"Vamonos, pues!" Eugene boomed in his strict, no-nonsense tone. "Put down the clippers Thomas, it's 4:30; time to go."
Quickly, I finished cleaning up a head-high prune, meticulously blotting out the buds-to-be below the allotted four nodes saved to grow shoots that will be trained throughout the growing season. Pruning, I have quickly learned is a matter of balance and foresight. Like the struggling first grader who cuts class for remedial reading, so too a young weak vine benefits when it is cut back to two or four nodes, thus cutting its work load in half.
Normally when I think about a typical Saturday, I imagine waking up around noon to drink a big gulp of Gatorade to kill any remnants of a hangover and then cooking up a platter of eggs to be slurped down while watching an under appreciated 80s flick. Maybe something a la John Carpenter's early repertoire. Yesterday, in an attempt to bring home the bacon for a much anticipated visitor I pried myself from bed at the asscrack of dawn (read 5:30) to join the crew on their sixth and last day of work, before their day of rest: the holy day, God's day.
"Hoooola Tomas," greeted El Topo, the crews principal loudmouth and instigator. "We didn't think your huero ass was gonna work today!"
"Yeah, well I came here to do two things: prune some vines and chew some bubble gum. Looks like were almost out of bubble gum."
"Chicle, eso quieres? Chicle?" asked El Topo, " 'Cause I've got a pack here in my back pocket."
"Forget it," I replied laughing, my spirit already quaking at the length of the day.
Learning to prune grapevines, coincidentally, has become strikingly similar to my attempts to master the Spanish language. In Chile, I was given more often than not what we called "gringo edge." When other students were demanded the world, gringos were given an affectionate pat on the toosh as we effortlessly walked around the flaming rings of fire. Often times it felt like I would receive a passing score on an exam for successfully completing all my Spanish sentences with a subject and predicate. In the fields the treatment is often the same: my own remedial help. Most of the time I work alongside an experienced pruner that can help to point out potential canes and spurs in an ugly vine. Hey, get off my back. I've shown improvement.
Working next to a number of guys also gives you a snapshot of each workers world, where they come from. The two crews have workers from all walks of life: the politicized Salvadoreno, the comedian cantante from Santa Anamaya, the ex-cop from the Mexico City, the shit-talking workhorse, the gangster teen from SF, the mechanic from Guanajuato, the soft-spoken Oaxacan.
Around mid-day on Friday we chugged away down the rows in a vineyard outside Graton, el cantate had his trusty hand-held radio faithfully slung over his shoulder, resting for all to hear on his side. "Today I'm gonna call Dulce and win the prize: the ticket to Las Vegas," bragged El Topo. My young teacher was referring to a Santa Rosa based radio DJ, Dulce, who conducts a daily contest where listeners have to identify an unknown song based upon a short clip. Typically they are whining love songs, which sadly struggle to strike an emotional chord or break any new ground. "You're not gonna call you bullshitter" came one of the jeers from the field.
"Hola Dulce" greeted El Topo, covering the phone and telling El Cantante to turn up the radio's volume.
Standing next to El Topo I overheard Dulce respond through the cell phone "Hola amigo, how are you?" Her voice resounding as voluptuous and fresh as it did through the hand-held.
Then we heard El Topo's voice echo his responses to La Dulce's questions through the one- second time lapse: "Michoacan," "Trabajando" "Si" "Gracias." El Topo's typical boisterous demeanor appeared stunted in the face of mass communication. I was a bit stunned myself. For a few minutes our shears remained placid as we listened intently. From the next row over Homey, a young buck, shouted out "Dulce I love you!"
"What's that shouting in the background? Tell your friends not to be loudmouths," directed the Sweet's voice. "O.K. Antonio are you ready to play?"
"Si," replied El Topo timidly.
Booomp, booomp, booomp came the cries from the bands horns and then a number of tear jerking lines "Por que me dejaste solito. Ya que no estas, mi corazon esta quebrada indifinitivamente...."
"Ya pues, what the hell is the song name. C'mon tell me jue!" demanded El Topo, returning to his former self off the air.
"Honestly, I don't know it jue. Say 'Mi corazon esta quebrada'" replied the apprently not-so-well-versed freelance field singer.
As the last beats of the song began to fade to black, Eugene, el supervisor, briskly arrived on the scene with a stiff purposeful strut that mimics that of a native black bear. "What do you think you are doing on the phone?" Eugene demanded. "Do you think that you are being paid to talk? There's no talking here. This is work. We work, we don't talk on the phone. If you want to talk on the phone you can walk your ass outside of that gate and do it on your own goddamn time, not mine. Got it?"
El Topo, a faun caught in a big rigs headlights, meekly clapped his cell phone shut, his mouth slightly open and aghast throughout the reemy. Silence pervaded the vineyard as we simultaneously heard La Dulce come back on the air; "Antonio, are you there? Are you ready do make a guess?" Dead air. "Antonio are you still on the line?...Antonio. What happened? Well we seem to have lost Antonio, let's take another caller!" As Eugene marched away to fry another fish we all began to burst at the seams; fits of laugther filled the void created by the harsh reprimand. Dejected El Topo picked his shears out of the holster and bent over, frowning to continue with his labor.
That evening, at closing time, I was beat. Lurching over to cut weak vines all day reminded me of countless hours bent over pruning in New Zealand. Conversely cutting more mature vines requires thousands of cuts and snips, which takes the piss out of all the joints in your hands. My back ached and my right hand swelled with inflammation. Oh, but it is a labor of love.
The guys working in the field do it ever week. Nine hours a day, six days a week, 52 weeks out of the year. Pruning, planting, thinning, spraying, weeding, hedging, maintaining cultivating and picking your produce. Mexican workers, without whom, you might not have crisp spinach in your salad, tender artichokes for your chip dip and yes, delicious wine for your bourgeois dinner party. Next time you raise a glass to your mouth or take a trip down your local super's produce section take a minute to realize who's putting the food on your plate, and I will give you a hint: it's not your neighborhood accountant.
Too bad for El Topo, he could probably use a trip to Vegas.
End Notes:
1. El Topo means "the mole" in Spanish and is also the name of a great film by Alejandro Jodorowsky.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Living the Dream
Before I could wake to rub my puffy bloodshot eyes the week blew past me faster than a bullet train bound for Tokyo on uncut amphetamines.
As the torrential downpours continued off and on throughout Monday, we got off to a late start, mapping out a vineyard in the Cloverdale highlands. At 2,000 feet a cool breeze cut like sheet metal on exposed skin, but the view made it all worth it; terraced vineyards chisel a mountainside across the gorge and boxed carbenet sauvignon vineyards, verdant and golden with bolted mustard greens, fill the Alexander Valley. Down below, way down, the 101 pierces and redicules the valley's former virginity, and Cloverdale spreads its stench with an expansive junkyard and failed makeshift meth labs.
California might be the first state in our fine union where you can buy a proper burrito in almost any locale, be it a taqueria, strip mall, mobile truck (dubbed luncherias by Mexicans or "roach wagons" by uppity white folk) and yes, even some gas stations. The Chevron off the freeway in Cloverdale is host to the Aztec Grill, a West Coast chain that offers customers a chance to refill their proprietary fuel tanks with diverse spread of mexican fare.
"Pollo con frijoles negros, please" I asked politely as two squat middle-aged Mexican women with jet black ponty-tails swinging to and fro busily worked away preparing burros at the grill as the cash register clanged away with gas sales.
Two burritos in my belly by noon. Now that is what I call a good day.
If Monday made me lament on the filthy excrement created by our civilization, Tuesda made me wake up and smell the roses, and by roses I mean to say "rancid refuse." As the rains persisted we collected collapsed cardboard grow guards, drainage piping and shatered PVC pipes to be hauled to the dump. Santa Schade would have been quite dissipointed at the vast quantities of PVC cut to fit the dimensions of our pickup's bed, destined to rot and leach carcinogenic toxins into the watertable. Driving up the 116 towards the Pacific the highway turns into a coastal rainforest, the forest floor lined with waving ferns and Redwoods covered in heavy lime green lichen.
Gavito turned to me and contemplated unloading the PVC for a fee, "Maybe we can pull over in town and unload this load for $50."
I turned and looked out the window staring at the thick green forest musing to myself "If I make a run for the hills now, I can still make a clean break from civilization. But what about my debilitating debt? Ugh... is it too late?"
Hump day went as it typically does, like old people having sex, slow and full of pitfalls. Our job was to unclog a 36' long drainage pipe clogged with years of sediment. What we learned: a hoe and a dream will only get you so far. In this case approximately 8 feet. "If we only had a little baby that could crawl into the pipe and haul out little buckets of crap," I thought aloud.
"Baby Jessica?" Gavito offered.
"Who could forget?" I said.
"That happened three blocks away from my house. Yep, Midland, TX" And all these years I thought it was a scam cooked up by some human rights group to araise awarenss about child welfare.
We flew the coop, headed to the hardware store. "If we could just get a bucket, a bit smaller in diameter than the pipe," I ventured, "we could totally pull it through with a rope and scoop out the sludge. Yeah, you like that idea? Yeaahhh?"
Silence.
Then we heard a slow familiar piano intro come onto the radio and Gavito began to sing softly under his breath "Blue jean baby, L.A. lady..."
"Holy shit! Is this Tiny Dancer! So fucking good!" Two minutes later we were pulling into Central Valley Builders Supply, tears streaming down our faces, Judge, the ginormous black Great Dane sitting confused in the back seat, his head tilted slightly to the side as raised our voices to the highest pitch "Hold me clooooser Tinneee Daaanccerrr, Count the headlights on the highhhwaaaay..."
Did we really have the capabilities of clearing a drainage pipe without access to a high pressure water hose? Absolutely not. And that is why we called in the big boys, a national plumbing firm that will remain nameless. Pulling up to the vineyard on Thursday, a man in retirment pants, stark white Dexters, a flannel and a buzz cut stepped out of the company truck adorned with the red, white and blue label and shook our hands. I was already starting to feel patriotic.
"Howya doin' fellas?" he greeted.
"Well a lot better if you can clean out this drainage pipe," Gavito twanged with a Texas inflection.
After a quick lookee-see the priavte contractor reassured us, "Yeah, we'll get 'er clean," smirking with a sardonic laugh as he shuffled back up the embankment. Five minutes passed with little progress.
"You sure you can get it?" I asked, second guessing the man I presumed to be a diehard Intimidator fan. Never second guess a Nascar fan. "Oh, we'll get this baby clean. You shoulda seen the shit we had to clean out yesterday," he said sending in a revolving sprayer to root-out the problem. "Yeah," reafirmed his lackey, in a disheartened tone, smiling just slighlty to reveal a shiny rows of braces.
Looking down at the operation we overheard the buzz cut man ask his aprentice "Boy, you wanna get wet and dirty?," pointing to a spraying jet of water, "yeah? Well then go suit up and get back down here." The backwoods pipe cleaning was starting to sound like a raunchy homeade porno. We decided to leave it to the professionals.
Friday, we headed down to northern Marin County to knock out a seven acre block of Pinot Noir and Riesling amongst the sprawling green hillsides, long used as grazing lands for dairy cows.
Northern Marin is a precarious viticultural area. The green lush hillsides become dryswept, singed mounts as the summer heat takes over and the cool winds snake their way into the valley. California, it turns out has little knowledge of and limited ability to grow good riesling (Anderson Valley representing some of the best Rieslings in the state). The site in northern Marin provides a suitable cool climate, albeit on the site we were prunig, low yields: 2 tons per acre. If it wasn't for the economic downturn I would imagine Marin county to be the next target for viticultural exploration and investment. However, with the economy teetering on a precipice, wine industry experts believe we can expect new turnovers in the wine industry, which I hope can only mean new blood, better wine and lower prices.
Since the ranch was so far away, the three crews, roughly forty guys were brought down to knock out the pruning in one day. Assembling at the gate of the vineyard, workers sat in the back of vans sipping coffee from mugs and putting an edge on their pruning shears. Pulling up the rear were two company trucks, both pulling port-a-johns. "Hey, here come dos luncheras now!" yelled out Monton, signalling towards the road. "Hey, I'll take five tacos with grilled steak," Jose quipped sending most into stitches.
Part of the agreement was that the bossman would bring down a taco truck and buy everyone lunch for the day, a sign of good will. After making short work of the vineyard, pruning the sprwaling t-budded pinot plants down to two healthy 8 node canes, the boys descended upon la lunchera like a plague of famished mexican locusts. Bellies full of fermented beans we tied up the day wrapping the swaying canes to the bottom wire as Jose el cantante belted out a post lunch serinade to a polka beat. "Comi un burrito grande, carne asada, queso y aguacate y ahora se revuelvan las cosas adentro. Voy corriendo por el bano."
Delicous Mexican food, it seems, has a tendancy more often than not come out faster than you can put it in.
Until next week, have a drink for me.
Worthwhile Northern California Rieslings:
Navarro Vineyards White Riesling Dry
Esterlina Cole Ranch Dry Riesling
Lazy Creek Dry Riesling
Pey-Marin Riesling
End notes:
1. Yes, Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is on repeat on my itunes.
2. Friday, I went to ask for a Torta Cubana, but Monton snagged the last one. As A-man often propounds "There's two kinds of people in this world: the fast and the hungry."
3. RIP #3.
As the torrential downpours continued off and on throughout Monday, we got off to a late start, mapping out a vineyard in the Cloverdale highlands. At 2,000 feet a cool breeze cut like sheet metal on exposed skin, but the view made it all worth it; terraced vineyards chisel a mountainside across the gorge and boxed carbenet sauvignon vineyards, verdant and golden with bolted mustard greens, fill the Alexander Valley. Down below, way down, the 101 pierces and redicules the valley's former virginity, and Cloverdale spreads its stench with an expansive junkyard and failed makeshift meth labs.
California might be the first state in our fine union where you can buy a proper burrito in almost any locale, be it a taqueria, strip mall, mobile truck (dubbed luncherias by Mexicans or "roach wagons" by uppity white folk) and yes, even some gas stations. The Chevron off the freeway in Cloverdale is host to the Aztec Grill, a West Coast chain that offers customers a chance to refill their proprietary fuel tanks with diverse spread of mexican fare.
"Pollo con frijoles negros, please" I asked politely as two squat middle-aged Mexican women with jet black ponty-tails swinging to and fro busily worked away preparing burros at the grill as the cash register clanged away with gas sales.
Two burritos in my belly by noon. Now that is what I call a good day.
If Monday made me lament on the filthy excrement created by our civilization, Tuesda made me wake up and smell the roses, and by roses I mean to say "rancid refuse." As the rains persisted we collected collapsed cardboard grow guards, drainage piping and shatered PVC pipes to be hauled to the dump. Santa Schade would have been quite dissipointed at the vast quantities of PVC cut to fit the dimensions of our pickup's bed, destined to rot and leach carcinogenic toxins into the watertable. Driving up the 116 towards the Pacific the highway turns into a coastal rainforest, the forest floor lined with waving ferns and Redwoods covered in heavy lime green lichen.
Gavito turned to me and contemplated unloading the PVC for a fee, "Maybe we can pull over in town and unload this load for $50."
I turned and looked out the window staring at the thick green forest musing to myself "If I make a run for the hills now, I can still make a clean break from civilization. But what about my debilitating debt? Ugh... is it too late?"
Hump day went as it typically does, like old people having sex, slow and full of pitfalls. Our job was to unclog a 36' long drainage pipe clogged with years of sediment. What we learned: a hoe and a dream will only get you so far. In this case approximately 8 feet. "If we only had a little baby that could crawl into the pipe and haul out little buckets of crap," I thought aloud.
"Baby Jessica?" Gavito offered.
"Who could forget?" I said.
"That happened three blocks away from my house. Yep, Midland, TX" And all these years I thought it was a scam cooked up by some human rights group to araise awarenss about child welfare.
We flew the coop, headed to the hardware store. "If we could just get a bucket, a bit smaller in diameter than the pipe," I ventured, "we could totally pull it through with a rope and scoop out the sludge. Yeah, you like that idea? Yeaahhh?"
Silence.
Then we heard a slow familiar piano intro come onto the radio and Gavito began to sing softly under his breath "Blue jean baby, L.A. lady..."
"Holy shit! Is this Tiny Dancer! So fucking good!" Two minutes later we were pulling into Central Valley Builders Supply, tears streaming down our faces, Judge, the ginormous black Great Dane sitting confused in the back seat, his head tilted slightly to the side as raised our voices to the highest pitch "Hold me clooooser Tinneee Daaanccerrr, Count the headlights on the highhhwaaaay..."
Did we really have the capabilities of clearing a drainage pipe without access to a high pressure water hose? Absolutely not. And that is why we called in the big boys, a national plumbing firm that will remain nameless. Pulling up to the vineyard on Thursday, a man in retirment pants, stark white Dexters, a flannel and a buzz cut stepped out of the company truck adorned with the red, white and blue label and shook our hands. I was already starting to feel patriotic.
"Howya doin' fellas?" he greeted.
"Well a lot better if you can clean out this drainage pipe," Gavito twanged with a Texas inflection.
After a quick lookee-see the priavte contractor reassured us, "Yeah, we'll get 'er clean," smirking with a sardonic laugh as he shuffled back up the embankment. Five minutes passed with little progress.
"You sure you can get it?" I asked, second guessing the man I presumed to be a diehard Intimidator fan. Never second guess a Nascar fan. "Oh, we'll get this baby clean. You shoulda seen the shit we had to clean out yesterday," he said sending in a revolving sprayer to root-out the problem. "Yeah," reafirmed his lackey, in a disheartened tone, smiling just slighlty to reveal a shiny rows of braces.
Looking down at the operation we overheard the buzz cut man ask his aprentice "Boy, you wanna get wet and dirty?," pointing to a spraying jet of water, "yeah? Well then go suit up and get back down here." The backwoods pipe cleaning was starting to sound like a raunchy homeade porno. We decided to leave it to the professionals.
Friday, we headed down to northern Marin County to knock out a seven acre block of Pinot Noir and Riesling amongst the sprawling green hillsides, long used as grazing lands for dairy cows.
Northern Marin is a precarious viticultural area. The green lush hillsides become dryswept, singed mounts as the summer heat takes over and the cool winds snake their way into the valley. California, it turns out has little knowledge of and limited ability to grow good riesling (Anderson Valley representing some of the best Rieslings in the state). The site in northern Marin provides a suitable cool climate, albeit on the site we were prunig, low yields: 2 tons per acre. If it wasn't for the economic downturn I would imagine Marin county to be the next target for viticultural exploration and investment. However, with the economy teetering on a precipice, wine industry experts believe we can expect new turnovers in the wine industry, which I hope can only mean new blood, better wine and lower prices.
Since the ranch was so far away, the three crews, roughly forty guys were brought down to knock out the pruning in one day. Assembling at the gate of the vineyard, workers sat in the back of vans sipping coffee from mugs and putting an edge on their pruning shears. Pulling up the rear were two company trucks, both pulling port-a-johns. "Hey, here come dos luncheras now!" yelled out Monton, signalling towards the road. "Hey, I'll take five tacos with grilled steak," Jose quipped sending most into stitches.
Part of the agreement was that the bossman would bring down a taco truck and buy everyone lunch for the day, a sign of good will. After making short work of the vineyard, pruning the sprwaling t-budded pinot plants down to two healthy 8 node canes, the boys descended upon la lunchera like a plague of famished mexican locusts. Bellies full of fermented beans we tied up the day wrapping the swaying canes to the bottom wire as Jose el cantante belted out a post lunch serinade to a polka beat. "Comi un burrito grande, carne asada, queso y aguacate y ahora se revuelvan las cosas adentro. Voy corriendo por el bano."
Delicous Mexican food, it seems, has a tendancy more often than not come out faster than you can put it in.
Until next week, have a drink for me.
Worthwhile Northern California Rieslings:
Navarro Vineyards White Riesling Dry
Esterlina Cole Ranch Dry Riesling
Lazy Creek Dry Riesling
Pey-Marin Riesling
End notes:
1. Yes, Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is on repeat on my itunes.
2. Friday, I went to ask for a Torta Cubana, but Monton snagged the last one. As A-man often propounds "There's two kinds of people in this world: the fast and the hungry."
3. RIP #3.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Mondovino vs. Bottle Shock
Two films ruffled my feathers this week; the first, Mondovino, intellectually and the second, Bottle Shock, left me aggravated and cheated. There is nothing worse than feeling as uf an hour and a half of your life has just been flushed down the crapper.
Mondovino, a documentary by filmaker and trained sommelier Michael Nossiter, focuses on the globalization of the wine industry and polarizes the struggle between large and small producers in the United States, France and Italy. Nossiter, an American who grew up in Europe, simultaneously shoots footage and interviews some of the biggest names in the business: Parker, Rolland, the Mondavi and Frescobaldi Familes. The raw footoage and obtuse camera angles at first suggest to the viewer that Nossiter is nothing more than a mere amateur, foolishly stumbling into unknown territory. As the film progresses, however, the filmakers intent becomes clear: hide the camera and let each person tell their personal story. Not without a bit of prodding now and then of course.
Conversely Bottle Shock, a film starring Alan Rickman and Bill Pulman, was a gross mis-adaptation of the true story of early beginnings of the now legendary Chateau Montelena, the winery that went on to win first place in a private wine tasting at the Academy du Vin in Paris in 1976. Where Mondovino shocked with heavy critiques of the wine industry, the creators of Bottle Schock conjured up a complex plotline that climaxed conventionaly and completely misrepresented the actual history of the 1976 Paris tasting. Hollywood at its finest folks: throw in some plastic, a couple big name actors, an ubelievalbe love tale and a triumphant father-son struggle. Wallah! Another blockbuster for the uneducated masses!
From the begining of the documentary, Mondovino gives the mic to the little guy, even if he is screaming out to deaf ears from beneath the boot shadow of globalization. In the opening scenes Italian vigneron Battista makes a heartfelt declaration "It's not just the rich people that have the right to cultivate grapes. Poor people have a right too," wagging his pointer finger up and down. Battista looks away flustered and pans back to the camer, "But now people have become lazy. Carried away by consumerism. They've lost their identity."
In his work the Omnivore's Dilemna, Michael Pollan echoes some of the similar beliefs. The general population, specifically Americans, no longer chose their food, but rather have their food processed and chosen for them. All over Europe, people are afraid that the capitlist machine and consumer culture are already starting to erode their traditional values, customs, holidays, food, way of life and wine, too.
From the rolling vineyards of Italy, the documentary jumps into Michel Rolland's speeding mercedes, as the world famous wine consultant motors off to Chateau Le Gay in Pomerol, Bordeaux for a tasting. Rolland, a Bordeaux based oenologist and consultant to over 100 wineries worldwide, quickly sips, spits, and checks his watch as he is handed another barrel sample. Rolland spits again and states tersely "you must micro-oxegenate." Katherine, the owner stands close by in approval and Nossiter inquisitely asks her if she knows what that means. Rolland quickly interjects laughing "She does what I say. We do things because it makes the wine better."
Nossiter fires back offering "Not everyone shares your ideas about what makes a better wine."
Rolland offers a convenient response, still smiling for the camera. "That's called diversity. That's why there are so many bad wines." General approval and laughter creates a backdrop for the scene.
Ironically, Rolland is one of the most influential consultants that has been accused of homogenizing the wine industry. While working as a "flying winemaker" across the globe Rolland has worked endlessly, creating plump, fruit packed wines heavily influenced by the use of new oak. Over the last thirty years wine critics, such as Robert Parker, have begun give high accolades to young red wines with seamless tannins and big fruit that can be drank shortly after their release. Industry critics however believe that consultants like Rolland will lead to the death of diversity and individuality of regional wines. Soon it might become difficult to recognize the origin or a wine style, whether it be from Bordeaux, Napa or the Maile Valley.
Likewise, wine critic Robert Parker has been heavily criticized for his part in the homegenization of the wine industry. Parker, a wine writer by trade, became famous after he systematically classified the Bordeaux Chateaux in the 1970s with a one-hundred point rating system. Since then Parker has become one of the most respected (if not heard) wine critics in the industry. The stroke of his pen has become so powerful that many wine he gives over 90 points will most likely sky rocket in price and demand overnight.
Parker, however, sees himself as a Robin Hood figure, a small town American boy who revolutionized the French wine industry by leveling the playing ground. At his home outside Baltimore Parker remarks that when he was in law school Ralph Nader had a big influence on him and his future career, "the idea that everything was controlled by money and big business." And while Parker often gives big scores to smaller, lesser know producers, many of his highests scores go to the Chateaux with the most capital and financial backing. Not to mention the fact that Rolland and Parker are good friends, and the critics scores often times compliment the consultants handy work.
Conciencious wine objectors have dubbed this phenomenon the "Parkerization of wine." In effect many wineries have begun to mold their wines to Parker's palete in order to garner high scores from the critic.
Among the films personalities that rails against the Parker and Napazation of wine is Domaine de Moline's former oenologist and paterfamilias Huibert de Moline, a bald geriatric French man who trundles along as drops bundles of wisdom here and there. Touring the Tallipieds (Teathered Foot) Vineyard in Volnay, Huibert emphasizes that it is the place, rather than winemaking style that gives a wine its uniqueness. The French emphasis on terroir, all the environmental factors play into growing wine grapes on a specific piece of land, is held by many in the Old World as the most important factor in producing an outstanding wine. Moline points out that much like a classic piece of Greek literature, the Tellipieds vineyard, which was established in the Middle Ages, will long outlive his wine by centuries if not millenia.
Changing gears the film skips the pond to the United States, where Nossiter arrives in Napa Valley at the Robert Mondavi Winery. Immediately everything becomes artificial, gaurded. While Europe is steeped in tradition, the U.S. struggles for its own identy. First, the filmaker is greated by Mondavi's personal assistant, who insistst that Robert is positioned so that a recent dermalogical operation is hidden from the camera. Marching through the courtyard, the film stumbles upon a tour. In the middle of a pack is John, a humorous and personable doscent, asking the visitors to stare out into the vineyard and the next time they sip a bottle of Robert Mondavi "remember this beautiful vineyard and imagine yourself in Chianti, the south of France or some other beautiful vineyard you have never been to." 'Shouldn't they imagine themselves in the plush Napa Valley?' I asked myself. Feed garbage to the hordes and empty their wallets at the door.
The Mondavi's seemed, however, to be concerned with nothing more than image: Parker's reviews, selling copious amounts of wine and investing ventures abroad and at home. Take for instance Opus One, the meticulously groomed brand shared with France's Mouton-Rotshchild. The collaboration boasts an ostentatious winery where image and prestige reign supreme. 100 percent new oak barrells, exhorbitant pricing and no shortage of capital.
Stagliano Cellars is another winery featured in the film started by dotcom millionaire, Garen Staglin. As the adulterized name might suggest Staglin set out to model the winery based upon Italian styles, with the intent of making a wine with a hefty price tag. In America, capital is worship, identity is formulated in an office and creativity is spurned.
The only fault with the film might be Nossiters flip-flopping between the European mainland and the U.S. as he begins to make connections between empires. His emphasis, however, is simple: don't forget about the little guy. Remember wine is something to be enjoyed, not a beverage to only be prized and paraded about by the aristocracy.
Throughout the film dogs take the center stage, each one symbolic in their own respect. Parker has a Basset Hound, second only to the Bloodhound in sense of smell. In Argentina a campesino struggling to hold onto his small terrenito in the face of capital owns a black mutt named Martin Luther, a symbol of hope. Confusing the general public and indubitably shocking any upper class, Nossiter focuses his final shots on a pair of dogs on the streets of Italy. One lays in a flower box while the other comes from behind to sniff his rear. The prostrate dog gets up to leave and the new dog takes his spot. A perfect allegory for the wine industry: find a something you like, a style, a region or winery, and then copy it or use your weight to make it your own.
Bottle Shock, aside from the sweeping jawdropping shots of the Napa, was a complete waste of time and money. "VERY LOOSELY BASED ON A TRUE STORY" would have been a better caption to use to start the movie. Let's start with the facts ommited in the movei. Steven Spurrier was doing great business in Paris before the tasting of 1976 took place, mostly to English and Americans working inside of the city. The primary reason of the tasting was to demonstrate to the French that a revolution was taking place in the wine industry, and the U.S., was now a country capable of producing world class wine.
So lets get a few things strait. Bo Barret, as the time of the tasting, was a mischevious youth rather than the winery's savior. Sure, he eventually went on to become a great winemaker, but he did not end up in an racing to the airport to ensure Chateau Montelena's wine made the Paris tasting, nor was he present in Paris when the wines were judged. Jim Barret, however, was in France, although he was hundreds of miles away tasting in Bordeaux. Chateau Montelena never had a second generation Mexican winemaker named Gustavo either. The real winemaker that crafted the 1972 Alexander Valley Chardonnay was Croatian immigrant Mike Grgich.
The film's title Bottle Shock, is another name for the term bottle sickness, which occasionaly occurs after bottling when oxgen or too much added sulfur can give the wine a flat flavor and even turn the color a murky brown. The symptoms usually dissipate in a few weeks as the wine breathes oxygen through the cork. In the movie, Jim Barret has sent the shocked bottles to the dump but in real life they were signed and bound to be shipeed to a wine liquidator.
In the final scene (which I painfully limped through like a wounded deer), the character "loosely" represented as Steven Spurrier realizes Chateau Montelena has won for best wine in the white category. Glancing to the back row he recognizes Bo in his bellbottoms and tighfitting ringed t-shirt and quickly escorts him from the tasting hall, shot in an roofless French farmhouse for added affect (the actual tasting took place in a banquet hall).
"Do you have any good clothes in here?" Spurrier pries, pushing Bo's suitcase towards him.
"Well, yeah," Bo responds confused.
As Spurrier announces Chateau Montelena's Chardonnay as the winner the French judges sit aghast and then turn their heads to the backof the building, where a long haired Bo Barret stands, fancied up with a blue sport coat. And just like Spurier tried hide the true Bo Barret in the film, Hollywood has moronically turned the history of Jim Barret's dream come true into a steaming pile of poop.
Right now, the story of the Judgement of France and the history of Chateau Montelena rise to fame is suffering from a bad case of "bottle shock." Hopefully someone will step up to the plate and breath some fresh air into the subject through a new feature film or documentary. After all, who reads books in the Twenty-first century?
For the truth check out:
The Judgement of Paris: California vs. France and the Historic 1976 Tasting that Revolutionized Wine, by George Taber, Simon and Schuster
And don't forget to rent:
Mondovino by Jonathan Nossiter
Mondovino, a documentary by filmaker and trained sommelier Michael Nossiter, focuses on the globalization of the wine industry and polarizes the struggle between large and small producers in the United States, France and Italy. Nossiter, an American who grew up in Europe, simultaneously shoots footage and interviews some of the biggest names in the business: Parker, Rolland, the Mondavi and Frescobaldi Familes. The raw footoage and obtuse camera angles at first suggest to the viewer that Nossiter is nothing more than a mere amateur, foolishly stumbling into unknown territory. As the film progresses, however, the filmakers intent becomes clear: hide the camera and let each person tell their personal story. Not without a bit of prodding now and then of course.
Conversely Bottle Shock, a film starring Alan Rickman and Bill Pulman, was a gross mis-adaptation of the true story of early beginnings of the now legendary Chateau Montelena, the winery that went on to win first place in a private wine tasting at the Academy du Vin in Paris in 1976. Where Mondovino shocked with heavy critiques of the wine industry, the creators of Bottle Schock conjured up a complex plotline that climaxed conventionaly and completely misrepresented the actual history of the 1976 Paris tasting. Hollywood at its finest folks: throw in some plastic, a couple big name actors, an ubelievalbe love tale and a triumphant father-son struggle. Wallah! Another blockbuster for the uneducated masses!
From the begining of the documentary, Mondovino gives the mic to the little guy, even if he is screaming out to deaf ears from beneath the boot shadow of globalization. In the opening scenes Italian vigneron Battista makes a heartfelt declaration "It's not just the rich people that have the right to cultivate grapes. Poor people have a right too," wagging his pointer finger up and down. Battista looks away flustered and pans back to the camer, "But now people have become lazy. Carried away by consumerism. They've lost their identity."
In his work the Omnivore's Dilemna, Michael Pollan echoes some of the similar beliefs. The general population, specifically Americans, no longer chose their food, but rather have their food processed and chosen for them. All over Europe, people are afraid that the capitlist machine and consumer culture are already starting to erode their traditional values, customs, holidays, food, way of life and wine, too.
From the rolling vineyards of Italy, the documentary jumps into Michel Rolland's speeding mercedes, as the world famous wine consultant motors off to Chateau Le Gay in Pomerol, Bordeaux for a tasting. Rolland, a Bordeaux based oenologist and consultant to over 100 wineries worldwide, quickly sips, spits, and checks his watch as he is handed another barrel sample. Rolland spits again and states tersely "you must micro-oxegenate." Katherine, the owner stands close by in approval and Nossiter inquisitely asks her if she knows what that means. Rolland quickly interjects laughing "She does what I say. We do things because it makes the wine better."
Nossiter fires back offering "Not everyone shares your ideas about what makes a better wine."
Rolland offers a convenient response, still smiling for the camera. "That's called diversity. That's why there are so many bad wines." General approval and laughter creates a backdrop for the scene.
Ironically, Rolland is one of the most influential consultants that has been accused of homogenizing the wine industry. While working as a "flying winemaker" across the globe Rolland has worked endlessly, creating plump, fruit packed wines heavily influenced by the use of new oak. Over the last thirty years wine critics, such as Robert Parker, have begun give high accolades to young red wines with seamless tannins and big fruit that can be drank shortly after their release. Industry critics however believe that consultants like Rolland will lead to the death of diversity and individuality of regional wines. Soon it might become difficult to recognize the origin or a wine style, whether it be from Bordeaux, Napa or the Maile Valley.
Likewise, wine critic Robert Parker has been heavily criticized for his part in the homegenization of the wine industry. Parker, a wine writer by trade, became famous after he systematically classified the Bordeaux Chateaux in the 1970s with a one-hundred point rating system. Since then Parker has become one of the most respected (if not heard) wine critics in the industry. The stroke of his pen has become so powerful that many wine he gives over 90 points will most likely sky rocket in price and demand overnight.
Parker, however, sees himself as a Robin Hood figure, a small town American boy who revolutionized the French wine industry by leveling the playing ground. At his home outside Baltimore Parker remarks that when he was in law school Ralph Nader had a big influence on him and his future career, "the idea that everything was controlled by money and big business." And while Parker often gives big scores to smaller, lesser know producers, many of his highests scores go to the Chateaux with the most capital and financial backing. Not to mention the fact that Rolland and Parker are good friends, and the critics scores often times compliment the consultants handy work.
Conciencious wine objectors have dubbed this phenomenon the "Parkerization of wine." In effect many wineries have begun to mold their wines to Parker's palete in order to garner high scores from the critic.
Among the films personalities that rails against the Parker and Napazation of wine is Domaine de Moline's former oenologist and paterfamilias Huibert de Moline, a bald geriatric French man who trundles along as drops bundles of wisdom here and there. Touring the Tallipieds (Teathered Foot) Vineyard in Volnay, Huibert emphasizes that it is the place, rather than winemaking style that gives a wine its uniqueness. The French emphasis on terroir, all the environmental factors play into growing wine grapes on a specific piece of land, is held by many in the Old World as the most important factor in producing an outstanding wine. Moline points out that much like a classic piece of Greek literature, the Tellipieds vineyard, which was established in the Middle Ages, will long outlive his wine by centuries if not millenia.
Changing gears the film skips the pond to the United States, where Nossiter arrives in Napa Valley at the Robert Mondavi Winery. Immediately everything becomes artificial, gaurded. While Europe is steeped in tradition, the U.S. struggles for its own identy. First, the filmaker is greated by Mondavi's personal assistant, who insistst that Robert is positioned so that a recent dermalogical operation is hidden from the camera. Marching through the courtyard, the film stumbles upon a tour. In the middle of a pack is John, a humorous and personable doscent, asking the visitors to stare out into the vineyard and the next time they sip a bottle of Robert Mondavi "remember this beautiful vineyard and imagine yourself in Chianti, the south of France or some other beautiful vineyard you have never been to." 'Shouldn't they imagine themselves in the plush Napa Valley?' I asked myself. Feed garbage to the hordes and empty their wallets at the door.
The Mondavi's seemed, however, to be concerned with nothing more than image: Parker's reviews, selling copious amounts of wine and investing ventures abroad and at home. Take for instance Opus One, the meticulously groomed brand shared with France's Mouton-Rotshchild. The collaboration boasts an ostentatious winery where image and prestige reign supreme. 100 percent new oak barrells, exhorbitant pricing and no shortage of capital.
Stagliano Cellars is another winery featured in the film started by dotcom millionaire, Garen Staglin. As the adulterized name might suggest Staglin set out to model the winery based upon Italian styles, with the intent of making a wine with a hefty price tag. In America, capital is worship, identity is formulated in an office and creativity is spurned.
The only fault with the film might be Nossiters flip-flopping between the European mainland and the U.S. as he begins to make connections between empires. His emphasis, however, is simple: don't forget about the little guy. Remember wine is something to be enjoyed, not a beverage to only be prized and paraded about by the aristocracy.
Throughout the film dogs take the center stage, each one symbolic in their own respect. Parker has a Basset Hound, second only to the Bloodhound in sense of smell. In Argentina a campesino struggling to hold onto his small terrenito in the face of capital owns a black mutt named Martin Luther, a symbol of hope. Confusing the general public and indubitably shocking any upper class, Nossiter focuses his final shots on a pair of dogs on the streets of Italy. One lays in a flower box while the other comes from behind to sniff his rear. The prostrate dog gets up to leave and the new dog takes his spot. A perfect allegory for the wine industry: find a something you like, a style, a region or winery, and then copy it or use your weight to make it your own.
Bottle Shock, aside from the sweeping jawdropping shots of the Napa, was a complete waste of time and money. "VERY LOOSELY BASED ON A TRUE STORY" would have been a better caption to use to start the movie. Let's start with the facts ommited in the movei. Steven Spurrier was doing great business in Paris before the tasting of 1976 took place, mostly to English and Americans working inside of the city. The primary reason of the tasting was to demonstrate to the French that a revolution was taking place in the wine industry, and the U.S., was now a country capable of producing world class wine.
So lets get a few things strait. Bo Barret, as the time of the tasting, was a mischevious youth rather than the winery's savior. Sure, he eventually went on to become a great winemaker, but he did not end up in an racing to the airport to ensure Chateau Montelena's wine made the Paris tasting, nor was he present in Paris when the wines were judged. Jim Barret, however, was in France, although he was hundreds of miles away tasting in Bordeaux. Chateau Montelena never had a second generation Mexican winemaker named Gustavo either. The real winemaker that crafted the 1972 Alexander Valley Chardonnay was Croatian immigrant Mike Grgich.
The film's title Bottle Shock, is another name for the term bottle sickness, which occasionaly occurs after bottling when oxgen or too much added sulfur can give the wine a flat flavor and even turn the color a murky brown. The symptoms usually dissipate in a few weeks as the wine breathes oxygen through the cork. In the movie, Jim Barret has sent the shocked bottles to the dump but in real life they were signed and bound to be shipeed to a wine liquidator.
In the final scene (which I painfully limped through like a wounded deer), the character "loosely" represented as Steven Spurrier realizes Chateau Montelena has won for best wine in the white category. Glancing to the back row he recognizes Bo in his bellbottoms and tighfitting ringed t-shirt and quickly escorts him from the tasting hall, shot in an roofless French farmhouse for added affect (the actual tasting took place in a banquet hall).
"Do you have any good clothes in here?" Spurrier pries, pushing Bo's suitcase towards him.
"Well, yeah," Bo responds confused.
As Spurrier announces Chateau Montelena's Chardonnay as the winner the French judges sit aghast and then turn their heads to the backof the building, where a long haired Bo Barret stands, fancied up with a blue sport coat. And just like Spurier tried hide the true Bo Barret in the film, Hollywood has moronically turned the history of Jim Barret's dream come true into a steaming pile of poop.
Right now, the story of the Judgement of France and the history of Chateau Montelena rise to fame is suffering from a bad case of "bottle shock." Hopefully someone will step up to the plate and breath some fresh air into the subject through a new feature film or documentary. After all, who reads books in the Twenty-first century?
For the truth check out:
The Judgement of Paris: California vs. France and the Historic 1976 Tasting that Revolutionized Wine, by George Taber, Simon and Schuster
And don't forget to rent:
Mondovino by Jonathan Nossiter
Rainy Days
The rainy season has finally arrived in Sonoma, CA, albeit a bit tardy. Vinters and Viticulturalists alike have been given quite a scare in early 2009 as spring rainfall has been virtually non-existant. Santa Rosa, the hub of commerce in Sonoma County, logged just .45 inches of rain in January, pushing it into the number two slot of second driest month on record. Juxtaposed with Santa Rosa's average January rainfall of 6.25 inches, the region appeared to be in a state of despair and desperation. Two weeks ago, radio broadcasters announced that county authorities had already begun to plan out strict water rationing regulations if the drought contintued.
To compound matters even more, much of Northern California has been in a state of drought since last summer. The vineyards themselves have been struggling since early spring of last year. As late as May of 2008, Sonoma and Mendocino counties were hit with a heavy frosts that wiped out grean growth, and effectively cut crop yields significantly for the years fall harvest. Less shoots on vines means less fruit which means less wine. Less wine of course for the growers and producers means hard times on the pocket books. While many professionals (especially in Europe) in the wine industry believe that a vine must "struggle" or face hardship to bear fruit capable of producing premium wine, it is also true that a vine can only be pushed too far. Without adequate balance of natural resources, principally sunlight, nitrogen and water, a vine will underperform and produce fruit not up to boot.
Examples of each could be found last year down under. In Australia, also hurting badly for water, a surplus of warm sunny days and lack of rainfall in some areas, caused a majority of the grape clusters to shrivel up and rot on the vines.
In the case of neighboring country New Zealand, it the polar opposite. As the verdant and rigidly manicured vines of Marlborough filled and sagged with heavy clusters of Sauvignon Blanc, the rains came pissing down mid-harvest. Our assistant winemaker Big Dave, a boisterous, Aussie juggernaut, lamented "Mate, this is just the pits. There is a ton (more like 6 metric tonnes/acre) of grapes on those vines and they are going to rot faster than we can haul them into the cellar." Mother nature dealt her royal flush and we suited up to weather the effect: a Sauvilanche. Grapes came flying off the vines, tank space became non-existant and we smashed 12 hour crush records. Even though the majority of grapes were saved, the rains had dealt a harsh blow, plumpening grapes with water and lowering sugar levels.
Typically, during and after pruning season the vines go through a period known as Bleed, whereby recently pruned vines ooze a slimy water based substance from their wounds. Much of the time a plant will "bleed" more if it is pruned late or if it has been a warm spring and the plant has begun to "push" early. Unfortunately the new pruning wounds showed no signs of bleeding or green tissue. The fact that the cuts were bone dry gave everyone in the vineyard a scare. "We're not too worried about it," remarked one onlooker, "we have deep wells and access to plent of water." But even drip irrigation is not going to be enough for a vine to grow and prosper; a vine's root system must burrough and dig its tendrils and root hairs deep into the soil to deliver the proper nutrients and strength to its upper half. Cheating will only bring a plant along so far.
Last Thursday, the Sonoma Coast and Russian River Valley breathed its first sigh of relief. Rain came, at first sporadically, then continued off and on throughout the weekend. Taking a brief pause in the beginning of the week it has held strong, replenishing the green pastures, draining into the underground water table and filling up holding ponds, a neccessity for large, isolated vineyards.
In life though there is always a give and take. When it rains, even sprinkles, it can be dangerous to prune vines, leaving them exposed to the deadly fungus Eutypa which invades plants through open wounds. Once inside, Eutypa eats away at the vine, slowing growth and eventually leading to the vines death. In efforts to avoid the fungal infection wounds are covered with an anti-fungal spray or paint and other jobs are delegated. Friday was one of those days.
Half hour into pruning we were blasted with a shower. "O.K. Chavos, were gonna switch it up. let's wrap!" shouted Alberto, commanding and corraling his crew. We hurriedly shuttled over to the convoy of parked vehicles to put on rubber ducky suits. Five minutes later we were back in the block, twine wrapped around our shoulders and twist ties protruding from our pockets. "Vaaamoooonoooss!" hollered Alberto, egging the crew on to get down to the new task at hand.
"Vaaamoooonos, pues!" echoed Burro, a machinery operator who boasts that he will outwork anyone in his crew.
Tying, like pruning, is an excercise in, not only balance, but also dexterity. Buds must be counted based on each vines previous year's performance and wrapped skillfully along the bottom trellising wire. One, two and....a half twists, cut the last node and twist tie. The canes are fragile and like stiff muscles often times need to be massaged to make the near ninety degree bend at the wire. A delicate process that the crew does effortlessly singing and bickering away under the erratic cloudbursts.
Energy is one thing that Albertos crew doesn't lack. In the field, the spirit of the crew is palpable throughout the overcast day. Each new downpour is greeted with a series of shouts "Jabon! Jabon! Jabon!," jestering at the fact that the heavens had given us all a complimentary shower. Two days ago I was reluctant to get out of my sleeping bag in the wee hours of dawn, listening to the rain bang away on the convex roof windows. I groaned and rolled over, wondering if the sun would ever return to replenish my vitamin E stores. Yesterday, I couldn't help but be happy, if not ecstatic to be out, laboring away in the rain.
Anything for strong, healthy vines.
Endnote: I just returned to the bottle store today and because of the surplus, 2008 Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc has been discounted greatly. Spy Valley, Dog Pointe and Kim Crawford were all around $11 dollars. Not a bad deal, eh? Load up for summer, but do be weary not all of 'em are gonna be standouts.
To compound matters even more, much of Northern California has been in a state of drought since last summer. The vineyards themselves have been struggling since early spring of last year. As late as May of 2008, Sonoma and Mendocino counties were hit with a heavy frosts that wiped out grean growth, and effectively cut crop yields significantly for the years fall harvest. Less shoots on vines means less fruit which means less wine. Less wine of course for the growers and producers means hard times on the pocket books. While many professionals (especially in Europe) in the wine industry believe that a vine must "struggle" or face hardship to bear fruit capable of producing premium wine, it is also true that a vine can only be pushed too far. Without adequate balance of natural resources, principally sunlight, nitrogen and water, a vine will underperform and produce fruit not up to boot.
Examples of each could be found last year down under. In Australia, also hurting badly for water, a surplus of warm sunny days and lack of rainfall in some areas, caused a majority of the grape clusters to shrivel up and rot on the vines.
In the case of neighboring country New Zealand, it the polar opposite. As the verdant and rigidly manicured vines of Marlborough filled and sagged with heavy clusters of Sauvignon Blanc, the rains came pissing down mid-harvest. Our assistant winemaker Big Dave, a boisterous, Aussie juggernaut, lamented "Mate, this is just the pits. There is a ton (more like 6 metric tonnes/acre) of grapes on those vines and they are going to rot faster than we can haul them into the cellar." Mother nature dealt her royal flush and we suited up to weather the effect: a Sauvilanche. Grapes came flying off the vines, tank space became non-existant and we smashed 12 hour crush records. Even though the majority of grapes were saved, the rains had dealt a harsh blow, plumpening grapes with water and lowering sugar levels.
No worries mate, you can doctor that right up in the New World.
My first day on the job in the Sonoma, we walked the rows of the stark naked vines staring out over the valley pierced by Chalk Hill Road, the plants upon first glance appeared to be compliantly enjoying their mid-winter rest. Upon closer examination, however, the vines were suffering miserably. Making a calculated prune on a double cordon trained vine, the evidence spoke for itself: the fresh cut beared a dry wound. To put it more simply, there was no green tissue in the shortened canes, demonstrating that little to no water was entering the plant. In effect the plants were already starting to choke and with time the spurs and cordons would begin to die away. If the conditons continued plants could suffer from poor fruit yields, while some could even parish.
Typically, during and after pruning season the vines go through a period known as Bleed, whereby recently pruned vines ooze a slimy water based substance from their wounds. Much of the time a plant will "bleed" more if it is pruned late or if it has been a warm spring and the plant has begun to "push" early. Unfortunately the new pruning wounds showed no signs of bleeding or green tissue. The fact that the cuts were bone dry gave everyone in the vineyard a scare. "We're not too worried about it," remarked one onlooker, "we have deep wells and access to plent of water." But even drip irrigation is not going to be enough for a vine to grow and prosper; a vine's root system must burrough and dig its tendrils and root hairs deep into the soil to deliver the proper nutrients and strength to its upper half. Cheating will only bring a plant along so far.
Last Thursday, the Sonoma Coast and Russian River Valley breathed its first sigh of relief. Rain came, at first sporadically, then continued off and on throughout the weekend. Taking a brief pause in the beginning of the week it has held strong, replenishing the green pastures, draining into the underground water table and filling up holding ponds, a neccessity for large, isolated vineyards.
In life though there is always a give and take. When it rains, even sprinkles, it can be dangerous to prune vines, leaving them exposed to the deadly fungus Eutypa which invades plants through open wounds. Once inside, Eutypa eats away at the vine, slowing growth and eventually leading to the vines death. In efforts to avoid the fungal infection wounds are covered with an anti-fungal spray or paint and other jobs are delegated. Friday was one of those days.
Half hour into pruning we were blasted with a shower. "O.K. Chavos, were gonna switch it up. let's wrap!" shouted Alberto, commanding and corraling his crew. We hurriedly shuttled over to the convoy of parked vehicles to put on rubber ducky suits. Five minutes later we were back in the block, twine wrapped around our shoulders and twist ties protruding from our pockets. "Vaaamoooonoooss!" hollered Alberto, egging the crew on to get down to the new task at hand.
"Vaaamoooonos, pues!" echoed Burro, a machinery operator who boasts that he will outwork anyone in his crew.
Tying, like pruning, is an excercise in, not only balance, but also dexterity. Buds must be counted based on each vines previous year's performance and wrapped skillfully along the bottom trellising wire. One, two and....a half twists, cut the last node and twist tie. The canes are fragile and like stiff muscles often times need to be massaged to make the near ninety degree bend at the wire. A delicate process that the crew does effortlessly singing and bickering away under the erratic cloudbursts.
Energy is one thing that Albertos crew doesn't lack. In the field, the spirit of the crew is palpable throughout the overcast day. Each new downpour is greeted with a series of shouts "Jabon! Jabon! Jabon!," jestering at the fact that the heavens had given us all a complimentary shower. Two days ago I was reluctant to get out of my sleeping bag in the wee hours of dawn, listening to the rain bang away on the convex roof windows. I groaned and rolled over, wondering if the sun would ever return to replenish my vitamin E stores. Yesterday, I couldn't help but be happy, if not ecstatic to be out, laboring away in the rain.
Anything for strong, healthy vines.
Endnote: I just returned to the bottle store today and because of the surplus, 2008 Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc has been discounted greatly. Spy Valley, Dog Pointe and Kim Crawford were all around $11 dollars. Not a bad deal, eh? Load up for summer, but do be weary not all of 'em are gonna be standouts.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Tentative and Surreal
Hiking a slope along the eyelash of the Castro last night, the air was diffuse with a familiar scent, a haze which evoked feelings of another place. Returning with a bottle from the package store, my olfactory bulb lit up again and I couldn’t help myself from telling Grimm that the floating odor reminded me of my favorite coastal city Valparaiso; another vertical seaside metropolis stacked high with boxed abodes. Grimm offered a logical explanation, “It’s probably the chimney smoke. Lot’s of folks still have working fireplaces.”
He was right. The wafting smoke emissions effused a homely aroma. Much like in Chile, the temperate Bay Area climate makes central heating unnecessary. The solution is an old fashioned heating source: wood. I was beginning to feel at home.
Returning from the arduous three block walk, we cracked a bottle of Ridge California Zinfandel York Creek. Perusing the shelves I thought I might be stepping out on a limb, but then again whats life without a few financial risks. The 2003 vintage seemed a bit aged for a bottle that might have been sitting right side up in a since its bottling year, but then again this was no ordinary bottle shop. The wine shelves were lined with single vineyard designates and other pricy gems, such as the ’05 Caymus Napa Cab retailing at just under two bills. Juxtaposed against a backdrop of beef jerky, generic soda pops and pre-wrapped deli sammies, the wine gleamed like diamonds in a waste treatment facility. In any other neck of the world, this bodega's main moneymaker would be Olde English and Phillies Blunts, but we were practically rubbing elbows with the San Francisco's gay elite. Welcome to the Castro.
As we pulled up to the counter, a flamboyant Middle-Eastern shop owner, dressed in a pastel button down, open slightly to flaunt a patch of gushing gray chest hair, carried on a hurried conversation with a regular. Where gender was bent, ethnicity stayed the same.
“Hey check out this,” cried the shop owner pointing to a featured wine in the Values/Smart Buys section in a current Wine Spectator, “I just got this one in!”
“Right on,” responded a bald, soft spoken man as he casually checked out with $90 bag of wine.
“Hey what do you think about that “unoaked” Chardonnay you carry. I’ve heard good things?,” queried the man two bottles richer.
“Meh. Some people like it, but me I prefer the big oaky ones. The flabby ones with the butter smell,” answered the shop’s captain from the helm.
Ugh. Even wine has fashion victims. Why eat a stave when you can have a crisp mouthful of citrus? Or at least a balanced chardonnay where a scant oak flavor provides structure and complexity. These were my thoughts, but of course I kept them bottled up. The only thing on my mind was the turkey sandwich soon to be grinding in my gullet.
Back at Grimm’s ranch, the Ridge Zin provided a much needed respite from my traveling woes. One cancelled flight, another overbooked and a third and fourth delayed left my bones aching and nerves fully frayed. Deep, rich and restrained upon opening with dark blackberries brimming in the nose shortly thereafter, the bottle of Ridge offered us another respite from the opulent and fruit concentrated Zins that have come to typify the California style. “Uhhhmm,” I sighed. “Wisely played,” Grimm commented, reassuring me of the selection. Yeah it felt good to be back in California.
Today was another story. Time to face reality, jump three busses to Sebastopol, check in with potential housemates and call work. Stepping out onto the street was lustful and surreal. People bounced down the street in high-cut running shorts and whizzed by on carbon frames fully clad in lycra. At the coffee shop, my voice was raspy and apparently a bit too foreign. Setting down my hulking backpack and mobile suitcase I shyly ambled up to the counter to ask for a “bay-gul”.
Staring me up and down the bemused barista asked “Are you from the mid-West?” Fuck, was I that easy to single out?
“No, Western New York, why do you ask?,” I inquired.
“Oh, well I lived in Wisconsin for a few years and you both pronounce bagel the same way.”
Everything seemed alien, unreal. For starters, people were smiling, jovial. Across the street from the coffee joint sat a prim and snug designer couple, coolly sipping their Jasmine tea over lunch. Winter, to me, has come to represent a brutal, uncompromising and relentless wallop of snow and bone piercing sub-arctic winds. Winter is supposed to be anything but warm, let alone sunny. I was in an absolute state of shock. Buffalo, the barren tundra, had left me frozen and unfeeling. Under the Bay’s blues skies and tee shirt temps, my congealed blood began de-thawing at a breakneck pace, leaving my head spinning and making every trivial task burdensome.
Shooting up to Santa Rosa was just another inevitable headache. The first bus driver, an aging boomer, threatened me before I even set foot on the transport. In an ominous voice he warned, "Now don't think for a second that I won't kick you off this bus if your bags are hogging up another paying customer’s seat.” Before I could push play, the bus trip had begun its downward spiral. Between San Rafael and Petaluma and four sentences into a phone call, an old maid reeking of patchouli, tersely informed me “there is no talking on the phone on this commuter bus.” Santa Rosa’s bus system, like so many others, appeared erratic at best. The transit mall teemed with bottom feeders and preying hoods creating a tense, overcast atmosphere. This was not the California I remembered leaving was it?
To put the nail in the coffin, a heavy homesickness invaded my body making me question my current motives. Everything in CA is tentative: comfortable housing, job success and a social life. Buffalo, throughout the past two months, albeit cold, was a dream. I miss the warm, supporting company of my friends, not to mention the bright and beautiful lady I left behind.
In the words of George Tabb, “Take my life, please.”
He was right. The wafting smoke emissions effused a homely aroma. Much like in Chile, the temperate Bay Area climate makes central heating unnecessary. The solution is an old fashioned heating source: wood. I was beginning to feel at home.
Returning from the arduous three block walk, we cracked a bottle of Ridge California Zinfandel York Creek. Perusing the shelves I thought I might be stepping out on a limb, but then again whats life without a few financial risks. The 2003 vintage seemed a bit aged for a bottle that might have been sitting right side up in a since its bottling year, but then again this was no ordinary bottle shop. The wine shelves were lined with single vineyard designates and other pricy gems, such as the ’05 Caymus Napa Cab retailing at just under two bills. Juxtaposed against a backdrop of beef jerky, generic soda pops and pre-wrapped deli sammies, the wine gleamed like diamonds in a waste treatment facility. In any other neck of the world, this bodega's main moneymaker would be Olde English and Phillies Blunts, but we were practically rubbing elbows with the San Francisco's gay elite. Welcome to the Castro.
As we pulled up to the counter, a flamboyant Middle-Eastern shop owner, dressed in a pastel button down, open slightly to flaunt a patch of gushing gray chest hair, carried on a hurried conversation with a regular. Where gender was bent, ethnicity stayed the same.
“Hey check out this,” cried the shop owner pointing to a featured wine in the Values/Smart Buys section in a current Wine Spectator, “I just got this one in!”
“Right on,” responded a bald, soft spoken man as he casually checked out with $90 bag of wine.
“Hey what do you think about that “unoaked” Chardonnay you carry. I’ve heard good things?,” queried the man two bottles richer.
“Meh. Some people like it, but me I prefer the big oaky ones. The flabby ones with the butter smell,” answered the shop’s captain from the helm.
Ugh. Even wine has fashion victims. Why eat a stave when you can have a crisp mouthful of citrus? Or at least a balanced chardonnay where a scant oak flavor provides structure and complexity. These were my thoughts, but of course I kept them bottled up. The only thing on my mind was the turkey sandwich soon to be grinding in my gullet.
Back at Grimm’s ranch, the Ridge Zin provided a much needed respite from my traveling woes. One cancelled flight, another overbooked and a third and fourth delayed left my bones aching and nerves fully frayed. Deep, rich and restrained upon opening with dark blackberries brimming in the nose shortly thereafter, the bottle of Ridge offered us another respite from the opulent and fruit concentrated Zins that have come to typify the California style. “Uhhhmm,” I sighed. “Wisely played,” Grimm commented, reassuring me of the selection. Yeah it felt good to be back in California.
Today was another story. Time to face reality, jump three busses to Sebastopol, check in with potential housemates and call work. Stepping out onto the street was lustful and surreal. People bounced down the street in high-cut running shorts and whizzed by on carbon frames fully clad in lycra. At the coffee shop, my voice was raspy and apparently a bit too foreign. Setting down my hulking backpack and mobile suitcase I shyly ambled up to the counter to ask for a “bay-gul”.
Staring me up and down the bemused barista asked “Are you from the mid-West?” Fuck, was I that easy to single out?
“No, Western New York, why do you ask?,” I inquired.
“Oh, well I lived in Wisconsin for a few years and you both pronounce bagel the same way.”
Everything seemed alien, unreal. For starters, people were smiling, jovial. Across the street from the coffee joint sat a prim and snug designer couple, coolly sipping their Jasmine tea over lunch. Winter, to me, has come to represent a brutal, uncompromising and relentless wallop of snow and bone piercing sub-arctic winds. Winter is supposed to be anything but warm, let alone sunny. I was in an absolute state of shock. Buffalo, the barren tundra, had left me frozen and unfeeling. Under the Bay’s blues skies and tee shirt temps, my congealed blood began de-thawing at a breakneck pace, leaving my head spinning and making every trivial task burdensome.
Shooting up to Santa Rosa was just another inevitable headache. The first bus driver, an aging boomer, threatened me before I even set foot on the transport. In an ominous voice he warned, "Now don't think for a second that I won't kick you off this bus if your bags are hogging up another paying customer’s seat.” Before I could push play, the bus trip had begun its downward spiral. Between San Rafael and Petaluma and four sentences into a phone call, an old maid reeking of patchouli, tersely informed me “there is no talking on the phone on this commuter bus.” Santa Rosa’s bus system, like so many others, appeared erratic at best. The transit mall teemed with bottom feeders and preying hoods creating a tense, overcast atmosphere. This was not the California I remembered leaving was it?
To put the nail in the coffin, a heavy homesickness invaded my body making me question my current motives. Everything in CA is tentative: comfortable housing, job success and a social life. Buffalo, throughout the past two months, albeit cold, was a dream. I miss the warm, supporting company of my friends, not to mention the bright and beautiful lady I left behind.
In the words of George Tabb, “Take my life, please.”
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