Simple sparkling wine advice: drink more, worry less

It's never too early for bubbly

This week every wine writer in the world is advising you on sparkling wines -- top Champagnes, best values, offbeat oddities, safe choices.

I'm going to take a different, more straightforward approach.

Good sparkling wine costs more than good still wine because it requires more effort. The wine is fermented twice; once in a tank or barrel, and again in the bottle to produce the bubbles.

So unlike still wine, which Fred Franzia proved can sometimes be produced drinkably for as little as $2 a bottle, there's a lower limit to how much you can pay for bubbly and not expect to get swill.

What is that lower limit? About $10 for Prosecco, which is made more cheaply -- essentially carbonated like soda pop -- and about $15 for everything else.

So that's my simple advice: Spend at least that much.

If you think you don't like sparkling wine -- or you think it gives you a headache -- you almost certainly have only been drinking the cheap stuff. I can't count the number of people for whom I've had the pleasure to pour their first glass of good sparkling wine. It's a mind-opening experience; bubbly really does make life better.

But you don't have to spend $200 on a bottle of Cristal to experience this (although Cristal really is delicious).

However, you do have to resign yourself to spending $15 a bottle (nothing against Prosecco, which is a fun wine, but it is to good sparkling wine what Velveeta is to cheddar.)

I have in the past recommended specific bottles -- I had an article on this topic in Decanter this year* -- and every other wine writer in the world is doing just that. But having recently seen grocery stores full of Cook's and Andre and Asti Spumante, I think it's less important to send people on a single-bottle hunt, and more important to stress the basics.

(*Decanter keeps ratings behind a pay wall, but I will reveal that I recommended 2 Schramsbergs, 2 Gloria Ferrers, a J and a Roederer Estate.)

So spend at least $15; $20-$25 is better still.

I would buy, literally, any Champagne and not worry about it. Seriously. If it's actually from France's Champagne region, give it a shot. I'm saying this because I asked myself this question: Would I rather order a glass of my least-favorite Champagne brand, or a glass of a recommended Cava or Prosecco? For me, it's the former.

Or I would buy any of these fine American brands:

Argyle
Domaine Carneros
Gloria Ferrer
Gruet
J
Roederer
Scharffenberger
Schramsberg

And just don't worry about it. Drink more bubbly. There's a joke about oral sex that really should apply to Champagne or top-level American sparkling wine: Last night I had the worst glass of bubbly I had all year. It was terrific.

A World Without Sparkling Wine

I tossed and turned. I passed a bar where people gathered to drink sullenly.

I passed a wedding, a solemn affair where the betrothed promised to do what was necessary to maintain the species. The bride grimaced.

I arrived at a dinner party. The host greeted me at the door with a firm handshake and a shot of Bourbon. I downed it.

Inside, the guests were staring down at the table. "What's going on here?" I asked.

"It's Greg's birthday. We're waiting for the serving of the birthday cocktails."

Oh. I turned to look at the television. Another ship had not survived the christening ritual of being shot at with a 21-gun salute. No wonder our export economy is suffering.

Feeling stuffy, I went into the kitchen where the hostess was busy muddling.

"I'm sorry I'm a little late with these," she said.

It's OK, I told her, and grabbed a pestle to help. Had she been to our neighbor's baby shower?

She had. Another sad affair, with all the women crying at the end, she said. Although the Cosmos had been perfectly fine.

I might have something to celebrate soon, I said. My book proposal looked like it had found a home.

"Do you want a chocolate fountain, or should we rent the bouncy house?" she replied.

"No, this is really special for me," I said. "I want to open a really expensive Cabernet and drink it until I pass out on the couch. No wait … maybe I'll open several and a group of us can gather and compare tasting notes."

She clapped me on the back. "There's the spirit," she said. We carried the cocktails in to the crowd.

I suggested a toast. "To what," my friend asked, puzzled. "Let us take a sip of this cocktail in memory of the people we once loved who are no longer with us," I said. We drank solemnly.

Chopin was playing softly in the background. The hostess tried to get some conversation going. "So what do you think of this latest embargo imposed by the European Fascists' Union?"

"It's all Hitler's fault. If only Germany had had some motivation to use its army to invade France back when the world was strong enough to resist them. Instead, the Nazi party was smart, they husbanded their resources and eventually they were able to buy what they couldn't have conquered."

"Oh, let's talk more about politics," one of my friends said. "It's the most fun thing you can do at a dinner party, except perhaps talking about religion."

I sipped my cocktail. It was strong, but it had a slight fizz from the club soda. Or … could it be …

I woke up sweating. A world without sparkling wine! What a nightmare.

I ran into my fridge to the bottle of Domaine Carneros Brut Rose I hadn't finished last night … but it was EMPTY. AIIIIIIEEEEEEE!

THE END

Drinking wine in the real word: a visit to Florida

Most of my friends in the San Francisco area are involved in food and wine in some way. Even those who aren't are passionate about it.

So it's an interesting wakeup call to leave this gourmet-obsessed bubble and visit other parts of America. In this case, I went to a heavy wine-consuming state, Florida. In 2007, Floridians drank 4.09 gallons per person, compared to 4.53 gallons in California. Florida is not Kansas (1.34 gallons per capita); wine is sold in grocery stores and available at most restaurants, even cheap ones.

It's fair to say that the average Floridian is more comfortable with wine, and more knowledgeable, than the average American. Which made my experiences there all the more illuminating.

Stone crab season had just started, so we went to Crabby Bill's, a chain restaurant, to enjoy some claws. Crabby Bill's has an extensive cocktail list and a fair amount of beer. I asked the waitress for a wine list, and she pointed to a two-sided cardboard advertisement on our table for a Merlot I've forgotten. I said I wanted a white wine, and she grabbed a similar advertisement from a nearby table. Apparently these were the only wines in the restaurant. The white was St. Francis Sonoma County Chardonnay; I ordered it for $26 (it's about $12 in stores) and was glad to have it. While it was probably chosen randomly by the restaurant's wine distributor, it was a good pairing with crab.

My friend told the waitress, "he works in wine." She asked, "Is Blackstone a good wine?" How do you answer that? I said, "It's OK, but I think Ravenswood is a better brand for the same price." She nodded and thanked me for the information. (And Joel Peterson, you can thank me later.)

Now, before you start commenting, "You can't judge Florida by Crabby Bill's, you cultural imperialist," let me add that I went to Bern's Steakhouse, which still has probably America's finest wine list, and sommelier Brad Dixon went 1-for-2 in finding me some great, reasonably priced older wines to go with our ribeye (loved an '88 Beaune; not so high on an '82 Haut Medoc). I was impressed by the wine list at Datz, a Tampa deli where my favorite dish was the chili-cheese dog. And I visited a few wine shops, both small and large.

There are good wines to be had in Florida, and people who know about them. But the culture of wine overall is much closer to the Crabby Bill's experience than the Bern's experience.

In fact, my best wine shop experience was not at Bern's neglected-looking wine shop, but at the massive Total Wine chain on Dale Mabry Highway in Tampa. Store employees were constantly at hand, constantly cheerful and helpful, and I didn't hear one wrong or misleading thing about wine, whether we asked about the 2005 Meursault or the strawberry-flavored White Zinfandel. I even got to sample some decent Champagne and Sauternes, which took the edge off of pre-Christmas traffic.

I can see why Total has been successful there; they weren't standoffish at all, and some smaller shops were intimidating; they reminded me of Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. And I got that intimidated feel from a number of my Florida friends. The overall wine culture in Florida doesn't seem to be one of open invitation and experimentation, but rather of a cloistered club that requires study. Is that wine for most of America?

It's also not a culture of splurging. Most restaurant wines sell for under $30 a bottle, and retail for under $15. People I told that I spent $63 for a 1988 Burgundy at Bern's thought I was crazy to spend that much money on a bottle of wine. Some asked me what a $100 bottle of wine tastes like. How do you answer that?

Restaurant staffs also don't have the level of training you'd hope for. I was in a small seafood restaurant near the beach, which had a reasonable wine list (we got Chateau Ste Michelle Riesling for $26), when a new shipment came in. The bartenders trying to put away the wine were talking out loud about a kind of wine they'd never heard of before. I offered my assistance. Turns out it was a Lodi Viognier, de-alced down to 13.5%; a very nice pairing for grilled white-flesh fish, which was exactly what I was eating. I told them, "Viognier is a grape, like Chardonnay. It tends to taste like apples. You should tell people this wine tastes a little like apples, is maybe a little floral, and will be great with fish." They, and the servers, were grateful. Then I realized I hadn't been asking for wine advice when I ordered, and maybe I should try it.

You can probably guess what every server from then on said: "This wine is very popular." Nobody (Bern's excluded) told me what a wine might taste like, or whether it was good with the dish, or anything about the region. That was a huuuge difference from San Francisco, where the busboy will tell you about his favorite Muscadet to have with oysters.

Yet there were so many positives. Most mid-range places had several wines by the glass. Generally the whites were stronger than the reds, which makes sense considering Florida's climate.

That said, I don't know if the average person cares at all about even the basic whites-with-fish theory (yeah, I know, Pinot Noir with salmon, reds with a fish if the sauce is hearty enough, spare me).

One of my friends has given up meat, so she ordered seafood in parchment at Bern's, and we had a dozen oysters. I insisted that we not drink the Bordeaux they had just opened with the oysters, and she rebelled, pointing to other tables that were drinking red with fish. She said, "They're enjoying it." And I'm sure they were. I wasn't going to go over to their table and say "stop having that Joseph Phelps Insignia with oysters." I did order a glass of Kabinett Riesling and had her try them side by side with the seafood, and I made a convert to basic food-and-wine pairing right there.

But it did remind me of how most Americans relate to wine. Neighboring tables full of people were enjoying a special splurge at a temple to wine. So they ordered expensive, new vintage (nobody near us had anything older than 2006), highly rated red wines, regardless of the food they were having. It was James Suckling's dream: "I'm 93 points on that." Forget context, forget pairing.

And yet -- my friend was right, they WERE having a good time. Or at least they seemed to be. Although I noticed that the table right next to us only drank half of their Insignia.

When I was introduced to people as some sort of wine expert, inevitably I was asked, "What's your favorite wine?" How do you answer that? Eventually I figured I would give them some knowledge they could use soon -- Dec. 31 is right around the corner -- and started saying, "I really like American sparkling wines, like Gruet and Schramsberg and Gloria Ferrer and Scharffenberger. I think they're much better value than Champagne, and taste better than Prosecco or Cava." Which I believe.

I hope they listened, because every grocery store has cases of the worst sparkling wines lined up at the entrance and by the cash registers: Asti Spumante, Andre, Cook's, all that crap. No wonder Americans don't like sparkling wine! They're told they must drink it once a year and when they do, it's lousy. I ordered a glass of bubbly several times (I do that everywhere anyway) and occasionally was asked what I was celebrating. Life! Tuesday!

Anyway, this isn't a serious survey, just a list of anecdotes, but I feel re-energized to re-enter some of the online arguments I get into about wine. The online wine community can get preachy about native yeast and unfiltered wines and alcohol content, etc. None of that stuff came up when I was in Florida. I cannot imagine asking the waitress at Crabby Bill's if she knew if the Chardonnay on the advertising flier was made using native yeast.

So it was great to visit, and drink and enjoy some of the mass-market wines we never see on wine lists here. But it's also great to be back in our little gourmet bubble, although I'm already missing black beans and yellow rice. If anybody knows a good source for that out here, please let me know.

Oh, and I would like to apologize to the farmers in Madeira 100 years ago who made the 1910 Barbeito Madeira Sercial that I ordered by the glass ($50) in Bern's dessert room. I knocked it over and spilled half of it onto the menu, and when I tried to lick it off, my wife took the menu away from me. The tragedy!

Fortunately, my glass was half full.

Rosenblum tasting notes: a tease

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Rosenblum Cellars winemaker John Kane

I'm not sure how many of my readers know I write a monthly column for Wine Review Online, an online-only wine magazine published by Robert Whitley.

WRO's business model is to let you read columns for free, while the wine reviews sit behind a pay wall. A big part of its appeal is that the columnists are all well-established wine writers, including a former editor of mine, Linda Murphy. The idea is that you (or somebody) will pay to read a database of reviews after you read the interesting writing we produce.

WRO isn't the only site to charge for wine reviews: Wine Spectator and the Wine Advocate, the big names, charge for access to their databases. A big difference is that WRO has no print component at all. We also have no Robert Parker and no James Laube, for better and worse. There would be no point in competing with them to find the biggest Cabernets in the world (good luck with that, Mr. Suckling); perhaps we are a worthwhile alternative for people who want something more and/or different. If you try to use those guys to find a good Riesling or Burgundy or Tokaji Aszu, you're going to overpay for inferior products because it's just not what they're good at. The idea is that somewhere on the strong WRO roster will be somebody who knows what they're talking about on many types and styles of wine.

My own style of reviewing there usually involves writing about wineries and regions whose people and story I find compelling, much as I do here, except with a greater focus on the wines themselves. I like to think I can objectively evaluate any wine -- hence the fact that I had Big House White from a 3-liter box with Thanksgiving dinner because I thought it was perfect for it. But I enjoy a bottle a lot more when there's a tale behind it.

So I thought I would give you a little taste of what's behind the pay wall at Wine Review Online, with a couple of reviews that accompanied my column last week on Rosenblum Cellars. You can read that column here.

That column came about because I like to think I'm open-minded. I had been picking on Rosenblum Cellars in tiny ways on this blog for a while after they were bought by Diageo, using them as an example of a winery that had turned into a brand. Their winemaker, John Kane, one of the few holdovers from the days of Kent Rosenblum, wanted a chance to respond, so I gave it to him. We tasted wines together and talked about the changes. And I ultimately decided to give the column to WRO, rather than run it here, because I wanted to add my reviews to its database.

But that also meant that my blog readers who have seen me sniping at Rosenblum Cellars can't see what I think of Kane's wines. So I'm going to run a couple of my reviews here, two good and one less so, to show you the kind of stuff behind the pay wall at Wine Review Online. Perhaps a subscription is a great Christmas gift?

Note: Below is my original copy. If they read better on Wine Review Online, it is because they have been edited by the estimable Michael Franz.

Rosenblum Carla's Reserve Contra Costa County Zinfandel 2007 ($35)
This used to be a vineyard designate; now it's a "reserve." Why? K-Mart bought half the vineyard to build a parking lot, and Rosenblum, which has access to the neighboring vineyard, is hedging its future by changing the name now. Try this now; the blackberry fruit is so juicy that I felt like I could taste the blackberry seeds. Great acidity and nice savory notes of toasted almond and sea salt, with a hint of slate in the aroma. 15.6% alcohol. Screw K-Mart. Shop smart; shop S-Mart. 92

Rosenblum "Heritage Clones" California Petite Sirah 2007 ($18)
Blackberry fruit that barely outweighs a meaty, gamy character with notes of black pepper, graphite and black licorice. A wild child. 14.8% alcohol. 92 (Buy it here)

Rosenblum Maggie's Reserve Sonoma Valley Zinfandel 2007 ($45)
Cofermented with 2.5% whole cluster Semillon, an interesting technique that leads to a layered wine -- black currant, toast, alcohol -- that comes across as disjointed. 15.8% alcohol. 87

Port tastes better when stomped by feet

Alistair and Gillyanne Robertson at Quinta de Vargellas

When Port magnate Alistair Robertson got his hands on an additional brand, Croft, in 2001, he knew immediately the first technical improvement to make.

He brought back foot-treading.

Crushing Port grapes the traditional way, by foot, is the key to quality, says Robertson, chairman of Taylor Fladgate.

"Feet are better than machines because they're soft," Robertson says. "You don't want any of the seeds crushed. The padding of the feet is the perfect size. It's the best possible way."

The Croft workers weren't used to treading, so at first they resisted. They have since given in, swayed by being paid several hours of overtime, but they do the job without music, which makes it a lot different from the nightly bacchanal at Robertson's best winery, Quinta de Vargellas.

The Douro Valley is appealing for hikers

Robertson invited me to Portugal's Douro Valley during harvest season to get my legs -- and everything else -- dirty by pitching in to foot-tread some grapes. How could I resist?

As a guest, I spent my day lazing on the slow train from Oporto, while my soon-to-be coworkers were busy harvesting the grapes we would crush. They put in a long day -- 8 hours picking, 4 hours treading.

I was having a cocktail when they started the most important part of treading: the first two hours, called "the cut," when most of the skins are broken and the juice released. During this time, the treaders march methodically back and forth across the granite "lagar" that holds the grapes like a search team looking for a needle in a grape stack.

Then the keyboard player arrives, everybody takes a slug of brandy, and the mood lightens as everyone's clothing darkens.

"There's a song they sing: 'Liberty, liberty, now my feet are my own'," Robertson says.

By the time they let guests like me in the lagar, it's a rollicking, messy party. The keyboardist is pumping the rhythm, folks are dancing, everyone's purple and there aren't many inhibitions. One local woman followed me around and pulled my shorts down at every opportunity. Perhaps it's a local custom.

I'm 6-feet tall, and the juice did not quite reach up to my knees. The grape soup wasn't as warm as I expected because wineries add sulphur to the mix to prevent fermentation for the first two days.

Fortunately, harvest nights in Douro Valley are still quite warm, because one would get plenty wet even if one's fellow treaders weren't splashing and smearing grape must on each other.

While dancing around in grape juice, it's hard to believe there's any real scientific basis to believe it makes better Port. But apparently even the unpredictability of amorous drunks' movements helps the process, says winemaker David Guimaraens.

This machine can't  replace feet

Port is made from several different varieties of indigenous grapes. In the past, they were all planted helter-skelter in the vineyards. In the last 15 years, science has come to the Douro Valley in a big way, and new plantings tend to be in blocks which are best for each particular variety. This means that they come to the lagar in batches that the foot-treaders must blend together.

"Nowadays it's possible to have a whole lagar full of (grape variety) Touriga Nacional," Guimaraens says. "But it's actually better to crush them together. They marry sooner."

Rapid blending is important because Port is made differently from table wine. The grapes are only allowed to ferment for three days, and then alcohol is added to kill the yeast and stop the fermentation. The unfermented grape sugar is the reason Port wines are sweet.

"It's very important to move the juice," Guimaraens says.

I'm glad to have played my part, and to have kept my shorts on -- most of the time.

Tasting notes for some of the best wines I didn't tread on:


Taylor Fladgate Late Bottled Vintage 2004
Excellent complexity, with notes of cherries and dried plums and raisin flavors that intensify on the finish. 93 points.

Taylor Fladgate 20 Year Old Tawny
A great balance between fruit flavors and the caramel/nut flavors of oxidation. Think dried cherries, prunes and raisin cookies. Good acidity keeps it rolling. One of my favorites for holiday drinking. 94 points

Taylor Fladgate 40 Year Old Tawny
A great contemplative wine, with all the primary fruit gone and delicious secondary flavors: hazelnut, cocoa, Nutella and creme brulee crust. The extremely long finish would be wonderful while watching a fire crackle. 95 points

Quinta de Vargellas 2008
It must be the foot-treading: Layers of flavor, mostly fruits like fresh and dried plums and cherries, that reveal themselves over an extremely long finish. Outstanding now, so it's very tempting to rob the cradle. 98 points

Fonseca 10 Year Old Tawny
The best 10-year-old in Taylor's portfolio, this wine has nice raisin and dried plum flavors  and some hazelnut on the long finish. 92 points.


Fonseca 2007 Vintage Port
Well-balanced favors of dried red plum and sugar beets. Seamless, with a finish that's not overly sweet. 93 points


Fonseca 20 Year Old Tawny
More potent than the Taylor Fladgate, with strong golden raisin and raisin cookie flavors. Rich texture and oomph for those seeking it. 91 points

The Douro Valley

Chardonnay vs. the world

Chardonnay is planted all over the world. Should it be?

Most wine writers would say no, but the American public disagrees. Who’s right?

Chardonnay is always undercovered by the wine press. It’s easily America’s favorite wine, accounting for 1 in every 5 bottles sold in the United States. But it probably accounts for less than 1 of every 25 stories about wine.

Part of that is familiarity, and part is contempt. Pitching a freelance story about Chardonnay is just about impossible; editors will say “we covered Chardonnay earlier this year.” It’s easier to sell an article about dry Hungarian Furmint or sweet wines from Georgia. Who has anything new to say about America’s favorite wine?

But there’s also contempt from the knowledgeable about Chardonnay’s kudzu-like takeover of the world’s vineyards. It’s like phylloxera; it escaped its home in Burgundy and has caused the uprooting of native vines in Greece, Portugal, Italy, Spain -- basically, any country where grape farmers are trying to make a living.

I can’t tell you how many wine writers and editors complain about the travesty of Greek or Italian Chardonnay. But we don’t own vineyards there.

While I’d rather drink Assyrtiko or Falanghina, I don’t believe we have the right to tell people in other countries that they must preserve their native grapes as a non-profit living world heritage. And Kendall-Jackson* probably sells more Chardonnay in an hour than all the Assyrtiko and Falanghina consumed in a year. So why wouldn’t farmers around the world want a piece of the action?

However, if I felt truly helpless in the face of the large American market, I wouldn’t write about wine -- or movies, or books, or politics, or anything else. All writers are evangelists at some level. Even those who try to stick to the outmoded AP “he said, she said” style evangelize through the issues they choose to cover.

I want to see Americans drink more Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc -- not to mention Grenache Blanc and Verdejo. I want the great Midwest to stop using “Chardonnay” as a synonym for “white wine” the way Atlanta natives call even orange soda a “Coke.”

* (A PR person recently told me of a focus group that found young African-American women in Chicago using "Kendall-Jackson" as a synonym for wine. Good marketing, K-J! I haven't verified this anywhere else, but if you've heard it, let me know.)

More importantly, I want to see the right grapes planted in the right places. Arinto is in the hot parts of Portugal for a reason. And that applies at home too. Chardonnay can be fantastic in cool coastal regions like Willamette Valley and Russian River Valley and Mendocino County.

Yet most of our domestic Chardonnay comes from places like Modesto and Fresno and is nearly a laboratory product: dealcoholized to save tax money, given a vanilla flavor from teabags full of oak chips, and often blended with small amounts of more flavorful varieties like Muscat to give it more fruit and floral notes. If you're spending $7.99 for a California appellation Chardonnay, that's most likely what you're getting.

We could produce white wines that cheap from California's Central Valley from hot-weather grapes that would thrive there; Portugal's Arinto comes to mind, or Italy's Greco. Probably the best bet for a great cheap domestic white would be to blend grapes and take advantage of the strengths of each.

But who's going to buy it? More importantly, who's going to sell it?

While we're all writing about the great Greek white selection at some tiny wine shop, across the street at Wines R Us the staff is treating the California appellation Chardonnay, without much media love, in the way distributors love best: "Stack 'em high and watch 'em fly."

As a group, the wine media has been fighting Chardonnay's domination. I googled the exact phrase "alternative to Chardonnay" and came up with 60,000 hits. You know what? That story ain't working. People who like Chardonnay don't want an alternative to Chardonnay, and people who are open to other whites don't need to be talked down to like that.

I think we're going about this the wrong way. Instead of writing about Chardonnay less, we should write about it more. That's counterintuitive, but hear me out.

For one thing, we should write about Chardonnay more because we need to sell more newspapers and magazines. But this isn't just about giving the people what they want.

Chardonnay lovers don't click on stories about Sauvignon Blanc. They don't click on stories about "alternatives to Chardonnay." They click on stories about Chardonnay.

The way to reach them is to write enthusiastic stories about Chardonnay from places where it's good. Leave off the idea that only the word "Burgundian" is praise; celebrate the great Chardonnays from Marlborough, New Zealand, for example.

And explain why Chardonnay from there is good: the weather is cool, the grapes develop good flavors without too much sugar, you can get wines that are buttery if you like or more pristine if you prefer.

Somewhere in the context of that article, you can contrast them to the Chardonnays from South Eastern Australia or California's Central Valley. That's a teaching moment. The message is that by itself, "Chardonnay" is not a seal of approval.

The Chardonnay market in the US is always going to be different from other countries because many here drink it not with dinner, but as a cocktail. Americans as a mass are always going to prefer more body, less acidity and more sweetness than Europeans for this reason. If people don't care about food matching, it's pointless to go on about it.

But that's no reason for evangelists like me to give up. I don't want people to give up Chardonnay. I love a good Chardonnay. Puligny-Montrachet, a region in Burgundy where Chardonnay is the only allowed white grape, is the source of white wines I'd want with my last meal.

What I want is for Chardonnay to take a more proper place on US wine lists and stores -- not as the default choice, but just one of many great choices.

To get there, I think we need to praise Chardonnay, not bury it.

White wine from Pinot Noir

Want to stump your wine geek friends? Pour them a glass of the wine at right and ask them to identify it. Tell them it's a major variety they've had many times.

I could have taken 100 guesses and would not have come up with Pinot Noir.

Adam Lee is one of our generation's great thinker/winemakers; a guy who has enough energy to make fine single-vineyard Pinot Noirs (under the Siduri label) and Syrahs from up and down the West Coast and also write a steady stream of cogent criticism in comments on the foolish writing about wine he sees on the Internet.

I say "thinker/winemaker" because this wine is an intellectual pleasure; it answers a question that people (like me) who love Blanc de Noirs sparkling wine have wondered. What if you pressed Pinot Noir quickly and took the juice from the skins fast enough to make a white wine?

In theory, you could make a white wine from any grape. But rarely do you see it done, mainly because it's not usually the best use of red grapes. I tried a white wine made from Syrah earlier this year that was interesting, but not as successful as this.

Lee uses fruit mostly from a section of an Oregon vineyard that ripens slower than its neighboring vines. The grapes are pressed whole-cluster as soon as they get to the winery. The juice is left to settle for a day, then drained into a combination of neutral oak barrels and stainless steel, where it ferments. He allows some of the batches to go through malolactic fermentation. It ages for a few months before being bottled in the spring.

If I tried this blind, my first guess would have been unoaked Chardonnay, and then I might have guessed Viognier. Lee was surprised when I told him that; he thinks it's more like Marsanne or Roussanne. I didn't find it to be quite as full-bodied as those, although making a rich white to stand up to heartier foods was one of his objectives. That said, I can't believe he had any greater objective than to have some fun making a unique wine.

What I think is most interesting is the fruit flavors: I got Asian pear and guava, which I never taste in Pinot Noir. No cherry, no cranberry, no raspberry. So do all those red fruit flavors come not from the juice, but the skins? Perhaps. It's not just a wine; it's a lesson in wine chemistry.

This is the third vintage Lee has made of this wine, so he has found a market for it; Siduri and Novy wines tend to draw the wine-geek crowd to start with. I highly recommend it for Pinot Noir fans. It's like looking at your lover's X-rays.

Novy Blanc de Pinot Noir Willamette Valley 2009 ($24)
The color is medium yellow with the slightest hint of orange. The aroma is delicate, with notes of guava skin, white peach, Asian pair and floral hints. It's not as delicate on the palate, with flavors of Asian pear and guava skin. Medium-bodied, with a satisfying mouthfeel; 13.9% alcohol. I don't know if this has the gravitas to be a great wine, but it's certainly a good one, even if it weren't a fascinating curiosity. 500 cases. 90 points.

*****

Bonus link: Here's an interesting post from Jeannie Cho Lee about what she thinks Hong Kong restaurants should provide in wine service. It's not her point to tell people outside HK what the wine scene there is like, but you can get a great picture anyway. Most interesting point -- Red Bordeaux is the emperor, which is strange because Burgundy, red or white, would be a much better match with most of the food.

Tobacco cocktail: Drink and a smoke, all in one

Jonathan Sandoval

Recently in Mexico City I found myself at the rooftop bar of the Hotel Condesa. Bartender Jonathan Sandoval had just taken part in a competition, and I asked him to make me the drink he entered.

Immediately he reached for a cigarette. And the next thing I knew, he was crumbling it into my cocktail.

The drink is called "D.F. Irreverente." I didn't get the exact proportions; it was kinda loud, and I got the impression he was freestyling it anyway. But I did note the ingredients:

D.F. Irreverente

D.F. Irreverente

Tobacco from one cigarette
2 oz Bacardi white rum
Large pour fresh pineapple juice
Simple syrup

Shake with ice and strain

Garnish with chile-spiced pineapple slice

Straining the drink removes the tobacco. Sandoval (who was surprised and pleased to learn he has an overweight namesake on the San Francisco Giants) says the tobacco gives both a flavorful tang and a slight nicotine buzz to the drink.

I can't say for sure if my buzz was particularly different. I'm not a smoker, so it didn't satisfy a craving; fortunately it didn't create one either. I will say that I partied somewhat longer than usual that night, so if you want to give credit to the nicotine and not the exotic atmosphere, it's possible.

But I'm burying the lead: the drink was quite tasty. Fresh pineapple juice makes a huge difference.

For an additional fun fact about pineapple juice -- for adults only -- you may click here. Please don't say you weren't warned.

The Prisoner, bondage and niche marketing

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Top wine movies on DVD

Wine generally doesn't play well on the big screen. It's OK as a prop, but screenwriters tend to get humorless about wine in a way that they don't about bourbon.

A few years ago I did an irreverent list of my top 10 wine movies. For those, I chose any films I could get my hands on, and watched several on bootleg VHS tapes I bought on the Internet.

With Christmas coming up, I thought I'd update and pare the list to enjoyable wine movies you can buy on Amazon.

The great thing about these is that, unlike wine, you can cheaply and easily ship them to your friends. Or, if you haven't seen any of these, order one for yourself, pour yourself a glass of righteous red, and have a home movie night.

Bottle Shock (2009)

This movie about Americans winning the Judgment of Paris tasting in 1976 isn't historically accurate -- Jim and Bo Barrett did not solve their discussions in a boxing ring -- but it is fun, and it captures a rural Napa Valley that we'll never see again. (How? By being shot in still-rural parts of Sonoma County). Plus, I can't believe how cheap the DVD is.





Sideways (2005)
The movie that ruined Pinot Noir. Before this intelligent film about men behaving badly, Pinot was the wine of geeks like the character Miles. Now, everybody wants to drink "Pinot Noir;" they just don't want that light-bodied stuff. I got a $75 Pinot the other day that is 15.8% alcohol, and this movie is to blame. It's still fun, though, and a great look at Santa Barbara wine country.





French Kiss (2003)
A romantic comedy that holds up after multiple viewings. Meg Ryan plays a repressed American who flies to Paris to pursue the man who broke off their engagement and soon finds herself stranded. Naturally she runs into Kevin Kline, who owns a vineyard. I love this exchange:

Ryan: "A bold wine with a hint of sophistication and lacking in pretension. (Pause.) Actually I was just talking about myself."
Kline: "You are not wrong. Wine is like people. The wine takes all the influences in life all around it, it absorbs them and it gets its personality."
Apparently the single-movie DVD is out of print, but that's a great price on a 2-film package with a movie I haven't seen.


Gigi (1958)
Yesterday's 9-Oscar-winning musical is today's pedophilia: this is about a rich Parisian considering hiring a 15-year-old to be his mistress. Fortunately, Leslie Caron was actually 26. And I love the musical number, "The Night They Invented Champagne." And check it out -- it's old enough that you can get it as part of a 4-movie package for less than $15 with another great wine movie, Casablanca. Here's looking at your Christmas present, kid.







Notorious (1946)
Speaking of perversity and Champagne; the highlight of this Alfred Hitchcock film is a tense scene where guests drinking bubbly too rapidly at a party might lead to Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman being killed by Nazis. Not only that, Nazi-hater Hitchcock actually shows some sympathy for the devils. One of Hitchcock's best films; still suspenseful today.







The Parent Trap (1998)
In Lindsay Lohan's film debut, she plays twins separated at birth. One was raised in Napa Valley at Staglin Family Vineyards (under an assumed name), and she learns to judge everything by its aroma -- even her grandpa. Charming kids' flick that's not all that accurate about wine, but does have great exteriors. The rare wine movie that's for the whole family.

Jews, wine and Berkeley politics: an old Chronicle story

I really need to learn to let these things go.

Writing about Israeli wines this week in Food & Wine magazine, and correcting some of my own online mistakes, reminded me of the first time I wrote about kosher wine, and a politically inspired correction by a surprisingly spineless San Francisco Chronicle that I'm still pissed off about.

There are plenty of Jewish wine writers, but I'm not one. Yet in early 2005 The Chronicle gave me the nearly annual assignment of writing about wine for Passover.

Most writers would probably have given the story the distant, respectful treatment, figuring non-Jews weren't going to read it anyway. I'm not particularly proud today of the way I used "South Park" to jazz it up; the concept of using outrageousness to get non-Jews to read it was better than the execution. But I'm not ashamed of The Chronicle story either.

Food editor Miriam Morgan warned me when I got the assignment that we would get more than the usual number of angry letters, so I had to be beyond reproach. An outsider would be amazed at the vitriol sent to Chronicle Food & Wine. Vegans are the most mean-spirited; maybe they're not getting enough protein to control their emotions. Immigrant haters protest ethnic recipes. And random wackos  go off on things like a martini recipe different from theirs. Read the comments on Michael Bauer's blog and you'll get a taste.

But even more than recipes involving rabbits (they're a renewable resource, people), if you want to inflame the Chronicle readership, the way to do it is to support Israel.

Support for Palestinian liberation, and hatred of Israel, is probably stronger in Berkeley than anywhere else in the US. My story wasn't about Israel; most of it was about kosher wineries in California, and Israeli wine played only a small part. But Miriam reminded me every single day that the story was going to be picked apart word-by-word by people who couldn't care less about wine.

I spoke to rabbis, Jewish food experts and academics. I was super careful, and the story was edited with even more than the usual pre-downsizing care. I guess playing myself as Eric Cartman was a way of showing defiance from a story we were all uncommonly nervous about.

The story didn't turn out to be the problem.

As part of the package, my colleagues and I tasted 80 kosher wines and recommended our favorites. (I also did a sidebar comparing Manischewitz and Mogen David and was shocked by how nasty the most popular American passover wine tastes.)

We didn't have any bright ideas for art; fear of controversy vetoed everything we came up with (I'm still amazed I got away with such cheeky writing). So we chose the least controversial possible cover shot: a group of kosher bottles we recommended. Dull, but safe. Or so we thought.

Craig Lee, a great food photographer, shot the bottles. I gave him the bottles we liked -- from several different countries -- without any orders as to which to use. Visually, he liked a shot with three wines from Golan Heights Winery, which then as now made some of the most delicious kosher wines.

I didn't write the cutline, but saw it before publication and didn't object. It read: "Golan Heights Winery in Israel makes Moscato and Riesling wines recommended by The Chronicle tasting panel, plus higher-end wines under the brand name Yarden."

Sure enough, we got some lengthy, angry letters from Palestinians in Berkeley. But they weren't complaining about my 3-page story (still today, I'm proud that it turned out to be bulletproof). They objected to that 26-word cutline.

Because Golan Heights Winery, they said, is not in Israel.

Their position was that the Golan Heights is occupied land, and thus not Israel. The whole Chronicle Food & Wine staff lined up against this. Our policy was to use the official US government-approved label information. On the label, these wines said, "Produce of Israel." Our position was that the letter writers needed to complain to the TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, which approves every label on every alcoholic beverage sold in the US.)

I don't know who in Chronicle upper management caved in to the pressure of a few Berkeley activists, but here's the correction they ran -- which also went into my file, because corrections count against a writer, not that that matters anymore. Golan Heights Winery is NOT in Israel, according to the Chronicle.

Funny, when I visited the winery earlier this year I did so on a bus from Tel Aviv, and I didn't have to cross any borders. But what do I know? I'm not a Berkeley activist.

You can see from this link that even now, five years later, The Chronicle still maintains that Golan Heights Winery isn't in Israel. Contrast that to the way my story in Food & Wine handles its location. Golan Heights is "occupied," but it's "in the country." That's a realistic depiction of a large modern winemaking facility which isn't going to be packed up and moved.

To tell you the truth, Golan Heights head winemaker Victor Schoenfeld got weary of me asking him again and again about the political situation and not about winemaking, a fair complaint considering his winery was the leader in Israel's quality revolution and still makes some of the country's best wines. I was still feeling burned from the Chronicle correction of 5 years ago and didn't want to bring the black cloud of Berkeley zealotry to the offices of Food & Wine magazine.

Part of the reason I'm lifting the curtain on this old inside-newspaper story is to tell you something about how the Middle East is covered in the Bay Area. My story was an apolitical piece about wine and appeared in the Wine section, yet it made everyone who worked on it nervous and it made Chronicle upper management capitulate to outside pressure.

Keep that in mind the next time you read any news features from, er, occupied territory. Oh, and happy Hannukah to you folks there in Syria.

A rarity: vintage-dated sake

Katsutaro Honda holds "Garden of Eternity"

(Today is sake day! Read this story here and a non-related sake story at Palate Press.)

Most sake is not vintage-dated. Breweries don't want vintage variation; they strive for the same taste every year. They also don't want consumers turning up their noses at sake that has been gathering dust on the shelf.

In most cases, I recommend that you do exactly that, because 95% of sakes go downhill after about a year.

This is about an exception: Chiyonosono "Garden of Eternity" Junmai Daiginjo ($80) from Kumamoto prefecture.

Brewery chairman Katsutaro Honda is so pleased with the effect aging has on this sake that he started sealing bottles of it with corks 25 years ago.

"I used (cork) to play with," he said. "Everyone said, 'What are you doing?' "

Honda already bottle-aged Chiyonosono far longer than the industry average, so it was a natural progression. He wondered: What would a top-class sake taste like if you sealed the bottle with a cork and cellared it for 15 years?

Warm Kumamoto is generally shochu country

I had the experience recently, because Honda gave me a bottle of his Junmai Daiginjo from 1995. Sadly, I wish I had gotten to it a decade ago. There were some interesting walnut and white flower flavors, but overall it was too much like plaster and library paste.

Honda's aware that there's a limit to its potential. On his daughter's 20th birthday earlier this year he opened a bottle of 20-year-old Junmai Daiginjo to less than universal acclaim. "It was challenging," he said.

That's a big contrast from the 2007 Chiyonosono Junmai Daiginjo, a lovely sake with wine-like notes of peach, apricot and fresh flowers, yet a very sake-like creamy finish. Most sakes from 2007 would go down my drain; this one disappeared fairly rapidly down my gullet.

Kumamoto Castle is the region's main attraction

Why does this one age better? The sake has better acidity than some. In a blow against localism, Honda credits the use of Yamada nishiki rice from distant Hyogo prefecture (though the main ingredient in sake -- water -- is local, of course). They're careful to avoid air exposure during production and bottling. But they're not really sure.

The difference age makes is striking, though. I tasted tank samples of unreleased year-old Chiyonosono Junmai Daiginjo, and it was astringent and beery, albeit with appealing green melon and cocoa character. It's interesting that as it ages, at least for a couple years, the sake seems to taste younger.

The Junmai Daiginjo was easily my favorite sake from the 114-year-old family brewery. But I credit him for challenging my way of thinking about nigori sake, also regarding bottle age.

Nigori sake is crazily popular in the US because it's sweet and milky; it's the White Zinfandel of sake. I tend to think of it exactly that way. I liked it when I didn't know much about sake, and have graduated from it.

When I tasted Arabashiri Nama Junmai Ginjo Nigori, I was shocked. It's quite acidic, citrusy and light-bodied. Imagine picking up a glass of milk that tastes like a tank sample of Sancerre. I didn't know how to react to it, and couldn't imagine what somebody expecting a sweet, gooey sake would think.

"The nigori sake you can buy in the United States is not real nigori," Honda said. "Nigori sake has a little natural CO2. If time passes, this will go away. The taste will change. For us, nigori is seasonal. Only in early spring, we sell this sake. Big breweries sell nigori sake throughout the year."

Honda was too polite to elaborate on that last bit. But think about that the next time you consider ordering nigori: it's like buying a carton of shelf-stabilized, unrefrigerated milk. There's room for that product. But not in my glass.

"Garden of Eternity," though, is welcome anytime, although "Garden of Less Than A Decade" might be even better.

(Looking for an easy intro to buying sake in a restaurant? I got you covered.)