Chris Coad
Chris Coad
The hottest fucking day of the year. Temperatures in the mid-90s, humidity up the wazoo, air the consistency of prison gumbo. This is the day that the Winegirl, Sharon Bowman, chooses to return to our fair city? Timing: not her strong suit.
So it is that I find myself slouching in sweaty pink melancholy into the cool confines of Chteauneuf-du-Joe, SFJoe's downtown aerie. The doordude takes one look at me with bottles in hand and says "Oh, you're here for Joe, go right up." I bang the secret knock on the brushed-metal door, and here's our host, as welcoming as ever.
"You're all pink," says Joe, frowning. "Would you like some water?"
I would, yes, thanks. I slug it down while making my greetings. Here's Sharon, of course, and her friend Carrie, and there's the vulgar little monkey, who seems to look different every time I see him. This time he's unusually clean cut, and it takes a second to register exactly who this oddly respectable-looking character is. So I manage to choke back my "Pleased to meet you, whoever the hell you are" just in the nick of time.
I'm not the biggest fan of the fizzy stuff, but a glass of Champagne Vouette et Sorbe Champagne Blanc d'Argile Extra Brut NV, once vigorously swirled, really hits the spot. Smells very delicate and ticklish, traces of gardenia and bananaskin mingle with yeasty-bakery notes. Very finely bubbled, light and pretty but very flavorful, with a hint of steeliness at the center wrapped around some firm acidity. Almost like sparkling Chablis in some respects; I like it very much.
Here's Dr. Lisa, swanning in and greeting the assembled crowd. She gives Sharon the cheek-kisses but immediately nixes the idea of further Katy Perry-style makeout sessions at the table. "Brad's not here," she explains. "What would be the point?"
Makes sense.
The onset of summer heat is a perfect opportunity for a ros diagonal, so here's a few specimens, first a Pascal Cotat Vin de Table Franais Ros "Chavignol" "Lot 2008". Pale salmon-pink color. Light aromatics, hints of cherry-strawberry, a bit reticent. Tastes pleasant but a bit vague, soft and quiet and not terribly impressive. Decent pinky, but nothing to write home about.
VLM and Dr. Lisa have a strangely urgent desire to go watch the sun set up on the roof. Joe gazes at vandergrift quizzically, "Too hot, dude, wayyyy too hot." But they are not to be dissuaded, and race out the door and up the what? Stairs? Elevator? I have no idea. Frankly, I sense there is a nic fit involved here. Or maybe they're making out, I can't be sure. They're both already fairly well lubricated from pre-jeeb activities, so all bets are off.
Next is a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Ros 2002. Whoa, here's switching the intensity up a notch. Much more deeply colored and aromatically robust than the '08rich plumeria-cherryfloral hints with a pretty berry streak. Vivid, strong at the core, wonderfully focused. Really a complete package, with a whispery hint of tannins on the finish. I linger with this one for a good long time.
Joe gets on his phone and lets VLM and Dr. Lisa know we're eating soon. They stagger back down just in time to see Josh Raynolds arrive. Hi, Josh! He immediately approaches Dr. Lisa and explains that, thanks to her, Mary-Louise is now donating blood several times a day, every day of the week, and that the constant fainting and blackouts are a small price to pay for the sense of satisfaction. They high-five. Frankly, I'm concerned for the mental health of all involved, but I bite my tongue and distract myself with a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Ros 1999. Not as brawny as the '02, more delicate and perfumed, but still very satisfying. There's a sour-cherry tang in the midpalate that just tickles me. It hasn't the pure strength of the '02, but there's a lot going on here, in a minor key.
.sasha wanders past me with a glassful of something orange up to his nose, muttering to himself and gesticulating gently. This is usually a good sign, so I pour myself some Lopez de Heredia/Via Tondonia Rioja Via Orango 1993. It's probably been five years since I tasted this oddball wine, I'm curious as to where it's gone. Same medium-pale orange color. A sniff, and BOY HOWDY THAT'S NICE. Rich creamsicle-whiteflower-laced smellies, limned by a gentle bookspine spiciness and underpinned by a firm stoniness. Far less muted than it has showed in the past, tonight it's an exuberant noseful, and the bright acidity and muscular pieholefeel make it a real pleasure to gulp down. OM NOM NOM.
Josh has laid out some rillettes. Joe scoops, chews, his eyes widen. "Those are... seizure-inducing," he declares.
While Joe's enjoying the mystery meat, I spy Josh buttering up some of those distinctive New England-style hot dog rolls, the split-on-top ones, and sense where this might be going. Sure enough, there are lobster rolls to be had, and Dr. Lisa is soon in full-bore mouthgasm mode. I quiz Josh for his secrets. Nutmeg? Check. Mace? Check. Adrenal gland of a Tasmanian wattled bat? Check. Damn, this guy's good. And with the luscious seabug-dogs we drink a Coche-Dury Meursault les Chevalires 1993. Happy rich pear-apple-spice smellies after an initial firecrackery note blows off, gentle vanilla undertones. Tastes broad and creamy, precise and balanced. It's a friendly medium-sized wine; you sense there's a showy side here, but it manages to contain it modestly. I could drink this a lot. Pretty darn nice, for old chardonnay. Perhaps this grape isn't an utter waste of time after all? Judgment withheld, for now.
Now there's a plate of ferns going around. Sauted ferns. Seriously, we're eating ferns now? Like our hominid ancestors? Haven't we moved beyond this kind of thing?
So what do we drink with fern stems? Lessee, looks like a Domaine Berthau et Fils Chambolle-Musigny les Charmes 1990. Roasty crushed-brick redfruit mingled with a strong barky/sarsaparilla streak. Traces of gentle spiciness flicker from my glasscinnamon, horehound, underbrush. In the piehole it's a medium-light wine with dark flavors and a gentle, caressive quality, with some surprising tannins that sneak up on me on the finish. I think I like it, but there's a lack of balance, of finesse, that's troubling.
Actually, the ferns are pretty damn tasty. I mean, for ferns.
Joe emerges triumphantly from the kitchen and proudly presents the next course. "Voila!" he crows, "A rack of goat!"
He displays a vast serving plate with a tiny dark pointy thing resting forlornly in the center. I peer at it myopically. Why is it so tiny? Is this a gag? "Fetal goat?" I suggest. Seriously, it could very well be a rack of housecat ribs. Once carved, the plate is reverently passed around the room. We each help ourselves to one rib the exact size and shape of a clothespin.
"This is no goat," I gripe. "There was never a goat this small. You're feeding us bush meat, aren't you? This is FUCKING OPOSSUM, ISN'T IT??"
He denies it. But then he would, wouldn't he? He's laughing at us, I know it.
Josh has a Mystery Wine. .sasha takes a hit, sniffs at it and says "It's Rhne." It does seem very Rhney, muted plum-strawberry redfruit right up front, vivid slatey-gravelly streak running parallel with it. Medium-lightbodied, with impressive focus but a general lightness of body. I'm just about to guess Chteauneuf-du-Pape when it's revealed as a Yves Cuilleron Vignoble du Nord de la Valle du Rhne Cepage Gamay 2008. Whoopsy. I was pretty convinced there was a grenachey streak, but seems I'm way off base.
I get caught on one side of the table between vandergrift and Raynolds. They keep launching into these winegeek-jargon-intensive ping-pong matches that leave my face feeling a bit blistered on either side: BLAH BLAH WHEN I VISITED JEAN-LOUIS AT HIS CELLAR HE TOLD ME EVERYTHING I EVER SAID WAS RIGHT BLAH BLAH, WELL, WHEN I VISITED HIM HE MADE ME DINNER AND WASHED MY FEET WHILE PRAISING MY MANLY VISAGE BLAH BLAH. I wave desperately to Sharon, mouth "HALP!" and back my chair gradually out of the line of fire, ultimately fleeing to her side of the table.
From which calm safety I sample a pair of '89 St. Juliens. A Clos du Marquis St. Julien 1989 is up first. Gentle, quiet aromatics, pencil shavings, graphite minerality, oregano herbaceousness, muted blackcurrant. Tastes calm, pleasant, medium-low acidity, loosely wrapped but quite present. Subtle, silky, but a bit wan in the middle and a bit short on the finish. Pleasant little claret, I'd say, not much more.
Next is a Chteau Loville-Poyferr St. Julien 1989. Rich, boisterous smellies bound up out of the glass into my willing sinuses: tobacco and cassis laced with gentle smokiness and dark licorice/tarry notes, like smelling a black velvet painting. Similarly loose and fleshy, but much more well-stuffed, a broad and muscular wine with the patina of youth over the hints of secondary development. Really tasty, classic new age St. Julien on a large-framed scale. I'd say it went really well with the possum, but I'm not sure, as I only had a half-bite's worth of meat.
Sharon keeps trying to get the assembled crowd to sing "Happy Birthday" to Joe, but no one is into it. She pouts, "But he turned fifty!" There is a collective shrug. That's not how we cool cats roll, babycakes.
Josh has a second mystery wine. "Ooh, it's PURPLE!" I squeal. "I LOVE purple wines!" Indeed, it's a dark black-garnet color, purpling noticeably at the rim. A sniff: black olive and black pepper, violet hints and a meaty smokiness fairly scream SYRAH at me. Tastes ripe and spicy, but with a certain elegance and layered complexity. It's softish around the edges, but firm at the core, a meaty wine, but not a brute, there's a nice finesse to the ripeness. I waffle on new vs. old world, but the composure makes me think of a ripe-year old world wine from a non-severe appellation.
"It's syrah," I opine. "Maybe a ripe St. Joseph?" VLM hoots and throws feces at me, but I stand by my call. Turns out it's a tiny-production cool-climate Aussie syrah, a Jamsheed Syrah Yarra Valley 2009. The ripeness seems to put off a few of the more tender souls, who clutch their pearls and retreat to their fainting couches to recover, but I like it just fine.
Sharon buttonholes me and drags me off to the .sasha couch for a tte--tte, as we call it in Honolulu. She's worried about me, wonders why I've dropped off the face of the earth, wants me to update my website, etc. I explain that I'm in the grip of an unprecedented bout of existential despair, but that doesn't seem to satisfy her. She snatches my ChocoCat notebook, looks at my chicken scratches, sighs: "At least you're still taking notes."
"Even dead men have reflexes."
She scowls at me. "I don't want to desecrate your notebook, but..." she trails off, holding her hand out for my pen.
"Be my guest." I surrender it.
She scribbles something, hands it back to me, then proceeds to tell me about HER problems. I listen for awhile, nodding sympathetically, then grab her head and shake it like a yellow Lab might shake a chew-toy.
"WAAAAAAHHHG!" she wails.
We both look around, alarmed at this noisy outburst. Everyone else is still engaged in animated discussions about rootstock and the percentage of stems in the mystery wine and how that mimics the influence of oak. I shrug: "Tough crowd." She stares wide-eyed at me, eyes pleading.
Here's a special rarity, a Clos Rougeard Coteaux du Saumur 1997. Medium amber-gold color. Boisterous smellies, apricot and mandarin orange, quince jam, light spiced-hay hints. At first whiffage I don't get much overt botrytis, but with aeration it emerges a bit more. Tastes sweet, but far from viscous, more along the lines of a molleux 1ere trie than something like a Huet Constance, has a pleasant lightness that's buoyed by a bright acidic core. Completely cohesive, no element stands out, great balance and a sense of subtlety that's very beguiling. Finishes with a long apricotty hum. Delicious, fetal. Substantial, vivid, impressive, balanced. One for the cellar. I hear the '21 is drinking very nicely these days, so, say, drink in 70-80 years.
Dr. Lisa's eyes are starting to close of their own accord. The fleeing time of night is soon to be upon us. I gesture towards the .sasha couch, but she frowns and shakes me off.
Here's a nightcap, an Azienda Agricola Camillo Donati Malvasia Dolce dell' Emilia Frizzante IGT. Joe keeps selling this one, but I'm not entirely convinced. It's the color of cloudy orange-grapefruit juice, and froths up with a big beery head when poured. There's a distinct clovey-wheaty-hoppy aroma, it smells like orange sherbet lager. Light sweetness, fairly low acidity, turns bitter-almondy on the finish. It's pleasant enough, but a bit kooky for me to really enjoy. Because I'm staid.
There are other things to be sampled, but the doc is fading fast, so we bid our farewells and flee the scene. As I'm lolling in the backseat of the cab back to our special island, I peek at the page in my notebook. Turns out Sharon scribbled one sentence: "PLEASE WRITE THIS UP."
And so I do.
She did ask nicely, after all.
So it is that I find myself slouching in sweaty pink melancholy into the cool confines of Chteauneuf-du-Joe, SFJoe's downtown aerie. The doordude takes one look at me with bottles in hand and says "Oh, you're here for Joe, go right up." I bang the secret knock on the brushed-metal door, and here's our host, as welcoming as ever.
"You're all pink," says Joe, frowning. "Would you like some water?"
I would, yes, thanks. I slug it down while making my greetings. Here's Sharon, of course, and her friend Carrie, and there's the vulgar little monkey, who seems to look different every time I see him. This time he's unusually clean cut, and it takes a second to register exactly who this oddly respectable-looking character is. So I manage to choke back my "Pleased to meet you, whoever the hell you are" just in the nick of time.
I'm not the biggest fan of the fizzy stuff, but a glass of Champagne Vouette et Sorbe Champagne Blanc d'Argile Extra Brut NV, once vigorously swirled, really hits the spot. Smells very delicate and ticklish, traces of gardenia and bananaskin mingle with yeasty-bakery notes. Very finely bubbled, light and pretty but very flavorful, with a hint of steeliness at the center wrapped around some firm acidity. Almost like sparkling Chablis in some respects; I like it very much.
Here's Dr. Lisa, swanning in and greeting the assembled crowd. She gives Sharon the cheek-kisses but immediately nixes the idea of further Katy Perry-style makeout sessions at the table. "Brad's not here," she explains. "What would be the point?"
Makes sense.
The onset of summer heat is a perfect opportunity for a ros diagonal, so here's a few specimens, first a Pascal Cotat Vin de Table Franais Ros "Chavignol" "Lot 2008". Pale salmon-pink color. Light aromatics, hints of cherry-strawberry, a bit reticent. Tastes pleasant but a bit vague, soft and quiet and not terribly impressive. Decent pinky, but nothing to write home about.
VLM and Dr. Lisa have a strangely urgent desire to go watch the sun set up on the roof. Joe gazes at vandergrift quizzically, "Too hot, dude, wayyyy too hot." But they are not to be dissuaded, and race out the door and up the what? Stairs? Elevator? I have no idea. Frankly, I sense there is a nic fit involved here. Or maybe they're making out, I can't be sure. They're both already fairly well lubricated from pre-jeeb activities, so all bets are off.
Next is a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Ros 2002. Whoa, here's switching the intensity up a notch. Much more deeply colored and aromatically robust than the '08rich plumeria-cherryfloral hints with a pretty berry streak. Vivid, strong at the core, wonderfully focused. Really a complete package, with a whispery hint of tannins on the finish. I linger with this one for a good long time.
Joe gets on his phone and lets VLM and Dr. Lisa know we're eating soon. They stagger back down just in time to see Josh Raynolds arrive. Hi, Josh! He immediately approaches Dr. Lisa and explains that, thanks to her, Mary-Louise is now donating blood several times a day, every day of the week, and that the constant fainting and blackouts are a small price to pay for the sense of satisfaction. They high-five. Frankly, I'm concerned for the mental health of all involved, but I bite my tongue and distract myself with a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Ros 1999. Not as brawny as the '02, more delicate and perfumed, but still very satisfying. There's a sour-cherry tang in the midpalate that just tickles me. It hasn't the pure strength of the '02, but there's a lot going on here, in a minor key.
.sasha wanders past me with a glassful of something orange up to his nose, muttering to himself and gesticulating gently. This is usually a good sign, so I pour myself some Lopez de Heredia/Via Tondonia Rioja Via Orango 1993. It's probably been five years since I tasted this oddball wine, I'm curious as to where it's gone. Same medium-pale orange color. A sniff, and BOY HOWDY THAT'S NICE. Rich creamsicle-whiteflower-laced smellies, limned by a gentle bookspine spiciness and underpinned by a firm stoniness. Far less muted than it has showed in the past, tonight it's an exuberant noseful, and the bright acidity and muscular pieholefeel make it a real pleasure to gulp down. OM NOM NOM.
Josh has laid out some rillettes. Joe scoops, chews, his eyes widen. "Those are... seizure-inducing," he declares.
While Joe's enjoying the mystery meat, I spy Josh buttering up some of those distinctive New England-style hot dog rolls, the split-on-top ones, and sense where this might be going. Sure enough, there are lobster rolls to be had, and Dr. Lisa is soon in full-bore mouthgasm mode. I quiz Josh for his secrets. Nutmeg? Check. Mace? Check. Adrenal gland of a Tasmanian wattled bat? Check. Damn, this guy's good. And with the luscious seabug-dogs we drink a Coche-Dury Meursault les Chevalires 1993. Happy rich pear-apple-spice smellies after an initial firecrackery note blows off, gentle vanilla undertones. Tastes broad and creamy, precise and balanced. It's a friendly medium-sized wine; you sense there's a showy side here, but it manages to contain it modestly. I could drink this a lot. Pretty darn nice, for old chardonnay. Perhaps this grape isn't an utter waste of time after all? Judgment withheld, for now.
Now there's a plate of ferns going around. Sauted ferns. Seriously, we're eating ferns now? Like our hominid ancestors? Haven't we moved beyond this kind of thing?
So what do we drink with fern stems? Lessee, looks like a Domaine Berthau et Fils Chambolle-Musigny les Charmes 1990. Roasty crushed-brick redfruit mingled with a strong barky/sarsaparilla streak. Traces of gentle spiciness flicker from my glasscinnamon, horehound, underbrush. In the piehole it's a medium-light wine with dark flavors and a gentle, caressive quality, with some surprising tannins that sneak up on me on the finish. I think I like it, but there's a lack of balance, of finesse, that's troubling.
Actually, the ferns are pretty damn tasty. I mean, for ferns.
Joe emerges triumphantly from the kitchen and proudly presents the next course. "Voila!" he crows, "A rack of goat!"
He displays a vast serving plate with a tiny dark pointy thing resting forlornly in the center. I peer at it myopically. Why is it so tiny? Is this a gag? "Fetal goat?" I suggest. Seriously, it could very well be a rack of housecat ribs. Once carved, the plate is reverently passed around the room. We each help ourselves to one rib the exact size and shape of a clothespin.
"This is no goat," I gripe. "There was never a goat this small. You're feeding us bush meat, aren't you? This is FUCKING OPOSSUM, ISN'T IT??"
He denies it. But then he would, wouldn't he? He's laughing at us, I know it.
Josh has a Mystery Wine. .sasha takes a hit, sniffs at it and says "It's Rhne." It does seem very Rhney, muted plum-strawberry redfruit right up front, vivid slatey-gravelly streak running parallel with it. Medium-lightbodied, with impressive focus but a general lightness of body. I'm just about to guess Chteauneuf-du-Pape when it's revealed as a Yves Cuilleron Vignoble du Nord de la Valle du Rhne Cepage Gamay 2008. Whoopsy. I was pretty convinced there was a grenachey streak, but seems I'm way off base.
I get caught on one side of the table between vandergrift and Raynolds. They keep launching into these winegeek-jargon-intensive ping-pong matches that leave my face feeling a bit blistered on either side: BLAH BLAH WHEN I VISITED JEAN-LOUIS AT HIS CELLAR HE TOLD ME EVERYTHING I EVER SAID WAS RIGHT BLAH BLAH, WELL, WHEN I VISITED HIM HE MADE ME DINNER AND WASHED MY FEET WHILE PRAISING MY MANLY VISAGE BLAH BLAH. I wave desperately to Sharon, mouth "HALP!" and back my chair gradually out of the line of fire, ultimately fleeing to her side of the table.
From which calm safety I sample a pair of '89 St. Juliens. A Clos du Marquis St. Julien 1989 is up first. Gentle, quiet aromatics, pencil shavings, graphite minerality, oregano herbaceousness, muted blackcurrant. Tastes calm, pleasant, medium-low acidity, loosely wrapped but quite present. Subtle, silky, but a bit wan in the middle and a bit short on the finish. Pleasant little claret, I'd say, not much more.
Next is a Chteau Loville-Poyferr St. Julien 1989. Rich, boisterous smellies bound up out of the glass into my willing sinuses: tobacco and cassis laced with gentle smokiness and dark licorice/tarry notes, like smelling a black velvet painting. Similarly loose and fleshy, but much more well-stuffed, a broad and muscular wine with the patina of youth over the hints of secondary development. Really tasty, classic new age St. Julien on a large-framed scale. I'd say it went really well with the possum, but I'm not sure, as I only had a half-bite's worth of meat.
Sharon keeps trying to get the assembled crowd to sing "Happy Birthday" to Joe, but no one is into it. She pouts, "But he turned fifty!" There is a collective shrug. That's not how we cool cats roll, babycakes.
Josh has a second mystery wine. "Ooh, it's PURPLE!" I squeal. "I LOVE purple wines!" Indeed, it's a dark black-garnet color, purpling noticeably at the rim. A sniff: black olive and black pepper, violet hints and a meaty smokiness fairly scream SYRAH at me. Tastes ripe and spicy, but with a certain elegance and layered complexity. It's softish around the edges, but firm at the core, a meaty wine, but not a brute, there's a nice finesse to the ripeness. I waffle on new vs. old world, but the composure makes me think of a ripe-year old world wine from a non-severe appellation.
"It's syrah," I opine. "Maybe a ripe St. Joseph?" VLM hoots and throws feces at me, but I stand by my call. Turns out it's a tiny-production cool-climate Aussie syrah, a Jamsheed Syrah Yarra Valley 2009. The ripeness seems to put off a few of the more tender souls, who clutch their pearls and retreat to their fainting couches to recover, but I like it just fine.
Sharon buttonholes me and drags me off to the .sasha couch for a tte--tte, as we call it in Honolulu. She's worried about me, wonders why I've dropped off the face of the earth, wants me to update my website, etc. I explain that I'm in the grip of an unprecedented bout of existential despair, but that doesn't seem to satisfy her. She snatches my ChocoCat notebook, looks at my chicken scratches, sighs: "At least you're still taking notes."
"Even dead men have reflexes."
She scowls at me. "I don't want to desecrate your notebook, but..." she trails off, holding her hand out for my pen.
"Be my guest." I surrender it.
She scribbles something, hands it back to me, then proceeds to tell me about HER problems. I listen for awhile, nodding sympathetically, then grab her head and shake it like a yellow Lab might shake a chew-toy.
"WAAAAAAHHHG!" she wails.
We both look around, alarmed at this noisy outburst. Everyone else is still engaged in animated discussions about rootstock and the percentage of stems in the mystery wine and how that mimics the influence of oak. I shrug: "Tough crowd." She stares wide-eyed at me, eyes pleading.
Here's a special rarity, a Clos Rougeard Coteaux du Saumur 1997. Medium amber-gold color. Boisterous smellies, apricot and mandarin orange, quince jam, light spiced-hay hints. At first whiffage I don't get much overt botrytis, but with aeration it emerges a bit more. Tastes sweet, but far from viscous, more along the lines of a molleux 1ere trie than something like a Huet Constance, has a pleasant lightness that's buoyed by a bright acidic core. Completely cohesive, no element stands out, great balance and a sense of subtlety that's very beguiling. Finishes with a long apricotty hum. Delicious, fetal. Substantial, vivid, impressive, balanced. One for the cellar. I hear the '21 is drinking very nicely these days, so, say, drink in 70-80 years.
Dr. Lisa's eyes are starting to close of their own accord. The fleeing time of night is soon to be upon us. I gesture towards the .sasha couch, but she frowns and shakes me off.
Here's a nightcap, an Azienda Agricola Camillo Donati Malvasia Dolce dell' Emilia Frizzante IGT. Joe keeps selling this one, but I'm not entirely convinced. It's the color of cloudy orange-grapefruit juice, and froths up with a big beery head when poured. There's a distinct clovey-wheaty-hoppy aroma, it smells like orange sherbet lager. Light sweetness, fairly low acidity, turns bitter-almondy on the finish. It's pleasant enough, but a bit kooky for me to really enjoy. Because I'm staid.
There are other things to be sampled, but the doc is fading fast, so we bid our farewells and flee the scene. As I'm lolling in the backseat of the cab back to our special island, I peek at the page in my notebook. Turns out Sharon scribbled one sentence: "PLEASE WRITE THIS UP."
And so I do.
She did ask nicely, after all.
