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IT TOOK A BOTTLE OF PFEFFINGEN Weilberg to wake me up.
Fresh, dry white sherry is a joy. It shimmers white gold and teems with exotic spiced wood and nutty sourdough aromas. these find harmony with chalk and green fruit voices. Sadly, most Fino sherry in North America is still served in a ruined state, often from warm bottles standing next to liqueurs on restaurant bars. On the uncommon occasion when we find ourselves in the path of a fresh and freshly opened dry sherry, the choice for food often fails to match it. Olives, by themselves, are too salty. Almonds, by themselves, are too sweet. Canned seafood, by itself, is too oily. With an improvised combination of some of these (along with some fresh herb) the wine becomes magically silky; chiming subtly, filling the air with its soft, clean, sweet tunes. On this occasion Hidalgo Manzanilla Find this wine was furniture music. |
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We carried the corked bottle of Pfeffingen Weilberg in our trunk and started home down Jefferson Avenue. I am used to the transformation that takes place at the aptly named Alter Road intersection. It’s like the lazy little east side brother of 8 mile. Rich manicures are replaced with the gritty smudges of a working class domain. No comments are offered. A couple of miles down the road we emerged from the Cobo Hall underpass to meet with a flood of pale white puffy limbs. A Nickelback concert was letting out of Joe Louis Arena. This tribe was obviously emotional and wound up by what it had seen. It poured in front of us, blocking our progress. When the light turned green I revved the engine of the Mazda 3. The mass of suburban flesh turned a few of its faces at us, some sneering, some smiling. This was a borrowed car and I must say I was a little disappointed with the sound of the horn as I attempted to clear a path with its raspy tweet. Somehow we emerged on the other side. We drove slowly past a long line of concertgoers; now they carefully observed the sidewalk. The throng stretched to the next intersection where Detroit police were directing traffic without smiling. One sporting youth yelled "SHARE THE REEFER", alluding to something he smelled in the air. At home I smelled a 2000 Turley Cellars Charbono while I browsed the Internet for information about Nickelback. They are a boy band. Their site includes several free videos.
Turley’s Charbono is like a Nickelback song. There is a monolingual, religiose mood expressed in both objects. Both are polished. The wine is dominated by sweet vanilla oak flavor; the cinematic equivalent of that is a gold locked lead singer searching upward into the light. I assume he’s looking for Jesus. Plump, muscular arrangements of throaty extract can be repeated song by song and wine by wine until they form an undifferentiated illusion of comfort. I figure I really should get something to eat at
this point so I wait for a bag of tacos in
Minutes later I heard the pleasing sound of a long cork expiring from the neck of the Weilberg. Weilberg is a Riesling vineyard in the Mittelhaardt mountains. This is the same range known in France as the Vosges (say it: "vozhe"). Not coincidentally, Mittelhaardt wines are capable of the same power and richness familiar to connoisseurs of Alsatian Riesling. Generous aromas of golden fruit materialized in my glass. Before I reacted I glanced around the room and realized that something was happening. Everyone was experiencing the same profound joy. It’s similar to the cumulative sense of elation one feels in church or at pop music concerts, but it’s spontaneous. Wine alone cannot produce this feeling. The blonde liquid seemed to affirm this second half of the day second wind, like a Shelter from the Storm. I soon found myself answering questions about it: I like Viognier; what’s this? The word "Riesling" does not appear on the uncluttered front label. "This," I explain, with reverent, deliberate enunciation, "is a Weilberg." The vineyard makes the wine – not the grape. So much to remember. How many vineyards are there? Maybe too many – certainly too many to talk about while the sun is shining on Sylvan Lake. The grill would soon be ready and I was given the task of removing the silverskin from three marinated hangar steaks. A star surgeon handed me the knife. The irony almost caused me to shred the meat into an incoherent mess. Almost.
Pineau d’Aunis is an heirloom red grape variety in the middle Loire. It is currently enjoying something of a revival in the market, thanks in large part to the passionate efforts of Mr. Puzelat and legions of adoring Japanese wine drinkers. After it was poured I was immediately asked what I thought was so special about it. "Look for cinnamon sticks," I replied. I waited for the lake to defend the wine with its lazy lapping sounds and shaped breezes – and it did. But there were also the functional sounds of children playing, dogs chasing and boats motoring. You can’t hear a songbird at a rock concert. To some extent this was a class conflict. My challenger routinely depended on wine to entertain corporate decision makers and he had had various degrees of success with d’Arenberg Dead Arm (INXS) and Leonetti Cabernet Sauvignon (Pearl Jam). This Pineau d’Aunis didn’t exhibit industrial aesthetics; it was a recess from them. It was not an object of radical hedonism; it was a shifting cascade of transparent joy: pale and sometimes cloudy, tart, and perfumed of India. Try counting coins while drinking it and see if you can keep from laughing. It’s a Laughing Stock. I was persuaded that Pineau d’Aunis may not be the ideal choice for schmoozing executives, at least not if the one doing the schmoozing has any doubts himself about the wine. After all, executives must be danced for; they must never be expected to dance. While I am only fairly certain Pineau d’Aunis will never penetrate the bubble that surrounds the swashbuckling rich and powerful, as an admirer on a budget I am positive it never should.
These last two were from the crevasses of the wine
trade: peaking too soon and reduced in price, as if it really makes
practical sense to wait to drink wine. I’ll take the discount and enjoy
my wine immediately every time.
d’Arenberg Dead Arm Find this wine
Previously in Putnam's Monthly: Putnam Weekley's Home Page and Main Index © Putnam Weekley July, 2006
© Putnam
Weekley
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My posse and I attempted to drink it the day
before but it was corked, so instead we drank Hidalgo Manzanilla
(bottled June 2005) with Norwegian sardines, herbed cream cheese and
black olives. This occurred in a shady park on Lake St. Clair. Several
children were in our group, but they did not enjoy Manzanilla. My guess
is they were mildly intoxicated by vigorous and persistent use of a
swing set, aided by those adults who were between glasses of sherry.
The 2000 Turley Cellars Charbono 
THE NEXT NIGHT I FOUND MYSELF on another lake, this one was called
Sylvan. I brought along the replacement bottle of 2004 Pfeffingen
Weilberg 
Before the meat was ready we were entertained with
a bottle of 2004 Touraine Pineau d’Aunis 
Later that night we enjoyed, and I mean enjoyed,
several 2002 reds from southern France: Sang des Cailloux
Vacqueyras (a
