- 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.

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.

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!

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 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

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’:

1. Mow not thy lawn; let the grass grow freely, as God intended.
2. 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.
3. On this day, you may with clear conscience call people in irreversible comas ‘vegetables’.
4. 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.

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.

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!

Newsflash, March 21, 2013:

LANSING — Governor Rick Snyder has declared April as ‘Michigan Wine Month’ to honor Michigan’s wide selection of quality wines and the wine industry’s significant contribution to the economy…

Billy Bad Boy

I was sent this press release by Karel Bush, a woman who I love and respect even though she is beholden to state politics via the Michigan Grape and Wine Industry Council and has to send it.

In fact, she has sent it every year since the Battle of Hastings, when William the Conqueror became King of England.

Caligula riding Father Incitatus

Which gives you a slight idea of why I don’t throw ticker tape parades when I receive it: The Governor always ‘declares’ April ‘Michigan Wine Month’, so it is about as newsworthy as when the Governor declares May ‘Michigan Brown Bat, ‘The Other White Meat’ Month’ like he has done every year since Caligula started diddling his sisters and appointing his horses as priests.

By the way, I am using the masculine pronoun ‘he’ in the above sentence because I am too cranky to think in terms of ‘gender-neutral’ and too lazy to write ‘he and/or she’—although, for the record, in everything else I will always use four words when one will do—as I have done every year since Christ was critiquing the carpentry work done on His cross.

Beauty and the Patootie

Indeed, our last governor was a woman, and one I sort of dug; not necessarily for her politics, but because, other than a pre-cancerous mole on her cheek, she was sort of hot.  Current Governor Rick Snyder is the antithesis of hot.  He is a sniveling, smarmy, geeky, preppy, career politician—and worse, he is an unnerving ‘high achiever’ who could probably sell Marlboros to a hospice.  And believe me, there is nothing that pisses off an unnerving low achiever like me (who couldn’t sell dope to a junkie) more than somebody who earns three college degrees by the age of 23 and was, in 2012, considered for the Vice Presidency of the United States.

Plus, his name rhymes with ‘spider’.  Enough said?

But all that’s personal, and I like to think of myself as someone who sees ‘The Big Picture’.  Not the gihugical picture of George W. Bush’s wanker that hangs over Snyder’s desk, but whether or not his economic policies actually help Michigan’s wine industry.

I’m in the ‘not’ camp.

Wake up, Flo! Time to go to sleep!

Like most multi-millionaire Republicans, Snyder has never met a big business tax cut or special interest group’s special interests he didn’t like.  In December, for example, during the State Legislature’s frenzied lame duck session, Snyder officially made Michigan a right-to-work state despite twelve thousand proletarian protestors screaming outside his office.  What they knew, Snyder certainly knew and probably better: Eight of the 10 states with the highest poverty rates are right-to-work.  The legislation was a cave-in to union-hating mega-corporations of a magnitude not seen since Florence Nightingale discovered the joys of smoking opium.

Meanwhile, most Michigan small business owners oppose expanding Medicaid coverage as proposed by Governor Snyder in his recent budget address.

We don’t have any Ernest and Julios here in Michigan; the vast majority of our wineries produce less than five thousand cases annually, so any legislation that favors big over small—and let’s be honest, Lilliputian—business interests does not seem to warrant the pats-on-the-back credit that Governor Snyder is absorbing for his obligatory, stupid ‘Wine Month’ proclamation.

From my admittedly limited eyrie, I see that the steady increases in sales of Michigan  wine are happening in spite of—not because of—Governor Snyder.

Now, Some Good News for We Michiganistani…

In 2012, in-state sales of Michigan wine rose more than 6% while total wine sales increased a mere 1%. Michigan wine sales have outpaced total wine sales over the past 10 years, doubling Michigan wineries’ market share to 6.5 %.

Eleven new Michigan wineries opened in 2012, bringing the state total to 101.  How cool is that?  Ask the million visitors that descend upon Michigan winery tasting room every year.

And how valuable is that?  At last count, Michigan’s wine and grape industries contribute more than $800 million to the state’s economy annually.

You want a back to pat?  Try a few folks who really have the industry’s back:

Shannon and Cortney Casey

Try Cortney and Shannon Casey’s, whose Michigan By The Bottle blog and podcasts focus entirely on Michigan wines and whose newly opened Michigan By The Bottle Tasting Room in Shelby Township does the same—only in a somewhat more lip-smacking manner.

Try John Lossia of Merchant’s Fine Wine’s, whose selection of Michigan wines is, I believe, the finest in the state.

Try Karel Bush’s, whose ceaseless promotion of Michigan wine continues through rain and sleet and gloom of night.  Sort of like the US Postal Service, only without the disgruntled mass murderers.

Sacred Heart of Jesus.  Eeeeew.

Try the collective backs of Walter Brys (Brys Estate Vineyard & Winery), Jeff Lemon (Lemon Creek Winery) and Martin Lagina (Villa Mari) who sit on the The Michigan Grape and Wine Industry Council Board to represent winery interests.

But, for the love of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, not the back of he whose poll numbers have tanked to such a hilarious nadir that in hypothetical reelection contests, every proposed Democrat tested—even ones who those canvassed had never heard of—showed a better chance of winning.

That’s right: Governor Rhymes With Spider.

And I often get called a panty-waisted momma’s boy eunuch, without taste, testosterone or a grasp of life’s finer pleasures.

Not because I like Beaujolais Nouveau, of course, but because I also like that effeminate and estrogen-engrossed effervescent effluvia, Diet Vernor’s Ginger Ale—a.k.a, Liquid Gay.

Now, I understand that flippant use of the word ‘gay’ is rued by the same Conan O’Brian-watching, James Taylor-listening-to, lily-white Americans who also rue calling their streets ‘rues’. The French—those amphibian-appendage-amputating fleur-de-lis—have no such qualms.  They call their streets rues without batting an oeil while using the word ‘gay’ as flippantly as they damn well please.  I mean, for example, take ‘Gay Paree’.  (Really, French People??).

Or the Moulin Rouge, established during the Gay Nineties.  Located in Paris on Rue de Clichy, the Moulin Rouge was home of the raucous revue called the can-can, which may or may not have been a ‘gay thing’—but any time you are so in love with cans you have to use the word twice in a single word, you are suspect.

Whatever, boys.

The Moulin Rouge was also the home-away-from-home of pint-sized Parisien painter Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, who may or may not have been gay—but any time your best friend is Oscar Wilde, you’re suspect.

Anyway, the French not only have a Moulin Rouge, they also have a Moulin-à-Vent; arguably the most noteworthy of the ten Crus of Beaujolais.

Which is a circuitous rue to getting this column back on track.

Moulin-à-Reinvent

You gotta love the soil of Moulin-à-Vent: It comes from the Hercynian fold that took place during the Paleozoic era, about 250 million years ago!

And as if that tidbit isn’t fascinating enough, folks, said soil is also so toxic that it virtually (but not quite) kills off the gamay vines.

And that’s why their wine is so good.

That is the sort of idiocy paradox that makes the subject of wine so interesting.  As most people know, poor soils make good wines (http://intoxreport.com/2013/03/08/enough-with-the-shite-slinging-lets-dish-some-dirt-instead/), but this little patch of Beaujolais, sharing a border with Chénas to the north and Fleurie to the west, has really taken things to extremes.

The culprit (or hero) is manganese.  As a reference to those of you who weren’t chemistry majors—or were, but opted for a career in methamphetamines and are now either dead or brain-fried—manganese is an element often associated with  neurological disorders, impaired motor skills and something really lovely called necrosis of the mucous membrane.  It is a vital additive to gasoline and indispensable to the manufacture of disposable batteries.

‘How does he smell?’
‘Awful’

Since grape vines have no noses to necrosisize and generally require few motor skills, what manganesy soil does in Moulin-à-Vent is stunt plant growth and limit crop yields.  This is a good thing: The smaller grapes are intense and concentrated and—another anomaly—the nose from wines produced by these no-nose vines is by far the most pronounced in Beaujolais, with distinct notes of iris, violets, spice and cherry.

It is the opinion of most wine know-it-alls enologists that the wines of Moulin-à-Vent are the best expression of gamay to be found anywhere in the civilized world—and California too. In fact, (here’s a word that even jerkoffs who claim to know more about wine than me, and do, but shouldn’t brag about it about it, because it’s impolite Master Sommeliers may have to look up) the wines of Moulin-à-Vent are said to ‘pinote’, meaning that they become more like pinot noir, especially as they age.

And that’s another rarity in Beaujolais:  Moulin-à-Vent is frequently barrel-aged. If you find the phrase ‘fûts de chêne’ on your Moulin-à-Vent label, you have one of these buggers and should cellar it for about six years—from there, they may cellar for another decade.  This is in contrast to Beaujolais Nouveau, which peaks on the third Friday of November.

These Windmill Crackers Sho Nuff Know Dey Bidness

Moulin-a-ventmill

Although the appellation ‘Moulin-à-Vent’ has only been around since 1925, there have been wines grown here since the land was called Gaul and de Gaulle wasn’t even a tremor in his old man’s de gaulsack.

The Romans first started growing vines here in the 1^st century—a landmark date to be sure, although maybe not as much as the 15th century, when a windmill was built atop a hill overlooking the town of Romaneche-Thorins.

This iconic windmill has become as enduring an emblem to the folks of Moulin-à-Vent as the giant red windmill atop the Moulin Rouge is to all those can-can-copulating Gay Pareesians.

Ha!  And I’ll bet my sweet bippy that you didn’t in 250 million years think I be able find the same circuitous rue to getting this column back off track.

Tasting Notes:

Louis Jadot Moulin-à-Vent Château des Jacques, 2009, about $17:  An oak-driven nose, with vanilla and caramel; also a nice whiff of blackberry.  Earthy and herbal with full black cherry on the palate and a finish that hangs around like a stalker.  The wine is still a little tight; a probably needs a few more cellar years.

Potel-Aviron Moulin-a-Vent Vieilles Vignes, 2008, around $17:  Shows intense color, between garnet and ruby.  Fleshy, while displaying archetypal aromas of violets—the tannins remain in the background while full cherry and subtle spice stand front and center.  An appealing, long finish.

Joseph Drouhin Moulin-a-Vent, 2010, around $20:  Highly concentrated wine; deep purple with well-marked but velvety tannins.  Floral on the nose, fresh, juicy and fruity on the tongue, showing a well-ripened cherry, bright blackberry and damson character.  Lovely selection, well worth the dough.

Georges Dubouef Domaine de la Tour du Bief Moulin-a-Vent, 2009, about $18: Ripe strawberry and tart cherry aromas flesh out this serious, structured wine.  There’s a viscous and  grapey palate with sweet fruitiness but also. a strongly expressive character.

Lugh is my co-pilot

I often send petitions of thanks to the Irish god Lugh that I did not pursue a career in winemaking, because sure as Lugh made little green shamrocks, I would have failed.  As a gardening geek, I have O but not so much the CD—I tend to throw seeds anywhere I feel like throwing them and simply wait to see what happens.

As a viticulturist, you can’t really get away with that—some vines grow better, some worse, in specific spots.  That’s due to a number of factors—hillside exposure, sunlight, adequate moisture from rain or run-off, proper air and water drainage—and each varietal has its bucket list of personal needs.  But even when all the stars have aligned, results may in fact be un-stellar.

That leaves a grumbling gleaner of grapes with another consideration:  Dirt.

Rooting Out the Problems…

‘Vineyard soil is the unseen dankness where the vineroots suck…’

- Hugh ‘Maybe I’m Not So Smart After All’ Johnson

The ground geology of a given vineyard begins with bedrock and ends with soil, with a whole lot of terraforming going on in between.  In brief, the parent material and the mineralogy which results lays a coal-and-ice foundation for that overused—and often misused—word ‘terroir’; the way that the French describe ‘a sense of the place’.

Nobody questions that wine absorbs specific chemical nutrients from subsoils weathered from specific types of bedrock—or that twelve of the sixteen essential elements required by wine grapes come from the ground.

How these elements ultimately inspire flavors in your wine glass is a science with somewhat less authority.  That soil affects grape quality is not arguable, with depth, pH, salinity and particle size all playing a role in producing healthy fruit.  But how much of that translates into aromatics, and by default, flavor, divides wine scholars into separate camps.

Rare image of moi, le auteur, during a prison riot.

Me, being a wino, not a scholaro, can give both sides their dues.  Both sides make perfect sense to me—which is why I never get picked for jury duty.  Prosecutor makes his case, I thrust out my down-turned thumb and shout, ‘Fry the mofo!’; then the Defense has their shot and I immediately scream, ‘Attica!  Attica!’

In other words, I am a pushover.

Before we get into the debate, here is an ABC aperçu of the world’s most significant wine grape soils:

Alluvial: Generally found in valleys and at the base of hills, these soils contain a lot of organic material (alluvium) deposited from running rivers; such soils are extremely fertile and generally layered, since different current speeds cause different deposit conditions.  Most of the soils in Alsace are alluvial, although a distinction is seen in individual vineyards based on their elevation.

If Mt. St. Helen Keller erupted and nobody but Helen Keller was around, would it make a sound?

Basalt: Volcanic soil, high in trace elements like calcium, iron, and magnesium; they readily absorb heat and generally generally have a high cation (positively-charged ion) exchange capability, enhancing the vine’s ability to absorb nutrients.  Basaltic soils can be found in Sicily, Santorini, Israel’s Golan Heights, the Deccan Plateau of India, southeastern Australia and the U.S. Pacific Northwest.

Calcareous:  Whereas purely alkaline soils with a  pH > 8.5 offer poor structure and an inhospitable agricultural environment, the presence of plant-accessible calcium carbonate—the the principal chemical component of limestone—offers balance to acidic soils and improves water retention in droughts and water drainage in floods, making it one of the most highly sought after soils in the wine world.  Indeed, although it is rare in California (some exists in the west side of Paso Robles), the great vineyards of Champagne, Chablis, the Loire, southern Rhône and Bordeaux’s Saint-Emilion are rich in limestone.

Chalk:  The roots of a grape vine cannot penetrate solid limestone, but chalky soils are made of porous limestone; such soils are prized for their drainage, not necessarily for their fertility—most need the addition of organic matter to grow world-class grapes.  Pure chalk soils are rare, and tend to produce wines that are high in acid.  You find them in areas of Champagne, Jerez (Spain’s Sherry country) and especially Cognac, where the wine is too sour to drink, but distills into the iconic brandy.

Granite:  Prized for its quartz content (up to 60%), granitic soils are well-drained and seem to lend a quality of freshness, beguiling juiciness and bright acidity to wines in which they’re grown.  Sound like Beaujolais?  It should; the southernmost appellation of Burgundy contains some of the most concentrated granite soils on earth, especially in the area producing Cru Beaujolais.  Other granite hot-spots are Germany’s Rhône Valley, where riesling thrives, Portugal’s Douro region and especially in Mendoza, Argentina where it contributes to malbec’s wild ‘n’ crazy success.

Gravel:  Pebble soil appreciated for its ability to drain and renounced for a lack of alluvial sediments.  In Bordeaux, on the left bank of the Garonne river, gravel soils reach a sort of viticulturist Valhalla: In fact, the appellation ‘Graves’ is named for its magical gravel.  The result of deposits from Ice Age glaciers, the soil also contains a high proportion of white quartz to keep the wines acidic and fresh-tasting.

L.: Mullet.  R.: Mullet

Joe Dirt: Unnaturally occurring soil made of Green Kleen Sweeping Compound, fireworks residue and organic substrates (e.g. mullet sperm) that are formed under mop-waterlogged conditions. These soils contain glass cleaner (predominantly Windex) which reacts with oxygen to form sulfuric acid that is used to to wash blue jeans.

Loam:  A mix of clay, sand and silt in varying proportions, loam soils are porous when the proportion of sand is high, and super-fertile when then advantage goes to clay, although these moisture-retaining versions are tough to plow.  Nearly all of the world’s vineyards contain a proportion of loam, lending texture and organic nutrition to the vineyard.

Alsace

Sandstone: A warm and easy-draining soil made of tiny particles of sedimentary rock from the Triassic Era; it’s characteristic porosity requires irrigation of the part of vineyard managers, but they are rewarded with a soil that is inhospitable to phylloxera.  Wines grown in sandstone reach amazing heights in Alsace, where they are credited with aiding and abetting that region’s intensely floral wine bouquets.

Slate:  Formed when shale and clay are subjected to strong geothermic pressures, slate is an invaluable component in the soils of Germany’s chilly Mosel region: It warms quickly and retains heat throughout the night.

Tufa: A cousin to limestone, tufa is formed through a chemical reaction when carbonate minerals precipitates within ambient water sources.  Over time, calcareous bedrock breaks down into a marvelously friable, finely-textured soil.  In Loire, tufa is able to transform chenin blanc—a rather forgettable grape elsewhere—into transcendent, age-worthy wines.

Dirt Doesn’t Hurt, But Does It Really Re-Assert, or Just Play Curt?

It depends who you ask and who you are.

And among folks who label themselves ‘wine people’, the controversy rages like the subject of global warming, gay marriage and whether it was Oswald or George Bush, Sr. who shot JFK.

I can tell you in advance which side you support if you admit to me honestly which of these two geek profiles best fits your psycho-dynamics…

Kangaroo ejectamenta

1)  I am a Professor of Geology at Harvard University who did under-graduate work on the soil substrates underlying the world’s top vineyards.  I am grounded in earth science, but have a keen sense of humor, as evidenced by that ‘ground/earth’ joke I just made.  Five years ago, I went to Australia on a National Science Foundation post-doctoral fellowship to study the geological impact of kangaroo ejectamenta (shit) throughout Penfold’s shiraz vineyards, particularly those used to make Grange.

Despite my nerdy credentials, I am gregarious and well-liked by my colleagues, especially those of a feminine persuasion.  When ‘rock’ hard, my penis is nine inches long, which converts to 228.6 millimeters.

I have concluded, and so published in The Journal Of The Geological Society of America, the following:

‘Chemicals taken up by the vine cannot register as minerality in the finished wines and geology has no effect on the detectable flavors in wine.  Whatever sense of ‘minerality’ you detect, it is likely the result of a lack of fruitiness, not the the vineyard’s soil composition…’

 Or…

2)  I am a hopeless dweeb without friends who believes that the U.S. Government is hiding alien corpses in Building 84 at Roswell; I am awkward around human beings, but I do not possess the intelligence to fill my social oblivion with high-tech pursuits like robotics or knitting.  I have a made-up girlfriend that I ‘say things to’ on Facebook.  I am afraid of all grown-ups except for Randall Grahm, because I sense that we are birds of a feather.  I believe anything he says.  Such like:

‘Carignan, when bottled early, surtout en Stelvin, has a tendency to express a sort of stoniness—this is a manifestation of the phenomenon of minerality, especially in virtue of the age of the vines.’

To bolster his theory, Grahm performed a nerdly experiment in which he put rocks into full barrels of wine to see if mineral flavor and aromas would be communicated.  His conclusion: ‘The stones had some effect on the wine, adding far more complexity and greater persistence to the palate.’

So there you have it: I have no doubt you side with the Professor, because nobody sane admits to siding with Randall, even if you like Bonny Doon.

But that isn’t even the point.  The point is that in any methodical experiment meant to prove/disprove a hypothesis, it is not the observation (in this case, Pouilly-Fumé that tastes like gunflint or slate flavors in Dr. Loosen’s riesling) that is important: It is the principle behind the observation.  Without a demonstrable viticultural theory as to why the phenomenon occurs, you may as well discount the tasting notes as the product of pre-conception, imagination, and/or copycat, limited-skill tasters.

According to Professor Alex Maltman, a geologist at Aberystwyth University in Wales, the notion that minerals absorbed from the soil make their way into the stemware, thus giving it local flavor is ‘a beguiling and simple idea that wine journalists love, but it not only isn’t true, it couldn’t be true: While wines may vary in the levels of dissolved mineral elements, the variations aren’t related to the levels of those elements in vineyard soil. More importantly, the concentration of minerals in wine is below the threshold of human taste and smell.’

Maybe so, Maltmilk, you patronizing poindexter—but mangez some marsupial merde anyway.  I myself am a wine (anti-) journalist who does not love this beguiling and simple idea, and in fact, I am in the process of trying to blow it out of the tub.

And not for nothing?  Instead of dirt, I would rather be writing about government conspiracies, UFOs and the fact that Welsh is the most absurd language on earth.  I mean, really, Professor Maltliquor? Aberystwyth?  On the banks of the Ystwyth?  Near the towns of Llanbadarn Fawr, Penparcau and Comins Coch?

Closing Remarks…

In any event, over a large number of iterations, the conclusion at which we have arrived: There is no explanation or predictive power for the null hypothesis that a specific terroir can be identified by taste and smell alone, and therefore, all old assumptions must be discounted.

Onward and upward, then; better living through chemistry; praise the Lord, you bastards: Pass the Bâtard-Montrachet.