Friday Lesson: Power of Suggestion

No, the reason why this was not posted on Friday was not because I was out late...

"I tried the '96 Lafite, Jesse. It was not good. It was awful. It was a brett bomb, nothing else". David, the head winemaker at O'Brien, shook his head in regret as he spoke these words. Year after year, driven by insatiable demand from Asian buyers at auction, Chateau Lafite Rothschild, one of five Bordeaux wines classified "first growth", commands the highest price of any Bordeaux wine save Chateau Petrus (Petrus, a Pomerol wine, was not classified in the 1855 classification). The bottle David tried is going for at least $1,200 on winesearcher.com. The market obviously does not agree with his assessment.

Brett or Brettanomyces (pronounced Brett-on-a-mice-eez), is a yeast that is a common spoilage organism in winemaking. Some tasting terms used to describe its odor include barnyard, horse stable, leathery, smoky, spicy, and cheesy. These descriptors sound pretty good to me--not unlike many of the popular descriptors of any rustic, terroir driven wine. These smells indicate Old World (France, Italy, Spain) instead of New World (US, Australia, New Zealand, South America, South Africa). They represent complexities that sophisticated, seasoned wine drinkers can appreciate. So I thought.

The winemakers fill me in on some other terms used to describe the Brett character, including rancid, ammonia, mouse droppings, manure, medicinal, pharmaceutical, and probably the most characteristic, and most disgusting--Band-aid.

Right now, by the way, David, Jesse, and I are in the wine lab, drinking lattes, shooting the shit, taking a break from the backbreaking labor of winemaking.

"The French are making Bretty wines, calling it terroir, and people love it, are even willing to pay extra for it", David continues. "They think the smell comes from the dirt, from the terroir, but it comes from dirty barrels and sloppy winemaking. Wine is a fruit, it should smell like fresh fruit. People forget that".

Jesse, the assistant winemaker, agrees with UC Davis sciencespeak I cannot understand.

I admit to these California winemakers, that I too am a terroirist, that I have potentially fallen victim to my own desire for sophistication by actually seeking out wines of bretty character--wines with a rustic, Old World style. Worst of all, I have preached this gospel to friends and family, I have implied that something delicious, a wine with clear, fresh fruit flavors, should be avoided at all cost, because those "overdone fruit bombs" (that is how I describe the good tasting stuff) are only for amateurs.

They laugh, and tell me they will fix my ways. David hands me a small glass vial, a lab sample of Brettanomyces. Sure enough, it smells like Band-aid. For kicks, he hands me lab samples of ethyl acetate (smells like nail polish remover) and acetic acid (smells like balsamic vinegar).

All these things--these "additions"--in small amounts, can increase the "interesting" factor of a wine. They can actually lead to higher scores in blind tastings, as the wine showing a slight earthy or rustic character, or a hint of balsamic vinegar, will stand out in a long line of otherwise similar tasting wines. Still, these are flaws. They always decrease the longevity of a wine; they destroy the balance of a wine. At any level, they make a wine unpalatable to UC Davis trained professionals. At a significant enough level, even lay tasters will find these additions to be distracting and unappetizing.

This whole discussion made me pretty sad. It shook my foundation. Can I really trust my palate? Ignorance was bliss. I used to taste a nice, Old World style, rustic, terroir driven wine and assume it was the archetype of winemaking. This appreciation for "classic" wines has developed slowly and I wonder if I have gone too far. Have some, or all of the wines, I have had expressive of terroir, been mistakes? Was I tasting terroir or error? All I know is that I am now hypersensitive to brett.

After the day's work at the winery, mostly dismantling wooden pallets with a gigantic hammer and putting wax tops on about 25 cases of 2008 Unrestrained Reserve, I head to Darioush Winery for a tasting. Darioush was founded by an Iranian family from the town of Shiraz, one of the world's first wine regions. The winery looks like a Persian castle in Disneyland.

"This is the wine that made me quit my job and move to Napa". The tall, mustached gentleman from across the glass bar tells me this quietly, as if he is letting me in on a secret. He pours me a glass of the 2009 Darioush Signature Viognier.

The wine is pleasingly aromatic--as pleasingly aromatic as a Viognier should be. But since I am trying to develop my palate, I try to focus on describing the wine more particularly than merely saying its floral, or reticent of tropical fruit, or mineral driven".

"There is a definite citrus component going on", I say. "Blood orange, or orange peel?", I add tentatively.

"Yes!". The tall gentleman is clearly excited. "I usually have to tell people that it is there, but you got it. You have a great palate. All the normal viognier aromatics are there--the floral component, the apricot, but there is also something unmistakable and unique about this wine. It is the clear smell and taste of orange peel. I also get a dried leaf component, almost like a tea leave--almost like an orange peko tea leaf. Do you get that?", he asks.

"Yes, definitely", I lie. In reality, I didn't even make out the floral or apricot thing. However, I can see that my apparent prowess has driven the tall gentleman to the far end of the bar to retrieve some reserve wines, not usually poured for guests. I decide to lay low, to avoid guessing sensual components in any wine for the rest of the tasting. The silence is powerful. He pours me a 2006 Darius II Cabernet Sauvignon, an extremely limited production wine only made in the best vintages. The everyday visitor would have to pay $60 for a taste.

After Darioush, I head to Downtown Napa's Back Room Wines for their Friday Night Tasting Special. Being poured tonight were eight wines from France's Loire Valley. The Back Room staff is not impressed by my request for the industry treatment, and since I do not have a business card, pay stub, or any proof of employment, I have to pay the $15 tasting fee. This did not put me in a good mood. The first seven wines were not memorable. They were fine. They just were not memorable. The eighth wine, however, was off. It was a total brett bomb. I could smell it, I could totally taste it. The fruit was thin and the wine had a clearly medicinal Band-aid odor and taste. A day ago, I probably would have liked this wine a lot. I would have thought the dirty, earthy smell was characteristic of the region, or the vineyard, or the classic style of winemaking employed by the French. At this point, I really don't know what to think, or what I really like, but since wine is a creature of suggestion, and I am quite impressionable, today, at least, I will call it brett and not terroir.

I would get a chance to put my palate to a real taste test shortly thereafter:

I head across the street to Bounty Hunter, a very hip bistro/wine bar/barbecue joint. To enter the building I have to walk by the smoker. I have not eaten a thing today since yogurt and granola for breakfast. Whatever is inside that smoker smells incredibly amazing. It is about 7:30 PM and I am starving. I find a seat at the corner of the bar and tear open a menu: 40 wines by the glass, about 400 in bottle, mostly small producers from California--nice. The food options look good too. I order a glass of Pinot Noir from the Central Coast, a green salad, and a barbecue platter complete with pulled pork, beef brisket, a half rack of baby back ribs, and a slathering of coleslaw. The wine arrives. It is one of these cola tasting, spicy, big Pinot Noir wines that I do not typically enjoy (as a terroirist, how could I?). Still, it will probably pair well with the barbecue feast I am about to enjoy.

Eating alone at a restaurant, even at a bar, is pretty tough. I am not sure what the proper protocol is. Should I thumb through the menu to keep myself busy? Should I send text messages on my iphone? Should I aggressively involve myself in my neighbors' conversation? Should I just stare blankly at the other end of the bar, studying the single malts, the flavored vodkas, and mixers?

Fortunately, my salad comes quickly enough. I can concentrate on eating without looking too lonely. The salad is great--very lettucy in fact. Before I even finish my salad, the monster plate of barbecue is plopped in front of me. I start to chip away at the plate unproductively. I can't seem to make any progress. The piles of pulled pork and beef brisket are just mocking me. I need a new drink. I recall from the menu a "Grab Bag Red" and order a $2 pour. The Grab Bag Red wine can be anything, bartender's choice. It is covered in a brown paper bag and rotated after each entrant to ensure no games are played, to ensure customers don't call friends that have just played. Guess the varietal and country right, you get the drink for a penny. Guess wrong and...total humiliation for wine hubris along with a full priced glass.

The wine is poured from its concealed container. I look at the shape of the bottle to gather any clues. Standard Bordeaux shaped bottle. I guess they probably put every Grab Bag wine in a neutral bottle. The wine is clear ruby, with strawberry fruit, almost preserve like, and a very spicy finish. I can't tell for certain if the spice is from the wine or my barbecue.

"Shiraz from Australia", I guess.

"Close", the bartender says. "It's a Cotes du Rhone". This means the wine was French and made from mostly Grenache, Syrah (called Shiraz in Australia and New Zealand), and Mourvedre, with other grape varietals mixed in on occasion. I was close.

Exhilarated and buoyed by the near-miss, I order another Grab Bag Red while a middle-aged couple take the seats next to me at the bar. They joke about the size of the barbecue platter in front of me. Apparently, the menu says it can easily feed two hungry men. Defeated, I ask for it to be boxed up.

My neighbors are a nice couple from the Bay Area. He is an air traffic controller. She, a retired software developer turned mom. They want to hear my life story. They tell me theirs. They met while both working at Wendy's at age 19. First date was a movie and Denny's. They married six years later. They have two kids--girls. The oldest is about to start highschool. Dad is worried about my story--that he has a chance of meeting his potential son-in-law next year. I think he is joking? He coaches his younger daughter's lacrosse team. His coaching idols include Phil Jackson and the coach of the De LaSalle highschool football team. He tells me about their coaching styles and strategies, their strengths and weaknesses. He tells me at length. It is time to leave. I am sure these lovebirds have better things to do than talk my ear off.

I take the last sip of my second chance Grab Bag Red. It is stewed fruits, dried tea leaf, with a leathery, licorice finish. It definitely tastes older. The fresh fruits of youth had given way to a more integrated wine, showing that earthy character, the tell-tale sign of a mature red. The tannins were pretty strong too.

I get the bartender's attention and hedge: "At first I thought it was California Cabernet Sauvignon, then I thought California Zinfandel, but the last thing it reminded me of was Barolo from Piedmont, Italy.

"Nope, Grenache from Spain", the bartender says quickly, obviously loving the opportunity to shut up self-proclaimed wine aficionado's who probably couldn't tell a red from a white blind if they were both the same temperature.

I pay my check and leave.

Hubris.

Daily Scorecard: 1 workout, several drinks, 0 ESV, 0 French. I did read about wineries, scheduling a wine tasting excursion for Saturday.