Shiraz Sexy

Wow. What a week, right? Yesterday I had a bizarre encounter with two sad women who reminded me that while things aren’t perfect, at least day-old whiskey isn’t oozing from my pores. It’s not that bad, Guys. You’re not waking up to streets ravaged by torn limbs and smoky eyeballs. And if you are, I’m praying for you. Aaaaah. It’s nice to be snuggling up against a breezy, sun-rich Saturday, the week’s events fading into a yummy glass of Malbec. What I love most about South American wine is that many labels offer so much fierce complexity for your dollar. But this post isn’t about the Malbec I’m sipping. It’s about my wine pimp—Michel, who gave me a swig of a single vineyard, Aussie Shiraz that truly widened my perception of the ubiquitous grape. When I think of everyday, Australian shiraz, I think pop music on your palate. But this was Maria Callas or Beyoncé when she’s Aretha’s age. It was an ’05 vintage, grapes picked from one vineyard and the bottle had been decanted five hours before it touched my tongue. The 2005 Elderton Command Single Vineyard Shiraz Cellar Release had aromas and flavors of braised figs, prunes and raisins, and these characteristics were synchronized by seductive tannins. It was amazing to me how firm the tannins were despite the age. So if you think Aussie Shiraz can’t be deep, you’re wrong. On that note, the wine is $80, so I'll be sticking to my humble Malbec lol

Gruet: Pink on the Inside

Pink was never my color. It’s not that I’m not a girly-girl. I just never connected to its implications—female conformity, tears and babies. But today I had a pink-moment. I had a student who arrived in my class today in a wheelchair. He was in his mid-20s, and there was a bloody box around his foot. It’s not that I’ve never had wheelchair-bound students in my class before, but this young man moved me for some reason. My classroom set-up isn’t ADA-compliant, yet this man navigated through the tight space like he had wings. He was so determined to learn--raising his hands and answering questions despite the eyes that were crawling up and down his leg. I later learned that he had kidney failure, and each time I looked in his eyes I became soft like the Gruet Brut Rosé. It’s rusty pink color reminds me of how I feel sometimes—weary, hard and longing. Its strawberry, raspberry aromas and Shirley Temple-esque flavors remind me of that girly-girl who wants so desperately to run through tight spaces then fly. P.S. I spent $10 for the half-bottle.

Cab Slow

So it’s a brilliantly dull Saturday evening. I was supposed to work overtime today, but I declined. It wasn’t easy to pass up the time and a half-money, but when one starts looking like a Chia Pet, it’s time to, as my colleague, Adrienne, would say, “Tighten up.” Right now I’ve got the Zen music channel on while I sip the 2009 Les Piliers Cabernet Sauvignon I picked up last night. I have to work hard at being still these days. There’s always something to do and somewhere to be. What is intimacy if you cannot be intimate with yourself? Lately, I’ve been craving sweet spice aromas from my wine experiences. I think it’s a reaction to being indoors most of the time. I spent the last week immersed in cubicle culture—a land of jarringly big screens, hard, square shaped-booty chairs and the smell of spirits that would rather be elsewhere. This cab is an escape. On the label is an image of the Les Piliers vineyard. I imagine being there picking Cabernet Sauvignon, songs like Fragile State’s “Every Day a Story,” and Bob Marley’s “Natural Mystic,” blowing through my iPod. It’s velvety, full-body tricks my palate into thinking it’s bathing in a warm vanilla spring.   There are aromas and flavors of black cherry, Madagascar vanilla, milk chocolate and in the back drop, there’s a rare filet mignon-funk. You know how much I love that funk. And guess what Gourmet Squatters? It's just $16-something with tax.

Roots, Rock, Red Label Wine

Jamaica is an island of rhythm and rhyme. From the moment I land in Kingston, my hips begin to move. There’s music bursting from every jagged road. And it’s not always Bob Marley or Vybz Kartel. It may be a group of countrymen slamming dominoes on rickety tables while they testify about unruly women, waning hustles and lives already lived. Hot Guinness drizzles down their cracked faces into spirits fortified by mamas’ prayers and Olympic wins. I go to my brother’s bar in a lingering Kingston enclave and soak it all in. I laugh until I cry, the sweetness of the Red Label wine wining through my veins like a dancehall queen mashing up the bashment. A single-toothed, rude bwoy offers me some Wincarnis—a respected, herb-driven tonic wine that allegedly heals impotence and stimulates libido. I graciously accept. With a glass filled with ice and a belly tight from grinning, it tastes like a yummy ruby Port.

Note: Biggups to Usain Bolt and all of the Jamaican Olympic athletes that represented our little island with such style and grace this year.

When Grapes Dance

Ola Fellow Gourmet Squatters. I owe you another apology for being absent. I want to blame it on my new rat race-gig, but the truth is I suck at time management. And if I didn’t have this rat race gig, I’d be sippin' OE (Well, maybe not lol). There are single mothers out there working two jobs, going to school and flipping pancakes. All I have to do is be loyal to my Gourmet Squatter-bredren. So in between rat racing and freelancing, I've been sipping some delicious wine, ya’ll—the kind of wine that makes your palate dance. Among them was the 2007 Kestrel Falcon Series Cabernet Sauvignon. The nose beckons mixed berry tarts. But the palate channels a Moroccan spice festival. Anise, cloves and licorice bellydance around flavors of Madagascar vanilla and Jamaican drops—a traditional coconut dessert that includes candied ginger. It’s always a treat when one bottle can take you all over the world, especially when the bottle hails from Yakima Valley, Washington state.  So what have you be been sippin’ and where has it taken you?   

Freedom in Bubbles

First I apologize to my Gourmet Squatter readers for being absent all this time. I just took on a rat race-gig that has consumed much of my miscellaneous energy. Still, it’s no excuse. But I’m back and grateful to be frolicking on the page. What have you been up to lately? What have you been eating and sipping? On this great day when we celebrate freedom, I’m sipping Graham Beck Brut Pinot Noir Chardonnay. I started sipping it yesterday, immediately picking up a funky, morbier cheese aroma at the frothy rim. Then the aromas evolved into freshly mown grass, apple crisp and cantaloupe. On the palate there’s Gala apple crisp and lemon drop with a burst of minerality at the finish. For $17, it was pretty good. I have one of those fancy wine stoppers specifically for sparkling wines, so today while the wine maintains its carbonation, it tastes more like an upscale Cava. It’s perfect for fish fry picnics, poolside gossip and lazy days away from the rat race.    

Straight Jacket Wine

When I began my wine journey in 2001, I knew that this was an art not unlike many other aesthetics. You have the mainstream wine and the small, indie wines. You have the silly, but effective politics—if you like White Zinfandel, you’re a ding bat incapable of understanding the abstract subtleties of Old world wine. If you like Barolo, you’re a wine sophisticate. While I was in sommelier school, it amazed me how everything associated with American wine culture was considered big, audacious, and in some cases, sloppy and unrefined. Who were these crass red, white and blue people stomping unto our turf with their brazen ideas of making wine their way? The other day a colleague and dear friend passed me a bottle of 2010 Macchia Amorous Sangiovese from Lodi, California. When I think of Sangiovese, I think of an entry-level Chianti that’s insipid, like someone is tightening a straight jacket on your palate. I had an amazing Chianti experience at Cioppino Restaurant with Jorge Mendoza—the sommelier. And if someone didn’t thief my hand bag with my wine diary, I’d tell you about it, but as of today, Sangiovese isn’t something I’d go out of my way to find. But what do I always say? Stay open. I already knew that this wasn’t a straight jacket wine with all that lush Lodi sunshine. But I wasn’t expecting blueberry heavy cream. This wine reminded me more of Zinfandel. Blueberry and black currant jam aromas burst through a gorgeous, purple violet color. On the palate, it’s more of the same—black cherry jam and black pepper spice fold into the heavy cream body. And there are medium-high tannins. I didn’t love it. It was too big. And I guess the contradictor in me wanted even a bite of straight jacket-austerity. However, when I chilled it and served it with spicy Jamaican curry chicken, it was a perfect match. All that dark fruit sweetness and jammi-ness was made for West Indian grilled and roasted meats that have hints or hot pepper spice. So what’s my point? Lol I love that American winemakers are experimenting in the grape lab, taking us out of our comfort zone and exploring the endless possibilities. Where would we be if Hendrix didn’t put those electric guitar strings in his mouth and show us what that instrument really could do?  We’d be in straight jackets lol