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.