bizarreville

Chapter 1.  Day One, morning

Almost there.  I roll down the windows and turn off the radio.  There seems to be nothing good on the local stations anyway.  I have no particular problem with so-called modern music, it’s just that sometimes the sound of nothing sounds better.  Besides, the fresh air is so exhilarating as it whistles past my ear.  It reminds me of when we were kids, before they invented air conditioners for regular-people cars… when Dad would take us for a drive out in the country, aimed at going nowhere, but always ending up somewhere.  He would say that it was necessary to take such drives in order to clean out our lungs from the soot of the city.  Encouraged us to cough at least 19 times to dispel lingering carbo-noxo-nasty compounds nesting deep in our bronchial tubes.  Carbo what?  Later, I realized that was a lot of BS.  But when you’re a kid, and the big guy starts throwing out 6-syllable words you never heard of, what are you supposed to do?  Right.  Start coughing.

One thing for sure:  there are no carbo-noxo-nasty molecules in this air today.  You can smell the rich scents of juniper and honeysuckle wafting across the valley.  Okay, maybe there was a little diesel fume mixed in with the botanicals from that 18-wheeler that just zipped by in the southbound direction.  So what?  The overall fragrance is mighty darn pleasant overall.  Totally pleasant, I guess, if you were that diesel truck driver.

The lush vineyards seem to stretch forever across the Janus River Valley, and up into the foothills of the Auranian Mountains.  Row after row after row of trellised vines burst with greenery, with canopy leaves nourishing and protecting those tender grapes struggling to survive a dry summer… nurtured to near perfection by some bib-overalled farmer who probably thought of each grape cluster as one of his children… much to the chagrin of his human children.  Cabernet Sauvignon planted as far as the eye can see, sprinkled with some Petit Verdot and Malbec up in the highlands.  Merlot presumably planted beyond where than the eye can see.

Took my eyes off the highway for a moment to read a roadside billboard, instructing me to not get distracted while driving.  Seriously?  How can you not be distracted when you’re in the midst of all this natural splendor?  It’s like having the 1^st round NFL draft on TV at the bar adjacent to your wedding venue… hold on, maybe that’s a bad example.

“Got to get a picture of this,” I mention to the Bix Beiderbecke bobblehead on the dash, who stares back thinking, “Make it quick.  We’ve got wine to drink, Brother, and half the morning is already behind us.”  Moderation, my oft-crocked friend.  Pace.

I pull off to the side of the road, snap two out-of-focus shots with my phone, get one good one, then proceed on the drive.  Someday I’ll learn how to work this camera phone thing.  Maybe next camera update version… or the one after that.  Doesn’t matter… I’ll have these images embedded in my right brain by the time this 10-day jaunt is over.  Or is it the left brain?  Always get these brain halves confused.

A small dark cloud hovers over the mountain’s west-face slope, and I imagine Mr. Bib Overalls praying and doing a homemade rain dance to squeeze a little release to aid his crop, Chicken-dancing for a dab of drizzle, or Moonwalking for a morsel of mist.  See, that’s why I could never become a farmer… total lack of dance moves.  Maybe they teach rain-dancing in viniculture school.  Would be a nice break between 4 hours of lectures about malolactic fermentation and loamy soil minerality.  Here’s a question:  if you do a rain dance and it starts pouring, do you grab an umbrella?  Seems like an umbrella would be offensive to the rain gods.  What… is our rain not good enough for you?  Ditch that umbrella, pal, or you’re in for 40 days and 40 nights of drought that will make Vegas seem like an Amazon tropical rainforest.  There are always consequences to your decision.

I guess it’s dealing with all this consequence management that has got me so mentally fried lately.  You do Option A, and this nightmare is likely to occur.  On the other hand, if you choose Option B, this other cataclysm is sure to result.  Do nothing, and the world will come crashing around you.  It’s enough to make you turn to drink.  Oh yes… that’s why I decided to take this trip to Wine Country.   I knew there was a valid reason.

Now, my biggest decision will be whether to buy a couple bottles of that delicious single-vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon, or opt for that Wine-stein Genius tee-shirt at each winery stop.  No consequence management dilemma there, as long as I choose the right size… shirt size and bottle size.

Ah, here we go… let the games begin.  The first winery stop is coming up on the right:  Sugar Pop Vineyards.  Quaint-looking place, stone building construction covered in English ivy.  Almost appears like it could have been a church chapel in a previous life.  Bacchus has now taken over at the altar.  I pull into the parking lot and see that I’m the first car to arrive.  Okay, so it’s 10:30 in the morning, and I suppose there are not many wine breakfasters out there like myself.  Frankly, it’s nice to have the wine bar all to myself, not having to push through gabby malingerers to get the next half-ounce tasting pour.

Mona, a 30-ish-looking, slender woman with the latest designer eyeglasses and a bob haircut, greets me and asks if I’m here for a tasting.  “No, give me a small cucumber-spice latte, no whip, extra artificial sweetener.”  She smiles, and says they are currently out of cucumber-spice flavoring, but could substitute carrot-spice… still gives that earthy aftertaste.  Looks like she may be trying to be the spice in this tasting.  Right up my alley.  Mona pours a generous 2-ounce sample of their latest barrel-fermented Chardonnay.

“You look like you could use this,” she comments, smiling as she pushes the glass to me.  “Barrel fermentation brings a rich assortment of flavor complexities, such as buttered toast, almond, and a morsel of cinnamon.  You may even pick up a little bit of turkey gravy aroma.  Makes a nice pairing on Thanksgiving Day, even Leftover Friday.  14.7 percent alcohol.  Put you to sleep halfway through the Lions game.”

She pours me a splash of an oak-free Chardonnay for comparison purposes in a 2^nd glass.  So, a taste-off.   Mona mentions that oak-free is the hip, new version of Chard, for customers who desire a little less flavor, without sacrificing any degree of buzz.  I could sense a hint of grapefruit, green apple, and a smidgen of mercurochrome in the oak-less version, but admittedly preferred the non-mercurochrome, fully-oaked variant.  She agrees.  But was she agreeing just to patronize me?  I mean, if I was a young, hip oak-loather instead of a fuddy-duddy oaky traditionalist, would she have chosen the other side?  This whole wine nuance business, after all, can be so equivocal.

“We aren’t producing the oak-free version any more.  Our winemaker can’t stand the stuff.  Says it reminds him of medicine he had to put on cuts when he skinned his knee as a kid.”

Mona explains that the vineyard is a long-in-tooth family enterprise that goes back 4 generations.  They named it after great granddad, Edgar “Sugar Pop” Finn, who might be considered a low-budget philanthropist.  He would donate old stoves and refrigerators to local charities after upgrading the kitchen appliances in his home.  The charity would spend 2 weeks scraping the gook off the units before plugging them in, and might get a year or two of use before the units would go caput.  He would donate other stuff, too, rather than throwing it in the garbage.  That’s how he got the nickname, Sugar Pop.  May have been a little tongue-in-cheek on that moniker.  Regardless, the family thought it was a cool name for a winery, and sort of a backhand homage to the old man.

A middle-aged couple enters the Tasting Room looking for a little breakfast pop, and Mona goes over to greet them.  I take a walk out to the back porch, and admire the vista of lush Chardonnay crops across the valley, as I take another sip of the oaky wine.  There is something that is mind-cleansing in this gorgeous environment, with the freshest air I believe I have ever breathed.  Perhaps I should have done this wine jaunt sooner.  At any rate, it is sure nice to be doing it now.  Keep that rationalization going, self.

Mona brings out a freshly-opened bottle of their oaky Chardonnay, and pours me a full glass, correctly figuring that I would need replenishment.  She leaves the bottle in an insulated wine bottle cooler sleeve on a small slatted table, then hustles back inside to handle the couple’s next tasting pour.  Wonder if she’s going to do the oak vs. no-oak comparison with them?  Or just move to Pinot?  Yeah, sizing them up, they look like Pinot lovers.  Can always spot Pinot people… glassy look in their eyes, lick their lips after sipping, overdo the mmmm’s.  Back to my glass of Chard…

The wafting of the Bartlett pear and the red cedar bouquet through my sinuses brings to mind that incomparable Monte Carlo trip, cruising top-down along Shoreline Drive, breezing by the Casino Gardens.  Ah, the beautiful Riviera.  Gorgeous.

No, I’ve never actually been to Monte Carlo.  I did own a used 1979 Chevy Monte Carlo once upon a time.  Burned a lot of oil, and one day, the engine suddenly seized up on me.  Managed to get 500 bucks from the junkyard… about what I paid for the car.  Bought a used Riviera after that.  Good looking car, but pretty unreliable.  Lot of squeaks and rattles, and a transmission that wouldn’t always shift.  Not exactly what you would expect, considering the exotic destination names the car company bestowed on these two sleds.  They should have named them Gary and Hoboken.

No burnt oil texture in this fine glass of Chardonnay, though.  It has such a nice finish that stays with you for minutes after the sip.  Kinda makes you feel good all over, like you just won playing Bingo at the St. Felix Church social.  That’s what a good wine should do… a little jolt of mini-ecstasy.  What element or aspect of great wine creates this amazing feeling of euphoria?  It’s not just the alcohol.  It’s surely something more.  That deep question will be my quest for this week.  I will dedicate my efforts to diligent research during this Wine Country vacation in order to answer that important question.  Much research, taste vetting, quantitative analysis, whatever it takes… finding the secret will be my mission.

I walk inside to pay my tab.  Twenty-one bucks for the bottle, no charge for the extra tastings.

“Are you taking the rest of the bottle with you?” Mona asks.

“Sure,” I hiccup a lame response.

“You need to be recorked.”

“It’s just the hiccups.  They’ll go away in a minute.”

“No, I mean your bottle.  Here, hand it to me and I’ll recork it for you.  It’s important that you be recorked.”  She puts the bottle inside her recorking tool with a fresh cork, and presto, sealed shut.

“Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Cheers.”