Sara Writes Wine

The Kind of Day that a Bad Wine Can't Ruin

2009-07-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

The glass of wine next to me on the desk tonight is a 2008 Pinot Grigio Delle Venezia, purchased at the supermarket for $8.99. I have had many fantastic wines for $8.99 a bottle, but, sadly, this is not one of them.

The producer, Primaterra, is one whose red wines I am familiar with and have, in the past, considered them a good value for the price. Either the whites are not as good as the reds or their quality-for-price ratio has slipped a little. In any case, this wine feels thin. On a hot summer night like tonight, thin isn't necessarily a bad thing. But the nose is TOO thin (can I catch a whiff of anything??) and the flavors on the palate are nondescript. The finish is short and metallic. It's one of those wines best served chilled. VERY chilled, that is. All that said, however, the bottle is now empty. It's still worth drinking.

Today was one of those days when it's hard to choose which wine to drink at the end of it. It was a hard day--Ryan had a crazy day at work and I had a rollercoaster day at home with the kiddo, so we could both use a little something to take the edge off, as they say. These are typically not the days when I pull something special out of the cellar to celebrate. Yet it was also a really good day. We paid off our car loan (woo hoo!) and have that much less debt to wrangle. Our daughter is making phenomenal progress in physical therapy and took some serious steps today. I'd love to toast to both of the above. But the cheapskate in me won out, and I pulled the $8.99 bottle from the cellar. It has served its purpose (the edge is off now), and it has saved a nicer bottle for another time.

Pinot Grigio, like Chardonnay, can be done so many different ways. Right now, I prefer the Italian to the French (Pinot Gris) or American (by either name) for its crisp acidity (the northern Italian climate seems best for this grape), refreshing body, and party-friendliness. The $20 bottles are often excellent, the $13 bottles very special, and every now and then, you can find a good bargain for under $10. I'll just have to keep looking.

A New Vintage, or, Revamping the Wine Blog

2009-06-22T09:39:00.000-07:00

In all honesty, I have been DYING to write more blog posts. I have had so many ideas that I have wanted to write about--our romantic Valentine's Day wine tasting at home, some interesting bargain wines I have come across, summer rose' in the backyard, a new Washington winery I discovered, etc. etc. But why, oh why, can I not seem to get the darn things written, photographed, and posted?

For the two or three of you who are still hanging on to my blog, thank you. I want you to know that I'm in the process of re-conceptualizing the whole thing, and expect the New and Improved Sara Writes Wine Vintage 2009 to debut later this summer. My plan is to make it easier for me to write and easier (and more useful) for everyone to read. I'd like to offer more tasting notes, shopping help, pairing ideas, and brief educational articles and less literary rambling about all the drinking I've been doing.

If you have any ideas of things you'd like to see, please let me know. Let me know if there are good (or bad) blogs you think I should check out for some ideas of things that work (or don't!). I don't want to be just like every other wine blog out there, but I do want to be helpful, interesting, and approachable.

In the meantime...

1) French Rose--not just for men in white linen suits.
2) New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc--do we love or hate the lemongrass/citrus effect?

Discuss.

A First for a First

2008-08-21T08:49:00.000-07:00

We seem to be celebrating a lot of firsts around our house these days. We've just had our first child, and with that come first smiles, first giggles, and first attempts at rolling over. (We've also had some not-so-fun firsts, like first mosquito bites and first blood, when I cut her fingernails JUST a little too short!).

On the wine front, we celebrated a fun first this week: for the first time, we cracked open a bottle of First Growth Bordeaux. Some friends of ours received some very good news after a very long wait, and we wanted to celebrate with them. So, as we sat in our overgrown backyard among the diseased apples that kept falling from the diseased tree, dressed in t-shirts and flip flops and dining on nothing fancier than a baguette, blackberries, and some bucherondin, we let the guests of honor ceremoniously uncork a 1976 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

Most people drink Lafite while dressed to the nines in an haute French restaurant. There's probably much pomp and posturing in the selection and ordering of the bottle, and there's probably some kind of ceremony around the uncorking and decanting of such a prized and praised selection. I imagine the wine is also consumed with cuisine much finer than what we had on our patio tables, likely some kind of roasted game, seasoned perfectly with herbs specially selected to match the characteristics of the wine's particular vintage. We had salami that was probably too spicy for the wine. But at least the cheese was French...

In all honesty, 1976 wasn't the best vintage for Bordeaux, and the wine probably should have been opened ten years ago. But there's a part of me that believes that a great bottle of wine waits for, and then rises to, the occasion for which it was created. And there's no doubt that this was a great bottle of wine. The front of the palate was spectacular, with all the smoke and leather you'd expect from a Bordeaux. It thinned out quickly and the finish was much too short, but like an aging Broadway diva reprising a role from younger, better days, you could still see in this wine the superstar that it was in years past. A wine from lesser soil and from a lesser producer would have faded long ago, but the Lafite lingered on until its services were required.

I think some would say that this bottle was "wasted," but I disagree. Yes, wine is meant to be consumed, not simply collected, and this collected bottle would have been better consumed years ago. That said, why hang onto it any longer, for some grander, more "special" occasion? Today IS the occasion. Ryan and Julie, we're so glad we had occasion to celebrate with you!

***
I wish I had a picture. This blog needs more pictures! I could take a picture of the empty bottle, but that just wouldn't be the same as a photo of the empty bottle, decanter, salami, flip flops, and diseased apples. Oh well.

Sara Writes Margarita

2008-08-01T08:04:00.000-07:00

The cravings first started in, oh, early September, before I had told anyone that I was pregnant.

Ryan and I were at a Mexican restaurant with some friends, and man did I want a margarita! My virgin strawberry blend was little more than an Icee with an umbrella and a sugared rim, and it just wasn't going to get the job done. I wanted the tequila, I wanted the Cointreau, and I wanted it on the rocks. This was going to be a long nine months.

I had never been much of a straight-up margarita drinker. I had had a few watered-down, blended strawberry margaritas in the course of learning my way around a bar, but they just seemed to me like kid drinks that someone had slipped something into. You couldn't really enjoy the alcohol that was hiding in all that fruity sweetness. (I realize that this is why some people like blended strawberry margaritas, and I can't actually hold that against them.) My favorite memory involving a strawberry margarita involves my mom and me, one too many of the aforementioned beverages, and a Christmas tree. Decorating for Christmas has never been quite as fun as it was that year!

Anyway. Until I went to Mexico a few years ago and tried the straight up lime on the rocks with the salted rim thing, I wasn't really a fan. I'm still not a fan of the salted rim thing, and some purists will dock me for that, but so be it. I'm not really a tequila snob--yet--so pretty much any type will do, but I don't really care for Grand Marnier so I prefer the versions made with Cointreau, and sometimes, sour mix. A fresh wedge of lime is a must. I'll take it on the rocks or blended, but I'm starting to prefer the rocks version. It just seems purer.

Back to the cravings. I'd always heard that women craved strange things when pregnant. I didn't really crave anything bizarre, like chalk or detergent, but I did crave things that, while normal foods, I had never really consumed much of before. Like pastrami, and corned beef sandwiches. I have no idea where that came from, but I sure became a connoisseur of Reuben sandwiches during those nine months. And margaritas. The problem with this craving was that I really couldn't indulge it, and as we all know, the cravings you cannot indulge become the cravings you cannot shake.

I think it was the worst on Stroller Shopping Day. My mother and I headed for a swanky baby-gear store to check out strollers and carseats. This was in January, I think, on a cold, blustery day--just the kind of Seattle day that makes you want to head south of the border for a while. We were in that store for hours, driving strollers around, taking them apart and putting them back together, measuring which ones would fit in the trunk of the hatchback, comparing weights, discussing braking mechanisms, wheel bases, adjustable handles, color schemes, and oh yeah, price. Then we had to figure out which strollers were compatible with which carseats. Did the carseat we like come with a base? How heavy was it? How long would the baby fit in it? Could it work with the jogging stroller we wanted? What kind of attachments and accessories did we need?

You can see where this is going. After a few hours, literally, of all this gear wrangling, I REALLY wanted a margarita. I just wanted to escape the consumerism, the "but it's for your baby" sales pitches, the exorbitant prices, the ridiculous designer patterns (it's a carseat!!) and the custom-ordered craziness. I wanted to relax, preferably on a sandy beach, and if not that, than somewhere close to it. It was close to Happy Hour by this time, maybe my mom and I could go somewhere, she could order a margarita, and I could have a few sips...I was obsessed!

Well, I didn't indulge the craving. We went on to another store, and later, went to a pub and had Reubens for dinner. But I have never forgotten how badly I wanted a margarita that day. For as much as I dearly love wine, it was not what I craved while pregnant. I had some wine, of course (read previous blog postings for proof of that!) but when it comes to craving, it was beer and margaritas.

Since Calla has been born, my taste (and preference) for wine has returned. I've enjoyed some wonderful wines (and not enjoyed a couple of bombs, but oh well) during the past three and a half months. It's BBQ season, too, so I've had a beer here and there. But I have not--until last night--finally sated the margarita beast within.

When some girlfriends asked to get together after work, I knew this was my chance. Happy Hour. We met at a Mexican restaurant and tequila bar not too far away from home, and slid into the booth just under the deadline for ordering at happy hour prices. I barely had a chance to scan the menu, but I spotted it just in time. The Top Shelf Margarita. Tequila (I neither remember nor care what particular kind), fresh lime juice, a float of Cointreau...sign me up (without the salt, please!)

It was perfect. Plenty sour, a definite lime-y zing. Cloudy from the Cointreau, and with more substance and complexity. Refreshing, yet not so sweet that you could sap it down too quickly. The perfect sipping margarita. The appetizers were good and cheap (although the nachos could have had more cheese, come to think of it) and the company and conversation were excellent. I caught up with some girlfriends, all of us going through major life changes. We talked about our new babies, our engagement, our new jobs, new homes. We laughed, we encouraged one another, and we gave advice--solicited and otherwise--while each enjoying a slightly different margarita. I'm pretty sure I would have had another Top Shelf if I didn't have to go home and feed Calla in a few hours. But one was enough. The beast has been slayed, the craving satisfied.

Ryan and I are thinking of going to Mexico in the winter.

Wine, Women, and....What?

2008-06-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

Ryan and I are celebrating our first Mother's Day and Father's Day this year, and we've agreed to mark this special occasion with small but significant gifts. Ryan bought me a lovely locket into which I can tuck photos of him and Calla. I'm still searching for the perfect First Father's Day gift, and my efforts have brought to light some interesting and slightly annoying insights into the way that wine and wine-related goods are marketed. Forgive me for using this space as a place to vent, but hey, it's my blog!!

I've been looking at a few online sites, some of which I've purchased gifts from before, and some of which I have not. Most retailers have conveniently grouped gifts into categories--"for the sporty dad," "gifts under $100," "gifts with monograms," "gifts for grillers," etc. Some sites just have general "for him" and "for her" categories. It's these categories that offer some incredible insight into the way retailers look at gender. Guess in which category you can find all of the wine and wine-related gifts?

Do people actually believe that only dads and men want decanters, corkscrews, wine travel bags, wine-of-the-month club memberships, wine-themed books, wine journals, and--not to be overlooked--actual bottles of wine? Browse the same sites under the "gifts for her" category and you get gardening tools, plush bathrobes, lingerie, and jewelry. (And yes, men garden, too....) In our house, wine gifts know no gender. In our house, the wine expert is the woman. In our house, the person who decides how and where to spend money on wine and wine-related goods is, yes, the woman. Sure, Ryan enjoys wine, knows a thing or two about it, and has a discerning palate, too. But just as I would defer to his judgment on economics, (he's a banker), red meat, and camping equipment, he lets me have the final say on wine.

I'm not the only wine professional who doesn't fit into the old-school image of wine connoisseurs as bearded men wearing smoking jackets in deep leather chairs. Many of the best wine reps--those who work for importers and distributors--are women. Their knowledge of wine regions, grapes, producers, and vintages is impressive. I was taught by a woman, Amy Mumma, the Wine Woman of the Year for 2005. She's a world-class wine consultant who teaches, speaks, and writes for some of the most prestigious organizations in the industry. The finest restaurant in Seattle boasts a female wine director. When I speak to reps, to importers, and to others in the local trade, they all tell me that women have some of the best palates and are some of the best salespeople they know.

The wine trade is a ripe industry for women because women are consuming more wine on a daily basis. The wine industry's efforts at marketing wine to women are working. This is a good thing. It would be a great thing for retailers to realize if they want to capture a greater share of the money that is spent on wine, on glassware, on wine-themed books and magazines, and on other wine-related goods and gifts.

Wine isn't the only product or leisure activity to fall victim to gender-biased marketing, I know. My challenge is to explore websites, ads, and stores and to examine how their wine and wine goods are or are not marketed to women. I hope the gender bias I see right now becomes obsolete soon. If you've seen evidence of the other side of the story, please, feel free to help prove me wrong. I would gladly drink to that.

Dago Red, or, Six Degrees of Robert Mondavi

2008-05-21T22:16:00.000-07:00

No wine blogger worth their cork should let the recent news of Robert Mondavi’s death go without a mention, nor without proper respect for the man without whom, many argue, there would be no American wine industry, no cult of California Cabernet (certainly no Opus One), and no Napa Valley empire (at least, not to the extent that it exists today). The grandfather of American wine and a member of this country’s wine royalty (money, empire, scandals, and all) passed away last week at the age of 94.

There is a lot to say about Robert Mondavi, and I’ll let you look elsewhere for the facts of his life and work. My curiousity was piqued by a particular, probably overlooked detail of his early life, and it’s that detail that I’m choosing to muse over.

According to the official obituary, Robert Mondavi was born in Hibbing, Minnesota. His father, Cesare, was an immigrant from Italy who ran a grocery store/saloon in Virgnia, Minnesota until his connections to grape farmers in California led to the family’s move to Lodi. This little tidbit, totally uninteresting to most people and seemingly unrelated to Robert Mondavi’s life work, almost made me jump out of my seat when I read it (the fact that I was holding the baby kept me firmly planted). My great-grandfather, Michael Michelizzi, was an immigrant from Italy who ran a grocery/gas station/tavern/rooming house called the Merry Inn in Duluth, Minnesota. Hibbing (also famous as the birthplace of Bob Dylan…who knew that so many famous people could come from a place like Hibbing?), Virginia, and Duluth are all just a few miles away from each other in the same frozen corner of northwest Minnesota, and I can’t imagine that the brotherhood of Italian immigrant tavern owners was that large. I wonder if my great-grandfather knew Cesare Mondavi? Were they competitors? Colleagues? Collaborators? Friends?

Part of my own family lore is that folks from a different sort of southern-Italian “family” took shelter at the Merry Inn when times got tough and the heat was on. After finding a business card of my great-grandfather’s that described his role as an “importer of fine Italian products,” we couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, during Prohibition, he took to importing. I like to imagine that wine was among the cheeses, meats, olive oils, and other Italian sundries that made his little tavern one of the more interesting places to eat in Duluth. He may even have made his own “dago red” for his family and customers. It’s a beautiful irony, although perhaps no surprise, that generations later, his great-granddaughter ended up managing a wine, cheese, and meat store that specialized in Italian imports. Perhaps that’s proof that taste is wired into our genetic code, or that we really don’t have as much say over our destiny as we think we do—I guess I know whom to thank for my belief that life without Italian wine and cured meats is a life hardly worth living.

Robert Mondavi learned this from his ancestors, too, and was dedicated to sharing the everyday pleasures of the vine with his fellow Americans. I like to imagine that because of my Italian-Minnesotan roots, perhaps I’m not that far removed from the grandfather of the American wine industry. I may never know whether the dago red my grandfather made had any connection to the grapes Cesar Mondavi grew, but I do know that every meal enjoyed with a glass of wine deserves a toast in honor of two men I never met.

Easing My Way Back

2008-05-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

Guess what, folks--I'm drinking again!

I am celebrating my daughter's birth every day in many ways, but one (slightly selfish, I admit) moment to rejoice in is the first glass of wine I've had in MONTHS. And it hasn't actually happened yet...but I'm halfway there, having had 1/2 a glass!

We have been so blessed with help from friends, especially when it comes to food and meals. So when some close friends brought us a lasagna and a bottle of red wine, I seized the moment and had a few sips. From my own glass, even--not just a few surreptitiously stolen sips from someone else's. At that point, Calla was sleeping pretty much all the time, and I was cautious about consuming anything that would make her even sleepier. So I didn't have much, but boy did it feel good.

Earlier this week, we were treated to another excellent pasta dish. So I promptly summoned Ryan to the store with a mission--buy a good, but cheap, bottle of red. We were going to uncork something with dinner for the first time in a long time. However--given the fact that neither Calla nor I can tolerate much at the moment (she eats pretty frequently, so there isn't a ton of time for my body to dilute it before she gets it, and frankly, my tolerance is pretty low after not having a drink in 8 months!)--I knew I wasn't going to drink a lot so I didn't want to open anything that we had on hand, which is all pricier, tastier stuff. Ryan came home with a perfectly palatable Washington red, a wine that I always recommend to people who want something good for $8. (Please don't drink the Australian stuff--the one with the critter on the label. You know the one I'm talking about. Do everyone, especially yourself, a favor, and drink something, anything, else. If you want some specific recommendations, I'd be happy to oblige.)

I had half (okay, let's be honest, three-quarters!) of a glass, and it was fantastic. The wine itself is fine. Nothing to spend too many words on. And besides, I'm out of practice; my technical skills need bolstering as much as my tolerance does! But the fact that I was drinking wine with dinner was so mind-blowingly mood lifting, I have to be careful not to do too much too fast.

I still struggle with what the truth really is about alcohol and breastfeeding. Nobody will give you a straight answer, because nobody wants to tell you that it's okay to drink. But as we've all noted a hundred times, the thousands of French, Spanish, and Italian women who drink--in moderation--while pregnant and breastfeeding demonstrate that it can be done. I'm out to prove it to myself, too.

The next day was one of the best days that Calla and I have had in a while. She slept well, ate well, and had happy, calm awake time. It's hard to know how much credit to give to the small glass of wine, but I'm sure it had something to do with it--if for no other reason than by having put me in a better mood, it put us all in a better mood.

So, in addition to easing back into drinking, I'm easing back into writing. I can't wait to make this a more robust blog. I won't be working full time (for pay, that is!) but I'll be pretty busy with our little one. I'm cautious about expecting too much from myself, but writing about wine again feels almost as good as drinking it again, so I hope to gradually work my way up to more regular indulgences (of writing AND drinking, that is!).

So for now, I urge you to check out Eric Asimov's latest column. He's the wine critic for the NY Times, and I generally like what he has to say. Yesterday's column is definitely worth reading. I wish I could have written it half as eloquently and convincingly as he did:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/07/dining/07pour.html?_r=2&scp=2&sq=asimov&st=nyt&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

That's it for now. Until next time (and the next glass, or half...)

Temperance, or, The Pleasure of Not Consuming Wine

2008-01-17T09:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is a tough entry to write, but one that must be written. I am REALLY missing wine. And while I am sipping, tasting, spitting, and even swallowing here and there, it’s just not the same as an entire glass (or two…) of wine, enjoyed leisurely over the course of a meal. When I do take a sip, whether I spit or swallow, it’s almost entirely for purposes of evaluation. I’m still attending trade tastings, which are all about learning as much about a wine as possible from a 1-2 oz. pour. By the time I’ve evaluated it, there’s nothing left to simply drink for enjoyment, even if I had that luxury right now. If I manage to sneak a sip of Ryan’s wine at dinner, I’m still “tasting” it—is it a good Chianti? Does it go well with the meal? I’m jealous of anyone who has a whole glass of wine to drink, mindlessly savoring the pleasure of a good 4 to 6 ounces of wine.

I’m entering my third trimester and can be slightly more liberal with what I consume (the definition of “liberal” being subject to interpretation!), but in reality, I have a long way to go before I can indulge with abandon. (Also terms open to interpretation…) So it is out of desperation that I am looking for the bright side of not drinking wine.

The half-glass of vintage Champagne I enjoyed at New Year’s was fantastic. (Thanks, Tim!) While it really made me want at least another two or three half-glasses, the knowledge that I should really stop at one (half) helped me increase the pleasure I gleaned from each sip. Sure, I took a few tiny appraisal sips, but then, since I had a good third of a glass left and since the general company and environment (the glow of candles, clinking of glasses, sharing of resolutions) was sufficiently celebratory and distracting, I let myself sink into the bubbles, the warm doughy flavors exhibited by the best Champagne, and frankly, the moment. And while I distinctly remember what that Champagne tasted like, I also strongly remember just being in a good mood, happy, content with sharing a good meal with good friends.

Too much sentiment? Maybe. But it’s what I have to work with right now, and I think it can be valuable for everyone, wine professionals and consumers alike. As a professional, I have been non-so-gently reminded that this product that I sell, sample, write about and teach about is more than a commodity. It’s not all about ratings and reviews, ageing potential, vintage variation, type of closure, yada yada yada. It’s something to be consumed, and sometimes mindlessly, without regard to much other than the way it makes me feel. While I generally wince at the notion that wine is simply a “luxury” good (a topic for another post), I’ve been forced to really think about why I choose to drink wine with my meals. As a consumer, I’d gotten pretty complacent. Wine became just another part of the meal, and choosing what to drink with dinner became as routine as choosing a salad dressing. Now I don’t know about you, but I enjoy wine a whole lot more than I enjoy salad dressing, and this hopefully brief period of temperance has made me quite aware of that.

It almost seems like a paradox, doesn’t it? I think wine is to be savored, enjoyed, noticed, and appreciated, both for what it is and for how it makes you feel. But I also think that we can savor it to death, really, by noticing it too much, caring more about the peripherals of price, producer, and points than about its purpose—pleasure.

My hope for this period of not drinking wine is that it will increase the pleasure of being able to drink again. Not simply by the return of something long-awaited, but by a renewed sense of what wine is really about. You have the luxury of not waiting—may your next glass of wine be even more enjoyable for it.

A Finely Tuned Sense of Smell

2007-11-28T16:19:00.000-08:00

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.

***

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

2007-10-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T15:09:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-06T17:08:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-08-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-03T08:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-11T15:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

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.