Adieu

To all my friends in the wine industry, my sincere apologies, but I am no longer a wine writer. I've gone over to the 'dark side', and am now a sales rep for a wine distributor. I won't tell you which one or where, but there it is.

Ernest Hemingway, known to wine lovers for his singular take on white Bordeaux, oysters and sausage, once said that journalism is a good learning ground for writers, but best to get out as quickly as possible. Though I'm not a huge Hemingway fan (actually I'm quite short), I take his comment to heart. Journalism teaches you two very positive things; deadline, and column inches. Get it in on time, and at the right length. Editors hate writers who miss deadlines, and are especially perturbed by too lengthy or too short submissions (basically editors are lazy assholes). Journalism teaches the writer discipline.

But in part because of those two positives, many negatives emerge. A writer on deadline can never truly think through any piece of writing. And confined to concrete space limitations, the journalist cannot 'stretch out', but must instead rely heavily on cliches and terseness. Creativity? Pah!

So I bid a fond farewell to the world of journalism and sadly to the numerous friends (and yes, enemies) I have made in the Northwest wine industry. But I am back where I belong; in the Land of Fiction. Where I don't have to 'engage the reader in the first graph', or stop and explain every time I mention a grape, region, or French term. Where people can be refered to by nicknames, and no one, 'goes missing'. Where you can use 40 words where one would suffice, or employ outrageous metaphors that everyone nonetheless understands. Where obscure references are not challenged (or more likely, crossed out), and editors are...o well, still assholes.

So, adieu, and keep drinking good Oregon and Washington wines. I will.

Rosé Claire

Unbelievable. I am tasting (as we speak) a Spudders Crest, 2003 Rosé Claire, and it is fantastic. A 7-year-old rosé? Still fresh? Still tasty? No way, you're crying. I'm with you...except, it's true.

So where can I buy this awesome, incredible, death-defying wine? Sorry, dudes and dudettes, you can't.

Turns out, my ole buddy and partner in crime, DeWayne-O, had stashed away this wine we made, lo so many years ago, and not himself being much of a rosé drinker, had forgotten about. Until a night when the Ducks came from behind and kicked butt over Stanford (sorry, Mary). DeWayne-O, having recently discovered, or uncovered, this rosé, poured me some, and...yowser, great stuff.

2003 was, as you may well remember (especially in contradistinction to this year -2010), a very warm year, and we made some very good Pinot Noir from Sunnyside Vineyards. In doing so, I had taken off enough juice to make 6 gallons of rosé. Not a lot, especially when split between 3 partners. I think my stash was gone before vintage '04 was even ripe. But DeWayne-O, as mentioned, is not much into rosé, and he pretty much buried and forgot his allotment. Until now.

Being myself a rosé fan (why else would I make it?), I have done extensive tastings and it's almost universally true that rosés simply do not age well. At most 3 years from vintage. That's why it's so amazing to taste a 7-year-old rosé that's fantastic. Made even more fantastic that we made it.

As it is, looking at grapes fighting for maturity right now, I might be making a lot of rosé this year. And if it's this good, why not.

It's Been a Long, Long Time

Today: 2007 Oregon Pinots Noir...at least, it seems like there're 2,007 of them.

Wait, no, I mean the year 2007, y'know, that wimpy, weenie vintage that everyone in the world hates. Except of course, Oregon wine makers. For them, it's simply a misunderstood year. 'So, we had a little cold and rain right down there at the end, y'know, like harvesting into late October. And then, so what if we only got to maybe 21.5 brix, come on, that's close enough. What's a bric or so among friends? Besides, one person's wimpy and weenie Pinot is another's subtle, delicate wine.'

Well, along with Judy Collins, I can see both sides now. 'National' wine writers (the only two left standing after the current newspaper/magazine meltdown), are far too used to 'big' muscle wines (I'm talking to you, California!), and no way are they buying into this 'subtle and delicate' business. Sure, they wet their pants with joy over Oregon in years like '03 and '04, but 'light' vintages like '07, Oregon becomes a punching bag.

On the other side, '07 really is -sorry- a wimpy year.

I recently was present for a tasting of 18 Oregon Pinots from that vintage, and while there were some pretty ones, and the occasional deep and intense wine, by and large the lightness of the vintage only empahsized singularity, a lack of complexity -i.e. simplicity.

But let's pick out some of the goodies; Evening Land, a newish Oregon winery (# 2,005, I believe), was among the most aromatic, with good plum and Bing cherry flavors. A nice straight-forward Pinot, and only, if I read this right about $87 a bottle.

The Dominio IV was the big, fat luscious crowd pleaser. I don't necessarily mean that in a good way. Too much new oak, but, you could argue the acidity and slight herbal notes balance it out. In any case, if those last two national wine writers ever get ahold of this, they might gush. And at $32 -a steal!

Ken Wright Carter Vineyard was also quite rich (and we all know why -har, har), with pretty, straight-ahead cherry flavors, more on the Smith's Cough Drop side. But tasty. And at only $60, hey, who needs cough drops.

Finally, my favorite, and it almost always is; Cristom, Marjorie Vineyard. While a nod to the vintage, with a lean, tight structure, this one just oozes lovely Pinot Noir fruit. I don't know how Doerner does it, but keep it coming. I think we're still in the $40 range here.

Subtext: In a year like '07, where everyone knows even the best wines are going to be on the lighter, more simple side, wouldn't it be prudent to LOWER PRICES! Maybe then, someone would actually buy them. For example, Ken Wright's wines almost never make it to the grocery store shelf, and yet I can walk into Freddies today and buy Carter Vineyard. Shouldn't he slash prices?

No. The problem is, we're in a recession, duh. If Ken Wright drops his price to, say, the far more reasonable $45, next year (when we're definitely going to be out this recession -we are, aren't we?), all his newfound customers will demand his wines at $45. And what about all his clients who have already paid full price? Wo, talk about PO'd.

Some producers work around this cash flow problem not by dropping prices, but by funneling a large amount of their wines into a second, or even third label, selling at much cheaper prices. Par example, with every recession, Beaux Freres suddenly comes out with a $15 wine under some pseudonymous lable. O yeah, Mike still has his big guns at $65; but, man, gotta have cash flow.

So, you're not going to see much in the way of bargains.

And now, I know you're all dying to know how my own 2007 Pinots turned out (thanks for asking, you're so kind). Well, my Spudders Crest Estate wine is so wimpy -wait, elegant, subtle- I use it for bathing the dog. I harvested on October 10th, and got the required briccage of 21.5, added sugar, and still got a weenie wine. The dog likes it.

However, after that tasting of '07s, I went home and popped a bottle of our '07 Sunnyside Vineyard and y'know what? It was awesome. I should've put it in the tasting. I can't find my notes for that year, but I think Luci harvested around October 15, and yeah, we only got around 22 brix, but we got some great aromas, good stuffing, nice acidity. I'd put this right behind that Cristom, whose wine maker, Steve Doerner, is my guru.

Okay, one final note (it's been a long time!), the last wine in our tasting had the most bizarre aroma any one of us (more than a dozen) had ever sniffed. Usually we're kinda quiet when tasting, but everyone was practically shouting, "My god, that's not like any Pinot I ever smelled. What is that weird aroma?"

Well, in my notes, I'd written down 'jalapeno.' And even I didn't get my own wordplay until I said it out loud, "It's jalapinot!"

Hark! The Herald Dylan Sings

Christmas in the Heart

By Bob Dylan


Clue #1: Clipart cover, showing a horse-drawn sleigh.

Clue #2: Once getting the damn CD case open, the first thing to greet your eyes is bosomy pin-up girl Bettie Page, done up in naughty-girl Christmas lingerie.

Clue # 3: The album starts with jingle bells and a ‘50s style chorus humming. Then the man himself starts to warble (or is it wobble?) ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’. Yes, Bob Dylan has indeed recorded a Christmas album, and it feels like it fell right out of a late 1950s Christmas stocking.

“Christmas in the Heart” is Dylan’s light romp through 15 Christmas nuggets (couldn’t he have written at least one newbie?). And while it will certainly put a smile on your face, it may also leave you wondering; Is this a joke? Dylan’s attempt at sounding like Andy Williams? Or some kind of corny nostalgia?

Produced by Dylan (aka Jack Frost) the arrangements, with one notable exception, are utterly –if not miserably- conventional, circa 1959. It’s as if he had knocked Connie Francis off her stool, and took over behind the microphone for this recording session. The simpy chorus, chimes, bells, strings, all working across an o-so-standard Christmas oeuvre (no, please, not ‘Little Drummer Boy!’). Occasionally a slide guitar, or fiddle sparkles, but by and large, Christmas cookie-cutter stuff.

The exception comes by way of a lively zydeco take on ‘Must be Santa,’ a wonderful ode to the polka roots of the song. And it gives the album its one real juicy bounce.

And yet, the remaining songs are far from dull. It’s just a little weird to hear Dylan singing ‘Adeste Fideles.’

Sometimes he sounds a little too stodgy, almost self-righteous, on songs like ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing,’ and ‘The First Noel.’ But on most tunes, he’s loose and personal, in particular ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, ‘Christmas Island’, and ‘Winter Wonderland’. And his growl is perfect for the Dean Martin vehicle, ‘The Christmas Blues.’

And by time Dylan gets to ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire,’ we’re convinced he really does fancy himself a crooner.

Crooner? With that voice? Croaking, bucket-of-gravel, straining, nasal, weird phrasing. And when he sustains a note, especially in the (relatively) upper range, it’s like he’s trying to hold a blob of jello in his fist, and it keeps jiggling through his fingers. Typical Dylan of the last ten years -you can’t listen to him without wanting to clear your throat.

It reminds me of the (apocryphal) story circulating of Dylan playing guitar and singing for one of his grandchildren’s kindergarten classes, and being asked by parents to stop it, because he was scaring the kids.

“Christmas in the Heart” is definitely not scary. It’s a pretty, simple, standard set of obvious Christmas tunes, sung by a crusty old folkie. And amazingly, it works, in a time-warp, where’d that come from, sort of way.

Is it a joke? If so, Dylan plays it straight-faced, and with absolutely no sense of irony (or, is that the ironic part?). Who knows, maybe he is nostalgic. If not, as Joan Baez says, ‘give me another word for it.’

Might not be the kind of thing you want to listen to over and over again, but us diehard Dylan fans will welcome it into our collection. In any case, there’s an antidote. After a couple times through, put on Andy Williams’ Christmas album, or Connie Francis’.

They still put a smile on my face.

No Paycheck, No Wine

Despite what Bernanke says, we’re still in a recession, folks. Lookit me, still out of work. Soup-line Mayfield, they call me.

Yes, us wine writers have been forced to scavenge among the blogger’s discount racks, relying on our feral wits, our savage cunning, and slender pocketbooks. That’s why I go shopping at Whole Paycheck. Ha, ha, no really, even the most pricey of stores has some bargains to offer.

Observe the Cameron, 2008 Cameroni Delle Colline Rosse Giovanni Vigna Pinot Bianco, $10, a delicious, refreshing, crisp white wine. I’m not a betting man, but I could swear I taste (and smell!) some Muscat in here. Okay, actually I’m cheating, I happen to know that in previous years, John Paul has put a small percentage of Muscat in his Pinot Bianco to bring up the flavors, and tweak the aromas. We’ll assume that’s the case here. And at $10? Throw all the Muscat you want in it.

Patty Green is doing the Bernanke Shuffle as well, releasing the Dollar Bills Only, 2008 Oregon Sauvignon Blanc, $10. This puppy’s got plenty of SOB tang, acidity, but weirdly, it’s also a fairly rich wine, body-wise. Flavors are a bit muddled, some citrus, melon, pear, and, hey, it may sound like I’m dissing the wine, but no way. Very tasty, just not classic (Loire, NZ) Sauv B., and certainly without the aggressive grassiness of Willamette Valley fruit. In fact, note the ‘Oregon’ designation, maybe the grapes come from somewhere warmer. Like Roseburg? Applegate? Could be.

All well and good, Monsieur Blog Dawg, you say, but what about red wine? What about Pinot Noir, eh? Well, hang in there, Pierre, or should I say Gunther, and check out the Two Worlds, NV Bi-Continental Pinot Noir, $15. Germany’s Dr. Loosen and Oregon’s J. Christopher got together for this mash-up.

Typically, I would say, a German Pinot Noir is going to be fairly lean and spicy, while Oregon Pinot Noir is more opulent, lush. What happens when you slam the two together?

Well, in this case the result is a lean, spicy, wine with bright acidity. My first guess was, it’s dominated by German fruit. I don’t get the luscious cherry, plum flavors of Oregon. And that’s fine. If I’m sitting on Frankfurt’s Romer Platz, this is a perfectly representative Pinot. Downtown McMinnville? Not so much.

It was only after this consideration that I examined the label and found the blend is 90% German, 10% Oregon. Okay, that explains that.

Now excuse me, while I go dumpster diving for some Bratwursts to match with this wine.

Scrubs

A white coyote lopes by. A scrub jay squawks and zips out of the hazelnut tree. A couple tiny finches alight upon a branch of the Asian pear tree, but the two of them together are so gravity-challenged, they barely set the branch to jouncing. A rabbit scampers into the vineyard. Then scampers back out. A robin pokes its beak into the ground. Missing the worm. The scrub jay swoops back into the hazelnut tree.

Ah, September on Spudders Crest. The waning days of summer, closing in on Autumn. Quiet days filled with nature’s wonders, the serenity punctuated only by a maniac sprinting across the yard, shouting and clapping his hands together furiously. The maniac? That would be me. Chasing off that scrub jay. Little bastard.

Time to drag out the talk radio.

I have no idea what is up with scrub (and occasionally the ill-named stellar) jays, but they like to steal my nuts. There’s a lone hazelnut tree in our backyard, visible from my upstairs window, and for some peculiar reason, just as the nuts are about ripe, jays swoop into the tree, steal a pair of nuts (hazelnuts most often come in pairs), fly up into the huge maple tree, and realizing there’s nothing else to do with the nuts, drop them. And then bitter gall, they return to steal more nuts.

I just don’t understand. It took me a while to even realize what was going on. Our first couple years on Spudders Crest, we got very few hazelnuts. I just thought, o well, tough luck. Then one year I noticed them, jays, stealing the nuts. Beatrice informed me, at the base of the maple tree, where she often played, were dozens of scattered hazelnuts. Unripe.

So whenever a jay swooped into our tree, I banged pie tins, clapped hands, screamed, and threw Asian pears at them. Which is not a good idea, as throwing pears just knocks off more nuts.

And then last year, as I realized that shouting was a sufficient deterrent, it occurred to me, I could put a radio beneath the tree, crank it up really loud, scare off the bastards. My first experiment failed, as I tuned the radio to KMHD, jazz. Except for the occasional squalling sax solo, the jays were unperturbed. So then I tried ESPN –sports talk radio. That did the trick. Especially early in the morning, with Colin Cowherd. He scares the bejeebers out of jays. They sit quivering in the maple tree, shielding their beady little eyes behind a wing. The bunch of bozos that follow Cowherd are all full of noise and fury, signifying nothing. And the jays hate them.

Dan Patrick, on the other hand, just bores them to death. I saw one literally fall out of the tree in a stone cold trance.

There is one ill side effect to this cure –I have to listen to that shit all day. I never realized Western Civilization was in such jeopardy until I was forced to listen to this trash. Whining, squawking, bitching, haranguing, boasting, fulminating -all in the name of sports?! You can hear the minds of testosterone charged males all over America turning to mush.

The two local goons who finish off the day are appropriately loathsome, but it’s Cowherd who remains the pinnacle of madness. Which is fine, because he comes on in the morning when the jays, after a couple cups of espresso, are at their most active and annoying. They come swooping down at the hazelnut tree, and Cowherd barks out one of his moronic sputters, and like hitting Sue Storm’s invisible shield, they bounce off and fly away.

All the while, I suffer in silence. Hour after hour, day after day, praying and hoping that the hazelnuts will hurry up and ripen, so I can turn off the radio.

Relax. And wait for the starlings to dip into my vineyard. Little bastards.

It's Not the Heat, It's the Humility

I was frying an egg on my coconut the other day, weighing my options; over-easy, or sunny side up?

Thanks to a persistent Hungarian heritage, my flat skillet head makes such breakfast choices possible. Though, this was late-afternoon, with temps hitting 99 degrees. Not exactly bacon and eggs time.

However, the BTUs emanating from my stove-pipe were less from the scorching heat than the assault on my palate from an over-oaked Chardonnay, a wine I was sipping in hopes of cooling down the system. But, chard-no-way.

I will neither insult nor flatter the producer of this atrocity by divulging its name, but only say it hails from a state known for over-oaked Chardonnays (rhymes with ‘shall-I-mourn-ya’).

So, there I was, egg on my face, fuming, when I realized I had the means, within reach, to thermo-regulate; in the person of Kramer Vineyards, 2006 Dijon Clone Chardonnay, $16. What a delightful rebound. As with vintages past, I pretend to detect a bit of Chassagne-Montrachet in this wine. That is to say, light and lean texture, with lemon, green apple, and pine nut flavors. And yes, okay, there’s some spicy oak, but restrained. In comparison, anyway.

Compared to what? Well, Les McCann, try to make it real with the Chateau St. Jean, 2007 Belle Terre Vineyard Chardonnay, $25. After picking the splinters from my tongue, I scribbled notes of butterscotch and caramel (New Oak!). But once you wiggle your sensory percepts between the shards of wood, you will find some elegance in texture, and pretty citrus notes. Nice stuff.

Speaking of white Burgundy (Chassagne-Montrachet), longtime readers of this blog (hahahaha) will remember (keep scrolling down, Baby!), that I often extol the virtues of Saint-Aubin, great wines at (relatively) low prices. And the Louis Jadot, 2005 St. Aubin, $40 is exceptional. Note the vintage. From most any other wine region, a Chardonnay of this age would be on the slippery slope downhill, if not already toast. But, dude, this is Burgundy, and the wine is just coming into its prime. Big, rich, yet austere and elegant. Brr. Gun. Dee.

While we can stand in awe of the above wines, let us admit, they’re high-falutin’, with higher falutin’ price tags. What if yr just hanging out, chillin’ with yr home skillet? Take a step down to a nice, simple refreshing wine, the Cupcake, 2008 Yakima Valley Riesling, $14. Nothing to ponder over, no lofty exaltations, just a nice humble wine. It’s the perfect expression of Washington fruit, more apple than apricot, more rich than lean, and plenty tasty. Chill.

And as for those 99 degree temps? Well, vanished, vamoosed, gone. Which means, the yolk is on me.