A Visit From Nostrasmartass

While cleaning out my undie drawer this morning I came across this brittle and somewhat crunchy scroll. The handwriting I recognized, the mastery with which it was written familiar, the power and fierceness of opinion nearly palpable....I knew it was something that needed to be shared, a forecast from Our Beloved HoseMaster of Wine of what lies ahead for 2011. I knew it was my duty to share them with you all...oh and Mr. Washam, no need to slink around my pantie drawer, email works fine. Don't even want to begin to imagine why this thing is so crunchy.....


The beginning of the year brings out the prognosticator in all of us, and since I’m over 50 I had to have my prognostate checked. Everything came out fine, if slightly sulfurous around the fingernails. I have an amazing ability to predict the future of the wine business. Most of you will remember that for 2010 I predicted that HoseMaster of Wine would fold. And that Bret Favre would retire. And that Constellation would sell off its Australian wine portfolio because they found out there aren’t any Mexicans in Australia. So as you read my predictions for 2011 keep my uncanny accuracy in mind. Now, if only my prognostate exam had been un-canny.


President Obama will serve a screwtop in the White House—Speaker of the House Boehner.




Our quaint little print wine publications will start to slowly disband or merge. It will be revealed that Stephen Tanzer is actually Allen Meadows the Burghound, who, in turn, is actually a pseudonym for Stephen Hawking who tastes every wine submitted via an enema. The hard part is spitting. Ironic, considering his name. Robert Parker finally admits that he’s dead and points to hiring Mark Squires as proof of an EEG flatter than sales of Syrah. Connoisseurs’ Guide, Wine and Spirits, and Wine Enthusiast merge to form “Connoisseurs’ Guide to Enthusiastic Spirits.” Richard Simmons gets Three Poofs. Wine Spectator is sold to Riedel which then breaks it up into 29 different publications, each dedicated to only one variety. Riedel argues that the size of the print and the quality of the paper determine how much sense the ratings make. Consumers fall for their bullshit again. Mutineer Magazine turns out to be an elaborate hoax perpetrated by Mormons seeking to turn people off to all forms of alcohol and writers with talent.




DNA evidence will show that Gruner Veltliner is a cross between Riesling and a durian.

An article in the “Journal of Psychiatry” will use wine blogs as a resource for studying megalomania. “Wine bloggers,” the authors say, “ exhibit the classic signs of megalomania—an unshakable belief in their importance mixed with the conviction that they and their opinions are special and powerful despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” The only cure, the authors conclude, is to be “…forced to read their own works aloud.” Except for the HoseMaster, who should be “lobotomized. Again.”



Pinot Noir’s popularity will begin to wane in the wake of the discovery that many of the most popular brands were made from expired cans of Cherry Coke. This is discovered by a Denny’s waitress at a blind tasting of Marcassin Pinot Noir. Helen Turley appears in a Super Bowl ad for Pepsi. Grenache replaces Pinot Noir as the red wine of choice for sissies, and everyone proclaims New Zealand the best place in the world to grow it even though no one believes it to be true. Constellation buys every New Zealand winery.

I Need To Be With You

I’m not sure how this started. Can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment when I first felt my tummy flip, my insides flinch and pull with uncontrollable want just thinking about you. Don’t know when this shifted from a playful flirtation, a fun but respectful flash of bare skin, giggles…lowering of the eyes just before things get too intense. Not sure how we got here but here we are and….I need to be with you.

I’ve gone over all the reasons why it’s wrong, sat in my comfortable bubble of familiar…tried to find resolve in the touch and smells of my commitment but now I find even when I’m safely tucked against the chest of my chosen one….you come to me. It seems that no matter how tightly I try and board up the little gaps you seem to find a way in, some little crack, a tiny unseen and unsupported doorway and there you are again. My eyes tightly closed, the fear of losing my way, my heart writhing and pounding against my chest….my breathing becoming more labored and desperate with each imagined and painfully ached for touch.



I’m afraid. Afraid of being found out, afraid of letting myself slip into a relationship that from the beginning has been based not on mutual understanding or paths to the future but on a primal, animalistic craving that holds me hostage to thoughts of devouring every inch….to draw from your well until this insatiable thirst for you is quenched. Afraid that once I surrender and first take you between my lips, feel your power land upon my tongue, afraid that once I swallow that thirst will become a part of me that I will never be able to completely quench…your moisture the only cure. I’m afraid but….I need to be with you.

So here I am....

Exposed

Vulnerable

Shaken

Terrified

Confused

Naked

Eager

Trembling

Yours….

I don’t care what anyone thinks…fuck, not even sure I care what I think but….I’m ready and I need to be with you.

On February 5th I board a plane at Los Angeles International Airport, the first step on this thirst quenching adventure that will have me landing in Venice Italy and from there, along with five other American wine bloggers on to the Eastern hills of Friuli to taste, explore and feel this new lover of mine.




Cannot wait…..


http://cof2011.com/

Oh Yeah, You Found My Sweet Spot

Okay so those of you that have been reading this silly blog for any length of time are fully aware of my somewhat odd aversion to almost everything sweet. I drown my fruit in lemon juice and salt, I avoid dessert and dessert wines like I owe them money and I am one of those freaks that has absolutely zero love for chocolate. Earlier this year I was kind of challenged by a friend’s wife when I mentioned that I hated chocolate. She seemed perplexed and even more so when I mentioned that maybe once or twice a year I would get a craving for peanut butter and chocolate ice cream….something I threw out in order to keep from looking like a total freak. “But chocolate tastes its best at palate temperature. When it melts in your mouth” she explained and as I sat there trying not to look like an ass I thought, “Exactly. It gets more intense, creamier and in my opinion more flaccid when it’s warm which is why the only way I can and do crave it is in its chilled and rigid form” it’s not that I don’t get it, I just don’t like it…flaccid and palate coating sweetness just doesn’t do for me.

I prefer Madeira to port and cream sherry, finding that bit of savory almost beef broth like and citrus thing in a Bual Madeira far more enticing and craveable than berries, cassis and caramel. I will happily trade you my dessert for your cheese plate, I find many new world wines a little too sweet upfront (Charlie, I said many and that in no way implies all) and the only cookie I really dug as a kid was Gingersnaps…but with a little pile of sharp cheddar cheese to wash down each bite. Just a freaky quirk I’ve had for I don’t know….the past thirty something years. That being said I am a wine buyer and wine specialist so there are times when I do have to suck up my preferences, like when I was taken to Spain with a group to learn about and taste (like a million) Sherries and where each estate fed us not one but two desserts at each meal….dude, you would think I was working the New York Stock Exchange with the amount of trading I did there. But like I said, I have to forget for a moment what I like personally to taste things I’m either presented to bring in the shop or to educate myself on the things we already have. Part of the job and it’s not like I have to drink them.



New Years Eve, the final hoorah of the holiday season. The flow in the shop was steady, everyone in a fantastic mood, (which by the way was most of the season…that was truly awesome) and with each hour that ticked away the light at the end of the very long tunnel was getting brighter and just that much closer. Randy had been in a long and somewhat nostalgic conversation with one of our favorite customers; a lovely French woman that comes to us for Pastis, Chablis and a few other things she misses from home and can’t find most anywhere else. They had been talking dessert wines but somewhere in the conversation they had moved on to spirits and were lovingly pointing to and chatting about this liqueur and that.



Randy had been telling her about two very rare items that we have in stock; a prune brandy and a chestnut liqueur by Louis Roque. As he was describing them to her he would call out to any of the staff that happened to be near looking for confirmation and or our opinions on the stuff….that was when he discovered that none of us had tasted either of them. As the night wound down, customers gone and staff gathering and purchasing bottles for our end of the year celebrations I saw Randy grabbing a rack of glass and walking off into the tasting room, knowing him as I do I knew there was going to be a little staff training as we closed up the shop for the last time in 2010. If Randy is anything he is a very passionate teacher, he thrives on showing people new things and seems to love doing so with his staff just as much as with customers….guess that makes him a passionate teacher and smart as hell.

I was counting out one of the registers when I saw a few staff members streaming out of the tasting room, this was my time to strike. So here’s another quirk of mine, I find it damn near impossible to not show on my face what I think of something I’m putting in my mouth. It’s a terrible habit, one that my beloved Ron Washam aka The HoseMaster of Wine can attest to….poor bastard drove me around Sonoma where I tasted a bunch of Zinfandel, my least favorite of all wine varieties, and he experienced firsthand the Sam, “No sir, don’t like it” face. Okay being fully aware of my facial issues I thought the best time for me to try a prune brandy and chestnut liqueur and NOT wear my face on my sleeve was doing so after the others had left the tasting room.



I slipped in the tasting room trying not to attract too much attention, pulled a glass from the rack and started with the Louis Roque La Vieille Prune ($45.99) the prune brandy. Something made me think that I might have at least smelled it before and my memory was that it was kind of rugged, thought it best to start there after all the “sweet” comments I heard about the chestnut stuff. My first sniff was blemished by a big ass blast of heat, habit had me spinning the hell out of the stuff in one of our big glasses which really just inflamed the alcohol, but once settled down I took another sniff and got a very unique, almost floral burst that was quickly followed by a plumy, distinct prune aroma. Pretty, the aromas were delicate and pretty so I took a sip….this is where I should tell you that I’m not a lover of brandy. The flavors mirrored the aromas but there was a very powerful and chest warming….very brandy like aggression on the finish. I can see why people love the stuff but much like warm chocolate, not my thing.



I moved on to the Louis Roque Liqueur de Chataigne ($23.99) and my “face” started as the thick, uber thick liqueur lumbered into the glass, slowly falling upon its big bodied self with the consistency of motor oil, yeah insert “face”. Spun the chunky golden liquid in the glass, tapped my foot while I waited for mass of liqueur to move and took my first sniff, my “face” was instantly replaced with a raised eyebrow. There was something so alluring about the aromas, sure there was clearly a nutty thing but it wasn’t the dominate aroma. The nose was loaded with wild honey, cinnamon, clove and allspice, reminded me of the incense my stoner friends would burn as to not alert their parents they were smoking pot…wicked smart those stoners. I took the glass to my lips and again found myself a little impatient with the speed at which the thickish stuff moved up the glass and into my mouth but fuck, once it got there all was forgiven. No doubt the stuff is sweet but just for a brief second really as all that clove, sandalwood, cinnamon and allspice, this massive middle of warm cooking spices becomes not only the middle of the liqueur but the center of attention, you can feel it coating the inside of your mouth and creeping up into the nasal passages. Never had a wine or spirit do that, not so intensely anyway and to call the finish haunting is an almost criminal understatement. As unique, alluring and sexy liqueur as I have ever had the pleasure to taste. Before I knew it my tasting pour had been drained and I was wishing I had bought a bottle to take home.



Was back in the shop on Monday for inventory and when I was finished I hunted down the sexy elixir to see if it was just a post holiday euphoria that had me thinking about, dreaming about this sweet but not too sweet spirit…wasn’t and before I clock out tonight I will be buying a bottle to take home with me where it will tease and taunt me until I give….have a glass or two. I give it two weeks, tops. Damn…..wild stuff but it sure as hell found my sweet spot.

Nope, Not A Fan

Zip zip zip....

The sound of a suitcase being closed. I love that sound. It means either I am about to see something new or I'm heading home. Both feelings elicit a heart pounding excitement in me so the zip-zip-zip is good. Unless.....


Zip zip zip.....

The sound of someone else leaving. I hate that sound. I was lucky enough to have the baby home for Christmas and I am beyond grateful for that but, still it aches when it's time to let him go. I offered to write him a, "Please excuse" note for work and school but dammit if he isn't all sensible and junk.

Thankfully I am working today so I will not be subjected to the teary goodbye at the airport, will just have to give my hugs and "I'll miss you" in the living room where we spent many hours talking, cuddling and laughing. I think this is much better for me....



His name is Jeremy Dugan and should you happen to run into him, say hello, talk to him, listen to him. He is an incredibly intuitive young man. A smart, funny, gentle, sweet, sarcastic, genuine soul. Say hello and tell him that his mother is so very proud to know him...

Note To The Big Guys

Dear Kind and Somewhat Simple Minded Sirs,



I am writing you in an effort to avoid the awkward and honestly, very annoying conversation that we will be forced to have when....and yes I know it will be a "when" not an "if" you come in the shop over the next two days to drop your, "Killer deals!" on me. As I have mentioned to you before, (go ahead and read that as over and freaking over again) we are a shop that specializes in artisan and small grower Champagnes. Period.



We have built our reputation on finding wines that taste and feel like they were made by somebody, wines with personality, texture, length and freshness, you know wines that have everything your bulk produced, been sitting in a warehouse for God knows how long, insipid, often tired and flat tasting "But it's got a good name" brands don't. Yeah, those wines.



So I regret to inform you that I shan't be taking the five cases of Yellow Label, Whatever Star, Cordon Rouge or any of the other shit wines that at no matter how much a discounted price, (and let's be honest....I know it's a stretch for you but, you're gonna charge us more per bottle than Costco or BevMo are selling them for) still offer no value to my customers and have the ever good for business "Nah, I don't much care for it" Wine Country seal of ambivalence.



I understand that you are just doing your job, I mean those millions of cases aren't going to move themselves, (um, and you might want to stop using that line, "They sell themselves" when begging me to take some off your hands. If they did you wouldn't be here breaking my balls to take some. Just sayin') but as we have discussed ad nauseam, they don't move at The Wine Country either so offering me a free case to toss upon the five cases that I will still be looking at next December isn't quite the bait you seem to think it is.



I thank you very much for your attention to this letter and I ask that you print it out and read it again come February. I have neither the time nor the desire to beat this dead horse with you, again. Figured it would be in the interest of time, and my freaking blood pressure to contact you and be as frank as possible. No means no.....still.



Should you have any further questions or need any clarification please consult my spokesmen:

Pascal Agrapart
Serge Billiot
Camille Saves
Jose Dhondt
Or
Bruno Gobillard

They can be found at the firm of, We Do It Better Than You
1 (800) Get-Clue

Much Love,
Samantha Dugan
Champagne Lover....

Things Remembered

Fragrant, the smell of a Christmas tree…as intoxicating and palpable smell as there is. I woke from a little holiday induced nap on my couch to the deeply moving smell of a fresh Douglas Fir. The little lights and their waxy cords warming the needles and branches just enough to entice the tree’s aromas to fill both the tiny space that is my living room as well as flip the switch on bits of my cavernous melon illuminating memories and emotions that I had boxed up and tucked away long ago.

I guess I was always a freak when it came to aromas. I was that annoying kid that smelled everything….yes, even the gross stuff and would base half my decision on whether or not liked something, and sometimes someone, by the way it smelled to me. I have always remembered smells just as strongly and vividly as I do sights and sounds, more often than not a scent can trigger a memory or feeling faster than a picture, a song or the written word can.

The gamey, feral aromas of a skunk always remind me of those long car rides back to San Diego from Long Beach, the uncomfortable silence as our VW Bug bumped along the dark highway….my mother making her walk of shame back to our dingy little apartment after having to ask her parents for money, again. An unpleasant smell on my levels, also one that evokes a little fear in me.



Corn tortillas, an aroma that fills me with self satisfaction and a sense of wander…a desire to learn. My odd little summers in Mexico with my American but truly foreign, grandparents. The days and nights left to wander the market stalls, smell and taste things that I had never seen before. The warmth and affection given me by those that really understood why I would rather spend hours alone fondling and sniffing fruits, burring my hands deep into the bins of dried beans, scooping up as many as my tiny hands could hold, lifting them above my head before letting them all rain back into the bin, the laughter and pat on my head when I called them “Pennies from Heaven”. I began my love affair with food there in those stalls but it will forever be the smell of corn tortillas that is the most powerful. My little pockets stuffed with still-warm-from-the-stone tortillas, placed there by a “stranger” their heat and aroma my only company on the long, breezy walk back to the Bourbon and Scotch scented trailer that contained the strangers I had come to visit.

Roasted turkey always meant a happy day. Thanksgiving being my mother’s most beloved holiday. Can’t remember one time that she wasn’t positively giddy once she put the bird in the oven so….well, the smell of roast turkey makes me smile and feel at ease.




Blistex, the thick white clunky goo that my first lover would slather upon his young chapped lips. The tiny jar tucked into the upper pocket of his jeans, the way it would blend with his lotion and cologne…those nervous hands fumbling about my skin, grazing my nipples, making them tingle with want and a craving so powerful that it convinced my young body that I needed him. The first man to love me, like really love me and the first man I would surrender to.

Warm milk and yeasty bread….Europe. My first morning, sleep deprived and lumbering down into the dining room of a Paris hotel. The clank of heavy cutlery, the rustle of the morning paper, the plushy, ornate woven carpet giving beneath my feet, the finding of my spot and ordering my first café.

The brickish orange cleaner that I used to scrub my palms, my nails, the one that used to stain my skin…the scent of a medicine cabinet and alpha, the aroma of visiting my son. His tiny body fighting for life, gasping for air, my cleanser filled nose dipping down into his tiny incubator…taking in that sweet, soft, vulnerable scent. His scent, the one that would forever change my life




Burgundy, discovering that wine was more than something I liked. It was to be as passionate and consuming….as physically and emotionally enveloping as any lover I had known before. The aromas that slithered from the glass like fingers wrapping around my jaw….pulling me closer, deeper. Standing in a cold cellar with five other people while this glass of wine slipped inside me, landed on my frame like a warm, wet mouth, causing my skin to tighten, my eyelids to heavy, the “oh fuck” to escape my lips. The groan as I felt my body demand that I take in more, one more sip, one more stroke, my heart pounding out of my chest, my mouth full of the most intoxicating and sensual lover I had ever tasted, a lifetime to do it over and over again.

A Christmas tree. As the vibrant, green, piney aroma filled my sleepy head I flipped through the pages of mental tasting notes, my connection and history with this most iconic holiday cast member. The first half of my childhood the smell of a Christmas tree made me feel sullen and helpless. We didn’t have a tree during the holidays when I was little, just couldn’t afford one and walking past them each time we entered or exited the supermarket my mother would stop and take deep chest filling sniffs…..likely visiting her own batch of “notes” and each and every time her eyes would fill with tears. Never understood it, knew nothing about her connection to that smell but the feeling was thick with words unsaid. It was a sadness and helplessness that I first connected to that smell.



The second half of my childhood we could afford a tree. One would think having this most longed for thing would inspire jubilation and a feeling of upward mobility, yeah…not so much. We first had a tree when we moved into a house with a man that would taunt, threaten and emotionally torment us. Flaunt the fact that we were lucky to have the tiny space he gave us and if we were not careful, didn’t jump when he snapped, he would yank this “beautiful” home away from us. My second connection with the Christmas tree smell was one of rage. Sure I was angry at him but I was also enraged that my mother once longed for this….brought us there to see what was never really ever going to be something for us. Hated it and in a way, hated her.

Years after moving out of that terrible place we would get a tree and thus began the sullen and miserable month of December. My mother always worried about what she wasn’t able to give. That smell made me feel guilty, like its being in the house was just one more symbol of failure to a woman who was doing all that she could, alone.

Sadness, rage, pity and guilt, these were the boxes I was riffling through as the tree…my tree shared its scent with me. I ran through the notes, reflected on those trees of past but the thing was…I didn’t, couldn’t feel any of it. My little tree, tucked into the corner of my living room, its lights blinking, the ornaments of varying interest, (hockey, wine, Jeremy’s Harry Potter) dangling from its scent saturated branches….my senior in college son sleeping in the next room, my desire to come here, write, talk and be with all of you. Profound happiness. I felt profound happiness as that piney smell swirled around my head, dove into my lungs and wrote the next chapter of notes…another page in the book of smells that will remain with me forever.



Fuck, I’m rambling ( so unlike me) but I just wanted to come here, to this spot where I have gotten to share my love for wine, my passion for the job that I get to do, my rants and revelations…just wanted to come here to thank you all. Your support and affection means more to this wine slinger than you can possibly imagine. You’ve all leant a hand in changing my story, writing the next chapter…there are no words powerful enough to express my gratitude.

Happy Holidays to you all….
Forever Yours,
Sam

This Week's Tasting Notes

Lather
Rinse
Repeat....

Three more days of holiday madness
Love it but
Damn, I'm tired.