Water Bored: The Ice Bucket Challenge

A match made in Heaven.  Or was it 7-Eleven?

A match made in Heaven. Or was it 7-Eleven?

You know how when Julia Roberts married Lyle Lovett it just sort of ‘felt right’?  Or, ever reminisce about the warm, gushy, non-sexual feeling of utter contentment that poured over you when Gary Cherone started singing with Van Halen?  For that matter, remember how cool it was when Fonzie finally jumped that shark?

No?  Well, then you probably won’t like this idea either.

Somehow, I have thus far resisted the temptation to enter the currently popular state of cheapskate hypothermia and instead have made a dull, distinctly non-viral Facebook video of myself not getting a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.

♫  "You'll never... walk... at all..."  ♪ ♫

♫ “You’ll never… walk… again…” ♪ ♫

This mustn’t be be construed as my support  for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, which I would be opposed to even if I could pronounce it.  Nor should it be read as opposition to charity as a general concept—except for that awful, annual MDA Show of Strength, which actually got worse without Jerry Lewis singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ to kids that, by the nature of their disease, will never walk at all.  (As if the idea of rich people asking poor people for money is not sufficiently anathematic, it sounds more like a Ponzi shake-down when you consider that over $2.4 billion has been donated to MDA since the 1950s… and they still haven’t cured the goddamned thing…)

Ice bucket challenge my ass.

Ice bucket challenge my ass.

To the nine people left on earth, mostly in Gjoa Haven, Nunavut, who don’t know what I’m talking about, there’s a recent social media fad making the rounds called ‘The Ice Bucket Challenge’.  It involves filming yourself getting a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, then then ‘challenging’ friends (without viral pneumonia) to either dump a bucket of ice water over their own heads or donate a hundred dollars to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a.k.a. Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Apparently, the key lure in this nonsense is that your friends (1.2 million have nibbled the hook so far) will want to showcase their physical prowess in the face ice water yet not look like penny-pinching dingledorks afterward, so they dump the water and subsequently announce that they donated the C-note to ALS anyway—even if it seems more logical to donate it to The Viral Pneumonia Association.

"Are the cameras on?  How's my hair?  Can you film from my good side?"

“Are the cameras on? How’s my hair? Can you film from my good side?”

What’s wrong with this picture?  For starters, charity is a wonderful thing, and as the man says, it not only begins at home but should stay at home.  Otherwise, you tend to look like an opportunistic douchebag, like corporations who donate $15 k to Jerry’s Kids, then receive two hundred thousand dollars worth of free advertising when they hand over the check on national television.

Nothing seems quite so cynical as braggadocio-style giving, and yet, the idea of donating to the ALS Association and not filming it may be evident by the charity’s own figures: Since the challenge began, donations are up by approximately eight hundred percent.

What’s The Solution?

fire challengeIt is, perhaps, no coincidence that another video ‘craze’ currently going around is ‘The Fire Challenge’.  This one involves teenagers lighting themselves on fire with some arsonist accelerant like nail polish or Everclear and posting the video to YouTube.  For this stunt, you are not expected to donate anything to anybody; the thrill, apparently, is the third-degree burns and/or reconstructive surgery that invariably results, which will cost more than you would have donated anyway.

love_and_marriageSo, like love and marriage, horse and carriage, the next inevitable step is to combine these two lunatic-fringe dares into a single double dare—  ‘The Set Yourself On Fire, Then Douse The Flames With Ice Water Challenge’.

Your dauntless, charity-driven and mentally-incompetent friends will saturate themselves with lighter fluid, light themselves up like  Joan of Arc, and just as they become roman candles, somebody behind them will pour a bucket of ice water over them.

Clever, right? Safer, huh?

Yeah?  Well then, you probably won’t like this idea either:

"Where'd that human torch go??"

“Where’d that human torch go??”

Since I invented the game, I get to pick the charity, and I pick The Macular Degeneration Association, with the specific stipulation that the dude with the ice water bucket be suffering from it, and thus, be totally blind.  That way, nine out ten times, he misses the conflagrating imbecile with the water entirely.

It’s a Darwin-win, and we all get on with life.

Because, do you know what?  Like love and marriage, some things are simply not compatible, and burning yourself up on cue or self-inducing core-body-temperature-drops for any cause, charitable or otherwise, are among them.

And if you don’t believe me, just ask the local gentry: They’ll say that that much, anyway, is elementary.

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Hot Wine: Summer In The Vineyard

First of all, unless its mulled, there is no such thing as hot wine and second, other than maybe Verónica Martínez or Amy Freeman, there is no such thing as hot winemakers—but that’s a lament for a different logarithm.

Delicious Amy Freeman

Smokin’ Amy Freeman

The term ‘hot winemaker’, of course, is a sensory misnomer referring to an elevated level of testosterone in the wine writer and an artificial standard of contemporary bodily heat.  The term ‘hot wine’ is a sensory misnomer referring to an elevated ABV—alcohol by volume—and ‘high ABV’ is legally understood to mean table wines with an ethanol content greater than 14%.

At this point, technically, they become dessert wines and are subject to higher TTB taxes. Yes, Virginia, it’s a profit game.

Virginia_Santa_ClausMisnomers, Virginias and agency definitions notwithstanding, the shifting tide of trends and tastes combined with new yeast cultures and climatic readjustments have seen a public gravitation toward richer, riper, fuller wines in recent years; whether the attribution is laid to Parker or passion makes no difference to the anaerobic microorganisms responsible for fermentation: Unless it is diluted by water or mechanically removed, the higher sugar content in must results in higher alcohol in wine.

In cooler wine zones like Burgundy, it is often a struggle to ripen grapes to the point where they have reached the required °Bx (the standard scale for measuring sugar in the wine industry) for fermenting to around 13% alcohol, which fans out to a requisite °Bx of 23.  Germany has an even tougher time with ripening—one of the reasons that the German wine industry has historically focused on white wines, with ABVs in the top category of Prädikatswein acceptable as low as 7%.

A spoonful of sugar helps the tartaric go down

A spoonful of sugar helps the tartaric go down

Of course, the ease with which a winemaker may simply add granulated sugar (called ‘chaptalization’) to boost end-game alcohol is obvious, and that is why the technique remains embroiled in controversy.  Many reputable appellation laws prohibit it—others don’t.  The ‘don’t prohibit’ list includes Burgundy, Bordeaux, Chile and New Zealand.  Here in the United States, chaptalization is allowed in Long Island and Oregon, but not in California.

That’s the woe story of wines that struggle for sugar.  With a ‘hot’ wine, the problem is the polar opposite, and to the winemaker, the issue is one of either reining in the punch’s punch or—God forbid—producing a wine which successfully blends flavor, depth and acidity and embraces whatever ABV rides along.

And therein lies my problem with the term ‘hot wine’.

'Fill 'er up, Miracle Boy'.

‘Fill ‘er up, Miracle Boy… YOLO.’

A wine in which the burn of alcohol is so pronounced that it is worth a tasting note is a flawed wine.  The Holy Grail of every grail-full of wine is balance; if it misses the brass ring of equilibrium, it has pretty much jumped the quality shark and fallen floundering into the water.  Alcohol tends to presents itself negatively in wines without sufficient fruit extraction, tannins, acidity or any of a thousand organoleptic intangibles that even the most passionate Parker puppet may not be able to name and doesn’t need to.  If the wine is noticeably pushed in a direction that suggests undesirable heat to the taster, there has been a mistake made in process or in a winemaker’s appreciation of what constitutes harmony.

Or, there’s always this: The wine may simply have been served at the wrong temperature.  Full-blown, high-alcohol red wine shows best at around 62° F—a point where many folks in the tasting room are looking for their cardigans—and when served warmer, the alcohol tends to evaporate more quickly and may do a frontal assault on the nostrils you’ve just jammed into the snifter.  In that case, it make more sense to blame your host, not your vintner.

Runaway ripening, when grapes reach upwards of °30 Bx, can yield some stunning, nuanced wines, but only if the natural acid has not collapsed—a phenomenon that coincides with fruit maturation.  During véraison, as berry skins lose their chlorophyll and begin to accumulate phenolic compounds, sugars increase as acids decrease.  The trick that every successful vineyard manager and winemaker must learn is what their specific terroir can offer to their specific cultivar: Some grape varieties require more hang time to become fully ‘flavor ripe’ than others.  Once that knowledge is mastered, it’s down to the whims of the seasons in any given vintage.

Hanging around with syrah

Hanging around with syrah

Syrah is an example of a variety which often does reveal its full panoply of flavors without an extended hang-time, but whose acid must be closely monitored to hold pH at around 3.6.  Once it skyrockets past 4, the game is over and the resulting wines will be stewy-tasting, flabby and may come across as ‘hot’.  The alcohol, in other words, will be but one of several off-putting factors, and they all play a role in tossing that wine off the balance beam.

Stillman Brown of Red Zeppelin Winery is  a Paso Robles winemaker who keeps daily—and near the end of the growing season, sometimes hourly tabs on the grapes he will buy from a number of growers scattered across this broad appellation.  Paso is known for very hot, very long summers with extreme diurnal temperature shifts, allowing wine grapes maximum hang-time without pronounced acid deterioration.  As a result, Brown is often faced with decisions regarding final ABV, especially in varieties like pinot noir which may become unpleasantly aggressive at port-grade potency.  The same holds true with cabernet sauvignon, a wine that can, in California, confront the palate with fierce ABV.  Brown feels that cab cashes in some of its finesse if the numbers go much above 15%—this, despite critics like Jim Laube’s (Wine Spectator) frequent score-nod to the chocolatey, big-oomph cabs of Napa Valley.

Stillman Brown

Stillman Brown

Not so zinfandel, which Brown does not produce as a stand alone, or syrah, which he does in several beautiful show-stopping incarnations—and, at ABVs which creep toward (or, occasionally, vault over) Oloroso sherry levels—17% ABV.

He says, “I’ve never used R.O. (reverse osmosis, a technique for de-alcoholizing wine) where you pick ripe grapes, then suck out the soul.  I get tired of pseudo-complaints about getting ‘too buzzed’ on 17% wines; if that’s your concern, drink less.  Some wines are balanced at 7%, others at 17%.  In some years where I pick, syrah is not fully flavor ripe until it has developed ungodly high sugars; if I stripped out the alcohol to, say, 14%, the wine might still be good, but it wouldn’t be as full, not as luscious; not the same wine at all. If fruit extraction, tannin and acid are low, 16% is too high.  If not, it’s too low.  It’s a sin to dismiss a universe of great, higher-alcohol wines on that criterion alone.”

The late, great Robert Hughes

The late, great Robert Hughes

Unfortunately, like anything offensively ‘hot’—Kardashians, Sharknados, Brandy Melville destroyed denim shorts—wines may, on simple virtue of the wallop, become market manipulators.  For those winemakers unable to handle their alcohol, the focus shifts from judicious balance to overripe ethanol torpedoes.

To paraphrase the classic line about American figurative art by the great critic Robert Hughes, “A taste for massive but intrinsically unbalanced wines may be acquired.  But is it required?”

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Wearing Their Hearts On My Mitten: Michigan Wine Competition, 2014

I certainly hand it to the grape council that represents my Mitten: They are one sincere bunch.

Karel Bush, Promo Specialist at Michigan Grape & Wine Industry

Lovely Karel Bush, Promo Specialist at Michigan Grape & Wine Industry

Such punkling puns aside, I mention this because The Michigan Grape and Wine Industry Council held its 37th Michigan Wine Competition on August 5, and last night, I crashed the glorifactory and flatterizing party that was held in East Lansing.

The competition used to be held at the State Fairgrounds before the city that held the State Fair became so dysfunctional that nobody in the state wanted to crash it; subsequently, the judging was moved to East Lansing, a city known for collegiate consumption and party animalization as much as Spartan abstinence.

I’ve covered the event for about half of its thirty-seven year history, reporting on it for a number of publications, and—oddly or not—have never been asked to be a judge, even though my record of flatterizing the winners has occasional exceeded reason—especially when I was a columnist for The Detroit Free Press and was beholden to their glorifactory and flatterization policies regarding Michigan products.

Apparently I’m damned by faint—and equally, for over-the-top praise.

'Judge not lest ye be judged' - Matt. 7:1

‘Judge not lest ye be judged’ – Matt. 7:1

And yet, among the twenty-five Michigan Wine Competition judges, there are plenty of folks who haven’t written squat about Michigan wines for any of the past thirty-seven years (largely because they are not from Michigan), but they do have a national ‘presence’, thus, apparently, add prestige and gravitas to the judging panel.

Which makes perfect sense until you consider that no wines but Michigan wines are entered, therefore, only Michigan wines can win. Where precisely the prestige lies in having (for example) a talk show host from New Orleans decree that the best Michigan dessert wine is a dessert wine from Michigan is for keener minds than mine to deduce.

Note to self:  Gee, Chris, maybe if you stopped being so graphic about this you might get more respect from the grapeheads in Lansing.

In any case, that annual, anticipated Grape Council snub aside, I can certainly state that the winning wines have gotten better every year that I’ve been after-the-fact involved, and were, in fact, better again this year.

The Devil—and the Distinction—Is in the Details…

Winemaker Roger Bonga; poor guy thought he had a leg up on the competition

Winemaker Roger Bonga; poor guy thought he had a leg up on the competition

Most wine people are aware of the inherent pitfalls in wine competitions, even if the consuming public—to which awards are directed anyway—are not.  Even so, it is worth mentioning that of 107 wineries in Michigan, only 51 entered wines.  Since the total number of wines judged was 450, I think it’s fair to conclude that less than half of Michigan wineries entered every wine they produce.

Part of the problem is that virtually every winery in Michigan is boutique-sized, and competition rules state that there have to be a minimum of fifty cases of any given entry available to the purchasing public.  This may not seem like a boatload of wine to those with a global grasp of production, but for a lot of start-up, newer Michigan wineries, it is.

Thus, some of the best wines being produced in Michigan may, necessarily, go without a needed publicity shot in the basilic vein.

The Ethical Treatment of Party Animals

The Grande Dames, Master Sommeliers Madeline Triffon and Claudia Tyagi

The Grande Dames, Master Sommeliers Madeline Triffon and Claudia Tyagi

Even so, one of my favorite long-time competition judges, Master Sommelier Claudia Tyagi (who opted out this year due to some tooth trauma and apparently hasn’t learned to transcend dental medication) assured me that the actual judging conditions are as rigorous and principled as can be arranged.  Wines are tasted ‘double blind’, extreme cleanliness is demanded of all stemware and even the restroom soap is certified unscented.  Best of all, they lose the cumbersome point-scale and award wines gold, silver, bronze or metal-free—that’s all.

The results are what they always are in such competitions where huge numbers of wine are sampled, categorized and gilded, leafed, bronzed or cast back into the fire: A wholly subjective slice-of-moments on a single day-in-the-life of mostly young wines tasted in laboratory conditions not likely to be duplicated by a single consumer ever.

Which is fine: As long as human beings are involved, wine judging will remain an inexact science, and as always, I am gratified that the Council has tried to remove any variables—including me—which might skew results.

Tasting Notes, 2014 Michigan Wine Competition ‘Best of Class’ Awards:

( *These are wholly subjective slice-of-moment impressions from a single day-in-the-life of mostly young wines tasted in receptionary conditions not likely to be duplicated by a single uninvited consumer ever.  

Plus, I disagreed with a few, and the ones I thought should have won are given below…)

 

auroraSparkling:  Aurora Cellars Brut, Leelanau, 2011:  One of the downsides of a somewhat incestuous Leelanau wine world is Larry Mawby competing against Larry Mawby.  Larry Mawby won with the wine he sparkled up for Aurora, which is a big, blowsy, yeasty, doughy wine with a sharp apple peel-flavored mid-palate.  Refreshing and somewhat cava-like with a tart finish.

My Pick:  L. Mawby Consort, Leelanau, NV:  In my world, Mawby would have beaten Mawby with his elegant, refined, multi-vintage blend built entirely of chardonnay.  A touch of residual sugar softens the natural acids; the older wines fill in complexity gaps while the youthful core of spritz remains intact.

bluestoneDry White Wine:  Blustone Vineyards Riesling, Leelanau, 2013:  For any number of potential reasons (bottle shock, temperature served, etc.) the wine seemed to lack the essential aromatics to decode the variety; the flavors were accounted for in the mouth, but it was mostly basic peachy stuff—a nice wine to up-end and enjoy, no question about it, but more user-friendly than contemplation-ready.

My Pick: Black Star Farms Arcturos Pinot Blanc, Old Mission Peninsula, 2013:  I get the riesling thing already, but this intense, pear-kissed gem from Lee Lutes (who rarely fails to deliver) is a rounded, delightful wine, somewhat low in acid, which brings out the sweetness of the juice and is fully representative of a variety which continues to make strides in Michigan.

Kris and Ryan Sterkenburg bask in glory

Kris and Ryan Sterkenburg bask in glory

Semi-Dry White Wine: Gill’s Pier Vineyard Riesling, Leelanau, 2013:   A bright, fruit-filled nose with solid depth of character—apricot and green apple and maybe a touch of pineapple; succulent mouth-feel, rich on the palate if slightly short-lived on the finish.  No second choice here—this one nails it.

Rosé: Chateau de Leelanau Cabernet Franc Rosé, Leelanau, 2013:  Porch wine, purely and pleasantly; supple and crisp but not terribly memorable.  Light strawberry notes, some summery tart cherry flavors, not much more.

My Pick: Boathouse Vineyards ‘License To Chill’ Pinot Noir Rosé, Leelanau, 2013:  I can live without the excruciatingly irritating name, but the wine is sensational; it offers watermelon and wild strawberry intensity in a balanced, nicely acidic mouthful.

azoSemi-Dry Red Wine: Lawton Ridge Winery AZO Red, Lake Michigan Shore, 2013:  In general, I might be embarrassed that we need a category for semi-sweet red wine; more so that ‘Best of Show’ is a trio of hybrids (chambourcin, chancellor and noiret) that singly, rarely produce anything spectacular.  But the wine is surprisingly satisfying; dusty, jammy layers with bright shafts of ripe plum and currant shining through.  The wine threw some major sediment into my glass, but otherwise, none of the other wines that competed in the category came close.

Dry Red Wine:  Peninsula Cellars Cabernet Franc, Old Mission Peninsula, 2012:  A bright wine; none of the broody, chocolatey depth that the winery’s cab franc sometimes displays—rather, the cranberry and pomegranate flavors, which are fully delightful, take center stage.

Jay Briggs

Jay Briggs

Fruit Wine:  45 North Vineyard & Winery Peach Crémant, Leelanau, NV:  Jay Briggs, the winemaker, is young, and indeed, this is a young person’s wine.  In fact, if twelve year olds could drink, they couldn’t produce enough of it.  Not unpleasant by any means, but simple and shoulder-shruggy in a Creamsicle, peach sherbet sort of way.

Lee Lutes basks as well

Lee Lutes basks as well

My Pick:  Alas, not entered.  The entire collection of fruit wines from the U.P.’s little-mentioned, oft-overlooked Garden Bay Winery are prize-winners all.

Dessert Wine: Black Star Farms Arcturos Winter Harvest Riesling, Michigan, 2012:  A head-full of ambrosial nectar; a Lee Lutes masterpiece.  As strenuous to make as it is effortless to drink, the wine is creamy with baked apples, lemon cake, maple candy and a racy, shivery crisp finish.  The crowning touch to the competition; no other late harvest wine seemed to bring all elements of the style together so perfectly.

Posted in Fruit Wines, Lake Michigan Shore, Leelanau Peninsula, Michigan, MIDWEST, Old Mission Peninsula | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Robin Williams: Art, Alcoholism And Suicide

Never mind that he was born in Chicago, went to high school in California, lived just north of San Francisco and drove around Napa like he owned the joint—which, in part, he did.

Here in Detroit, Robin Williams will always be a Detroit boy.

CW, CBS And Showtime 2013 Summer TCA Party - ArrivalsHis father was a Ford executive and before he moved the ancestral silver spoon from his mouth to his cocaine-filled nose, Robin went to Detroit Country Day—a school for rich kids who we simultaneously despised, mocked and envied.  Country Day kids tended to be smarter than us—they were definitely richer than us—but in the end, as Robin Williams so poignantly proves, they were no happier than us.

Williams’ schoolboy days were a few years before my own, and when I first saw him as Mork in 1978, I was enthralled. When I scrutinized his improv over subsequent years on talk shows and before live audiences, I could not believe the instantaneous wit that seemed, indeed, to come from some planet beyond the galaxy.  As such, still being a young wannabe comedy writer, the fact that Country Day kids could not only be smarter and richer, but light years funnier than we were left little alternative but to mock, despise and envy him.

Nothing close to schadenfreude over his death, of course.  Nothing but profound, largely personal sadness, and for reasons that have nothing to do with Country Day, rich kids or the peculiarities of psyche that convince people with everything that they have nothing.

But I’ll get to that.  He’s not the first creative genius to fall down that darkling shaft from which there’s no return, and he’ll hardly be the last.

I was asked by a friend to write a piece on Robin Williams and his relationship with wine, and I assumed that he meant his sprawling Italianate mansion and twenty-four acres of Napa vineyards.  The house was equipped with a magnificent cellar for—irony of ironies—both art and wine.

Problem was, Williams had mostly been on the wagon since 1983, and when he fell off it hard in 2003, he checked into rehab at once.  There is something to be said about the strength of character of someone who can love wine—the lore, the mystique, the history—and dodge the buzz with the determination of a bull moose.

The thing is, by its very nature, the buzz sands out the rough spots in the day-to-day drek we all draggle through, and without that balm in Gilead, life can—and pretty quickly, too–lose its technicolor.

So, at the end of it all, The World’s Greatest Dad hopped aboard the last train to glory by his own rules.  As it happens, so did the world’s greatest mom.

 

My mother grew up as a rich kid on Detroit’s East Side, and was, in her time, by far the best fashion illustrator in the city.  Like Williams, her father was an executive at Ford—in an era when Ford, and by default, Detroit, pretty much had the world by the short hairs—but she opted into a non-automotive career, marrying a fellow illustrator she met at art school and going on (in an era where everything was drawn, not photographed) to pretty much blow her advertising colleagues out of the tub, talent-wise.

Like Williams, she had a weakness for wine and pharmaceuticals, but unlike Williams, she had the hubris to think that she had the upper hand, even when it was obvious to people around her that she didn’t.  She committed suicide around the same time that Robin Williams signed The Pledge.

The connection between runaway creativity and suicide is pretty well documented—the list of insanely talented people who topped themselves doesn’t need to be hashed over.

Depression is a pretty equal opportunity affliction, and I’d venture to guess that most suicides leave behind no estimable body of art.  But I have no doubt that most of them were loved savagely by someone, somewhere, just the same.

The tragedy—and the reality that is often most confusing to those left in the wake—is that being loved, even worshiped, is not enough.  By its very definition, self-destruction is a selfish act, and only happens when someone is so subsumed in ego that the inevitability of causing irrevocable damage to everyone around them, to throwing permanently off-kilter those who often tried to help them, has become irrelevant.

Happiness seems to be an equilibrium that we’re all driven to seek, and there are those rare individuals—people we are grateful took their first breath in any case—who reached so deeply inside themselves in search of solace that even if they didn’t find it, they found instead a tappable wellspring of something profound and beautiful—something that they were, for a short time, unselfish enough to share.

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Idiart Savant

Nicolas Idiart has one of those strikingly handsome, masculine faces that makes even straight guys sit up and take notice, then recalculate our own sad position on that irrelevant ladder of total relevance, realizing that we’ve just moved down another rung.

Nicolas Idiart

Nicolas Idiart

Plus, he can make wine like a BAMF, pinning down the bare-bones magnificence of three of my favorite grapes from one of my favorite wine regions, Loire.  Blatantly obviously within the quartet of Idiart wines I tasted was a solid understanding of Loire terroirs, pure as the driven terre blanche and no need for manscaping, Grecian Formula 2 or whatever else it is we lower-rung metrosexuals do for attention.

Idiart is the youngest graduate of Bordeaux’s prestigious Ecole du Vin at Blanquefort, and today, only thirty-three years old, he has assembled an imposing résumé that includes winemaking in New Zealand and Australia, wine sales in the United States and now, his own artisan portfolio under the Maison Nicolas Idiart imprint.  I tinkled glassware with him yesterday afternoon, and was suitably blown away by his clean, expressive Loire lineup—as pure a portfolio of unadorned, revelatory wines from this often-overlooked sliver of northwestern France as has lightened my doors in years.

Muscadet vineyard

Muscadet vineyard

Maison Nicolas Idiart Muscadet-Sèvre et Maine Sur Lie, 2013, around $15:  Green-tinted and grand, flinty and filled with finesse; the wine shows crisp lemony alacrity, a touch of salinity, a little peach and a lot of cleansing damp stone throughout.  That may in part be down to the mica schist upon which the melon de Bourgogne vines thrive; Muscadet may come from any of several, ancient, many-layered soils, and this one produces a distinct minerality that cleanses the palate and shivers the timbers.

Maison Nicolas Idiart Sauvignon Blanc, 2013, around $14:  A sumptuous, affordable introduction to Loire’s adroitness with sauvignon blanc, the second of the three white wine grapes that make up the bulk of its planted acreage—or hectarage, or whatever.  The wine is from Touraine, and from juice that was either free-flow or from the first pressing, leading to a lot of grapefruit sweetness in the bouquet and palate and not so much of the herbaceous grassiness that may dominate in this variety.  Having made singular wines from this grape in New Zealand, he learned that much of the overblown headiness in those classic Marlborough blockbusters tends to fade in a year or two, he chooses a brighter, more restrained fermentation, which develops an undercurrent of citrus and gooseberry flavors.

sancerreMaison Nicolas Idiart Sancerre, 2013, around $28:  Sancerre—a village in Loire’s eastern half and opposite Pouilly-Fumé along the river—is home to one of the world’s classic interpretations of sauvignon blanc.  Idiart refers to his as ‘porcelain-like’ and I can find no better descriptor.  Planted on dry, chalky caillote, the wine is both delicate and full; pristine with clear notes of lemon, a slightly smokiness and a grapefruit rind in the lengthy finish.  There’s not a trace of oxidation, (to which the grape juice is susceptible) and which sometimes makes these wines (from lesser producers) take on notes of canned peas; rather, the clarity and precision of purpose is astonishing.

Matelote d’Anguilles.

Matelote d’Anguilles.

Maison Nicolas Idiart Pinot Noir, 2013, around $14:  If you’ve got fourteen bucks to spend on pinot noir and choose to spend it on some thin, mass-produced, bitter pinot that is—more than likely—25% not pinot noir, the inmates have already taken over the asylum.  Idiart’s pinot is light and wonderfully refreshing, showing all the nuanced angles of a decent Burgundy—black cherries, earth and an intriguing meatiness—if none of the brooding depth.  It’s a wine that calls out for seafood; ideally, fresh Loire River eel stewed in red wine—the local favorite called Matelote d’Anguilles.

 

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Rudy Kurniawan: Orange Is The New Burgundy

L. Rudy R. Howdy-Doody

L. Rudy
R. Howdy-Doody

On Thursday, August 7, 2014, Rudy Kurniawan was sentenced to ten years in prison for selling counterfeit wine to rich people, who did not notice that the wine inside the fancy bottles they bought was fake because they did not buy it to drink it, they bought it to sell it to other richer people for even more money.

Total damage was estimated to be in the neighborhood of $30 million.

Lesson learned, kiddo?  Do not fuck with rich people’s money.

Rich drunk jizz stain, Ethan Couch.

Rich drunk jizz-stain Ethan Couch.

I say that while pointing out another high-profile 2014 case involving rich people; namely, affluenza-victim Ethan Couch, a rich Texas teen who got plastered on stolen (but non-counterfeit) Wal-Mart beer and—sans driver’s license—drove a Ford 350 into a stalled vehicle, which was rammed into another vehicle, which crashed into another vehicle, and when the dust had cleared, four people lay dead, none of them named Couch.

For that lapse of judgment, the poor little rich boy also received ten years…

Of probation.

Rudy, Rudy, Rudy…

Mrs. Kurniawan has been reduced to smoking old stogies she has found.  Fat, but not too big around.

Mrs. Kurniawan has been reduced to smoking old stogies she has found.  Short, but not too big around.

Well, nobody is shedding tears for Kurniawan, not even those close enough to him to be able to pronounce his name, not even his mother, who used to be a rich person until Rudy spent $40 million of the family shekels on wine.  That might have been okay, except that rather than enjoy it, he figured out how to make fake labels, fake cork stamps and fake bottle waxings and now owes $30 million in restitution on top of the $20 million the feds seized.  You don’t need to be an investment banker to figure out that even if some dolt buys Rudy’s cellar at face value, this leaves the Kurniawan klan with a net loss of ten mil.  Ouch; I’m sure Mrs. K. hasn’t been so broody or moody since Rudy made a doody inside his prep school suity.

His dense defense, by the way, begged for leniency because he ripped off rich people instead of poor people.  Talk about a lawyer who just… doesn’t… get it.

If it looks like a Koch, smells like a Koch...

If it looks like a Koch, smells like a Koch…

Among the wealthy investors scammed by the 37-year-old Indonesian-Chinese con man was billionaire William Koch—the non-political Koch Brother—who admits to having been hoodwinked for $2.1 million in fake Kurniawan wine, including a bogus 1949 Chateau Lafleur and an ersatz 1947 Chateau Petrus.

Since then, smarting from his dumbness, Koch claims to have spent $25 million investigating fraudulent wine.

$25 million?  You don’t need to be a commodity trader to figure out that even if he is reimbursed, this leaves Koch with a net loss of $22.9 million.

Calling Koch a sucker would be too obvious?

An open letter to rich people: 

Due diligence is worth its weight in Clos St. Denis Cuvée Très Vieilles Vignes, especially from vintages where they actually produced it.

Love, Your Life Coach; Hell, Norway. 

Among Rudy’s more infamous noose-tightening screw-ups included trying to auction bottles of Domaine Ponsot Clos Saint-Denis from the 1940s when the winery didn’t start producing from the appellation until 1982.  He did it again in 2006, consigning six bottles of Georges Roumier Bonnes Mares 1923, a year before the Chambolle-Musigny domaine was founded.

Adding insult to injury, he consigned so many cases of diddled Domaine de la Romanée-Conti (unbeknownst to the diddlees) that he became known as ‘Dr. Conti’.

‘Pruno, Here I Come…’

Rude boy awaiting Rudy's arrival.

Pruno-proud rude boy awaiting Rudy’s arrival.

All of which resulted in snooty Rudy consigning his beauty bootie to the penal tutti-frutti, where his first rudy awakening will be to discover that, whereas prisons have an Aryan Nation clique, a Black Power crew, a La Raza and even a Vietnamese syndicate, there are, alas, no Indonesian Chinese gangs he can join.

However, there is light at the end of his decade-long, protection-free tunnel.  He may find that his mastery of mixology can be useful in concocting that most sought after of hoosegow hootch, pruno, generally made with stuff you find laying around the commissary—ketchup, candy and fruit cocktail juice fermented with the yeast from squished-up pieces of bread.

"Call this punishment??"

“Call this punishment??”

Since, as Dr. Conti will no doubt discover, this beverage is as good as Blue Chip stocks in the gen pop black market, his ability to fake real pruno should make him as valued a prison commodity as Martha Stewart was with her do-it-yourself cell phones made from Q-Tips, twist-ties and those prison-issued maximum security doilies that Tea Party conservatives are always bitching about.

Since a standard substitute used in counterfeit pruno is botulism-flavored vomit, I have no doubt that anyone with Kurniawan’s think-on-his-feet inventiveness will have no problem finding a niche in the ol’ bastille.

Unless, of course, his breeding gets the better of him and he accidentally labels it ‘Pruneaux’.

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The Hoopes Scoop: Elegance In Oakville

I’ll spare you the ‘jumping through hoops’ groaner: No need.  The wine is above such puerile puns, the label notwithstanding.

prodigyHoopes Family Vineyard reminds me of one of those prodigy kids who realizes she was born with an extraordinary gift—athletics, math, violinity, whatever—and runs with it.  Does not stumble, succumb to fame, dip into the drug stash or lose sight of focus, but develops said talent in logical, almost pre-ordained steps all the way up the ladder.

I say ‘she’ because, in 2014, Hoopes is very much an estrogen-drenched operation, but I’ll get to that.

That's Spencer Hoopes upper left.

That’s Spencer Hoopes upper left.

A decade before Oakville became a federally recognized AVA, Spencer Hoopes—a farmer with a name like a farmer in a Steinbeck novel—bought ten acres of land in the Napa River bench land and set out to grow what then, as now, was the region’s cash cow—cabernet sauvignon.

He wasn’t alone in his choice of cultivar of course, but his choice of grafting stock was somewhat unusual.  He planted on St. George rootstock, known to be low yielding but hearty—a risk that paid off when phylloxera—the Black Plague of viticulture—dropped in, and many of his neighbors lost their vines.  His survived, and most of them are still producing, making them among the oldest cabernet vines in Oakville.

In 1993, the AVA was approved as a two-mile-wide swath of Napa Valley rising to about 600 feet in elevation up the bases of the Vaca and Mayacamas Mountains.  It’s fair to say that the concentration of top cabernet producers here is startling: Oakville is home to Opus One, Far Niente, Heitz Martha’s Vineyard along with about fifty other, mostly boutique-sized producers of California’s most sought after cabernets.

liparita v block 09Hoopes spent seventeen years selling premium cabernet grapes to nearly all the big-name window-dressers in Oakville and Yountville, but finally decided to release his own label in 1999.  Six years later he upped the ante by reviving the Liparita name, a century-old winery which had pioneered appellation-specific Napa wines.  Press has been steady and phenomenal for both brands, and can they justly claim bragging rights to being reminiscent of (according to Anthony Dias Blue) Screaming Eagle—a wine that retails for ten times as much.

In 2013, Spencer Hoopes turned the managerial reins of the winery to his daughter Lindsay, and is the front-of-the-house estrogen I alluded to earlier; back-of-the-house is winemaker Anne Vawter, and apparently, under-the-table are a couple of female rescue dogs.  Dogs being a welcome winery mascot, as the label clearly indicates.

Lindsay Hoopes in B'ham.

Lindsay Hoopes in B’ham.

I was fortune enough to meet Lindsay in downtown Birmingham for a tasting of current releases. She is forceful and funny, and appears poised to launch the label into a new era:  “We’re making the transition to a more elegant, less extracted style which shows off the unique fruit we’re capable of growing.  We’ve always been somewhat old school in our vineyard—we keep our rows 12 feet apart without traditional trellising.  Plus, our location is such that when the Napa River floods, we get new deposits of topsoil every year; with that kind of fertility and old vines we can harvest at five tons an acre.  That allows us to keep our wines affordable while showcasing the inherent elegance of our cab; soft acids, great fruit projecting unique minerality.”

And—humor me, s’il vous plaît —I’d say that Screaming Eagle-ish cab at Oakville Ranch prices is worth two round hoops and a holler squared.

Tasting Notes (Other than the 2012, these wines were made by Anne Vawter’s predecessor, Jason Fisher):

Hoopes ‘Hoopla’ Chardonnay, 2012, about $20:  This is the kind of chardonnay that drives Francophiles bonkers:  It is clean and totally unoaked, rich with syrupy pear notes and natural butter held aloft by steely acidity; in-your-face without smacking you in the kisser.  Lees aging rounds out the variety’s fundamental creaminess without resorting to ponderousness of some Napa oak-fermented, oak-aged chards.

Okay, so the label is a year off.

Okay, so the label is a year off.

Hoopes ‘Hoopla—‘The Mutt’ (Red), 2011, around $30:  A huge, berry-scented mouthful; a blend of mostly cab, with merlot and petit sirah in supporting roles.  Silky but crisp with wild blackberry and currant, the wine shows ripe fruit and ripe tannins and is a bargain at the price point—more so than the name, cute as it may be, might suggest.

Liparita Cabernet Sauvignon, Oakville, 2010, around $60:  The ghost is smoking hot and very much alive—rattling the chains, even.  A big, beautiful wallop of bright red fruit, bracing acidity, pure tannins and a heart that reflects the richness that only optimally ripe cab can show.

Liparita Cabernet Sauvignon V-Block, Yountville, 2010, about $60:  Terroir laid bare:  Same grape, same winemaker, totally different flavor profile with a much more pronounced minerality, and whether that’s ultimately down to soil of succinic acid is immaterial: It’s there.  The fruit feels softer in the mouth and the tannins move forward, settling under the upper lip, leaving the impression of a finely structured wine a few years away from total balance.  But, with other subtle flavors that should emerge with age, that is a plus.

bottleHoopes Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon, Oakville, 2010, around $65:  No need for comparison to iconic superlatives; it lessens the fact that the wine is benchmark to begin with.  Elegant indeed; aromas of smoky plum, spicy blackberry and Bing cherry up front; cedar, mocha and a touch of wild spice finding space in the rear. Unusual for its depth of fruit as well as the fact that unlike nearly all other cabs on the market, this is not a blend, but purely the product a single varietal. This is a vineyard that implicitly—and with justification—trusts its cab.


* Notes On Other People’s Notes:

(In doing my due diligence I noticed the following contrasting notes, which struck me as noteworthy enough to note with additional notes):

 

Jason Fisher

Jason Fisher

Winemaker’s Notes:  ‘The aromas from the glass are cherry, anise and dark chocolate. The initial taste sensations are classic Hoopes Cabernet, including cedar, tobacco, allspice and black fruits. This 2009 vintage reminds winemaker Jason Fisher of the great 1999 vintage – long, lush and shows integration of time and balance.

Like how the winemaker refers to himself in the third person, but not sure how a wine can, upon release, show the integration of time.

These are 92 point nails, WE.  Sorry.

These are 92 point nails, WE. Sorry.

Wine Enthusiast Notes:  “The tannins are tough as nails on this 100% Cabernet, so even though it has a beautiful core of blackberries and cassis, it isn’t drinkable now. Such is the purity of the structure that the wine should easily hold its own for 10–12 years, throwing sediment and gathering mellow sweetness. Cellar Selection”  92 Points,  Wine Enthusiast.

Hang on, WE.  How does an ‘undrinkable’ wine merit a 92? How does a review that begins with ‘The tannins are tough as nails’ end up with a mindblowing number the score column?  I get it, the wine should age well, but seriously, that is a wait-‘n’-see game, isn’t it?  Awarding 92 points to a wine that isn’t yet, but might someday be worth 92 point, is sort of an invalidation of the scale’s usefulness to begin with.

 

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