WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “I feel it in the air, the summer’s out of reach…”

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “And looking up I noticed I was late…”

 

“Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight…”

Saturday morning, approx. 3:30am. I had a dream that officially certified me as both a wine and music geek. As you read this you will either nod your head in sympathy or shake your head in disbelief. Either way, it’s my job to let you delve a little further into the recesses of my warped head. Let me also preempt the details of the dream by saying that I’m a neurotic whack job that has repeated dreams about being late for something or being unable to complete something “in time.” Here we go:

I’m taking a small test for a wine class I’m in, which involves tasting 2 reds and 1 sweet white: #1 is The Prisoner, #2 I can’t recall the name of and #3 is a Trimbach Riesling Spätlese (which I’m nearly positive doesn’t even exist). We must take copious tasting notes on the wines and answer questions about them, which I do with wines #1 and #2, but when I reach for glass #3 I realize that the idiot pourer has left my glass of Spätlese empty. I get up and go over to where the teacher has all 3 bottles of wine propped up so that I can pour some out myself, but when I get there I notice that the wine he has displayed as #2 is completely different from the #2 I tasted. So I say, “Yo, what the fuck happened to #2?” This is not usual classroom-appropriate lingo, but step off—it’s my dream. He proceeds to tell me that #2 got changed at the last minute and my pourer must not have realized it (make mental note to flog pourer). I grab the open bottle of #2 so I can taste the right wine and go to grab #3 as well, but I realize it’s missing. “Who the hell took the Spätlese?” To which the professor answers (lest it be anyone else) “Keith Richards.”

I run off to hunt down Keith and the Spätlese, when I notice an extra unopened bottle of The Prisoner (#1) off to the side so I filch it, tuck it under my arm and continue my mad dash toward the door. But as I do, the open bottle of wine #2 slips out of my hand and falls to the ground. Luckily Michel Rolland is there to retrieve it for me! He hands it to me, I thank him and he mumbles something like, “That wine should have undergone micro-oxygenation” and laughs. I giggle, of course, and think dickhead. I hurry past him, ditch the extra bottle of #1 under my desk, leave #2 on my desk and run out the door.

As I get out into the hallway I spot an old bandmate of mine who just happens to be opening for Keith Richards in one hour, despite the fact that all that kid ever wanted to play was Zeppelin. I say, “Mike, dude, have you seen Keith?” He responds, “Yeah, I saw him headed towards the stage for sound check.” “Did he happen to have a bottle of Trimbach Spätlese Riesling in his hand?” I ask. He nods. Perfect, so long as the bloody bastard hadn’t finished it all…but I knew I was running out of time to finish the test, and I had to retaste #2 as it was! I start freaking out because by now many other students had finished the test and were heading over to the concert.

I head outside and there are rows and rows of bleachers set up for the concert, and they’re already filling with people, making it much harder to maneuver my way down the blasted things, in order to get to the stage. I stumble past people, doing that awkward climb-down-the-metal-bleachers-without-landing-on-someone’s-head thing, and work my way towards the stage in a sure-to-fail panic. The stage lights are already flashing reds, blues and greens—damn that Keith for taking my Spätlese!!! But as I stumble by the front row I notice an empty seat to what is obviously a free concert (obvious to me only, I guess) and ask the woman sitting next to it if it’s taken. “Well, maybe” she says, and proceeds to pick up her cell phone to see if her girlfriend is or isn’t going to make it to the show. Bloody hell, woman! Hurry up with the phone call, I have a wine to find! She’s chatting, I’m sweating. Fuckity fucknuts, what do I do?!? Priorities?!? Test…front-row seat. Test…front-row seat.

BAM! I wake up.

That, friends, is the hell that is my dream life.

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “I love the way you break my skin…”

 

“We’re just talkin’ about the future, forget about the past…”

“In Spain, we often joke that there are 2 plights we can thank Americans for,” he said when asked about changing wine styles in Spain, “phylloxera and Robert Parker—and the second one is more dangerous.” The classroom broke out into a loud chuckle, because when you’re spending 3 intensive days trying to remember things like the gazillion different names they have for the tempranillo grape, believe me, a little interjected sense of humor can go a long way. By the time I got to lunch on the third day, I was pretty sure everything within a 40-foot radius of me smelled like sherry, including the exhaust fumes being spat from New York City’s buses. But who the hell was I to complain? There are worse things in this world than an 8-Cava tasting for breakfast, 8 Catalonian wines as a pre-lunch aperitif and 7 Riojas for an afternoon snack. Alright, technically I could complain about the 4 clunkers they poured from La Mancha, but nobody’s perfect.

Thanks to the generosity of the peeps at Catavino, I got the opportunity to take a 3-day certification course in Spanish wine and Sherry in New York City, taught by the Wine Academy of Spain—on the house. Considering it was a seminar I was eager to take but couldn’t afford, I nearly danced a jig when they offered me a blogger scholarship to attend it. I’m not sure how I can ever repay that gesture, but my first-born is up for grabs if that will square us in any way.

Given our less-than-stellar economy, Americans are looking to Spain more than ever for great wine values, and so this wine seminar served as a sort of traveling ministry, educating its future disciples. Over the course of those 3 days, I sniffed, sipped and spit nearly 70 wines, and despite the fact that when I got home all I wanted was a cold beer, I realized that the more I know, the more I understand how little I know. And because I’m not one to keep my thoughts to myself, plan on a few cool future posts about Spanish wines—yes, Virginia, there is more to Spain than Rioja, Ribera, Rias Baixas and Priorat. And thank God there’s more to Cava than Freixenet.

I had no idea, for instance, that the region of Galicia has inheritance laws just like Burgundy. When the patriarch of a vineyard dies, the property must be equally divided amongst all his children instead of going to the eldest, which makes for very tiny patches of independently owned vineyards as the years pass. I also didn’t know that you’ll hardly find a Spaniard drinking Sherry outside of Andalucia (the region where it’s made), or that a 4-pointed star on a Cava cork means it was made in the traditional Champenoise method. And despite the fact that the region of Castilla/La Mancha is the largest area under vine, finding a wine I enjoy from there has proven more than difficult.

Photo by Ryan Opaz

There was, however, one thing that it actually pained me to learn. It turns out that my absolute favorite Rioja winery—R. Lopez de Heredia—is scoffed at by many Spaniard wine drinkers. Apparently, the winery’s “old world” mojo doesn’t cut it with the masses, who want something less funky and earthy, and something more fruity and floral. They poo-poo Lopez’ use of old barrels (including some huge ones that have been around almost 100 years) and their “no chemicals, no pesticides, no chaptalization, no machines, hand-racking, aged-for-at-least-sixty-months-in-cask” policies. They also don’t much like the fact that the wines then spend several years in a bottle under a thick veil of mold and cobwebs either, despite the fact that keeping the bottles amongst the mold seems to prevent insect damage to the corks and preserve humidity. I was seriously bummed to hear that Lopez has become the butt of many a joke, exchanged over tapas or a fino, but then I guess that leaves more for me, so grab your fruit-forward wines, my Iberian compadres, and leave me the Lopez.

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “It’s only words, and words are all I have…”

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “Don’t tell Mama, whatever you do…”

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY – “Don’t speak, I know just what you’re sayin’…”

 

WORDLESS WEDNESDAY

 

“I’ve got this growl in my tummy, and I’m gonna stop it today…”

Interior Dialogue 1: If this doesn’t work out well, I’ll just delete the pics. No biggie. But I might as well take photos as I experiment, just in case this actually, you know, tastes any good.

Interior Dialogue 2: You do realize that nobody’s home, right? You could just as easily scarf down a bag of pork rinds and save yourself the dirty dishes.

ID1: No fucking way. If they were real pork rinds I might actually consider the option, but not that crap. Besides, the kid will notice that they’ve gone missing. I’m thinking the tomatillos over there are looking mighty nice.

ID2: Yeah, of course, tomatillos. Thatta way to go, you reckless wild woman, you. Sure you don’t want that block of triple-cream brie instead?

ID1: No, damn it…wait, there’s brie in the fridge? Never mind. Focus. OK, I’ll roast the tomatillos and some garlic cloves in the oven with a little olive oil.

ID2: Whoopie. I’m going to sleep. Tell me when the pepperoni pizza gets here.

ID1: OK, what goes good with roasted tomatillos? Oooh, I know—corn. I’ll sauté some in a pan with some scallions and chili peppers, then toss the whole thing together with the roasted stuff.

ID2: Can we at least have a glass of bubbles while we do this? Please?

ID1: Oh, right, the bubbles. Forgot I had that chilling. What would I do without you?

ID2: Die a sober, healthy virgin probably.

ID1: Cheers! “Tiny bubbles, in the wine…”

ID2: “make me happy, make me feel fine…”

Forty Minutes Later

ID2: mfwwr trrwnfrt ohuiuw mmmmmm

ID1: You’re not supposed to talk with your mouth full, you know.

ID2: Oh for christ’s sake, NO ONE IS HOME…man, this is really, really good.

ID1: See! I’m glad I took pictures to post on the blog.

ID2: Yeah, you gonna take pictures of the Ben & Jerry’s we’re gonna eat later, too?

ID1: I was thinking some watermelon granita would be better.

ID2: Granita. Right. Livin’ large.