Notes from the Cellar blog
...all in a day's work.
Don’t make a fuss, just get on the bus. 28 hours down, 5 to go, give or take. It’s off to work for a while, a tasting with 30-ish producers from the Roussillon, followed by a dinner featuring a menu of Catalan dishes. Despite my glassy-eyed, just-wanna-go-to-sleep state, I’m excited, looking forward to exploring some new wines and satisfying my by-now raging hunger with Mediterranean flavors. Not to mention getting started on the home stretch, at the other end of which waits the big prize: sleep.
The second (or third, or fourth) wind is holding up well, though. Earlier, arriving at the hotel, I follow the tried and true routine: resist at all costs the overwhelming desire to get horizontal for a while, instead put on the running shoes and head out for a half an hour. An insult to the system, every footstrike feeling just plain wrong and requiring an effort of will – but that pays dividends once you’re done. Lungs cleansed with fresh air, blood nicely shaken (not stirred), it never fails to set me right. A quick shower to wash off all the airport juju and I’m good as new, sort of.
Out into the sun for a stroll to the Place de la Comédie to meet my comrades du jour, David, a wine writer from Austin, Andrew a sommelier from New York City(who over the next several days mysteriously becomes “Anthony” at odd intervals), and Jack, an importer from New Orleans, for a quick beer. Sitting in a café, outdoors in the late winter sun, who knew a mere Heineken could taste so damned good? Soon, the beers are replaced by a nice bottle of Domaine l’Hortus, from the nearby Pic St. Loup appellation, which just serves to underscore the sense or having arrived here. We drink and talk, the conversation ranging from Robert Parker (including indictments on what Bob hath wrought, and apologia for Bob the man) to Andrew’s tales of epic bottles, to politics. Jack saves the day, with a mention of fly fishing. Soon, we’re swapping stories of our favorite rivers, leaving the other two to run laps around the same old, same old wine guy track.
Later, acceptably cleaned-up for dinner, it’s on the buses with the rest of the Sud de France invitées, a interesting assortment of Russian, American, Chinese, Korean, Swedish, Polish, Japanese and Canadian wine importers, restaurateurs, retailers, distributors and writers, all similarly jet-lagged and slightly dazed. Off to the Maison des Vins de Languedoc for the Roussillon soirée, effectively a warm-up for the coming three days’ work.
The wines are quite good, for the most part, although just a few strike the sort of resonant chord that inspires poetry or purchase orders. Many have a Walla Walla or Red Mountain-esque ripeness that would undoubtedly play well back in the ‘hood, although with these wines, the sun’s sings in harmony with a counterpoint of firm acidity, the refreshing voice of Mediterranean breezes. As I taste, among the riper, more extracted wines I note another striking similarity to the fruits of Washington’s hallowed wine grounds – price, as in not at all timid, and seemingly directly proportionate to the level of extraction and/or oak aging. Wines that, as Randall Grahm once aptly put it, qui se Parkeriser très facilement. Indeed. The tariffs are perhaps not quite as dear as the back home, but relative to rest of the Languedoc, rather bold. Hmmmm.
The best of them are a dream. A Catalan reverie, a carrefour, a crossroad, a rond-point where sun, mountain, sea and centuries of tradition meet, merge and send palate and soul on a journey – à toutes directions! With food, they’re a revelation. And did we say food? There’s charcuterie – saucisses, jambon; cheese – lovely sheep’s milk and rustic cow’s milk cheeses; fruits de mer – oysters, shrimp, and best of all, fresh white anchovies spiced four different ways. An amazing daube (stew) of veal, olives and herbs is amazing with both a dry, spicy, deeply colored rosé and with a heady red, built on a sturdy, rather sauvage foundation of old vine carignan. Combined, they’re an alliance that’s seems made in heaven, this particular piece of heaven’s real estate, at any rate.
They also provide a soporific magic carpet ride. Just a drop of lovely Muscat de Rivesaltes as an exclamation point (or an ellipse?) and I’m hotel-bound. Sleep beckons enticingly, and there’s work to do tomorrow. It’s been a fine day.
The world is your oyster...
Once your plane has managed to give the slip to Charles de Gaulle’s not insignificant gravitational forces, it’s barely an hour’s flight from Paris down to Montpellier. Just time enough for another chorus of the instant coffee blues, the turn of a page or two, maybe a quick snooze. Just an hour, but a world away, really. It’s worth noting that, as just about any native of the south will tell you, you’ve only just now arrived in France (“Paris, c’est pas la France.”).
Talk about magic carpets. In less time than it takes to watch a Rick Steves episode, you may as well have changed planets. Behind is the Europe where the North Atlantic calls the climactic tune and a cast of Celts, Gauls, Teutons, Anglos, Saxons and Normans wove the cultural fabric. Ahead is a place that bears the footprints of Greeks, Phoenicians, Vandals, Visigoths, Saracens and Romans. Not to mention a culture inspired by the Cathars, who had the cheek to thumb their noses at papal authority and had a whole crusade* launched against them for their trouble.
Thirty-some-thousand feet has a homogenizing effect on light. At that altitude it’s pretty much the same wherever you go, one big melting pot, the composite shade of the whole, wide world. (It’s down on terra firma that light meets terroir, assimilates, and becomes "local color.") As it descends through a thin veil of cloud, the plane is immersed in an illumination like nowhere else on the planet. It’s light that can make a person wistful, bring on bouts of everything from poetry to painting to impromptu wine-drinking -- and maybe even make a man crazy enough to cut off his ear.
The sensory conquest begun with the eyes is complete as my nose capitulates. Even in the jetway, mixed with wafts of jet fuel, the aroma of the littoral, the coastal flatland, all salt air and marsh plants is woven with that of the hills, rocks and garrigues blown coastward by the northwest wind. It’s a heady welcome.
Moments later, bag in tow, I find Valentine, Prune and the rest of the Sud de France contingent --evidently nearly everyone on the just –arrived flight from Paris. Group assembled, out the doors, into the late winter sun, under the row of alternating French tricouleur and red Croix Cathar flags flapping in the crisp breeze, and to the waiting buses.
At the first rond-point, one of my favorite things -- the ubiquitous “Toutes Directions” sign confirms that yes, you can get everywhere from here. Bienvenu, indeed. How cool is that? Despite the 26 hours that’ve passed since I awoke to a rainy Ballard morning, I’m amazingly energized. Good thing, too -- there’s still work to do. But first, there are a couple priorities to attend to: a chair that isn’t in motion -- and a beer.
*The real deal, complete with mass burnings at the stake and the wholesale slaughter of women and children.
Double shot: It isn't Starbucks. It IS Illy!
It’s a terrestrial and temporal purgatory. On the outskirts of Charlemagne’s hometown,* it’s somewhere between where you started and where you’re going. If you’re here, it’s a given that you’re just passing through. It's mere steps from the gates of hell when you’re late, stressed, sweating and irate, sideways from lack of sleep and jacked up on the instant coffee blues. In the best of times it’s fascinating. A gallery of humanity, a Babel of languages, a strange crossroads in perpetual fluorescent daytime, where you sleep with one eye open and on the clock.
Through security, running the cloying olfactory gauntlet of perfume, past the chocolate, designer boutiques, assorted knick knacks, and all the other forms of time-burning retail therapy for the edgy traveler, the Illy sign gleams like a red beacon. Café double and I’m good to go.
In their haste to seek fortune and freedom in the New World, Columbus and the Pilgrims forgot a few essentials. Valises packed with bold ambition, pioneering spirit and a Puritan ethic don’t leave much room for Old World nuance, structure and style. Or maybe they left those notions behind on purpose, thinking them decadent, too effete, contrary to the boldness their venture required. In any case, they forgot the wine. So I’m making like Columbus in reverse, seeking some of the spice that got left behind.
Like this coffee, for example. Instinctively, I’m set for that get-your-attention, slap-you-around, forty baritones singing fortissimo dark, dark, dark roast wake-up call like back home. Instead, what I get is a chorale, with the altos and tenors trading melodies, supported by the basses and the sopranos. Funny how nuance, depth and texture have a way of making you sip a little more slowly. Nice.
I find a trio of empty chairs near the gate, drop my bags and settle in with a tide of humanity and today’s paper’s installment of Sarkozy satire and scandal for entertainment. Three hours ‘til boarding...
*With apologies to James McMurtry.
Once around the block and just like magic, a parking place appears where there was none a mere moment ago. A good sign, I’m thinking.
The sidewalk glistens in that dull, wet cement sort of way, courtesy of the streetlights and a mid-February drizzle. I make my way up the street, scanning the numbers on the doors. In less than 50 paces I find 5905 Airport Way, just another Georgetown storefront, with nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors but a glaring lack of anything luminescent, fluorescent or otherwise visually loud. Except for a waist-high, lace curtain of multi-colored paper cut-outs, cavorting muertos encircling the expanse of plate glass facing the street. The cast of animated, grinning skeletons goes about “life” with a unbridled mirth that the living seldom muster. On the glass door, a hand-painted sign modestly states “Fonda la Catrina.” Not quite your basic beer neons. I’m getting a good feeling.
Reaching for the door, eyes sidestepping the reflections in the glass, I see that the place is packed with living, breathing, eating, drinking people who seem to be having nearly as much fun as the dead dancing by the windows. Hmm. So far so good.
I open the door, step inside, inhale. Oh, my. This is good. Who knew that heaven could smell so fine? So deliciously…earthy? We’re talking tortillas, real tortillas. And spices, chiles, limes -- maybe a little spilled beer and a drop or two of quality tequila. No wonder the muertos seem so damned happy.
The menu and the list of potables are concise but so lusciously appealing from top to bottom that I want one of everything. A wise person recently told me: “You can have everything, just not all at once.” So much the better. I can already envision becoming a “regular” here. So I order an IPA (thinking later that perhaps a Carta Blanca might’ve been just a tad better, but …) and start at the top of the menu with the Sopa de Garbanzos. It’s delicious, a heady whirl of tomatoes, coriander, ancho and pasilla chiles making a bright complement to the garbanzos. Next to me at the bar, plates of enchiladas verdes and an array of tacos arrive, followed by exclamations, oohs and aaahs of satisfaction.
Though my restraint is severely tested, the aromas permit me to taste vicariously. While these dishes have the vibrancy of Oaxacan cuisine, there’s a subtler interplay of flavors, a nuanced sort of richness that’s probably been simmering for millennia. Beyond that, there’s no fuss, no fancy-pants, self-aggrandizing bs about this food. It’s the kind of food that’s meant to sustain life, while turning the daily, necessary act of sustenance into a celebration. It’s the kind of food that makes a person damned glad to be alive to eat, to share with friend over a beer, a glass of wine and maybe a drop of mezcal or three. It’s real.
The prospect of tomorrow’s early alarm bolsters my resolve to be moderate. I’m out the door and into the heart of Saturday night, knowing full well that I can’t long resist the call of Alambre or Cochinita Pibil tacos, or Pollo Enchilado, Puerco en Salsa Verde or Rajas con Crema Y Papas. I’ll be back, that’s for sure. This is food to die for.
Fonda La Catrina
5905 Airport Way S.
The essence of a thing, the soul of a person or character of a place isn’t expressed so much in its striking qualities, its notoriety or its shining moments as it is in it the everyday, “normal” aspects of its nature. Or put differently, real magic -- true extraordinariness – is woven right into the fabric of ordinariness. Think about that…
In terms of wine, this idea is probably no better expressed than in Corbières, one of the largest appellations. Interestingly, Corbières lies in the heart of southern France’s Languedoc region, which, until the late 90’s was renowned as France’s “wine lake” the source of oceans of mass-produced, generally unremarkable wine.
Although it’s been in just the past couple decades that the reputation of wines from both Corbières and the Languedoc have changed, the evolution in quality began several decades earlier, as many independent, family-owned growers began to make wine, rather than sell their grapes to cooperatives or corporate producers. While the Languedoc and Corbières are still the source of significant quantities of bulk wine (the Gallo company’s now infamous “Red Bicyclette” for instance), the reputation of both is steadily growing as a source of terroir - driven wines of particularly great value. Meanwhile, a growing number boutique producers are pushing the proverbial envelope with ultra small yields and intensive viticultural practices.
Although the nouvelle vague of artisanal growers are producing wines that are intriguing expressions of the appellation, it’s heart and soul are found in the small, independent domaines familiales¸where the focus is on producing wines that are an honest, but affordable taste of their individual terroirs. We’re talking wines that pay the bills for the growers, everyday wines for ordinary people who have bills to pay, honest wines with soul that bring plenty of character to the table. Wines that are literally the blood of the earth, made by people who are the salt of it.
(Lucky for you, I just happen to know where you can find lovely examples of affordable, delicious Corbières). Château Maylandie and Château Ollieux Romanis both produce an array of outstanding white, rosé and red wines that range from the aforementioned “ordinary” offerings, to small cuvées of ultra-quality wines from select vineyard parcels. You’d be hard-pressed to find more everyday dinner companions more interesting or possessing more character than the “appellation” wines from either. Both offer generous aromas and flavors of dark berry fruit, with the sweetness of ripe fruit nicely balanced by notes of grape skin that segues to notes of garrigues, dusty minerals, Mediterannean pine, savory herbs and white pepper. To drink either is to experience the soul of Corbières – wild, heady, a little bit racy, simultaneously verdant and arid, scoured by the icy Northwest wine in winter and Mediterannean breezes in summer. But why take my word for it when you savor for yourself? After all, it’s the next best thing to being there!
In his column in last Sunday’s New York Times, Eric Asimov makes this astute observation:
“To drink only the best-known wines from time-honored regions is a little like eating in the same restaurants over and over. You can’t go wrong, perhaps, but without the rewards of exploration, you are missing out on so much more.”
-- Eric Asimov, The New York Times, 15 January, 2012
It’s one of those things that should go without saying, but that’s still a great reminder — even (or especially) for those of us whose métier and avowed mission it is to boldly seek out new flavor frontiers, to boldly go…
Pick your metaphor — restaurants, movies, books, music, hotels, roads, vacations…. It actually takes an “act” of consciousness, a little thought, to open the doors and windows in our brains. It’s easy to get so hell-bent on the daily trudge, so dialed in on the stuff that’s supposed to be “important,” that we forget to look around, to ask questions, to see, smell, hear and taste even an nth of what’s within reach, not to mention just around the next bend. Far too easy to just go with what we know, reach for the assurance of the same ol', same ol' tried and true.
It also requires a little extra effort and attention to bypass the freeways of “time-honored” and renowned, keeping instead to the two-lane where homegrown, bedrock flavors grow and the dialect is purely local. But you can’t beat the scenery. Not to mention the broadening of perspective, deepening of lexicon and plain old, amazing pleasure of honing your senses with new adventures.
January doldrums? Sure, if you want. But winter, like anything, is what you make it. So, make it a vacation, every bottle is an opportunity. Whether it’s godello from Rias Baixas, garnacha from Catalunya, gamay from the Val d’Aosta, tannat from Argentina, Negrette from Fronton, encruzado from the Dão — or any of literally thousands of flavors just waiting to be discovered, all you need to do is choose.
It’s a mighty big world. Lace up your shoes, get out your map and corkscrew, get outta the door, light out and look all around … the glass is empty — fill it!
It’s a new year, a fresh page, a temporal tabula rasa, time to boldly set forth on a whole new set of adventures. I’m on the case — as soon as I get a little bit of old business off my figurative desktop.
I’ve taken to keeping a list of topics worthy of expository effort, things that arouse everything from adoration to ire, and about which I fully intend to chime in with my two pesetas worth. Someday. So, herewith, fresh from 2010’s litany of brilliant things and bright ideas postponed…
Awhile back, probably sometime early last fall, in his weekly Seattle Times column, Paul Gregutt sang the praises of mourvèdre, going so far as to predict its rise to the dizzying heights of Next Big Thing. Hmmmm. Interesting idea, but I’m not so sure.
Not that I don’t adore mourvèdre, too. When it’s good, it’s capable of a singular level of profundity, a deep, purple-flavored, animal earthiness infused with layers of pure, crystalline fruit — and terroir, garrigues, et cetera, as the particular case may be. At its best, it pulls no punches. It’s serious stuff, capable of weaving a brooding funk with floral elegance. Mourvèdre makes a statement. There’s nothing like it, and it isn’t for everyone — unless it’s dumbed-down, ripened up, stripped of character and otherwise made to fit the profile of wine-like product that qualifies any given grape as a Big Thing.
Show me mourvèdre as a Big Deal, mourvèdre as a market force, mourvèdre as Money … and I’ll show you mourvèdre that ain’t mourvèdre. Remember merlot? Once upon a time, merlot was poised as the Next Big Thing, then it was THE big thing, and finally, synonymous with non-descript-red-wine-that-sucks. Then it was syrah, with the big, fat, juicy Australian treatment serving as the model. We all know how that story ends. Say ‘syrah’ (shiraz) to your average retailer and you may as well say (shizzle). The market had a fling with pinot (perhaps a little too … precious … precocious?). Malbec seems to be the current darling, but you can already see its demise in the tea leaves as a flood of insipidity labeled as malbec rises to prominence on grocery store end displays and wine lists everywhere.
Merlot, of course, never changed, as such, in the course of its rise and fall. Neither did syrah, nor pinot, nor malbec — and neither will mourvèdre, should it become a commercial “success.” But like any good thing in the employ of those for whom the bottom line is the bottom line, merlot (and syrah, and malbec…) could only end its brief career as wine-biz darling as a washed-up has-been. Dress any good grape in full-on, big brand raiment and you can bet the vineyard that there’s no virtue that will go unsullied, no reputation untarnished.
Moral of the story? Try to be everything to everybody and you end up being nothing at all. Big Things? Why would you bother, when small can be so mighty? While I’m generally loathe to make sweeping generalizations, in the current case I’ll happily make this exception: If you want to live large, think (and drink) small.
Words fail me. No, wait, scratch that. Let's try again. It’s not that I lack the words or any number of topics at which to employ them. Unh – uh. Got those aplenty. Today, it’s a lack of good old gumption that’s got this cat’s figurative tongue. I’ve been sitting here for the last little bit, staring at a list of things about which I’ve been itching to spill some ink, but just can’t seem to muster the volition to tease the words into anything resembling a coherent sentence—to say nothing of a paragraph.
That doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate (and share) other’s words. Yesterday evening, I was thumbing through the “Food” issue of Lapham’s Quarterly (imho one of the most splendidly intelligent periodicals in current circulation) and found the following gem, from Anthelme Brillat – Savarin’s The Physiology of Taste. With the exception of couple gender-based role assignments typical of its era (1825), it’s a timely and timeless set of observations on the civilized satisfaction of one of humankind’s essential needs. Problem solved. I’m going to have a beer (Bayern Pilsner, damned fine stuff) and make like Bartleby. Enjoy.
I: The universe is nothing without the things that live in it, and everything that lives, eats.
II: Animals feed themselves, men eat—but only wise men know the art of eating.
III. The destiny of nations depends on how they nourish themselves.
IV: Tell me what you eat, and I shall tell you what you are.
V: The Creator, while forcing men to eat in order to live, tempts him to do so with appetite and then rewards him with pleasure.
VI: Good living is an act of intelligence, by which we choose things which have an agreeable taste rather than those which do not.
VII: The pleasures of the table are for every man of every land, and no matter of what place in history or society; they can be a part of all his other pleasures, and they last the longest to console him when he has outlived the rest.
VIII: The table is the only place where a man is never bored for the first hour.
IX: The discovery of a new dish does more for the human happiness than the discovery of a star.
X: Men who stuff themselves and grow tipsy know neither how to eat nor how to drink.
XI: The proper progression of courses in a dinner is from the most substantial to the lightest.
XII: The proper progression of wines or spirits is from the mildest to the headiest and most aromatic.
XIII: It is heresy to insist that we must not mix wines: a man’s palate can grow numb and react dully to even the best bottle after the third glass from it.
XIV: A dinner which ends without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye.
XV: We can learn to be cooks, but we must be born knowing how to roast.
XVI: The most indispensable quality of a cook is promptness, nad it should be that of the diner as well.
XVII: A host who makes all his guests wait for one latecomer is careless of their well-being.
XVIII: He who plays host without giving his personal care to the repast is unworthy of having friends to invite to it.
XIX The mistress of the house should always makes sure that the coffee is good, nad the master that the wines are of the best.
XX: To invite people to dine with us is to make ourselves responsible for their well-being for as long as they are under our roofs.
New releases! Big scores!
Rant of the week...
New releases! Big scores!
No need to read any further; the subject line says it all. It could be any of dozens of press releases, newsletters and other assorted promo “stuff” that daily pack my inbox. The drill is familiar: read the subject line, delete, done. If I haven’t glazed over at the first exclamation point, the word “score” or “rating” will do the job, every time.
But today, maybe it’s my wine curmudgeonly crankiness baring its gleaming canines, maybe I should’ve had that one more cup, who knows, but I just tasted through the lineup being touted with the owner-winemaker a few weeks ago — and well, here’s my snort of derision, in a few hundred words, give or take.
They were all winemaker’s wines. As in made. Manipulated. Over-extracted. Over-oaked. Over-hyped. Overpriced. A nursery rhyme played through a phase-shifter, a digital delay and a stack of Marshalls. Loud, with a cool light show. There really isn’t much else to say. Now, I like the guy, don’t have an axe to grind. But bs is bs, no matter how many cases you sell out of, no matter how you pander to the paparazzi, no matter that you’re one of the hipster darlings of the Washington wine biz. The emperor gots no clothes, baby. That dude is nekkid.
Funny, as we were tasting the wines, the WineMaker really didn’t have much to utter, either. Just some tech stuff, brix levels at harvest (huge), cases produced (not many, “get you a small allocation, but don’t wait, these are hot, hot, hot…”), pH, alcohol (plenty o’), et cetera, etc., &c. And don’t forget last year’s scores! (This year Parker’s sure to rate ‘em even higher. )93 points WA, 95 points WS, 91 points Enthusiast, blah, blah blah…
So, tell me then, what’s 95 taste like? Huh? "In your own words, please describe…" Other than that it’s a bigger number than, say, 89, what do the digits say, daddio? Here’s a hint: It says that some guy who can’t be troubled to articulate what he tastes likes it a lot, gives it an “A,” that he was in a good mood, the producer schmoozed him, bought an ad in his magazine. Take your pick, but at the end of the day, it just says that Joe Blow likes it x much, it appeals to his very human, very fallible palate, for any of a bazillion, often quite subjective reasons. Does the fact that Joe Blow says it’s a 95 mean that you should like it? The difference between you and Jo Blow is that Joe knows that people are often supremely underconfident when it comes to wine, and they’re happy to pay for someone to show them the way, to tell them what they ought to taste, as it were. If Joe Blow were a book reviewer, or a music critic, how far would the numbers fly?
(Let me add that in my unapologetic, purely subjective assessment, 94 often has just about as much character as a number.)
The English language is going to hell in an on-line hand-basket, and right along with it people’s ability to think in anything deeper than marketing content or a sound byte. Our conversations already pack all the depth we can pack into a text message, while we construct our “lifestyles” with “products” purchased on the advice of a few lines of “content.”
So, why even bother with the fuzzy white bunny puff piece when a simple number will do? No need to waste actual words on what the over-priced glug in question actually tastes like. Just say that King Bob or Shankin’ Marvin said “93” and that’s good enough for the demographic who prefer chest-beating one-upmanship to character and conviviality. Prose is for bleeding hearts and novel-reading liberal arts types. Cut to the chase, damn the guesswork and the nuanced nonsense. Full speed ahead. Read the numbers, hire a consultant — let the data do the talking.
The data, man. No matter how objective the numbers are purported to be, scores are the product of fallible, self-interested humans, making a living telling us that they’ve managed to turn a subjective pleasure into an objective quantification — and that their subjective experience packs more value than yours. Uh-huh.You bet.
Fine, if that’s what you like. If you don’t’ have the time or the attention span to actually think, taste, savor — to take pleasure, well… I’m sure that this little screed will generate more than a little ire — and a few howls of righteous indignation. Whatever. Bring it on. But let me add (once again in my very subjective, humble estimation), that when it comes to wine, numbers generally aren’t for people who trust their own palates, their own judgement and who are happy to form their own opinions. Numbers don’t just let you keep up with the Joneses, they tell you what to think so you can be the Joneses.
Remember PT Barnum?
Drink well, enjoy, Life is short.
Beaujolais. Nouveau. Let us fill our glasses and sing its praises. Really. No, not the Beaujolais - like product that the corporate wine factories foist on the world. Unh-uh, not that.
Think instead in terms of the sheer loveliness of real, honest Beaujolais, married with the heady, virtually carnal energy of harvest. Pour that in your glass. You’ll see. Yep, voilà.
Beaujolais. “… bright, perfectly ripe red fruit, walking a taut tightrope of exuberant freshness. Lush, generous, muscular berry flavors with a lazer, razor edge of tartness. Not voluptuous in its richness, not “big.” Supple, lean, muscular, flexible. A ballet dancer of a wine… Think of the joyful, bursting-with-sunshine, meaty, satisfying sweetness and texture of perfectly ripe cherries and raspberries, with a crystalline edge of tanginess and the firmness of cool granite.”
Harvest. How do you even come close to adequately describing the pure, heady, racy excitement of harvest? Take a year’s worth of energy, the alliance of earth and sun stored in juicy ripe berries, add the sweat of human brows, hope and desire – unleash it all in the intoxicating alchemy of fermentation, and well…yeah, carnal kind of sums it up.
If real Beaujolais is essentially exuberant beauty without pretention or veneer of sophistication, then real Beaujolais Nouveau is naked beauty, pure, unadorned loveliness with the racy energy of unbridled passion and the reckless abandon of the harvest.
(Surfing that riff all the way to the beach--if honest Beaujolais is the vinous equivalent of impassioned lovemaking, then the industrial-grade sham perpetrated by certain corporate types is essentially little more than wine pornography.)
Alors, I can’t describe it any better than that, there just aren’t adjectives enough. But you can pick up a bottle of Pierre Chermette “Primeur” or Domaine Dupeuble Nouveau at your friendly neighborhood PCC wine department. Then you’ll see.
Fill your glass. Give thanks.