Prone To The Rhône

Cayron Gigondas

I admit, there is an abundance of potential when you examine human malaise…The overall sense of listlessness, boredom and likelihood of disenchantment, tends to evolve into something objective; with the right sense of inactivity, people may eventually find wine, or something like it, that is simply “better.” I think you might already understand, but scribble me as you will, I am a figure who expects too much from vignerons, consultants, gurus, agronomists and etcetera. I have no reasonable penchant for even the most practical tools in winemaking, but I am, if anything, someone who ungainly petitions for what I know people will enjoy. Some say, I’m nothing short of a muse with an unregistered trademark for palate-profiling. Or maybe, one of few men who wade in a basin of crushed grapes, trying to suspend the notion that true varietals usually reveal three primary, but equally profound nuances. I can’t say for sure, but only theoretically and subjectively, that this is a really crazy ideal I’ve focused on. However, what I can tell you, is that with a quick swirl of my head, I shake the misunderstandings from out of my psyche and realize, “Hey wait, I love Rhône  Valley Reds !” Sorry for the lack of focus…I’m kind of going through a tough time lately with the acronym “GSM” I just don’t know how to unlock the vocabulary words this time around.

Maybe it was the Liberty-Lauber Imports Expo earlier this week, that led me to believe in my true lust for the regional goodies stemming from southern France. I think it played a large part in realizing how far production has come, or has not, for some producers in the Rhône Valley. Generally, everything at the from Châteneuf-Du-Pape, to the ever-popular Côtes-Du-Rhône, were unimpressive, despite the Valley’s long history of producing bold, heavily extracted entries that are practically Francophone in personality. Even the well-suited, 2007, 2009 vintages seemed lacking in complexities; more or less, they appeared finessed to the point of being meek and under-wrought. Though somehow, ratings were not any where near cumulative to their potential quality; more so, because 90s-to-95s seemed inappropriate even for producers who stressed “youthfulness” and “balance” in bottles young and old. Even younger, “cellar-worthy” upstarts did not appear showy enough to become future icons. It almost had the feeling of being in a Parfumerie, where the only thing permeating the air, are torrents of angry customers lashing-out over the harnessing of “human pheromones” being masked as popular fragrance. Moreover, It is why I tend to leave “wine ratings” as ill-regarded, because of the myriad of educated decisions one can make...something that can be misleading if you ever happen to feel wrong in your guesswork.
   
What I can say, is that historically, Rhône  Valley wines are powerful, nearly athletic bits of interest that tend

Beaucastel CDP

not to be the investment hogs that hail from other regions like Bordeaux or Burgundy. Keenly affordable in comparison, they have some of the most  salient savory and sweet elements that you may find in true winemaking. Depending on the appellation, or regional specialty, the principal “Grenache, Syrah and Mourvèdre grapes play prominent roles, while Cinsault, Carignan and Counoise follow in the curtails of the first three varietals. Syrah dominates the North where Côte-Rôtie is made, whereas in the Southern Rhône , Grenache is usually the largest key in the “GSM” factor when producing Châteneuf-Du-Pape, Gigondas, or Vacqueyras. Personally, I can’t decide half the time which appellation produces my favorite, but what I do aim for mostly, are Chateneufs and the famed Côte-Rôtie for their ability to invoke everything from ripe plum, fig paste, truffle, cracked pepper and sea salt, to melted chocolate, anise and mushroom. Also, to be perfectly reasonable, the sensation of agreeable gaminess is something I could not do without. When basking in the economy of things, Gigondas and Crozes-Hermitage offer relief from appellations that command higher prices. However, money never has anything to do with my enjoyment, it’s the effort of the winemakers who want to keep the traditional  Rhône style alive despite the cost. Few craftsmen actually blend white and red grapes, but Côte-Rôtie is one indigenous example of a marriage between Syrah and Viognier; so, with tendencies prevailing, here you have a classically well-balanced export within your grasp.

Admittedly, it doesn’t matter if it’s from “Guigal, Domaine Du Cayron,” or, “Château Beaucastel.” Keep the tradition alive and I’ll keep drinking. The Rhône  whites are for me, just as bold and equally encompassing to my personal tastes. Should I save them for another critique? Why not?  I’ll surprise you sometime soon, maybe around August. I know that’s a bit tricksy, but I’ve had to indignantly sort out why some vintners stress the importance of “creating” balanced, minutely extracted vintages. I thought the whole point of this business was to enjoy something brash and unapologetically carnal.

I would say, “It is, what it is,” but tiny little suggestions are just not sexy enough. 

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com

Dreamscapes: "Arak"

Massaya Arak

Fennel…a vegetable simultaneously affected by the disregard and reverence that common produce would not be experienced to. I love it…but  I’m no picketer, calling for a wild, almost untamed bulby vegetable to somehow, elicit its own sense of change. However, the same white and green bastion of licorice and various cooking staples, is owed more spectacle than up-tempo frittatas and Indian cuisine. The seeds, my fellow mixologists are going to, or may, put you out of work someday. The cultural splendor of cocktails may nearly be over when “straight” drinking makes a vegetal comeback. I forsee something more than scotch, bourbon, or tequila reassurging. I appear to have liquor laden dreams emphasized by little green seeds, or the starry pods that contain them…but I do not see pods or seeds. Confused ? Well, dreams don’t have to make sense. All you have to do is imagine yourself somewhere in the lone expanses of the Bekaa Valley, where not only wine, but spirits come, as if to eagerly wave anise fronds over the contours of your nose. Try the lamb and beef Kofta while you’re taking part in this. I know that I would. Especially if I could be anywhere in the world at this very minute, I think I would be sipping Arak for countless hours in Lebanon’s most famed agricultural site to-date.   

Obedi grapes make the base, but the fennel is the most attractive player in the bid to make “Arak,” a traditional century-spanning aperitif that is often compared to other spirits such as Ouzo, Raki, Sambuca and Aquavit. With a little uncertainty, most people do not realize the difference between all of them, which clouds the popularity of Lebanon’s most highly regarded spirit. Similar in some sense, it bolsters the idea of what something like an anisette can be, but retains more purity and finesse. Firstly, the white Obedi grapes are harvested like any other, then pressed and fermented. Additionally, a tertiary distilation using macerated aniseed is performed before the final ageing process, which is a bit lengthier. Traditionally, copper stills are used in the distillation, while clay “amphorae” pots are used for the remaining four-month coaxing period. What you receive, is a generous dollop of fennel, with a natural sweetness completely withdrawn from products that would appear saccharine in taste. Served chilled, it’s a common release from the hard days’ work that probably, you, or many Lebanese craftsmen endure, trying to keep annual grape vintages up to par. After consistently brushing the manifold sweat away from my forehead during the summer, I could verily enjoy a cold, crispy glass of Arak by myself, and contemplate the work I’ve done; or, I am about to partake in. The trick is, to have a plate of blanched asparagus with tahini and lemon nearby.

EFE Turkish Raki

Some think I am too obsessed with food and drink, but they’re probably right. Nothing would rightly compel anyone to believe that I am not a fan of Middle Eastern and Mediterreanean fare, even if Ouzo was forcibly introduced to me; accompanying such things as: “Feta Pie” or meaty “Sambusak.” What is revealed, are my own extracurricular motives and typical trains of thought; in that, I personally see potential freedoms in elongated shot glasses filled with Arak…but which one ? El Massaya…more than likely, the best I’ve had thus far without embarking to Beirut. Again, I speak of clear, focused purity that suggests the most  profound essence of the fennel seed. The aroma is equally prevalent when compared to the taste, which is a good sign for those patiently waiting to take the first sip. Manners are important though, because the palate may require some fine tuning in order to receive such a bold extract. College students and first-timers must be wary of any inclination to treat it like a barroom gamepiece. It’s something that requires a little conversation between you and everyone else whose enjoying it.

I would not forget at least, to save some for coffee, or espresso. It does the unilateral culinary dance that Sambuca always seems to mis-step. Think about a bowl of mussels, or seared lamb being deglazed and prepped for further cooking. I have to get on a similar ballot, now that all this brouhaha over Arak is enabling me to miss the entirety of personal gastronomy. It’s nearly the middle of the afternoon, and I have nothing but stale Cattarato and leftover hummus in my fridge.

Consequently, I have work to do…then maybe, some day-dreaming.

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @:westchesterwine.com

Searching Within The Namesake.

Sarmenti Primitivo

It’s a Puglian dream. A brooding varietal that generously grows across the reaches of southern Italy. You could say it’s an inkfish’s conception of delectable wine, more or less, because of its color, and for everyone who would choose to write about it. Still, I’ve taken too much time in misunderstanding a grape that harbors so many questions for people who can’t define it. As my imagination will endure, I myself picture the precariously regarded fruit as being the subject of many cave drawings, or rather, described in glyphs that date back to the Pharaonic ages. Let’s say that we’ve stumbled upon an old parchment that has a spherical object emphasized on-cover. Clearly, if we’re willing to believe that this spheroid, or its own legacy, is somewhat primitive, we could see it as being exactly that. Well, it isn’t. Not for me at least, because no matter what brand of archeological evidence, or scientific relationships can be recorded, grapes in kinship are no better examples to their family, than what they can rightly prove in a drinking glass. Sorry if I led you to believe that Primitivo did in fact, date back to Egyptian times, or represented the central focus of Cromagnon winemaking. Who am I to say if the annals of history could lay claim to this? Ah, but so much of history is unforgiving...so let’s talk about wine.

You might think “Crljenak Kasteljanski” was the frontman behind an early nineties Europop trio from Croatia, but he’s not. In reality, it is the fundamental grape that has skewed our knowledge of Primitivo and respectively, Red Zinfandel. Now, you have been witness to my displeasure over the social ambiguity of “The Big Zinny,” but there’s more to this melodramatic rangle of birthrights, lineage and overall impressions of taste. There’s a lot of conversation over “Crljenak” being the ulimate parent of ‘Primi-Zinto,’ but some would say this paternal image is still a bit vague for those who bring varietals like “Plavac” and “Dobricic” into thought. DNA tests show that Plavac is the son of Crejenak and Dobricic, but is Dobricic responsible for the rift between Primitivo and Zinfandel? Scholarly advice tends to indicate that the split between ‘P’ and ‘Z’ happened sometime when Crljenak was met by other grapes traveling from Greece or Albania. Basically, the linkage is insufficient, but somehow, there’s one grape, or many, that have a huge sense of bravado within this genetic playground. There are a trove of similar Eastern European varieties; in lieu, their names garnished with too many accents and special characters to note. Besides, how could I prove any familial lineages by their sheer mention?

What I am amused by though, more relevantly, is the rich, banquted allure of a Primitivo. Typically pitchy in
color, but endowed with everything from dark chocolate to subtle gaminess, they offer something to me that is more visceral, more comforting; then say, a canoe ride down a stream of jammy, more effeminate juice. I take it upon myself to say there’s an obvious allure in something antiquated here, as you could define for yourself, if you’ve wandered somewhere inside the geographic bootheel of Italy. Notwithstanding, vineyards

Layer Cake Zin or Primitivo ?

in “Apulia” have diligently produced sensible, luscious reds that are fiscally manageable; lucky for us, since great wine is still associated with luxury in the 21st century.

Schola Sarmenti is my sought-after producer, with their “Critera” being the one I typically vouch for in an argument over similarly-priced reds. I would be so brash to mention chocolate again, but why not ? It seems to envelope my palate with that confectionary note, while being very specific in mentioning cherry, damp earth and anisette. For less than twenty Lira, I would say the bottle’s presence on any table, should be strictly peninsular.

Although it remains conspicuous in origin, Primitivo and Zin are falling into lawfull scrutiny and labling specifics that are more indoctrinating, if not obligatory. Regardless of mapping the bloodlines, or even the travel routes; terrain, traducers and consumers are the real players when it comes to the underlying “ZPC” (Zinfandel-Primitivo-Crljenak) conflict. Be it father, mother, or sibling rivals, the overarching problem represents itself within a family of grapes that are not on speaking terms...no terms which are significantly human.  

Hey kids, get in the living room, it’s time for a meeting…

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com

Wading In The Poul.

Gaujal Picpoul De Pinet

Somehow, I think conjuring up all these feelings about summer being this profound time for white wine is a bit contrived. Not to say that the blistery, oncoming heat is the reason for it, but I would like to think there’s something in a red grape that would have my thirst certifiably quenched. There is, but I expressed my love for Cinsault and Cab Franc ad- nauseam. More notably, I am by all rights and reasoning, this supposed lover of nothing but reds; however, I have come across what appears to be this angelic, somewhat sprightly little bottle of white that, of course, no one seems to have bared any witness to. You know what I mean by that, it’s one of those intermittently unpopular grapes blissfully coaxed by French vintners. Seriously, it could escape a barrage of sonar pulses even if, upon its untimely death, a squishy  “blor-blop” noise occured beneath your sneaker. Poor thing, barely had enough ripening time to be called, “tank-worthy.” Ok fine, cynicism is over, here-here! to an semi-hero who by all associations, should be knocking white Bordeaux straight into the corner post.

Picpoul de Pinet, also interchangeably known as “Piquepoul,” it’s a seafaring dream if you’re keen on “Fruits De Mer,” or any recipe that qualifies as fish-laden. Additionally, those saline oysters that promote lustiness as well as misgivings, tend to call for items like Sauvignon Blanc, Sancerre Blanc, or a swarthy Savennières. Alright, that’s fine, but when on God’s Greenly lit Languedoc Region are you going to ‘lobster’ the hell out of your vacation? Right now...go for it, because there’s a salty, almost minerally accented white in a Picpoul that‘s implicative of many things. . . Don‘t worry, I‘ll get to that. Honestly, nary have I seen such an affordable bottle that I could have derived such pleasure from. I admit that there’s a stark acidity to the little roust-a-bout, but we forgive him, because most of the glassmongers that produce its bottles seem to have a practical sense of humor. Many that I’ve come across seem to resemble the early containers that Sprite was privy to in the bronze age of cola. I’ve detected some lemon-lime notes here and there, but nothing with the same sugary cloy that’s placated in the beverage industry. It’s a good thing really, because we don’t want a sucrose bomb in our Picpoul.

Jaded as always, I found two of my favorite appellations cradling the varietal in the Rhone Valley and

T.C. Beaucastel Blanc

Languedoc-Roussillon region a while ago. The big problem here, is deciding if I want a straight Picpoul from Côteaux De Languedoc, or let the permissible little fruit expertly temper a worthy Châteneuf-Du-Pape Blanc. Go forth with a Picpoul because of it’s accessibility, go with the Pape Blanc if you really just want to prove something. Routinely, I still return to Gaujal de Saint Bon as a producer of fine Pic because they harbor notes and nuances ranging from orange blossom, to briny toffee.Citric, but palatably dewy elements surround a particularly light frame; suggesting lightly, that I won’t be falling prey to dehydration anytime soon.

Gently vibrant and oddly savory, the hypotheses of Languedoc winemakers proves to be correct when they aim for practical wine. Considering that, domestic production takes root for Tablas Creek, with their Beaucastel Blanc nominally sprinkled with the grape’s oncoming popularity. It’s not the most reasonably priced, or highly esteemed American tribute to Picpoul, but it will do for now.

I guess I’ll steam my clams in something else for the time being… 
 
-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com

The Presence Of Red Bubbles...

PRS Sparkling Shiraz

I don’t necessarily question the allure of good Champagne. White or pink, there are some immediate benefactions surrounding the creaton, consumption and overall production. Either way, I think its presence in wine culture may be too highly regarded. Sometimes, bottles of white bubbly tend to resemble nothing but upturned pontoons floating in translucent buckets filled with ice and frozen walnuts. Yes, walnuts…If you ever happen to reach “Les Deux Magots” in Paris, you may catch a glimpse of such useless spectacles. Honest, the food is stellar, but I always prefer carnal modes of indulgence. Objectively speaking, there’s too little emphasis on good vodka when it comes to fish eggs. There’s nothing like a clear, artesian spirit to pair with those salty little nodules. I would rather spin round’ the Lazy Susan to reveal unto me, a bunch-full of Belgian frites bound in Logan Wrap, accompanied by a reasonably-priced bottle of bubbles. I’m probably going to be pelted with stale baguettes, or beluga tins for the sheer mention, but I think the fizzy stuff is much better off with grilled steak, or fried snacks. No need for digging deep into our beer pockets when we want our flute glasses filled, because there’s plenty of good stuff to wash away the six-pack blues. I warn you though…its not my intent to be sneaky, but our hopes for effervescently economic enjoyment may not rest in Chardonnay and Pinot Meunier anymore.Red grapes are revitalizing our understanding of the ceremonial pop and pour.

Though I wouldn’t go so far as saying that sparkling reds are well employed in their pairings with fries or

burgers, they are one hell of a go-to product if you’re looking to skim-off the doldrums of early spring. You know, it’s a little warmer outside and rain has depressed most of what’s secreted in your adrenal glands; come on, you owe it to yourself to have a slightly chilled red for once without appearing squeamish. Ok, if you really want a food pairing, you're actually better off finishing a Tiramisu before unleasing a zippy red.Summer is slowly on its way, and you can’t quite find reasons to drink bubbly white wine just yet. We’ve seen the monotony betimes, in a pearled rosé that hasn’t quenched the need for something different; namely, a full-on, head-first plunge into red wine that tickles the palate while providing the usual succor. This time, the skins are remaining intact during the first round of fermentation and you’re going to have bubbles after the second; that is, yeast and sugar are added again to execute the process. Interesting…our basic idea of  “Charmat,” or something close to it, with red grapes that are not going to be harvested from the Champagne region this time. 

Though Australia, Italy and are practically spearheading the market, Everything from Shiraz, Brachetto,

Di Corlo Lambrusco

Lambrusco and various forms of rosé are now reaching outward. The confusion is properly gauged only in being too indecisive at this very moment. I enjoy richer, lusty reds, so I mused upon myself to go with a Shiraz of some sort. Princess Royal Station did well, mostly because I was expecting something with gobs of plum and Tellicherry pepper notes. Yes, these elements were pretty salient, but not overwhelming. Amiably surprised, I noticed traces of mineral and a hidden juiciness that led to a somewhat crisper edge not typically seen in the varietal. Categorically, most of the reds I’ve encountered border on the candied side, but are certainly not upsetting. A Lambrusco from Villa Di Corlo was frothy and fruit-driven, but not cloying. Italians proudly make wine and jam from the grape, so the connections are tastefully intermittent. Brachetto is another novel choice for me. Some would say it’s the closely regarded kin to Lambrusco, but I veer in a different direction. I like Brachetto because of it’s floral character and the innermost presence of red fruits. I would go far as to say that strawberries collectively owe a great debt to winemakers who seem to have harnessed the essecence of "fragole" season in Italy. Red, but enrobed somewhere between rosy, or rouge, Marenco is my favorite producer thus far. However, I have expectant hopes for bubbles in Malbec; more so now, considering that I see it as a burgeoning piece of popular interest. I know sparkling Pinot Noir is available in its garnet-colored ensemble, but that seems a bit too predictable for me at this moment. 

My only gripe seems to be, that there’s not enough inspiration to make reds that qualify as sparkling, fizzy,

Marenco Brachetto

bubbly, frizzante, or just plain carbonated. Why only are we being obliged now to the availability of ruby effervescence? Imagine glasses filled copiously from grapes native to the Priorat region. I would not dispute how lucrative a Monastrell would be if it had a little gas. No, I don’t mean rosé, I would expect the integrity of the noble grape to be played upon. I’ve heard there’s a lot of brighter, more homespun reds— internationally speaking— but nothing that has anymore status than a festive pop-up. In that sense, thumbs eagerly pointed up again for Uva Rara and now, Australian Merlot, but like all enthusiastic drinkers, I want to see some more bustling from our producers here and there.





Like children on the Fourth of July, we’re demanding our sparklers.

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com

Trying to soil a good name. . .

Andes Bonarda Rsv

I often believe in the personification of wine, or any varietal in question. Not to say this idea hasn’t fled through the minds of many geeks, but I do think fermentation has an unavoidable human quality to it. Sometimes, the dimensions of this cult aesthetic are at best, the sociable brick-a-brack you might have heard at your local haunt. I save myself the indignity of huffing for every time I hear someone loosely spouting out the same garbled mess; how wine itself, ‘is like child rearing.’ Wait ! It gets better...I have also partook in hearing from my peers, the conceptual anecdote: 'Fine wine is like revisiting something primordial.’ Okay, I have enough leftover textbooks to say, that bacteria isn’t viticulture’s prime name on the pages of our social registry. Rather, since I appear to be permissive in my critiques, all this plain talk about humanizing wine allows me to characterize it. Let‘s call her, “Malbecky,” a fourth-year grad student at Vassar, who studies chemistry only because of her sole intent to land an introverted husband. Sure, she has the potential to be much more ripe, focused, or approachable, but even positive mentoring won’t help her. The human traits are gone, and were never binding. She has a name, but no true and definite personality. Too bad that she’s all frills and the only thing that stands in her complementary view, are glazed flank steaks. I know what you’re thinking, I’m outwardly trashing Malbec...no, this is not so. I love Malbec, but what is the signal purpose of it’s name ? I think for at least one minute a day, that like Malbecky, it’s afforded the wrong brand of popularity.                                                 

I have a new epigram for us: “Bonarda !” Just like the author, Garcia Lorca, shouting, “Duende!” I call forth anyone to achieve, or partake in something artful. Why? Because we practically misunderstand the naming of
 Malbec and its due inertia within the terms of human vocabulary; so much in fact, that we never seem to

Uva Rara

understand what we’re really getting. What I’m conveying here, is our presence in fostering the appeal of certain grapes, but our tendency to realize their worth based on a single name, is inconclusive. Argentina’s Bonarda, which is actually the equivalent to Italy’s “Uva Rara,” may as well be two paternal twins vying for attention in a gene pool filled with yeast and malic acid. Though, the Italian Bonarda grape itself, is not exactly the most welcome guest at the next family romp. It’s actually the one referred to as, “Croatina,” or in full scope, “Bonarda Oltrepo Palvese.” Lombardy enjoys the appeal of the latter names, while Piedmont’s inhabitants seem to share in the delectability of “Uva Rara” with South American vintners. Ready? It gets even more confusing, concerning the fact that “Bonarda Novarese” is just another comical hitch in the naming of a fruit that goes by “Charbono” in California.Withstanding, France also has its cross-section of similar surnames usually labeled as: "Charbonneau, Corbeau, or Douce Noir."                                                    

Tofanelli Charbono

See ? You would need some sort of viticultural obstetrician to determine things. However, for posterity’s sake, let’s stick to Uva Rara, Charbono and the Argentine contrasts. We all know that formidable producers are the real zealots behind the good stuff, so here’s my take on it:  The 2008 “Sur De Los Andes Reserva...” showy blueberry, cocoa bean and ripe black fruit leading to notes of sweet espresso. Okay, that means a whole lot to me. Second, My 2008 “Frecciarossa Uva Rara” was for me, livelier, showing more brightness, with scintillating red fruit, underbrush and milled spices. Whereas, the 2004 "Tofanelli Charbono" is, with the lack of serious expletives, a damn-fine execution from California that pelted me with everything from cranberries-to-cardamom and butterscotch.

Gleaning what I will from names, products, or overall profiles, I think vacating North America for Mendoza is the best idea right now. Despite being launched into a series of personal initiatives and fact-checking, I would sooner place myself in a deluge of  inexpensive Bonarda from the place that brought us the best of Churrasco. Though the Malbec grape is the more influential cohort, the sexiest culprit is the one grape I’ve been making all the fuss about. The need to absorb knowledge about any varietal naming is somewhat skewed by enjoyment; but for the time being, everything I consume must in some way, gauge itself in the parallels between taste and research.

Heh, I wonder what would happen If  I referred to "Pedro Ximenez" as: “Gramps.” 

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com

All ports be thy safer haven . . .

Tawny Port

Oh! To what mud dost we regard sweeter wine ? Nosed in elements finite, so contrite the aroma’s being...we look’d upon it as the drone’s liquidities; hence, as we have mired upon it still. . . Ergo, the knowing winesman doth regard its own being as smutty indeed; though, I beckon to tell of something seen enjoyed across mine own lips. Revel in, if willingness prevail, the scheme of Port; but do not believe, if insofar as one may do, to believe the drink itself is scheming. The potable saint to the Portuguese, has been whatsoever novel to riches understood and progenies so kindred. Evermore, a fine science there is to its determinate chance at the table’s firmament; when all is clear and dusted away, and the meal in posthume does not fill us in parody, the portwine would plainly exist in the din exact. I harbor yon feelings, to whom however clear, the notes are justly salient to the tongue in rhapsody. Alone, to say of things picked from the tree, bush, or peddler’s sachet, is not rhetoric’s façade, but items hitherto scribbled in books; the notes, which parlay my belief. We know palates colored incuriously, but I knoweth mine justly. To whither, whither in haste do we see our Rubicon of Ruby, or genial Tawny endorsed ? For this, I am lost within a game. . .

Only helpings lead to indecisiveness as I have supposed, surely when uncommented, redeem the qualities of two wines. One, the tawny with so much of the Hazel Tree’s falling nut, do we bespeak its color. Two, the wine transfigured from the will of the ruby grape, is always nigh to the outlook upon thy compatriot cherry. Basking as in such, the working art of the tawny porto; the candied nut, an addition to thy nightly Spanish custard is for tandem, as what nuance can currently feed to my own tongue. Hither! what do I view from reddened curtains and robes enfolded ? The imitable ruby where scarlet confections would see themselves living; promotions sheer as the Fakir’s spicebowl. Relinquish all qualities for the contented Ruby portwine ! The tiny thief who robs the plum! The scapegrace cress-seller who meddles in advice given to Mediterranean fruits inbibed! Lest, the bourbon pod not be last in mention, let the taste maketh my face reel happily in this,

Fonseca Ruby

and the imitable flavors in hind ! Procure me a vintage for yearly reds, while only proclaim the agéd tawny in the human year, both tend to suffice, not if laziness and pelf stop me.                                                
Whereupon do I seek to imbibe such glory ? For the easiest questions are answers scaled in pictures; for this, I will no doubt show thee mine honorary drink so ceaselessly poured. Vacant fortnights abroad, as I may say, the ‘House of Fonseca’ may share with me the same reprieves in drinking and in the creation thusly . . . Envoy to carnal pleasure remain! The Bin 27 as numbered, truly the sum of vindicated fortification. The plum recalling its undertow to the flattened berry for which they both would not cease; if not by their juice, then by the tantamount to Moorish fruits, acting as if acquaintances duly courted.

We sacrifice in need, for once, the couchant henchman who so readily donned the able grape and released so much content; as if to have it alone, only to pour it into the ungainly bowls of hounds ? No, not for we the consummate, who so keenly dwell and delve for the nectar incarnate, to be ere, and not err in scope of glasses cordially well-filled. Bah ! For him who deals me threadbare sweets ! Oh Fie ! For he who remarks that the best harvest is procrastinating sugars in due form ! See the barrel overfilled with the compensates of man and grape ! Far flung from the technique is its sole being . . .but not the plushy few of the tawniest, and our carmine red. Call others Muscat, Apple and Honey, all which have enflamed paths, but preference throughout, I would seek even mulled Claret instead.

Port wine brings out mine own mischief in the premiere of things . . .

(* * *April Fools! * * *)

-Brian K. Maniotis
 
Westchester Wine Warehouse Team

Visit us online @: westchesterwine.com