The level of alcohol consumption chez scully rocketed over the past two weeks, when I received an unexpected house-guest/Best Man from London, and also unexpectedly turned thirty years old. Californian beers are pretty special, and one of my favourites is the Davis local brew, Sudwerk Märzen. Underneath the sink many empty bottles attest to our late-night hanging-out, which resulted in watching lots of films such as Rocky III or Revenge of the Sith and subsequently getting online, BUI (Blogging Under the Influence). Bacchus strikes again, or was it BA Baracas? Last Friday, though, we took a far more civilized approach to the Bacchinalean tradition. My wife, my friend, my mother-in-law and myself deove up into the wine country of Sonoma County, in glorious sunshine through one of the most beautiful regions of America. A far cry from the flatlands of Yolo County, we were transported into an echo of Tuscany - but with SUVs instead of mopeds. I had been wine-tasting before, but I am hardly a connoisseur, and like most others who take the day-trip to the vines, I left telling myself that I would make an effort to develop my pallatte. But first I need to learn how to spell it. We first visited Hop Kiln, a great little winery situated in an old converted hops barn. Having previously told me he didn't like white wine, and loved a nice meaty red, R was so impressed he bought a bottle of the 2005 Thousand Flowers, a white blend that was, I think, pretty fruity (though my vinocabulary is limited to 'it was nice' and 'mmm, fruity'). Hop Kiln, as do many wineries, also sold a range of seriously delicious flavoured mustards, such as Zinfandel and Garlic, or Tropical Mango. More wine-buying and tasting followed at the Mazzoco, Dry Creek and Quivira wineries, and though I took notes on each wine I sampled, I admit I was really just copying what I overheard. Was the Quivira 2002 Zin really 'chocolatey'? I haven't the foggiest idea. Following a brief visit to the spectacularly Italianate Ferrari-Carrano winery, we ambled down to Healdsburg, and dined at the Bear Republic brewpub. Ah, much more common ground: micro-brewed local beers, cold and fresh, and even 'mmm fruity'. I tried a 2006 Hefe Weizen, good nose, light on the tongue, great with chicken, while R tried the Racer 5, which I think he quite liked. He didn't spit any out, at any rate. Oh yes, though in the vinyards we may be lost for original thoughts, but in some fields we are true connoisseurs.
Week Twenty: Forgive me, I have Zinned
16.2.06 23:45
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(17.2.06 00:22) Just as there are only seven basic narrative plots, down to which all plots can be boiled, so there are only three fundamental 'tastes' of wine: fruity, chocolatey, and Bulgarian. All other description is just an attempt to avoid repeating oneself, so I wouldn't worry when your friends start wiffling about 'cherrystone' this and 'barnyard' the other. |
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(20.2.06 11:56) That crazy old woman from Food & Drink was prone to saying that you could taste the soil in certain wines, or that they had a hint of bacon. Personally, I think that she'd got drunk before the show (a woman that doesn't spit, perhaps?), stuffed down a BLT and lolled about in the mud with her mouth open. As a result she had bacon scraps and filth between her teeth and as she was still pissed, actually believed that everything she was drinking did indeed taste of said sustances. |
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(20.2.06 20:14) Ah, it is impossible when going wine-tasting to escape the image of that curly-haired alky Jilly (or is it Gilly?) Goulden, flirting outrageously with the overweight and embarassed chefs, before spitting or vomiting into the slop buckets, that's how sunday afternoons used to be. That and Antiques Roadshow, where people would fake pleasure at being told their ancient great-grandfather's clock was worth a hundred quid, and not a thousand. I don't miss those Sundays. |
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