Thursday, April 17, 2014
You don’t have to know much about wine to enjoy it, and you need to know even less to write about it. Knowledge can enhance your pleasure drinking wine, but it gets in the way of writing a wine blog. This is yet another of wine’s mysteries, like why so much wine tastes alike. No one knows why so many wines taste alike, though I think we all agree they do, but it does explain why so many of them receive exactly 89 points. When it comes to wine, shit just works out. You will find that if you become interested in wine, knowing more about it will enhance your experience, deepen your relationship with wine. This is how wine differs from women.
My goal in publishing The HoseMaster of Wine™ Wine Class is simple. I’m tired of answering stupid questions from readers individually, so I’ll answer those idiotic questions here, in a format that won’t single you out as one of the dumbest wine drinkers since Kathy Lee Gifford. At the end of each month’s course, I hope you’ll be encouraged to return, discuss the wines I’ve recommended, and pray to Almighty God I won’t be present in the comments to ridicule your puny and irrelevant “insights.” I think you’ll find that by participating you’ll discover just how little you actually know about wine, and you will begin to keep your thoughts to yourself when among more knowledgeable wine people. I see this as a public service.
As you follow my lead and taste the wines I tell you to, you’ll begin to understand your own tastes and where you have failed to appreciate how much better mine are. Wine can be an intimidating subject, but that’s what makes it worth knowing about. Lots of beverages will get you drunk, but when you know about wine you can use that knowledge to intimidate other people, and that’s where much of the joy of wine lies. If you take my Wine Class seriously, soon you’ll be able to make your superiors look stupid, and, honestly, isn’t that just about the best thing in life? Aside from setting cats on fire?
I taste hundreds upon thousands of wine each year, but tasting is different than drinking, in much the way a food fight is different than eating. When you taste a wine and write about it as a professional, you’re extrapolating from that tiny taste how you think it will go with food, how it will age, and how it measures up against other wines in its category. How is this like a food fight? People throw shit at you when you do it, that’s how. Fat people with powerful wine publications. When you drink, you make all that go away. You can assess the wine with food, learn about it as it evolves over the course of the evening, and maybe work up the courage to tell your critics to fuck themselves with a four-foot ah-so. This is the way to learn about wine.
The class will require some work on your part. Genius. I’d like for you to take notes on each wine. If you want to go all Schildknecht (check Wikipedia under "Logorrhea"), use your imagination, describe smells and tastes that can’t possibly be there. That’s a good way to feel superior to the others, and increase your vocabulary. But, for the most part, I’d recommend you stick to your general impressions of the wine. Is it red, and why? Hold the glass up to the light and admire the legs. Idiot, the legs don't matter, I'm just screwin' with you. Would you describe the aroma as intense or is it delicate? You’re old, how do you know you’re not just losing your sense of smell like so many of our prominent wine critics? Does the aroma change, and if so, did you blame the dog? Would you say the texture is soft and silky like the inside of your mistress’ thighs? Or is it harsh, like the feel of her whip? And why are you so easily aroused, what does that say about you? Finally, what is your overall impression of the wine? Did you find it pleasant or profound? Or did you find it crappy despite knowing you’d be wrong because I selected the wines, you moron, and what do you know? These are all questions I’d like you to entertain, as well as what makes you think anyone will even read your thoughts about wine? There, now you know what it’s like to have your own blog.
My purpose is to get you to think about wine in a way you may never have before, that is, from an educated perspective, not your usual stultifying ignorance. Those of you who are already knowledgeable about wine might find that joining in the discussion will reaffirm your own particular arrogance in a pleasing manner. Perhaps wine’s best quality is its ability to powerfully affirm self-importance. This is certainly reflected in all of the wine world’s major personalities, some of whom should probably be publicly shamed only they’re too drunk most of the time to notice, often appearing in worthless videos dressed in a nun’s habit. Yup, I’m talking to you, Jon Bonné.
Alright, let’s get started. What better wine region to begin with than Bordeaux? Everyone acknowledges that France makes the finest wines in the world. In fact, you’ll find that the countries that make the best wines are the countries that hate Americans the most—France, Germany, Italy and, of course, Napa Valley. There was a time when every beginning wine drinker cut his teeth on Bordeaux. Now no one gives a crap about Bordeaux except the face-obsessed Chinese. But I think that Bordeaux still has a lot to offer the novice because once you discover how overrated the wines are, you have learned a lot about wine. I’ve recommended a few wines, but, truly, considering the ones you can afford, you’ll find that a wine from any vintage from any appellation will disappoint.
Try to match the Bordeaux with a simple meal. Beef would work, even something so simple as Grandma’s Alpo. Note how the wine enhances, or fails to enhance, the meal. Think about ways you might better have spent the forty bucks the Bordeaux cost you, say by giving Grandma some human food. Everything I’ve mentioned in this beginning column is important to your ultimate appreciation of wine. If at the end of these Wine Classes you don’t feel more comfortable about wine, you’ll have only yourself to blame. I can’t hold your goddam hand all the time.
Finally, don’t worry about the glassware you use. Like you would. Make sure and put lipstick on before you taste or you’ll look like you don’t have any self-respect. Men, mind the backwash, what are you, a hillbilly? Use any glass you like; especially with Bordeaux, it just won’t matter. Worrying about using the proper wine glass when you drink wine is like worrying about what kind of paper bag you put the dog shit in before you light it on fire on your neighbor’s porch. It just doesn’t matter, it’s the quality of what’s in it that counts.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Once there was a poor farmer whose only luck in life was that he had three lovely daughters. None of the three looked the least bit like him, which was probably for the best. One daughter had beautiful blonde hair like spun gold, one had raven tresses and almond shaped eyes, while the third daughter was fair-skinned, with hair the color of iron-rich soil. The poor farmer never gave a second thought to how little his daughters looked like him. The poor farmer’s wife had told him that each girl had been conceived under a magic spell from the evil wizard, Viagra. “Just another hard luck story,” the poor farmer’s wife said, “the emphasis on ‘luck’ and ‘hard.’” The poor farmer loved each of his daughters very much.
One day the poor farmer was plowing his field when his plow struck something hard and metallic under the soil.
“What the fuck was that?” said the poor farmer’s draft horse, an emaciated Clydesdale named Pferdie. The “P” was silent, like in sand.
The poor farmer bent down to look, and, there, just barely glinting in the morning sunlight, he could see something made of silver. Using his hands to uncover the buried object, the poor farmer finally revealed a silver tastevin, which he held up for his draft horse to see.
“Oh, Pferdie, it’s just a piece of crap. Shiny, but basically useless. Looks like a diaphragm for Lettie Teague.” What kind of poor fucking farmer reads WSJ? Pretty much every kind.
Before the poor farmer cast the tastevin aside, he couldn’t resist taking out his handkerchief and giving it a quick polish. The poor farmer rubbed and rubbed the tastevin. Before long, after only a handful of strokes, right there in the middle of his barren field, a Magic Sommelier appeared.
“Yikes,” the poor farmer exclaimed, “where did you come from?”
“You summoned me,” the Magic Sommelier said. “I’m a Magic Sommelier. You know how we sommeliers love strokes. We live for strokes. What can I do for you?”
The poor farmer and Pferdie were dumbfounded. What was a sommelier doing in their field? Sure, the poor farmer had walked behind Pferdie for many years plowing his field, so the Magic Sommelier wasn’t the first horse’s ass he’d seen. Yet it was still rather an odd start to the day.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Magic Sommelier. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me.”
“I have the power, poor farmer, to grant you three wishes. But I warn you, you summoned a sommelier, you should be careful what you wish for.”
The poor farmer immediately thought about his three beautiful and beloved daughters. Maybe a wish for each would be the answer. But as much as he loved his girls, the poor farmer had no idea what to wish for them. Did they want money, or fame, or eternal youth? The poor farmer certainly didn’t want to make a mistake with his three wishes. What if he wished the wrong things for his daughters? What would his wife say? No matter, he didn’t have to worry about her, his wife had said she’d be gone all day under the spell of the evil Viagra, which, she often said, felt like riding Pferdie up a mountain wearing only G-strings for her boobs. Thongs For the Mammaries.
“Hey, poor farmer,” the Magic Sommelier said, “I’ve got other tables. You want the three wishes, or not?”
“Yes,” the poor farmer said, “I do. But I don’t know what to wish for. I have three beautiful daughters, and I want to give them each one wish. Oh, Magic Sommelier, why don’t you choose the wishes for me? That’s what you do, right?”
“Very wise of you, poor farmer. I will pick the perfect wish to go with each of your lovely daughters. But first, of course, I must taste them. Only then will I be able to find the perfect complement for them. It’s how we roll.”
The poor farmer led the Magic Sommelier to his humble cottage, where his three gorgeous daughters were waiting. They’d never seen a Magic Sommelier before.
“What’s that weird thing your neck is holding up,” asked the blonde daughter.
“That’s called a tastevin.”
“No, I know what a tastevin is,” said the blonde, “I meant your face.”
“OK, girls,” the poor farmer said, “you are each to be granted one wish by this Magic Sommelier, but first he must taste each of you. Yeah, I know, creepy, but that’s how he rolls.”
The Magic Sommelier took the gorgeous blonde’s hand and led her into the poor farmer’s bedroom. It didn’t take long, he might be magic, but he’s still a sommelier, before the blonde daughter emerged from the poor farmer’s bedroom, a look of utter dismay on her beautiful face. “What a jackass,” she said. “He asked me if I had a twin sister. He said the best way to taste is to taste double-blonde.”
Finally, the radiant redhead daughter entered the poor farmer’s bedroom. She was in there a long time. Funny noises were heard, and the poor farmer feared the presence of the evil Viagra. But he, and his daughters, waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt for fear of breaking the spell and losing the three wishes. When the voluptuous redhead daughter emerged from the poor farmer’s bedroom, she was one hot mess. “I got a lot more than tasted,” the redhead said. “He also probed me with his Magic Meat Thief. Though, really, I was disappointed. More of a Magic Meat Eye-Dropper.”
Before long the Magic Sommelier appeared. He brushed himself off, wiped his face, and started for the door of the cottage.
“Where are you going?” said the poor farmer’s family, all at once. “What about our wishes?”
The Magic Sommelier turned to them with a look of disgust on his face.
“When you summon a Magic Sommelier,” he said, “there are three things you usually expect. Like your blonde daughter, you expect that I will push for a second when you’re not even done with the first. Like your raven-haired daughter, you expect huge mark-ups. And, third, like your redheaded daughter, you expect to get fucked.
“All of what you expected came true. Your three subliminal wishes have been granted.”
With that, the Magic Sommelier vanished. That’s how they roll.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Raffaldini Wines I’m Using to Talk About Myself
Raffaldini NV “La Dolce Vita” $16
Raffaldini 2012 Pinot Grigio Swan Creek $15
Raffaldini 2012 Vermentino Riserva Swan Creek $19
Raffaldini 2011 Sangiovese Swan Creek $18
Raffaldini 2011 Sangiovese Riserva Swan Creek $23
Raffaldini 2011 Montepulciano Riserva Swan Creek $29
I received an invitation late last year to a comparative tasting of Italian varieties, notably Montepulciano, at Raffaldini Vineyards. Sounded fun, the only catch was that Raffaldini Vineyards is in North Carolina. I have no idea how I ended up on their invite list, but I sent a note to Thomas Salley, their Media Relations guy, expressing my regrets at being unable to attend, given that I wasn’t sure North Carolina was an actual place. Eventually, Mr. Salley offered to send me samples of Raffaldini’s wines. Yes, Virginia, there is a North Carolina.
Comparative blind tastings are a classic marketing tool in the wine business, and in thinking about the Raffaldini wines, I flashed on how many I’ve attended over the years. In some ways, they rely on the same principles as magic (performed by "The Great Raffaldini!")—misdirection, the human ability to convince yourself you can’t be fooled, and outright lying. This is why I love them. But, like magic, most of the fun goes away when you know how it’s done. You know that the magician didn’t actually saw the woman in half, or make her levitate, or decapitate her, unless you’re watching a bad rerun of Peter Falk as “Columbo,” but you just can’t quite figure out how it was done. You read a book on magic, find out, and now the tricks are suddenly stupid, replacing you.
Almost anyone who’s been in the trade long enough has attended a Robert Mondavi blind tasting featuring Mondavi Reserve Cabernet versus First Growth Bordeaux. You sit and taste six wines, try to guess which are which, rank them in order of preference, and wait for the big reveal. Just like Three Card Monte, the dealer can’t lose. Plus, the opportunity to taste a First Growth or two gets buyer butts in seats. Obviously, if the tasting group of sommeliers and wine buyers chooses the Mondavi Reserve as the best wine, it’s a win for Mondavi. But even if the Margaux, or Latour, or Lafite, manages to eke out a victory, Mondavi wins. Why? Because the Mondavi is cheaper. By a lot. So a wine salesman can say to his customer, “I just had the Mondavi Reserve blind next to Margaux. The Margaux won, but the Mondavi was second, and it’s half the price!” Just using Mondavi and Margaux in the same sentence is a win for Mondavi.
It also brings up an interesting semantic point. Well, interesting to me. Salespeople will tell you an expensive wine is “cheap.” A really cheap wine they will tell you is “inexpensive.” Used car salesman talk. For example, “Mondavi Reserve is cheap compared to Chateau Margaux!” sounds better than, “Mondavi Reserve is inexpensive compared to Chateau Margaux!” You want to leave “expensive” out of it. But a basic wine that sells for under, say, fifteen dollars is never referred to as cheap. “This is gorgeous Merlot, and it’s really inexpensive!” is better than “This is gorgeous Merlot, and it’s really cheap!” So always remember, those $100 bottles are cheap, your every day bottle of Trader Joe’s Reserve Shoe Polish is inexpensive.
Wine shops love to rig blind tastings too. It’s so easy to do. Let’s say you’re throwing a blind tasting of ten California cult Cabernets. One of those wines, Spottswoode, let’s say, you were only allotted a single case. You know it’s a great wine, but you do NOT want it to win. You want a wine you have a lot of to win. What do you do? You put it first. The first wine in a blind tasting only rarely wins. Most people, even if they know a lot about wine, can’t believe that the first wine can possibly be the best wine on the table with nine more wines left to taste! So it won’t win. But whatever does win will have won over the Spottswoode, making it truly amazing wine. Even if it’s not. How do you make the wine you want to win actually win? Lots of ways. But the easiest is to say, first of all, that you, the owner of the shop, don’t know the order of the wines being poured. Of course, you do know. When a magician asks a member of the audience, “Have we ever met?” and the audience member says, “No,” what makes you believe him? He’s a shill more often than not. It’s the classic “willing suspension of disbelief” that entertainment often relies on. So you, as owner, know which wine you want to sell. You’re at the front of the room, and all eyes are on you. All you have to do is to pick up the glass of the wine you want to move, smell it, raise your eyebrows as though greatly impressed, close your eyes, nod appreciatively, sip it, smile, spit it out, and make furious notes. Your crowd, who sees you as guru, will pick up on your cues, though you’ve never said a single word. And, magically, that wine drifts to the top of the voting. Believe me, this always works.
In my sommelier days, I had little patience for stupid marketing pitches that relied on blind tastings. One of my least favorites was a new winery telling me, “We tasted our 2007 Cabernet blind against Harlan Estate, Montelena, Opus One, Bryant Family, Colgin and Screaming Eagle, and our wine won! So we think $150 is a fair price.” Who falls for that crap? I’d reply, “Wow! Really? A wine you made for your personal taste, that you’ve tasted thirty times, actually won? Amazing! I have a suggestion. Next time, taste your new, unproven, no track record Cabernet against wines that cost $50. It will still win, and you can charge $60, which is what it’s actually worth.” That wine sales technique is really a version of “the vineyard is right next to…name a famous vineyard.” Such horse shit. And in the next breath, they tell you what makes their wine unique is its microclimate, it’s terroir—forget that it’s next to Petrus now, in other words, and focus on how singular it is.
The truth is that wines are not made to be compared to other wines. We all do it, for a variety of reasons, but that doesn’t make it right. The longer you are involved with wine, the more experience you bring to every bottle you taste, and that’s certainly invaluable, but comparing Lafite to Margaux, or Rayas to Beaucastel, is wrongheaded. Making purchasing decisions based on blind comparative tasting makes me think of paraphrasing Richard Pryor (who was paraphrasing Chico Marx in “Duck Soup”), “Who you gonna believe, me or your lyin’ palate?”
I’m pretty sure at this point Thomas Salley is really glad I didn’t believe in the existence of North Carolina and show up to his Raffaldini tasting.
For no valid reason, I brought low expectations to tasting wines from North Carolina. Though I’ve certainly tasted North Carolina wines blind in various wine competitions, the Raffaldini would be the first North Carolina wines I’ve tasted intentionally. I have to say, I was often surprised by the wines, and in a good way. The wines, while all over the place from a quality standpoint, certainly reflect an owner and winemaker dedicated to quality. The motto of Raffaldini Vineyards is “Chianti in the Carolinas.” Are there any wineries on the west coast with mottos? Maybe. Didn’t Saintsbury used to say “Beaune in the USA?” Maybe there should be more. “Get yourself a DAOU Jones.” OK, maybe not.
The first wine I tried was the Raffaldini 2012 Pinot Grigio. Pinot Gris/Grigio is a variety I am not particularly attracted to. When you talk about Pinot Gris, everyone uses Alsace as the shining example, but most of the time I find those wines are just Tokay. Italian Pinot Grigio can be refreshing, even compelling, but not very often. Given all the superior Italian white varieties—Fiano, Garganega, Arneis, Greco, Tocai Fruilano--it seems odd to get worked up over the ubiquitous Pinot Grigio. It’s the dullest grape at the party, the one trying so hard not to offend anyone--it’s a grape wallflower. Yet the Raffaldini had quite a bit of personality, though it reminded me texturally of Alsace Pinot Gris more than Italian Pinot Grigio. Thick textured, aromatically like a fruit cocktail, the apple and canned peach character was appealing, and there was a nice backbone of acidity, though my overall impression of the wine is that it is a bit clunky, like a kid wearing shoes a size too big for him. However, it was damned nice with the Petrale sole I had sautéed for dinner. In fact, it lit up with the food, found its footing as it were, and I came away with a much better impression of it. Which, of course, is why you drink wine with food. For fifteen bucks, you could do a whole lot worse, and only occasionally better.
The Raffaldini 2012 Vermentino Riserva, don’t think I’ve ever had a Riserva of Vermentino before this, it’s sort of like today’s special being french fries, was a joy to drink. I remarked to my wife that it reminded me of a white wine from Navarro, all the fruit intensity backed by racy acidity, a great purity of flavor and a mouthwatering finish. The nose was floral and very bright, peach blossom and apricot, and even had a trace of saltiness. But I was taken aback by how alive and delicious it was on the palate, and by the richness and sexiness of its texture. This is gorgeous wine for any state in the Union to produce. Here’s an odd statement, it’s the best domestic Vermentino I’ve tasted. Not sure how much weight a statement like that carries. It’s right there with best black hockey goalie, but there it is. I’m a little surprised in this era of California producers fixated on varieties like Ribolla Gialla, Grenache Blanc and Arneis that there aren’t more Vermentinos out there. Such a lovely grape, if not the most complex, and the Raffaldini Riserva is a marvelous example of its many charms. Liguria in the Carolinas!
You just can’t be Chianti in the Carolinas without Sangiovese. You can’t be Brunello in the Boonies either. The Raffaldini 2011 Sangiovese isn’t bad. It isn’t thrilling either. In its defense, I could say that about a lot of Sangiovese, especially domestic Sangiovese. I’ve heard people say they’ve had wonderful domestic Sangiovese, but I can’t say I’ve tasted very many lately. The original Atlas Peak project ruined the California Sangiovese market—those were abysmal wines mostly. Now it seems like an afterthought of a variety in the state. The Raffaldini was pleasant, a bit on the ponderous side on the palate, but had Sangiovese’s blend of ripe red fruits, mostly cherry here, and a bit of bitter almond skin on the finish. What was strange was that on the second night I put my nose in the glass and immediately flashed on a Rioja Crianza! Where did that come from? Sitting overnight hadn’t done it any favors, yet it smelled like a very traditional, American-oaked Rioja. It was probably me.
The Raffaldini 2011 Sangiovese Riserva seemed like it was trying too hard. Hey, I’m a Riserva, I need to impress. People expect “more” from a Riserva, though how they define “more” is always suspect. Often, in Cabernet from Napa, for example, it means more new oak, or longer time in new oak. Over the years, I’ve found that in a lot of varieties of domestic wines, I prefer the non-Reserve wine. Too often, the Reserve wines are for status seekers, are for the people who have to go top shelf even if they have no idea what’s on that shelf. It reminds me of my best friend going to buy tickets for the circus (what’s more fun than going to the circus drunk, which we did when we could?) and getting talked into four seats in the “Owner’s Box.” Turns out the Owner’s Box, at an extra twenty bucks a seat, was two feet from the regular seats. They saw him coming. That can often be a winery’s Reserve. Anyhow, the Raffaldini Sangiovese Riserva had a raisined character to the nose, it reminded me of ripasso in a very vague sense, but also some nice dark red fruit and an unusual spiciness. It has nice energy on the palate, but, well, it’s muddled. Sure, it’s easy to drink, but I thought it lacked varietal definition. It did hold up well overnight, still displaying that energy, but it just seemed like they tried to make too much out of the materials they had at hand. Though, to be fair, it’s Sangiovese from North Carolina, so it’s way better than you think.
Montepulciano seems like a good choice for North Carolina. It’s one of those grapes that’s pretty resistant to downy mildew (which one can get from Robert Downey, Jr’s career path) as well as bunch rot. And if you’ve ever had your bunch rot, you know how nasty that can be. I like Montepulciano, though it’s so often pedestrian unless it’s in the hands of someone like Valentini. The Raffaldini 2011 Montepulciano Riserva is an interesting wine. It wasn’t until after I spent a few days with it that I read that it’s done in appassimento style, the style of Amarone, where the grapes are allowed to raisin, sometimes on mats, sometimes hanging from hooks, but dessicated in order to concentrate the wines. It’s an ancient technique, borrowed from dentists’ offices, and, done properly, it’s very labor intensive and delicate work. The Raffaldini is impressively robust, and very dense. It’s a bruiser, and really needs something very hearty and smoky to eat to match it. I can’t think of a Montepulciano anything like it. It’s a very interesting style choice, and, here, it’s a Riserva for a reason. It will have a very long life ahead of it. The question isn’t whether it will age, the question is, will it evolve? I wonder. But as I said to the gentleman who sent me these wines, “It’s one to Lay Down, Salley.” But if you’re a fan of, say, mammoth California Petite Sirah, or of Amarone, you will find this wine appealing. It has very dense blackberry fruit, with notes of espresso, and a nice touch of mild bitterness to the finish. Maybe a bit monolithic for my taste, but, really, considering the appassimento style, and the work involved with that, it’s very impressive winemaking. Very impressive. Just don’t serve it thinking it’s your basic Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. It’s a million miles from that.
Lastly, there’s the non-vintage Raffaldini La Dolce Vita. When I opened the shipping box holding the Raffaldini wines, it was a surprise to see one of the bottles closed with a beer cap. It was La Dolce Vita, a sweet, frizzante white wine made, it seems, in the style of Moscato d’Asti. There’s no Muscat in the wine, it’s mostly Traminette, a popular hybrid that genetically can claim eight different species of vitis in its family tree (we’ve all had dogs like that), and it weighs in at only 7% alcohol. Fun wine, really. I’m sure it sells like crazy in the summer out of the tasting room. It doesn’t have the refreshing sparkle that Moscato d’Asti has at its best, but, hey, what a great poolside drink, or the wine to serve that person in your life, and we all have one, who only likes sweet wines. Simply put, it’s delicious, and filled with charm, a mouthful of juicy peach nectar flavor.
I couldn’t resist a chance to talk about wines from North Carolina. There are about 160 wineries in North Carolina now. That’s amazing, really. The Raffaldini wines gave me newfound respect for what vintners are trying to do there. I enjoyed all of the wines, at least on some level, and the Vermentino Riserva and Montepulciano Riserva are distinctive and worth trying if you run across them. If you want to add North Carolina to your life list of states from which you’ve had wine, Raffaldini would be my choice.