A Jaunt up the Silverado Trail

Bloger's note: Finally, a blog that is actually about wine! That's right the next two blogs will be undubitubably devoted to recent tastings in the Napa and Sonoma wine regions (maybe a few tangents, what can I say?). So for those who turn their nose up to wine look away and the rest please consume the following entries responsibly.

Let me start by saying I had a chip on my shoulder before even steeping foot in the Napa Valley. So when my friend Arantxa, a Valenciana working in the Salinas Valley, asked if I wanted to tour wineries in the Napa Valley I silently groaned while shooting back an enthusiastic line, 'Sure, I'd love to.' After all you can never really be a naysayer until you have sampled the peddler's wares. While I have been fan of big bodied, concentrated, super opulent Cabernet in the past, my palette has slowly evolved and over time I have become turned off to wines with backbones carved from new french oak and overripe berries. Bold, fruit concentrated, high alcohol Cabernets are of course, in vogue in Napa Valley and still fetching upwards of $250 per bottle from the utlra-premium producers. Even entry level Cabernets and Merlots can cost approximately $30 to $40 a bottle, leaving your typical wine drinker wondering where they can get a good value on a domestic bottle of wine (For many the answer is in the bargain bin at your local Trader Joe's).

For me the answer is clear: Europe and South America. As I wage slave I have a certain chunk of disposable income (that expands with my salary) to devote to wine. Increasingly aware of where my food and drink is produced I would ideally like to "buy locally" when possible. However it seems nearly impossible or rather, unsustainable for your typical laborer to purchase wine in California where an honest bottle of white starts at $20 and close to $30 for a red. Contrast these prices with continental Europe where the average bottle of table wine retails for roughly 5 Euros and the cost/quality ratio between continents is put into perspective. Thus, time after time I find myself returning to the same sections of my local package store to look for bargains in the Rhone Valley of France, the Rioja region of Spain and up and coming regions such as the Douro in Portugal. South of the border the best bang for your buck lies within the full bodied Cabernets of Chile's Maipo, Rapel and Maule Valleys or jump the border to Mendoza, Argentina to pick out a meaty Malbec to pair with your favorite medium to rare cut of grass fed beef.

But it was settled. I had agreed to tour the Napa Valley. Before I could even place my right foot on the gas pedal, I was aware that the trip was to be a tease, a pinhole glimpse at what the revered Napa Valley has to offer. After all it would be nearly impossible to sample more than a splinter of the wines produced in one day. However the trip would also have its rewards, demonstrating what a bit of wit and wisdom can afford two travelers on a shoestring budget. Since the trip was not originally my idea and I had little interest in the region I had no specific itinerary. Little did I know that neither did my partner in crime leaving us with grasping at straws as to where we should make house calls. Sure, I was familiar with the top end producers who's egos are perpetually inflated by shepherding critics, but many of them ie. Opus One, Shafer, Cakebread, Joseph Phelps, and Caymus require appointments, have exorbitant tasting fees or are only open for on-site sales. The night prior to our departure in a last ditch effort to get the low down on the Disneyland for adults I phoned my affable German pal Yohannesberg. Much to my surprise, the worldly Germ from Baden-Baden offered simple advice: start up the Silverado Trail and pop in anywhere that looks appealing. Easy enough.

Not wishing to forsake the wisdom of a man who has "been and done" we started out early(ish) Saturday morning up the Silverado Trail after fueling up and setting off from the Juice Bar in downtown Napa. Turning to Arantxa in the Tortuga Verde I quipped, "You know it never hurts to cleanse the palette with a tall mug of dark roast in the morning." "What?," she responded semi-confused and attempting to root out the the mix up in her breakfast order. "This is what you consider a muffin in the U.S.?" she queried pulling apart two thin slices of toasted bread, the insides chalk full of air craters. My belly bounced a bit as my diaphragm spasmed. "No, no, no. What you ordered is an English muffin," I informed her mentioning that it wouldn't be half bad with a greasy egg over easy and slab of American Cheese. Now that would be what we call a "Rebel" muffin.

Turning left onto the Silverado Trail we became the disjointed head of a long motorcade of easily bemused tourists and disgruntled valley dwellers. After all touring the valley should be pleasurable and done at reasonable speeds at least fifteen mile under the posted speed limit. Our first visit was in the Stag's Leap District of Napa Valley which first gained notoriety after Warren Winiarski's Stag's Leap Wine Cellars 1974 Cabernet took first place in the 1976 Paris tasting when it outclassed a hand full of Bordeaux first growths as well as other top California reds. The Stags Leap District, which was not classified as an American Viticulture Appellation (AVA) until 1989, received its name from local legend that alleges that stags have often times leaped off the jagged palisades, that loom boldly above the region, while fleeing the hunters' rifle. Aside from the breathtaking views the region has been characterised for its opulent Cabs and Merlots squeezed out of vineyards with little more than a few feet of topsoil resting on a solid granite floor.

Partially attached to the lure of the region's winemaking history as well as the physical beauty of the area we decided made our first stop at the highly esteemed Clos Du Val winery at the southern end of the Stags Leap AVA. Clos du Val (meaning "small estate in a small valley), which was started by an American businessman and French winemaker in the early seventies, has expanded in size and reputation over the past 35 plus years. Stepping out of the car I crammed the rest of my tautly wrapped breakfast burrito down my throat, salsa and sour cream careening down the sides of my face as a potpourri of Beamers, Mercedes and a stretch Limos pulled into the tiny parking lot. Yep, another a typical fall Saturday in Napa.

Heading to the loo to relieve myself for a comfortable tasting the Limo chauffeur's eyes lit up as he asked delightedly in a Slavic accent, "Uwe, you are from Neeuuu Yooorrk? That's a long way a way!" I gave a nod as I continued on my linear path as a crew of mid-forties bleach blondes exited the strechtmobile, their bosoms bouncing in tight-fitting designer tops, their spirits filled with mirth. "Hey, this guy is from New York," he enlightened the busty beauties, whom remained indifferent to the Croacians discerning detective work.

Post relief we entered the tasting room to meet Jim, a straight shooting grower who offered us industry studs a complimentary tasting of Classic (read entry level) wines upon proof of a pay stub or self gratifying business card. Done and done. Please maestro let the liquid gold flow like an untamed cascade off of a defrosting mount. OK, a series of five 3 oz samples will suffice. After the first pour, the spiel was on, our main man giving us the run down of fruit quality, new oak percentage, and sensory components of the wine. Our first sample, the chardonnay. Pourmaster J alleges that Clos du Val seeks to pick at optimal ripeness, with the chardonnay coming off the vines at 23 to 25 brix and using only 20 % new oak to allow the wine to show off vivid "tropical fruit." Pleased as I was to hear our host's fun filled facts the wine didn't quite meet up to specs and the finish felt as if my tongue and sides of my mouth had been swabbed with a stave of oak. The gaggle of giggling gal pals behind us starkly disagreed. "Oh my God. You know what gurlz?," shrieked one orgasmically, "this is like my favorite chardonnay ever. I mean ev-er!" The swirling pack of beautes agreed, bracing themselves on the bar, eyes bright and salivating for the next pour.

Next in the lineup was the Sauvignon Blanc which was made with grapes purchased from a nearby estate; Jim called it the prototype of what he looks for in a sauv blanc. Matter of fact he explained he had just spent three weeks in New Zealand the previous year and he didn't find one savvy that met his expectations or stood out. Arantxa and I turned and looked at each other amused as I rolled my eyes in disbelief. "Well, Jim," in a frank but casual tone, "us two bozos just finished a vintage in Marlborough last winter, the heart of suavignon blanc country, and I can name of hand full of outstanding wines from the region." Was this part of the spiel? Are American sauvignon blanc producers trying to steal back Marlborough's thunder in tasting rooms? Who knows? The wine it turns out wasn't bad with hints of citrus, pineapple, wet stone and maybe a bit of candy in the nose as well as lasting acidity. My cohort seemed to pick up a bit of green or vegetative aroma in the nose, but overall I was pleased. A hallmark, maybe not, but a summer bbq quaf, sure why the hell not.

What we did enjoy and what I was most surprised with throughout Napa Valley was the Merlot. As an avowed non-drinker of Merlot I was pleasantly surprised with the varietals drinkability in Napa. At Clos du Val the Merlot showed dark fruit, plum, baking chocolate and touch of leather in the nose with a medium body, strong backbone, smooth tannins and brooding dark fruit finish. Aside from the merlot's strong showing, outside the entrance to the cellar door sat 13 rows of merlot vines, acting as an educational tool on trellising techniques including spur, cordon, vertical shoot position and head pruning systems.

Shooting further up the Silverado Trail we turned into the infamous Stag's Leap Wine Cellars parking lot only to high tail it back to the main road as it was evident it was a hot spot along the trail. Opting to get off the beaten path we followed Jim's kind insider advice and called up Kim at Robinson Family Vineyards, a smaller family producer who's property neighbors Winiarski's prized domaine. With splotchy service my cell phone wavered in and out as I could barely make out Kim saying "where are you," "at the gate," and as my phone cut out "ye...c'mon...up." Soon we were negotiating a series of private drives and passing a pair of geezers clad in lyrca stretching aside their aluminum Ironhorse's as we rolled down into a three space parking lot under the enormous palisades coolly perched over the valley. Upon entering the tasting room, sister Carrie was organizing tasting bottles blanketed with CO2 and apologizing profusely for her current state: informal garb. No worries we informed her. After all why does wine have to be so formal.

If anything Robinson Family Vineyards eased my mind that Napa wasn't entirely filled with megalomaniacs hellbent on prestige and turning a massive profit. The winery which was started by Norman Robinson in the seventies has slowly evolved to a family centered hobby that generates a bit of extra income for the family. The winery tells a story of down home country wranglers who gave up horses for the wine industry. Idyllic, individual, proud, humble, bucolic and passionate would be some of the best fitting descriptors for the operation. As we headed out to take a look at the vineyard, tasting glasses gripped firmly in hand, the next generation of the family, a pack of youngsters with crewcuts, put down the pigskin to take a spin around the property in the six wheeled gator.

The vineyards, comprised of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, are planted on roughly 7 acres behind a hand built log cabin on a hillside that skirts the base of the palisades. The terraced vineyards were covered in a layer of humus in an attempt to maintain moisture throughout dry spells. Carrie informed me that throughout the year the vines are continually stressed as water is non-existant(their wells dried up and they have to import water) and the root systems can only go down a few feet before hitting solid rock which prevents them from reaching a steady underground water source. Thankfully terrior is multifaceted and other climatic conditions make the region ideal for elegant reds. While temperature during the days remains mild and in the 70s to 80s the rock formations under the mountain absorb the heat and warm the vineyards throughout the night allowing for a long growing season while creating the optimal conditions for balanced fruit.

If the vineyard was eye opening the cellar was equally intriguing. When the fruit comes into the cellar from the vineyard it is crushed and placed into three ton vats where it is fermented out and then pressed off with a traditional wooden basket press that sits on a concrete slab that doubles as a dinner patio and outdoor kitchen including a clay oven stove, both crafted by the girls father Tom, a mason by trade. Likewise, the newest paterfamilias also carved out the underground cave used for barrel aging and the family's personal wine library. On display in the library is one of Norman's earliest productions, an '85 red blend labeled FART with a cloud of smoke behind the name, cheekily alluding to the collaboration between Robinson, Nathan Fay and Tom Turnbull. The Robinson family has essentially borrowed a few pages from older European producers who molded their wineries with their own blood and sweat rather than the dot com boom and investment banking.

Tasting the wine seemed almost second hand to seeing the property but we were nonetheless equally impressed with the Great Legs Syrah which showed dark spice, truffle and vivid fruit as well as the Estate Merlot which showcased truffle, currant, espresso and a hint of my arch nemesis green olive balanced with smooth relaxed tannins and boasting to age up to ten years. While it's fair to say that I wasn't blown away by the wine it doesn't really matter what I think. When I asked Carrie about sales and distribution she informed me that each bottle produced is virtually guaranteed a home. Even if that home happens to be the in the deep reaches of a the forlorn states Texas and Florida. Right then and there it clicked and it all made sense.

Hitting the road once again we bounced our way down the Silverado Trail to our next stop, Casa Nuestra, where we made another phone appointment minutes away from the tasting room. Stepping into the cellar door, once described by wine critic Matt Kramer as 'funky,' was a in and of itself stimulating to the senses. Our noses were immediately bombarded with patchouli incense, chimney smoke and old wood foundation. Unlike most tasting rooms, Casa Nuestra conducts its tasting (at least by industry standards) in reverse, starting with reds and finishing with whites. The idea is apparently common in parts of Germany where more acidic whites outshine gentle and fragile reds such as Pinot Noir. The tasting might have been my most challenging to date.

Our first glass was a sample of Tinto, a nine grape red blend including a portion of old vine zinfandel. As I splashed the wine about my mouth I starred into the eyes of a strumming Peter Yarrow and cast aside my reservations, for the time being at least. The old world throwback of planting nine varietals on a two acre plot was a bit more fascinating than the actual wine, that's nose appeared muddled and finished with unpleasant harsh tannins. Not to fear though, Casa Nuestra's Meritage, which I proclaim their best offering, closely resembles a St. Emilion blend (in varietal percentage at least) and offers dark spice and rhubarb with great finesses and delicious finish showcasing dark fruit. On the white side the Chenin Blanc shined brightly with crisp acidity and pear, apple and citrus in the nose. The reds' lingering tentacles were felt, however, maybe dulling the Chenin's finish and rendering the Rosado's nose indicipherable. Needless to say different strokes for different folks. If Old Gregg had a personal preference for a wine, Greg's place would stocked with cases of Casa Nuestra.

Our palettes worn and our bodies weary, Aranxta and I pulled up our bootstraps to visit one more winery, but this time on the well trodden route 12. While I had a few wineries in mind I knew that no tour of Napa would be complete for a foreigner without visiting the great house of Robert Mondavi. If baseball had Babe Ruth is to major league baseball what Robert Mondavi is to Napa Valley. The only difference is that when the Babe faded away after a few stellar seasons Robert Mondavi grew wise as a entrepreneur and visionary and soon transformed into Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron. The man just refused to stop producing quality wine for the masses as well as premium cabernet for the high end market.

To say that the Robert Mondavi Winery was a madhouse would be an understatement. At nearly closing time the parking lot was still packed and swarming with tourists of all nationalities and colors. Entering through the main arch we became eyewitness to group photo opps with a copper statue of a topless Victorian woman, meticulously manicured vines bedazzled with sparkling white pebbles and the general tasting room which looked more like a busy San Francisco pub, filled with long steamy lines and raccous laughter. We had just walked into a enophile amusement park for the masses.

My gut reaction was to book, leave the spectacle behind and retire to the relaxing hotel room with cable t.v., but on second thought we decided that it sure couldn't hurt to cash in on a free industry tasting. First we hit up reception which directed us to the Reserve Room crowded with suits and pearls, a stuffy environment with a shrewdly manicured and at upon introduction arrogant attentdant, who haughtily directed us down the club room. Mid-nineties tasting of To Kalon denied. We backtracked, as directed, to the Club Room which was adorned with Mondavi memorabilia and candid photos, a quiet retreat for enthusiasts to hand pick estate and reserve wines while pulling hors d'eurves from a communal marble slab. Jesus, the tranquil host was busy pouring and selling memebership to a feisty couple who would settle for nothing less than two membership cards. Jesus wiped the sweat from his unfurrowable brow and offered us up tasting menus.

Before we could order a more boisterous couple to the left of us sucked down samples applauding our host while complimenting "Now Chewey, that is one hell of a wine. Goddamn!" Reaching back into my faltering short term memory I began to wonder how Jesus, (traditionaly pronounced Hay-zeus) the burly Mexican-American guy in front of me became the eight foot Chewbaca from George Lucas' Star Wars. I let it go. Then once again we heard the same country twang, a mix of southern roustabout and California cowboy. "Hey now Chewey yer gonna hafta bring out another bucketa' olives cause I am gonna house the ones you got out here," declared the stocky gent to our left sucking back five stuffed greenies off of a toothpick. Taking interest in the short church mouse duo to his right, the thick necked man turned our direction and asked our place of origin. Disinterested in the cold dreary environs of Western New York the wrangling wine enthusiast immediately recognized the whereabouts of the Valenciana's abode in the Salinas Valley offering as advice "Now stay out of Watsonville ya hear."

Final thoughts on Mondavi: save your money and buy the Napa Cabernet a nicely balanced wine for the price. The Carneros Pinot Noir was an oak bomb and the Reserve Cabernet not quite worthy of the price tag.

Walking out of the tasting room Aranxta asked me for my brutal critique. Giving here a bit of the Belgian guy I mused "Well, the brie was certainly tasty."

Part Deux to come.

Check out wineries at:

http://www.closduval.com/

http://www.robinsonfamilyvineyards.com/

http://www.casanuestra.com/

http://www.robertmondaviwinery.com/

Guinea Pig Vacation

(Letter taken from Recess magazine, Issue 1)

Dear Guantecilla,

Time sure does fly by if you don't take it by the horns, and even then the ride can be rocky. It was a mad dash to pack up my shit, move the last of my belongings out of my hovel at 29(I'm gone for good!) and hustle out the door to be shuttled off to the Buffalo/Niagara International Airport. Strung out and nerves frayed on too much black coffee, I slumped into a chair at the airport and awaited my four flight, twenty-two hour airborne itinerary.

Then there was Sydney; sunny, warm, humid, alluring. But Sydney will have to wait for later; when I have a one-week layover to visit friends. Christchurch came next and the vast, stretching Canterbury plains. The jagged, snow dusted Alps at 6000 meters above sea level accompanied with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my right hand wasn't a bad sight either. Still, after landing I was a bit nervous about customs and my immediate plans, which were basically nonexistant. My worries eased a bit when a younger chap stamped my passport with a working Holiday Visa imprint, telling me in a fatherly tone "Now don't work to hard, you're on a vacation ya now." Then he promptly informed me that there was a bike stand outside the airport doors where I could reassemble my machine. I was beginning to warm up to the place.

While my original plan was to cycle to Queenstown from Christchurch, hitch to Te Anau, hike with Jovencito for ten days, then ride up the West coast and bus to Marlborough in time for vintage I soon realized my itinerary was unrealistic. Plans changed. Sixty miles outside of CHCH I met a bit of good luck and bunked with an affable Kiwi family that offered me a warm bed and foraged mushrooms to saute on their range. I forgot how amazing it feels to wash all the grime off of your body after a full day of touring. Beautiful. But my legs felt like Jello Jigglers, there was moutainous terrain in my future and I had lost a day with the flight. If I was to meet with Jovencito in time to hike the Hollyford Valley I would have to bus it. And cheat I did! Lustfully! Taking the bus from Geraldine to Queenstown was a total cop out but i wanted to keep my word to my tramping partner.

The ride to Queenstown was gorgeous, lined with a series of hydro-lakes, rolling scorched mounts and an aqua marine river along a gold miners gorge. Adding to the ascetic was the circus styled ballads of Fintroll that played in my ears as the bus bobbed over the hills into Central Otago. While the ride was uplifting Queenstown was the pitts. Flocks of tourists, the buzz of mindless consumerism and a hostel fulla T.V. zombies forced me to flee town towards Glenorchy. Luckily, my gut instinct was rewarded with a free picturesque campsite 12 kilometers outside town on the edge of Lake Wakatipu. Some travel diety must have been watchin' my back.

A day later I returned to Queenstown and ditched my beautifull stead Jezabelle, the winged gladiator of the south. My first ride came via a German couple who's campervan soon coaxed me into a cloudy sleep. The Germs however left me stranded and kilometers short of Te Anau, but in New Zealand the next ride is never far off. Half hour or so later a pair of Israelis (NZ is teaming with them) were kind enough to offer me a lift, dropping me at a sparsely adorned town with a boutiquey main drag. I had landed on the edge of civilization in New Zealand staring at the rugged, untouched and untamed wilderness that makes up Fiordland National Park, only a jetboat's journey across the cold depths of Lake Te Anau. Life felt amazing.

Enter Jovencito; the eccentric fellow that he is. Who else profeses a bold desire to live on a tropical island with little more than a gal pal and a banana tree. What are the chances that two acquaintances randomly elect to travel to the same corner of a country halfway around the world? Rather infrequently, I reckon. Tramping through the Hollyford was mind blowing at times, challenging at others. Parts of the trail were a bit soggy and the sandflies were a constant menace but I was all smiles. When you read about a trail intersecting a "rain forest" your first thought normally isn't, "It's going to piss cats and dogs!" At least mine isn't. Well now I see things more clearly. There was a steady rainfall for five of the seven and a half days we hiked. The route, especially during the Demon trail portion, was a bit grueling, but the thick, lush understorey and podocarp forest that stood tall in the valley and mountains made the tramp priceless. We tramped, Jovencito's pack fell a part (of course), we snacked on scroggin' mix, we lost weight around the mid-section, J repaired his pack, we eagerly awaited dinner (pasta or rice and lentils flavored with veggie bouillon) and we crashed by 9 pm.

After departing ways with my faithful tramping companion on day eight, I set off for the Divide to hike the Routeburn. First day on the track was absolutely breathtaking and I fell asleep with the inside of my dome awash with a spectacular sunset. Three days later I emerged from the wilderness and hitched back to Glenorchy. My ride, a well groomed Aussie-Kiwi couple based out of Perth, were kind to give me a lift but a bit taken aback by my vile body odor, which by this point could best be described as dumpster juice delight. Kind folks they might be, the lady soon put her window down and they advised me that next time I should take care of "proper transportation." That one gave me a chuckle.

In Glenorchy I had a night fulla all things Kiwi. Cheap, skunky smelling continental lager; oil with a side of fish and chips and a match of Rugby Union. "Why the hell are they kicking the ball away?" I would ask the chap perched on the barstool next to me. "Couldn't tell ya mate," came the reply. I'm determined to understand rugby and cricket before stepping foot off the island.

In the early morning, I rolled out of bed shrugged off a mild hangover and stuck up my thumb once again to come full circle to Queenstown. A cheeky rugby mom, pulled over in a energy efficient four door and lifted up her eyebrows as I peered squint-eyed into the driver side window. Running over I asked graciously "Could I catch a ride?" A snappy, cockney reply was shot my way "only if you make it quick!" Hell yeah lady, give me a second! Then blammo we were rocketing back to Q-town along a winding road, the bubbling juices in my belly looking for an exit as I pursed my lifts and closed my eyes, waiting for the motor to switch off.

Queenstown turned into a two day layover, waiting to pick up my baby girl I tasted some of the scintillating and pricey Pinot Noirs Central Otago has to offer. God the ruby red varietal certainly tickles my titties; Amisfield, Valli and Chard Farm were among my favorite producers.

Full steam ahead to the Catlins! The battle cry for the last leg of my trip to be taken via two wheels. After all why walk when you can ride? After hearing rave reviews about the remote beaches of the Catlins and reading a brief blurb in a tourist rag I jumped on my bike and headed south toward Invercargill. While I thought that the first day out of Queenstown was bad (keeled over with cramps after pounding 50 cent wafer cookies) the second day was absolutely brutal. Side winds from the southwest, side winds mind you, were blowing me off the shoulder of the road and into the tall grass. Never in the past 7 years have I experienced such a harsh love/hate relationship with cycling. One hour my grin was as wide as the Grand Canyon and the next mother nature is bullying me into a standstill, questioning my purpose of existence. One day I'm on cloud nine and the next I want to ditch my bike (after ripping the steel tubes apart with my bare hands) and leave it for dead next to a tumbleweed and stick out my thumb. The latter feeling was one of those days, with long stretches at no more than 5 kph. When I finally reached a rustic Invercargil, creatively nicknamed the "asshole of the world," I was ravenous with hunger and eagerly crammed a falafell wrap down my throat at the second kebab place I passed.

After powering up it was smooth sailing. Gathering supplies, I stopped at a large package store and picked up a 750 ml bottle of Lions Red and sped out of town on Scenic Highway 92 at a startling 30 kph. That night I bed down behind a vacant community hall. No problems and only the occasional visitor who was stopping by to ditch their recycling in the local receptacle. The winds screamed through and rustled my onzie tent as I nursed my aching muscles with the malty sweet barley pop.

The Catlins are insanely gorgeous and rural. This area is actually strikingly similar to Chiloe with the rolling green pastures, vast untouched beaches, decrepit farmhouses and brackish rivers. In the past two days I gleefully watched half a dozen or so molting yellow eyed penguins come to shore for nightly bedding outside Curio Bay, caught an eyeful of the blubbery NZ sea lions and stumbled across the occasional fur seal. Fur Seal? Pretty original, eh? You think that the scientific community could have found a bit more of a humane name for these playful creatures. In the daytime the Catlins' forest is ringing with calls from the Tui and Bellbird and at night I can hear the opposing bone chilling screeches of the opossums. I'm cool with the night crawlers as long as they steer clear of my ten door and my ever dwindling food supply.

In two days I'm off to Marlborough. I can't actually translate into words how stoked I am about my upcoming job. I landed a six week gig with Giesen Wines as a cellar hand the day I arrived in CHCH. This is going to be my first foray into the industry and a great chance to get my feet wet. Keep you posted. Well, I'd better sign off before my second pen dies.

xoxo,

Tough Tea

Blurred Snapshots of a Sleepless Valley

The Last [Intern] Supper

Thursday night we powered off to the coast in style in a red-lipstick four-runner, blistering through tight turns down the narrowly etched Highway 128. Erin sat calmly behind the wheel, navigating the road with an experienced dexterity, bouncing conversation between himself and Yohanasberg. Traveling the road as a youngster working for a high end catering operation in Comptche, (Former headquarters of the Dead) our chauffeur was a seasoned veteran of the coastal route. Behind sat Dorit and myself, and nestled between us sat resting vintages of Mendocino grown Zinfandel, a Deep End Blend and a Winterling Riesling that had journeyed a long way from its homeland in Pfalz to accompany us during the meal. The gentle vibrations of the road coaxed me into a light sleep and my body swayed about between curves, my noodle wavering in and out of consciousness. No surprise there.

However skilled Erin the road hog might claim to be the trip from Philo to Spendocino is a solid forty-five minutes time (add ten minutes on the weekends for pesky tourists lazily touring the valley in their sparkling Mercedes). Our party arrived late and mildly disheveled as we pulled up to the historic MacCallum House Inn and Restaurant. Jason the Wrench and his petite British gal pal Sid, waited sternly outside the Victorian inn that sat tall between artisan shops and stacked housing additions. We made unnecessary apologies which Jason quickly disregarded, well aware of Northern Californian timeliness. Standing in the rectangular lobby, we waited uncomfortably in a confined space infused with a rancid piss odor. Forced to reserve judgements and not ruin our dining experience, I bit my sarcastic, sand paper tongue and came to two conclusions to adequately explain the pungent aroma. Either A, some local Spendo sot had pissed unknowingly in the corner behind the moose antlered coat rack while homeward bound or B, an ill fated bottle of stinky Sancerre had fallen to the tile, lost to the heavens, leaving behind a lingering musk that will scare off potential Sauvignon Blanc drinkers for decades to come. Peering at early nineteenth century photos bordered nostalgically with milk of magnesia lace I gagged and plugged my nostrils beseeching the aloof greeter to seat us. Let's go! pronto, ameego! the agitated Texan in me impatiently grimaced.

At last we slouched down, in shapes resembling slippery S's allowing me to demonstrate my increasingly civilized yet residual woodsy eating etiquette and why in fact it you can take a redneck out of the country, but begging to ask the question, "Can you take the country bumpkin to a fine dinning joint?" Well you get the drift. Picking away at Pacific Rim baby oyster goo and inhaling a homemade sourdough bread I primed the pump for the main entree. While most of the group stuck to the commonplace Thyme scented Rosie the Chicken and the out of place Tempeh Mushroom Ragu (see Vegetarians are people too) I confidently ordered the pan seared duck breast with spaetzle and cider gastrique. The result, an impeccable decision. The breast was cooked to perfection at medium raw allowing the tender meet to be balance the seasoned fat beautifully. Every portion including the delicious doughy spaetzle was devoured with pleasure. I can always respect a restaurant that consistently delivers evenly cooked proteins and balanced spicing regimes. Not to mention that the MacCallum House had a do it yourself policy of placing logs on the open cobblestone fireplace. Goes to show that some dining experiences can be interactive.


Bulging with delight (and the lingering remnants of a Mexican lunch) we marched on to Dick's Place, a local watering hole established in the early 30's that Jason moonlights at as a barkeep on the weekends. The clientele at Dick's on your typical Thirsty Thursday included a raw, blitzted mix of eco-surf jocks, Northern Cali fratties (the likes of whom are amusingly aware of the regenerative powers of Kombocha), mountain men, the regular mix of inebriates and wet brains and second gen flower children with fat helicopter dreads. At Dick's your pet is not only allowed it's welcomed with open arms. Pulling up to the bar and assembling in huddle formation to avoid abuse from the natives a grisly Great Dane/Yorkshire Terrier mix excitedly sniffed our crotches for contraband. Needless to say I was beginning to feel at home and many of the tattered and faded instructional signs above the Kessler and Mohawk shelf began to remind me of my former "Home Away from Home," the legendary Bailey Ave. haunt Annacones (RIP). A heavy tear laced with Genny Cream Ale speedily nosedived to the floor as I ordered a pint of Barney Flats' soiled stout and a doubleshot of Baileys. Cree-me!

Adding to the mishmash of decor was the public house's proprietary clothing line consisting of undergarments, fishnets, girly tee's and your standardized deadbeat's hoodie. Tacky and equally gratuitous, I was personally touched by the g-string boasting a the Dick's Place logo and cocktail glass which sit slightly above the potential owners genitalia. A piece of advice, if you ever come across this piece of panty flair in your exploits. Run! Run for the East Coast and don't look back.

"Meanwhile Down at the Lodge"

Saturday nite I braved the brisk drizzle and strode down to the Lodge, Boonville's only social outlet for dejected hill folk, lingering logging clans and jacked-up cowboys and gals. Attempting to blend in, the Breggo intern Shaunt and myself donned designer sheep wool, a Carhart zip down and an L.L. Bean flannel. Pulling up to the bar, Shaunt (who's neatly groomed moustache further confounded the locals) complimented me on my Mossy Oak camo hat. "Damn, shoulda wore a cap," he lamented. "No problems pardner," I reassured my drinking cohort, "We'll maintain a safe space at the bar." That we did, plowing through a series of refreshing indigenous pints as a rowdy melting pot bubbled and gurgled around us. Most of the patrons were acquaintances, if they weren't already kin. The menfolk appeared mole like with prickly chiseled faces and mesh caps perched just above their beady eyes. Others looked Gnomish and when given a "what's happenin'" or "howdy" replied with a stiff grumble. The Boont ladies were few and far between, and tended not to stray farther than a burly lumberjacks arm-length away from their main squeeze.

Of course it was no surprise that we were disregarded as outsiders and given the cold shoulder. Boonville has a long history of keeping foreigners from influencing their culture and/or lifestyle. While the Anderson and Bell Valleys were being clear cut in the late 1800's a tight knit timber community settled in Boonville and created the local dialect Boontling, that was widely used and understood only by Boonville townfolk. According to A Wee Deek On Boont Harpin's, if a stranger did not understand the Boontville conversation then they were sharked or fetched. While historians claim the motive for the language was purely for entertainment purposes, others will argue that it was intended to confuse and keep out missionaries from outside the valley. Early rejection of forced Christianity. The thought gives me an added respect for the oldtimers. Even though the dialect was abandoned sometime after World War II as socio-economic conditions changed in the valley, some remaining descendants, historians and entrepreneurs hold onto Boontling for entertainment purposes and preserving their local heritage.

Boontling aside, there weren't any itch neemers down at the Lodge on Saturday and round twelve o'clock the townies put the pool cues down to form a pulsing dance circle, hootin' and a hollerin' to the hullabaloo. At one point a belligerently drunk Mexican man grabbed onto the arm of a biker resembling Grisly Adams, taunting him to a lip-splittin, but the astute barkeep soon cast the man out the front door. Later the disgruntled biker in club duds marched outside to split-a-lip, returning five minutes later shaking his throbbing fist. Goes to show that put up your dukes old-style boxing is alive and well in some rincones del mundo.

If the men were standoffish the ladies were completely disinterested. When I curiously asked one middle aged woman, dressed in semi-formal garb what was the occasion she replied with a dopey drawl, "Wurh inn tawne fer uh footbahl fundrayzer."

Well no shit! Saa-lud!

For more Anderson Valley fun:

Anderson Valley History
www.avbc.com/visit/history.html

Boontling
http://www.mms.mcn.org/~boontling/

Walking Tractor and Other Country Tales, Bruce Paterson. Heyday Books. Local fiction author.

Election Eve: Hold on to you butts!

Today, bracing ourselves for tomorrows presidential election we maintained a low center of gravity in the cellar as continuous cloudbursts pissed down a steady stream of cats and dogs, hogs and heffers, baby dolls and merinos, conservacrats and feralchists. You name it torrential downpours strong and steady rang down in Anderson Valley as the crew scurried about filling barrels with finishing Chardonnay. Ulysses, whom maintains a perennial smile painted across his face, laughed lightly telling us that it always rains when the crowd pleasing white varietal goes to barrel. "Isn't that right parejita?," he asked his crankier counterpart Alfredo who's blank stare expressed his sentiments in the matter. Or maybe his unhappy state stemmed from being stuck once again with the FNG. Either way he wasn't the only one with a pair of wet panties in a bunch.

All and all the rain is good. The valley faced a drought this summer forcing growers to use much of their underground well stocks for irrigation. The fall showers are a welcome sight for producers worried about stunting next years crop without sufficient fall irrigation. While the valley floor has begun to green over providing a verdant pasture for the ruminants, the hills still boast a straw yellow hue that might take months before the grass is once again alive and well. In the vineyards cover crops are beginning to shoot through the soil lining the rows with prime grazing grounds and replacing depleted nitrogen. Harvest might have finished just weeks ago but painstaking preparations are already in order to ensure a healthy crop next year. "It's the circle of laiiiiffffee." Sing it Elton.

Most importantly dreary, bone chilling fall weather means it is time for hearty meals, root vegetables and squash! Bouef Bourguignon, Mediterranean Lentil soup and Chicken Vasquez are a few choice meals that are welcome sight, steaming on my table any time during the late fall and on throughout the winter. In Buffalo you might need to add a side quart of corn whiskey, but hey that's why food is regional. Tonight we enjoyed a delicious Minestrone with chicken alongside a few bottles of Methode A L'ancienne Pinot that happened to be kicking around the kitchen. Life is tough.

The recipe was easy and Doritos did the dirty work but you'll need:

3 Red Potatoes
1 Large Red Onion
2 Sweet Potatoes
3-4 cubes bouillon
4 Stalks of Celery
2 Carrots
5 Fresh Tomatoes or
1 Can diced Tomatoes
Salt and Pepper to taste
2 Boneless Breasts Chicken
Large Elbow Noodles 1/2 lb.
3 bulbs Garlic (minced)
2 tsp. Parsley
1/4 tsp. Cayenne (optional)

To do's: Chop veggies the way ya like 'em-mostly cubed. Saute the diced chix breasts in a pan and set aside. In soup pan saute onions and celery and continuously add water cooking it down for five or so minutes. Add roughly one gallon water to taste along with bouillon and remaining veggies, taters, spices and noodles. Let simmer for roughly half an hour. After add chicken and simmer while tasting that everything is cooked evenly. Gather some grubs (your parasitical housemates, not the trunk dwellers), serve, slurp and most importantly aprovecha!

Tomorrow is the day to cast your ballot. Do it! Voting, however futile, still gives you extra leverage when you bitch about the sad state of the country afterwards. Hell, if GOP tops out again I am hauling ass to Euroasia. Could be "See ya suckas!" Or would everyone become Mavericks by default? First Ronnie and now this elephant shit. How many years can I live in los Unite under the rich white man's fist?

Check out www.storyofstuff.com for an uppity, yet comical primer on contemporary consumption. Reminds me of my more idealist days of yesteryear.

Endgames and the Rocky Road Ahead

Harvest has come to a sputtering, jerky halt in the foothills of Anderson Valley. A number of late harvest frosts forced many growers and producers to expeditiously cut fruit from the vines and haul it in to be crushed. The race was on at Navarro with much of the 150 acres of estate grown berries arriving in roughly three weeks time. A slick stream of sweat is still racing down my oft-times furrowed brow. Harvest is not always easy and can sometimes test the most well restrained nerves. The most vicious period during the day is somewhere between five and seven when punchdowns take place, depleting the body of sugar stores and making for a chaotic and scatterbrained finish to the day.

Now the hard part is over, for us at least. Gurgling airlocks bombarded with fruit flies echo in the oval room. Flatbeds lined with foaming red barrels rumble off to be neatly stacked in the warehouse. The hopper and crusher are give a final pressure wash to be put to rest in anticipation for next years harvest. The remnants of fleshy burgundy hued wine gushes from the Europress for once last time. All of which are the endgames of harvest. The crush pad has slowed to a standstill and soon all finished wines will be banished to the vaults, many to mature and some to undergo malolactic. Ah!, the slow steady pace of winter in Anderson Valley.

An ominous signal of a blazing finish to harvest were the toe curling frosts in mid-October. When you sign up to work a harvest you're aware the work and your position are finite and includes the danger of coming to an abrupt end. In Anderson Valley the spring frosts thinned this years harvest creating an exceptionally small crop and short vintage. Likewise fall frosts have forced the leaves to die off at an alarmingly exponential rate; the withering canopy has abandoned its dutiful job of glowing a radiating yellow in favor of turning a ball-scum brown and dirtying the vineyards natural beauty. A site not too many touring samplers will find too appealing. Even the car ride to work seems less appealing in the early hours of dawn. In the cellar a rushed vintage means less hours for the visiting interns and a slower work place in which 'looking busy' will become a learned skill that however important, will not be finding itself in block letters in any jaw-dropping resume. That is until of course you have taken stock in the robotic empire and Jeremy Rifkins' ominous piece The End Of Work. I digress.

A slowing pace in the cellar can also mean moving on to more menial jobs that however unbelievable boring can provide cash in your pocket for a few more weeks while you scour the web and network locally for gainful employment. In Marlborough cellar hands were given the chance to stay on for the expected full eight weeks by working three weeks in the vineyards, clipping in irrigation wire that sat lifeless on the barren soil beneath the vines. Eight hours clipping drip irrigation however monotonous improved my hammer wielding skills tenfold. The stainless hammer become an extension of my arm and I began to challenge the French Walloon to stapling competitions, nailing away down some 250 rigidly trellised Sauvignon Blanc rows with 60 posts a piece. In the morning I would rouse from my vintage camp styled bunk, cradling my right hand as it lie in a tense arthritic fist. Seasonal labor always has a price. (Later I found out from George the Nailer that I was holding the hammer too tight; a blatant rookie move).

Closing out vintage at Navarro meant helping with the pre-release packaging which consists of seven new wines being shipped out just before the holiday season. So when Cubs Dave, the tasting room manager, asked if I was on board to help with pre-release, I enthusiastically agreed, looking for a change of pace and an opportunity to lend a hand where it was needed. My gleeful sentiments were soon whisked away when I discovered the repetitious labor that awaited along an assembly line that screeched as the protective Styrofoam inserts trundled along rollers and raucous vineyard workers made light of their menial tasks poking fun at one another's questioned masculinity. For starters I was given the job of stacking addressed boxes on a pallet for the truck but was then transferred to breaking down boxes. A hulking cellar hand, Jessie the Body laughed ghoulishly from the line as he inserted Brut into the packages while he encouragingly mused in a oh-so laid back Northern California accent "your hands are going to get soooo bloody dooode." It's always comforting when you receive the support of your peers.

Day two I received a first hand glimpse at the birthing area of the packaging operation as I was commanded to the back environs to tape together rectangular boxes and stack them in anticipation of filling them with sleeping wines and a medieval mustard. There I stood, taping the base of recycled uniform boxes creating a fortress around myself, each column higher than the next shading my grimace from the otherwise jovial banter of fellow workers. Or maybe I was building a fortress to hide myself from a poorly educated selection of a collegiate program, an under skilled job resume, or wretched depression of hitting rock bottom. Two hours passed and I felt the futility of my job in the grand scheme of life. Two more hours passed and my elbow began to tense giving new meaning to tennis elbow; this time however I was experiencing a case of taper's elbow and my sagging diaper was beginning to leak. After enough repetitious motion your muscles tense and knot, telling you that carpal tunnel syndrome might only be a night's rest away. Just when you think that you can't sink any lower in the job chain you hit the cold shiny warehouse floor befuddled. How did I get to this point and where do I go from here?

For many, including the vineyard crew, the packaging line provides a respite from the laborious chores under the pulverizing sun or monsoon rains of the Anderson Valley. Many of the guys hail from the vast reaches of sunny Mexico (where everything is legal-Ole!) where the same jobs pay a small fraction of the salary in the states and languish in the opportunity to earn a fair wage. Unlike the others, my view of the job took on a much different perspective. The job provided for me a birds-eye view of the wine club and company's main source of advertisement and public relations. Each box is individually signed with a holiday greeting bestowing cheer or quoting an ancient biblical proverb embracing wines redeeming spirit and includes a newsletter detailing the events surrounding the current vintages. Endless hours of blood and sweat have gone into producing a quality product that however ephemeral will be celebrated with endless mirth and conversation (and hopefully killer food-no puns intended) in the months to come. As futile, demeaning and wearisome as it is to be working on the assembly line it is also rewarding; rewarding to know that when that package arrives you will have provided the impetus in making that person's day. Christmas in November for adults. Drink deep.

Likewise, the experience can be viewed from an optimistic standpoint. The bottle of Haute-Brion is half full rather than missing half a grand. In my case, when you start at the bottom you have no choice but to work your way to the top. The only question is how to get there? Advice has come from far and wide and flowed like nickel candy from a rustic fourth of July float oozing idealism and hard-knock experience. One mentor offered that my best bet was a barnstorming tour of Napa and Sonoma, knocking on well known producers doors along the way. Sounds ingenious but how should I acquire a magnanimous personality and sparkling pearly smile I have no clue. Pagan alchemy I suppose. Talking the talk is not always the same as walking the walk. On top of that wine country is rife with skilled cheap labor. Other options include the service industry, but pushing overpriced jammy Cab in stuffy tasting rooms is not really my thing and the stench of the backroom of the restaurant industry haunts me to this day. Another option is working alongside field workers during the rainy season but most crews are well stocked and tight knit no matter how tough and widespread the labor. Needless to say November through May are hard times for those trying to forcefully wedge their threadbare boots into the cellar door.

As the clock struck November the rains have begun to arrive in torrents. A relentless wave of showers hit the Anderson Valley over the weekend dropping an estimated four inches of rainfall. A much need respite from the summer drought that sparked off endless scorching wildfires throughout the summer. Another sign of the end of fall harvest and the sprouting of wild mushrooms and new growth of the giant coastal sequoias. Harvest finished out in the nick of time.

Personally, I feel the best option for the itinerant worker is to pursue vintage abroad as a skilled slave laborer enjoying the camaraderie of other aspiring winemakers while laboring away to the pulse of the harvester. Ah vintage! My dear friend and arch-nemesis. How I love and loathe thee! Australia's Margaret River and New Zealand's prominent Pinot producing region Central Otago are already in my sights. A double harvest, oh now that would be surreal (and taxing!) Time will tell if I have the right stuff and legal requirements to jump the pond once again and work down under with irreverent winemakers who've demonstrated they're the real deal.

Keep ya' posted. 'Till then no worries mate.

The Road to Perdition...

is paved with tasty barley pops. That is of course if you are traveling interstate 80 above the Bay area and stop off in the stretching stripmall of Santa Rosa. Within Sonoma wine country lies a zymurgilogical gem amidst the hub-bub of the saintly metropolis: Russian River Brewing Company. Started by Korbel Cellars in 1997, RRBC and Vinnie Cilurzo catapulted to fame a year short of the twenty-first century by winning brewmaster and small brewery of the year at the Great American Beer Festival. It should be no surprise to family and friends then that this brewpub had been on my top ten swirl, sip and chug stops long before I arrived in California. Hell, for Beer Nerds RRBC represents an eclectic blend of Belgium nestled into an urban nook in the endless grapevines of the Sonoma Valley. Russian River specializes not only in American Strong Ales such as Double IPA's but cask aged sour ales matured in Cab Sauv, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay barrels from the surrounding wineries.

Vinnie Cilurzo has been ahead of the game for quite sometime. From the East Coast it is nearly impossible to get a taste of this man's beverages aside from reading a few tidbits in "Brew Like a Monk" and "Wild Fermentations." In the first how-to reference manual the brewmeister describes an epic trip to Belgium in search of the brewery's proprietary yeast strain. Almost like searching for your beers' future baby's daddy. Legend. In the latter publication Vindogg(if I may speak of the man as a peer) references the surrounding Sonoma winemakers concerns with his use of Brettanomyces Bruxelenis (seen in wine as a spoilage organism) to carry out his controlled barrel ferments stating "I told the local producers that if they have any concerns about the wild yeast I would burn their clothes for free before they walk out the front door (roughly quoted)." Witty and bold this man and his wife Natalie are going places.

Or are they? They don't really have to, there joint is bumping nearly every night. My housemates Dorit and Mor (who incidentally recommended we drop on by) mentioned the place was packed during their previous visit as well. Dude-o-rama, oh it the stench was heavy. Let's see know, there was Jonny Bradawg and Co. rambling on about the Three Sheets lush and banana esters while our eyes devoured a decor of fluffy pink brassieres and bulk hop sacks lining otherwise bare concrete walls. The open kitchen oozed a fried foods stench that infiltrated our clothes like a shitty drainbow at a affinity group meeting and lingered well into the Bonnie ride back to Booneville. Why is it that no brewpub can match fine ales with anything other than baked dough or bloody burgers? For fucks sake can I get some shucked oysters? They could have certainly paired quite well with RRBC's O.W.L Stout, a dry soiled black tipple lingering of burnt coffee notes. A bit flat for my taste but a pinch too much of black patent and that batch is one for the neighbors (or your freeloading, parasitical housemates).

So while I sipped, I too sat in a dual state of perdition and salvation. No Mojo Nixon and I were not drinking with Jesus, but I was enjoying a tasty drink platter of ten different tap offerings at the brewpub. On the other hand I was also in a "state of spiritual ruin." Reason being: I was missing out on two of my favorite punk bands performing in my home town at the very same moment. The headliner NOFX was a heavy influence during my formative years teaching me as I broke down basic trigonometry that no male could quite live up to a lesbian fist and the sanitary benefits of wearing a "Jimmy Hat." Of course there was also indelible life lessons etched into my brainsky with songs like "Beer Bong" and "Six Pack Girls." Getting girls meant drinking tons of cheap beer. Sounded good at the time. And roughly ten years ago from tonight I saw NOFX rock the Funhouse, apparently their farewell tour and possibly one of the best live performances to take place in Bladsdell. I mean c'mon were talking about bombed out Bladsdell. Who else played Bladsdell, Ratt? The venue was a humid swamp, the pit a slimy throng of degenerates with stickered hatchbacks. A drunkard puked on neo-Nazi, Buffalo Flea tried to buy a Jughead's Revenge Tee of my partner in crime Diabolical Dave and a second hand high and parched White Owl throat tricked me into drinking a litre-a-cola of Mountain Topps, the rustic dew.

"Man that was crazy."

Opening up for the California geezers was the poetic popthundergroup D4, whose Budweiser fueled lifeforce has not been felt in Buffalo since a dead drunk swaying performance at the Atomic, now Big Titties oops I mean Big Shotz, in 2000. Why have the burly boys of the Twin cities forsaken B-Lo and why did it take international geriatric supertars to bring them back? Who knows, who cares? Certainly not our loss. The first time, like laying with a woman in the biblical sense was unforgettable. The second time I saw the Dillenger Four rippers, I skipped the Young Judge's b-day party on Minnesota to drink black label in Clev-o and watch D4 blow down the Grogg Shop with Paddy's peepee plugged into a sweaty onlookers palm. The third and fourth shows were mwweeaahh, not aw memorable. But tonight! Tonight would have been the dance party of the year, sure to bring on a good case of laryngitis and over the head people spins. Mid-swirl I get my second phone call from Gaccess community at which I blundered outside and blathered into my dying phone "For Christs sake what do you people want?!" To which my response was a lo-fi static rendition of "Folk Song." I started laughing, took a couple deep breaths and went back into my sensory lab atop the bar stool.

Perfect timing? I think so young Paul Revere. While you can deduce whatever your sweet ass pleases from a song's lyrics this one is probably most emblematic of the my crew, my lost city:

"So many people with so much to show. Rotting away in the own little holes. One can only wonder why. I'll celebrate my home, but know that I'm not alone. Only fools are along for the ride. I'll think of the size of the world that's right outside. Please don't waster your time trying to hide."

Buffalo can become a stagnant cesspool filled with bright creative kids drinking 'till the cows come home. But hell we have each other, it's our home, maybe our second home and "We are fucking Proud!" And I am proud of my friends, their accomplishments and efforts to make the City of Lights a better place to settle/nest. It's also a blatant message to those in search of greener pastures; those that have abandoned the ruins at the end of a dirty ditch. People like well, me. Yep. And to that I will quote the Bouncing Souls when I say "To all you KIDS we're gone but well be back!" They all come back after all, right Benji?

Princess Passion and Gaccess you kids fucking rule! I love you both to death!

Tasting Notes:

Perdition: med-bootied, wheaty Sonoma Biere de Garde with hints of toffee. Smoothly pulverizing my liver.
Aud Blonde: smooth, with with bread, light choc. and toast. Who knew they could have so much character?
Hop Hearty: Proceeds go to fight breast cancer in this uncannily balanced APA. Seamless blend of malt and flowery bitterness.
Russian River and Blind Pig IPA's: Two of the best reasons RRBC won the 2008 Alpha King crown. I still want to throw a Blind Pig in the First Ward. Who's with me?
Pliny the Elder: similar to 90 min IPA but reasonably more balanced. Fresh cut grass and pine. Big malt body. I gave a toothy grin and Dorit grimaced with pain. You be the judge.
Dead Leaf Green: Psst. I'm pretty sure they flavor this tipple with Mendo's finest harvest bud. Tastes like liquid joint APA. Name says it all.
Salvation: Drink three of these tulips and you'll be in heaven until the next morning when your gut and kidneys are burning in hell. Rich, fruity nose, malty caramel body but a finish that screams rubbing alcohol.

http://www.russianriverbrewing.com/

"I say fuck what they say. It doesn't matter anyway. Only in the grave are you alone!" -D4

How Could Hell Be Any Worse?

Today, Monday October 13 I lived my own personal hell. Jittery and flustered I stood third in line at the Customer Service desk at Wal-Mart in Ukiah. At first I was hesitant to swing by the mega-store that rolls back prices with a grotesque yellow smiley face as it steamrolls local business but I really had to get rid of a malfunctioning Ipod transmitter that had been lifelessly rotting in my trunk for the past month. My reservations were based upon the fact that a pound of scallops residing in my spacious trunk would soon be decomposing at a exponentially fast rate in the mid-day valley sun. But it had to be done. The purchase it turns out, was on impulse at a strip mall Wal-Mart along highway 80. My musical merry-making device was energetically incapacitated and I was crossing quite possibly the one most physically unappealing states in the country: Nebraska.

Hell, at the time I didn't even know if I had enough money in my checking account to cross the country and I was at the checkout in a Walmart at Strip Center (catchy name) in Lexington, NE buying bread, PB& J and a forty dollar charger/transmitter. To tell the truth, part of me trembled as I began to ponder how much money I had tucked away in my account, but after a "transaction approved" flashed on the screen I breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew," I thought, going on my best Valley girl judgment I concluded that "I must have like at least 300 bucks left. Plenty enough dough to make it to the Sunshine State." Checking your bank account for me feels a lot like going to the dentist for many. I never want to know how much money I have pissed away only to find out that I am verging on the brink of wanton bankruptcy while others don't want to find out that they have eight gaping cavities because they are addicted to dunking Oreos in carbonated beverages laden with high-fructose corn syrup (Just because it's Vegan doesn't make it O.K.) So there I was impulsively buying a product for my trans-Atlantic, well practically, journey across the vast expanses of our proud country. Said store could show us all something about integrity by changing their slogan to "Wal-Mart: Keeping America Rolling with Mass Trash Consumption."

Why did I really need this auto-sensory device? Need is such a strong word. Let's say "had to have." The answer can traced back to my driving coordinates at the time. I was entering mountainous terrain in western Wyoming and Jack-o had warned me the only public radio frequencies available to the public on the way to Jackson Hole focused primarily on contemporary bubble gum crooning country beats and a splotchy NPR station that was erratic at best. My trustworthy Road Master Road Atlas purchased for a mere three-fitty from a Lochness Monster on Niagara Falls Blvd. said it was five hours to Jackson from Hwy 80. Five fucking hours without music?!? How can one truly master the road without a killer trailblazing soundtrack
to accompany my thrill ride on "Why-ohm-mings most dane-jur-us highway," the 191. At least that was the omninous warning I recieved from the colorful folks at the Texaco in Rock Springs. "Big game litter the roads. Lotsa axe-cid-dents and tight curves," cautioned a pimply cashier clad in a Gothic jumpsuit who cordially pointed me toward the free tap water. Yum yum. The taste of blood and iron to wash down a heart palpitating energy beverage.

But seriously I want my Dillenger Four! Who is to deny me my daily dose of Avail, Mirah, Jonny Cash or Billy Bragg. This was indeed the right thing to do. After Wal-Mart I completely gave up on life and headed over to the thruway Starbucks, you know the ones that boast a giant sign atop a linearly reducing metal pole that looks like it sprouted some 100 feet out of the concrete. Yep, that one. At, ahem, Harbucks a bleached bombshell barrista stuck in the Nebraska matrix earnestly filled up my "Safety, it's My Job" mug with a perky smile and I scurried back to the Pontiac with my black death to test out my new toy. Finally, I would be able to surf the radio frequencies unfettered, much like a private loan agencies who deal government securities in the free market, in order to pick out the best channel to broadcast my personal hand-held music collection. Truth be told I already owned a radio transmitter which I had purchased from the French luxury goods store Target, but much to my behest the beastly only allowed me to choose from four different stations in the lower eighties. When I came close to any metropolitan area any stations close to the frequency I had selected would drown out my low-fi, fast paced clamor. Imagine your dismay as you belted out "Run for the Hills" and Ricky Martin's "La Vida Loca" stages a fascist corporate coup in your personal environment. That is the polar opposite of democratic. That's Clear Channel imposing it's playlists on my attempts to buck the system with Apple's advances in modern technology.

"So how did I end up at the customer service line in Ukiah?" you ask, likewise questioning if this rambling tangential discourse will ever come full circle. The answer is the frequency transmitter was a total dud. At first I though the batteries in the package had expired but one attempt and broken head lamp later and I realized nothing short of Taiwanese assembler was going to solve my technical issues. That and returning to Wal-Mart. I fully dreaded the latter option. Walking through the doors of the mega-crap store twice in one day would have broke my spirits for months. Instead I decided to take full advantage of the 30 day guarantee commonly used by poster tour shitworkers and use the charger while it was in my slimy scheming paws.

In the end it was what I had to do. Follow through with the return. So I stood in line at the gates of hell, the suburban boy on the cover of Suffer with Beelzebub perched on my left shoulder laughing maniacally. Three landbeasts were womaning the service counter, piling a landfill of returns behind the Formica blue counter as the cattle aired their displeasure with past purchases. To my left sauntered a heavy mustachioed gent with an Alcatraz Hotel tee accompanied by a barflyish lass, skin stained with years of thick smoke and sun-washed green spiraling tattoos. Ahead of me a scraggly geriatric woman arguing relentlessly over an unknown object of desire. Perspiration began to pierce my skin and omit a raw bouquet at the center of my armpit. The greeter, a Elmer Fudd character with extended flapping upper gums barked out a thick Texan call to newcomers taking time to catch up with regulars. I contemplated running for it. Dropping my package and booking for the doors. Anxiety poured over my being as the parking lot corralled livestock through the doors to be directed through the maze of products ingeniously crafted from the excess stocks of mono-cropped cotton, corn and plantations of pine. Calming myself I stuck it out, staying placidly put in line as the mobs destroyed the racks as beckoned.

Forty-two dollars richer (accredited to my account) I felt the consumer confidence in my pocket and took to the aisles, feverishly looking for dental products and cheap envelopes for my obligatory economic transactions. Flames cascaded down my shoulders and backside as I made a beeline for the register, finding even the express lines queued with as many as 5 to 6 people much to my dismay. I though this was about convenience after all. Making due I eavesdropped on the conversations in line. "Well Sheila's gotta new boyfriend, Mike's 'is name," gabbed a curly hailed middle-ager with a gnarly chipped front tooth. "Yep, she skipped from C to M in the alphabet," she quipped with a squirrely laugh. God save me. I turned to the trashy magazines, the lot of them covered with smiling tanned celebs and sculpted male specimens. I'm immediately taken with Howard Stern's Wedding photos. Craddling my purchases with the left arm I madly peruse the magazine only to find articles about Angelina's weight fluctuations. Holy Shit, I catch myself caught in a void of mindless voyeurism and fling the mag back to the racks. Then the beef jerky is looking me straight in the eye. Oberto's genuine dusty cow-dung covered antibiotic charged feedlot beef jerky is egging me on and I am restraining myself from adding the salty particles to my current pile of bullshit. Exchange of money and I'm out the door swimming in a boxed sports utility vehicle sea of unhappy desperate housewives and frowning princesses.

Thank you Kathy Lee Gifford, you dunce. Sam Walton I'll see you in hell. I'll be the kid at the bar in the Reagan Youth t-shirt drinking Belgian strong ales and talking shit about winter weather.

The Punchdown Herald

This Week's Headlines:

Vintage Hurricane: Working in the Eye

All was calm on the Ranch this past weekend as heavy rainfall (1-2") on Thursday and Friday pushed back further harvest until Monday morning. The rain came in buckets just as harvest was beginning to pick up. Due to a cool growing season and long blossoming period much of the estate fruit has ripened at a staggeringly slow pace. The result of the sub-normal temps in the valley is that many of the vineyard sites have matured at the same rate no matter their given elevation. Both the Pinot clones on the valley floor and the stunning flat patches mid-ridge are ready to be plucked from the vines and thrown into open tops for gentle vinification. The Gewurztraminer, Chardonnay, Riesling and Muscat the same. Unfortunately while we were busy fanning the fire of vintage, crushing bin after bin of pinot, filling tanks for cold soaks and filling the lower warehouse with macro bins the heavy clouds bellowed and rained on our parade.

Winemakers and owners alike tend to cower and become abashedly upset at the thought of cloudbursts during the harvest as sugar and pH levels in grapes fall creating "diluted flavors" and excessive precipitation can lead to unwanted botrytis and mildew on the fruit and vines. On top of that, most pickers prefer not to harvest in the rain and wet conditions can become particularly tricky when attempting to haul half ton bins up steep slopes on a John Deere. Rain is of course nothing new to Northern California, but rather the contrary: an expected obstacle. With weather patterns looking refreshingly sunny and clear in the upcoming week the vineyard workers were given a much needed weekend to rest; relax their abused bones, soft drink strained muscles and weary psyches.

The showers arrived just as we were turning the first quarter leg of harvest. Roughly 200 tons of fruit have been processed on the crush pad and we have an estimated 600 to go. In all honestly the cellar was quiet this weekend; no forklifts were zooming to the crusher with a plume of spent propane in their wake, no country cowboys with shitkickers and flatbeds pulling up to unload bulbous Zinfandel from Ukiah, and little to no commotion on the center stage crush pad. No crush, no press and no lees filter. We were sitting in the eye of the storm but steadily getting things in order for the real test: the deluge of fruit that is about to bombard the cellar and fill all usable space to the brim with must, juice, ferments and finishing wine.


Anderson Valley: 1 Million Punchdowns Served and Counting

The great grape pick might have come to a halting standstill but you better bet your ass that this busy beaver was not slowing down, nope not even a little bit. Saturday morning Jessie and myself had our work cut out for us given the duty of punching down twelve 5 ton open tops and nearly 25 macro bins (half ton) of a mixture of cold soaked and fermenting reds. For those unaware of what a punchdown, or "punching the cap," means it is a technique used to keep all the grape skins in contact with the juice during fermentation. So while millions of yeast cells are busy eating sugars and turning them into alcohol (ethanol), they also create Carbon Dioxide (CO2) which forces grape skins to the surface where they begin to dry out and form a solid cap on top of the fermenting juice. By punching the cap twice a day and mixing the skins with the juice the winemaker can successfully extract color and attempt to flavor and maintain a uniform heat in the ferment.

At 8 a.m. we began mechanical removing open top lids and gracefully placing the ginormous stainless disks on the ground as we hoisted planks to the stand on to punch down. The Zin was fermenting vigorously as CO2 anxiously escaped, displaying heat lines and shooting to the ozone ceiling as each top was lifted. Punching the cap of an open top is in some respects an art form that is somehow strangely reminiscent of ice fishing. First, one must break through the cap with a circular hole and dredge up some warm juice to soak the outer layers of the cap. The spurting beet red juice often reminds me of the icy slurry that is dredged out of the water with the auger. However instead of throwing in a squirming skewered bait to the cold depths of a bay, the puncher continues to enlarge the hole by chipping away at the cap half-moon by half-moon. Ten minutes later your out of shape ass in gasping for breath and "WALLAH" you have a juice covered cap with bobbing berries. The excitement soon wears off and futility fills your thoughts as the ferment is once again back at it, doing its best handy work to push the skins back to the top.

By ten am we're down in the lower Oval Room, often utilized for barrel tasting but pragmatically used as a fermenting room for macro bins throughout harvest. By Sunday morning there were 55 bins in the Oval Room, their berries' egos inflated and ready to be you guessed it punched down. If an intern had to say he got his chops doing something in the winery it should probably be here. Shoulder deep in fermenting pinot, the wafting smells of cooked berry infiltrating the olfactory while CO2 burns your nose hairs and fermenting juice splashes your face. I really can't get enough of this shit. There is something incredibly beautiful, archaic and romantic about punching these caps with your own to hands. You, the non-violent puncher are helping to sculpt a fragile and delicate wine that will inevitably showcase ripe, rich fruit and velvety tannins. While Navarro uses this technique for a number of reasons (more quality control, less manipulation) other larger wineries wouldn't even consider using such a technique, blowing it off as a complete waste of time, capital and peoplepower. A Luddite by nature I scoff at the corporates whose main goal rarely surpasses cranking out large lots of bum jug wine (Yeah, sure I admit it was cool to hold the Carlo Rossi bottle upside down with the little thumb hole and chug it when you were barely legal). Instead of manually punching down the large producers have turned to automatic metal punchers, pump-overs and giant butterfly plates that sit at the top of the tank and flip the cap automatically twice daily. Where is the heart and soul in automation?

Of course no punchdown would be possible if it wasn't for the introduction of yeast which brings me to my next topic: Yeast Pride. No dummy, not the yeast found in your Lycra short's shammy after a six day bicycle tour but rather the eukaryotic microorganism of the Fungi family that given the right environment will happily metabolize carbs for our favorite adult beverages. Yeast, which is derived from the Greek word zestos which means boiled, is a reference to bubbling or foaming during fermentation. After re-hydrating dormant yeast cells in a food grade bucket at 104 degrees Fahrenheit these single cell suckers take off in about ten minutes. As millions of yeasties (officially saccharomyces cervesiae) come back to life they are nourished with a splash of fresh cold soaked juice. In the past few days as we have watched the yeast eat, grow and bubble asexually in buckets a trend of showing off your personally manipulated yeast porn has rocked the cellar. I blame Jonas for this phenomenon but since he is not here to defend himself there is no way to identify the true culprit.

As has been the case, a wildly bubbling pre-pitch bucket will be shown off with glee. "Oh my God, look at these beautiful babes," Jonas boyishly brags, "they are gonna ferment the fucking house down Nicky!" We pitch, either equally dividing the yeast between bins or carefully dumping the yeast into a center pocket of the open tops. Then it's a waiting game. The next day, by the second punchdown the lids are liberated for all the world to see: who fucked up and who is birthed a super duper yeast starter. Upon post pitch inspection the center of the open tops often look like a raised, desiccated blemish after being brushed with a hundred Noxzema pimple pads. Not too attractive, eh?, but yet a great sign that our yeast has taken a foothold and built up it's strength to spread like wildfire. Shit, why didn't I become a microbiologist?


A Mushroom Hunting We Will Go!

Now we change our programing to a different relative in the Fungi kingdom, the mushroom. I love mushrooms. Hands down they are delicious. Sauteed, raw with Mescaline mix, deep fired, in sauces and consumed primarily in the states as a pizza topping (Eighty percent). Delicious as they may be Americans (gringos in this case) share an unnatural aversion, or fungophopia, to these capped organisms. Personally speaking, one of the most rewarding parts of working within the wine industry has been meeting a cast of characters who have changed my dietary habits and vision of the culinary world. Jonas, my German flatmate, is the newest to be added to the list. Growing up in the Black Forest it was rather commonplace for Jonas and his mother to take a romp in the woods and forage fungi for part of their weekly feast. In season of course. While walking home from a local food joint in Boonville a week ago my new compadre told me that part of his preparation for coming to the Anderson Valley was a course that he took at U.C. Davis on mushrooms. Surprised as I was it made total sense, the man loves mushrooms and come the rainy season in Anderson Valley these hills teaming with spores will have exploded into, you guessed it faithful readers: a mushroom bonanza.

Walking the gritty streets of Boonville on Sunday, hellbent on a returning to grind up a dark Nicaraguan blend I spotted two patches of mushrooms in a neighbors yard. Thinking quickly and thoughtfully I filched one outside the fence, carefully plucking the stem and cradled it all the way home. Placing it next to the finished black death I told Jonas I had a little surprise for him. Ambling over to the modern appliance half asleep the Germ exploded with enthusiasm at my find completely disregarding what typically is an essential part of the morning, coffee. Running to seize his new bible Mushrooms Demystified (Ten Speed Press) by David Arora, Mr. M began studying the parts of the fungus as he thumbed through the hefty manual. "Oh, shit Tom this is great, but I think it's a Deathcap. We're probably not eating this one."

"A Deathcap," I silently thought. "I picked up a beautiful goddamn Deathcap along the sidewalk." It makes complete sense why Americans have an aversion to mushrooms, no one is connected to their food chain any more (topic of future discussion). The typical God fearing nuclear family, Joe Schmo dudebro or curtly Christy has no training in mushroom identification and frankly doesn't give a damn if they have edible fungus in their backyard. If it doesn't come packaged, processed and with a expiration date no one wants to eat it. And how are we supposed to tell the difference between a poisonous fungus and a Belotus anyway? Practice I tell ya.

family the fungus was pegged for After work we took to the hills searching for King Belotus under a grove of Oak Trees, but we were skunked. Better luck next time. It was the first rain and mushrooms are finicky organisms, exploding from the soil and breaking down within a matter of 24 hours sometimes. When we came back home Jonas was more successful at identifying our mysterious mushroom. Instead of belonging to the poisonous AnimitaLepitoa Naucina, or "Woman on a Motorcycle." Taking a spore sample Jonas placed the cap on a post it note before work and removed it to show that the gills left creamy white spores. Furthermore the trademark of the Lepitoa is its omnipresence in graveyards and front yards at the beginning of the growing season. Not deadly but not recommended to eat either. I am excited for some more mushroom hunting!


Four Year Infatuations

Things that happen every four years seem to get me really worked up. Mostly it's the world cup but the Presidential Election of the United States usually does the trick as well. This time around I think the election is more poignant than ever. Our economy is in the gutter, China owns our debt, we are in an unprovoked war after being lied to by a greedy administration of clowns and no one likes us. Well the last part is nothing new but you get the point. What happened to the good old years with Blowjob Billy. Fuck, the non-sheep know full well that politics in the United States is a fucking farce (big money and payoffs right?) but I don't know if I can handle a couple assbag republicans running Washington for four more years.

What will happen if the GOP takes the big show. McCain looks like he could spit dust and kick it at any moment and what would that mean for us? An incompetent buffoon named Sarah Palin as the prime executor of our infamous government.

Matt Damon poetically described it best by saying "It's really like a bad Disney movie. The hockey mom from Alaska...is the President. She's facing down Vladimir Putin using the folksy stuff she learned at the
hockey rink. It's absurd."

For a trailer of the upcoming brain-exploding-blockbuster check out: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1831461

The scariest part of about Sarah Palin is the middle class, blue collar, APL drinking, rural demographic that she appeals to. That demographic includes my parents, the people whom I grew up around in bucolic upstate New York. She's not stately but she can speak to the common person. Trudge through the bullshit spewing from her mouth and you will hear "Me beauty queen, you ogling dad. Me strong women, you working mother." "You like ta kill shit. I lovta kill shit." "How big is yer pickup? Big 'enuf to fit a heffer. Mine too!" Lock, stock and two pork barrels. Identify with your constituency, spend some time mass commun-a-catin' and add a smear campaign and you are well on your way to a fighting chance.

Tina Fey does a far better job of painting a better picture of Palin. Check out:
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/vp-debate-open-palin-biden/727421/

I'm out. 'Til next time bizsachos!