Blind Book Review: Jon Bonné's "The New Wine Rules"

I wanted to read Jon Bonné’s latest wine book, “The New Wine Rules,” but I have a new rule myself. I don’t read books about wine rules. Books about wine rules, which every famous wine writer seems to feel is his or her duty to write, though the books are universally dreadful and particularly predictable, always come down to one conclusion. When it comes to wine, throw out the rules. Rules are for suckers. The apparent contradiction never discourages them from writing the book. It’s like a politician saying every politician is corrupt, vote for me. And like an idiot, you vote for him, and then you go out and buy another book about wine rules. P.T. Barnum was only half right. Yes, there’s a sucker born every minute, but, also, every sucker is reborn every minute, too.


It takes a lot of time to not read a new wine book. But I want to be as fair as I can to the author, so I'm willing to invest virtually no time at all to the review. This is exactly how wine is reviewed by the likes of Jon Bonné, and every other wine critic. To read the rest of my thoughtful and timely review, you'll have to jump to Tim Atkin's place. And even if, ironically, you don't want to read my review in order to judge whether it's funny or not, go there as well. And, please, feel free not to leave a comment so that we know what you think.

TIM ATKIN MW

Blind Book Review: Alice Feiring's "The Dirty Guide to Wine"

I’m not sure what happened, but, apparently, my review copy of Reverend Alice Feiring’s latest sermon was misdelivered. I have no idea how this happened. I am certain that the publishers want my opinion of the book and must have sent me a copy. I can’t find it. But that’s not a problem. I’ll simply write my book review blind. Much as Feiring can predict the nature of a wine by the soil from which it originated without having to actually taste it, I can review one of her books without having actually read it. It's probably the same old schist. I can truthfully say that I have never enjoyed not having read a book as much as I thoroughly enjoyed not reading “The Dirty Guide to Wine.” If I were you, I would rush to my nearest book store and pick up a copy! Then put it down, and leave.

Can Feiring write a book without a stupid title? “The Dirty Guide to Wine” is about soil. I was sure from the title it was going to be about exposure. That’s dirtier, especially near a playground. She saved the world from Parkerization with her first book, and then wrote a book called “Naked Wine,” and now we have “The Dirty Guide to Wine.” What’s next? “Orgasm in a Glass”? “WILF Hunter”? Does the publisher really think the title will sell more books? It’s not clever, it’s stupid. And, hey, who knows more about that than I? For maximum sales, I would have entitled it, “The Dirty Guide to Wine for Idiots.” Though, honestly, maybe just carrying this book around implies the idiot part.

Feiring is proposing a “new” way to think about wine. Her way. The way where you have to subscribe to her newsletter to know what to drink because she’s out there grilling natural wine producers on your behalf. She’s a truth teller, she’ll have you know, and, you, well, you’re sort of a sucker. You believe it when a winemaker says he makes natural wine, and, spoiler alert, he might be lying! People lie to you in the outside world. They’ll tell you what you want to hear. They’ll corrupt you. You can only trust one truth-teller. And you should subscribe to her site and buy her book! There is but one truth, and it’s the redheaded one who speaks it. This is how cults work. Is the natural wine movement a cult? Have you ever met anyone who managed to escape? But, I guess, better the redheaded cult than the orangeheaded cult. It’s only wine. At least the natural wine cult is benign. The orangeheaded cult is malignant.

“The Dirty Guide to Wine,” which I’m looking forward to not reading a second time, is, at its heart, about terroir. “Terroir” is French for “I haven’t any fucking idea how to explain why this wine tastes like that.” But “The Terroiry Guide to Wine” is too hard to say without sounding like you have a speech impediment. When someone tells me I can taste terroir in a wine, I immediately wonder if they can sense my aura turning red. Feiring focuses on soil in this book, which is one of the elements of terroir. Which is like being one of the cards in the Tarot deck. Isn’t it meaningless without all the other cards around it? Or is it more like a book about biodynamics that is 250 pages about cow shit? I’m so confused.

Wine confounds us much as our reason for existing confounds us. So we turn to a sort of spiritualism, a religion of wine. We assign all sorts of emotional power to wine. We go into mystical rants about our favorite wines, we dance around in ecstasy and speak in bungs. Feiring finds that natural wines, unlike the wines she’s disqualified as high priestess of natural wine, speak to us on an emotional level. Which is just peachy, though what if one is emotionally crippled? Lot of that in the new world of sommeliers and wine experts online, as I can attest. Isn’t that part of how wine speaks to you, through your own emotional demons? Does wine elevate our souls, or just drown our sorrows? Must there be more to wine than the simple fact of its ability to alter our consciousness? Yes. I guess there must. People can’t stop writing dumb books about it.

Is wine from a chalky soil more alive? Does wine from a granite soil have a different energy? Don’t you find these questions embarrassing? Wine might make us feel more alive as we consume a great bottle of it, but the wine’s not alive. Wine is made from a living organism, true, but so is cotton, and I don’t think my shirt is alive. It’s loud, but I can’t hear it. As for emotion, we bring the emotion to the wine, not the other way around. To say that a natural wine, however you define it (and it’s mostly defined by the writer, who demands your trust), is one that is not only better but also speaks to you on a more emotional level is profoundly fatuous. The wine isn’t doing that. YOU are doing that. You see the label and you get emotional. You bring your emotional baggage to the glass just as surely as you bring your palate. The wine speaks to you of your values, perhaps, or of your visit to the winery, which changed your vinous life. It speaks to your human weakness, too. You so want to be right and so want to be admired that when you know it’s natural wine it tastes alive to you, and when you know it’s not a natural wine, you immediately sense the evil that lurks within. The fervor with which natural wine proponents write and speak about wine is eerily reminiscent of people who have found Jesus. And I don’t mean that in a good way.

Different soils affect grapevines in different manners resulting in different flavors in the wine made from those vines. Skilled tasters can detect those differences. They can taste the differences in oak barrels, too. I’m pretty sure the oak forests used to make barrels aren’t organically farmed, but somehow that doesn’t enter into the definition of natural wine. Hey, screw that habitat. It’s also obvious that the health of the soil is of utmost importance to the vines and the wine. I dislike manufactured wine as much as the next wine expert, though it probably represents the vast majority of the wine produced in the world. And I love many wines considered natural. But the natural wine world, represented so famously by Feiring, is the new face of wine snobbery. It’s an attractive face because it leans on environmentalism and spiritual, feel-good, mumbo-jumbo. But it’s still snobbery, and it’s unpleasant to read and be around.

Snobbery was once 100 point wines. Natural wine lovers would have you believe that only wines farmed organically or biodynamically and made with minimal intervention are the true reflections of beauty and greatness in wine. The points they award are for doing what they tell you is the right way to make wine. It’s snobbery, plain and simple. There are shit wines that received 100 points, and there are shit wines that are natural. Feeling better about yourself because you drink 100 point wines or feeling better about yourself because you think the wines you drink aren’t ruining the earth is about the same thing. It’s not about the wine, it’s about feeling better about yourself. Either way, it’s about wine speaking to the emotionally crippled. I just want to drink interesting wine, I don’t want to ascend to natural wine nirvana.

It’s lovely to think that Alice Feiring and Pascaline Lepeltier MS (Run!) are crusaders for a better wine world. It was lovely to think that Robert Parker was our wine advocate, too. Pick your guru, worship at the church of your choice. Now I just want to know who’s going to save the world from Feiringization.

Blind Book Review: Kelli White's "Napa Valley Then and Now"

Why is it no one solicits book reviews from the HoseMaster of Wine™? My feelings are hurt. All sorts of second tier bloggers seem to have received copies of Kelli White’s “Napa Valley Then and Now” for review, but not me, and I'm top tier. Which is pathetic on the face of it. OK, maybe it's top tear, but you get the idea. I suppose it could be because I review wine books without actually reading them, which, when you think about it, is the only legitimately objective way to review books. Television hosts have done this for decades, and very successfully. You don’t really think Jay Leno read all the books of the authors who appeared on “The Tonight Show,” do you? It’s possible Jon Stewart may have read all the books he promoted, but it’s pretty unlikely. Television hosts have staff to read the books for them, staff who then provide notes to make the host seem glib and well-read. Which then sells a lot of books. I don’t have any staff to speak of. Lo Hai Qu doesn’t read wine books, she reads toenail clippings (which, according to her, can foretell the future, as well as make interesting tea cozies). So, since I didn’t receive a review copy of “Napa Valley Then and Now” I will review it blind. It’s the only honest way to review.

It was a joy to not read “Napa Valley Then and Now." I enjoyed it Not Then, as well as Not Now. 

I’ve always believed that the worst possible place to work as a sommelier is wine country, especially wine country with a lot of obscenely wealthy winery owners. Kelli White is a sommelier at Press restaurant on Highway 29 smack dab in the middle of Napa Valley. And now she’s published a book (well, rather, the owner of Press, Leslie Rudd, has published her book—the guy who owned the restaurant where I worked wouldn’t even lend me a book) about, TA-DA, wineries in Napa Valley, and Napa Valley itself. I wonder what the people who own wineries not mentioned in her book are saying to her these days? “Yeah, so, Shypoke Winery is in the book, but I’m not? How ‘bout I shy poke your eyes out?” I’m guessing Rudd’s winery is in the book. And whoever tips her a lot when having dinner at Press is probably in the book. Though you can starve to death in the sommelier business waiting for obscenely wealthy folks to tip you well, so that’s probably not that much of a factor.

A lot has been made of the size and weight of “Napa Valley Then and Now.” I think the answer to why it’s so huge is pretty simple. I think Kelli told Mr. Rudd she wanted it to be a coffee table book, so he made it a fucking coffee table. Just add legs. And a dash of MegaPurple.

But let’s face it, the book is mostly about Napa Valley Cabernet. So why wouldn’t you make it huge, unwieldy, overblown, self-important, overpriced and sporting way too much wood? It’s perfect! The book itself is exactly like the wines it describes.  When a critic tells you it’s “exhaustive,” he means he crapped his pants trying to pick it up to read it. It may be very big, but I doubt it has much to say—again, just like the wines! It’s a brilliant concept, really. Next up, “Mendocino Then and Now,”  a book made from hemp. “Napa Valley Then and Now” covers 200 wineries in Napa Valley, a region with, according to Wines and Vines Analytics database, more than a thousand wineries. “Exhaustive?” So 800 just ain’t worth mentioning. They rarely come in for dinner.

Ms. White also works for Antonio Galloni at Vinous, though I don’t read that either. She manages to give him the fifteen-pound-book finger by having Galloni’s old boss, Robert Parker, write the foreword to the book. That made me laugh. Shows you who White thinks actually has clout in the wine business.

Press seems like an appropriate employer for Ms. White. That’s what this book is. Press. For all the wineries featured. It’s sort of “Vanity Fair’s” show biz issue meets wine country. Annie Liebovitz does cult wines. (I’m just hoping there’s a Helmut Newtonesque photo of Bill Harlan in his underwear.) It’s all size and no substance. It’s got more puff pieces than the Pillsbury Doughboy, and it's twice as floury. What else can this book be but one gigantic vanity project? “My first published book weighs more than your first published book! I’m talkin’ to You, God. And Your youdam book was made of stone tablets. Thou shalt bite me.” But, again, maybe a vanity project about Napa is appropriate—vanity is ubiquitous in Napa Valley. Only they’re around vanity so much they seem incapable of recognizing it anymore. It flows in their vains. This big, reverential book—porn for the wine trolls on Wineberserkers—probably seems just right to Rudd and White, and all of the wineries involved. If anything, it’s not grandiose enough. It’s only barely the Castello di Amarosa of wine books. Though White got the torture chamber right.

I’m an enthusiastic fan of blurbs. Send your newly minted book to all of your friends and admirers, as White must have done, your employers and fellow employees, the people you are certain will praise your work, then excerpt their remarks on your website and in your marketing materials. Never disclose your relationships to them because, well, genuine book critics don’t review books that are written by their friends or relatives and you want people to believe the praise is objective. It’s hilarious. It’s Hollywood, and, therefore, it’s Napa Valley. It’s like believing what friends and relatives say about your newborn, but basically ugly, baby being cute.

I perused White’s site to read her Press, her solicited blurbs. Allen Meadows, known as "Burghound" (or "Rudy’s Bitch"), goes so far as to drop the hoariest critical sentence available to a reviewer, “If you read only one wine book this year…”—right after he praises her for her “deft turns of phrase”! So, judging from his deft turn of phrase, he’s certainly an expert on great writing.

Alice Feiring writes that “White has pulled off a beautifully written guide—balanced, while clearly having an essential point of view—to the complex region of Napa.” A region, Feiring fails to add, that she herself essentially despises and rarely visits. I love this kind of stuff. It’s transparently hypocritical and utter bullshit. A gigantic book, ludicrously and unnecessarily large considering the subject matter (it ain’t Audobon’s lifesize "The Birds of America"), a book that is about as unnatural and environmentally irresponsible as a wine book could be, being praised by the Queen of natural wines. Does my heart good to see dear Alice selling out.

Antonio Galloni, for whom White writes, contributes a blurb that clearly proves he hasn’t even read the book. “One of the brightest voices of our generation, Kelli White provides a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at Napa Valley and its evolution over the last several decades. The stories behind the valley’s great wines and the people who make them are told with boundless passion and enthusiasm. Napa Valley, Then & Now is a must-have for anyone who loves Napa Valley wines.” It’s a Mad Libs review. Replace “Kelli White” with “Wink Lorch,” and Napa Valley with “the Jura” and, there you go, another review for a different book. Or substitute “Livingstone-Learmonth” and “Rhône Valley,” and you have another. Galloni’s got a lifetime of book reviews in just one paragraph. Eerily like how he reviews wines.

In conclusion, if you don’t read only one wine book this year, "Napa Valley Then and Now" is a must-not-have from one of the brightest voices of our generation. Unfortunately, compared to Feiring, Meadows and himself, Galloni just might be right about that last part.

Blind Book Review: Karen MacNeil's "The Wine Bible 2nd Edition"

The only bibles I’ve ever read were television bibles, which are the keys to the characters and plotlines, written by the series’ creators, of individual television series. Television bibles teach us to worship Mammon, and Norman Lear. Mammon has more hit shows. As well as the leading Republican candidate for President. The Bible, capitalized, and usually qualified by the word “Holy,” as in “cow” and “shit,” is a book that, ashamedly, I’ve never read. The publisher refused to send me a review copy. Coincidentally, I haven’t received a review copy of Karen MacNeil’s soon to be released The Wine Bible 2nd Edition either. Which means that I am able to evaluate and criticize it completely objectively, much as wine critics claim to evaluate wine. They’re mostly lying. But they are on the right track. Actually reviewing wines blind is honorable work, though far too humbling to pursue for a living. The many folks who will ultimately review MacNeil’s newer version of The Wine Bible will also claim to have read it. They’re mostly lying, too. This is the beauty of the wine business. We like drinking and lying. Not necessarily in that order.

In her press and on her blog, MacNeil says she “is the only person in the United States to have WON EVERY MAJOR WINE AWARD (her capitalization, which is a lovely measure of journalism in itself) in the English language.” So, fuck you Roederer International Wine Writing Awards! MacNeil hasn’t won a Roederer Award, therefore they are not MAJOR WINE AWARDS by definition. Pretty sure she hasn’t won a Wine Blog Award either, but there’s that damned “MAJOR” in there, so I guess she’s off that particular hook. Not to mention “the English language,” to which most wine blogs have only a vague resemblance. I’ve won three Wine Blog Awards, and they’re to wine writing what lethal injections are to the death penalty. This from a guy who has WON EVERY MAJOR WINE BLOG AWARD in the English language. If there were any.

Wine has more guides than Everest has Sherpas. The Oxford Companion, World Atlas of Wine, A Connoisseurs’ Guide, Essential Guide, a Dummies Guide, an Idiot’s Guide, a Jerk’s Guide, an Asshole’s Guide, Riedel’s Guide (which is a compilation of the previous three)… And all the guides will tell you that buying their guide will help you understand wine. Maybe. But what they really help you understand is that wine is hard to understand, even in alphabetical order. That wine writing is couched in mystical and incomprehensible language, impenetrable metaphors and dumbfounding similes. Which is why wine guides are exactly like The Holy Bible—books that are filled with mythical stories and bizarre language with the intent of making you believe in your own insignificance in the scheme of things. Only MacNeil is the one who figured that out first and grabbed the catchy title, and is now releasing The Wine Bible 2nd Edition. I’m just surprised she didn’t call it The Wine New Testament.

The wine world is expanding faster than Subway’s Jared at the Kid’s Choice Awards. And MacNeil has expanded her guide to cover wines from regions that are new to most wine lovers. There’s a section on Mexican wines, wines derided by Donald Trump as “smuggled into the US by Mexico’s countless grapists.” MacNeil defends Mexican wines, and, in her inimitable voice, calls them, “Up and coming, like your taco truck lunch.” There’s an incisive entry about the wines of China. “Better than you think. Wines to make you smile. The Mao, the merrier.” She even visits the obscure country of Brangelina to taste their wines. “Lovely, pink and effervescent,” she writes, “like Elton John in a hot tub.”

The Wine Bible 2nd Edition is not just for the beginning wine lover, it’s also for experienced wine lovers looking to spend that annoying $25 Amazon gift card just to get rid of it. It’s fun and lively in a way best summed up by the word, “comprehensive.” It’s more than 1000 pages, each numbered! It’s a wine book heaped with praise.

“It’s the greatest wine book I’ve ever seen. Makes me wish I could read.”—Danny Meyer

“A guide that has all the answers—like your annoying 16-year-old.”—Bobby Flay

“You don’t have to be an Idiot or a Dummy to buy this wine guide—but it sure helps!”—Hugh Johnson

Fortunately, I’ve never read the first edition of The Wine Bible. It might have thrown me off. I hear it’s about wine. Endlessly about wine. And I would guess, since I haven’t read it, and thoroughly enjoyed not reading it, that The Wine Bible 2nd Edition even has Ten Commandments.

Thou shalt have no other guides before me.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any trademarked images.

Thou shalt not take the score of the guide, thy God, in vain.

Thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt only unscrew.

Thou shalt not stink of ambergris at a wine tasting—perfume is just whale Preparation H.

Thou shalt not steel, especially when making Chardonnay.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s DRC.

Honor thy mother and thy father and thy sommelier.

Thou shalt not kill, except for 100 point wines.

Thou shalt not forget to wipe.

I’m not sure about the last one, but it’s damned fine advice.

Blind Book Review: Matt Kramer's "True Taste, The Seven Essential Wine Words"

Knowing Matt Kramer, I was pretty sure the seven essential wine words were “true, taste, the, seven, essential, wine, words.” So I didn’t feel the need to actually read his latest wine book, “True Taste: The Seven Essential Wine Words.” Kramer is often referred to, at least by his publisher, as the “great demystifier of wine.” I’d say this is close. Kramer is actually the great defroster of wine, relentlessly blowing hot air at his otherwise impenetrable subject.

“True Taste” is not a very long book, it’s a mere 128 pages. Which made it particularly disappointing not to read for my Blind Book Review. Matt Kramer’s magnum opus is “Making Sense of Wine.” “True Taste” is his .375ml opus. A mere half-book to which I shall apply my legendary half-wit.

Matt Kramer has been writing about wine for 40 years. Yeah, I know, seems a lot longer. He is best known for his column in Wine Spectator where he tries to educate James Laube about wine every single issue, a Mr. Kotter to Laube’s Vinnie Barbarino—hopeless but amusing. Wine Spectator uses words, but sells numbers. Their seven essential wine words are “lifestyle, advertising, scores, vanity, paywall, lavish and rich.” Kramer’s “True Taste” selects seven different essential wine words. From an overpaid wine columnist for Wine Spectator, the book is a forlorn cry for help.

Of course, we all want to know what the Seven Essential Wine Words are. I’d guess, but I’m pretty sure Bashful and Dopey aren’t among them, though I’ve had wines that are both. I knew that whatever the seven words turned out to be, they'd be vague and vinously indefinable. In order to demystify, after all, one has to mystify first. The wine trade loves to throw words around like “balance” and “terroir,” and then argue endlessly about what they mean. After all, when there is no precision to terms, no agreed upon definition, it’s easy to claim your wine has it. It's like putting "Reserve" on your wine label--OK, it's Reserve if you say so. In my 40 years (yeah, I know, it seems a lot longer), I’ve never once had a winemaker say, “My wine is really good, but it has the balance of a dead Wallenda.” Nope. Everyone knows balance, and everyone knows terroir, and if you don’t, well, then, you’re the asshole, not the clowns who can’t actually define it. Now Kramer adds seven more words to that list. Gee, thanks.

Kramer wants us to talk about wine in a more meaningful way than it’s talked about in, say, Wine Spectator. Which is like wanting us to talk about women in a way that’s more meaningful than how they’re talked about in, say, Hustler. Bigger numbers are better. 98 pts, 38DD, now we’re talkin’! When we describe wines using countless adjectives, we’re missing the point, and looking stupid on top of that. So how do we talk about wine, especially when we’ve had a couple of bottles? Simple. Let’s get pretentious! And who better than Kramer to show us the way?

Harmony. Texture. Layers. Finesse. Nuance. Surprise. There’s six of the seven words Kramer says are essential. No mention of Corkscrew, which is pretty fucking essential, but it’s his book. I have no idea what the seventh essential wine word is. I got those six from Tom Wark’s wisely obsequious review of “True Taste.” Tom writes:

“Finally, it’s notable that the way in which Kramer addresses the obvious issues of style and what makes a wine fine—issues that must be addressed in such a book—are done in a delicate and ecumenical way. He’s not trying to start a revolution. But he may be trying to nudge one along. After all, just read the title.”

I took Tom’s sage advice. I just read the title.

Kramer wants us to talk about wine in really vague terms. I’m all for this. He replaces Balance with Harmony. This is genius. If only Fox News would suddenly declare themselves Fair and Harmonious, what a better world this would be. What is Harmony in wine? I don’t have the vaguest idea, and that’s the point. I thought maybe a wine with Harmony is one that makes your girlfriend want to give you a hummer, but apparently that’s not it. Kramer probably takes several pages to explain what Harmony in wine is, which makes it the perfect essential wine word! You can use it and be confident the person you’re speaking to is as clueless about what you’re talking about as you are. This is how educated people talk about wine. Not just over your head, but over their own as well. How long before Raj Parr starts In Pursuit of Harmony? What is wine, a shitfaced barber shop quartet?

Texture is a concept you use for anything you put in your mouth—food, beverage, a loaded .38… It’s always part of a wine description. Every wine has texture. You can say a wine doesn’t have Harmony, but it has to have Texture. Unless it’s Pinot Grigio. Then it’s just wet. So I don’t need Kramer to explain Texture in wine. Used properly, Texture can be wonderfully vague. “I love the Texture of this wine” is the wine lover’s equivalent of “Man, your baby is sure alive.”

Layers is a usefully vague wine word as well. “Hey, which was your favorite Layer in that Chardonnay? I liked the second one.” So not only can a wine have Harmony, where all the pieces are seamlessly interwoven into one beautiful whole, it should also have Layers, where the pieces are layered and distinct—wine as a pousse-café! This is the kind of brilliant and radical thinking wine needs. And, frankly, isn’t it about time wineries started listing how many layers their wines have on the labels? Hell, wine has Brix, where are the damned Brix Layers?

I have no idea what Finesse is in wine. Therefore, it’s a perfect essential wine word! Bravo, Matt! Another bullshit word to use in wine conversation. “I think what I like about this wine is its Finesse.” Or, as Kramer once wrote in Wine Spectator, “Finesse is the quality of how a wine delivers itself to you.” I know my favorite wines use UPS. Does Finesse trump Harmony? What if there are too many Layers, what happens to Finesse? Can you have Harmony and Layers and not be a great wine because you used FedEx? Fuck, I’m confused.

Nuance is the answer. I need it worse than wine. I’m about as nuanced as Caitlyn Jenner’s bulge. Nuance is an essential wine word because if you are able to discern a wine’s Nuance, you are a superior taster. Nuance, by the way, isn’t Complexity. I guess. Complexity isn’t an essential wine word, but Nuance is. I’ve had a few wines lately that were so Nuanced I could barely taste them, so they must have been fantastic. So damned Nuanced! Why if Nuance were fraudulent wines, these wines were Bill Koch. You know how you know that wine is Nuanced? No, I didn’t think so. Dumbshit.

Speaking of Bill Koch, there’s always Surprise! Yes, Surprise is obviously an essential wine word. Great wine does Surprise us. As does corked wine, fake wine and the ending to “The Crying Game.” I know that the first question I ask a person who tells me he had a great wine is, “But did the wine Surprise you?” And if so, “Did you pee yourself a little?” The element of Surprise is why you see so many wine writers attending the DRC New Release tasting wearing Depends. Well, that and they’re all so fucking old.

On the bright side, it won’t take you very long not to read Matt Kramer’s newest wine book. You can not read it in a couple of hours, and I’d urge you to do so. I wish I’d been able to not read the book 40 years ago when I first began my wine career, it sums up everything I’ve tried to forget.

Blind Book Review: Lettie Teague's "Wine in Words"

The worst possible way to experience wine is in words. It’s the equivalent of sucking a new book. Whereas sucking old books is Teague’s back catalog. There’s a possibility this is the point of Lettie Teague’s new book, to experience wine in the worst way. I wouldn’t know. As a wine book reviewer with integrity, I am going to review Teague’s book without having read a single page. This is how it’s done on “The Today Show,” so it’s good enough for me. Actually reading the book while knowing who wrote it guarantees a subjective and useless opinion. Ignorance promises objectivity. Yes, I could pretend that I’d read Wine in Words, but I haven’t, though honestly, I’m pretty sure I have. Many times. Written by many wine writers. It’s a book that sets out to debunk preconceived notions about wine, written in Teague’s usual arch style. Once could say Teague is the Arch Debunker of wine. And the rest of us are Meathead.

Lettie Teague is the wine columnist for The Wall Street Journal, which seems odd until you think about it. Forbes has a wine writer, and Better Homes and Gardens has a wine writer—I think the only lifestyle magazine that doesn’t have an actual wine writer is Food and Wine. There’s one thing you can be certain of, wine writers for lifestyle and financial magazines will always spend a lot of time simplifying wine in what they think is an irreverent fashion. It’s this weird tic they have, talking about wine as though it’s the latest fad, like owning a Tesla or a State Senator. Wine not as part of a lifestyle, but wine as lifestyle. They hand their wealthy, and wannabe wealthy, readers little snippets of wine wisdom they can drop provocatively at their next wine-related event, like so many insider trading tips. It’s cool to know about wine, and if you’re wealthy, it’s even cooler to know that the most expensive wines aren’t necessarily the best, that wine is a stupid investment, and that you should just drink what you like. In other words, wine is like charity—only use it to make yourself look better, and the rest of the time wonder why anyone bothers with it.

The subtitle of the book is “Notes for Better Drinking.” Does every damn wine book need a superfluous subtitle these days? They all have them. It’s insulting. These are the same books that talk about what an educated and interesting crowd wine attracts, then they tack on a subtitle that assumes you’re too stupid to figure out what the book is about without it. Wine in Words. Hmm, what could that be about? I know what wine is. It’s that stuff made from grapes that I have to drink to appear sophisticated even though it tastes yucky and bitey. And words are what we use to talk. So I’m guessing Wine in Words is using words to talk about the stuff grapes make. Oh, shit! Wrong! It says right here, “Notes for Better Drinking.” It’s about drinking, and notes. So just like Dad used to leave Mom, “I have to work late tonight. Don’t wait up.” when he was going out drinking with his buddies all night. Now those were Notes for Better Drinking.

Maybe wine blogs should have subtitles. “HoseMaster of Wine™: A Cry for Help” I like the sound of that. “1WineDude: Free Samples and Junkets” Oh, wait, I think he has a subtitle. “Serious Wine Talk for the Not So Serious Wine Drinker” I have one word for him. Seriously? How about “Vinography: A Meaningless Word for Meaningless Wine Drinkers” Maybe “Terroirist: Compiles of Crap” Never mind, back to the book I haven’t read.

I didn’t read the book, but I did read on the publisher’s website that the book is made up of “delectably brief essays,” which says a lot about Teague’s work; that the briefer it is, the more delectable. It’s like pain. A few seconds of teeth on an erogenous zone can be hot, but actual chewing is damned painful. Wine in Words delivers the least amount of pain it’s possible for Teague to deliver. She only barely bites the tip. Brief and clever little essays one is supposed to take in “small, contemplative sips,” much as Socrates enjoyed his hemlock Slurpee. And, the press release goes on, “Lettie Teague breaks down the stumbling blocks that often intimidate us and clears up the myths that cloud our understanding.” Well, certainly “Notes on Better Drinking” should cover stumbling, but are there any wine myths left that haven’t been cleared up more often than Kerry Washington’s skin tone on fashion magazines? Who actually believes these myths? The morons who read The Wall Street Journal? Frankly, I’d run out and buy a book that created a bunch of new wine myths. Oh, wait, I knew I should have bought Isabelle Legeron MW’s Natural Wine.

That said, I do enjoy Teague’s writing style, and I am eagerly anticipating not reading Wine in Words a second time—and a third! Hell, it may become my all-time wine book I’ve never read the most often! That’s how much I like it. Teague is at her best in these brief essays. Here are some of the essay titles, a little taste of the fun in store for you once you decide to go out, purchase the book, and place it unread on your bookshelf.

“Fifty Lamp Shades of Drinking Games”
“Sommelier is Just a Pretty Word for Assistant Manager”
“I Have Three James Beard Awards—Three More Than James Beard”
“Wine and Futures: We Really Don’t Have Either One”
“Men Are From Cab, Women are Only Worth 78% of the Bottle”
“In Defense of Another Wine Journal”

I know, I know, provocative and irreverent!

There are already blurbs about Teague’s book. One from Peter Hellman (whoever the Hellman that is) reads, “If Nora Ephron had been a wine journalist, her work would read like that of Lettie Teague.” So think of Lettie’s book as “When Hairy Met Sur Lie.” Come on, Hellman, Nora’s dead, she can’t defend herself! And Nelson DeMille, best-selling author at airports, says, “Wine in Words should be on every bookshelf in America.” Just, I might add, for God’s sake, don’t ever remove it.

Tom Koch with Jonathan Winters

It’s been a tough couple of weeks for those of us who love and study comedy. Stan Freberg died just a few days after Tom Koch. Freberg was a widely admired and very famous satirist in his time. His comedy records sold millions of copies, and were inspiration to an entire generation of comedians, from Alan Sherman to Penn Gillette, Firesign Theater to Weird Al, and many in between. I can’t say I was a Stan Freberg fan, I wasn’t particularly, but I do admire his influence and genius. I also admire the fact that when he replaced Jack Benny on CBS radio, Freberg refused to have cigarettes advertised on his show. Which got him fired. It took courage to do that, courage few in show business have ever had, but, truly, comedians have more courage than everyone else in Hollywood combined.

Tom Koch (pronounced “cook”) was not widely known, though he was every bit one of the great comedy writers in the history of radio. Koch wrote a large portion of Bob and Ray’s skits, as well as being a contributor to Mad Magazine. I learned to write jokes from reading Mad Magazine. I also learned to steal jokes reading Mad Magazine, but that’s another story. If you have never heard of Bob and Ray, well, you need to listen to their classic routines. Perhaps the time for their gentle, witty bits has passed, but, to my ear, Koch’s routines, as performed by Bob Elliot and Ray Goulding, are timeless. Bob Elliot noted after Koch’s passing that though they had performed hundreds of Koch’s routines, submitted to them by mail every week, he had only met Koch three or four times. He and Ray simply waited every week for the envelope with Koch’s return address on it to arrive, then performed nearly every word he’d written. I cannot tell you how astonishing that is. In tribute to Koch, I quote him in my HoseMaster headline. Koch has it exactly right.

I have this imaginary image in my mind of Tom Koch sitting in front of a typewriter writing material. And it’s much like what I do for HoseMaster of Wine™, though, of course, Koch was a genius, and I’m just a hack. The insecurity, the fear of the blank page or screen, the strange and mysterious impulse to sit alone in a room and try to imagine writing something that will make strangers laugh, the fear that you’ve run out of funny every time you sit down—it’s as lonely a job as I can imagine. And yet how rewarding it must have been for him to hear Bob and Ray, two men with perfect comic timing, deliver his lines and get constant laughter. I watched some old Bob and Ray appearances on Carson after Koch died, and, well, I laughed. A lot. That’s all we tired old satirists want when we die. Laughter. Somewhere in comedy writer heaven, we hope we get to hear it. Comedy writer hell is what we've left behind when we croaked.

A generation of people who inspired me to write comedy is leaving us. Next will be people like Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks, Bob Elliot, Woody Allen, Buck Henry, Bob Schiller, Norman Lear and Neil Simon. When they go, friends, laugh. And laugh a little bit today in honor of Freberg and Koch. They'll hear you. I’d consider it a favor.

Blind Book Review: "Sherry"

I’ve been patiently waiting for my review copy of Talia Baiocchi’s Sherry: A Modern Guide to the Wine World's Best Kept Secret. It’s apparently coming Palomino Express. I’m also breathlessly anticipating Jon Bonné’s glowing praise of this already legendary tome, certain to be included among his holiday wine book picks as payback for Baiocchi’s glowing words about The New California Wine. I’ve already seen Momofuku sommelier (yeah, I was called that quite a bit), and friend of Talia, Jordan Salcito’s 5-Star review on Amazon, which begins, “Brilliantly done!” and was posted the day of the book’s release. Damned somms are such fast readers—when it comes to reading and tips, they are accomplished at skimming. It’s safe to assume that neither Bonné nor Salcido will actually read Sherry. No need!  And so, I declare, why should I?


It’s been two whole years since the last definitive book on Sherry was published, Sherry, Manzanilla, and Montilla by Peter Liem and Jesus Barquin! Two years! Finally, Baiocchi fills in the blanks that Liem and Barquin so helplessly omitted. And, let’s face it, Liem, no history of Sherry can be considered complete that doesn’t include Baiocchi’s personal journey of how she discovered Sherry. Her importance to the region cannot be overstated, though she tries. Sherry isn’t just about those wondrous and satisfying wines; if anything, Sherry is a tour-de-force of witty asides and atmospheric writing that will once and for all convince you that, in fact, it’s Talia Baiocchi who is the Wine World’s Best Kept Secret. Sherry’s not so much a secret as it is a dinosaur, kind of like admitting you like Sinatra. Everyone who’s been around knows it’s great, but if you just discovered it, it was a Secret!

Sherry is often vilified as something our grandmothers drank, and, thus, crappy. Like Sanka. I’m old enough to be Baiocchi’s grandmother, if not anatomically correct, but can’t recall ever drinking Sherry regularly. I rarely drink Sherry now, though I like it. But Baiocchi emphasizes how terrific Sherry is with food. And at 17% ABV, it should be. Just like all those highly-extracted Zinfandels and Cabernets that every Millennial hates because they’re so big and hot and suck with food.  The new wave of sommeliers hate those big red wines for their crazy alcohol levels. But Sherry? Naw. It’s great with food! And the alcohol works! As it turns out, Grandma was right all along, though she drank Cream Sherry, which is to Sherry what Korbel Champagne is to Champagne. An insult.

Sherry is made using the solera system. Baiocchi points out that the solera system represents the “origin of the sperm bank.” Indeed. Old stocks of Sherry are used to create new ones, and this sperm bank analogy is thought to be the origin of the name “Cream Sherry.” Normally, in the wine world, the use of old wine would be considered as it is in the sperm bank business—vial. However, in Sherry, it’s perfectly acceptable, indeed required. Grandpa would be proud.

Most wine novices are unfamiliar with the categories of Sherry, and how each is made. Baiocchi makes clear that she was one of those novices, and still is. But she fell in love with Sherry, moved to Spain in order to immerse herself in Sherry, and to unlock the Wine World’s Best Kept Secret. Baiocchi explains the differences between Fino, Amontillado, Manzanilla, Oloroso, Palo Cortado and Larry Sherry, which is a big relief. There’s nothing she doesn’t explain. From how Sherry barrels are only partially filled before closing to the yeast that form over the top of the wines to protect them from oxidation, Baiocchi covers Sherry from flor to sealing.

What I like about Sherry is that it’s a book you can display on your book shelf and feel good about not ever having read it. Indeed, Baiocchi has made her young career out of publishing material it’s completely unnecessary to read. She launched the online magazine PUNCH, which is completely worthy of everyone’s inattention. And she briefly wrote a column for Wine Spectator online, which lasted only a few months but, to her credit, no one noticed. It’s the rare young wine writer who commands this much ennui.

Sherry is unique in the wine world. Or, as the Amazon blurb for Sherry notes, it’s “utterly unique.” One might be quick to note that “unique” cannot be qualified, much like Ms. Baiocchi.
 
Sherry is clearly a labor of love for Baiocchi, and her gift as a writer is displaying that labor. Bouncing between glib and off-the-cuff, the experience of reading the book is like sharing a copita of Sherry with Baiocchi and listening to her explain why you’re a jackass for not loving Sherry. It’s the Wine World’s Best Kept Secret! And now you’re in on it! Leave it to Baiocchi to drop the wine equivalent of the “Tom Cruise is gay” bomb. No?! Really?! The insight is staggering.

If you know nothing about Sherry, I highly recommend you put Baiocchi’s new book on your coffee table to impress your friends. Should you actually read it, something I somehow managed to avoid simply to write this Blind Book Review, you’ll learn more than you ever wanted to know about this “utterly unique” wine.  And Talia Baiocchi. And hype. All three of the Wine World’s Best Kept Secrets.

"Natural Wine"--A Blind Book Review

The endless and tiresome debates about natural wine that are raging around the wine world finally convinced me that I should make it a point to not read Isabelle Legeron’s “Natural Wine,” and to review it blind. Reviewing a book without having read it is the only way to objectively analyze its content. It is no different than reviewing a wine blind. Actually reading “Natural Wine” would only bring my knowledge and experience into play, qualities that have no place at the reviewing stand. As in wine reviews, ignorance is surely the reviewer’s most specialized and valuable tool. One has only to scan Wine Spectator scores for this to be self-evident.

First, allow me to note that I have a fondness for natural wine. I also like Renaissance Faires, and think Amish people are just so damned cute. Critics who don’t like proponents of Natural Wine, like Isabelle Legeron, MW, need to remember just how adorable they are, all anti-progress and anti-science. So sweet!  Come on, who needs sulfites when you have Luddites? Come to think of it, I also like cookie dough, or as I like to call it, Natural Cookies. Cookies baked in newfangled ovens are just so fake. Some flour, some raw eggs, some yeast--cookies make themselves! And here’s a tip: Nothing goes with Natural Wine Pinot Noir better than some juicy Salmonella you contracted from Natural Cookies.

Isabelle Legeron is one of only 312 Masters of Wine in the world. She achieved this distinction by learning about, writing about, and learning to identify blind all those second-rate, obviously poorly-made wines not produced in the natural way. Crap like d'Yquem, Vega Sicilia, and all of those stupid First Growths. This must have been murder on such a delicate, sophisticated, discriminating palate. Her accomplishment of earning an MW is, for her, akin to going undercover and passing as a sex trafficker. As a society, we owe her an enormous debt of gratitude for uncovering firsthand the nightmare that is modern wine, and can only imagine the suffering and indignities she witnessed and endured. I mean, come on, Clive Coates was always hanging around. What must that have done to her?

For those of you who have been living in a cave, and are, therefore, the target audience for Natural Wines, it would probably be useful to define “natural wine.” Yup, sure would be. The book is filled with hints, but an actual definition is elusive. It seems to start in the vineyard. Natural wines can only come from vineyards that are farmed organically or biodynamically. OK, this is starting to make sense. I like that Natural Wines give diseases a fighting chance. I think we all agree that vaccines are bad things, too, causing problems like autism, overpopulation, and unattractive scabs. Diseases are natural, and deserve a chance to impact the wine. So I’m in complete agreement on this count.

Also, according to “Natural Wine,” which I have not had the pleasure of reading (amazingly, English is Legeron’s third language, after French and Elvish), natural wines are made with as little intervention as humanly possible, sort of like Mexican cures for cancer. Frankly, I agree with Legeron on this point as well. I’ve long said that the best way to improve wines is to reduce the number of winemakers, though I advocated automatic weapons and anthrax. Grapes evolved for tens of thousands of years without human interference, and, honestly, made the finest wines in history. Bill Koch has some in his cellar he bought from a very reputable auction house. Amazing the vines were able to bottle.

If the ordinary wine buyer of today actually knew how wineries manipulate wine, knew all the tricks and additives they employ, they would be outraged. And for what? To make them taste good? That’s hardly justification. As Legeron points out, we constantly worry about where our food comes from and how it’s handled, why shouldn’t we apply the same criteria to wine? (Legeron is our Michael Pollan of wine. Yet the laugh is on her—grapes are self-Pollanating.) I think she’s right. When I dine at a fine restaurant that uses only sustainably grown produce and responsibly raised meats, I sure as hell don’t want a chef screwing it up. And wine is exactly the same as food, when you think about it—a luxury item. Not everyone in the world needs it. Oh, sure, people will complain, but someone has to draw the line and tell them, No, natural is the only way and if there isn’t enough, if it’s unavailable, you’ll just have to do without.  The best food available, just like the best wine, is all that matters. Well, when you’re at the top of the food and wine chain anyway.

As I neared the end of the book, having not turned a single page, I found myself in agreement with almost everything Legeron writes about Natural Wine. Of course, this isn’t surprising given that she is a Master of Wine, and their opinions are oenological Apostolic Exhortations, no matter how oeno-illogical they might seem. Legeron also declaims the overuse of sulfur (a certain sign of the presence of Satan) in winemaking, as well as sulfites at bottling. I think she’s right. Nearsighted critics of her work complain that the natural winemaking methods she outlines will almost always lead to faulty wines. As though this were a bad thing.

First of all, faults are in the eye of the beholder. It’s no different than falling in love. Are we going to let chemistry get in the way of recreational sex? Hell, no. Chemistry is just as detrimental in wine evaluation. It robs you in its relentlessly logical and unforgiving way of the pleasure of just holding your nose and getting drunk. And getting drunk on a beverage that was made the right way, has all its wet spots in the right place, to further my analogy. Chemistry has no place in winemaking.

Secondly, with time, those “faults” go away. How do we know this? Legeron tells us so, and if there is one thing you learn from reading “Natural Wine” it’s that what separates Natural Wine from all other lesser wine is Faith. And, truly, the wine business needs Faith. Faith is what separates man from lowly, filthy beasts. Faith is what separates Natural Wine from Stupid Wine. Faith that manure from a lactating cow buried for six months, blended with fermented flowers and specific herbs, mixed with untold gallons of water will restore micro-organisms to the soil. Faith that a winery is so clean you can ferment wine in it without fear of contamination. Faith that your senses are lying to you when you stick your nose in and then taste a “faulty” wine, not the salesman serving it. Faith that your purity of intention and love for the Earth will guide you to select the bottle of Natural Wine from the displayed case of Natural Wine that is the bottle variation that is drinkable and delicious.  Faith that wine is meant to be sackcloth, a lesson in humility, and not hedonistic pleasure.

I very much enjoyed Isabelle Legeron’s “Natural Wine.” I just wish they’d printed it with natural ink.

Blind Book Review--Adventures on the Wine Route

I didn’t read Kermit Lynch’s excellent book Adventures on the Wine Route when it was first published, and, now, remarkably, twenty-five years later, I have the opportunity to not read it again! A great book, like fine wine, improves over the years--but not if you open it. Once you open it, the exposure will slowly destroy it. They haven’t yet invented a Coravin for books, perhaps we need a Coralibre®, which is my favorite cocktail. Lynch’s book gets better and better, and, while I envy those of you who have read it over the years, I’m going to age my copy for another ten or fifteen years until it has reached its peak. Then I might read it.

It has fallen to me, the pioneering HoseMaster of Wine™, to review wine books the way they should be reviewed. Blind, without the influence of actually knowing anything about them, save the variety. This is the way real wine professionals judge things. Dear readers, I’d be skeptical of those who review books based on actually having read them. This can only skew their perspective. They may claim objectivity, but most are human, and they bring preconceived notions of Kermit Lynch to their reading, and that colors their reviews. I also review the books in a room with perfect lighting and white walls, though I am allowed fifteen minutes outside twice a day while they hose down the room.

Adventures on the Wine Route is all about Kermit Lynch’s experiences importing some of the great wines of France into the United States in an era where Imported Wines on a restaurant wine list meant Blue Nun, B & G Beaujolais, and Mouton Cadet. Just like your Uncle Bob, Kermit upped the Auntie. And this book is all about how he did it.

Kermit is a natural storyteller. For example, he tells a wonderful story of sitting in a barber shop in Tain l’Hermitage and, just by accident, meeting one of the region’s greatest winemakers. Before he leaves, he’s struck a deal to import his wines. It’s a wonderful chapter entitled, “Chave and a Haircut.”

Lynch also spends a chapter talking about Charles Joguet and his great estate in the Loire Valley. Lynch has always pursued winemakers who work with the land and their wines as naturally as possible. He speaks about Joguet’s dedication to authenticity, his belief in the old ways of farming, paying attention to things like the lunar calendar. It’s a beautiful chapter entitled “Chinon, Chinon, Harvest Moon.” The book is filled with stories like this. Children may have Mother Goose, but wine lovers have Kermit Lynch as Father Foie Gras. When he dies, his enormous liver will be worth a fortune!

No one can match Kermit Lynch’s ability to write about wine in an interesting, and illuminating fashion. His common sense approach to wine is refreshing and all too rare. Here are a few of his meatiest quotes:

“Wine is, first and foremost, about pleasure, and I’m the guy who decides what’s pleasurable.”

“Loving Banyuls is like sleeping with a farm animal—embarrassing to admit, but you’ll be surprised to see how many others there are just like you.”

“When you taste wine you’re not just ingesting alcohol. You’re tasting culture, the history of man’s folly, our incessant yearning to alter our consciousness, and your own personal bitterness and failure. It’s why you can’t get enough.”

“I was the first person to bring European wines to the United States in refrigerated containers. I brought the winemakers here the same way. Muted the smell.”

Kermit Lynch set the new standard for importers. There was one thing you always knew you’d get when you picked up a bottle of wine with his name on it—overcharged. Kermit went in search of wines that had been overlooked by American consumers, combed the countryside of France looking for wines with personality and history and he almost singlehandedly made the reputation of appellations like Bandol, Gigondas, and Côte-Rôtie. “When I first tried to sell Côte-Rôtie in the U.S.," Lynch writes, "no one had heard of it. Now at least people know they don’t buy it because it’s Syrah.”

No American has done more for France than Kermit Lynch. OK, maybe General Eisenhower and Jerry Lewis. And you could make a case for Lance Armstrong, but, like taking testosterone illegally, that would take some balls. Yet it was Kermit Lynch who opened Americans’ eyes to the artisan wine producers of France. “I cherry-picked,” he writes, “ and left all the lesser estates to those who followed. Now all the stuff I turned down has someone else’s import label on it. Drinking those wines is like being a woman’s second husband.” See, he does have a way with words.

It’s nice that the publishers have seen fit to reissue this classic of wine literature. As an added bonus, the 25th Anniversary Edition includes a list of Lynch’s 25 most memorable wines. Surprisingly, four of them are futures, which you can order for a limited time at 15% off.

Adventures on the Wine Route has been widely praised by nearly every important wine critic for the past twenty-five years, and Jay McInerney liked it too. It belongs on every wine lover’s bookshelf alongside the other classics of wine importing, Kacher in the Wry and Weygandt We All Just Get Along?.

I can hardly wait to read it.

Blind Book Review--Jon Bonné's "The New California Wine"

Crap. (No, that’s not the review.)

I’m so disgusted with myself. What a moron! I just finished not reading the review copy I didn’t receive of Jon Bonné’s The New California Wine and, of all the smelly piles of natural wine, it turns out my entire wine cellar is filled with Old California Wine. Now what am I going to do? I live in wine country, I can’t drink this embarrassing swill in public! Goddamit, I might as well just give away my old vintages of Spottswoode Cabernet to the homeless sommeliers hanging around freeway off-ramps with signs reading, “Will Condescend for Food—When Paired with Appropriate Wine.” I never should have bought that garbage in the first place. Napa Valley Cabernet! Jackass. I knew I should have invested in Trousseau Noir. It’s humiliating.

Luckily for us all, Jon Bonné has written “A Guide to the Producers and Wines Behind a Revolution in Taste.” Somehow a link between “revolting” and “taste” makes perfect sense as the book’s subtitle. I haven’t read the book, but actually reading it isn’t necessary to book reviewing. I prefer to review new wine books blind, in the same manner major wine critics claim to review wines. I’m behind the Revolution in New Book Reviewing. And, besides, just read the blurbs for The New California Wine. It’s a grand tradition in book publishing to solicit quotes from famous authors praising a new book. It’s a highly suspect practice. Often it’s obvious they haven’t read the book, but, wordsmiths that they are, they don’t need to. Here are a trio of actual blurbs for The New California Wine that I borrowed from Amazon.

“The New California Wine delivers some of the most insightful wine writing you’ll read anywhere. This is the real skinny on cutting-edge California wine from somebody who’s on the ground, knows his stuff, and could care less about offending the Establishment.”
—MATT KRAMER, author and columnist for Wine Spectator

“There are few greater authorities on California wine than Jon Bonné. Dispassionate but engaged, enthused but objective, Bonné brings a forensic rigor to his work. But The New California Wine is no textbook, in spite of its comprehensive scope. Instead, Bonné’s narrative moves at a rattling pace, delving into California’s colorful past and vividly describing its future. A must-read for anyone who is serious about the state’s wine.” 
—GUY WOODWARD, former editor at Decanter

“A gutsy, inspiring book driven by the same ideals as the movement it has so gracefully defined. Not only has Bonné delivered one of the most important and relevant books on California wine ever written, he’s also redefined our notions of the wine book. The New California Wine is at once a manifesto, a guidebook, and a narrative peek inside the motives and methods of California’s new avant-garde.” 
—TALIA BAIOCCHI, editor-in-chief, Punch

I love this kind of baloney.

Matt Kramer is clearly confused, and thought the publishers asked that he write a blurb about himself—they just changed “Matt Kramer” to “The New California Wine.” And even then it’s nonsense. What “Establishment” is he unafraid of? The San Francisco Chronicle? Wine Spectator? Richard Milhous Nixon? Guy Woodward displays why he’s a “former editor” with his use of the classic and shopworn huckster’s label “must-read.” Unless he means you should read it while fermenting must. Tacking on, “…for anyone who is serious about the state’s wine” is unsettling. You know what I’m thinking…Woodward is the damned Establishment Kramer warned us about!

But leave it to Talia Baiocchi, Millennial wine visionary and Bonné Buddy, to reach new heights of dizzying drivel with“…he’s also redefined our notions of the wine book.” Let’s see, I’d define a wine book as a well-written, useful, informative collection of paragraphs printed on quality paper and professionally bound. I can’t wait to see how Bonné tosses all that aside. But, then, after all, the book “…is at once a manifesto, a guidebook, and a narrative peek…” Hell, it’s Mein Kampf.

The greater truth, I’d guess, is that Talia has thrown down the gauntlet to Jon to write an even more outrageously preposterous blurb for her forthcoming book on Sherry--a book, you’ll be amazed to learn, from the same publisher!

“Baiocchi has not just written a book about Sherry, she’s delivered the wine book of the year—indeed, of any year since Gutenberg invented the printing press. She has a consummate palate, and a bigger vocabulary than William F. Buckley, who one hopes is now covered with a lovely flor. There will never be the need for another book on Sherry, so if you’re writing one, well, you are so screwed.”
--JON BONNÉ, author, manifesto maven, forensic wine editor of the San Francisco Chronicle

It must be said that I love the book’s cover. For me, it conjures up the image of Grant Wood’s famous painting American Gothic, only the farmer has bludgeoned his harridan of a wife and just finished burying her in the vineyard. Either that, or Buster Posey makes wine.

The New California Wine pays tribute to the new breed of California winemakers, winemakers unafraid to work in appellations where land and grapes are cheaper even if their resulting wine prices aren’t. Winemakers who shun California’s outdated traditions of using the best in modern winemaking techniques to make clean, expressive, delicious wines in favor of the winemaking ways of our ancestors, rolling the viticultural dice and not caring if it comes up Craps. Winemakers who courageously follow their own vision of what wine should taste like with no regard for public opinion and general standards of taste, knowing that there are dozens of gullible sommeliers around the country happy to champion their wines in order to appear hip and part of the New California Wine movement. Bonné chronicles these visionaries in the grand tradition of Sonoma County’s most famous journalist, Robert Ripley.

The New California Wine is about expressing the unique terroir (I always wonder, can terroir not be unique?) of California. And what better way is there to express terroir than extended skin contact for white wine, putting it into a traditional plastic egg to ferment, using only indigenous yeast (their papers are rigidly checked at the border to be certain they are not illegal alien yeast), and then bottled without sulfites, which only serve to protect wine in the same unquestioning manner of Syrian thugs protecting Assad, in anti-technology Stelvin closures? This is the real future of California wine, and Bonné provides insightful commentary on why this is a good thing. Simply put, the new California wine takes elitism and wine babble to an entirely new level, putting California in the forefront of the worldwide explosion of wine oneupsmanship. California can produce novelty wines on a par with any country in the world.

Here are a few excerpts from The New California Wine that I made up:

“For too long, the California wine industry has manipulated their wines like a rabid baboon handling his little primate peepee—out of habit, and right in front of a perplexed public. But that’s changing, and now all the masturbating goes on behind winery doors where it’s more private, and where it's also easier to jerk off the public.”

“For years wines have been tailor-made for the palates of Robert Parker and James Laube. Palates, it’s safe to say, that are more worn out than the Hundred Point Scale, and just as worthless. The best new California wines are for finer, more sophisticated, palates. Palates like mine, and Alice Feiring’s. So they’re not as dogmatic.”

“Balance is the key to defining great wines, as long as you understand that great wines are also the key to defining balance. Ask any Highway Patrol officer. The new California wines epitomize balance and integrity. If you just want something good to drink, well, California’s new breed of winemakers is leaving you behind.”

I don’t know about you, but I feel grateful that I have Eric Asimov to teach me how to love wine, Matt Kramer to make sense of wine, and Jon Bonné to prove when it comes to California wine, making sense of it and loving it are a colossal waste of time.

Blind Book Review--"Inventing Wine"

I thought I’d break from my usual practice and actually read Paul Lukacs’ new book Inventing Wine before I reviewed it. Well, not read it very thoroughly and over a long period of time. What sense does that make? I planned to spend about five minutes skimming it, digesting it, and then I’d review it. This is how wine is reviewed, after all. Smell it, take a taste, spit it out, review it. I like to review wine books the same way, only you don’t need to smell them. One can assume they smell. Reviewing wine books in this manner certainly makes as much sense as reviewing wines that way, and has equal worth. But, somehow, once again, the HoseMaster’s review copy was lost in the mail. By the way, you can tell a review copy because it’s stamped along the edge, “Review Copy, Not for Resale.” I buy them all the time from yard sales at wine bloggers’ houses. This is called “monetizing your blog.” Of course, you don’t know for sure they’re a wine blogger until you actually go into the house and run into their parents.

The subtitle of Inventing Wine is “A New History of One of the World’s Most Ancient Pleasures.” Wine has been around about 8000 years. I wonder what the other world’s most ancient pleasures are. My first thought is lap dancing, which historians tell us goes all the way back to the discovery of the lap. Few people know that the Aztecs used lap dancing the same way we now use a mortar and pestle. Makes my pestle happy just thinking about it. Then there’s eating meat; I’m guessing that goes back at least 8000 years. I’ve had jerky at least that old. So wine, the title implies, is at least as pleasurable as lap dances and meat. Of course, wine is not as ancient a pleasure as the ones that go back to man’s discovery of fire—lighting farts comes to mind.

Also, for how long is this a “New History?” When it’s stacked up on remainder tables at Barnes and Noble, is it still a “New History?” Can’t it just be a history? New history is, by definition, history about ten minutes later. And what about “World’s Most Ancient Pleasures?” Shouldn’t it be “Man’s Most Ancient Pleasures?” The world’s most ancient pleasure would be, oh, I don’t know, gravity? Maybe rotating on its axis for several billion years. Try getting the world to do that if wine were one of its ancient pleasures. It would spin around a few times and fall right on its axis. So I didn’t read the book, but I sure as hell read the subtitle closely.

Wine, as we know it today, is certainly a modern invention, much different than it would have been even two hundred years ago, like the Internet. The wines everyone raved about in the 19th Century were the equivalent of dialup—mostly faulty, and left a bad taste in your mouth. The wines we obsess about today, the wines we endlessly compare and rate, the wines we try to pair with our genetically engineered foods, are the result of 20th Century technology and would be unrecognizable to a wine connoisseur from the 1860’s. To him, they’d taste like Chicken McNuggets taste to a coyote.

I haven’t read Inventing Wine, so I hope it doesn’t turn out to be about spinning cones, reverse osmosis and Vinturis (it always seems to me that using an aerator before drinking a wine is like using a vibrator before sex—sure, you’ve opened it up and released the bouquet, but what’s the fucking hurry?). From the brilliantly written subtitle, I’m assuming Lukacs examines how wine has evolved over the last 8000 years. And I think there’s a fantastic book in there somewhere. Judging from the blurbs on the back cover of Inventing Wine, scripted by some of the biggest names in wine, most of whom haven’t read it either, as is the custom with blurb writing in publishing, this is that book! Is there higher praise?

For hundreds, if not thousands, of years, wine was seen as a gift from God, like children, or Sofia Vergara. There were times when wine was a substitute for potable water, a tradition carried on today with Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio, which is indistinguishable from it. But those were wines that would be unidentifiable to modern man as wine. They would have been bacterial broths, spoiled, foul, and vinegary, like the Soup of the Day at Chili’s. The chemistry of wine was little understood until the time of Louis Pasteur, who proved once and for all that living organisms spoiled wine, thus foreseeing the rise of the wine critics and sommeliers who’ve spoiled it for everyone.

And who are the people responsible for Inventing Wine? Jeez, I hope Lukacs talks about them. Why else write a book called Inventing Wine? You couldn’t write a book called Inventing Fried Chicken and not talk about Colonel Sanders or Popeye. So I liked the section of the book, had I read it, where Lukacs talks about the Cistercian monks, who were the first to recognize that wine reflected the place where it was grown. So not only can we blame the church for its subjugation of women, serial child molestation and homophobia, we can add terroir to the list. Bastards. Leave it to the church to take the fun out of everything it touches. And then there’s Dom Perignon, the Abner Doubleday of Champagne, yet another mucking funk. Pierre Perignon didn’t invent Champagne, he wasn’t blind, and he didn’t say, “I’m tasting stars.” That was Louis B. Mayer on the casting couch. Dom Perignon may have been responsible for figuring out the closure for a bottle of Champagne. I’m sure you’ve all heard of the monk seal. To this day, the most overrated monk of all time is commemorated by the most overrated Champagne of all time.

Oh, I’ve left out so much of what’s in the book, I think, I’ll find out if I ever read it. Man has a long history with wine, but for much of that history wine sucked. Man crushed a bunch of grapes, left the juice to ferment however it wished to ferment, incapable of controlling the temperature, or what bacteria or yeast was doing the fermentation, content to just let it finish, slap it into a holding vessel, hope it didn’t spoil too quickly, and then drink it to forget his worries and find some kind of joy in his altered state of consciousness. So, Natural Wine. Sure, they sucked, but Alice Feiring would have loved them. She had the bad luck to be born two hundred years too late.

Blind Book Review--"Wine Grapes"

I don’t know where my review copy of Jancis Robinson’s new tome, “Wine Grapes,” was sent. I never got it. I wrote a brief email to the publisher, ECCO (How smart can they be when they publish books and their damn name is a typo? Is it ECHO or ECO? Morons.), asking politely what happened to it. “It’s 175 dollars! Maybe your name should be GECCO, like Gordon in the cheeseball Michael Douglas movie. I can’t afford to buy a copy, and now you’ve gone and shipped mine to some inarticulate, marginally literate blogger who will get all hot that he got my free copy, touch himself, and then the damn pretty pages with the naked grapes on them will be stuck together.” I didn’t hear back.

But, honestly, is there a point to actually reading a wine book before reviewing it? None that I can think of. You already know when you see the author’s name what it’s going to say. If it’s Robert Parker, it’s regurgitated tasting notes remolded to create something new. Basically, a new Parker book is the equivalent of Spam. Almost meaty, but not quite. Not a wine book, but a wine book byproduct. Matt Kramer? He’ll “make sense” of something you didn’t even know you were confused about. He’s the guy at the party everybody hates because he’s constantly correcting everyone about things that couldn’t be less important to the conversation. (You get the feeling from the way he writes that if you met him his voice would remind you of Stephen Hawking.) You don’t have to read their books to review them. It would only prejudice you. Reviewing books without having read them is the most objective way to review them. Just like wine reviewing is done blind. The more you know, the more your intelligence can guide you, and that’s not particularly desirable in wine reviewing. This is the same philosophy behind Match.com as well.

Television hosts never read the books of the authors they interview on the air either. Yes, they pretend to have read them, and they have interesting questions, but they have people who read the books for them. Yeah, Charlie Rose reads all those books. Yup, and “Survivior” isn’t scripted. Listen, if it ain’t on a teleprompter, those talking heads can’t read it.

I haven’t read Jancis Robinson’s (and two other no-names who probably did 90% of the work but won’t get squat out of it) new book, “Wine Grapes.” So you can count on the HoseMaster’s review to be objective and honest. Can you say that about any other wine blogger who received a free copy for review, one of which had my name on it and the bastard still kept it? Those bozos who proudly review any crap wine they get for free, and never say anything bad? OK, yeah, trust them.

“Wine Grapes” is the long-awaited book about the DNA of grapes. Yawn. If you read the entire book you may need a DNR from whomever has your medical power of attorney. The book is massive. It’s seven pounds. Seven pounds of DNA. Sounds like a party at Silvio Berlusconi’s house. Everything you ever wanted to know about how grape varieties are related is in this book. Turns out, most of the grape varieties are more closely related than you think, sort of like your hill people relatives.

The book is pornography for wine geeks. I know this, and I haven’t even read it. They’ll start to look at it, promise themselves they’ll only flip through it for another ten minutes, I swear to God, just another ten minutes, but they won’t be able to stop. It’s kinky wine grape smut that, honestly, should be enjoyed behind closed doors, and only by consenting adults. “Wine Grapes” has dozens of big, lurid, full-color reproductions of paintings of the reproductive organs of your favorite variety. Just hanging there making you wish you could pop them in your mouth. Bunches of them, plump and juicy, dripping with moisture, staring right back at you from the page like the strumpets they are. God, I want this book.

Robinson and the two other authors, who don’t matter and will almost never get mentioned in reviews, and why should they, have written entries about all 1,368 wine grapes currently grown to make wine. It’s amazing to think that there are 1,358 grapes nobody gives a crap about, but they’re all here. And you’ll learn some amazing things about them. If I’d read the book, I could probably give you some examples of amazing things. Like Grüner Veltliner is a natural cross between Riesling and some sort of snot. Harsh, I know. But, hey, don’t blame me. It’s DNA. DNA is like the Internet, it’s always true, and if your girlfriend checks its history, you’re so screwed.

I read somewhere, or else I made it up, doesn’t matter, that “Wine Grapes” took four years to write. At least someone accomplished something the past four years, not like Congress.

Not having read “Wine Grapes,” I reluctantly want to point out some of the book’s shortcomings. No blurbs. Come on, ECCO, the big wine book of the season needs blurbs! The big damn book is in a slipcover, which looks just lovely propping up the 1968 Fiat in my front yard, but, honestly, you need blurbs. Here’s a few:

“Wine Grapes is just like what comes out of a wine press—a must!”—Randall Grahm

“Finally, a wine book that costs more than my Special Selection Cabernet!”—Caymus Vineyard

“I couldn’t put this book down. Because I couldn’t pick the damned thing up.”—Karen MacNeil

“I loved the recipes!”—Lettie Teague

Another shortcoming is the lack of a pronunciation guide. I’m fine with the grapes, but how the hell do you pronounce, “José Vouillamoz?” The closest I could get is “Chell-a-cheff.”

There’s no doubt in my mind after not reading “Wine Grapes” that it is a major accomplishment. In book binding, anyway.

Blind Book Review--"How to Love Wine"

Somehow my copy of Eric Asimov’s new book “How to Love Wine” was lost in the mail, or was mistakenly shipped to one of the usual sycophantic wine bloggers, you know who they are, guaranteed to give it a rave review. Really, you’re recommending the new book by the wine critic of the newspaper of record (sorry, Newspaper of Record) when your claim to fame is your insightful post about how tasting rooms should have stools? Wow, that’s quite a stretch. I just loved your previous post where you showed a pretty picture of a pear and reminded us how you could taste pears in some wines. So insightful, and easy for us morons to understand. I’m sending you a photo of a gerbil, hoping he’ll find a home somewhere in your anatomy. I simply must rush out and buy Asimov’s new book, based on the surprisingly positive wine blogger reviews. I haven’t heard so much gushing since the last BP oil spill.

I haven’t read “How to Love Wine.” I probably will. Eric Asimov is a nice guy, thoughtful and funny and articulate. Wait, that’s me. But I’m going to write about his new book without having read it.  I think reading it is a crutch, and predisposes you to like it. Think of this as a blind book review. I’m reviewing the book and haven’t even seen the cover! Takes all the bias out of it. This is how professionals do it. Would those kiss-ass wine bloggers (it’s discouraging how few have any sort of voice or backbone—if I’m an inveterate misanthrope, at least inveterate is better than invertebrate) have given such glowing reviews if they had no idea who the author is? Makes you think, doesn’t it?

First of all, why do I need a book about “How to Love Wine?” Who the hell needs to know how to love wine? If you’re buying the damn book, you already love wine. I don’t need a book called “How to Love Blowjobs.” Oh, wait, is that giving or receiving? Bad example. I might buy a book entitled, “How to Love Brain Tumors.” Those are hard to love. “How to Love Rat Poison” has a certain ring to it. I’m pretty sure there’s a series in here, like those piece of crap “Idiot’s Guides.” “How to Love Flatulence” is a book every man would buy his wife for Christmas. “How to Love Pedophiles” might be a niche book, but at least you’d be learning to love something, someone, utterly disgusting who you wouldn’t know how to love otherwise.. “How to Love Wine” is the worst title for a wine book I’ve ever heard. OK, “Naked Wine” is right up there. Though I’ve pre-ordered the sequel, “Naked and Shaved Wine.”

Asimov’s premise, I guess (hey, this is a blind book review, I’m guessing, not dealing with facts—you know, like wine reviews on blogs), is that there are a large number of people intimidated by wine, who believe that they have to know a lot of trivial knowledge about a wine, have to know the scores it received, have to have spent a bunch of money on it, in order to enjoy it fully. Who are these cretins? Really. I’ve never met people this blatantly stupid. And if I had, I certainly wouldn’t write a book for them. These people probably get confused by the menu at Red Lobster. I feel sorry for these doorknobs. With more than 200 choices, how do they decide which channel to watch on TV? It’s so intimidating! How do I love TV? Especially when people make fun of me for watching The Crochet Network, even though that’s what I really like. (“I’m voting for Knit Romney.”) Life must be miserable for those idiots. At least now, thanks to Eric Asimov, they’ll know how to love wine.

For as long as I can remember, there’s been talk about all the people who might come to love wine, but are turned off by wine snobs, and so give up, and never pursue the obvious joys of wine. To their everlasting sorrow. On their death beds, their only regret is, “Gosh, I know I’ve been a failure as a father, and I wish I hadn’t slept with the babysitter without wearing a condom, but, honestly, I just wish I’d tasted more natural wines.” In 35 years, I’ve never met one of these pansies. They are the Undecided Voters of wine journalism. Everyone tries to win them over, but, hell, first you have to find them. And they’re not hiding, they just don’t give a crap. How many damn wine books begin with the premise that the author won’t talk down to you, but, rather, try to turn you on to the pleasures of wine? Oh, I don’t know, a thousand? The authors all talk about the myriad of wine snobs in the universe, most of them regular commenters on Robert Parker’s chat room (Bob’s buttboys) or holding forth on Wine Berserkers, but who reads that garbage? Not people who don’t know about wine. Those wine boards are the equivalent of locker room grabass. All in good fun, but mostly about aggression, dominance, and repressed homosexuality.

Is it particularly insightful to urge people to ignore scores, forget about the insanely stupid descriptions, and just enjoy the sensual experience of wine? How many times have the words “Just drink what you like” been written or expressed? Throw all the philosophy you like at it, it’s about as simpleminded a statement as there is in the wine business. Tasting a newly released wine and saying, “It needs some age,” is just about as simpleminded, but not quite. Oh, and, “It really needs food.”

I also don’t care if someone buys wine based on a numerical score. Who cares? Numerical scores run our lives, from IQ’s, to SAT scores, to cholesterol tests, to body weight, we love to assign numbers. And then we eventually wise up and move on from them to lead our lives. If you spend your entire wine life buying bottles because of scores, you’re a sucker. Wine shops and wineries love suckers. You’ll always be welcome if you buy wine by scores—the whole industry will adore you. But the love of wine is in the history of it, the romance of it, the sharing of it. There isn’t a solitary ounce of love in the scores. Almost everyone figures that out after a few years, on their own, without reading a book.

What is condescending to beginning wine drinkers is the endless chatter about wine that makes it seem more mystical than it really is. When, truly, it’s the alcohol that makes us love it, crave it, build wooden shrines to it in our cellars. What offends people isn’t the fixation on scores; it really isn’t even the wine snobs. It’s all the blatant hooey. The waxing poetic about how wine changed your life, the mystical musing about the spiritual benefits of drinking natural wine, the endless tasting notes that teach us from the beginning that describing a wine is actually a test done as a requirement instead of as an enthusiasm—it’s that kind of emptyheaded philosophizing and name-dropping that turns normal people off to wine.

So I thoroughly enjoyed not receiving or reading Eric Asimov’s “How to Love Wine.” It gave me a lot to think about. I also look forward to blind reviewing many other wine books that will not be sent to me for review. And, really, isn’t that the best way to learn to love wine? Not read the best wine books?