her own sake, not for the exploitive avarice of mankind. In other words, eat neither of the lima bean nor the brussels sprout; nor of the turnip nor the eggplant; nor of the parsnip nor the beet; nor okra nor especially not Oprah, because how gross is that? Eeeew. For everything there may be a season, but brother, not for that.
On this day, you may with clear conscience call people in irreversible comas ‘vegetables’.
Smoke all the dope you want, because that shit has already been picked. But sow the seeds in some vacant lot so that thou may replenish what thou have taken.

Et cetera.

Ira Einhorn, Earth Day, 1970

So, yeah, Earth Day is the shiz! You know, of course, that it was founded in Philly in 1970, in part by Ira Einhorn—that fat fuck who killed his gorgeous girlfriend, then kept her in his closet in a suitcase until fluids from her rotting flesh began to dribble into the apartment of downstairs neighbors, who previously had nothing to complain about but loud music. I mean, say what you want about murder sucking and all that, but composting your girlfriend? Earth First genius.

Hats off to Ira, I say. And hats off to John McConnell, to Edmund Muskox, to Denis Hayes, to Secretary General U Thant despite his idiotic name, to that Beatle who looks like Angela Lansbury, and while we are at it, hats off to PETA, because if it wasn’t for Lebanese bread we would have to eat hummus with our bare hands—a concept only slightly less repulsive than Oprah munching.

Jaden ‘I’m Even Dorkier Than This In Person’ Smith

This year—Earth Day 2013—each of more than one billion people will be celebrating the largest secular holiday on the planet in their own inimitable fashion. Some will be planting trees, then hugging them; others may be found conducting various recycling programs and picking up roadside trash (not hookers, silly); non-agoraphobics in Washington, DC may join hundreds of thousands of angry but gentle eco-activists on the National Mall. Meanwhile, Jaden Smith, son of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett Smith—actor, musician and spoiled little shit—will be lending his voice in support of Earth Day Network’s The Canopy Project!, making it obvious that everyone The Canopy Project! really wanted gave them a thumbs down.

And verily, Earth Day is truly a global event. In Gabon, there will be a talking drum chain; in Russia, they will dance in the streets without energy-wasting streetlights while secretly paying homage to Lenin and his philosophy. In Germany, they will cavort around the may pole; in Poland, they will cavort around the german pole. In Canada, they will do whatever it is that Canadians generally do—which I suspect is not much.

Of course, there will always be kill-joy spoil-sport buzz-killers like Ethan Annabelle Koch of The World Health Organization who reminds us that on last year’s Earth Day, 16,438 children starved to death.

You know what I have to say to that, Ethan, you oozing puddle of poozle sap?

Name one of ‘em.

Where Will You Be on Earth Day, 2013?

Presumably, you’ll be a busy as a bee’s beaver with some ‘green’ activity, like turning off lights, pouring common, chemical-based household products down the sewer while switching to natural stuff like vinegar and cat urine, bringing your own bag to the grocery store and otherwise amputating great chunks of your carbon ‘foot’ in order to reduce your carbon ‘footprint’.

Shoot to kill, Jesse

Ha ha ha! Actually, I couldn’t give a flying foo fighter’s badonkadonk what you’re doing on Earth Day—go set Yellowstone on fire with a propane torch for all I care. Walk around your neighborhood and turn on everyone’s water spigots, then go home and set the thermostat to five hundred. Fertilize, fertilize, fertilize. Harpoon Willy as he leaps the rock pile, screaming, ‘Take that you blenching bag of blistering blubber.’

Because do you know where I will be on Earth Day, 2013? I will be in Paso Robles, California, at the 7th Annual Earth Day Food & Wine Festival.

Now We’re Whistlin’ Earth Day

Bring it, bitch

Screw all this eco-friendly horse-caca anyway, know what I mean? The earth blows the universal gonad, and we all know it. It is too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and unless you live in a minute parcel of real estate in Faulconbridge, Australia or somewhere in the Canary Islands, you will spend your entire life trying to find reasons not to have to go outside. Save the earth, my ass. Save the tornadoes, save the avalanches, the tsunamis, the floods, the droughts, the ebola outbreaks, the volcano eruptions, the earthquakes, the out of control wildfires?

Save that goddamn meteor hurling at us at 100,000 miles per hour; that’s what I say.

And frankly, I want my SUV, I want my incandescent light bulbs, I want my hormone-laden porterhouse steaks; I don’t want to re-use anything and I certainly don’t want to have to bring ‘my own bags’ to the grocery store and look like a complete douchenozzle. Above all, I do not want one of those blue, yuppie-guilt-recycling buckets sitting in front of my house on trash day—about the lamest gesture of ‘I care, people’ that I’ve ever encountered on this unsalvageable hunk of dirt and swamp-slime.

Justin Smith trying to get laid.

Naw, they have it right in Paso Robles at the 7th Annual Earth Day Food & Wine Festival. Their name, of course, is as blatant a front as ‘Genco Pura Olive Oil’ in The Godfather, because the real agenda is selling $600 per person tickets to a luncheon at James Berry Vineyard, where winemaker Justin Smith will graciously get us all plastered on his award-winning wines, followed by a three-course meal consisting of Morro Creek Avocado Custard & Egg Yolk and Crab Toast, followed by Cattle Grass Fed Beef Carpaccio, Porcini Mushroom Ragout, Truffled Vinaigrette, Arugula, Pozo Tomme, Hazelnuts and finishing with a Grilled Apricot & Almond Tart.

This, while the rest of you neo-hippie jackholes are gagging on your sprouts and flax seeds.

Best part of the whole afternoon? The meal is served ‘al fresco’, which I believe is Italian for ‘inside a nice, air-conditioned dining room.’

But Seriously, People. Who’s Zoomin’ Who?

The event sounds cool, even $600 per person, but an attempt to link it to Earth Day? On any rational level whatsoever? While simultaneously, kids in the real world are gathering garbage from highway berms, cleaning up parks and rivers, planting things, learning to compost, learning to recycle, learning to give a shit about things far removed from the vacuousness of Robert Parker Jr. ‘100 point’ wines?

Jesucristo, even I’m not that cynical.

Lyrics for the Earth Day Anthem; set to ‘Ode to Joy’

Joyful joyful, we adore our Earth with all our carnal thrusts,
Simple sex with nature that all join into a paradise.
Now we must resolve to kertang her,
Give her our wanks throughout all time.
Reach out gentle hands and touch,
We make her squeal with perfect lust.
Now we must resolve to jiffy-stiffy her,
Give her our puds throughout all time.
With our gentle hand and touch,
We make her scream with perfect scromps.

Posted in GENERAL | Tagged Earth Day 2013 | 2 Comments

Hempiatris: Wine, Wódka and Bong

Posted on April 14, 2013 by intoxreport

As a fellow who (sans shame) looks stuff up on Wikipedia, then pretends he already knew it—or worse, made it up himself—I will hitherto explain the above, crackerjack scarehead:

A ‘hendiatris’ (from the Greek: ἓν διὰ τριῶν, hèn dià triôn, ‘one through three’) is a figure of speech used for emphasis, in which three words are used to express a single idea.

Not only did I already know that, but I also made it up.

However, as all but the most pinheaded, Binet Scale single-digiting, accidentally-Supergluing-hand-to-forehead among you have noted, I did not use the word ‘hendiatris’ in my skanky screamer, but ‘hempiatris’, which I guarantee that you will not find in Wikipedia, because indeed, I made that beeotch up.

We Will Sell No Wine Before We’re Done Serving Time

So, these Ontario oddballs—a descriptor which naturally could cover most of Canada—have come up with something they are hawking as Mary Jane’s Magical Hemp Wine, which the winemaker describes, in the biggest understatement since the Black Knight called his severed arm ‘a flesh wound’, as being ‘herbaceous’.

Speaking of the Black Knight—or in this case, the Black Prince—I confess to more than my usual benightedness over Mary Jane’s Magical Hemp Wine, a product of Black Prince Winery of Prince Edward County, Ontario, because I can find no real information on it. Is it hemp infused grape wine? Is it fermented pot juice? Is it even legal here in the States if you have neither glaucoma nor cancer? I could always call the winery of course, but I am not sure that this rural little municipality on the eastern end of Lake Ontario, just west of the St. Lawrence River, is even aware that such a thing as telephonic communication exists. For sure, it is wine country—and happens to be Canada’s newest designated viticultural area.

But, perhaps the wave of the future is maricultural areas. If I had one, I’d put in my parliamentary vote in favor of. I do appreciate PR spokesman Scott Collier’s claim that the hemp is added ‘to round out and soften the acidity and tannins in the wine…’

Yeah, right.

Mary Jane Does a Hemp Vodka, Too

Well, see, this does make a little more sense, since herb-infused vodka has been around since those pixilated potato-poaching Poles invented it in the 8^th century. Back in the day, the most popular addition was buffalo grass, and the resulting beverage was called zubrówka. Buffalo grass-infused vodka is still available, and is really pretty good.

So, if grass is grass is grass, hemp would be a logical extension of the principal. Mary Jane Primo Hemp Vodka is produced in Kelowna, BC by Urban Distillery, who has this to say about it:

“Uh, I forgot the question. Again.”

Odd Spokesman for the Product?

Cyrus and Cyrus, at your cervix.

Both the wine and the wódka are being fronted by the fictional character Cyrus from the Showcase series Trailer Park Boys. Cyrus, played by Bernard Robichaud, is a high school dropout-cum-drug dealer who who enjoys waving his Beretta 92 around, terrorizing the residents of the trailer park.

If this is the face that Mary Jane wants to present for its products, that’s their business, of course.

But I guess I’m a bit lost at the concept of having a non-existent spokesperson who only about fifty people without Canadian accents have even heard of. I mean, if the image you want to project to potential customers is one of hard-line, violent loserdom, why not canvass Ontario’s Kingston Pen, listed Number Three on David Wallechinsky’s 10 Toughest Prisons in North America (The Book of Lists)? With its cramped cells, rats in the toilet, steel trays, tin cups and the silent system, I guarantee you could find a real live Kingston thug to pitch for you.

But these are wiser folks than I, and I suppose if I had to get simultaneously high and drunk every time I drank my own stuff whether or not I wanted to, such ideas might grow on me, too.

Biggest issue then would be remembering to write them down.

Posted in CANADA, GENERAL | Tagged Mary Jane Hemp Wine, Trailer Park Boys | Leave a comment

Brown-Bagging With Petite Sirah

Posted on April 13, 2013 by intoxreport

I’ve known Stillman Brown since he was knee high to an ass-hopper; by which I mean, before he decided he was straight.

See, I can make stupid jokes like that about Stillman Brown (no relation to Encyclopedia, Ford Madox or Charlie), not because he is as thick-skinned as his syrah and not because he simply grins and bears it; not because he is used to it and not because he is slightly ‘challenged’ and appreciates any attention given him by someone like me who, with all candor, is not named Brown and has won three consecutive Nobel prizes in hootchology.

But rather, it’s because I know that he knows that I know that at the core of the connection, Stillman is a hell of a winemaker.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, I Present Exhibit A: Stillman Petite Sirah, Paso Robles, 2011, about $50:

Doris and Boris Day

Sirah/syrah comes from a parallel universe in which Doris Day was never born; it is a sort of Prince and the Pauper blend. Whereas the grape names are similar, there is likely no genetic connection between them. Petite Sirah is the pauper—rustically tannic and bumpkinly sweet, while Syrah is the Prince—although not listed among the six French ‘noble grape’ varieties, syrah produces wines of great depth and elegance. Together, blended correctly (as this one is), they produce a wine that reveals the best of both worlds: Dusky yet bright, filled with fruit, spice and a sensuous sort of carnality. Generally these wines require some age time and always, air time after the bottle is opened.

Even so, Stillman Brown claims that his father, Stillman Brown (no relation to Joe E., Helen Gurley or Alton) still has to explain his son’s wine to friends. Of course, what he likely means is that he has to explain his son’s wine labels to friends—evidence is his apparent joy and relief at this label: Quite handsome—even genteel—and without a single outrageous pun.

Michigan wolverine jerky

Stillman, however, is not to be forgiven for his insulting and mean-spirited tasting notes in which he makes fun of wolverine jerky. The wolverine is our Michigan State Weasel, and wolverine jerky is our Michigan State Sliced Marinated Dried Mustelid Flesh.

Exhibit B, Your Honor: Stillman ‘Deep Purple’ Petite Sirah, Paso Robles, NV, around $50:

Stillman mugs for the camera

Keeping Stillman Brown away from mid-Seventies band puns after a few labels is like trying to keep Lindsay Lohan away from eight-balls after a few interventions. Thus, the excruciatingly painfully named ‘Deep Purple’ conjures up less ‘the color purple’ and more ‘hair, heavy metal and hard rocks’—shit you probably don’t want to find in your petite sirah.

Nonetheless, the wine itself (another sirah/syrah) makes everything bad and cutesy go away: It is a genuine grownup gem: Clean and shiny with purplish/blue reflexes and ripped with tannic muscle. Behind the black currant, blueberry and blackberry notes lies a layered infrastructure of coffee and charcoal with hints of camphor. The tannins are so big that without a bit of age, they may clash with your heart, but say ‘yes’ and kiss the wine anyway.

Damn, now he’s got me doing it.

Exhibit C, Your Majesty: Chateau d’Abalone, Viognier, Paso Robles, 2012, around $40:

Viognier on the vine.

So, as a moderator to the big’ns, Stillman Brown tosses in a lyrical and textured viognier—another riveting, ravishing (if recurrently recondite) Rhône reputable. Under Stillman’s scrutiny, the varietal releases the whole enchilada of fruit and flowers—honeysuckle and apricot primarily, with sweet licorice, peach and lychee in mid-palate and ginger to linger. (BTW, even though they should, those last two words don’t rhyme. Go figure.)

So, to conclude my case, even though case-wise, Stillman Brown produces but a trickle, in my opinion, he is making some of the most stunningly complex wines in Paso Robles.

And I would have no reason to brown nose (no relation to H. Rap, Cleveland or that dude whose body lies moldering in the grave), now would I?

Peg leg, peg leg!

Posted in Paso Robles | Tagged Paso Robles, Stillman Brown | Leave a comment

‘Tis Ignoble; The Grape’s a Bluffer…

Absinthe of ‘Alice’

Yo Ho Ho, And A Bottle Of Mosel

Baffled By Big, Bad Buffs? Bite Me, Barclay Brothers

Earth Day, 2013: Mirth First, Earth Second. Booyah!

Hempiatris: Wine, Wódka and Bong

Brown-Bagging With Petite Sirah

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories

Meta

Email Subscription

Follow “”