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.