The Feiring Line

Tannic Beast (with a hairy chest)

"..a primordial, tannic beast with a beef blood-like concentration, a huge, opaque purple color, and notes of scorched earth, blackberries, chocolate, camphor, roasted meats, and cassis. It�s as if I took an aged porterhouse steak from Peter Lugar�s famed restaurant, put it in a Cuisinart, and aged it in new French oak."
*
(By the way, that is the writer's typo, not mine. It should be Luger, not Lugar.)
*
Thusly described, that wine seems like one I'd try to outrun like a dirty bomb. But that is the RMP Jr's rave review of the 2002 Vecina Proprietary Red ($175)-- 95 points. Guess he liked it. Cuisinarted meat aged in barrique? Baby food covered in wood tannin and vanilla? A few years ago the British wine magazine Harper's did a pretty fun story on purple prose in wine writing, this one is more like the winner of Gothic prose in wine writing.

But, when I think of it, notes of scorched earth. Hmm. Actually when taken out of the wine context it's quite poetic. And with just a little tweaking it could perhaps be a Louise Gluck.

Hungering, I took an aged porterhouse steak, richly marbled with fat out of Lugar's freezer.
Cuisinarted and pulsed
aged it in new French oak
Oh, beef blooded concentration,
huge, opaque purple,
notes of scorched earth,
blackberries, chocolate, camphor,
roasted meats, and cassis.
Classic Michel Rolland, winemaker
turned butcher, primordial, tannic beast.

Tannic Beast (with a hairy chest)

"..a primordial, tannic beast with a beef blood-like concentration, a huge, opaque purple color, and notes of scorched earth, blackberries, chocolate, camphor, roasted meats, and cassis. It�s as if I took an aged porterhouse steak from Peter Lugar�s famed restaurant, put it in a Cuisinart, and aged it in new French oak."
*
(By the way, that is the writer's typo, not mine. It should be Luger, not Lugar.)
*
Thusly described, that wine seems like one I'd try to outrun like a dirty bomb. But that is the RMP Jr's rave review of the 2002 Vecina Proprietary Red ($175)-- 95 points. Guess he liked it. Cuisinarted meat aged in barrique? Baby food covered in wood tannin and vanilla? A few years ago the British wine magazine Harper's did a pretty fun story on purple prose in wine writing, this one is more like the winner of Gothic prose in wine writing.

But, when I think of it, notes of scorched earth. Hmm. Actually when taken out of the wine context it's quite poetic. And with just a little tweaking it could perhaps be a Louise Gluck.

Hungering, I took an aged porterhouse steak, richly marbled with fat out of Lugar's freezer.
Cuisinarted and pulsed
aged it in new French oak
Oh, beef blooded concentration,
huge, opaque purple,
notes of scorched earth,
blackberries, chocolate, camphor,
roasted meats, and cassis.
Classic Michel Rolland, winemaker
turned butcher, primordial, tannic beast.

The Devil Dog Defense

I took my friend Joe to Podunk, a stern little tea shop on east fifth street for Esme's special mix; cardamom and black pepper chai tea, which gives a rambunctious yet comforting burn to the back of the throat. This is a caffeinated tea and thus fueled, Joe was compelled to offer advice for my upcoming book (Harcourt, either Summer or Fall 2007).

Though I've told Joe about the book, he doesn't really know how I intend to write it, but that didn�t stop him. I didn''t mind, however, because no matter what comes out of Joe's mouth, discourse is always stimulating and thought provoking.

After an acute lecture on how technology is a good thing and using the word tradition in the wine world is dangerous, he told me I shouldn�t write bad things about the Wine Spectator or Parker. I shouldn�t spank anyone or be the wine cop. I can�t try to save the world. I can�t be a whistle blower. I can�t seek out truth. I need to show the reader how my taste has changed.

He counseled me to write about the wines I used to like but couldn�t tolerate now. What changed in me could be universal. Or, at least he said something like that. Most importantly of all, he said, "We�ve had our differences in the past, but you won't say bad things about me in the book, will you? After all, I am your friend."

Then he circled back to his question: which wines did I like in the past that I wouldn�t allow in my house now? He believes that if I tasted wines I used to like on December 23rd 2005 exactly as they were made back in December 23rd 1980, I wouldn�t be able to drink them.

It was an interesting exercise and I had a hard time coming up with some illustrations. In the late 1980�s I admit to liking barriqued barbera, I thought it gave a carnation quality to the wine. Now, I can't tolerate a barbera that has a hint of new oak. I remember the first time I tasted the Parkerized Baroli--the 1990 vintage shortly after release, the new Barolo that was ready to drink now. I thought they were examples of the Emperor�s new clothes, I couldn�t stand them. Let�s talk zinfandel. I used to drink lots of zinfandel. But as soon as winemaker Helen Turley came on the scene in 1994 and changed the world as we know it by pushing the grape's ripeness---as well as an industry gone oak crazy, I stopped drinking them. I used to like Marietta�s until it became oak jam (note to self: go back and retaste). I liked New World Red from Edmunds St. John and Steve Edmunds wine is still one of the few Californians I can drink.

Well, Joe told me that I was full of crap. Or if not, then I was a superior individual and had a saintly palate. He then confessed how he used to drink tons of Silver Oak. He even used to import wines he thought were great, which were not. He changed. His palate grew. �Come on,� he said, eating the tiniest of scones with one bite, �Tell me the foods you ate back twenty years ago that you wouldn�t eat now? �

I was always someone who loved coffee but if the coffee wasn't drinkable, had tea. If the tea isn�t drinkable I'd take aspirin for the �I need caffeine� headache. And, I popped out of the birth canal liking ketchup on baked potato and I still think of Heinz as its own food group. I still reread the same books I loved in college. I haven�t outgrown my taste in literature. Or, am I just stubborn? Do I grip and clench and refuse to move or grow?

Joe grew frustrated with me. I could tell he needed another scone. Yet, I was on a roll, and wouldn�t let him go up to the counter. I stopped eating Drakes Devil Dogs and American cheese in 1970, not because they changed but I changed. Yes, this is what he was talking about. I changed. Not Drakes. Their formula for making garbage sawdust cake was the same�or was it? Huh. Did they ever make a good devils food-like chocolate cake? What about Entenmanns�s chocolate-covered doughnuts or Stella D'oro's chocolate dot cookies? Did these companies at one point change their recipe? Oddly enough in 1971 I also stopped eating meat, not because the meat changed but I changed, my palate changed. That was a long time ago. It�s just like someone who wakes up one morning suddenly and can�t drink Yellow Tail.

Exactly he said. And we ended the conversation on less prickly terms. But he still told me I was full of crap.

The Devil Dog Defense

I took my friend Joe to Podunk, a stern little tea shop on east fifth street for Esme's special mix; cardamom and black pepper chai tea, which gives a rambunctious yet comforting burn to the back of the throat. This is a caffeinated tea and thus fueled, Joe was compelled to offer advice for my upcoming book (Harcourt, either Summer or Fall 2007).

Though I've told Joe about the book, he doesn't really know how I intend to write it, but that didn�t stop him. I didn''t mind, however, because no matter what comes out of Joe's mouth, discourse is always stimulating and thought provoking.

After an acute lecture on how technology is a good thing and using the word tradition in the wine world is dangerous, he told me I shouldn�t write bad things about the Wine Spectator or Parker. I shouldn�t spank anyone or be the wine cop. I can�t try to save the world. I can�t be a whistle blower. I can�t seek out truth. I need to show the reader how my taste has changed.

He counseled me to write about the wines I used to like but couldn�t tolerate now. What changed in me could be universal. Or, at least he said something like that. Most importantly of all, he said, "We�ve had our differences in the past, but you won't say bad things about me in the book, will you? After all, I am your friend."

Then he circled back to his question: which wines did I like in the past that I wouldn�t allow in my house now? He believes that if I tasted wines I used to like on December 23rd 2005 exactly as they were made back in December 23rd 1980, I wouldn�t be able to drink them.

It was an interesting exercise and I had a hard time coming up with some illustrations. In the late 1980�s I admit to liking barriqued barbera, I thought it gave a carnation quality to the wine. Now, I can't tolerate a barbera that has a hint of new oak. I remember the first time I tasted the Parkerized Baroli--the 1990 vintage shortly after release, the new Barolo that was ready to drink now. I thought they were examples of the Emperor�s new clothes, I couldn�t stand them. Let�s talk zinfandel. I used to drink lots of zinfandel. But as soon as winemaker Helen Turley came on the scene in 1994 and changed the world as we know it by pushing the grape's ripeness---as well as an industry gone oak crazy, I stopped drinking them. I used to like Marietta�s until it became oak jam (note to self: go back and retaste). I liked New World Red from Edmunds St. John and Steve Edmunds wine is still one of the few Californians I can drink.

Well, Joe told me that I was full of crap. Or if not, then I was a superior individual and had a saintly palate. He then confessed how he used to drink tons of Silver Oak. He even used to import wines he thought were great, which were not. He changed. His palate grew. �Come on,� he said, eating the tiniest of scones with one bite, �Tell me the foods you ate back twenty years ago that you wouldn�t eat now? �

I was always someone who loved coffee but if the coffee wasn't drinkable, had tea. If the tea isn�t drinkable I'd take aspirin for the �I need caffeine� headache. And, I popped out of the birth canal liking ketchup on baked potato and I still think of Heinz as its own food group. I still reread the same books I loved in college. I haven�t outgrown my taste in literature. Or, am I just stubborn? Do I grip and clench and refuse to move or grow?

Joe grew frustrated with me. I could tell he needed another scone. Yet, I was on a roll, and wouldn�t let him go up to the counter. I stopped eating Drakes Devil Dogs and American cheese in 1970, not because they changed but I changed. Yes, this is what he was talking about. I changed. Not Drakes. Their formula for making garbage sawdust cake was the same�or was it? Huh. Did they ever make a good devils food-like chocolate cake? What about Entenmanns�s chocolate-covered doughnuts or Stella D'oro's chocolate dot cookies? Did these companies at one point change their recipe? Oddly enough in 1971 I also stopped eating meat, not because the meat changed but I changed, my palate changed. That was a long time ago. It�s just like someone who wakes up one morning suddenly and can�t drink Yellow Tail.

Exactly he said. And we ended the conversation on less prickly terms. But he still told me I was full of crap.

This Week's Crime Report

There is nothing attractive about being the one bitching and moaning, but an article in the November 13th Herald Tribune spun me into apoplexy.

Unusual Varietals for the Wine Cellar, penned by Holly Hubbard Preston was the culprit. The writer really made a mess of the story. In the biggest blunder category was singling out grapes like tempranillo, syrah nebbiolo as �previously obscure, or known as blending grapes.� Well, dear reader, as we all know, these grapes are neither obscure nor primary blenders. Poor Karen McNeil was the wine expert cited for the bulk of this misinformation. Another good boo-boo was declaring tempranillo as the major grape pf Port. That was a good one. There are several grapes allowed in Port, and tinto roriz was the name she was looking for.

So how is it that a presumably skillful journalist (though obviously not in wine) lumps these noble grapes in with something like the true oddball, the Japanese koshu, and advises that collectors start looking at these wines at auction. (Koshu? Is she kidding?)

Yeah. Wine is a fun topic and so a lot of writers like to dip their quills into the beat, but there are many technical aspects and loads of details to take in. Expertise in the field is needed to get the facts straight. Which brings me to Jeremy Oliver, an Australian wine writer who received the "Wine Writer of the Year, 2005" from the Australian Wine Selector Magazine.

I vaguely know Oliver's name. Fortunately for him his name bears a strong similarity to a certain London chef named Jamie. The Australian Wine Annual 2006 came unbidden in the mail. And like Ms. Holly's article, I sat up, steam streaming from my nose, causing me to repeatedly grunt in disquiet. Up front in the book (p.5) he froths forth a discourse on Technology in Wine. He writes " We are becoming besotted with the notion that wine must be biodynamically grown, made in small batches by hands and feet..."Provided it doesn't involve the addition of anything illegal or harmful, I am in favour of using whatever techniques are legally permissible to make a wine better, at whatever price it might be intended to sell." Probably the wildest sentence was "Take technology and interference away from wine and you get vinegar."

In this case, I've been drinking some very, very pretty vinegar these days. For example, have you had the Olivier Cousin "Pur Breton?" How about Philippe Pacalet's Pommard? Oh, well. He's in Australia. I will forgive him. I have a feeling natural wines there are considered illegal.

This Week's Crime Report

There is nothing attractive about being the one bitching and moaning, but an article in the November 13th Herald Tribune spun me into apoplexy.

Unusual Varietals for the Wine Cellar, penned by Holly Hubbard Preston was the culprit. The writer really made a mess of the story. In the biggest blunder category was singling out grapes like tempranillo, syrah nebbiolo as �previously obscure, or known as blending grapes.� Well, dear reader, as we all know, these grapes are neither obscure nor primary blenders. Poor Karen McNeil was the wine expert cited for the bulk of this misinformation. Another good boo-boo was declaring tempranillo as the major grape pf Port. That was a good one. There are several grapes allowed in Port, and tinto roriz was the name she was looking for.

So how is it that a presumably skillful journalist (though obviously not in wine) lumps these noble grapes in with something like the true oddball, the Japanese koshu, and advises that collectors start looking at these wines at auction. (Koshu? Is she kidding?)

Yeah. Wine is a fun topic and so a lot of writers like to dip their quills into the beat, but there are many technical aspects and loads of details to take in. Expertise in the field is needed to get the facts straight. Which brings me to Jeremy Oliver, an Australian wine writer who received the "Wine Writer of the Year, 2005" from the Australian Wine Selector Magazine.

I vaguely know Oliver's name. Fortunately for him his name bears a strong similarity to a certain London chef named Jamie. The Australian Wine Annual 2006 came unbidden in the mail. And like Ms. Holly's article, I sat up, steam streaming from my nose, causing me to repeatedly grunt in disquiet. Up front in the book (p.5) he froths forth a discourse on Technology in Wine. He writes " We are becoming besotted with the notion that wine must be biodynamically grown, made in small batches by hands and feet..."Provided it doesn't involve the addition of anything illegal or harmful, I am in favour of using whatever techniques are legally permissible to make a wine better, at whatever price it might be intended to sell." Probably the wildest sentence was "Take technology and interference away from wine and you get vinegar."

In this case, I've been drinking some very, very pretty vinegar these days. For example, have you had the Olivier Cousin "Pur Breton?" How about Philippe Pacalet's Pommard? Oh, well. He's in Australia. I will forgive him. I have a feeling natural wines there are considered illegal.

Andre Rampon Rgni

The top three Gamays in the All Gamay tasting gave the Coudert (about $20) and two non Beaujolais (Cousin Anjou and the Souteronne from Herve Souhaut) as the top winners. But another wine that slipped into top honors, is a lovely bargain--the 2002 Rgni from ANDRE RAMPON (about $15).

In a blind tasting the powerful wines stand out as the 'best' and something this pretty can be overlooked. But this is a very sophisticated little wine with pure, delicate rose aroma and a mix of great minerality and a touch of animal power.

The All Gamay All the Time Tasting

I love gamay. I don't know if it came on me late in life or was an early love, but all of the sudden it was there, the grape I could drink every night and not get tired of. Realizing there are plenty of people in the world who don't "get" the grape, (thanks to oceans of bad, bad, bad beaujolais--nouveau and others) I decided to wage a war, one drinker at a time.

We had fifteen people to fourteen bottles and we tasted them blind.Only one, Frits,
copped to liking the grape. Frits saw that there was a Georges DuBouef on the list, "This is a great wine," he said about the 2005 nouveau. I kept my mouth shut. i couldn't wait to see if Frits could pick it out.

When he hit #3, he declared the wine "weird" and then he second thought himself, "disgusting," was what he finally decided as the descriptor. In the end he thought that the nouveau was either #3 or #13. #3 was the Dubouef
and #13 was one of the god's of the beaujolais, Lapierre ($19).

I snuck in two gamays from other regions, Olivier Cousin's from Anjou ($15) and the La Souteronne from Herv Souhaut up in the northern part of the Ardeche ($14) a region I call the Catskills of the Rhone. Here's where it gets exciting. At least for me. This was an incredible lesson on terroir and it was easy to identify these wines. The Ardeche had profound aroma of ink and flowers and a touch of animal-like syrah. The gamay from Anjou had a meat and raspberries quality. While it didn't rate in the top three with my guests, it did with me.

The top wine --bar non--was the Cuve Tardive, Clos de La Roilette, Fleurie 2004 ($19). Followed by the two aforementioned non-Beaujolais gamay.

But according to my notes, #10--one of my all-time favorite wines, the Claude Devignes Morgon, Cote de Py: "an important wine, young, yet expressive and tight. Keep for the long term." At $19, it is too expensive but so is everything these days. I'll buy more.

The All Gamay All the Time Tasting

I love gamay. I don't know if it came on me late in life or was an early love, but all of the sudden it was there, the grape I could drink every night and not get tired of. Realizing there are plenty of people in the world who don't "get" the grape, (thanks to oceans of bad, bad, bad beaujolais--nouveau and others) I decided to wage a war, one drinker at a time.

We had fifteen people to fourteen bottles and we tasted them blind.Only one, Frits,
copped to liking the grape. Frits saw that there was a Georges DuBouef on the list, "This is a great wine," he said about the 2005 nouveau. I kept my mouth shut. i couldn't wait to see if Frits could pick it out.

When he hit #3, he declared the wine "weird" and then he second thought himself, "disgusting," was what he finally decided as the descriptor. In the end he thought that the nouveau was either #3 or #13. #3 was the Dubouef
and #13 was one of the god's of the beaujolais, Lapierre ($19).

I snuck in two gamays from other regions, Olivier Cousin's from Anjou ($15) and the La Souteronne from Herv Souhaut up in the northern part of the Ardeche ($14) a region I call the Catskills of the Rhone. Here's where it gets exciting. At least for me. This was an incredible lesson on terroir and it was easy to identify these wines. The Ardeche had profound aroma of ink and flowers and a touch of animal-like syrah. The gamay from Anjou had a meat and raspberries quality. While it didn't rate in the top three with my guests, it did with me.

The top wine --bar non--was the Cuve Tardive, Clos de La Roilette, Fleurie 2004 ($19). Followed by the two aforementioned non-Beaujolais gamay.

But according to my notes, #10--one of my all-time favorite wines, the Claude Devignes Morgon, Cote de Py: "an important wine, young, yet expressive and tight. Keep for the long term." At $19, it is too expensive but so is everything these days. I'll buy more.

Some Links To Time Magazines Artcles

http://www.time.com/time/archive/preview/0,10987,993952,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1124303,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html

http://www.time.com/time/generations/article/0,9171,1101324,00.html