The Rake Magazine

Tag: pinot noir

  • Ancient Aborigines and $6 Australian Wine

    Here it is, practically the eve of the Oscars, and I’ve yet to see two of the five movies nominated for best picture. I didn’t care for No Country; I liked but did not absolutely love Juno. So far, my money’s on There Will Be Blood, which was not only a magnificent film but the richest evocation of loneliness and megalomania I’ve watched since Citizen Kane.

    Saturday night, we decided to see Michael Clayton. My husband, myself, and about 200 other middle-aged, middle-income, mid-level professionals. John and I got to the theater in plenty of time but there was a line, literally, around the block. Round white faces and L.L. Bean-clad bodies for as far as the eye could see. Damn, it’s humbling to be confronted with your own incredibly predictable, privileged, demographically determined life. . . .

    By the time we’d stood waiting for ten minutes and hemmed and hawed and finally departed because we didn’t want to be stuck inside some crowded auditorium with all those other lemmings, it was too late to catch any other show. So we dashed to Hollywood Video and picked up a film sure to make us different from all of THEM: A Cannes winner from last year called Ten Canoes.

    Then we stopped at Hennepin-Lake Liquors for a bottle of wine.

    Now let me remind you that Henn-Lake DOES NOT TAKE CREDIT CARDS. I do this, of course, because we didn’t remember ourselves, and John and I ended up digging through pockets and purse to come up with the price of an Australian Pinot Noir from Lindemans Wine that was bottled — get this — in 2007.

    This made the pinot roughly the same age as the orange juice in our refrigerator. And it cost only a tad more at $5.95. But the Lindemans came highly recommended by the girl behind the counter, who was at least 21 years and 2 months old. Also, luckily, we had just enough pennies and dimes between us to take it home — which we did, along with our DVD.

    It turned out to be a very odd but charming little film. The first full-length feature ever made in native aboriginal language, Ten Canoes is more fable than drama. It begins with a voiceover narrator, then reverts to a tribe in which an elder is telling a story to his younger brother, then reverts a second time to an ancient camp in which men’s instinctual jealousies cause a series of dire things.

    This is what I call a "recessive" narrative — one that goes back in time then flashes back yet again, so like concentric ripples in a pond, you can never quite remember where you started. It is, in fact, a structure I advise my undergraduate writing students to avoid. It’s nearly always confusing. (Last year’s Sweetland suffered from the same problem.) I can think of only two films that used this paradigm well: Sophie’s Choice, in which the adult Stingo recalls his young adult years in Brooklyn then yields to Sophie’s memories of the war; and The Princess Bride, which broke all the rules anyway and still managed to do everything well.

    Ten Canoes is not quite so successful. At least one of the stories — the "middle" one, if you’re looking at them chronologically — eventually fizzles out and gets lost. But the cast is extraordinary, actors who do as much with facial expression as they do with words. And it was wonderful simply to be some place else for 90 minutes: In this case, the swampy northern tip of Australia camped by the side of a river with men (mostly) who think nothing of walking around with only a braided string tied around their waists and routinely have three wives at a time.

    In the end, the central story — the one that takes place in ancient days — is tight and satisfying, its life lessons relevant even today. And it is comforting to me, somehow, to know that men take the same scatalogical glee in their own body emissions and sexual habits whether they’re carrying cell phones or spears. (See the extended flatulence scene, which is oh, so effective, by the way, when done nude.)

    And about that wine, you’re wondering?

    It was. . . .fine. Strawberry, cherry, and raspberry, like liquid candy with a tiny bit of oak (a very tiny bit) and a hefty kick (13.5% alcohol). This is the Tom Collins of wine — appealing, apparently, to those drinkers who are stranded in the decade or two between Juicy Juice and Chatauneuf-de-Pape. Even for we grown-ups, sitting curled up in a big chair and watching a magic realism tale about dignified warriors who giggle as they fart, it was pretty damn good. Especially for six dollars and change.

  • A Killing Cold

    Typically, it is heat that frightens me. Perhaps this is because I grew up in Minnesota, but sweltering temperatures seem more sinister — thick and canopy-like and unavoidable — whereas cold has always struck me as surmountable. Until now.

    It was just last week, on what I assumed then would be the coldest night of the year, that my son suffered a relapse of a condition called Autistic Catatonia. We imagine catatonic patients as still and statue-like. Frozen, even when they are warm to the touch. What we do not consider — what I forgot — is that catatonia actually signals an exponential speeding up of the brain; it is what doctors call a "paradoxical condition," meaning the body’s stasis is masking a panic of mind. And it’s often preceded by a bout of mania in which the afflicted individual moves wildly in an effort to shake off the coming storm.

    It was in this incipient period that my son began wandering, desperately, after dark. It was 14 below zero the first night he stepped out the door and nothing we did or said could stop this giant young man.

    We spent 24 hours, my husband, my younger son, and I chasing, coaxing, begging, warming. We slept in shifts. When dusk fell the following evening and the temperature began to drop again, we knew we couldn’t last through another night. Finally, we called everyone we knew to call. They came, blowing through our front door with a killing cold. And they took my son away.

    Tonight, the thermometer will go even lower. But my son is safe. Or rather, he is as safe as a fragile, shuttered soul can be. But there are other people out wandering. I know this, because I’ve come close enough to touch the life they have. And no matter where they seek shelter — in bus shelters, abaondoned buildings or skyways — it’s unlikely they’ll every truly get warm.

    Even our house is failing to keep out the cold. Granted, it was built in the 1920’s, and the windows are like loose dentures, rattling with every windy sigh. Our wine rack sits in the south corner of our dining room, and when I removed what promised to be a very nice bottle of Domaine Olivier Bourgogne Pinot Noir tonight, it felt as if it had been thoroughly chilled.

    We opened it and toasted, my husband and I, in thanks that our son was not only inside but beginning, gradually, to emerge from his whirring state of mind.

    But the first taste was not what we had hoped. "Maybe it’s corked," my husband said. "It’s awfully sour."

    I swallowed a bit of wine, its cranberry flavor as sharp as a knife. "Let’s let it breathe," I said, "and warm. I think it will be fine."

    In fact, I, too, would have thought the wine was bad, but the finish was too nice. Corked and cooked wines always end badly: raggedly, with hints of sulfur, mold, or lye. This one did not.

    We left the bottle open for 20 minutes, then poured individual half-glasses and warmed them in our hands. When we tasted again, the Olivier was entirely different: full and sweet and delicate, with scents of lemon and eucalyptus, and the flavor of wild strawberry, oak, and mint.

    By the end of the bottle — and yes, in our relief, we did polish it off — this pinot noir had expanded kaleidoscopically. It was not at all the same as the chilled liquid we’d poured originally, two hours before. Never have I experienced such a profound change in a wine over the course of a couple degrees.

    Watching my son come out of his delirium had been a little like this on a much grander scale. The doctors gave him 2 milligrams of Ativan (such a tiny pill!) and suddenly, he calmed to the point where he could, once again, talk and focus and move.

    "What were you thinking?" I demanded as soon as he could listen to me. "When you went out in the cold. . . .do you remember? What the hell was going through your mind?"

    He tilted his head and really pondered the question. After a full minute, he spoke. "Eric Clapton’s Layla," he said soberly. "The second version — the acoustic one — not the first. That one. . . ." We’d been playing Cribbage and he glanced at his hand, as if to remind himself of the game. "I believe it might have been Eric Clapton with Derek and the Dominos. I like that version, too. But I don’t think it was in my head at all the night I got lost."

    Then he put down a card for the count. And that’s how I knew the cold had receded and my son was back.

  • Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 2005

    For a Jewish Gen X’er, I have a strangely regressive Protestant work ethic. For instance, I tend to feel guilty when I have fun while I’m on the job. And after last Thursday at Thomas Liquors — let me tell you — my conscience is simply awash.

    These guys are crazy, in a very good way. Led by Mike Thomas — the third-generation owner of what used to be St. Paul’s party central (they were, Mike says, the "keg pros" for nearby Macalester, St. Thomas, and St. Kate’s, until the drinking age was raised to 21) — this is a group that knows how to throw a wine tasting. Just to give you an idea: I think, at one point, around the seventh bottle, Dionysus wandered through.

    Thomas Liquors is a little hard to find. It’s on Grand Avenue, but only the solid brick exterior, painted with grapevines, shows streetside. We were in the back room around 4 p.m.: Mike, two wine vendors (Eddie and Corey), Dan — an employee — my good friend, Mary, and myself. There were shelves of liquor lining the walls, a round wooden table piled with bottles and books, and a space heater pumping out warm, red rays.

    The topic of the tasting was French 2005’s. Now, 2005 was an ideal year throughout Europe; all grape growing conditions were perfect: rain, sun, temperature, and ripening time. Compare this to — say — Italian films of the 1960s (when Sergio Leone was in his prime). Which is to say, even choosing at random, it’s hard to find a bad one. Wine or western, as the case may be. . . .

    In any case, the vintage was one thing. The company another. Thomas himself is a jovial former beer drinker who admits freely that some savvy vendor handed him a Wine Spectator 25 years ago and insisted THIS was the future of the liquor and spirits biz. Eddie is a recently married rep for Wine Adventures, and the proud purveyor of a Cotes du Rhone that’s now near and dear to my heart (I’ll get to this in a minute); his cell phone, which went off every couple minutes, played the theme from Batman — the one that signals the boys are sliding skulkily into the bat cave. Corey, from Cat & Fiddle Beverage, was hawking a Chablis of all things and talking about the Catholic funeral (his first, apparently) he’d just attended: "Two hours long. But I liked that. When you’re burying someone, you shouldn’t be in a fucking rush."

    It was a little like one of those afternoons in college when you know you should be studying but you amble down the hall to a friend’s dorm room instead. Pretty soon, there are six or eight people sitting around and there’s a guy playing a guitar, or Pink Floyd on the stereo, and you drink beer and order a pizza and someone reaches under a bed and pulls out a. . . .OK, never mind. We’re not here to talk about the indiscretions of my youth, we’re here to talk about wine.

    So anyway, we sat around the table and passed our glasses back and forth and tasted more wines than anyone should in a single sitting. But the fact was, the mood was right and it was toasty and I love the theme from Batman. Also, there were crackers.

    Of the ’05’s we sampled, here were my top picks (note: I’m not going to list the year for each — they’re all 2005 — and prices are for Thomas):

    Bourgogne Les Setilles — all Chardonnay but there’s no butter; instead, this is pure cream, smooth with just a hint of cardboard on the edges of the tongue; a nice body of apricots and peaches with a sexy, musky finish; 13% alcohol/$16.99

    Billaud-Simon Chablis — a very pleasant surprise for someone who associates the word "chablis" with the yellow liquid that was stored in my grandmother’s refrigerator in a box; a light, flinty white with citrus and tropical fruit; 12% alcohol/$26.99

    Louis Latour Pinot Noir — the loamy bouquet of a French field; midweight with plenty of cherry and oak but NO anise; an incredibly versatile, drinkable wine; 13% alcohol/$13.99

    Chateau Beauchene Grande Reserve Cotes du Rhone — I saved this for last because it was my favorite by far; an absolutely exquisite wine made from vines that once were part of the Chateauneuf-de-Pape region; fig, blackberry and a diamond-clean finish with a wonderful whiff of something like vintage violin strings or library dust; 13% alcohol/$16.99

    We tried a few others, too, truth be told. We laughed and talked about the movies we’d seen and where we went to college and had our first jobs. Corey gave Eddie marital advice, or the other way around. Nobody (thankfully) spat.

    When we left the back room and went out into the store so I could pick up a couple bottles of the Cotes du Rhone, Mike introduced me to all of his employees and many of the regular customers in the store. We’d spent hours and if I didn’t have hungry kids waiting at home I easily could have stayed on into the night. Thomas Liquors is a truly happy place. And more important, I suppose, they offer some excellent wines. Plus a really fine cracker. . . .

    So I took notes and wrote the story and let all of you in on the secret of where you can get a downright beautiful French ’05 for under $14. Can I stop feeling guilty now?