Monday, May 14, 2007

Smells like teen Nebby

Revisiting Piedmontese wine is like popping in an old CD of some incredible musician you've forgotten about and saying to yourself: maaaan, this is a-freaking-mazing! Why do I even listen to all that other shite? Like, say you've been tripping on the Raconteurs for weeks now, then you get bored, dig up your Ella Fitzgerald and swoon with reverence. That's what it's like for me.

Listen to me people: put down the big, phat-ass Cab for just half a sec and put your nose in some Nebbiolo. This is the kind of wine that, when crafted by someone who knows the patience it takes to make it, is positively erotic. And that's even before you've had a sip. We're talking aromatics that will make your knees buckle.

My favorite not-yet-a-wine-bar, VinoVino of Austin, hosted an Italian wine tasting Friday that showcased a few of my faves: Inama (Soave Classico and that good, stinky Sauv Blanc), Boroli (well priced Dolcetto and Barolo) and most fabulously, the magnificent Marchesi di Gresy. So I'm there with my buddy Mark and we're shoveling blobs of garlicky white bean paste on crostata in our mouths, waiting for the di Gresy table to reopen. "God, I wish the guy would hurry up," I whined. "I can't wait to try those Barbarescos."

My ex-husband, Jerry (God love him) feigned bar wiping and whispered to me: "Just so you know, Alberto di Gresy is manning his own table, and he's right there behind you."

Damn. Needing a moment, I shoveled bean paste into my idiot hole. Mr. di Gresy smiled over his coffee and winked, said he'd be over there right away for me.

Mr. di Gresy poured us some Dolcetto first: the 2005 Monte Aribaldo. I found it to be one of the nicest I've ever had. Sometimes they can have a rough edge to their acidity to me, but this one was light, bright and soft, with deep color and a tannin structure screaming for food. "Okay, this wine is my new girlfriend," said Mark, but the best was yet to be had.

My new girlfriend was the first of three Barbarescos: the 2003 Martinenga. Oh...oh, yes...hell yeah! Such a sexy nose, wafting the perfume of spice, tobacco, anise and violets such that the world melts away...

Oh, what? I'm all overboard? You try this stunning beauty for yourself and you'll see. And yes, it's probably pricey. But this is the kind of wine that delivers allllll the bang for your many bucks. It won't even occur to you to actually drink the wine until someone points out you've been huffing it like a teenage paint thinner freak for half an hour now.

The second Barbaresco was from a specific vineyard in Martinenga (link to photos and info, check it out) , the 2000 Martinenga Gaiun Barbaresco. While we enjoyed this more subdued, older beauty, His Di Gresy-ness pointed to two hills on which his vineyards grew and explained that one must always remember that the best quality Nebbiolo grows "over the tits", meaning on top of each of the hills. This is because the rainfall can collect "between the tits" and over-saturates the vines, causing flavor and color to be less intense (and yes, he apologized for this analogy to me, being the only female in the listening group, but there was no need).

The third, another single vineyard wine: 2000 Camp Gros...alls I know is I wrote the following about it in my book: OMFJG!!!

Well, at least I know what that was supposed to mean.

The pic above (taken by Mark...ta, love!) is of Alberto di Gresy (who appears to be making fun of Mark's shoes), Claudia Alarcon (freelance foodwriter buddy) and myself. I cannot possibly meet enough dashing Italian winemakers, so if you are one, please drop me a line and invite me to your 400 year old estate in the hills.


Saturday, May 05, 2007

A lesson in flaws

Why is it that wine brings out the snotty stepchild in people? Oh, I'm totally including myself in that category.

So on a recent trip to Phoenix I spent an evening with friends at Postino Wine Cafe and was given an ironic taste of my own medicine regarding the act of sending flawed wine back. I ordered a glass of Verget GSM. It came to the table smelling like a cardboard box soaked in clorox, and that of course, is not fun. I am particularly sensitive to the smell of TCA ("corked wine") ever since that class back in Napa where we all had to stick our noses into a glass of pure extract of this shit. Maybe I'm oversensitive, I dunno, but I can't drink the wine if it's there. I tried to suffer through it anyways because I didn't want to be that customer, nor did I want to appear like a big fat snob in front of my friends. But I look over at the two of them, enjoying the wine they chose, and I decided that all I had to do was be polite about it, send it back, and I could be enjoying my wine too.

I'm hesitant to mention that our service at Postino had already kinda sucked, having been ignored completely simply because we were talking to another couple of people who'd come by to say hello ("I'm sure your server didn't want to bother you while you socialized," says the girl I flagged down. Uh, darlink---I can talk and drink at the same time. It's kinda the point. And even if that were the case, it was not well supported after I'd gone to the restroom to find my server sitting on a stool yicky-yacking with another guy. Okay, I'm not hesistant at all to mention this). But when I politely asked that the bartender check my wine to confirm it was corked, I got this, with a snotty smirk: "Would you just like me to bring you another kind of wine?"

What occurred to me even before any retort was the revelation that I, as a bartender, had done this exact thing before. See, the term 'corked' is often used by the uneducated to switch to another wine when they just don't like what they chose. They've heard the term, and they know it has some legitimate meaning, and can use it to avoid embarrassment. I know this because when someone tells me "I think my wine is corked", the first thing I do after taking it away is to check it. It's usually fine. But I have, more than once, said afterwards: "Here's something you'll like better, sir."

I had now found myself on the other end of this, only (dammit) the wine really was corked. And I really was irritated. There's no way to say: "no, really, the wine's corked" without looking like an asshole. So rather than cause a fuss and ask that another bottle of the same wine be opened, I switched to something else.

All was well until the server came back and said: "So do you like this wine okay?"

"I liked the other wine just fine, except that it was corked," I said through my teeth. I wanted to say: I've had Verget before, I love Verget, and I totally know my shit, and you're a jerk!"

But then I would have been the jerk. So I said yes, thank you.

Wine knowledge is something people attach directly to their egos. Just like any other geeky knowledge base, it's something we're extremely proud of, regardless of our level of expertise. We perceive that it separates us from the teeming masses somehow, and if we are servers of wine, it is what raises us above the level of the frat boys who sling drinks at the pick-up bar down the street. Wine is an exalted beverage; to display our knowledge is to claim membership in the elite and be admired by our less informed peers.

This, of course, is a great pile of steaming horseshit, but the cause of both my arrogance and that of the server who smirked at me.

So here's my proposition:

1) If you go to a restaurant or bar and you don't like the wine you've chosen, just bite it and say so. You do NOT have to suffer through something you don't enjoy. But please, don't pull out the 'corked' card unless the wine's truly flawed. Because if it is, the server needs to examine that bottle and toss it.

2) If you're a server at a wine bar, get over yourself. I do what you do, and if I can step back from my silliness in order to be gracious, so should you. If a person says their wine is corked, then assume it is and offer to open another bottle. If they say no and want to try something else, then smile and bring them something else. Don't assume they don't know what they're talking about, because they actually might.

P.S. I should mention, now that I've been so honest about my disappointment with Postino, that it's a really lovely place. Their list is varied and interesting, and the food is excellent. The atmosphere is excellent---warm and open, comfortable and cleverly decorated. I'd just like to see the servers take an arrogance management seminar.