Sophie's Glass

If years 1-3 in the wine trade were years of tasting everything and learning the rules; 3-8 were years of increasingly specific delving into subjects dear to my heart; 9 was a rogue year, and 10 a year of exploration. As gratifying as it is to feel a certain mastery of a region or set of wines, to cull images of those places from memory, the timbre of a winemaker’s voice, the distinct tang of his or her style melding with the terroir, a proud face as the pipette is drawn from the cask, it’s also enlivening to discover new things, and there are psychological benefits to open-mindedness. Recently it’s felt like each day I let go of a smidgen of preconception to embrace something new. One of those new things has been cider.

At MFW Wine Co., the cider portfolio has grown robust and interesting thanks to the efforts of my colleague Jeff Russell. It’s a category of drink I know essentially nothing about, which makes formulating opinions easier (nothing harder for me these days than formulating an unbiased opinion about a bottle of Champagne), but also makes ambast-ing the brands more difficult. It’s clear that the moment to learn about cider has arrived. What better place to start than with a cider house that has compelled me from first sip: Eden. Two weeks ago, four of us piled in a rental car and headed north to a cider open house at Eden.

Prior to this trip, I’d met Eleanor Léger (proprietress of Eden Ciders) a handful of times. She and I worked together one day, planned a cider dinner at one of my accounts, exchanged many cordial emails. She’s an inspiring woman. Her approach to cider is extremely wine-driven (for lack of a better word), and her love of wine shows in the profile of her ciders. In general, cider conversations hang out somewhere between beer and wine. Discussions of fruit varieties reminds us of wine, but use of the term “bottle conditioning” inevitably takes us to beer. I’ve found that as a wine person who dabbles in beer, Eden Ciders strike the perfect vinous chord and, with their bracing apple tannins, have uncanny abilities at the table.

When we were an hour and a half or so from our destination, the WilloughVale Inn and Cottages in Westmore Vermont, Jeff picked up the phone to call Eleanor. We were worried about accommodations and dinner. “Snow? Slow down? Ok … Yep. I’ll be careful … thanks so much! Yes we’ll see you soon! Thanks again. Ok bye.” The temperature had been dropping steadily since Brooklyn, but not a whisper of precipitation. Jeff turned to us, “she says when we get to Saint Johnsbury, there will be snow.” A green road sign for Saint Johnsbury hove into view. “She also says she’ll meet us at the hotel with beer and pizza.” A murmur of approval from the backseat. “Sweet!”

Within ten minutes, snow was falling all around us, growing steadily more powdery and voluminous as we drove north. By the time we’d exited the highway, twisting and turning, climbing and descending rolling hills, we’d slowed from 90 miles an hour to under 40, and our headlights revealed nothing but white snow against black night. Eleanor pulled into the parking lot of WilloughVale Inn not more than 2 minutes behind us, and stepped from her vehicle with several flat, aromatic boxes, two cases of beer, and four booze reps from New Jersey. We let ourselves into the hotel (we were the only guests; there were no employees to be found), and settled in the living room with pizza, beer, and the Super Bowl.

View from the WilloughVale Inn and Cottages.

I woke up the next morning with the joyous sensation of being deep in country. We caught up on emails as well as the latest political news before heading to the orchards. Approximately eight miles from the Canadian border, the terroir Eleanor plays with is a unique microclimate. Married to a French Canadian, Eleanor decided when she settled in the area to make cidre de glace, the traditional Ice Cider most often associated with Québec. Her first order of business was to figure out which types of apples are best suited to the area, and through experiment she discovered that for the most part French varieties work best. (Eleanor does also use some English as well as New England Heirloom varieties.)

Apple Varieties.

To make ice cider, apples are pressed in the winter with frigid temperatures on the horizon. The juice is then left to freeze in containers outside. This process renders a tiny amount of incredibly concentrated, sweet juice (like something that you’d pour over ice cream), which is transferred to an indoor cellar to ferment. At Eden, fermentation is accomplished with a Riesling yeast, temperature sensitive and accustomed to high sugar content, a yeast that is easy to stop at exactly the right moment. To stop the fermentation, the juice goes back outside into the cold. Once I saw the pieces, the process, which takes 4 months start to finish, began to seem quite simple and natural.

The most concentrated and high sugar content juice goes into ice ciders, and there are three: Heirloom, Northern Spy, and Honey Crisp. Heirloom and Honey Crisp are aged for six months to a year in stainless steel tank, and then a year in bottle before release. Northern Spy sees a year of barrel aging in French oak. Though I don’t feel especially qualified to give in depth tasting notes on these, I’ll offer my impression of the differences. Heirloom is the most traditional in profile, intensely sweet with balanced acidity, and classic. Northern Spy offers the mellow and burnished caramel spice note of oak. Honey Crisp is bright and lively with the succulent character of that very popular apple. All ring in at 10% alcohol, 15% sugar (150 grams/liter).

After a short-lived but amusing crack at cross country skiing, we migrated to Newport Vermont to Eleanor’s tasting room, where we met David Biun, the head cider maker. This guy came to Eden from an upstate New York winery, and what an incredible score he’s been for Eleanor. He seemed to ooze information about cider apples and processes. We learned, for example, that culinary apples are harder to make cider out of because they have fewer phenols and flavonoid compounds (read: less flavor), also that they are less nutritious for the yeasts. Bittersweet and heritage apples are more nutritious, which results in a smoother fermentation.

As I understand it, at some point Eleanor decided she needed to do something with the juice that wasn’t quite at the concentration level for ice cider, and so she began to make traditional dry and off-dry ciders, but in her own, special way. We began the tasting with Juliette, a still, dry cider that resonates sort of like a bone dry Riesling. Made from early ripening apples varieties planted in Heath orchard in Canada, it’s 6.4% alcohol, tangy, delicate, and fresh. With 0.0% sugar, I’d think you could sub this in for pretty much any crisp dry white with success.

This cider was named after Juliette Pope, one of the industry’s most beloved wine luminaries.

Eden’s Dry and Semi-Dry sparkling ciders are densely carbonated and ridiculously food friendly in their structure and tannins. They finish their second fermentation in the bottle and are hand disgorged. While I like the Dry, which is 50% Kingston Black apples and 0.0% sugar, I’m particularly fond of the Semi-Dry, which comprises different apples and is topped up with ice cider to bring it up to 1% sugar. “Semi-dry” is almost a misnomer here because this cider would drink dry beside basically all other ciders. It has beautiful texture and very light bitterness.

Look out for this one. It’s sensational.

As Eleanor poured the next sparkling cider into our glasses, David explained that for this experiment, one of their Cellar Series called Guinevere’s Pearls, he’d used Northern Spy apples and concentrated the juice using the ice cider process. Apparently grapes have 3x the flavor precursors that apples do, and one of the ways to combat this unfavorable ratio is to concentrate the apple juice. At 11% alcohol and 2 grams of sugar, this cider is just insanely good. Creamy and aromatic, it made me think of a delicious, spiced apple sauce. A reservation for all the rest of the stock went in post haste, and I’m eagerly awaiting its arrival in New York.

One of Eleanor’s most popular ciders is her rosé, which is in fact more of a currant/apple wine. She loves French rosés, and wanted to make something to drink in the same context: on a warm day, for apéro, for refreshment. She searched long and hard for a native ingredient to make the cider pink, and finally settled on red currants. Originally she used the currants planted on her property, but as demand has grown she now uses a top quality currant concentrate from Germany with excellent results. She chose currants for their tangy properties, and it’s the perfect fit. At 11% alcohol and 1.2% sugar (once again, an ice cider dosage), it’s the most wine-like, and amongst the most satisfying products Eden makes. It’s also the only sparkling cider in their collection that sees forced carbonation (meaning the carbonation is added rather than taking place in the bottle à la Eden’s version of the Champagne method). I’d happily drink this over 99% of French rosé.

Meets all pink wine need, and surpasses 99% of its grape-based competition in quality.

We continued the tasting with hopped cider, experimental cider, brandy and bourbon barrel aged ice ciders, and more, however my notes begin to break down as it was close to order board cutoff and I had to keep running upstairs in search of cell phone reception.

After lunch a late and satisfying lunch, we commandeered our very own cabin at WilloughVale. Jeff invited the New Jersey reps to come over for dinner and an extensive tasting of ciders and beer with no spit cups. It was quite an ad hoc party, and as the blood alcohol level crept up, so did the decibel level. I made my escape down a frozen slope to the hotel amidst raging debate over who the five most influential people in cider are today. Eleanor Léger was at the top of the list.

It’s hard to get excited about wine writing in this political climate. Because what’s the point? The expression “Political Climate” takes on more irony and resonance as climate change becomes a greater and greater political issue. We wonder about the future of wine as the earth warms and the weather turns increasingly mercurial, as vignerons lose their crops to uncharacteristically early budding followed by late spring frosts, as torrential downpours make working the soil impossible, as the planet lashes out against us for the damages we’ve done. In short, we wonder if Burgundy will have turned into Châteauneuf-du-Pape by the time our children are our age. Meanwhile the snow falls and it’s winter in New York.

A tree grows on Ainslie Street.

A tree grows on Ainslie Street.

The optimists are terrified, and the realists? Well the realists have become hedonists. They’re living each day like it might be their last. The Statue of Liberty, drowning, grasps Barak Obama’s leg as Trump’s inauguration looms on the horizon. Post election anxiety, which waned temporarily, is back with full force as pundits on Face of the Nation rehash our future president’s late-night tweets while debating who will wag, the tail (Trump’s cabinet) or the dog? But our soon to be former president tells us he’s not viewing Trump’s presidency as the apocalypse, and I’ll try to do the same. What choice do we have?

Then there’s this bizarre glimmer of a notion that my health insurance might cost less if the Affordable Care Act is repealed. We’ll see. Presently, my experience with our health care system consists of hours spent researching, countless phone calls and online registration forms, estimates and fine print, all leading to the same conclusion, namely that for health care in America you pay .. and then you pay again … and then you pay some more, paying your insurance company for the right not be bankrupted by the medical machine if something goes wrong. Insurance is “the business of ensuring property against loss or harm in specified contingencies, a payment proportionate to the risks involved.” Someone has to foot the bill, and it’s a big one.

Exploring the oeuvre beyond Jeeves and Wooster.

Exploring the oeuvre beyond Jeeves and Wooster.

Personally I’m hiding out in a land of puppies, ’90s boy bands, and PG Wodehouse, everything wholesome and G rated. It’s a pretty straightforward approach to tough times ahead that consists of cultivating the worst possible expectations, while enjoying the simple pleasures of life, from cheesy lyrics and a four part harmony to hilarious prose from a by-gone era. In her 2nd to last month of life, my mom called with the following piece of advice: “pat your sweet kitty, Sophie”, and I did. Patting the cats and keeping a journal, the poor man’s therapy.

A pair of new wines from Bow and Arrow has been a bright spot in the gloom. These wines arrived during the busiest week of the holiday season, and so it wasn’t until after the madness that I got to crack them and see how they were tasting. The wines seemed to have benefited from settling at the warehouse for a couple of weeks. It’s always a good idea to let wines settle after travel, but excitement and cash flow prevent us from doing so. In the case of the Bow and Arrow wines, which are crafted with minimal intervention, it’s been especially true that they need a few weeks in New York to grow into themselves.

For those unfamiliar with Bow and Arrow, these wines are made by Scott Frank, who riffs on Loire Valley appellations, grapes, and terroirs, in Oregon. Scott works exclusively with Loire Valley varieties, fruit from cool sites, which he shepherds into the bottle in a Loire-ish manner, often using semi-carbonic maceration for the reds, minimal punchdowns, little to no racking, and small additions of SO2. Didier Barouillet of Close Roche Blanche, as well as Theirry Puzelat and Marc Ollivier consulted for Scott on this project. Do Bow and Arrow wines taste like Loire Valley wines? In my opinion, sometimes. You’ll have to seek a few out and see for yourself.

2015 was a hot, dry year for our friends in Oregon. It will not surprise you, dear reader, to learn that apropos of climate change, our friends in Oregon have been experiencing more and more hot, dry vintages. However, there’s a silver lining, namely vineyards and varieties that previously struggled for ripeness, get ripe, in this climate. Scott’s 2015 wines are riper than in previous vintages, and it suits the wines very, very well. In the case of Air Guitar, this manifests as a certain seriousness and density of tannins that suggests a long life, and in the case of Rhinestones, a sweet, sexy, red-fruited succulence.

A Pinot-heavy vintages for Rhinestones.

A Pinot-heavy vintages for Rhinestones.

It’s impossible to write in depth about Bow and Arrow without mentioning the Johan Vineyard in Willamette’s west valley, a vineyard that is farmed biodynamically. In Johan, the topsoil is poorer, but also more complex than in the “Hollywood Hills” of the Willamette: Chehalem, Dundee, Eola-Amity. There’s less cake-y volcanic clay, and lots of graphite. There are Loire Valley grapes planted in Johan: Cabernet Franc, Melon de Bourgogne, Gamay. One day, Johan will be within an AVA called Van Doozer Corridor, but for the moment it’s a spot that flies under the radar, which keeps the price of grapes relatively low.

"Only the French can make a diamond."

“Only the French can make a diamond.”

In 2015, all the fruit for Rhinestones came from the Johan Vineyard. The wine is 60/40 Pinot Noir and Gamay, though in past vintages it’s been Gamay heavy. My understanding is that Rhinestones is like a Cheverny wine, inspired by those gloriously gulp-able Clos de Tue-Boeuf bottles: La Gravotte and Les Caillères. Delicately colored and gleaming, the wine’s ripe, red pinosity is explosive and gorgeous, lifted still further by the high-toned aromatics and crunch of Gamay. There’s a deep sweetness to the fruit, with no sacrifice of balance or acidity. It’s the tart sweetness of cranberry and cherry that prevail, accompanied by the faintest whiff of funk that carries this wine across the palate and leaves the drinker thirsting for more.

Pairs well with King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard.

Pairs well with King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard.

Air Guitar is more mysterious. It’s Scott’s take on a red from the Anjou area, a blend of Cabernets, Franc and Sauvignon. In 2013, it was made sans soufre, but no longer. In 2015, it’s 60/40 Cabernet Sauvignon from a place called Borgo Pass, and Cabernet Franc from Johan. In my notes from our June trip, I have jotted that Borgo Pass is a “weird, Alpine site where Teutonic gets Pinot Meunier”, but further research reveals there’s a town in Oregon called “Alpine”, whence the Cabernet Sauvignon for this wild wine. Air Guitar is dark and sleek, with black and green pepper, dark fruit, earth and funk, with reduction that blows off in a decanter. The tannins are present at the beginning, ripe and persistent at the end. It’s more serious, less exuberant than Rhinestones, and ultimately, I found, more complex. “We’re quite pleased with that one, too” Scott said. “If it evolves like 2014, it should be a keeper.”

Information about the wine can feature on the back label as well.

Information about the wine can feature on the back label as well.

In closing, I’ll mention something I think about a lot in collection with Bow and Arrow, which is the overall coherence of the brand. The exterior is consistent with the interior, also with the statement the winemaker is trying to make. Using the word “brand” generally makes me ask myself “am I a connoisseur, or am I a hack?” But in the past year working in wholesale, I’ve concluded that a coherent brand (good packaging, a nice label with information about the wine on it, a good story, and a reasonable price) not only encourages sales, but shows respect to the customer. It says “your experience with my wine is more important than my ego.” From what I’ve seen, Scott is far more humble than egotistical, which is reflected in both his wines and his brand. I like that.

 

 

A couple of days ago the Davis family holiday letter plopped into my mailbox. I’ve come to look forward to this missive because I’m fond of the family, and because Brant, who pens the letter, is a superb writer. Like our esteemed president (the present one, not the future one, in case there was any doubt), Brant is a lawyer, and I’m coming to believe that lawyers master the language in a special way: heart felt, clear, and concise. This year’s Davis family letter left me even more moved than past year’s, because I knew from our email correspondence that Brant (like many of us) has not even begun to recover from the election, and confessed that he’d had a far more difficult time than usual finding messages of optimism with which to pepper his prose.  I was inspired by Brant’s efforts, and to that end offer my own “holiday letter.”

In spite of recent political events, I can’t help but look back on 2016 as a good year. 2015 was a year of turmoil and upheaval in my professional life, and I hoped that 2016 would prove more tranquil. It has. In January, I began working for MFW Wine Company, and am extremely fortunate to have landed this position as a New York sales rep. Many new people have come into my life thanks to this job: buyers, importers, winemakers, the list goes in. It’s only been a year, but already I find it hard to conceive of my life without Ernest from Portovino, wine lover and vintage motorcycle enthusiast in Tuscany, Kate Norris and Tom Monroe of Division Winemaking Company in Portland, Jeff Russell, Annika, and Tess Drumheller, my colleagues in sales, and then my customers who make me want to offer the best service I can. To my clients: you all inspire the hell out of me. Thank you for your support.

On Friday we had our holiday party and there was much poignant speechifying. I recalled that a major reason I took the job was that I wanted to learn how to be a schnook, and to learn it not just from Mike Foulk, who I deem one of the best in the trade, but also from Michael Wheeler, a legend in his own right, someone who took an interest in me when I was a junior buyer at Astor back in 2008, someone with an apparently inherent knack for this trade. (He also brought me Riesling from Clemens Busch for the first time, as well as Equipo Navazos Sherry. He’s prescient, that man.)

My business card. Feel free to get in touch ...

My business card. Feel free to get in touch …

If 2014 and 2015 were years of travel abroad, 2016 was a year of travel within the United States, a year to get better acquainted with this country, which strikes me as timely given how clearly divided we are as a nation. In the past, the only places I wanted to be outside of New York, were in Europe. That has changed as my knowledge of the United States has broadened, and I begin to fathom what a vast, diverse, and fascinating country we live in. And yes some of my favorite places in the America are in states that voted for Trump, and some of my least favorite places in states that voted for Hillary.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. As usual, a highlight of the year was my trip to France in April and May. I began in Champagne with Transatlantic Bubbles, and a group of fabulous  buyers hand selected by Mike Carleton and Jeff Hellman, who are some of the nicest guys in the business. From Champagne, I drove to the Loire Valley, where I spent five days getting to know growers in the MFW portfolio. I circle back often to the my visits with Michel Autran, a remarkable former doctor turned vigneron in Vouvray. There are many things to love about Michel, from his wines to his kind and spiritual demeanor. I shared a fantastic meal with Michel in Tours, where we spoke about many things both professional and personal, something I now consider to be vital, thanks to Scott Frank of Bow and Arrow Wines who first planted the seed of suggestion that a true rapport goes far beyond wine. Michel gave me a bottle of 2013 Les Enfers Tranquilles to take home with me, and I drank it in my family home, in North Carolina. It’s a glorious bottle of wine, and in that moment, sipped on a humid summer night listening to the cicadas, it seemed to give form to the notion of a current, a laser beam of acid and mineral, a narrative tying together past, present, and future.

Michel Autran.

Michel Autran.

In June, Jason Malumed and I headed to Portland to visit our sister company, PDX, to spend some time with Michael Wheeler, and to get to know the terroirs of Oregon (as well as the strip clubs and marijuana dispensaries). I’d never been to Portland, and had been curious to visit for years. Portland is a civilized place; it’s a nice size (read a hellova lot smaller than New York). The countryside is beautiful; the people are nice. There are urban wineries, made possible by the proximity of the wine regions to the city itself. Some of them have wine bars in them where you can sip a glass while scoping out the winemaking equipment and processes. (How awesome is that?!?) I love the wines we sell from Oregon, which are complex, fairly priced, humble, and most importantly delicious. Thanks to Scott Frank and Chad Stock I have an entirely new view of Sauvignon Blanc, and drank thirstily from a magnum of Union School at our holiday party. Folks who have known me as an old world, cool climate wine snob respond to these changes in my taste with looks that say “who is this imposter and what has she done with my Sophie?” To which I state that I heartily enjoy changing my mind, also that the wine trade would quickly lose its luster if there weren’t new regions to learn about and become smitten by.

One of my favorite wines of the year: SM1 Savvy B from Minimus.

One of my favorite wines of the year: SM1 Savvy B from Minimus.

As much as I enjoyed touring the wine regions, my most meaningful day in Oregon was spent with a very dear school friend, hiking along the Oregon coast, and stopping to picnic by the ocean. The Pacific is a little hard to get used to for me as an east coaster, like someone behind the checkout counter in the grocery store asking how my day’s going (that doesn’t happen in New York), it’s just different. I’m used to the warm, soft Atlantic along the North Carolina coast, with its large expanses of uncovered, Coors Light sipping, country music listening flesh.

Mira and Sophie.

Mira and my Sauvignon Blanc loving alter ego.

Which brings me to the most significant two weeks of the year, which were spent cleaning my family home in Saxapahaw and rescuing my patrimony. This was something I’d been putting off for years, until it couldn’t be put off any longer, until Flannery offered up a solution, which was to ask for help from my broad network of friends and loved ones. This was some of the most satisfying work I’ve ever done, and each day someone different came by to help, to chat, and to reconnect. These two weeks were life changing in their impact on my personal life and psyche. Even now as I listen through the wall between my room and Susannah’s to the dulcet tones of cheering, whistling, and rubber on hardwood floor that signal the beginning of Carolina basketball season, I find myself proud of my origins, and proud of those 30 acres of woods that are mine.

Front: Alex, Sophie. Back: Margaret, Bobby, Karl.

Front: Alex, Sophie.
Back: Margaret, Bobby, Karl.

Yes there was a lot of traveling in 2016, and very little of it in Europe. I’m at over 1k words and haven’t even mentioned Montreal (I went twice this year), or the North Fork, where a group of us toured wine country on bikes. However, I’m going to end my year in review with a long weekend spent in South Dakota in October. Last post, I started to write about this as part of the political diatribe, but stopped because it just didn’t make sense. I went into the heart of a very red state, skinny black jeans, quasi-New York accent and all, prepared to suppress my political views if necessary for the sake of getting along. There are many things I remember fondly about this trip, the image of Prairie Berry Winery along the highway between Rapid City and Custer, Mount Rushmore, a national monument as breath-taking as our new world trade center, touring the back woods on a Four Wheeler, shooting a rifle, two pistols, and a crossbow. But now, in hind site, I most frequently recall a conversation I had about gun control, a conversation that helped to make real all I’d been reading about the beliefs of Americans outside of the urban, liberal bastions.

'Merica.

‘Merica.

On a table in the garage, I found an issue of American Hunter. Inside there were pages of propaganda about Hillary Clinton, essentially saying she’s going to take your guns away. Then there were advertisements for Donald Trump, essentially saying he’d support the National Rifle Association, protect your second amendment rights, etc …  And so I started a conversation about gun laws; I couldn’t help it. My interlocutor was coming from a South Dakota place (“My neighbors all have guns, therefore I need a gun to protect myself in case one of them comes up my driveway in the middle of the night to take all my shit! Also: I like guns. I shoot deer, a species constantly on the verge of over population, and my family and I eat all the meat we harvest.”). I was coming from a New York place (“If we didn’t have strict gun laws in this incredibly populous place I call home, all it would take is someone having a bad day for there to be fifty people dead on the subway.”) We had a conversation, and each of us learned something.

Like Brant, I don’t have much of a message of optimism at the end of this year. It looks as though we are headed for dark times, and my heart remains broken by the notion of dignity passing from the White House, making room for indignity and hateration. However, I believe that the dialogue must remain open with people who think differently. My New Years resolution, along with becoming fully pescatarian, giving up meat and poultry for good, is to seek out some Trump-ists and talk to them.

Happy holidays, and thanks for reading!

-Sophie

The situation on Friday evening was this: Ernest was proposing to order a bottle of ’61 Huet Demi-Sec before we’re received the first round of appetizers. I spoke out: “Wait! Isn’t ’61 Huet a Vino da Meditazione? We can’t drink it now.” The Italians chuckled, seemingly tickled that I knew the expression.  Over this dinner, I realized the concept of Vino da Meditazione is real. The expression first entered my wine lexicon back in September when Portovino, our Italian importer, did a little presentation on Italian wine words. These guys from Portovino are sarcastic, and so when Ernest told us “Yeah Mark always has to have a Vino da Meditazione at the end of the meal” I figured he mostly joking, that the comment was part of their Car Talk routine, rather than … I dunno … a category of wine.

A Vino da Meditazione is something you sip at the end of a meal, not because you need anything else to drink or to eat, not because you should (although who is to say you shouldn’t?), but because you can. It’s a wine sipped purely for pleasure, on its own, or with a nut or a sliver of cheese merely to remind the drinker that it’s wine, and therefore inherently better with food. Madeira comes to mind, Marsala, Port. Dry red wine is possible as well, I’ve heard, but only if it’s old. A romp-y young red will never fit the bill, nor will a zesty, crisp white.

As someone with an interest in how wines pair with situations, I believe no time could be better than the present to reach for a wine of meditation. We’ve been dealt a blow so tough that words fail, and yet all we encounter are words: words of anger, frustration, fear, heart-break, words on Facebook, words in the news, words streaming out of the mouths of friends and loved ones, words atop signs protesting the election of Donald Trump. I’m not suggesting that the words should cease (obviously, I’m writing), but that it’s time to seek out that Vino da Meditazione, to spend some moments in silence, or in peaceful conversation with people whose opinions you value, reflecting on how this happened to our country, and … yes it sounds cliché … relishing the moment because it is all we have, now more than ever.

For the past few months, I — like many — read obsessively about the election. Most mornings I’d start with the New Yorker over coffee and breakfast, then tote it to the gym and get the pages all sweaty, immersed in articles about the alt-right, about Republican distaste for our president elect, about how the Democratic party alienated the White Working Class, and on and on. I’d finish my day this way, too, alone, with a hodgepodge of leftovers in front of me, maybe a glass of leftover sample wine in my hand, maybe just some water. Like many, I’ve never been as politically engaged as I was this election.

One of the most interesting and personally upsetting articles I read dealt with a group of people the New Yorker refers to as “cosmopolitan élite,” pitting them educationally, socio-economically, philosophically, against the “white working class.” Am I a cosmopolitan élite? I asked myself this question time and again, and am still asking it now, and I don’t enjoy the direction these mental peregrinations take me because they implicate me and almost everyone I know in this national crisis.

I grew up in rural North Carolina; my dad was a southern, white, working class man who had guns, mildly racist attitudes, and who I’m fairly sure would have gotten a kick out of Donald Trump, though my mom would never have allowed him to vote accordingly. My mom spent the majority of her life educating and providing social services to hispanic immigrants, helping them to have better lives in America. I grew up in a liberal, academic family. I went to Quaker school, where multiculturalism and tolerance were features of the education. My grandparents marched in the first Civil Rights demonstrations in Chapel Hill in the 1950s. A mixture of beliefs shaped my early life, but my father’s mild conservatism was far outweighed by my mother’s liberalism.

I’ve lived in Brooklyn for the past nine years; I travel to Europe regularly; I speak French, I have two useless college degrees. I wept with joy when Barak Obama was elected in both 2008 and in 2012, just as I wept on Tuesday night, and on Wednesday, and on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of this week, last night even. But as New York has become increasingly wealthy, a city of cosmopolitan élite, I’ve become increasingly alienated. Progressive, liberal attitudes hole up in this city, feeding off one another, fanning the flame of cultural and intellectual snobbery and superiority, and I believe this is where our downfall has been. It was staggering the number of times I heard, last Tuesday night, watching Trump make a clean sweep of virtually every “battleground state” including my own state of origin “why can’t New York be its own country?” or “I’m moving; I can’t live here”. Virtually every American with me that night was a battleground state ex-pat: Florida, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Ohio, and I hate to say it, but we are part of the problem. We left our home states to come to a place where people think like us. It wasn’t until Thursday that I heard a single person say “nah we need to stay here and make it better.”

What does this have to do with wine? Essentially nothing; it’s a tenuous connection at best. I’m proposing that for every hour you spend cruising Facebook, either brawling with people who think differently, or engaged in large scale sympathy banter, you spend an hour away from the media, either thinking, or speaking to friends about why and what next. Break away from the screen, the newspaper, the talking heads, and find a meditative moment to be thankful for what you have. It’s easier said then done.

Columbu Malvasia di Bosa from Sardinia might be the ultimate Vino da Meditazione.

Columbu Malvasia di Bosa from Sardinia might be the ultimate Vino da Meditazione.

On a brighter note: it turns out MFW has lots of Vini da Meditazioni, and I would be more than happy to suggest one to accompany your election hangover. Malvasia di Bosa from Colombu and Silvio Carta Vernaccia di Oristano come to mind … But today I’m writing about one specific Vino da Meditazione: Golden Cluster Sémillon. I chose this wine because the place that gave birth to it, the David Hill Vineyard in Forrest Grove Oregon, is meditative, because when I went there in June, the vineyard itself evoked the fascinating, creative things humans do in pursuit of beauty and meaning. The David Hill Vineyard, a monopole of the David Hill Winery, which produces cheap grocery store wine, is simultaneously a place of striking ambiance, of peaceful breezes rustling the vine leaves as you meander between rows of different exotic grape varieties planted by ampelographer Charles Coury in the 1960s. There’s a bizarre duality to this place.ebdb5a7d-0494-4992-a604-c173b5e0b2f8

It’s an interesting story: Golden Cluster comes from three rows of vines planted in 1965 by Charles Coury, a graduate of UC Davis who, it is speculated, was looking to prove his masters thesis on growing grapes in cool climates. The rootstock came from the Wente vineyard in California, whence Kalin Sémillon, undoubtedly the most lauded domestic example of this grape. Grown at 550 meters altitude on laurel wood and basalt soils, these are some of the oldest vines in the state of Oregon. In fact, Coury planted the vineyard to many grape varieties from all over the world, notably Germany, Burgundy, and Alsace. Although grapes have been cultivated in Oregon since the 1840s, the 1960s mark the rebirth of the Oregon wine trade, and this vineyard was a sort of blank slate on which to paint the next stage.

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This is the Ode to Chuck bottling, which seems more new wood than the “regular” Sémillon, a 140 liter Chablis barrel charred long and slow.

Enter Jeff Vejr, a restaurateur and renaissance man who became fascinated by Charles Coury’s legacy. As we understand it, Jeff made an arrangement with the present owners of the vineyard to purchase three rows of Sémillon for this wine. He then brought back the brand Coury had created in the 1970s called “Golden Cluster.” The wine is raised in neutral French oak of which 5% is new. It is unfined and unfiltered, and Vejr waits an additional year after bottling to release the wine. He also recommends decanting for best results, and we can see why. As with many profound white wines, it’s best with air, and at cellar rather than refrigerator temperature.22a2a33e-0cdb-4197-8962-931ca090c7b0

Despite its texture, this is not a rich wine in terms of alcohol, weighing in at 12.5%. Redolent of the outside of a pineapple or mango, preserved lemon, beeswax, with notes of honey creeping in with air, it has mellow but persistent acidity, and a silken texture. The wine has glorious length and depth of flavor. I don’t have a ready comparison. Then again it’s been some years since I tasted Kalin Sémillon. I do know that I love this wine, that it’s one of the few this past year that takes me immediately to a time and place, to a couple of individuals: Charles Coury but also Jeff Vejr, who wanted to make something profound out of these vines that were going into cheap grocery store wine.

I drank this wine with Dafne Sanchez, a friend from North Carolina, a Mexican-American woman more than 10 years my junior, the daughter of one of my mother’s best friends. We talked about lots of things, but mostly we talked about the election, about people who think differently, about whether there’s a possibility she’ll be deported apropos of our new president (it seems unlikely — she’s too far into the immigration process), about her fear of hate crimes in Greensboro, where she’s a German language and literature student, about the lack of trust in her fellow man she now feels walking down the street. It’s comforting to live in the liberal bubble of New York, where you can be fairly certain everyone you know is grieving and/or pissed as hell, but it’s imperative now more than ever to connect with people in the rest of the country, to seek out some kind of unity in these divisive times.

Almost a year ago, around the time I tasted Ruppert-Leroy’s first sans soufre experiment called Fosse-Grely Autrement, I vowed not to do a full-on write up of the domaine, on the grounds that Bert Celce had pretty much said it all. This post isn’t so much about Ruppert-Leroy, as it is about selling Ruppert-Leroy in New York. Perhaps because we are so heavily inundated with election coverage and verbiage these days, my mission to put these wines in restaurants and shops has begun to feel like a campaign. I’ve campaigned more diligently for this producer than I’ve ever campaigned in my wholesale career, because I love the wines, because what they represent in the context of Champagne is fascinating, and because when I needed some righteous juice to bring me back to caring about Wine (rather than just working in Wine), Ruppert-Leroy was there for me. By this I mean only that any career, no matter how much one enjoys it, begins at some point to feel like just-a-job, and the perfect antidote is to take up the cause of something one believes in.

Ecstatic me with Emmanuel Ruppert after our April visit.

Ecstatic me with Emmanuel Ruppert after our April visit.

I began selling Champagne not as a rep, but as the manager of a retail store: Chambers Street Wines. Whether or not I was good at it, I certainly wasn’t very practical. I bought the wines that moved me, wrote about them for the newsletter, put them in people’s hands on the sales floor, and called it a day. From time to time, particularly looking down the barrel of the 4th Quarter, I put some effort into finding Champagnes that were farmed well and relatively inexpensive ($60 and under on the shelf), and came up with Laherte Ultradition, Tarlant Brut Zero, and sometimes more avant garde bottlings like Bulles de Comptoir from Charles Duffour. For the most part it was pretty easy; my enthusiasm was enough to sell some wine.

Wholesale is completely different. First you must convince the customer to taste Champagne with you when they may not be looking for it (and in my experience most wholesale customers are not looking for Champagne on a regular basis). Then you must convince the customer to spend their money on something relatively expensive and unknown on the grounds of an exceptional and unique flavor profile that is the polar opposite of what most people think of when they think of Champagne (more on this later). Finally you have to get them so excited about the wine that they don’t balk at the prospect of hand selling every bottle, because wines like this are a hand sell 95 out of 100 times. It’s not so easy.

In the vineyard.

In the vineyard.

It’s almost humorous how many Ruppert-Leroy samples I’ve ordered over the past two months. It’s certainly humorous — though not necessarily good — that restaurants looking for value reds for their by-the-glass programs are instead getting Ruppert-Leroy when I darken their doors for my appointments. I’ve taken these wines out on so many occasions of late that I can recite our sevenfifty entries virtually verbatim. How does this happen? Well for one thing, each time I take the wines out I miss somebody, another preferred customer or two, or three, who I feel can’t live another day, week, month, without experiencing the magic of Ruppert-Leroy. And so I plan another day, and order another set of samples. It’s a bit unusual to do this with Champagne because the samples are costly (so hopefully my bosses won’t be pissed if/when they read this post), but also because it’s rare to sell a lot of Champagne when you show it because Champagne is expensive, and it’s harder to sell expensive wine than to sell cheap wine unless the expensive wine is made by some fancy, extra-big-deal, allocated estate, in which case you’re not taking it out anyway because it’s all sold without “wasting” a sample. Whew. Make sense? Showing Champagne can be somewhat of a lost cause. After a day in the roll-y bag, the wine is warm and the bubbles gone, but fortunately if it’s vineyard-forward Champagne such as Ruppert-Leroy, even the still, warm juice tastes amazing.

Tiny sign, very un-Champenois.

Tiny sign, very un-Champenois.

My most useful observation about selling these wines in New York has been that they seem to fit better at restaurants than at most shops. I have a few theories about this. The first is that they are food wines: savory, sapid, unapologetically dry, prone to opening up gorgeously over a couple of hours (this doesn’t mean decant them; please don’t decant them), and so intense that to drink them as a casual aperitif would seem to do the wine and the drinker a disservice. But additionally, in the restaurant context, a conversation almost always takes place between the server or the sommelier, and the guest, which means that the opportunity to explain these wines — even if just a sentence or two — is built into the experience. In a shop, some of the bottles need to sell themselves, without conversation, solely on the grounds of label or reputation, which is why Veuve Cliquot and Moët et Chadon, Billecart Salmon and Laurent Perrier maintain their shelf spaces even when every employee of the shop understands that these are not particularly good wines. We can’t just sell great wine all the time, in any branch of the trade. Sometimes we have to be practical, and I don’t fault my retailers for allowing pragmatism to guide them. That said, my appreciation for those retailers who take a chance on Ruppert-Leroy knows no bounds.

Who is Ruppert-Leroy? Ruppert-Leroy is a small, organic estate located outside the village of Essoyes in the Aube, a region several hours by car south of Epernay. The Aube is known for its kimmeridgean limestone soils, and has over the past decade risen to hipster popularity thanks to the efforts of producers like Cédric Bouchard, Vouette et Sorbée, and Marie-Courtin, to name just a few. Ruppert-Leroy is the combined effort of Bénédicte Ruppert, and Emmanuel Leroy. Bénédicte Ruppert’s father Gérard started the domaine in the 1970s, and in the mid-2000s, Bénédicte and her husband Emmanuel Ruppert decided to leave their previous careers as gym teachers to take up the reigns at the estate. Though the vines (planted in the ’70s) had long been tended organically, there was no certification until Bénédicte and Emmanuel took over, harvesting for the first time in 2010.

View from the bridge in downtown Essoyes.

View from the bridge in downtown Essoyes.

Emmanuel and Bénédicte farm three vineyards, all more or less cordoned off by woods (this would never happen in the north of Champagne) called Fosse-Grely, Martin-Fontaine, and Les Cognaux. Lush with plant life and dandelions, which they incorporate into tisanes for treating mildew, each vineyard boasts a different varietal makeup and soil type. Fosse-Grely is limestone with red clay, co-planted to Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. Martin-Fontaine is white limestone planted to Chardonnay, and Les Cognaux is gray clay and tiny sea shells over limestone, planted to Pinot Noir. The domaine is about four hectares in total.

Fosse-Grely juice.

Fosse-Grely juice.

In the cellar, the processes are really very simple: the juice is pressed, then it is transferred to stainless steel vat, then it is transferred to neutral barrel to ferment with indigenous yeast where rests sur lie for some months before bottling, or returning to storage in tank. The second fermentation takes place over several years comme d’habitude, and then the wine is disgorged without dosage. (Quick note here: as is the case with many Champagnes from the Aube, there is no place for dosage. The grapes are harvested ripe, and the addition of sugar would be extraneous, like frosting on a pie.)

Breath-taking 2013 Martin-Fontaine.

Breath-taking 2013 Martin-Fontaine.

In 2013, Emmanuel and Bénédicte stopped using sulfur completely, and regardless of one’s feelings about Champagne without sulfur (mine are mixed), results in the case of Ruppert-Leroy have been excellent. The manifestations of sans soufre Champagne-making are (in my opinion) as follows: base wines virtually always undergo malolactic fermentation because preventing it and keeping it at bay requires a minimum of 60-70 milligrams of SO2. The finished wine is darker in the glass due to a faint oxidation that isn’t particularly apparent on the palate. There are incredibly expressive flavors on the nose, mid-palate, and finish, flavors that are clipped by sulfur in most Champagne. In the case of Fosse-Grely, it’s a succulent grape-iness; in the case of Martin-Fontaine, it’s broad Chablis-like apple, pêche des vignes, and sweet lime; in the case of Les Cognaux, it’s ripe raspberries and tart cherries, seeds, pits and all. And so what I mean when I say these wines have atypical flavors is that they are not toasty; they are not yeasty; they are not searingly acidic from blocked malo; they are not chalky; they are not sweet from dosage. The wines taste like limestone, earth, and fruit, and no matter how much I hate the expression “like Chablis with bubbles”, I find myself using it to describe these wines.

Having spent many paragraphs now on the domaine itself, which I vowed not to do, I’ll return to my statement that what Ruppert-Leroy represents in the context of Champagne is fascinating. We began calling Emmanuel Ruppert the “DIY King” of Essoyes because he built his house and winery out of hand-harvested logs. When we went to visit in April, Bénédicte was toiling in their large and impressive garden. There were sheep everywhere, and horses (one even joined us in the barrel room for our vin clair tasting). This is an sustainable farm. There are no fancy shoes; there’s no giant sign visible from the road advertising the domaine; there are no master blenders; there are no branding and marketing strategists, no export manager. These are the kind of people I’m used to meeting in the Loire Valley, or in the Jura, but rarely encounter in Champagne. They are farmers, and pretty much everything they’ve created from their humble abode to the wines themselves is a hand made extension of themselves and their philosophy. Now this is something worth campaigning for.

There are a couple of memories that linger from my first interview with Jamie Wolff of Chambers Street Wines. The sweaty late summer day having its way with some cheap maroon-ish fabrics from Anthropology. The sudden chill of the air conditioning. My overuse of the phrase “wealth of knowledge.” That Jamie asked if I sometimes wished wine didn’t have alcohol in it. What a bizarre question for the owner of the best wine shop in America to pose! The reply must be a truism “then it wouldn’t be wine!” Alcohol is an integral component; there would be no flavor of wine — not to mention far less conviviality — if wine didn’t contain booze.

I’ve been coming back to that moment with Jamie of late because I’m a little sick of alcohol, which for me means wine; hangovers have become intolerable both physically and psychologically, and — truth be told — I really like not drinking. Yeah. It’s a problem. But I still love wine! Not drinking wine makes drinking it even better, rarer, and therefore more delicious. Restraint and self-denial have their place heightening enjoyment like a judicious touch of volatile acidity. I usually console myself in these ponderings with some kick-ass ice cream and thoughts such as ‘meh. this is my fate, especially as a woman, to respect the necessity of calming down, cleansing, protecting my brain and my body, taking care of my health, consuming less booze, spitting more, swallowing less.’

It’s also the atmosphere. Serious wine drinking tends to come along with boisterous wine conversation and gossip, which is highly amusing (if you’re in on the joke), but when you talk about it all day long, sometimes at the end of the day it’s nice to chat about that local sports team or the latest New Yorker. And yet, cracking jokes about the Cul de Beaujeau, whole cluster, pyrazine struggles, what have you with fellow tipsy nerds is usually a side-splitting blast. We’ve gotten tons of mileage out of whether or not it’s acceptable to use having-one’s-hair-cut-by-a-relative-of-Christophe-Roumier as a selling point in an email blast. Getting animated about reduction, dosage, and sulfur is also pretty fun, but not in mixed company. In all things, balance must be found; Wine People (myself included) seem to forget that it’s healthy to cultivate interests outside of wine, also to drink things that aren’t wine.

It turns out that beverage geekery is hard to let go of, which is why as my drinking has decreased over the past few years I’ve gotten excited about some other liquids of terroir and process. The first is obviously coffee. Thus I present: “Coffee: A Wine Lover’s Guide”.

Coffee shares a lot with wine: a sense of place, the concept of varietal, the importance of high quality fruit, the difference processing makes, the rise of small importers, coffee cupping, which is sort of like wine tasting with little score sheets. Hell, coffee is even fermented! (The cherry around the bean.) There are also enormous differences between wine and coffee: coffee is produced in the third world; the economics are different; coffee commerce is contractual, often planned many months or years ahead. Crucially, much of coffee processing takes place on the state-side, at the roaster and cafe level, which radically changes the consumer’s experience. It’s not pulling a cork and busting out a casual carafe. (Incidentally, I cautiously recommend the movie “Barista” by the directors of “Somm” … if you enjoyed “Somm” that is.)

Coffee trends have evolved alongside wine trends, although I have the impression coffee is 5-10 years behind wine. In the golden era of Starbucks, the coffee was inky black and over-roasted. To make this sludge potable, you needed to add cream and sugar … or at least cream. This kind of coffee tastes good with pastries, doughnuts, sweet breakfast foods, the bitter cutting the sweet. (Incidentally the French also enjoy dark, bitter coffee, and what better pairing than the standard French breakfast of bread, butter, and jam? Unfortunately lots of French coffee is made from low quality robusta, rather than arabica beans. Robusta beans contain more caffeine, which accounts for that delightful jittery feeling you get at around 10 in the morning when all you’ve had is atrocious French coffee and sweet breakfast foods.) Coffees with this taste profile are like the wines that rose to prominence during Robert Parker’s era, when consumers bowed at the alter of Big Flavor. Analogously, big wines often have a convenient sense of sweetness that marries nicely with American food. We don’t actually go for foods that are 100% savory. We like our meats with some fruit, our pizza with some pineapple, our salad with a little sun-dried tomato. Wine that is totally dry doesn’t work with foods that are kissed by sweetness.

Fortunately for us consummate beverage snobs, styles have changed. Single origin coffees — like wines — have gotten considerably more elegant, and are readily available all over New York. Unfortunately, as wealthy a city as New York has become, consumers are rarely willing to pay for a very good cup of coffee, a geisha, a prized micro-lot. Geeks will seek out these unicorn coffees, but most will balk at paying in excess of $5 for a cup, and even $5 seems like a lot to most people. I’m not saying that coffee should be expensive, rather that I’d relish the opportunity to pay a few dollars more for something truly exquisite. Also unfortunately, cafe food trends are a little behind, and even cafes grinding up righteous beans and hiring experienced baristas, muddle along with their cold cases of muffins and danishes. (Let me tell you that a lively coffee from Yirgachefe pairs abysmally with a muffin; it’s like drinking Laval with sweet potatoes and a maple glazed pork loin.)

I’ll insert here a little note about the kinds of foods I like to eat with light roasted, terroir coffee: scrambled eggs with sriracha, avocado toast with feta, pastries with spinach or green vegetables inside, even a bagel with smoked salmon pair better with a cup of terroir coffee than a muffin. Back in the winter my roommate Susannah, who works in wine but used to manage a retailer specializing in both wine and coffee, got all up in arms about the fact that there are no cafes in New York offering chickpea samosas. It sounds like a lot to ask, but a chickpea samosa would be fantastic with an African coffee.

This brings me to my next point: Wine People love African coffee. It’s something about the bright, herbal, and fruit forward profile of Ethiopian coffee that channels our inner Pineau D’Aunis lover. And Kenya? Well that savory tomato thing is quite Sangiovese like, isn’t it? African coffee lends itself well to light roasting, which is obviously very popular these days. Light roasting aligns nicely with concepts of terroir and anti-spoof (No charred oak … or beans!). Many of the best natural process coffees are Ethiopian. (“Natural” in this contexts refers to the practice of leaving the whole cherry to dry around the bean, as opposed to washing or removing the (get ready for this fun coffee word) mucilage some other way. Natural process coffee and natural wine provide convenient comparison, and it’s uncanny how much the blueberry poop funk of natural Ethiopian coffee can resemble the reduction of natural Ardèche Syrah.)

Parlor has great packaging.

Parlor has great packaging.

While the roaster isn’t everything, the roaster has the power to make or break your experience with a cup of coffee. I recommend finding a roaster whose style you like, and drinking across the origins they work with. Parlor Coffee has been doing a great job in New York, and their African coffees are some of my favorites. They may be the epitome of a hipster roaster, but Parlor sources excellent beans and roasts them well. Their style is light-handed and acid-driven with an emphasis on purity. Even though I most often drink their African coffees, Parlor also has a line on some amazing Colombian micro-lots, which remind me of Burgundies in their ability to be densely packed with fruit flavor, deep, dark, and suave, yet never ponderous or heavy.

George Howell is taking the New York coffee scene by storm.

George Howell is taking the New York coffee scene by storm.

This is George Howell. Based in Boston, George Howell appears to be on the rise in in New York (I’ve seen Rouge Tomate posting Howell coffees, and we all know if there’s one Manhattan restaurant geeking out about bean sourcing it’s RT), and I’ve so far been impressed by the beans I’ve picked up at Marlow and Sons recently. Incidentally, Marlow is one of the best local places to shop for coffee, to drink coffee, and to eat savory snacks; their coffee counter is always laden with gougères, mini-quiches, and such. (They have yet to offer a chickpea samosa.) Posting up at Marlow is a unique delight because I don’t have to drink wine, which means it’s barely even work! They clearly take coffee seriously, and I trust their wine director John Connelly equally to pick me out good beans as to pick me out a tasty Gamay. My observation based on only a tiny sampling is that George Howell extracts more bass notes from their African coffees than Parlor, and gives less emphasis to the lean, ethereal, herbal notes these coffees often have.

Finally I’ll take a moment to talk about Spectrum. Spectrum was started earlier this year by my ex-boyfriend Jay Murdock, who is the primary reason I became interested in coffee, and was the early source of all my transcendental experiences with this beverage. When I started at Chambers Street many moons ago, Jay was managing Kaffe 1668, a once great coffee shop that has since slid off the quality coffee radar due to the greed and incompetence of its owners. As vivid as the memory of drinking Vincent Laval’s Cumières for the first time, is the recollection of my first Yirgachefe, its aromas of lemon grass and jasmine wafting from the paper cup as I walked down Greenwich Street on a crisp, fall day.

Over the course of his career, Jay has done pretty much everything in the coffee trade short of importing green coffee. He’s roasted, competed in barista competitions, opened multiple cafes, consulted for some of the busiest cafes in the city, and now he’s schnooking his own beans! I like to support Jay because of our history, but also because I believe he’s an inspired coffee professional who is doing a fantastic job. His first coffee was Indonesian — Sulawesi as I recall, which is surprising because we don’t actually see much Indonesian coffee in these parts. The processing in Indonesia is less clean than in Africa and South America, and finding high quality green coffees from these islands is challenging. Before Jay picked his first coffee, he solicited samples of “spot” coffees from all the green coffee importers he had relationships with, cupped them blind with his colleagues, and picked the Indonesian. (A “spot” coffee can be purchased immediately, without a contract.) The coffees are dark, funky, and earthy, like old school Châteauneuf-du-Pape with more than a hint of bret. They stand up well to dairy.

Some local guys roasting in Red Hook.

Some local guys roasting in Red Hook.

The coffee I’ve grown fond of recently from Spectrum is this Costa Rica. Jay seeks a darker style than Parlor, which works particularly well for this hazelnut-y and less-fruit forward coffee. It’s got Christmas spice notes, and reminds me of putting my nose in a cedar chest.

There are many other very good roasters to experiment with. These are merely three that have been on my mind (and in my Hario V60 dripper) recently. I’m sure I’ll circle back to wine before long, but in the meantime it’s nice to have another beverage to write about, one that pairs with my favorite time of day, which is morning.

 

 

“Friends don’t let friends drink Sauvignon Blanc.” I used to say this, and mean it. This is a grape variety more offensive in its varietal character than Malbec, as ubiquitous in the summer months as Provençal rosé, and bearing the same sweet and sour, laboratory yeast and sulfur-juice notes that make our heads hurt and our palates rebel at first sip. This has historically been my attitude toward Sauvignon Blanc, and I haven’t been particularly quiet about it.

When Savvy B comes up in conversation, the interlocutor almost invariably probes my unequivocal distaste for this grape by asking the following question: “But what about (insert any/all of the following) Vatan, Cotat, Dagueneau, Clos Roche Blanche, Chavignol?” To this uncreative yet nonetheless valid recalcitrant case construction, I reply that I love Vatan, and Clos Roche Blanche, that I’m happy to taste Cotat and Dagueneau given the opportunity, and that Chavignol is undoubtedly a Great Terroir. So, yes, there are Great Wines made of Sauvignon Blanc. In fact, I’ve often had a sort of “it’s me, not you” attitude toward this grape. Most of the really good examples of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé that I’m supposed to like, I still don’t like. It’s almost exactly the way I feel about female vocalists. There are a couple I like, but in general, sonically, I don’t like the sound of female voices raised in song. This is clearly my problem. In wine, as in music, there’s very little that’s objectively true; our opinions are just that: matters of taste.

Enter 2016, a year of remarkable open-mindedness, enjoyment of being wrong, and subsequent overhauling of opinion. I’m thrilled to report that the wine I’m most excited about in the MFW portfolio at this moment is not a sous voile Savagnin (though we have one, and it’s stunning), nor is it a Brut Nature Champagne (we have those too, also sensational), but rather a Sauvignon Blanc from Oregon.

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Ladies and gentlemen: Scott Frank.

But let me start from the beginning, at Bow and Arrow. One sunny afternoon in late June I found myself in Scott Frank’s winery in Portland. We’d been out wandering the Johan vineyard and had returned to the winery to taste Scott’s most recent creations out of tank and barrel. As we got started, Scott said something I can’t remember verbatim, but to the effect of “Sophie, I know you’re going to laugh at me; I made two different Sauvignon Blancs, and they are the best wines I’ve ever made.”

Now, I am fortunate to enjoy an honest and genuine rapport with Scott, which dates back to my time doing national sales for Selection Massale, when he often didn’t have much to go on in formulating his orders except my word, and the track record of the winemaker. In our current mode, I sell wines that he makes, rather than him selling wines that I represented (as was our arrangement at this time, last year), and we continue to understand one another quite well. The last time he told me “this is the best __ I’ve ever made,” he was speaking about the 2014 Hughes Hollow Pinot Noir, from a vineyard he’d blended into his basic Pinot until it began to show so well he felt obliged to bottle it separately. The wine is fantastic. This is a roundabout way of saying when Scott says something, I listen.

As he dribbled wine into our glasses from the pipette, he began to explain that he’d been inspired by Marc Deschamps in Pouilly-Fumé to make a ripe, barrel fermented, barrel aged Sauvignon Blanc. He told me later in email “this results in a more meditative wine with aromas and flavors you don’t typically find in the “International” style you now find dominating the market.” He’s not alone in believing that when Sauvignon Blanc gets ripe, it sheds its fruitiness (and with that all the grapefruit and grass and gooseberry and cat pee and lemon/lime tang we associate with this grape), and takes on more savory character. He calls it a “textural” style, and tasting the wine I knew what he meant. The alcohol is higher than the standard 12% for Savvy B from the Loire Valley, and of course the wood lends a further textural component.

We didn’t speak about this in reference to Sauvignon Blanc, rather in reference to Melon de Bourgogne, but allowing the wine to go through malolactic fermentation also makes a big difference. Clearly the malo itself will change the character of the wine, making it richer and more lactic be it butter or cream, but additionally when the malolactic fermentation is blocked with sulfur, this will influence the resultant wine. As I understand it, to stabilize a wine without malo, to keep it from potentially undergoing malo in the bottle (not good), you need at least 60-70 parts per million of SODeux. While this isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of things, it’s a perceptible amount, enough to give the wine that mouth-coating aspirin flavor that mingles with the wine’s acidity and minerality. I’d go so far as to say that most of the classic French Sauvignon Blanc we taste is made this way, with shrill acidity that many people like, and sulfur masquerading as minerality. bow and arrow sav blanc

But I digress. We tasted two 2015 Sauvignon Blancs that day. The first was from Union School, a vineyard in the southern Willamette Valley composed of alluvial clay soil from the Missoula Flood (Oregonian winemakers love to talk about the Missoula Flood). This wine is raised 80% in barrel (fermentation and aging, 30% new), and 20% in stainless steel. After crush, the juice is left to macerate on the skins for 48 hours. The result is a rich, expressive wine with notes of black tea, lemon cream, pineapple, waxy lanolin, not a grapefruit or a gooseberry to be found.

It wasn’t until the second Savvy B that Scott’s points about ripeness and texture really came to fruition. Called “La Chênaie” (spelling?), the wine is from Eola-Amity, a terroir that promotes even more ripeness and a bit of botrytis.  The wine was extremely savory with notes of beeswax and cashew. It’s a totally atypical expression of Sauvignon Blanc, and one that should be cherished. I can’t wait to drink a bottle or two of this wine once it arrives.

The wine that actually inspired this post is 2014 Minimus Sauvignon Blanc SM1 from the Stella Maris vineyard in Applegate Valley. A couple of weeks ago, apropos of customer requests, I took out a lineup from Minimus. For those unfamiliar, Minimus is the experimental project of Chad Stock, a fascinating and eccentric winemaker with experience in many sectors of the industry, and certainly a gift to the trade. The Minimus wines are wild. They are never the same, because Chad doesn’t repeat his experiments. They are wines that are thrilling to try, thought-provoking and cerebral, and yet not always wines I want to drink a bottle of. Chad and his business partner David make three brands: Omero (a sort of monopole; their entry level brand), Minimus (Chad’s experimental wines, the notes from which he plans to compile into a book about winemaking), and finally Origin (the highest end, concept pieces that focus on single terroirs, clones, and more subtle aspects of winemaking). The Minimus wines are the most unusual, but all are very well-crafted, and 2015 Omero Pinot Gris is a wine that has occupied a small slot in the back of my mind for two months, now, popping into the forefront every few weeks to provoke an email to my bosses asking when the wine will arrive.

Rock'n'roll label.

Rock’n’roll label.

Like Scott’s, Chad’s is a ripe expression of Sauvignon Blanc. It sees a four day long maceration on the stems and skins with the idea of extracting green qualities from the stems (not to be confused with the “green qualities” that attend less ripe, grassy Sauvignon Blanc). Chad explained his decision-making this way: “With all of my wines I try to balance out the fruit components with savory, reductive, earthy, green, and/or bitter elements to provide a counter point to the fruit. I also like my whites to be tannic and structured which I achieve with this technique.” This is not an orange wine, by any means, but it is a phenolic wine, a wine with a deep sensation of skin and stem. It’s 14.8% alcohol, but has beautiful, mellow acidity. I find the true genius of Chad’s creations to show on the mid-palate and finish. If the front end of this wine is savory, green, and phenolic, the back end seems to reach yet another dimension of flavor that includes rich, ripe stone fruits that dance across the cheeks and the back of the mouth. I thought about this wine with every sip, and for days afterward, like a craving. I raved about it to all who would listen. It brought a smile to my face and a surge of energy and enthusiasm to my work. As the voices of Janis Joplin and PJ Harvey may not be right for Taylor Swift listeners, this wine will not be for everyone, but for me it was a revelation.

Also awaiting Chad's 2015 Johan Vineyard Gruner Veltliner with bated breath ...

Also awaiting Chad’s 2015 Johan Vineyard Gruner Veltliner with bated breath …

And so the utter transformation of a person who councils friends against drinking Sauvignon Blanc, to a person who says to them “you must try this; it will blow your mind.”

In my mind, when I left for North Carolina two weeks ago, I was going to have at least one or two mornings of down time in which to collect and regurgitate to the page a few of my experiences in Portland. I even brought my little notebook with me in order to be prepared for this eventuality. I had all these ideas bouncing around about how free winemakers in Oregon are, images of Chad Stock and his epic grafting project, of Jeff Vejr and his intense study of the historic David Hill vineyard, of Kris and Steven from Analemma and their sparkling wine vocation, the list goes on … In my mind when I left for North Carolina, part of me was still out there helping Scott Frank bottle Bow and Arrow Gamay. I wanted to tell so many stories!

Nicked one of these labels from Scott's winery.

Nicked one of these labels from Scott’s winery.

It didn’t happen, or it hasn’t happened yet. What happened instead was that day after day for almost two weeks, beginning first thing in the morning, and ending when we were so totally spent and grimy that all we could do was pile into the back of the pickup truck, beers in hand, and head for a neighbor’s pool, a motley assortment of friends and loved ones and I worked on my parent’s house.

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View from the back.

In advance, I was incapable of being positive about this experience, and instead cultivated a train of thought learned from my dad along the lines of “create abysmal expectations, be pleasantly surprised.” My house in North Carolina was built over the course of 30 years out of repurposed lumber from my dad’s construction jobs. My parent’s never threw away anything, and in addition to the house proper, there’s a massive barn, a carport, a non functional hot tub, a play house turned goat shed; there’s even a catamaran up in the yard that has been totally subsumed by ivy and shrubbery such that it’s barely visible.

The house is on a country road outside the town of Saxapahaw. It is at the end of a long muddy driveway, and cannot be seen from the road. There’s no mailbox, and the directions I gave visitors as a young person (pre-Google) ended with “go a quarter of a mile past the intersection and turn left at the bent post.” This is my patrimony.

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Those shiny brass candlesticks were gray when we found them in the barn. They look nice with the batik table cloth …

My parents had lots of friends. I invited about 60 to my dad’s memorial and 100 came. They had parties all throughout my childhood, and my mom had no qualms about feeding 10, 20, 30 people of ages varying from 3 to 90. This is where I learned to love wine, in theory if not in practice: watching my parents eat and drink and laugh with their friends. We also had many house guests, squatters who stayed so long they became closer than family. Sometimes we called the place “Ramshackle”; other times we called it “Margaret and Bobby’s Home for Wayward Men”.

We filled a 30 yard long dumpster with junk and made a giant burn pile, which we torched on a 100 degree day, and kept slowly fizzling until it was a pile of embers, still warm and smoking three days later. There were new discoveries constantly: my dad’s gun collection, booklets of valuable old coins, cabinet after dusty cabinet of tiny coffee mugs — 10 sets in total if not more! (Be forewarned, New York friends: you’re all getting decorative platters from Saxapahaw for Christmas this year.) There were also things of mine: the letters and emails I wrote to my parents during my study abroad semester, reams of college papers and stories from when I was smart and creative, photos I’d forgotten about eons ago. One day I’ll make an album, or maybe a book of letters telling a story … the story of my young life as the only child of two gregarious, hippie intellectuals in rural North Carolina.

North Carolina beaches are awesome, by the way.

North Carolina beaches are awesome, by the way.

So many life lessons in such a short period of time. I learned — right away on the 4th of July when two friends I hadn’t seen in years pulled up the driveway totally unannounced to lend their hands and skills — that I am not as alone as I’d thought. The loneliness that inflected my last post faded away as I sank into the bosom of my greater North Carolina family. It’s a soft place full of kind, genuine people who seem to care unconditionally because they loved my parents, and I am what’s left. And yet it’s not a cloying place because sarcasm still drips from the leaves and branches, permeating the air with its tang. It’s a verdant, lush, green place, almost as rainy as the jungle and equally warm. It’s a comforting place I can be without pretense, without makeup, without adorning my sentences with lingo and bullshit, without the veneer New York has given me.

As always in North Carolina, I answered a lot of questions about what I do for a living. One friend had learned the word “schnook” from reading this blog, and had semi-successfully employed it in conversation! I was tickled. Over a table covered with pottery of various types, I realized what a sales person I’ve become as I pawned off sets of tableware on people: “I can’t even believe you’re contemplating starting a catering business without this massive salsa themed bowl with matching three tiered condiment insert!” Or: “You are the perfect person to inherit my Margaret Ellen’s favorite cake stand; we used this all the time when I was growing up.”

And then out of the blue came: “sometimes when I hear you talk about wine, I think you live in a fake world” from the lips of someone I’ve known for over half my life and love very much. Hmm. I mean … it is a fake world with its own rules and its own parlance, its own hierarchy and customs. I tried to explain that we tolerate a high level of fake-ness in the industry in order to engage with the real-ness, which is meeting farmers and winemakers and learning about what they do, supporting them economically, bringing their wares to the parched citizens of New York. I thought about Scott Frank and his perpetual search for real amongst the fake, his quasi-obsession with the topic. It’s a quest I’d like to take up.

I learned that I’m intensely, fiercely proud of who my parents were and what they created. Once the art and posters and postcards and cobwebbed shrines had been stripped from the walls we could see the bare bones of the house my dad built, and it’s beautiful! Well … some parts are more beautiful than others. There are a several decaying decks, one of which we demolished after someone fell through trying to wash windows. And speaking of windows, we had them professionally cleaned, and by the end they were gleaming, transparent in the daytime, and perfectly reflective at night.

"People who live in glass houses should enjoy washing windows."

“People who live in glass houses should enjoy washing windows.”

The whole affair was bathed in an aura of regeneration: birth, death, and rebirth. It sounds strange, but watching the dumpster being hauled off, and torching the fire were gloriously happy moments. I’d even go so far as to say I was giddy chucking random baby pictures, moldy books, and my dad’s backlog of Fine Home Builders Digest on the fire. It was like a pagan ritual; a sacrificial copper head lost its life, its body continue to squirm and wriggle after the head had been severed. Then we smeared some ash on our faces like warriors. I’m not kidding. And while I’d love to say we roasted and ate the copper head for dinner, in fact we cleaned up and went to a fancy restaurant in Durham where we drank 2009 Marie-Noelle Ledru Cuvée Goulte. (This was great, by the way.)

Towards the end — it might have been in Willmington where I took a couple of true vacation days — I looked out over the harbor, lights bouncing off the water, the air salty, muggy, and pregnant with a torrential downpour, and thought about dining with Scott and Dana Frank at their home in Portland less than three weeks previously. We’d liberated a couple of little hot air balloons and watched them bob and meander out into the cool twilight, visible far into the distance. Scott told us they were for good luck, friendship, for the future. And who knows? Maybe they brought me some. Lots of things in life are hard and shitty, or mediocre at best. But once in awhile something happens that is so purely good and right and wonderful that it makes the struggle worthwhile.

Arnold Waldstein came to my Champagne tasting at Chambers Street a few weeks ago. He told me I was starting to sound like Anaïs Nin. Not knowing who she was, I assumed he meant something along the lines of “negative and self-involved”. Then I looked up Anaïs Nin on wikipedia, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she was a bohemian diary-ist responsible for some of literary history’s finest female erotic writing! I’m quite flattered that Arnold thought I’d make a decent erotic writer. Perhaps I’ll give it a try! (Don’t worry, not on this blog).

This is my favorite French rosé from the 2015 MFW crop. It's Gamay from Bernard Vallette in Lachassagne, the deep south of Beaujolais, not far from our now retired friend Bruno Debize.

This is my favorite French rosé from the 2015 MFW crop, strategically positioned behind a particularly erotic sandwich featuring sublime bread from High Street on Hudson. The wine is Gamay rosé from Bernard Vallette in Lachassagne, the deep south of Beaujolais, not far from our now retired friend Bruno Debize. The wine is as zesty, pure-fruited, and thirst-quenching as they come.

I’ve been on the brink of a crisis of faith with the blog for some time, recalling the emotional turmoil surrounding my dear friend Brooklynguy when he decided to stop writing, and wondering if I’m experiencing the same, loving to write but not knowing why and for whom. For a minute it looked as though my website manager (intentional over-statement here) was gone, and that eventually I wouldn’t be able to perform the minor tasks required to maintain the site. And then five years worth of useless words would just disappear into the ether in a fittingly romantic end. But it turns out he’s still around and willing to help when something goes wrong, so I won’t be closing up shop for lack of a tech savvy friend.

A nice trio of Chenins: Bertin-Delatte in Rablay-sur-Layon and Melaric in Saumur-Puy-Notre-Dame. Chenin has so many faces! Look out for the Vignt-Neuf, from vines planted in '29.

A nice trio of Chenins: Bertin-Delatte in Rablay-sur-Layon and Melaric in Saumur-Puy-Notre-Dame. Chenin has so many faces! Look out for the Vignt-Neuf, from vines planted in ’29. It’s positively post-coital.

My self-esteem is in bizarre limbo right now. Schnook life is fantastic for its freedom, its sociability, its basis in relationships and networking, the opportunities it affords to eat and drink well, while getting an enormous amount of exercise, thus depleting the calories inherent in eating and drinking well. But it drains the self confidence, makes me feel small and insignificant, one of half a dozen smiling faces walking in the door with something to sell. Being a buyer elevates the ego; being a schnook topples it, the nature of the beast, and I’m not complaining. This is the best gig I’ve had since leaving Chambers Street, hands down.

"What is the malaise? you ask. The malaise is the pain of loss. The world is lost to you, the world and the people in it, and there remains only you and the world and you no more able to be in the world than Banquo's ghost."

“What is the malaise? you ask. The malaise is the pain of loss. The world is lost to you, the world and the people in it, and there remains only you and the world and you no more able to be in the world than Banquo’s ghost.”

The malaise (to reference my new favorite novelist, Walker Percy) is not work-related. Beholding the lines on my face, I seem positively ancient; I stare at my crooked teeth in the mirror and feel hideously ugly, chastise the souls of my parents for not ponying up for braces so I could have a perfect smile like all the pretty ladies. It’s like I’m a teenager all over again, but additionally plagued by the sensation that these feelings are totally absurd for someone at the ripe age of 35 living a distinctly privileged existence! I think: let me go on a diet, or quit drinking; there must be something in my power to control. The problem with diets and tee-totaling is, of course, that eating and drinking is literally part of my job. Putain. Qu’est que je peux faire? 

Will Piper opened this bottle of 2009 Marsella Fiano for me at The Four Horsemen the other night. It was so perfectly smoky and saline, so rich, balanced, a wine that looked, smelled, and tasted half its age. I hope to mature like a fine Fiano.

Will Piper opened this bottle of 2009 Marsella Fiano for me at The Four Horsemen the other night. It was perfectly smoky and saline, rich and mouth-filling, a wine that looked, smelled, and tasted half its age. I hope to mature like a fine Fiano.

At the heart of the malaise (and this will be the most personal thing I’ve ever written on this blog) is the fact that I am now alone. I used to have a partner in crime, someone to drink Champagne and eat BLTs with (for example), and now I no longer do. And so I hearken back to a conversation with my oft-referenced Canadian friend Étienne, in the winter of this year. We were walking home from Hotel Delmano, kvetching about things that bother us in the wine world, unicorn wines, social media braggadocio, pretentiousness and snobbery; we concluded that most people have it all wrong. Happiness isn’t drinking an old Gentez, or Selosse rosé, or Vin Jaune from Pierre Overnoy, DRC, or even ’79 Clos de la Roche from Hubert Lignier (the best bottle of wine in my memory today). Vinous happiness is sharing a delicious bottle of something, over a meal, with someone you love. That’s as good as it gets (Étienne and I tipsily concluded that night). It’s going to sound preposterously cheesy, but if there’s no partner in wine-drinking crime, then there’s no point. I might as well drink water, and get up refreshed for a session of battle rap paired with senselessly competitive and scorching laps on the track. Does that make sense?

This wine instantaneously transported me to the Jura, and to happier times. It smells like cellars, the dark part of the comté cheese near the rind, the marl and clay over limestone, the tension between oxidation and purity that can only exist in the Jura. It took me through winding through memory, back years and years.

This wine instantaneously transported me to the Jura, to a malaise-free zone. It smells like cellars, the dark part of the comté cheese near the rind, the marl and clay over limestone, the tension between oxidation and purity that can only exist in this region. It took me winding through memory and back.

One thing I can do to combat the malaise is to travel, and travel I will, all the way to the west coast of the United States to learn something new about wine. I’m headed to Portland on Thursday morning to visit Scott Frank of Bow and Arrow, Kate and Tom from Division, Analemma, and more. And let me assure you that I cannot wait to digest those visits into prose. I can’t promise that I’ll bring the same bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, strong-ego-ed enthusiasm that I brought after Zev and I visited Jean-Marc Brignot, after my first stint in the cellar with Benoït Lahaye or Vincent Laval. (After all, at that time I believed people cared!) I can promise that I’ll find out what these Oregon folks are up to, and attempt to put it in the context of French winemakers and their practices.

Then I’m going to North Carolina to undertake a much harder task, a task that lingers in the back of my mind, doubtless contributing to the malaise, yet inescapable. I’ll be spending two weeks doing bricolage on my parent’s house, virtually unchanged since my father passed away almost 5 years ago, getting it ready for the next phase of its life, and in a parallel universe perhaps getting myself ready for the next phase of mine. House dealt with (wisdom teeth finally out), I’ll finally be ready to grow up! Just in time to make those numbers in the 4th quarter …

Yesterday I drank some Oregon Chardonnay; I wandered the sultry city in the first throes of summer; I poured a tasting for the rosé-thirsty inhabitants of Soho, and I took part in two rants about wine writing. Both of my interlocutors were smart women with a decade of experience in the industry who write well, who write for their jobs. These rants were different in character, yet both orbited the notion that there’s not much being written that is compelling to wine professionals, and this aggravates us. It’s an age old conversation, one that I’ve had many times with my dear friend Zach Sussman, who is a wine writer. When Zach and I started talking about the industry’s hostility toward wine writers, the idea was that he’d write about it for a widely read publication like Punch, and then finally there would be something out there of interest to the industry! But there was a sense that the topic would not be well received by his editors. (After all, it’s a bit self-undermining.) However, I’m still holding out hope that this piece gets written, because Zach would do justice to the topic.

I tell myself that the industry isn’t the audience, and confess that I don’t read about wine, with the exceptions of Bert Celce and Zach, and occasionally others when I have to for my job. My close friends in the trade rarely read this blog, and that’s fine, but apropos of this fact, if I’m becoming a hack, if I’m not saying anything of interest to my friends, I might as well either stop writing the damn thing, or try to change its identity … This was something I started thinking about at Rosenthal, and still find it’s not a bad idea. The Rosenthals weren’t too keen on me writing a wine blog while in their employment, and I toyed with the idea of changing it into a sort of lifestyle blog with occasional comments on wine. We’ll see.

The genesis of Sophie’s Glass was a car conversation with Zev Rovine, in atrocious traffic, on the outskirts of Paris about 5 years ago. Zev asked me what I ultimately wanted to do in wine, and I told him I wanted to be a writer. He responded that I should start with a blog. There was also an aspect of utility: whenever I visited a hyped producer like Ganevat, my customers at Chambers asked for my notes on the wines, and it was easier to document them in a blog that I could link to, than to rewrite the same email over and over. So those were the motivations. Now, I no longer want to be a wine writer, and notes from my winery visits circulate internally to give our company more robust and accurate information about domaines and producers. So why keep writing the blog? I like to write. It’s self indulgent, and feels good.

What I started to say pre long-digression-about-wine-writing is that these conversations with peers brought me back to questions I ask myself constantly these days: why am I doing this? After ten years in the business: what next? What is there to be excited about going forward? What is there to bring back the thrills wine brought me between the ages of 25 and 30? Tasting good juice, making sales, going to restaurants, enjoying exquisite pairings is wonderful, but it’s not enough for me; there has to be more intellectual sustenance. I say this partly because though the lifestyle looks glamorous, it’s taxing, and one has to make a concerted effort everyday to remain healthy, stable, and balanced. Drinking is exhausting; I’m sick of it and often don’t want to do it. Having to do something for work that most people do for pleasure is confusing. And frankly, though I’m okay with being a 35 year old woman in the wine business, the prospect of being a 50 year old woman in the wine business doesn’t thrill me. Being rational and pragmatic, I try to conjure an image of a future in the trade that would work for me, and plan to try to ensure it happens.

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Pouring Division-Villages Beton and Rosé “L’Aviron” on a hot night in Soho.

One sure fire way to remain engaged in the industry, coming up with positive responses to the questions “why” and “what next” is to learn about new winemaking places. Inspiration comes when you least expect it, and from the most unlikely sources. Just going to throw it out there that I am presently very excited about wines from the west coast of the United States. A couple of weeks ago I spent the day with Kate Norris of Division, a winery in Oregon, and it was blissfully enlivening. I love these wines. At one point, Kate said (and I don’t remember the context) “oh I HATE it when the wine’s not delicious”, which struck me as a perfect summation of the governing philosophy of this winery. It’s nice when wine is cerebral and complex, but absolutely essential that it be delicious. And the early release Division-Villages wines are just so damn delicious; they have roughly the fruit/acid balance of cool climate French wines, and feature those grapes: Gamay, Chenin Blanc, Cabernet Franc, Côt, Pinot Noir. There’s a warmth to the fruit that lets us know we’re not in the Loire, yet a freshness, a juiciness to the acidity that lets us know the people who craft these wines (Kate and a guy named Tom who I look forward to meeting in a couple of weeks), are intimately and spiritually familiar with Loire Valley wine. If I had a favorite, I’d pick the Gamay “Les Petits Fers”, which is from four vineyards, fermented using a mixture of carbonic maceration, partial carbonic maceration, and traditional fermentation. Tasting this wine, I had one foot in Fleurie, and the other in some mystical Pacific Northwest landscape I have yet to experience. This wine is made of joy.

Two days ago, I stumbled upon a 2014 Chardonnay “Deux” in a local wine shop. The grapes for this bottling come from a vineyard called Strangeland, planted in 1978. It’s a white Burgundy style fermentation and élèvage with a few hours of skin contact, and long, slow, cool fermentation in barrel with minimal lees stirring. This wine is sleek, delicately lactic like fresh cream, with notes of pear and lemon curd, ripe and pleasurable. It does not taste like white Burgundy; it doesn’t have the dense earth and limestone backbone of white Burgundy, but it does have succulent balance, and is incredibly fun to drink.

Dreamy Chardonnay from Division Winemaking Company.

Dreamy Chardonnay from Division Winemaking Company.

The other place whence I recently drew inspiration to keep going was Corsica. At the end of a recent trip to Champagne and the Loire Valley, I went to Corsica for the weekend, like a sweet little coda at the end of a layered and fascinating piece. This place is fantastically beautiful, and my terrible camera and photography skills can’t possibly do it justice. As the plane tilted sideways in preparation to land in Ajaccio, I stared out the window, eyes like saucers resting upon the blue water and rugged coastline below. The mainland of this island is arid and mountainous, covered in a particular kind of brushy garrigue called “maquis”. The coast is alternately rocky and sandy with many little gulfs and inlets. There are some physical similarities to the Maritime Alps and the Côte d’Azur, the Mediterranean coasts of France and Italy. I’d have liked to stay there forever.

View from the bay of Ajaccio.

View from the bay of Ajaccio.

My vinous discovery of the weekend in Corsica was Sebastien Poly of Domaine U Stilicchionu. This is a 7 hectare, biodynimically farmed winery in the Ajaccio appellation. My friend Pierre from the Tissot era works full-time for Jean-Charles Abbatucci, a big name in the region (there’s a statue of one of Jean-Charles’ ancestors in the center of Ajaccio), but on the weekend for Sebastien Poly. Pierre essentially told me that he’d been surprised coming from Tissot (where most of the work is done in the vines, and little manipulation in the cellar) to find that at Abbatucci there’s tons of work in the cellar, racking, and other kinds of manipulations that contribute to the generally polished character of the wines. In search of something perhaps more like Tissot, he’d found Poly, and happily installed himself there on the weekends.

At dinner one evening in Corsica, Pierre opened a label-less bottle from a box of samples Poly had given him, and it turned out to be a cuvée called “Damianu” of Sciaccarellu made entirely without sulfur. This is a beautiful and expressive wine, amply garrigue-y on the nose, light to medium bodied with forrest floor and some slight and appealing funkiness. After an hour open, the wine becomes rose-y with flower-petal soft texture. I found a bottle at Chambers Street, and was happy to fall in love with it all over again once back in the states.

Sciaccarellu sans soufre.

Sciaccarellu sans soufre.

Once back in the states, I also tracked down the only white wine Sebastien Poly makes, which is Vermentino, and this (for me) is the real show-stopper. It’s full and lemon-y, suave, with a lingering finish, the rusticity of Italian white wine and the elegance of French … I don’t have a photo, but you can find the wine at Manhattan Wine Company, where the staff has created an extensive collection of Corsican gems.

To write or not to write is certainly a question, but to experience and become excited about new wines from new places is of the essence.