A Finely Tuned Sense of Smell

It should come as no surprise to anyone reading this blog that I love wine. I love the taste of it, I love its story, I love pairing it with a meal. I really love smelling wine, actually. I’ve often thought that the best aromatherapy out there is to simply inhale, deeply, with your nose in a big glass of red wine. Sometimes I don’t even want to analyze what I’m smelling. I just want to take in the rich, warm sensations coming up from the glass. Sometimes, I don’t even have to drink wine to enjoy it.

These times have become more frequent and more common for me lately, and I have been forced to test the the potency and prowess of my olfactory senses. I am four months pregnant and my wine consumption has plummetted in recent months. Yes, I am doing a LOT of spitting…it’s pretty well accepted at trade events. But yes, I am also swallowing. I’m not at the point where I can confidently judge a wine without letting it get all the way down my throat. I’ll swallow a taste of each wine once, and if I continue to sip, I’ll spit. (Except in rare cases…I just couldn’t bring myself to spit a lovely Brunello di Montalcino I had the good fortune to come across at a recent trade tasting. It was an exquisite wine, and I might as well expose baby to the best stuff early, right?? But don’t worry, grandmas, I swallowed less than a quarter of a glass total!)

Being a pregnant wine professional has had its challenges. During the sick days, the thought, smell, and taste of wine was far from enjoyable. It was all I could do to fake it, sadly, and I had to fake it with what I’m sure were some excellent wines. As my tummy starts to grow and my pregnancy becomes more obvious, the sideways glances and stern looks directed at me, wine glass in hand, become more common and less subtle. But pregnancy has had its advantages, too. I’ve had to rely much more on that sense of smell to tell me about a wine, and much less on being able to take as many drinks as I want. I’ve revisited how to distinguish the qualities of different types of oak, different regional characteristics, and different varietals using only my nose. They say that pregnant women have an enhanced sense of smell. I like to believe that my evaluations of various wines have been the better for it.

I miss actually drinking an entire glass (or two…) of wine, and I have a long way to go. So for my sake, the next time you find yourself in front of a glass, take a moment to inhale just a little deeper, and let the sensations linger in your nose just a little bit longer. Don’t think too hard about anything, just enjoy it.

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I have more to say on the topic of wine and pregnancy, so watch this space. (Yes, the pregnancy, and the subsequent fact that I haven’t been drinking as much or as interested in wine, has contributed to the recent silence on these pages. With the return of some energy, and the fact that wine now smells and tastes good again, I hope to keep writing more frequently.)

Opa! or, Keeping an Open Mind

Some of the best moments for me as a wine professional come when expectations about wine—mine or someone else’s—are shattered (in a good way!). Like when I pour at tastings and consumers tell me that they “don’t really like white wine” but they’ll try this one, ‘cause they’re already here…and then they love it. Or when I serve a wine and someone asks me where they can get it and how much it costs, and they’re shocked that the bottle cost only twelve or fifteen dollars.

My own expectations get shattered, too, and that’s one of the reasons I love working with a dynamic product, an agricultural product that depends on the weather, the land, and the right blend of tradition and innovation in order to be interesting, or any good. I mentioned my pleasant surprise at enjoying a California Syrah a few months ago. I’ve recently tasted some Austrian wine that I’m now dying to build a meal around (who knew?).

Recently, I was put in my place by some outstanding Greek wine. Yes, Greek. Not the kind you get from a mysteriously un-labeled container at your local “blue and white,” (Yanni’s Gyros, or the local Greek-run diner, as good as their breakfasts may be). I’m talking about premium wine, from indigenous Greek grapes, that hold their own against many wines from better known and more popular regions. I certainly tasted wines that made my mouth water for some roasted lamb, or grilled chicken kebabs with a hearty hummus, but the Greek wines I tasted would also pair really well with other foods—seafood, Asian or Indian food, summer backyard barbecues, you name it. I tasted a wine that would cellar just as well as any hearty red Rhone, and I tasted a Greek-made Syrah that, frankly, blew the socks off of anything from Australia in its price range.

I was deftly guided through these wines by a fabulous Greek-American woman who worked for the importer. She gave me a brief but helpful introduction to Greek wine grapes and regions (most of which are so difficult to pronounce that I can’t even remember the names), and walked me through about 8 Greek wines that cost anywhere from $10-$40 retail. I unfortunately do not have my tasting notes with me at the moment, but when I can, I will update this posting with the names, prices, and notes on some of my favorites. I encourage—challenge—you to try them. They should be available at any restaurant that claims to have a broad, global wine list; here in Seattle, you may find some at Earth and Ocean or, I believe, Wild Ginger. Go for it.

Espresso: or, Woman Cannot Live on Wine Alone

I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop, feeling the urge to write but not feeling inspired (see the previous post…maybe I had better get a bottle…or two…of the Writer’s Block!). I’m enjoying one of the tastiest caffe lattes I’ve had in a while along with an excellent scone. No wonder I don’t feel like writing about wine! It’s hard to extol the virtues of one (addictive) beverage when you’re in the throes of another.

So I’m going to write about espresso. The more I think about it, the less unrelated the two beverages are, really. They’re both near and dear to my heart as products of my two favorite places on Earth…Italy and the Northwest. Italy is undoubtedly the birthplace and capital of espresso; Seattle is its American home. Italy knows a thing or two about making and enjoying wine, and we’re getting pretty good at that here in the Northwest, too. Then there’s the pleasure factor. You don’t drink wine or espresso because you’re thirsty, you drink it because it makes you feel good (even better when consumed responsibly). You drink these drinks because they taste good, they’re complex, and because no two hardly ever taste the same (certain “critter” brands—kangaroos, mermaids—excepted). You can’t say that about a can of soda or a bottle of macrobrew.

Espresso and wine build community. I’m sitting here in this coffee shop, watching people hang out and talk, mugs in hand. People are taking walks around the neighborhood with friends and sipping from their telltale paper cups. People meet for coffee all the time. How often do you hear people say, “Hey, let’s meet over a soda/grapefruit juice/sparkling water sometime soon?” It’s always coffee. With the exception of tea, I can’t think of any other beverage that can command the center of a social gathering. The same is true for wine, although generally as part of a larger culture of alcohol. Meeting for drinks or happy hour doesn’t indicate wine exclusively. Meeting for beers is pretty common, and cocktails and other specialty drinks can lubricate a conversation just fine. But the wine bar culture is growing steadily, and more places offer flights of wine, glass and bottle specials, and wine and food pairing menus.

Wine and espresso are both versatile. Seriously. The right Italian wine can take you through an entire dinner. Sure, you can pair each course with a different wine, but that can be expensive. Italian wine is meant to be had with food, and most good Italian wines should be balanced enough to handle almost anything you serve with it. (I’m not talking about exceptionally light whites like a Pinot Grigio or exceptionally hearty reds, like a Barolo. But if you have a Barolo, you better be building the meal around the wine!). Next time you’re at a restaurant and want to order a bottle for the table, try a Dolcetto d’Alba or a Barbera. It will pair nicely (although probably not perfectly) with what most of your table orders, from pasta to chicken to a lighter red meat course.

What I was thrilled to discover in Italy is that espresso bookends your day perfectly. Start your day with a cappuccino (before 10 am, please, and never after!), and end with an espresso or macchiato. I’m serious. I am a convert to the faith of espresso as a digestivo—plain shots of espresso enjoyed with dessert or after the meal as a digestive aid. It seemed kind of problematic, at first, to consume that much caffeine that late at night, but the espresso really settles your stomach after a large meal. I wouldn’t dare order a decaf espresso in Italy, but I might be bold enough make that request here at home. If I really didn’t want that much caffeine, well, hey, what are dessert wines for?

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I have a feeling I’m not finished with this topic. In the meantime, get yourself a good latte or a nice glass of wine. I’ll be back.

Writer's Block, or, There's a Wine to Cure Every Malady

It’s been too long since I’ve written about wine. I can chalk it up to being busy, and that’s true to some extent. I’m attempting to launch my own business, we have an old, fussy house that needs lots of attention, and we recently acquired a new, feisty puppy that requires even more attention. But these are basically the same, tired excuses we all use to assuage our guilt about whatever it is we’re not doing enough of—gardening, reading, working out, you-name-it.

In all honesty, though, there’s been part of me that just couldn’t figure out what to write about. I’m in danger of becoming a one-note siren on Italian wines, and there’s only so many of my own personal experiences that other folks want to read about. I could write up a few mini-reviews of some of the wines I’ve had lately—some people have mentioned that they’d enjoy reading those, and perhaps I’ll do some in the near future—but I’ve been in the mood to write something more, well, substantial.

Inspiration came to me from the best possible source—a restaurant wine list. While out to dinner to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday, I was perusing the extensive wine list, trying to decide what I was in the mood for. I was feeling indecisive; I couldn’t even choose “red or white?” much less “light, or full bodied?” “fruit forward or restrained?”

And then, the wine list chose for me. It told me that I had to have the 2005 Lake County “Writer’s Block” Syrah. This was a wine that I wouldn’t ordinarily have chosen. If I drink Syrah, it will likely be either a Rhone or a Washington. California Syrah, like Australian Shiraz, is generally not my preferred style for the varietal. But sometimes we judge a book by its cover and it works out.

The Writer’s Block was one of several wines we shared at the table that evening, and it was generally agreed to be the crowd’s favorite red. It had the deep, crimson velvet color I expect in a New World Syrah, and the strong, integrated notes of berry and spice that warm your palate without overpowering your food. Aged in oak, the wine also hinted of cocoa and coffee, especially on the nose and on the finish.

We didn’t discuss this wine much, other than to conclude that it was the best of the table’s reds. I’s consider ordering it again. It was a good wine, though not excellent, and it did its job well. It engaged my palate and enhanced my dinner. It reminded me that assumptions (“I don’t like California Syrah,”) are made to be tested and, hopefully, revised.

And it cured my own bout with Writer’s Block…for now.

Sara, or, What's in a Name?

Many of you who read this blog were part of my 30th birthday celebration this past weekend, and for your friendship and company, I am humbly thankful.

The evening before my birthday, we were enjoying a wonderful al fresco meal with friends, and as we prepared the table, arranged the food, and decanted the wine, the host looked up from the grill, salivating at the plank-grilled salmon, and offered what could easily have been the kickoff toast for the weekend: “This is the good life—good food, good friends, and good wine.”

It’s true that some of the best moments of my life—including the ones I’ve chosen to write about here—involve those three very simple but very satisfactory elements. This weekend was no exception. After burning the citronella candles down to the end on Friday night, I was treated on Saturday night to another long evening filled with friends, laughter, excellent food, and the perfect namesake wine.

I am convinced that there is a wine that incorporates almost anybody’s name, first or last. Jacob’s Creek is a popular Australian mega-brand, and here in Washington, we’re home to Mark Ryan winery and Ryan Patrick vineyard, covering Marks and Patricks everywhere and giving Ryans several options to choose from. Both our goddaughters (neither of whom has a particularly common name) have namesake wines—Acacia Vineyards in California and Piper-Heidsiek Champagne—and I’m sure that when we have children of our own, they are likely to have a winery, a region, a blend, or some geographical feature (i.e. creek, ranch, hill, whatever) with their name on it appear on a wine label.

I had always thought of searching for a “Sara” wine—I knew it had to be out there somewhere—but had honestly never gotten around to it. It was a happy accident that brought us together in the aisles of the Fremont PCC Market. Something with your name on it always catches your eye, even when your name is as ubiquitous as mine. There, behind a wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano, was Sara. She’s a Tuscan IGT wine, a red blend of Sangiovese and Ciliegiolo, and she was $11. I had found the wine for my birthday party.

A wine that shares your name gives you something to aspire to, surely, as well as something to celebrate. She couldn’t have been a more perfect namesake—Italian, affordable, and unpretentious. Sara the wine is youthful, approachable, and excellent with food. All of these qualities are among my life aspirations, and to have them expressed in a wine with my name on it was something of a encouragment, an assurance that my life is moving in the right direction. If Sara the person is ever to lose her way, perhaps Sara the wine can help her get back on track.

La Tagliata, or, Why Wine Doesn't Have to be Good to Make Me Happy

Take, for example, one of the strangest wines we had in Italy. I don’t even know what it was called, and I don’t think I was supposed to. It came to us, in all its glory, in a chipped 1-liter ceramic jug that was decorated with the same green, blue, and yellow fruit patterns that seem to be painted on every other ceramic jug for sale in southern Italy. (These are the only ones you can afford if you actually plan on using them in your kitchen. The ones that have the most interesting, and better-painted, patterns are so expensive I wouldn’t dare enlist it in actual kitchen service.)

Inside this generic ceramic jug was something red and sparkling. I had been led, perhaps mistakenly and incorrectly, to believe that the only way a red wine gets to be sparkling is on accident. I therefore assumed that this wine was likely faulty. However, since a few sniffs indicated that it was probably safe to put into my mouth, I decided not to send it back. This was not, mind you, a wine that we had chosen, or even a wine that we had asked for. We sat down at our table, told them that we wanted the menu of the house, and the next thing we know, this jug and two glasses are plonked down in front of us. It was part of the package, and we decided to keep the package in tact. We were, after all, very much converted to the idea that while in Italy, you are not in charge. Italy is.

The wine, let’s be honest, was not that great. It was hard to get beyond the bubbles, and while feasting on the most scrumptious array of roasted meats I’ve ever had the good fortune to come across, what I really wanted was something smooth yet robust, earthy, and herbal. Something that would continue to make my mouth water, that would be hearty enough to complement this grilled game without overpowering the nuances of flavor presented by the different cuts meat. I wanted, frankly, a Cotes-du-Rhone, a Gigondas, but don’t tell the Italians. Since we were in Italy, I would have gladly opted for a Rosso di Montalcino. Since we were in southern Italy, I would have greatly preferred a Salice Salentino, or a spicy Sicilian blend. I would have to make do with this sparkling no-name red jug wine, however, and concentrate on the meat, the gorgeous roast veal, rabbit, lamb, pheasant, and who knows what else that we were treated to that night.

I could forgive the sparkling wine when I was looking out the window at the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, 1500 feet below the cliff I was perched upon. I could forget about the wine’s indistinct, inconsistent flavor profile, concentrating as we were on the finely-tuned theatrics surrounding us: Grandpa on the Grill, responsible for the miraculous cuts of meat, flinging and flipping chops with military precision, glass of wine always within reach. The young waiters—the grillmaster’s grandsons—whose missteps were quickly repaired and easily forgiven. And Mamma Maria, who orchestrated this production with flawless timing, forceful authority, and the ability to put the fear of God in her sons while simultaneously blanketing the place in a friendly warmth that made you feel like a part of the family (as dysfunctional as it may be).

Sponge cake and a little local limoncello go a long way. By the time we left, we were too full and happy—and possibly drunk—to care about the wine, to wish it would have been something different. Sure, the meal would have probably been even more spectacular had it been paired with a better wine. Maybe we should have been more assertive in asking for something else. We might have made a fantastic meal even better. But we would have missed out on a lot: the uncertain glances at each other across the pink foam at the top of our glasses, the daredevil feeling of putting it in your mouth to see what will happen, and the surprising sense of calm that comes with going with the flow (even if the flow has bubbles).

I’ve since learned that many winemakers actually do make a sparkling red wine on purpose. For now, when I want bubbles, I’ll stick to something white, or even pink. Until someone can convince me of the value and purpose of a sparkling red (anyone up to the challenge?), I prefer to keep my experience with the stuff limited to the kind that comes in a chipped jug, served at a table high above the Amalfi coastline. The view, the company, and the food went a long way towards creating a very forgiving atmosphere. I would have never guessed that such a mediocre wine would be such a tough act to follow.

Orvieto, or, Wine as Miracle

Everybody has a “happy place,” of sorts—a place in time and space that you go to, figuratively, when you’d rather be anywhere on earth than the space you’re currently taking up. I often find myself daydreaming about one of my happy places when I’m in the dentist’s chair, stuck in traffic, or trapped doing something at work that I hate. I have a couple of happy places, most of them involve wine and almost all of them are in Italy. One of my happy places is the hillside town of Orvieto, in Umbria, and I have been transporting myself there a lot recently. It’s the place I go to when I need to be reminded of a broader perspective, or when I need help believing in minor miracles.

Orvieto did not leave me with a very positive first impression. I just didn’t expect the courtyard of a medieval cathedral to be packed with RVs, as if there was some kind of giant swap meet going on inside instead of a confirmation service or funeral mass. We were in an Italian hill town, by Jove, not the Appalachians, and this was no simple Baptist chapel. We were standing in front of one of the most important cathedrals in Italy, attempting to take in the glittering mosaic façade only to have our view blocked by dozens of pop-up trailers, fifth wheels, campers, and RVs chaotically parked in the cathedral’s courtyard.

Orvieto’s Duomo houses the relic of the Miracle of Bolsena, in which a doubting priest had his faith restored by communion host that bled onto an altar cloth. Some of the most famous artists of the Renaissance contributed to the Duomo’s construction and decoration. Orvieto is a serious site for students of history, art, and white wine—hardly the kind of place where one would expect to see a Winnebago convention. But we were gradually beginning to clue in that the real Italy is different from the one you see in the brochures, so it was more out of a sense of curiosity rather than disappointment that we gawked, incredulously, at the incongruous images before us.

We ducked into a shady corner to consult our map and guidebook, searching for alternative sites to see in the hopes that we could return to the cathedral later and take in its legendary façade unspoiled. As we debated between visiting wineries and shopping for ceramics, the throng of RVs suddenly, quietly, and with remarkable efficiency given the seeming chaos of the parking configuration, revved up their tiny European engines and sped out of the courtyard. Within five minutes, they were all gone, without a wisp of exhaust, without a hint of a skidmark. At last we could face the Duomo in all of its glory, made even more impressive in its singularity.

The Duomo’s façade traces eight centuries of artistic styles and tastes, including the bas-reliefs that have adorned the lower columns since the early 1300s, the shining 17th and 18th century mosaics, and the apparently controversial central bronze doors which were sculpted in 1964. (What makes them controversial, I wonder? What kind of argument would leave a church doorless for 600 years?) The interior houses an impressive fresco cycle by Renaissance master Fra Angelico, which we were destined never to see, for the big bronze doors remained closed and locked for the entire afternoon (I found this particularly controversial). Perhaps the Duomo needed some rest and refreshment after the influx of campers and trailers, but the doors never opened, and we never found out why.

(Asking “why,” by the way, becomes an exercise in futility in Italy. In America, we expect an iron-clad reason for everything that might possibly inconvenience us, like roadwork in the summer, park closures in bad weather, or airline delays. In Italy, any reason is as indefensible and legitimate as the next, so don’t bother attempting to poke holes in the argument. Learn to live with disappointment, or better yet, learn to alter your expectations.)

If we couldn’t venerate the bloody altar cloth or the frescos d’Fra Angelico, we could certainly take part in Orvieto’s other sacred offering—the white wines of Orvieto Classico. We stopped at a charming taverna right next to the Duomo where we could sit outside, nibble on a light lunch, and experience a glass of the white wine that is arguably among Italy’s best. Made from the ubiquitous Trebbiano grape with varying amounts of Grechetto, Malvasia, and other less-than-striking varietals blended in, the resulting wine is testament to another kind of local miracle. While Orvieto Classico isn’t singularly striking, it is the perfect accompaniment to exactly what we were doing at the time—sitting in the sun-baked courtyard of an Umbrian hill town, gazing at centuries of history and dipping our toes into the ever-flowing stream of people that have trickled past this particular spot for ages.

When properly chilled, the wine is the perfect refreshment when one is sizzling—pardon the cliché—under the famous Umbrian sun. Its mouth-watering (but not puckery) acidity makes it perfect with food, especially a light lunch. A dry finish leaves your palate cleansed and ready for more. While none of the grapes in the blend has a particularly unique taste, a good Orvieto Classico will have subtle leafy, nutty qualities on the palate with a whiff of sweet white flowers on the nose. The initial impression is light, but a glass or two is all it takes to leave a permanent imprint. One sip of Orvieto now brings me back to that courtyard, to that sunny day in the shadow of the Duomo, and to the sense of curiosity raised by RVs in a cathedral, a bleeding communion host, controversial doors that never open, and, perhaps most mysteriously miraculous of all, a wine that is much more than the sum of its parts.

Working it Out

Thank you for checking out what is hopefully more than yet-another-blog. I've brought you here in the hope that by being part of my audience, you can help me refine what it is I do here and how I can best help people enjoy their life just a little bit more by discovering, enjoying, and savoring wine.

I'm keeping it low-key while I create my (for lack of a better phrase) professional identity. I'd like to use this blog as a place to jot down my thoughts about wines that I'm drinking, work that I'm doing, and articles that I'm writing. My hope is that I'll have conversations here that will eventually appear in what I publish.

In the meantime, please let me know what you think, either about what I'm writing or what I'm drinking. Have you tried any of the wines I mention? I'd love to know what you think of them. Please agree, disagree, argue, question, enhance, or otherwise offer your feedback on anything I've written. Questions are welcome.

And most of all, thank you for being a part of what I hope to do.