Say What!? Wine Tasting Chart. I actually want to take this with me to tastings…
wine tasting chart
AMAAAAAZIIIING Great wine tote, or greatest wine tote? The latter, gentlemen and ladies!
a purse for your wine:The Baggy Winecoat is a $58 purse for your wine. It’s basically a glorified box and that’s a-okay with me because I’ll drink out of anything with alcohol in it. Including, and not just limited to: your liver. You think I won’t drug you and cut that thing out?
Blood Into Wine
Musician Maynard James Keenan (Tool, A Perfect Circle) is growing grapes and making wine in Northern Arizona. Beside his shaved head and the documentary film, we’re practically kindred spirits.
I haven’t seen this yet, but am looking forward to it.
“I SERVED a 1920 Château Margaux last night,” the sommelier said to the two Frenchmen at the table behind me. It’s the kind of remark you might expect to overhear at some classy Paris restaurant, but not at a steakhouse in Tampa, Florida.
Bern’s is no ordinary steakhouse. As well as a menu that has four pages devoted to the sourcing and preparation of its steaks, Bern’s has the largest wine cellar of any restaurant in the world.
There are half a million bottles to choose from, a vinous nightmare for the indecisive.
According to Wine Decanter magazine, Bern’s nearest rival is the Tour d’Argent in Paris, which has about 450,000 bottles.
Neat photo and poem!
These evenings over the restaurants
the air is hot and strangely cloying,
and shouts drift from the drunkards’ haunts
on the putrid breath of spring.
Far off, over dusty side-streets can be seen—
over snug villas mile on mile—
the golden glint of a baker’s sign,
and one can hear the children wail.
And every evening, past the level-
crossing, the jocular swells,
bowlers titled at a rakish angle,
stroll between ditches with their girls.
Over the lake the rowlocks scraping
and women screeching can be heard,
and in a sky inured to everything
the moon leers down like a drunkard.
Each evening my one and only friend,
reflected at my glass’s brink,
like me is fuddled and constrained
by the thick, mysterious drink.
And next to us, at the table beside
our table, somnolent waiters pass
and drunks to one another, rabbit-eyed,
call out “In vino veritas.”
Each evening, at the appointed moment
(or is this only in a dream?)
a girl’s shape in a silken garment
shows dark against the window’s steam.
And slowly between the drunkards weaving,
as always unescorted, there
she sits down by the window, leaving
a mist of perfume in the air.
And a breath of ancient legends gathers
about her silk dress as it swings,
about her hat with its mourning feathers,
and her slender hand with its rings.
And rooted there by the curious presence,
I search the shadowy veil once more
and through it see an enchanted distance
beyond an enchanted shore.
Vague confidences in my ear are loosed,
and the sun is suddenly mine,
and every crevice of my soul is sluiced
and flooded by the sticky wine.
And now the nodding ostrich-feather plume
begins to hypnotize my brain,
and eyes that are unfathomable bloom
blue on a distant shore again.
Deep in my soul there lies a treasure;
the only key to it is mine!
And you are right, you drunken monster!
I know now: there is truth in wine.
—Alexander Blok (1906, trans. Jon Stallworthy and Peter France)
i love the sound of glass breaking
it sounds pretty to me
Photos from the east bay vineyard ride. The weather was pretty much perfect, and we saw jackrabbits, a wild turkey, other strange birds, and several groups of spandex-clad bicyclists.
We had a lunch of bread, meat, and cheeses, tasted about 25 wines (at Ruby Hill, Fenestra, and Thomas Coyne), bought some (thanks to the Xtracycle cargo bike), and ended with dinner at a mediocre restaurant with indoor Bocce courts.
My bike computer claims 25 miles total (with a brisk 16mph pace from BART to the first vineyard, and then a much more casual pace as the day went on and the sun and wine took their toll). Now I’m sleepy.