Oswaldo Costa
Oswaldo Costa
Yesterday was very cold in these parts, so I searched the cellar for something hot. This Pago de Carraovejas, acquired a few years ago on the recommendation of a visiting Spanish winemaker, had pleasant aromas of raspberry and plum, with only a hint of wood. Promising. In the glass, a shade of red so dark it bordered on black, but not purple. In the mouth, an Amazon of alcohol spread a bounty of sweetness and astringency, the latter like alcohol on a fresh wound. The overripe fruit displayed an ultimately worthless elegance. The French-tasting oak was not excessive, but the super maturity of the fruit, and the resulting alcohol, turned heater into anti-freeze. Both of us left our entire last fills on the table, an event as rare as an eclipse, the plenitude of liquid an index of j’accuse. At least I got a bottle closer to getting rid of everything above 13.5% that does not specifically bear a letter of safe conduct. I'm sorry if I've offended anyone.
