This Should Not be Taken Lightly

Wine is some SERIOUS stuff! Chinon I refer to as, 'fresh off the boat'!

When French Chinon hits U.S. soil, leaves its shipping container, finds its way into your hands, resting at the bottom of your wine glass and is finally greeted by your wiff--you then know--you're no longer in Kansas. One French kiss of this foreigner via a sip and you may just find yourself proposing for French--Chinon citizenship.

If I were a florist from the town of tours, in the region of Touraine, in the AOC of Chinon, interpreting the 100% Cabernet Franc that is Chinon--I'd be creating edible arrangements. A sprig of dill, rods of jalapeno, stalks of asparagus, cucumber and bell pepper. I'd then add to this arrangement 6 cherries, 2 raspberries and 1 blackberry and lace it with limestone powder--sounds delicious right!?

There's a quote that says, "Chinon is not just French, its very French." I've also read, the Loire is said to be where the purist French is spoken--Chinon must have one of the thickest French accents!

My point is Chinon's greatest strength is its individualism. In a world of globalization and in a wine world where so many strive to be something they're not, Chinon is always true to itself. It's a clever wine, that's a secret play, makes a great conversation piece and is the epitome of a food wine. Heck even rapper JayZ has said "When I'm fienon' for a reason, I leanon a little Chinon."

Ladies and gentleman, JayZ's right--pour some out for your homies, and here's to Chinon.

Enjoy the BUZZ--While It Lasts!

Obsession can lead to madness, if I don't have another sip of Quevedo 2007 Vintage Port soon, I may go insane!

This bottle was a barrel sample, brought into the United States by this man, Oscar Quevedo.It was the only one of it's kind in the country and he shared it with myself and a few other Seattle Sommeliers--I can't stop thinking about it.

The 2007 year in Portugal has now been declared a 'Vintage' year and the wines are just now starting to show up in the market. In the case of this particular wine I'm surprised the Portuguese wine cartel didn't have the place guarded like a Colombian drug deal. I seriously felt like this product had addictive qualities, as I had struggled to control my compulsive consumption. Here is what I tasted:

Intoxicating plum reeked from the glass. Gob's of black currant smothered my nasal cavities as I sopped up a smattering of it's unctuousness. A smile. Ear to ear. My sense of smell and sight and taste never more acute. All other senses now dull and dormant as I tilted back for my first sip. Before it hit my lips I knew, like the all knowing, it was decidedly so. Silence. Blueberry flavors that seemed impossible, plump thick plum juice then, the kind that makes you check the mirror for oozing facial drippage--like the drewl after dental Novocaine. If only my face fit into the little port glass, I would have stuck it in.

This black fruit was like that of which for pancakes or the surface area of toast. Prune was a part of this whole equation, and the formula a genetic masterpiece. Like colors I don't know the names of and how describing them does no justice--I can't explain some of this wine's flavor. Things I can question, but can only choose to ultimately accept.

After tasting this Port, I DID have to check my pants, and I AM starting to go a little mad. Why, you ask, don't I just buy a bottle?

Quevedo does't have an importer yet, which means I never will until they do! My advise to YOU, is to simply enjoy the BUZZ--while it lasts.

GONE GOING

It's evident that life never stops. You can lie there at night, with the window down and hear its continuum. Trash trucks, squeaky breaks, the wind then to the leaves, leaves then to the vineyard.

From the earth works the root, from the root the vine and its growing pains of ache and struggle. Similar to the stimulation of man, it's Miss Mother Nature who coaxes out vinous fruit like an apple, impossible to resist. In bottle and behind cork, once again come whispers in message; there they remain until even after they're gone--rest then their souls. Death imitates life and how alive with death some things are. The hands of the maker split, hardened and sore, weathered by the world. Asking forgiveness, then healed. Giveth and taketh away, no word as to the reasons why. Sacrificial acre dust scattered about the land and its expanses; touched by life, sweat, blood and tears.

A drizzle soon to a saturation, this misting an emotional miracle--nurturing the neglected. Cyclical not, predictable no, foreseeable so, rain once again. Too much, too little, just right, night sets in, the moon, the stars, the planets, the abyss. A wonder what it would be if no one noticed. Exists however its presence, listen to it and learn, wisdom awaits in your glass, open your window.