confessions of a wine fraud

Another Coast Entirely

Tue, 18 Sep 2012 01:07:00 -0400

There’s always a reason to drink bourbon. Whatever your context, there’s an argument: it goes well with dust and transition and people in a hurry; even the cheap stuff sands the edges and shades the glare. It blunts boredom and invites sleep. There’s no better booze when you’re tired of technicolor.

I drained a liter or two of it during a recent period of shapeshifting, all the while thinking that the second I get a second to do it, I’m going to switch back to good wine. I soon found time to scour the shelves for something adventurous, but I stopped short at an endcap display of Bonarda I’d never tried. It was 2 for 1. You know me, I have this thing for Argentina’s underdog grape. I love seeing it creep back out of the jug wine shallows, especially when it does so with this sort of verve.

Zolo Gaucho Select sounds like the house brand of a South American grocery chain. I could see myself skint and subsisting off of “Gaucho Select” knock-off corn flakes, eating them by the fistful in a hostel, slowly forgetting what the real ones taste like. Turns out, though, Zolo’s a winery in Mendoza cranking out rich Malbecs and the kind of Bonarda that shows up a little tipsy. It’s got a highly typical and wildly friendly nose of dark & thorny strawberry jam; once the heat blows off (give it a second), the palate’s a crushed-velvet, finger-painted mess of red fruit and flowers. It tastes like young love, late summer, and the pleasure of passing out in the sun.

Zolo Gaucho Select 2010 Bonarda, ~$15.99 (2 for 1), BevMo

Vodka, pour les Américains

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 07:34:00 -0400

I’m back in Paris after a week following an odd trail across France: the path of a bottle of Grey Goose from start (in a Picardy wheat field) to finish (in a factory in Cognac). I’m not a vodka person, really, but I am an American who generally associates France with luxury, and for Grey Goose, that’s half the battle won. Of course, it helps that the spirit holds up its end of the agreement, especially in a good martini. Or four.

Yuzu + John Lee Hooker

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 07:49:00 -0400

Now on Serious Eats: my interview with Greg Seider at The Summit Bar, where you must go if you have a thing for outstanding booze.

Plus: G&T on Tap

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 09:30:00 -0400

My first look at Gin Palace, from the kids who brought you most of the other fancy bars in the East Village.

Now Serving Elsewhere

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 14:08:54 -0400

New on Serious Eats, my “first look” at Middle Branch, the latest entry in Sasha Petraske’s suite of cocktail lounges.

It's Worth All the Traffic

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 11:53:00 -0400

It’s funny to watch wine people deal with California. In public discussions (you never know what people drink in private), there seem to be only naysayers and defender-evangelists, as though merely enjoying the occasional West Coast wine marks you as insufficiently geeky. There are two columns from which to choose; you’re to tick one box, then double down.

Before I fell in with this sort of folk, or read their columns or joined their tastings, I lived in California and drank plenty of its wine. It never seemed to me to be monolithic (it’s not), singularly dedicated to powerhouse fruit or sweetness (it’s not that, either), or universally concerned with commerce. I lived in LA, so my wine country of choice was the Central Coast, first because of its proximity and then, after seeing it — Santa Ynez, San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles — because I’d fallen in love. Take the ride north from the city and by the time you emerge from Santa Barbara, not loving the gold and marine hues means not having eyes. In which case, you probably shouldn’t have driven up.

I previously lived in the Bay Area, so the tasting rooms of the Central Coast were a bit of a revelation. There are big ones here, too, but on the way to Paso Robles you’ll find tons that feel like homes or sheds, with the pouring done by a daughter or a worker who’s just come in from the field. Better yet, that person may pour you something thoughtful and engaging and so delicious that, if you knew how the outside world discussed the region, you’d want to remind them of California’s rap. Don’t you know you’re supposed to be pouring un-sellable black pepper Syrah? That’s what they think of you. That’s what they think of us.

I left California several years back, and more or less assume the defender-evangelist role when it comes up. I love Zinfandel and have had enough restrained and interesting Pinot to want to fight the power, but in a recent wander around my favorite wine store, I realized one part of my brain had been co-opted by the haters: I have a knee-jerk response to California Chardonnay.

Brainwashing? Too many straw-yellow Chards served in shallow plastic cups? Why, even after reading tons of indications that California Chardonnay has stopped with the super-oak-super-butter treatment, do I still ignore it?

I expressed this concern (not quite so meanderingly) to the kid behind the counter; he perked up and pointed out the one California Chardonnay on the rack, a 2010 bottling from Broc Cellars. Labelled only as Vine Starr, a “Paso Robles White Wine,” it turns out to be 75% Chard, 12.5% Roussanne, and 12.5% Picpoul.

It’s only the second vintage, so it wasn’t around when I was, but man, I wish it had been. Then again, it’s useful for recalling a landscape I can no longer visit in an afternoon. Medium-high acid with a creamy, feathery texture, this is a white that punctures any illusion that California (and the Central Coast, in particular) lacks elegance or a certain regional wit. Here you’ll find ripe red apples, warm, broad sunshine, fresh field dairy and terrific salinity. It wears its complex of flavors like a basket of fruit collected on a long walk: California’s actual bounty, not a billboard selling the myth of it.

Broc Cellars “Vine Starr,” Paso Robles White Wine, 2010 ~ $20

They Had Great Sandwiches, Too

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 13:20:00 -0400

Eventually, someone will ask. What’s the wine that got you into wine? Then come the phenomenal answers. Ancient Brunellos discovered on semesters abroad and Burgundies shared with lovers who don’t speak the language. You know, mind-blowing wines, the ones built like time machines and man, what luck to meet them right there at the top of the road. I hear these stories and I almost never have the heart to say my own gateway bottle was an Oregon Pinot Gris, bought for $10 and served in paper cups.

Prior to this moment, I’d had “wine” the way I’d had “beer,” which is to say selected by price and color at a grocery store. Now, though, I needed a bottle to impress someone who knew a thing or two about the stuff, so I traded up from Safeway to the Woodstock Wine & Deli, on account of the word being right there on the sign. I explained about my audience (probably sophisticated) and my budget (definitely miniscule) and in exchange I was handed a bottle of O’Reilly’s Pinot Gris. He mentioned lime. It had a dog on the label. I took it in good faith.

Two days later, I poured it, nervously, at what I now recognize as my first real gathering of grown-ups. An incredible thing happened: everyone enjoyed it. We didn’t ignore it; we didn’t spend the night talking about it. We smiled over it and made note of it and commented as we drained the bottle. It wasn’t astounding, but it was lovely, and that was more than I’d ever known alcohol to be. As the weeks went on, I thought about it and bought it again and wondered what might be beyond lovely. In the decade since, I’ve found out, but I’ve recently made my way back to the grape that got this all started.

Pinot Gris is better known around these parts as Pinot Grigio, which is better known to plenty of people as “what my ________ (mother, sister-in-law, grandfather who adds seltzer to his wine) drinks.” Much of the mass-produced Italian stuff is light-weight and super-bland, a white and nothing more, that being, often, the secret to its traction. It’s inoffensive and vaguely boozey. Unfortunately, encounters with insipid versions, as with Chardonnay and Riesling, often cause people looking for better flavors and better stories to move along and never look back. I did the same, even after it did me the favor of showing me the way. I’ve returned to say that if you’ve also wandered off, come in. There’s plenty here to make the case.

Though it’s been made in Oregon since the 1960s, the Pinot Gris here is still far from being monolithic. Any given bottle may make a completely different argument as to the best expression of the grape in this region. The lack of consistent, recognizable characteristics may be one thing keeping it from Pinot Grigio’s status as a popular house white in the U.S. For my purposes, that’s a great thing, as it makes the exploration that much more rewarding.

There are through-lines to the best of them, of course. They’re crisp and citrusy with a little orchard fruit for good measure. Veer left, and you’ll find more body and Alsatian-style spice; veer right, and you’ll get residual sugar or the tropics, cut with cream. Even the divergent paths, however, still lead to a wine that can unite people new to this world with those who make their lives here. May there be no lovelier task.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

Sat, 07 Apr 2012 16:12:00 -0400

You can tell I’ve fallen for something when my handwriting gets psychotic, panicked, attended by arrows and profanity and amendments. I talk to myself. It’s less “Hmm, is that lemon or lime?” and more “Oh, shit, okay, Jesus, it’s like, baked red soil and fresh laundry? That tall grass I remember from Girl Scout camp. There’s chocolate, wildflowers, marshmallow? The little green ones. Old stone, but like a sweet old stone, stone from a sugar factory, crushed. Caught on fire.” Once I’m in deep, I want to get it down, right now, while it’s all still here and I can touch it. Tell the whole story, earn my place at the table, take in such detail that I’ll never be able to forget.

Which brings me to the 1996 San Leonardo, and its newly minted slot in my top 10.

“This is just one of the best things ever.”

I like lots of wines, and my definition of good is flexible and amenable to circumstance. I’m a believer that the more beautiful the night and the better the company the less necessary it is to have wine of any import. My view narrows, of course, when I consider the great, which stands on its own in a vineyard by the Andes or in a conference room in midtown. The setting recedes, and that’s when you know. It’s not just romance. It’s real love.

Thanks again to the generosity of GDP (who undersold the tasting by billing it, simply, as one of “weedy Cabernet”), I was able to taste through a vertical of 1993-2005 San Leonardo, a brilliant series of vibrantly complex Bordeaux blends from an odd site in Alto Adige. There wasn’t a loser in the bunch; throughout the tasting, a giddiness built up around the table that led to open laptops and quick sourcing of additional bottles from across the country. Once you know it’s this good (and this affordable), don’t ever let go without a fight.

Each wine was fantastic, but 1993 and ‘96, phenomenal. The former’s a field filled with sun-baked ruins and deep, dusty black fruit; knee high grass, hard wax; perfect balance. Elegant and ancient. The latter played out, fittingly, like the same song three years on: wild flowers, sweet green herbs, big baskets of dark, crushed blackcurrant fruit, a grace note of milk chocolate. What a pleasure it will be to hear again.

Nicolas Joly & the Art of Doing Nothing

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 09:22:00 -0400

For those unfamiliar with Nicolas Joly, I’ll start not with a list of pertinent bio bullets, but instead with a challenge, recently issued by Joly himself. Smiling to a packed audience of acolytes (they’ve brought bottles for him to sign) and gentle skeptics (every Mulder needs a Scully), Joly suggests buying a bottle of his wine, and leaving it out, open, exposed to the air. For 8 days. 10, even. You just see if it doesn’t still sing.

“Wines made by nature will last longer when open,” he says, then ribs the lengths we’ve all gone to keep our wine drinkable 24 hours after popping the cork. “Cover it in a layer of gas?” Mimicking exasperation, dropping his head. “How weak is your wine? It has no fight!” Give a wine a robust, truly organic spine and not a cosmetic one, Joly argues, and it will show you true mettle.

Though simpler on its face than some of Joly’s other assertions throughout the night (there are mentions of frequencies, magnets, the interruptive force of manmade satellites on the natural order of the atmosphere), the test captures everything the man’s come here to say.

Nicolas Joly began working his family’s Loire Valley vineyards in 1961, after a stint at Columbia and a career on Wall Street. He was soon after turned on by the ideas of Rudolf Steiner, and began evangelizing the practice of Biodynamics, turning it from a relic into a movement over the course of four decades. In its details, Biodynamics is complex. Adherents refer to it as a “spiritual-ethical-ecological” approach to farming, and adherence requires charts: there are phases of the moon to track, planting calendars to follow. As a philosophy, though, it’s easy to follow. You just start with the soil.

“In the last 30 years, modern farming has been weakening the capacity of the vine to connect to the soil with its roots, and to catch the sun with it’s leaves,” Joly says. One culprit here is industrial weedkiller, which strips the soil of natural nutrients that then must be replaced by industrial fertilizer, a product that induces the plant to consume more water. With that, Joly argues, comes increased susceptibility to disease, and a whole new cycle of intervention on the plant’s natural ability to express its surrounding terroir.

Biodynamic winegrowers (not makers, mind you — the only creatures with that gift are yeast) and organic viticulturists alike seek to remove all this chemical intervention and get back to a system that worked for eons before the industrial revolution. Instead of weedkillers, re-introduce animals who can do that work for you; consider the value of biodiversity in and amongst your vines. For Joly, if you can tend your grapes effectively in the field, then the work of great wine is done long before you crush or cellar a drop of juice.

The handy thing about a philosophy lesson followed by a vertical tasting? No matter whether you find Biodynamics to be an occultist hoax, an unnecessarily spiritual approach to organic farming, or an inspired, holistic how-to, your palate gets to have a say in the matter. On paper, it’s one thing; in the glass, another entirely. And in the case of Joly’s Savennieres line-up, it’s a wilderness of pure, unfettered awesome.

Savennieres “Les Vieux Clos” 2009

A hit of luscious honey on the nose, then white chocolate, though it could be a phantom born of smelling it too long; baked peach, candied pineapple & a mai-tai cut with fresh grass. Full-bodied, oily on the palate. It’s a wild thing, this one, and it gives a hell of a satisfying chase.

Savennieres “Clos de la Bergerie” 2009

Deep, dripping gold honey tones on the nose, they’re practically roasted, and from here it’s all money: marmalade, coconut, white chocolate again.

Savennieres “Clos de la Bergerie” 2007

A stand-out for me, mostly for its epic finish. Tropical fruits splayed over white smoke, and a truckload of caramel, butter, and the best kind of burnt animal flesh.

Savennieres “Coulée de Serrant” 2009

Marshmallow and rock salt, like seaside salinity that turns to salted butterscotch. Medium acidity throughout keeps the candied orange and peach notes juicy instead of jawbreaking.

Savennieres “Coulée de Serrant” 2008

More minerality here than the wines that came before, with some green grass and red apple peel laced in among the wash of golden sunshine. Full, dry, fresh on the palate.

Savennieres “Coulée de Serrant” 2007

More campfire marshmallows that run away with the nose, and then things get charismatic. It’s autumn in a glass, this one, think Halloween and caramel apples and state fairs and fantasy sex by fireplaces. If this is the wine of the occult, someone get me a membership card.

The Best of Truth or Consequences

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 16:58:00 -0500

Here’s a true thing about me: I love a good loop. When I fall for something, I want a lot of it and right away, until I’ve had so much of it I wear out the very idea of its existence. If I love a song, I suck the spine out by leaving it on repeat for days; no one this side of pre-school is better than I am at re-watching the same episode of television. For awhile there, I could have listed the staff at Oasis Falafel as my emergency contact. If I’d disappeared for a day, they’d have noticed first.

Outside of annoying my loved ones (sorry, loved ones), the main peril of this approach is that my ruts will sometimes clash. Like when I can’t stop buying dense, menacing American reds, or ordering the new special rolls from the sushi place up the street. It leaves me with a wine fridge full of Zin, Cabernet, and Syrah, all skull-crushers where raw tuna is concerned, and plates of delicious little wasabi knuckles that deserve better than (the crappy kinds of) beer (I tend to drink).

If you have a reasonable approach to life, you’d probably just not order so much sushi, and swap in some things that will match your Cabernet, or vice versa. Me, I just go fishing for another rut:

This one’s been brewing in the background ever since I rambled on about keeping Champagne out of weeknight reach. I ended up going back over my favorite alternatives and picking up a bottle of Gruet. I’d had fond memories, but I’d never given it the full rut treatment, which is crazy: it’s $12 and it’s one of the most delicious domestic sparklers, ever. It meets all the U.S. government standards to have “rut-worthy” printed on the label.

So, let’s talk domestic. It’s made in the methode Champenoise (i.e., labor intensive, aged on its yeast in the bottle), but in New Mexico, not so far from the spa town of Truth or Consequences. In 1983, Champagne veteran Gilbert Gruet and his family toured the American southwest and encountered conditions favorable to sparkling wine. Given the low cost of the land, his son Laurent opted to gamble on the experiment, and for that we all owe the Gruets a round. Of applause, at least.

As a native Texan and a one-time broke Californian, my relationship to New Mexico up to now has been as an oft-ticketed driver, barreling from one border to the other. My experience of the state’s cuisine is limited to Dairy Queens and Texaco stations; my lengthier stays involved truck stops and one twitchy night under a sign for The Thing. I could have told you that the land is beautiful at high speeds, but until I met Gruet, I couldn’t have vouched for its truly magical properties.

Or its advantageous elevation, as the case may be. Laurent’s experiment worked largely on account of the altitude of the vineyards. It may get hot during the day, but the height ensures that the nights stay cool, a change that puts the breaks on all that rapid ripening. What came out were a series of really spectacular sparkling wines, each with their own personality. My favorite right now is the seriously underpriced Gruet Blanc de Noirs. Made of Pinot, this bubbly has deep shadows of raspberry laced beneath a golden wash of toast & almond. It has both the creamy texture and the glittery acidity to brighten bold flavors and bad days.

Gruet Blanc de Noirs, $12, Natural Wine Company

Now Serving Elsewhere

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 16:58:00 -0500

Madeira for Mothers (and everyone else, really), and Bubbles for Brides.

What to Drink When You're Drinking Before Noon

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 16:00:38 -0500

In a moment, when I say “Valpolicella works for breakfast,” let’s be clear I don’t mean brunch. It’s terrific for brunch, too, just as it is for early dinners & late night pizza and most of the times in between, but for my main thesis, there’s no reason for me to equivocate and pretend I’m solely recommending it for afternoon consumption.

Valpolicella works for breakfast because it presents more like fruit juice than most other reds, which may be what keeps them out of the early meal game altogether (Puritanical judgement aside). Most morning cocktails have a fresh-squeezed component, and Valpolicella comes with those charms built right in. It’s lipstick red & flush with smashed sour cherries; it’s not sweet, but it’s so generous with its pure, tangy fruit that it doesn’t really need to be. The nice ones, anyway.

Maybe it’s coffee, and maybe it’s not.

Valpolicella is in northeastern Italy, specifically Verona, and in the grand scheme of things it’s not known for its mind-boggling masterpieces. Who cares? Most of the wine (made largely from Corvina) is simple and ends up where most wine belongs: in the wine glasses of locals who just want a glass of wine. Valpolicella is obliging, and with that, it’s already done humanity a fair amount of good.

Allegrini has roots in the Veneto that stretch back to the 16th century, and they often make the list when someone rounds up Valpolicella of note. I came across them mostly because they’re the Valpolicella I come across. It has a fairly consistent retail presence, which is good, as it will always be close at hand when your scrambled eggs and bacon want something more than OJ.

2010 Allegrini Valpolicella, ~$15

Yes, that's Thousand Island on the Label

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 17:38:00 -0500

The bottle doesn’t specify that one should pair this well-rounded white Bordeaux with wings and a burger, so I’ll make the addendum here: one totally should. I’ve put it through its paces, pitting it against seriously unfriendly foods, only to have it play diplomat to every flavor.

Everyone gets a boost when Chateau Graville-Lacoste shows up, all rich, flinty funk and creamy, complicated citrus and uppercut acidity. Consider it the universal answer to “what to serve with surf & turf” and “what to bring to the dinner party” and “what to drink after I lick off the Ranch dressing I somehow got on the back of my elbow, my God, how am I still this terrible at being a grown-up?”

Chateau Graville-Lacoste Blanc 2010, ~$17

... and Real Pain for Our Sham Ones

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:49:00 -0500

I drink a fair amount of sparkling wine, but very little actual Champagne. It’s a price thing, sure, combined with a touch of sheepishness over how I’d consume that bottle of Veuve Clicquot, were I to spring for it: over sushi and a rerun of Justified. It’s not that I lack special occasions, it’s that I lack self control. I’d buy it to save, and within the week have it open, squandering its charms with commercial breaks and an excess of wasabi.

The more generous wine drinkers of the world insist that popping the cork, the very act and treat of it, renders any occasion (spicy tuna rolls & FX series included) instantly special. Life’s too short to save delicious things for rare moments, the story goes, and it’s a good one. I subscribe to it. But yet, Champagne. There’s just something to be said for holding off.

Do not pair with Raylan Givens.

I’m in awe of the practical magic of the stuff, this golden booze made in part from Pinot Noir. The region of Champagne, one of the most prized plots of agricultural territory on the globe, wasn’t slated for greatness, particularly in terms of winemaking. It’s France’s northernmost appellation, indeed one of the most northerly in the business; this latitude saddles it with a challenging climate. It’s cold, there’s frost, winters are gnarly, sugar levels stay low, acid gets outrageous. Not desirable conditions for still wine of any quality. But rather than give it up, the Champenois (assisted by a number of players, from French monks to English scientists) committed to perfecting the complex production system that would change their fate. They took their lemons and created, after many a generation of exploding glass and bad formulas and allegations of vulgarity, the world’s most beautiful, labor intensive lemonade.

It’s romantic, but if you can’t romanticize Champagne, what’s left? Every bottle is a testament to the drive to make something greater than what seems possible at first, even when it requires a maddening amount of vision, effort, denial, or guidance from the Benedictines. It’s all a reminder of what happens when you put your back into something. Commit to greatness, get your hands dirty. Print the legend, say a toast.

The meek shall inherit the earth; the Champenois, a fortune, and a place at the heart of our happiest moments. I’ll wait to drink to that.

Now Serving Elsewhere

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:48:00 -0500

New boozy posts in other corners of the internet: 5 Ways to Get Lost in Spain on Snooth (in which I track down all the non-Rioja bottles at a Spanish wine expo); They Said That About Malbec Once, Too on Grand Crüe (in which I continue to not shut up about Bonarda).

"It's not just older than you. It's older than your country."

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:18:00 -0500

I spent Sunday afternoon at a tasting hosted by The Rare Wine Co., an importer and retailer I love even though they’ve never sold me a single bottle. They’re largely out of my range, but man, do I love their newsletter. It’s a little manila number that describes, in sweet, witty detail, all the ones that get away. I imagine it’s fun to peruse while sipping something from your cellar; I read it with a six pack of cheap beer. It’s the you can’t fire me, I quit approach.

Given my usual appreciation from afar, I was excited to see that they’d be unpacking a few lovely cases on the edge of the Hudson, and so I dug up a ticket. The event focused on verticals of Madeira, Champagne, Barolo, Chianti, CDP, and a handful of other French & Italian varietals, along with a pre-auction exhibition of antique food & wine posters. You know the ones. Demons and court jesters drinking Campari?

Maybe you had one in your dorm room.

I’m great company to have at these events, because I love everything. Or, at least, I’m willing to love everything. I have no preferred order, no pre-standing notions of a given vintage’s prestige, no pet producer; I start at the table with the smallest crowd and I pay attention to whatever’s in the glass. I’m exceedingly hard to disappoint, but with wine like this, even if I’d shown up with outrageous expectations, the Rare Wine Co. would have handily over-delivered.

It’s really a shame more old white men don’t get into wine.

I managed to taste through about 23 wines (mostly arranged in verticals) before my tongue hit a liquid-love-potion stunner of a century-old Madeira and quickly punched out for the night. Stars indicate the ones that elicited some sort of appreciative profanity.

2006 Henri Bonneau Chateauneuf-de-Pape Reserve de Celestins*
2009 Giacomo Conterno Barbera Cerretta*

1994 Cune Vina Real Rioja Gran Riserva*
1991 Lopez de Heredia Bosconia Rioja Gran Reserva*

2009 Anthill Farms Pinot Noir Demuth (Sonoma)*
2009 Evening Land Seven Springs Vineyard Summum Pinot Noir, OR

2009 Selvapiana Chianti Rufina
1999 Selvapiana Chianti Rufina Riserva Bucerchiale
1981 Selvapiana Chianti Rufina Riserva
1978 Selvapiana Chianti Rufina Riserva*

2008 Caberlot*
2007 Caberlot
1999 Caberlot

2009 Giacomo Conterno Barbera Cerretta*
2007 Giuseppe Mascarello Barolo Monprivato*
2004 Cappellano Barolo Rupestris

2009 Flor de Pingus
2006 Pingus Cuvee Amelia*
2009 PSI

1920 Barbeito Farvilla Viera Malvasia Madeira*
RWS Historic Series Stratford Hall Lee Family Reserve Madeira
1912 D’Oliveira Verdelho Madeira

What We Talk About When We Talk About Muscadet

Sat, 28 Jan 2012 18:50:00 -0500

I spent the afternoon hunting down a bottle of Cahors for a different project, my mind set on drinking it this evening, all on its own. All day, though, the weather’s been arguing against it. We’ve got springtime sunlight and seaside clouds; it’s warmer than it ought to be. This is a day that wants a white. But not just any.

The northeast in January? If you say so.

I picked this up last week in a sweep of the “other whites” category that left me with two Soaves and a lackluster Gruner. Fearing that it would be too austere for the pasta I keep making, I left it on the rack and forgot about it. That’s the story of many a Muscadet, I bet, and certainly those that wind up in my care. I’ve rarely had one in my price range that made me eager to try another, but this bottle, this lovely thing? It’s out to change some minds.

Luc and Jerome Choblet are third generation winemakers in the Loire Valley, where they make whites in Cotes de Grandlieu, lakeside, behind stone walls. Their “Clos de La Senaigerie” is aged sur lie, a process that plumps and softens. Especially in this case: there’s some seriously sharp-tongued acidity here, all warmed up and filled out by the magic of dead yeast.

For eleven of the best dollars you’ll ever spend on wine, this phenomenal, aromatic Muscadet delivers the coast of France. Prismatic minerality (shells, slate, stone), steely salinity. Green apples, wet honeydew, fresh lemons & laundry. Love, regret. A pretty girl on a jagged cliff. The kind of longing one can only do at sea.

2010 “Clos de la Senaigerie” Muscadet, Cotes de Grandlieu, $11

Müller-Thurgau, for All Your Hyphenated Grape Needs

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 11:17:00 -0500

It took me a little longer than it should have to come around to Riesling. I don’t even have the excuse that I spent years burned by cheap, syrupy versions, and that I finally saw the light once someone introduced me to the dry gold of the Mosel. No, my first real interactions with Riesling were with the good stuff, poured by evangelists who tailored the experience to my (misguided) fear of residual sugar. I was the one who came up short. Then, after years of assuming I just couldn’t love Riesling, no matter how celebrated, I came across an Australian version that casually made the case: mashed-up peach and fresh lemon, cut with pale green herbs, lit brightly by high-noon acidity.

Riesling, you say. I could totally get into this.

Spoiler alert: I’m not spitting out any of number six.

Last night, after the kind of lecture on German label terms that makes you feel vaguely afflicted with aphasia, we tasted through a series of beautiful Rieslings intended to illustrate the differences between the major German regions and Pradikate (NSFW) (Just kidding). The tart, slatey green & yellow fruit of the Mosel, the tropical infusion found in Pfalz. To kick things off, though, the instructor poured a cheerful Müller-Thurgau, and though it was the simplest and cheapest of the bunch, it’s the one I walked away remembering.

“Trocken” indicates that the wine is dry. Unless it’s “trocken” as in “Trockenbeerenauslese,” which indicates that the wine is extremely sweet. Cool.

Maybe it’s because I don’t remember having ever tried an M-T, but more likely, it hooked me because I really enjoyed it, in a house white sort of way. Behind Riesling, the grape is the most widely-planted in Germany. It purportedly always falls behind the other in terms of elegance and complexity, but when it comes to cheap and cheerful, it seems to me M-T has a good grip on the game.

In this bottle, there’s a ton of slate on the nose, wrapped up in yellow citrus fruit and red apple custard, with a little wet clay and white flowers in the distance. Taste it and you’ll find smart, jangly acidity, ripe Meyer lemon, and even more of that springy red apple that unfolds into a surprising, medium-plus finish. It’s a little more complex than I would have guessed, and for a whopping 10 bucks, I’d stock my regular fridge with it and drink it by the tumbler. With breakfast. Try and stop me.

Müller-Thurgau Trocken, Schloss Mühlenhoff, 2009, Astor Wines, $10.99

It's the Small Things

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 14:43:00 -0500

Don’t bother with this one if you’re looking for a gift for a wine snob (let’s not give those folks gifts, anyway), and don’t buy it for yourself if you say things like “you know, you don’t really need anything other than a simple wine key.” You’re not wrong, but it doesn’t make this thing any less fun to use:

My favorite stocking stuffer. There’s a chance my family is easily entertained.

You insert the needle into the cork, punch the button with your thumb, and your bottle springs open. This is particularly amusing when you’re opening the second or third bottle of the night (like most things), and since it requires a cartridge replacement every 80 bottles or so, you may as well save it for when you have other tipsy people on hand to witness the tiny, CO2-driven spectacle. If, in the end, it turns out you’re unimpressed with gadgetry and will only celebrate the joys of the wine key no matter what, then at least go get this one. I’m very curious.

CorkPopper, $24.95-ish, Amazon

In Defense of Dessert Wine

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 20:25:00 -0500

When it comes to dessert wine, the people I know break into two groups: hatred and indifference. I’ve been in both of these camps. The hatred stems from associations that a suburban upbringing gives you for sweet alcohol (Franzia; Tupperware parties; high school hangovers; Arbor Mist; pinkness; baby showers; things your stepmother drinks while listening to Joni Mitchell). The indifference comes from a lack of exposure or an assumption that the great stuff all comes with an outrageous price tag.

The problem with ignoring dessert wine is that it’s delicious, and while there’s certainly (they tell me) high-dollar Sauternes that will change your mind for good, there are far more accessible bottles that can make the case in the moment. Like this Austrian fellow:

Light on its feet, this one, with tidy floral and honey aromas and a springy green apple acidity that hoists up the residual sugar. It’s made with noble rot, an occasionally charming fungus that helps concentrate the sugar in certain grapes and lends an earthy, marmalade tone to the finished product. Swap it in before or after a meal, or sip it solo to summon spring on an otherwise suicidal January day.

Gelber Muskateller “Noble Selection,” Wenzel, Astor Wine & Spirits, $24.99 (Half Bottle)