uncovering the individualist, iconoclast, leader, follower, imitator, trend-setter, inspired and independent; the whore, slut, prude, effeminate, delicate, and luxurious; the animal, the gruff, the masculine, and the muscle-flexing; the smooth, the rough, the balanced and unbalanced, the harmonious and unharmonious, the reserved and outspoken, the adamant and uncertain and the confused; and the simple-minded, homogenous, insipid, and uninspired; in the expression of wine.
Vintage: 2001
Producer: Domaine Santa Duc
Appellation: Gigondas
On My Palate:
Raisin-ated , stewed black fruit. Sweet, black fruit syrup. A monster.
Dries up quickly on the backside. Very tannic for a Grenache-based wine.
Masculine, muscular, and dark overall.
“Like licking an armoire,” adds my tasting partner.
The Dregs:
Gigondas is the quintessential wine commune. Vineyards hug the slopes at the base of the lace-like, limestone cliffs—the Dentelles de Montmirail—that jut into the air to outline the Vaucluse department’s natural skyline.
Gigondas and its winemaking neighbors—Vacqueyras, Cairanne, Sablet, Rasteau, Beaumes de Venise—sprinkle the hills that rise out of the Rhône river basin, above the plateau of the area’s famed, attention-grabbing superstar, Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
These are Southern France’s most promising, most established, and yet quietest appellations. They sit on the edge of the Châteauneuf-du-Pape black hole, whose unavoidable pull attracts international consumers, critics, and accolades who, for the most part, thankfully ignore the neighboring Grenache-based wines (too far from the interstate?).
Up front, this wine entices with a hint of the provocative black fruit that defines the most noble Grenache from the South of France, whose best expression relies on the complexities of its fruit (think Mediterranean sunshine, olive trees, lavender, and sunflowers) and not its time in barrel.Yet Domaine Santa Duc uses oak to muscle over this otherwise feminine, graceful wine—forcing it to be a wine that it never was (a father forcing his effeminate son to play football instead of dancing ballet) while masking its honest and head-turning qualities.
Yes, Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé, and the arrival still creates buzz.Marketing is behind most of the noise (who doesn’t want to throw back a colorful, flower-laden bottle of bright purple elixir?), but even the “King of Beaujolais” can’t escape the quality-conscious revolution that New World palates are marching behind.That sweet, punchy, headache-inducing grape juice of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s won’t cut it today among wine drinkers who have graduated beyond white zinfandel, even if they are still stuck on their tropical chardonnays.
This year’s Nouveau is, dare I say it, enjoyable and particularly suited for the mid-fall fête that announces this wine’s anticipated annual release date (the third Thursday of every November).No, this wine is not meant to sniff, swirl, and slurp; but to drink, and drink lots of.It is fresh and fruity—the perfect cocktail and icebreaker for the assorted fêteurs (the wine geeks and pseudo-aficionados, the Francophiles and Fakeophiles, the almost cultured and uncultured, the almost classy and unclassy, the boozers…) who emerge from disparate places to inebriate in hoards.
Could Beaujolais Nouveau producers finally be trying to attract wine drinkers to the quality of Beaujolais?For decades, most wine drinkers considered the whole of Beaujolais to be a joke thanks to the profit-minded, marketing-savy Nouveau producers (the Duboeuf family sells 2.6 million cases of wine—not all is Nouveau—a year!).But there is more to the area than November’s third Thursday production!More later…
Where:
Outdoors at the Hawaiian-themed Bali Hai Restaurant on San DiegoBay, host of the annual San Diego Nouveau party.Performances by hip-shaking, half-naked Tahitian dancers.Fried chicken tenders and greasy eggrolls to eat.All to the backdrop of, thankfully, the dazzling San Diego skyline.
Vintage: 2008 Producer: J. Jenkins Winery Appellation: Julian Grape: Viognier
On My Palate:
Very varietal specific and genuine. Oily, nutty, honeysuckle. Rich without being oaked. Bone dry yet refreshing acidity. Some stone fruit, but missing some of the fruit/floral expression that lifts up the best Viogniers.
A welcome surprise and effort from an overlooked, up-and-coming wine producing area in Southern California.
The Dregs:
The California wine atlas continues to chart new territory. Instead of smacking their lips in the anticipation of tasting new wine from a new area, most wine drinkers lift their noses and quickly snub San Diego County’s vinous efforts. Maybe the wine glut is just too confusing. It would take over 500 meals to semi-adequately work your way through the wines of Napa Valley wine country, let alone neighboring Sonoma County and the rest of the enormous, vineyard-laden state of California. And if we start paying attention to San Diego County, then there’s no reason not to continue south of the border to the Valle de Guadalupe. Yet, there are, sadly, a limited number of meals to one lifetime.
Yes, I was surprised to find such a varietal-specific expression of Viognier from a seemingly quality-conscious producer in San Diego County. The stuffings of Viognier are all there, minus the new oak trap, which plagues so many green winemakers hoping to make a splash in the masses with their newest releases.
Jenkins’ plantings are some of the highest in the state at over 4,000 feet. Could high altitude plantings put San Diego County on the wine map just like Chile and Argentina?
Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, for using a variety, Viogner, that has already proved itself in a Julian equivalent—the baking hot summer sun, frigid winter, and relentless winds of the Rhône Valley. It is, after all, almost impossible to draw any parallels between Julian and Bordeaux. Best to accept this before planting than after.
Where:
Outdoors at the Hawaiian-themed Bali Hai Restaurant on San Diego Bay, host of the annual San Diego Nouveau party. Performances by hip-shaking, half-naked Tahitian dancers. Fried chicken tenders and greasy eggrolls to eat. All to the backdrop of, thankfully, the dazzling San Diego skyline.
Vintage: 2007 Producer: Domaine de Poyane Appellation: Vin de Pays Côtes de Gascogne
On My Palate:
Alive out of the screw cap bottle: fresh, lemon, racing acidity. Quickly develops nuttiness and oily texture. Very straightforward and honest. Would be best with fresh fish. The Dregs:
In France, the term “Agriculture Biologique” has stood for (and been legally enforced as) sustainable farming and production since 1980. This stamp on the back of your wine bottle ensures that the grapes were not treated with pesticides or chemical fertilizers, and that they were produced sustainably. Yes, “bio” wines—the flash French nickname—can be expressive and faultless at their best. With this proven, you wonder when quality-conscious consumers will have the opportunity to study ingredient labels on the backs of wine bottles. The “bio” movement might be more attractive to producers after they disclose the non-grape ingredients that go into their $50-plus bottles of wine and get hit with the subsequent buyers’ reactions.
This bottle of wine is available for under $10 retail and is a screaming deal.
Check out what the Armagnac grapes can do in a dry white wine and why the perpetually confusing “Vin de Pays” appellations are among the best recession wines.
Where:
At home with shrimp étouffée—a bit too spicy for this high-acid wine.
Toasted toffee.Black fruit.Earth.Lead, focused oak.Masculine.A little green bell pepper keeps the wine fresh.Very inviting, open mouthfeel.Surprisingly delicious and drinking very well now.
The Dregs:
Magnums aren’t just awesome because they’re big; they are also the perfect-sized house for wine, like upgrading from a studio to a two bedroom with a backyard.Wine from 750 milliliter bottles often tastes cooped up and disjointed upon pouring, an issue exacerbated by age.
This wine out of magnum was literally humming, as if it spent the last fourteen years stretched out on a king size bed listening to Billy Holiday vinyls, watching hummingbirds lick cactus nectar outside its window.
The table that brought this wine in visited Sterling and called the winery a “resort.”Sterling is certainly on the ground floor of classic NapaValley—the “Napa Valley Resort Area,” as roadsides on the CA128 aptly pronounce.
The best part about the big guns is that they do make reliable wines, as showcased here.This wine still tasted fresh and young and was untainted by wildcard flaws that are too often labeled as “complexities.”
Where:
In the back banquet kitchen, dodging banquet prep cooks. There is no tableside tasting per corporate policy.
Rich, dark and brooding black fruit.Blackberry liquer.Cassis.
The oak is there, but well-integrated.It doesn’t overwhelm the fruit but does create a very full mouth feel.
Wide open and refreshing.Thirst-quenching on a dark desert night.
The Dregs:
Yes, I am partial to my home state, Washington; especially when a vinous taste of its terroir fights through the California wine jungle to my palate in NorthSan DiegoCounty.
This wine is fruit driven and built to smack lips now (case in point: Parker’s Wine Advocate rated it 91 points).But the eastern Washington desert keeps the fruit from over ripening (cool nights) and keeps the wine refreshing—a sip of the (irrigated) desert at evening.This is quite a feet for a built for modern markets new world Cab.
But don’t be mislead.At 1,400 acres, the “Alder Ridge Vineyard” is more of a grape metropolis than a single vineyard.But maybe this is for the best, as winemaker Rob Chowanietz points out in his marketing push on the Alder Ridge website: “One of the wonders of Alder Ridge is the diversity in elevation, soil depths, and exposure….We end up with beautiful blending opportunities within our single estate vineyard.”This mantra is the backbone of Bordeaux.Blending allows the winemaker to hedge against vintage weather vagaries and allows for more varied varietal and vineyard expression—the music of the orchestra versus the lone flutist analogy.
Where:
In the back banquet kitchen, dodging banquet prep cooks.There is no tableside tasting per corporate policy.
Vintage: 2006 Producer: Chasseur Appellation: Sonoma Coast Grape : Chardonnay On My Palate:
Rich and ripe. Sweet tropical fruit—pineapple and banana—wrapped in overpowering vanilla.
Vitamin minerality (Flintstones!) and lemon cream mush the rich, creamy mouth feel.
A whore of a wine. suck it till it’s dry. Love it while it (or you) lasts, and then forget about it. Easily. You’ll remember your headache the next day more.
The Dregs:
Sonoma coast is unanimously the next great burgundy varietal wine frontier. The maritime influence, the enormity of the appellation itself, and the abundance of south-exposed slopes have created a mini “wine rush.”
This is the beauty of California. Everywhere you look, there is new, undeveloped terroir and a plethora of vinous entrepreneurs ready to exploit it.
With the above in mind, I let myself be fooled by chasseur. The wine’s marketing package points towards purchase—a “French” winery producing France’s noble grape in California’s next-to-be-noble Pinot terroir.
William Hunter, winemaker and majority owner of Chasseur, is, indeed, smitten with Burgundy. No, not enough to move to the Côte d’Or to put a couple harvests under his belt, but enough to slap a French name ("chasseur" means "hunter" in French) on his winery when his dreams of an eponymous winery were unrealizable (Hunter was already taken).
According to the Chasseur website, the name does inform the winemaking principles. “Chasseur winery is dedicated to small lot, hand-crafted wines in the old French tradition.” In reality, the wine is over-extracted and whorish. There is nothing traditional or french about it.
The Sonoma Coast is special—the brooding north Pacific Ocean, battered coastline, and tug-o-war between fog and sunshine—so should be its wine. If I wanted a piña colada, I’d drive down to Rosarito and order one, beachside.
Where:
At home with potato-carrot-leak soup and ham-wrapped endives topped with béchamel.
Three-dimensional and straightforward: apple, vanilla french barrel “complexity,” and refreshing acidity.
The Dregs:
Jordan does an excellent job of branding their Russian River Valley Chard.There is no essence of terroir here or vintage vagaries, just a well-constructed, lip-smacking, lab-concocted wine.Yet to be so amiable, the wine gives up other qualities, like being thought-provoking, interesting, or complex in any way.Too much botox and silicon, and not enough heart or head.
Where:
At home with grilled salmon, sautéed summer squash, and rice.
Vintage: 2005 Producer: Domaine des Rochelles Appellation: Cabernet d’Anjou On My Palate:
Strawberries. The touch of sweetness holds this wine together.
The Dregs:
Why the hell am I drinking a four-year-old rosé when the first ‘09’s will the market in the next few months? Loire Valley rosés are, sadly, not the easiest to find in the San Diego wine retail market. In the bottle, this (aged) rosé still looked bright red fresh, and that extra hit of sweetness very common in Cab d’Anjous really held this wine together on the palate. Perfect with fresh strawberries as an aperitif.
Where:
Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas.
Vintage: 2008 Producer: Daniel Chotard Appellation: Sancerre On My Palate:
Lime, acid, chalk. Mouthwatering. The Dregs:
Classic expression of old world Sauvignon Blanc from Sancerre.
Classically paired with Crottin de Chavignol goat cheese. I can see where the hay/barnyard funk from the goat cheese should match the grassiness of Sancerre, but the wine really needed a bit more fat to pair well.
Where:
Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas.
Vintage: 2007 Producer: Domaine du Pallus Appellation: Chinon Cuvée : Les Pensées de Pallus On My Palate:
Meaty, floral, red fruit, savory. Tightly-wound. The Dregs:
Bertrand Sourdais caught the attention of international critics and made a name for himself at Dominio de Atauta in Ribera del Duero, and then he came home to run his family estate in Cravant-les-Côteaux in Chinon.
He is following and leading the zeitgeist of modern winemaking. It is so important for next generation winemakers to gain experience elsewhere and grow out of their “cellar palate.” Modern travel and communication has facilitated this opportunity.
This wine is focused and tight—a far cry from the region’s leaner wines from higher yields of yesteryear. Tonight, it is moody and taciturn, but definitely unique, alive, and evolving. I would love to decant it and enjoy (or not) its company for a few hours.
Where:
Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas.
Vintage: 2005 Producer: Domaine du Bel Air Appellation: Bourgueil Cuvée : Les Vingt Lieux Dits On My Palate:
Laser beam red fruit. Red fruit compote. Tight and masculine. Dried rubber. Inky texture. The Dregs:
Just north and across the Loire River from Chinon. The Gauthiers practice organic winemaking and were friends with the late Dider Dagueneau, the iconoclastic, hero winemaker/adventurer out of Sancerre.
A modern, rustic wine. four years old and hardly a breath of age. Definitely not built to please new world critics and therefore very unique and terroir/place driven. More reason to believe that the Loire is a secret, special, and evolving wine region that should be on every genuine wine aficionado’s radar.
Where:
Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas.
Vintage: 2008 Producer: Domaine des Aubuisières Appellation: Vouvray Cuvée : Cuvée de Silex On My Palate:
Apple, smoky, flint, touch of sweetness, and the Loire Valley staple acidity. The Dregs:
Bernard Fouquet. Lauded as one of the Vouvray’s top producers.
Very Reminiscent of a Mosel Kabinett. I would have liked a bit more fat and wet wool Chenin funk, but now I’m knocking Bernard’s honest efforts for something more over the top—clearly not his style.
Where:
Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas.
Vintage: 2005 Producer: Château de Passavant Appellation: Coteaux du Layon Cuvée : Les Greffiers
On My Palate: Rich raisin honey. singing. Enticing. Inviting. Can’t put it down.
The Dregs: Another Biodynamic, organic effort.
This wine is near perfect. It is so seductive on the mouth that it belies you into indulging as much as possible until gone. Once the cork comes out, it will never go back in.
This is noble rot-affected, sweet wine elixir. The blood of bacchus? Or maybe just his sweat. after drinking this, dry, red wine will be forever clumsy and boring.
A perfect pairing with blue cheese and honey. Awakens a new dimension of sensual, palate pleasure.
Where: Loire Valley wine tasting around the granite island in the kitchen at Pierre’s house in Encinitas. Exceptional
It is cool but not cold as I walk up the Rue des Martyrs. It is nighttime but gray; in one year, I have learned that in Paris, the only difference between day and night is the shade of gray.
When I arrive to the building numbered 56, I buzz the apartment on the top floor.A second later, the door itself buzzes and rattles and I push it open.I take the elevator to the fifth floor, and, as I step out, Sean is waiting for me with the door to his apartment open.“Herman!”He calls out shrilly (he never calls me by my real name).“Get in here!”
I mask a bottle of wine under my jacket, and, as I step into his flat, I immediately turn towards the kitchen.“You can’t see what I have.Give me a decanter!”
Two months ago at 10 in the morning on the Rue Richelieu, I was bending over dozens of empty wine bottles behind the bar at Sean’s wine bar, Cochons, sifting through last night’s treasures as I dropped them into a green recycling bin one at a time.It was always depressing to “open” the wine bar, like cleaning up after a party that you weren’t invited to.There were all the wines that I didn’t drink, all the bottles that I will never drink, the graves of people who I will never know.
I picked up an empty magnum bottle and immediately stopped.I sat down at the bar stool and studied the label.“1980 PippenCabernetSauvignonAlexanderValley.”I was familiar with Pippen through months spent eavesdropping over Sean’s shoulders while I poured wine and dried glasses.Sean is a raconteur, as any veritable wine passionate is—there is no coincidence that Bacchus is God of both wine and theater—and, even if I only caught half the story, the story would be repeated in due time, and, after weeks and months of listening, it was possible to put together the tapestry of his wine drinking life.
Sean “worked the harvest” at Pippen Winery in 1980, the year that I was born, the same year the wine from this empty bottle was made.Sean’s stories, however, focused more on Bob Smith, the winemaker at Pippen, than on the winery itself.Bob was, according to Sean, one of the most knowledgeable winemakers around, a stunning compliment by someone who, in over forty years as a wine gypsy, has drank more wine with more winemakers than anybody ever save a handful of pompous wine critics, sommeliers, and auctioneers.
I searched through the wine fridges for a taste.Surely, he thought of me last night and left me a small pour.But I found nothing.I reexamined the empty bottle.Maybe I had missed something; maybe there was a few drops still hiding in the bottom.Nothing.
I proceeded to sweep and mop the floor, arrange and wash the tables, restock the fridges, fold the napkins, set the tables, write up the lunch special while my subconscious slowly submerged my longing desire for the lost wine from last night.More immediate concerns filled my head: “Is fricassée spelled with one or two e’s?Will I eat the magret de canard or the porc rôti for lunch?Where will I put the three pallets of wine that are being unloaded onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant fifteen minutes before noon?”
Sean arrived as lunch ended.“DuBon!I found you a job!You’re going to California!Harvest at Pippen.I discussed it last night with Bob Smith himself over a magnum of 1980 Pippen Cabernet—which was fucking fantastic, of course, I helped make it!—and he wants you so it’s all set and you don’t have to worry.”
“But I already have a job.I work for you!”I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t.He was already sitting down, a glass of wine in his hands, with clients on table 14.
Still, I immediately dismissed the idea.I had battled French bureaucracy with patience, persistence, forgery, and elementary French for over a year—from the Ariege to Paris to the Vaucluse and back to Paris—in order to gain student status (even though I never went to school) so that I was legal to work a maximum twenty hours a week (even though I worked 35).For somebody from Seattle living in France, California was not on the horizon.I had only just escaped America.I certainly wasn’t about to go back.
And that’s when I started to believe in Bacchus.The more I though about Pippen Winery, the more I accepted the reality that I would be going, not because I chose to, but because Bacchus did.I began to discard my selfish motives for staying in France—wine, food, five week vacations, French, public transportation, the South, wine, food—and thought about the bigger vinous picture.Wine is a craft.It cannot be learned in a university.There are no PHD programs, no Fulbrights or theses.It must be experienced first-hand under the guidance of those who have experienced it most.If Bob lives up to even half of Sean’s perception of him, I must work for him, no matter what continent he is on.I don’t have a choice.Bacchus has already chosen.
The first bottle—the apéritif—is white.Sean has hidden its identity, too, and he serves it to me out of a decanter.This is the game.I must guess the wine.I throw out tasting notes.“It’s clean, dry, fresh, lots of minerality—chalkiness—no oak—or at least not overwhelming.Green apples,” while Sean sniffs his own glass.I cheat.I examine his face for reaction.A raise of his eyebrows at the mention of “no oak” is a clue.
I have seen, touched, or opened every wine label in Sean’s wine bar and in Sean’s “cave” five and a half stories beneath us.The game for me is a process of elimination.“I’m thinking Old World.”A bashful smile.“Chardonnay.”A vocal intonation.“Burgundy.”“Umhmm.”Sean works with one white Burgundy producer.“Domaine Laroche.”“Very good Herman.”“Chablis.”“But which Chablis?”“Premier Cru Les Vaillons?”A pucker of the lips.A negative clue.I am wrong.“Grand Cru?”“That’s better, Herman.”“Les Blanchots.”“Unhmm.”“Vintage?”“2004.”“Cheater!”
We finish the bottle.It is fucking fantastic.I am anxious to serve him the wine that I brought.In this game, the power is in knowing.You cannot guess wrong, while everyone else can.I serve the wine.Sean doesn’t cheat.He sniffs and sniffs and swirls and tastes, all the while looking away from me, abstaining from my gesticular clues.He says nothing, but I can see him thinking.His eyes dart back and forth, even though he is clearly looking at nothing.
“2004 Côtes du Roussillon Villages,” he tells me matter-of-factly.He is a true blind taster.He doesn’t start generally and narrow (“Old World.France.”).He doesn’t play by the process of elimination.
“No,” I tell him, although I have not won. His stab is so specific that it almost cannot be right.Instead, his is so close that it is unsettling.The wine is from Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a hot appellation in southern France famous for growing Grenache and Syrah.The wine produced there is almost identical to the wine from another hot appellation in southern France also known for growing Grenache and Syrah: Côtes du Rousillon Villages.
We are eating dinner now, although the food is really secondary to the wine.It is, however, necessary.To continue drinking, we must eat, and I fork bites of food into my mouth between sips.Sean brings out a new carafe and serves us our third bottle of wine.It is my turn again.After two bottles of wine, our sensory perception must be skewed, but I make up for it with tipsy confidence.I don’t need any clues; I get right to the point.
“The Cab from Penedes.”
“Okay, Herman.I can see where you are going.But you’re wrong.I’ll give you Cab, but….”
I run through the list of wines in my head, but this is my downfall.Sean inherently hates Bordeaux.We hardly have any Cabernets in the wine bar, and he certainly doesn’t have any in his cellar.I don’t know.“I don’t know!”I exclaim in maudlin disappointment.
“Come on Herman!Think!Jesus Christ, my boy!”
I think.“Cabernet.Too bold to be Bordeaux.Probably new world.Lots of fruit.Australia?”“Australia?”“No, Herman!Are you a total fuck-up.Come on, my boy!”New World Cab.California.And then I realize.“Pippen.”I am drinking, for the first time in my life, the wine made in the winery where I am about to dedicate six months of my life.
Dinner is over, but we drink two more bottles.His apartment, too, is gray, and it has shrunk since I arrived.Sean, however, hasn’t.He has grown.His movements are brusquer.He needs more space to talk.He pushes his chair back from the table.His black bangs, matted in long spirals, fall over his face from his high forehead.His brow is sweaty.His face is a ruddy red in the half-light.
Sean, at 59, has over thirty years more wine-drinking experience than I do.And he is a Scotsman.I can only imagine what I look like.I finish the dregs of the orange dessert wine from Jurançon.“I should go,” I mutter.“Okay, my boy!”His voice has grown, too.
I step back from the table.In the doorway, Sean pulls me into his gut and slaps my back.“Okay, my boy!”He lets go.“Remember,” he tells me in a fleeting moment of sincerity, “if nothing else, learn!LEARN, my boy, and then come back and see me!”
It is still gray out when I walk back down the Rue des Martyrs in the early morning, but it feels warmer.I move slowly.I am dizzy, but I don’t vomit until the morning, just before I walk to the Gare du Nord to take the train to Charles de Gaulle.
