Into The Black

Until Wednesday, my only reaction to "Donn Reisen" would have been "Must we keep taking orthographical liberties with our first names?" I knew of Paul Draper, the winemaker and public face of Ridge, but the rest of the iceberg was underwater, out of sight.

Donn Reisen was the President--the top businessman, the irresistible evangelist, presumably the glue of the whole thing. I'll give the press the benefit of the doubt and presume that his death earlier this week was in fact a gun suicide. He was a sixty year-old man with glasses, groomed mustache, tucked-in shirt. Head of an A-list winery. A far cry from my generation's suicide icon, Kurt (Donald!) Cobain. But now their stories converge on the last page, the only one many will ever read.

This happens, this will always happen. Most are able, consciously or not, to stanch the flow of emotional sewage perpetually threatening to drown the brain and heart. A few aren't, and we remember them as some combination of cowardly, tragic, weak, beautiful, eternally damned. We want a few more minutes with them so we can wrap them in a furious hug before beating out their pain.

I still don't really get this one. Donn Reisen, you had the wine world by the grapes. When Monte Bello scored its latest 95+, were you in your office with the door locked and your palms pressed to your eyes? How often were you the guy in the room everyone recognized, wanted to meet, wanted to impress? I guess that gets old, like it did for Hemingway, Marilyn, Primo Levi, Ian Curtis, and all the others who couldn't even look on bright side of the sun. Still I, forty months out of college and adrift in the world but for my love of wine, would do anything to have your life. The visible part, at least.

To me, Ridge = Zinfandel. I haven't been in a right enough place at a right enough time to taste Monte Bello yet, but a Lytton Springs 2005 I had last year kicked doors open. Then the "Three Valleys" 2006, a Zin blend that looks insane on paper but alongside juicy red flesh and hearty vegetables is probably the best $15-$20 red wine on earth. Most recent was the Paso Robles 2006, which struck me as way too graceful to be 14.6%. All magnets for critical and consumer acclaim, and more importantly wonderful wines. How great must it feel to have any hand in their creation, let alone be the man responsible for guiding them to our glasses. It scares me shitless to know that there exists a darkness capable of overpowering this.

Donn Reisen could probably have Monte Bello with his lunch every day and swap untouchable bottles with the President of (insert cult winery) at will. Somehow he burned out, and the sad fact is that for most of us, he'll fade away as we hobble through our week towards another gloomy Sunday. Why do wine's celestial pleasures give life's gremlins the chance to catch up?


Recent notables:

• Domaine Barry Cotes-du-Rhone 2006 - Translucent maroony purple. Nose might be more spice than fruit--particularly black pepper from, probably, Grenache. OK tannins and sharp acidity makes this an acceptable "food wine" (is that just a euphemism?), but it doesn't quite have the hedonistic gravitas that makes lots of CDRs such steals.
• Marquee Wines "Classic GSM" (Australia) 2006 - The sugariest "dry" red wine I've ever had. And it's still 15%! Powerful stuff. I admit I was drinking it out of a plastic souvenir cup (think baseball game beers) which may have contributed a strange-but-not-gross bubblegummy aroma. Massive body without much in the way of tannins, and plenty of juicy berry fruit (what an embarrassment this would be without tons of fruit). Not bad for the price if you like HUGE, though I'll stick with Pillar Box Red until it breaks the $15 barrier.
  
• Excelsior "Paddock" Shiraz 2007 - Inky with a floral/pine foresty nose, this is a balling example of how South Africa rolls when it comes to Shiraz. Lots of curranty fruit in the mouth, and impressive acid for a blockbuster wine. Excelsior is 3-for-3 on my scorecard, this one joining their great Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay as definite keepers.
  

The Last Bulwark

If you like wine and you like the internets, you probably read Tom Wark's blog already.

If not, please start here. A kindred spirit.

Recent notables:

• Loosen Bros. "Dr. L" Mosel Riesling 2007: Aha, the solution to the Willi Schaefer dilemma posed in the last notes. Cold steel with peachy typicity, near-perfect sugar/acid balance, all comfortably under $15.
• Hogue Cellars Cabernet-Merlot 2004: Inky and viscous. Dark berries adorn a curvy profile with toasty caramel that will undoubtedly scare some away, but is just fine by me. Not much in the way of tannins, but in fairness it's four years old.

Fifteen Rounds With Apollo Greed, or, You've Gotta Be $$$$ing Kidding Me

I.

"But surely, Emperor," said Ausonius, "Surely the Gods would better favor the munificence you would demonstrate bestowing this wealth upon your subjects. The aqueduct at Nemausus is near collapse. . ."

There was a small knife now in Caligula's left hand, absently stroking the skin of a green apple.

"My dear poet, I am. . . disappointed," he began, his eyes on a painting hanging from the far wall. "Disappointed that a Roman of your renowned good taste would stand opposed to the most magnificent feast the world has ever seen. Spices are already en route from Persia and Thracian bulls have arrived for slaughter." The poet sighed. "Ausonius, this will be the ultimate legacy of my glorious reign. I asked you here because I wish your own Burdigalian wines to accompany the celebration. You will pour them beside me, your own glory recorded for all eternity. But if this offends you. . . you are free to go."

"Caesar," said Ausonius. He was unsure how to continue. "Please hear my humblest apologies. I would never deign to question your divine wisdom. It will be the honor of my life to stand beside you on this wonderful night. I will send for my finest wines at once."

"Thank you, Ausonius." The emperor let some time pass. "You may go." Ausonius kissed his outstretched hand and left.

Caligula stabbed the apple. "He is never to speak before the Senate again. No poet is ever to again." White knuckles twisted the knife until the fruit's core cracked and split into three chunks. "Fanciful, idealistic hearts--incapable of understanding matters of state. How dare he attack my decisions about the welfare of Rome?" He turned to Macro, the centurion at his right.

"Shall I inform him of your displeasure, Caesar?" the soldier asked.

"Yes," hissed Caligula. "And Macro--" Macro paused, having started for the door.

"Bring back every drop of his blood."


II.

A storm descended on the afternoon of the feast. Two men died in the scramble to erect tents in the palace garden. Caligula sulked in his chambers all day, occasionally snapping orders for things he neither needed nor wanted. Late in the afternoon he told his head servant to cancel the event and send everyone away. Having survived the post longer than any of his predecessors, the old man knew better and simply nodded. He had a dram of morphine sent to the emperor and continued directing the chaos in the garden.

The storm continued into the evening, but by then Caligula was under the tents in full regalia and apparent good spirits. The meager attendance was lost on him as he drank prodigiously from a dark bottle labeled with ornate Gallic script and spoke loudly to no one in particular. Guests ate ravenously, moreso out of nervousness than than appetite. Macro carved the first bull at sunset, and the eighth three hours later.

Caligula, now hopelessly drunk, was haranguing a senator at the central table. The squat politician's gestures of agreement were punctuated by reflexive lurches backwards when the emperor spat or leaned into his face to underscore a point. Finally the senator, himself saturated with meat and drink, turned sideways and emptied his gullet into a shrub. The table howled at the percussive retches harmonizing with the damp cadence of vomit striking soil.

The emperor joined the laughter at first but was too intoxicated to experience joy. He looked indifferently around his feast until he seized Macro in a long, expressionless eye contact, then raised his bottle and drank; unctuous, deep red.


III.

Meanwhile, with the American Empire declining and falling around my ankles, I banished all dialogue from my brain and took the first sip of Chateau d'Yquem 1988.


So you're a dime-a-case wine nerd: You don't have a swinging dick cellar, but you do own a tulip-shaped tasting glass, you can find Yecla on a map, touching a real Cheval Blanc label excites you indiscreetly, and somewhere along the line you've swallowed a few drops of really exquisite juice. The prospect of drinking Yquem '88 is going to occupy your daydreams for weeks. And so it did for this dweeb after floating the notion of a potluck, a potpowerball, to eight fellow pilgrims.

"With your best bottles in one hand and your best Escoffier impression in the other, the whole will spill like glowing lava over the sum of its parts," said I. Or maybe it was "Bring it on!" One best bottle was the big Y, chanced into a friend's collection by a set of circumstances that don't matter here. Fourteen others showcased different faces of scarcity, and like flags on a mini-golf course served as guideposts for a 360-minute dinner that unfolded in shameproof degrees.

I haven't had much caviar outside of the orange measles speckling $4 California rolls at quickie sushi joints, so a tin of domestic (no profits for Putin/Ahmadinedingdong) sturgeon eggs destined for creme fraiche-schmeared blini was an exotically exemplary way to kick things off. And when the aroma of the ocean distilled to a concentrated essence hooks up with Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame 1990, you just feel like finding a revolution to grind beneath your ibexskin boot. Few things get my mojo working like champagne in its last years of bright yellow color. An old-souled eighteen, Grande Dame 1990 was brassy and rich with a fizz so profound it felt like The Brothers Karamazov tapped in morse code on the tongue.

As insurance against anticlimax, we opened the Yquem next. This is not a wine that invites food-pairing creativity from mortals. So it was seared foie gras on toasted brioche with balsamic and sherry vinegar reduction. A lump of Roquefort stood by on each plate as, hah!, a palate cleanser.


Monsieur Lur Saluces, what have you done? The laser acidity hit me first, even ahead of a sweetness that I doubt exists anywhere else on earth. I felt compelled to make mental tasting notes, knowing this would be my only chance for a long time to codify MY OWN IMPRESSION OF CHATEAU D'YQUEM. No dice, of course. I did picture the candied peel of an especially edenic orange after the third or fourth sip, but try as I might it was so overwhelming I just couldn't bend it like Broadbent. Whatever. Half the bottle was still there, waiting.

Ordurvs over, the idea was to have whites before reds. A silky pea and basil soup stropped the razor edges of F.X. Pichler Gruner Veltliner Federspiel "Klostersatz" 2006 and Helfrich Riesling Grand Cru "Steinklotz" 2005. Pichler is a freaking genius. Every time fate has thrown his wines my way, my definition of "intensity" has been stretched, strained, ripped to confetti. I love them all.

Diver scallops in an eloquent cantaloupe-mint sauce propped up fatter wines. First, the symmetrically balanced Rustenberg "Five Soldiers" Chardonnay 2006, the finest non-Burgundy chard I've had excluding Dan Goldfield's single vineyard Sonoma bulls-eye. Then, two Chenin Blancs--De Morgenzon 2006, a stately ambassador from the cultivar's adopted home, and Clos de la Coulee de Serrant 2004, Nicolas Joly's argument for Chenin's immortality.

A word on Coulee de Serrant--legendary as much for its quality as its winemaker's insistence that that the berries are only harvested under a waxing gibbous moon with tungsten carbide pruning shears soaked for exactly seven hours in a baptismal font (not exactly true), this incredible wine is a front-runner for the greatest white I've ever drunked. After decanting about 90 minutes before pouring, the cognac/Pale Ale color forecasted something very special:

Liquid pennies from heaven. Bracingly dry with a hazelnutty depth that one usually only encounters in things oxidized, this wine illuminates every centimeter of the palate like a pinball bleeping bonus lights as it hurtles downramp. More, please, forever.

Reds began with Argyle "Spirithouse" Pinot Noir 1999 and Pisoni Pinot Noir 1998. Duck confit, duh. Spirithouse packed more luscious fruit than I was expecting from a 1990s American pinot--maybe I assumed they were all veggie-flavored ersatz Burgundies back then. Wrong! An eerie yarn explaining the proprietary name lent a toasty campfire vibe. The Pisoni, then, was a visceral, "wow, this is really #*!%ing good" wine. I almost let the lamb and hen-of-the-woods mushroom ravioli I was tending disintegrate in the pot--couldn't keep my face out of the glass.


IV.

We also had:

• Tenuta Dell'Ornellaia 2005
• Bodegas Los Astrales Ribera del Duero 2005
• Chateau Montelena Estate Cabernet Sauvignon 2004
• Chateau Branaire-Ducru, St.-Julien, 1995
• Witch Creek Winery Aglianico 2006
• Sandeman Royal Corregidor Rich Oloroso Sherry

Sorry to go to digest form here, but I feel this account Thelma and Louising into the abyss of long-winded wine bullshit. Also, my senses were blurring at this point in the dinner. Getting sloshed with an Ornellaia coming down the pipe is dumb anywhere, but what the hell was I supposed to do--spit the Yquem? Or maybe just not have any delusions about the effect of eleven glasses of wine, and front-load the lineup with the best of the best. Or just cut the "lineup" down to size. Maybe dinners like this are bad idea. I don't have a job at the moment, and this was six hours I could have spent looking for one. Or doing anything other than simulating wealth that should be punishable by death these days (kidding, kidding, stop writing my name on that list, c'mon).

Though the expense was modest--the bottles I contributed were bought in better times, and the tab for ground lamb shank, a few ounces of foie gras, and flowers for the table wasn't crippling--an evening like this leaves a disorienting reference point for pleasure. This isn't the venue to dissect the morality of indulgence, but suffice it to say I indulge all the damn time. Regardless of whether spiking the luxury mainline like the above-described garden of gustatory delights is inherently OK, fact is that doing it makes licking Mammon's boots after every quotidian "do I really need this -----?" dilemma that much easier. I can live with this, uneasily.

Now, the experience of drinking Yquem and Grande Dame and Coulee de Serrant and Ornellaia is surely worth something from the appreciation side. The clueless conclusion would be that once the universe's only Premier Cru Superieur weaves its spell on the nervous system, no Barsac will ever be man--er, wine enough to satisfy the lucky drinker. I think not. Possibilities can only open when a grape/region/whatever's ultimate potential is in the sensory trophy case. Certain bottles of garbage will be more quickly identified, as will undervalued lovelies that you always liked but never realized tasted almost like Yquem! Another happy result is a generally more perceptive palate. After surviving the beautiful ordeal of the indescribable--yes, they are indescribable, sorry Suckling--aromas and flavors in wines like these, the simpler characteristics of more earthbound bottles are easier to pin down and name.


V.

Did you hear about the Park Avenue tax lawyer who volunteered at the soup kitchen and poured one of his Lafite 1959s into the minestrone? No, I just made that up. Shut up about the recession. We'll review the meaning of living within our means, then live the hell out of the whole thing.

The dinner guests were long gone, and I had been cleaning for three hours. It was 4 AM, my fingertips were shriveled by bleach, and I had manslaughtered two Riedels and a big Pyrex. Atop the begging-for-mercy dishwasher was a sweaty half-glass of Yquem. I shot it like a double Jameson and flicked off the light.

Ebrius occurrit quoties tibi, vinum
Non nimium, dicis, sed bibit ille malum.

Recent notables:

• Red Hook Long Hammer IPA - Well here's everything great about IPAs--perfumy, ass-kicking bitter hops, a little seamlessly-integrated sugar. Not exactly "extreme" but very intense. Though as a Brooklynite, I think the Red Hook Brewery (Portsmouth, NH) should have to relocate or change its name.
• Red Tail Lager - Two things going for it, going all the way--it's one of the finest beers (the finest, IMH,H,O) to cost typically under $8 per six-pack, and it's a really delicious, complex lager. I don't find many of the latter. Singed orange color, big barley taste, refreshing concise finish. I'm stocking up for the summer already.
• Willi Schaefer Riesling Kabinett Mosel Graacher Domprobst 2007 - Beguiling perfume of peaches and lime, initially chalky in the mouth with citrus stuffing that falls halfway between lime and grapefruit. Enough residual sugar to put it safely in the "off-dry" basket. This is great stuff--if it were half the price I'd drink it three times a week.
  
• Chateau La Vielle Cure 2005 - It's Joe Calzaghe's cocked right hand--just leading you around the ring for now, not quite ready to make your head spin. One senses tightly wound nuggets of really delicious fruit not asserting themselves at the moment over strong acidity and tannins. Still a great Bordeaux value, this is one worth laying down and having next year. (Note: LVC's second wine '05 is kickin', right now.)
  
• Chateau Clarke 2004 -Drinking this made me realize, with some melancholy, that 2004 was a long time ago. This is drinking great. When I worked in a wine shop a year ago I operated under the assumption that '04 Bordeaux wasn't "ready". Maybe true for Leoville-Barton, but not this Rothschild outpost in Listrac, which combines soft, giving Merlot touchstones (blackberry, stewed raspberry, licorice) with a stout graphitey backbone that proves (to me, at least) that the left bank is still keeping it real.
  
• Caol Ila Islay Single Malt Scotch 12 Yr. - A mellow Islay that spares us the hyper-assertive smoke of Laphroaig or Ardbeg. Nice, plush (tropical?) fruit aromas add a welcome dimension to the nose.
  
• Highland Park Orkney Single Malt Scotch 18 Yr. - Much has been written about this whisky, sometimes with an extra jigger of hyperbole. That aside, it is hedonistic and very good. I don't think I've had a better single malt. Glenmorangie Nectar d'Or is close, but an unambiguous silver medalist. This has a layer of flavor that is easy to understand if you can picture the difference between brown butter and regular melted butter. And a very long finish. Towers above M********s that are far more expensive.
  

No Subject

Reader, please invest five minutes in this article.

Then, forgive this new, back-dated post.

Cheers.

Recent notables:

• Ipswich IPA - Classic amber color, fantastically bitter without being too floral or fruity. For real puritans only.
  
• Chateau Verdu 2005 - Apparently the only way to make bad wine in Bordeaux in 2005 was to urinate in each barrique. Another cheap, obscure gem, this time from a St.-Emilion satellite. Black cherry and espresso aromas set up the rich, spicy, pruny palate presence. Finish is impressive for a wine that most of us can probably afford.
  

King of Kings

"Beer has regained a comfortable margin over wine when U.S. drinkers are asked to name which alcoholic beverage they most often drink. In recent years, wine had narrowed the gap, including pulling slightly ahead in 2005 (though not by a significant margin), but for the first time since 2002, beer enjoys a better-than-double-digit advantage over wine. " -Gallup.com

Statistics? Polls? Gallup? Pshaw. The wine vs. beer narrative has been fairly consistent in post-Atkins America, with the gentle dignitary of the good life gaining ever-so-righteously on its bloaty, vomit and violence-inducing malted nemesis. How far the noble barley spritzer has fallen since "Beer Street and Gin Lane", the best publicity it ever had.

But now, if we believe the statistic, the trend wanes. We do believe the statistic. Even with all the rocks one can throw at Gallup's methodology (right, President Kerry?), it's going to take more than a fad diet and Sideways for wine to knock beer to the mat in this country. And with hard times already squeezing us, $11.99 is probably better spent on a reliably delicious and relatively long-lasting 6 of Dogfish Head than a reedy Corbieres or a sticky Jumilla.

I can live with this. Beer is nearly as interesting as wine, and so long as the 42% of drinkers who prefer beer are preferring good beer, whiny oenofascists can suck a cork. What a good time it is to love beer in America, sea to shining sea dotted with craft breweries turning out big, rich pilsners, lagers, stouts, etc. that can square off with anything trickling out of Europe.

Though I cut my teeth (literally, one time) on gut-rotting bullet 40s, early encounters with the locally abundant Brooklyn Lager etched a love for dark, bold, bitter flavors into my palate. I recall eleventh grade, clandestinely double-fisting Brooklyn IPA's at a Christmas party full of indecipherable grown-ups. So floral and sticky and cold, I wanted to cram a stent down my gullet and let the hoppy cataract cascade down forever. As evil French archaeologists might say, I grew up with this.

Now technically grown up, beer is a primary source of pleasure and fascination for me and remains the preferred aperitif at potentially overlong dinners. Despite promoting neither the fizzy/acidic appetite stimulation of Champagne nor the drunk munchies of martinis, a gently overflowing pint glass with a 1.5" foamy head perfectly bridges the gap between cocktails and dinner rolls. Or maybe it satisfies The Preppy Handbook's purpose for social drinking (giving your hands something to do) better than a fleeting glass of wine.

Or maybe it's time to get to the damn point, which is: I have now tasted Utopias--the most elusive, legendary, mystical, brew of all save a cultish outlier or two.


What is there to blurt about a "beer" that has double the alcohol of a strong wine, costs as much as Lynch-Bages and is illegal in twelve states? How about. . .O M G. Nothing, not Warre's 1963, not Delamain Tres Venerable, nothing could have prepared me for the warm, flat, viscous, and mind-explodingly delicious sensations of Jim Koch's apotheosis. What's that flavor? Maple syrup. They brew it with maple syrup. And so much else is intertwined in its cereally ether that I make no excuses for confusing almonds and apricots or conflating vanilla and violets. Or for breaking out a stopwatch and timing the 73-second finish. Pancakes are unworthy.

If beer's continued supremacy in the American liver means more brewers aspiring to the standard of Utopias, botrytis on anyone who complains about wine playing Martin Prince to beer's Jimbo Jones. I will always come out swinging when haters impugn American viticulture, but I embrace the fact that hops and barley own a big wedge of our fermented future.

Recent notables:

• Domino de Eguren "Codice" VDLT Castilla 2006 - Medium-bodied not-too-oaky Tempranillo has few assertive flavors and good structure, making it a solid choice for pairing with leftovers (or for Sangria). I'm also a fan of this domaine's dirt-cheap "Protocolo".
• Urban "Uco" Torrontes 2006 - Crisp but round, this typical (in a good way) wine from Salta, Argentina matches food-friendly acidity with notes of pear and white flowers. Holds up well after being open for a day, an increasing plus as the economy swirls down the commode.
• Louis Jadot Moulin à Vent Château des Jacques "Clos de Rochegres" 2005 - It's hard not to feel like a sucker dropping $40 on a Beaujolais, but this Pommard-esque colossus pulverizes such reservations with the first whiff of its dark cherry, rosepetal, and vanilla cologne. Substantial tannins have no trouble handling red meat, and probably provide the stuffing for 10 years of cellaring. Had me wondering how Pinot would behave in Beaujolais terroir.
• Duvel Belgian Ale - The glass matters. I hate to admit it, but this outstanding beer loses its fruity, bready nuance in a pint glass. The hoppy spine and velvety mouthfeel are still there, but the aromas have already dispersed too much by the time the glass reaches your face. Invest in something bowl-shaped if you're going to drink this.

Let's Do This

(Insert boilerplate apology for infrequent updates.)

I'm leaving for Europe. I'll be back in a month. There will be saignée.

A wine I had a while back and still remember:

• Merry Edwards Sauvignon Blanc 2007: Sharp and intoxicating nose of toast and orange peel. Bewildering-in-a-good-way flavors of wildflowers and Xmas tree crisscross the palate and follow through to the rich, high-acid finish. No wonder everyone is looking for this.

Hysterical Blindness

Bordeaux makes me sick. Wines of Bordeaux, that is. That are. Argh! Not from flavor (still reliably incredible), C₂H₆O content (still relatively low), or price tag (still frequently absurd), but rather the vertigo I suffer teetering cruciform on the edge of a Riedel top-heavy with Girondin ambrosia.

It's not the wine itself, but the notion of Bordeaux that sandbags the drinking experience with an obligation to make it count, to make it definitive. The thought that all wine strives for Bordeaux's brand recognition and--generally speaking--sensory impact spins the head. The pressure is felt in all four corners of the tongue, and discipline in tasting is uprooted. Eventually the inner ear stops making promises. Sick!

A function of inexperience, bien sur. The last time Emile Peynaud had any such problem he was probably wearing culottes. I cling to a dopey confidence that enough drinking will obliterate all such "notions" and each palate-glazing of Bordeaux (and Burgundy, Rioja, Carneros Pinot, etc.) will one day be nothing more than what it is.

This understood, I was happy to confront six veiled bottles of BDX on a hazy t-shirt Sunday near the end of the summer. Blind tasting. I've described my aspirations and frustrations spinning the wheel in this spooky art, but doing it with Bordeaux has a distinctly game-seven feel. What would prove mastery of craft better than arranging each piece of La Conseillante 2000's sensory 411 into the checkmate of identification?

I brought a Chateau Smith-Haut-Lafitte 2003, motivated by Decanter's piece on the Cathiards' run of accomplished vintages this decade. After wrapping the bottle in shimmering polyethylene, I sliced the capsule to reveal a cork luxuriant with pale blue mold. God damn it. No equivocating about a corked bottle's educational benefits could cast this as anything other than a heartbreaking waste. The first glasses of a deep purple sludge were already circulating, so I muttered a warning that there was a dud in the chamber and started nosing.

1. Anderson's Conn Valley Vineyards "Right Bank" (Napa), 2005

"Pomerol... I'd have to say it's a Pomerol." I pierced the swollen silence, intent on drawing first blood. At that moment I felt confident in my assertion. The wine was sweet, silky, low acid, and lacking the operatic thunder of Cabernet Sauvignon. I have tasted maybe ten Pomerols in my life, but am well-versed in reviews and stereotypes. It had not occurred to me that there are wineries in California that make a declared effort to replicate Bordeaux cuvees. A noble whiff.

2. Chateau Grand-Puy-Lacoste (Pauillac), 1998

Curranty, medium-bodied, cheese-loving acidity pinned the wine's origin to the east bank of the great estuary. Tilting the glass revealed a brick crayon dissolving into a mist. "This has to be at least four years old," I offered. "It's not rich enough to be an '03, so I've gotta go with '04". Wines from the .com boom were outside my thinking-box at that moment. No magic number exists for when a claret emerges from sour adolescence, but I would have assumed that after ten years an above-average Grand-Puy-Lacoste would be ready for a command performance. This one sulked in the corner. To get it right I would have needed to taste a mellow depth that the 1998 probably needs three more years in bottle to show. I've since had an "Aha!" moment with a Phelan-Segur 1993 that I think will head off this sort of mistake in the future.

3. Chateau Gloria (G-L-O-R-I-A, err... St. Julien), 2005

My notes from this are sparse, but I remember this struck me as too soft and fruity to peg as either St. Julien or 2005. Somewhere in my ensuing litany about St.-Emilion and supplelicious tannin was a kernel of accuracy about the wine being an overperforming fifth-growth or unclassified gem--it was quite excellent. Having had more oh-fives since this evening, and marveling each time at their accessibility, I get it now.

4. Chateau Smith-Haut-Lafitte (Pessac-Leognan) 2003

In the pourer's hand I saw the foully familiar blue capsule poking out from the bag and prepared to dance with the wet dog. But on the nose, something was amiss, namely the vile mildew odor of the cork. It smelled like...great red Bordeaux. It tasted like... sweet, generous, vanilla-saturated fruit that lacquers the midpalate and lights up the back. It was a non-disaster on par with Y2K. I'm especially grateful for this lesson that a dirty cork is meaningless, since without it I may have dumped out an unforgettable 1999 Maison Leroy Bourgogne Rouge that had the same superficial grossness.

5. Clos de L'Oratoire (St.-Emilion), 2001

No lie, we was a little drunk by now. I still marvel at pro tasters plowing through hundreds of wines in a session, even without intentional swallowing. Beyond the slurred blackberry/licorice flavors I perceived some feisty tannin, leading me to believe this '01 was three was younger--the same pothole I fell into with the Lacoste. These suckers are built to last!

6. Miles Mossop Wines "Max" (South Africa), 2004

At this point you could have given me Wild Irish Rose and told me it was Gerard Perse's latest 97-pointer. If I remember correctly, the blind-taster consensus was either "I don't know" or "blahghaghaghah". Perhaps the end of the line was the best time to encounter a spy from Stellenbosch, a Cabernet-dominated wine rounded out by 22% each Merlot and Petit Verdot (that's a lot of Petit Verdot!) After much gnashing of teeth, I suggested that it did not smell or taste like a Bordeaux. The aroma was particularly floral (the PV, methinks), and the cab giveaways in the flavor profile were underscored by gamey and chocolatey things that made Max stick out like modesty in a Jay McInerney essay.

Sorry to arrive at such a tired old saw, but a Bordeaux blend from another hemisphere is going to taste worlds different from the stuff that got President Jefferson drunk. Mr. Mossop, is, of course, aiming to make his own unique wine, and succeeding admirably. But Max and all other wines that blend Cabernets, Merlot, Petit Verdot, Malbec, etc. will always ferment under the long shadow of "Bordeaux"--an increasingly meaningful and meaningless word that may refer to a port city, a vine-infested suburb, a blending recipe, or an unrealistic ideal. Which one, I reckon, depends on how blind you are.

Recent notables:

• A. Clape Cornas 2001 - Purple color, with a very floral and blackberry-scented nose. Indisputably delicious, but is holding something back right now. Wish I could afford to lay some down.
• M. Chapoutier Cotes-du-Rhone "Belleruche" 2006 - Full-bodied and exploding with fruit, this is a boffo value for under $10. Firm tannins guarantee success with any hearty meat or vegetable preparations.
• Yalumba Viognier 2007 - Well, I don't expect much throwing the dice on budget viognier. Chateau-Grillet it ain't, but if you like simple, less-oaked whites made from inherently rich grapes, give it a go. Smells kind of like the inside of an apple pie before it's cooked, and has substantial acid. I'd probably prefer similarly-priced Chardonnay.
  
• Chateau Ste. Michelle Columbia Valley Riesling 2007 - Eh. I struggle with the idea of "everyday" Riesling. This is nicely off-dry with the required acidity, but the lime/apple fruit makes its point too quickly, and there are no indications that this has the potential to develop petroleum-flavored perfection over time.