subscribe: Posts | Comments      Facebook      Email Steve

Five Decades of Wine: The Arc of My Career

4 comments

 

Part One: The 1970 and 1980s

I boarded a plane during a blizzard at Boston Logan in December, 1978, and, six hours later, stepped into the bright, T-shirt warmth of SFO sunshine, where my cousins were waiting for me.

I was to live with them in Benicia, as I readied myself to go to graduate school. My goal was to be a psychotherapist. That, I thought, would combine my interests in philosophy and human nature, and also allow me to be self-employed, as it were: I seldom do my best work as a team member. That’s why my athletic pursuits have always been solitary ones: competitive running and karate.

The psychotherapy part, alas, didn’t work out. I visited the campus one day before the semester began (John F. Kennedy University, in Orinda), for a meeting with my new Dean. When I couldn’t find his office, I asked a student, who promptly inspected my palm and told me I had a good lifeline. When I found the dean’s trailer, he invited me in. He had an Indian name, Hatha S.___, but somehow didn’t seem Indian. When I asked him where he was from and he said, “The Bronx,” I laughed. “I am, too! What neighborhood?”

But Dean Hatha would have none of it. He explained that he’d left his past far behind when he’d changed his Jewish name, and preferred not to relive it.

Well, those two experiences were enough for me. I’d borrowed $30,000 to get a degree from JFKU, which now seemed to me to be living a loony tunes existence. That, plus the fact that every waiter and carpenter I’d met in San Francisco had a degree in psychotherapy, made me realize that I didn’t want to be the ten thousandth unemployed, heavily indebted therapist in the Bay Area. So I informed JFKU that I would not be attending after all, and set out to discover what else I could do, now that I was a bona fide Californian.

But that’s getting ahead of the story. Meanwhile, my cousin Maxine, with whom I’d more or less grown up in New York, set out on that first day to the local Benicia Safeway, where she and her partner, Keith, picked up some steaks to barbecue in the back yard. (Toto, I don’t think we’re in Boston anymore, I reflected: barbecue in late December!) After she’d loaded the shopping cart up with steaks, potatoes and sourdough baguettes, she wheeled it into the wine aisle. I trod dutifully alongside.

Picking up one bottle of red wine after another, she studied the front and back labels, reading them with a scrutiny I didn’t understand. Finally, after the sixth bottle, I asked Maxine, “What are you doing? Just grab one. They’re all the same.”

Big mistake. Maxine gave me one of her infamous looks I call Schoolmarm’s Raised Eyebrow. It’s a combination of scold and amazement. She said, “You don’t just grab a bottle of wine. You think about it.”

Well, that made about as much sense as if she’d said, “You don’t just grab a bottle of ketchup.” Why not? What’s different about wine? Isn’t it just like any other food you consume?

As it turned out, the answer is No. But in that moment, in the wine aisle of the Benicia Safeway, something happened to me that I later called “Getting bitten by the wine bug.” Years later, when I was at Wine Spectator, I wrote an article about it, interviewing numerous psychoanalysts and therapists I’d met through the magazine, all of whom were wine collectors. What is this “wine bug” thing?, I wanted to know.

Today, I remember nothing of what they said, except for one—a famous collector from Marin—who mumbled something about being anally retentive. So I can’t really explain what happened that day in Benicia. Whatever it was, it seized me by the collar and never let go. Within weeks I became a wine fanatic. I bought all those little pocket guides (Bob Thompson’s and Charlie Olken’s were my favorites), and began visiting wine shops. A year later (1979) I moved to San Francisco, to a hideous, unheated little apartment just below Top of the Hill Daly City, and there, the patterns of the rest of my life were established. Among them was the wine craze. I was working fulltime, going to grad school (at S.F. State) fulltime, trying to get to the gym every day, volunteering for the first AIDS assistance group, Shanti Project, and attempting to maintain a social life and a live-in relationship. But somehow, I managed to squeeze in plenty of wine stuff. I joined the old Les Amis du Vin and was asked to lead the San Francisco chapter (which I declined). And every weekend, while my friends were flying kites on Marina Green or sunbathing at Dolores Park, I was hitting up every major wine shop in town. I’d start in the east, at Draper & Esquin on Montgomery Street, then head out to the Avenues. Inbetween were the Jug Shop, down on Polk, Hennessey’s, in Upper Market, Ashbury Market, and the old Liquor Barn, on Bayshore in the south. I can’t even remember the others. In each store, I’d pick the brains of whoever I could find: Why does this Cabernet Sauvignon cost $4 while this one is $14? How are they different?

And I read, read, read. I began assembling my wine library, which today numbers hundreds of books. My favorite at the time was Alexis Lichine’s Encyclopedia. I devoured it. I crammed in trips to Napa Valley and the Russian River Valley when I could. Meanwhile, I got my M.A. from S.F. State, got my first “real” job running the Career Center at the California College of Arts and Crafts, in Oakland, moved to that great, crazy city to avoid the commute across the Bay Bridge, ended a relationship, and began a new life, while the wine bug continued to bite me deeper and deeper. I’d subscribed to Wine Spectator since the early 1980s, when it was a tabloid published out of its San Francisco offices, at Opera Plaza on Van Ness. One day in 1989, I sent them my resume. I was still running the Career Center at the College, but it wasn’t what I really wanted to do. What I wanted to do was be a wine writer. I pestered the Spectator’s editor, Jim Gordon, so much that I eventually told him, “One of two things is going to happen. Either you’ll hire me, or you’ll have me arrested for harassment.” In the event, it was the former that turned out to be true. But that’s the subject of tomorrow’s post.

  1. redmond barry says:

    I see the possibility of a terrific memoir aborning here.

  2. You might be right.

  3. Bob Henry says:

    Steve,

    You joined the San Francisco chapter of Les Amis du Vin.

    Did you ever partake in The Vintner’s Club comparative tastings in The City?

    Link: http://www.vintnersclub.org/schedule.html

    And do you have their almost phone book-sized printed chronicle of their 1970s and 1980s decade comparative tastings in you library?

    Link: http://www.vintnersclub.org/book.html

    The Vintner’s Club served as the inspiration for my own comparative winetastings here in Los Angeles, as Les Amis du Vin either didn’t have a local chapter or had given up the ghost. And local wine merchants weren’t organizing their own comprehensive comparative tastings.

    Bob

  4. Bob, my late friend, Steve Pitcher, ran the Vintner’s Club tastings. I went to a few of them — not very many. They were very high level tastings. Our wine writers circle in San Francisco misses Steve to this day.

Leave a Reply

*

Recent Comments

Recent Posts

Categories

Archives