I caught a little flack last week for leaving Sonoma County out of a blog on California’s Golden Age of Wine.
One person, Judi, commented, “not even a mention of Sonoma?” Another–actually, Hank Wetzel, from Alexander Valley Vineyards–wrote, “I was thinking, wow he did not mention Sonoma County, and then I saw Judi’s comment. I am sure living in a golden age. From cattle land my family and staff have created vineyards and a winery that are bountiful. Sonoma County is so complex, with diverse growing areas, each influenced in a unique way by soil and proximity to the Pacific ocean. This has helped to create an abundance of successful grape growers and wine producers that thrive.”
So I should probably clear this up.
To begin with, assessing the “golden ageworthiness” of a region is obviously a deeply subjective thing to do. There are no objective criteria by which to measure it; it has to do with one’s perceptions. In the case of California regions, my selection of Paso Robles and Monterey and (to a lesser extent) Santa Barbara as being in a golden age is because those regions had very little prior celebrity as wine regions. Paso Robles was long bashed as too hot, while Monterey was criticized as too cold! So for both of them to be producing such good wines, with such a groundswell of young energy, is worthy of note.
You can’t say that Sonoma County is suddenly producing great wine. You can’t argue that it came out of nowhere. Sonoma County is one of the historic birthplaces of California wine. The Russians planted grapes out at Fort Ross in the early 1800s, quickly followed by Spanish Franciscan missionaries. We all know about Haraszthy and the generations of immigrants who widely planted the county, beginning in the 1850s. Sonoma Valley was one of the earliest American Viticultural Areas to be approved (1982), and the astonishing advent of Pinot Noir in the Russian River Valley (approved in 1983) moved the county into the forefront of California wine. So it’s not as if Sonoma has been some kind of concealed secret.
Another part of the problem (not that it’s a problem, really–it’s something to celebrate) is that Sonoma is such a huge place, as Hank Wetzel stated. It’s so big and diverse that making any statement about it is like making a generality about France. I once read there are more soil types in Sonoma than in all of France. So many moving parts to Sonoma: how can a single statement connect them all? One might conceivably say this is a golden age for the [far] Sonoma Coast, I suppose, but that area remains too small (from a vineyard acreage point of view) to thus characterize it. Is this a golden age for the Chalk Hill appellation? For Rockpile? I don’t think so. That doesn’t mean that all of Sonoma’s 15 AVAs aren’t producing good wine. They are–as good in some instances as anywhere else in California. It’s just that, in my view, you can’t say that Sonoma County is currently enjoying a golden age.
I suppose that golden ages can occur more than once in the lifespan of a wine region, provided that region is old enough. Bordeaux’s original golden age, of the 18th century, was replicated in the 1980s. In that 200-year interregnum, Bordeaux experienced declines that nearly obliterated it, and that resulted in some very poor wines. No California wine region, however, is yet old enough to have experienced a second golden age. Sonoma County already has had its, in the 1970s and 1980s. Now, it’s the turn of regions to the south.
Much is made of so-called “golden ages”: of television (the 1950s), of Hollywood films (1930s-1940s), of rock and roll (the 1950s and 1960s), of Ancient Greece (somewhat mythic; Hesiod referred to it as the time of heroes, gods and men).
In wine, Bordeaux is sometimes said to have enjoyed its golden age in the 18th century, as the great chateaux were consolidated, often with architectural gems, and the wines were widely exported, resulting in an increase in price. What about California?
Earlier this year, Wine Spectator columnist Matt Kramer penned a piece, “Is this really a golden age for wine?” When he turned his attention to California, he saw only a single place–Napa Valley–and answered his own question in the negative. “Napa’s golden moment,” he declared, “is now past.” True, Matt did perceive golden age-iness in other places in the world, such as the Cote d’Or, Central Otago and Willamette Valley. But as for the rest of California outside of Napa, nada.
Well, he’s entitled to his opinion, although that Napa-centric shortsightedness is harder to forgive. But let me suggest why I think this is the golden age for California wine as a whole. I actually agree with Matt that Napa Valley is getting “a little thick around its middle.” He’s right that Napa no longer bursts with the sense of excitement it did in the 1960s and 1970s. In Napa’s behalf, though, it can safely be said that it’s making its best wines ever. Napa Valley remains the point of reference for all of California, and for that matter, for the New World. You’re either for it or against it, but you can’t escape Napa: any statement about California automatically includes a reference to it. Napa’s sort of like the Clintons are to American politics: you may love them or be tired of them, but they are still the 800 pound gorillas.
Matt erred in not considering other regions in California. I have argued, passionately and publicly, for Paso Roble’s recognition as a hotbed of innovation at this time. Nearby Monterey also is in a state of remarkable ferment, with younger winemakers moving there to see what they can do (just as they did in Napa in the 1960s and 1970s). As for Santa Barbara County, I’m a huge fan: there’s no thickness to its middle. Santa Barbara growers and vintners absorbed the lessons of more northerly wine regions, improved their viticulture and enology to the most exacting standards, and now are turning out impeccably tailored wines, of nearly every variety and blending type in California. I could continue to list smaller appellations that I think are performing at very high levels.
There are additional factors at play that keep California exciting. Vintners have developed an exquisite sensitivity to their vineyards: the degree of coordination of root stocks, varieties and clones, trellising, pruning and harvesting decisions has never been as well understood as it is now. (Obviously, I’m referring to the highest level of wineries.) The inrush of young blood is having exactly the kind of galvanizing effect it always has in all areas of life: winemakers in their twenties and thirties, who hope to establish good careers, realize they have to do things differently from their forebears, and this they are doing: witness the explosion of serious new wines from varietals that were hardly ever planted in California before the 2000s.
In furtherance of California’s Golden Age, we’re now going into two consecutively great vintages–2012 and 2013–that will result in stellar wines. Quality is going to soar as they are released over the next 5-6 years. It’s an exciting time to be making, and drinking, wine: A Golden Age for the Golden State.
I’m not always thrilled when the TTB grants official appellation status to a new region in California. Most of them seem like vanity projects, or else they cover areas with very little in the way of wine-producing history, and in many cases they don’t even make sense from a terroir point of view.
(No, I won’t name names.)
But every once in a while a new American Viticultural Area is approved that entirely deserves it. Ballard Canyon is the latest.
I’ve been following wineries and vineyards (Rusack, Larner, Stolpman, etc.) in that central portion of Santa Barbara County for years, in addition to newer ones (Jonata) that have come to my attention. The quality is exceptionally high across the board (as it tends to be in the greater Santa Ynez Valley). Aspirations are high, too, and the terroir, as I understand it, seems perfectly suited for what folks are doing down there. So welcome to the AVA family, Ballard Canyon! And congratulations in particular to Michael Larner, who filed for the appellation back in 2011 and waited patiently for his application to wend its way through the government bureaucracy!
* * *
I’ve been tasting a great deal of Pinot Noir lately, mainly from the 2011 vintage, whose overall character is becoming clearer to me with each bottle I review. The year was not the miracle some had predicted it would be. The original spin on the chilliness was, “Isn’t this special! Now we’ll finally get some nice, elegant, low alcohol Pinots.” Good theory, but as usually happens with good theories, it kind of got its face smashed in by reality. The truth is that there were a lot of green Pinots produced in 2011–some moldy ones, too, and that has marred the vintage.
However, the best wineries did succeed in producing elegant, classy Pinots that are ageable. Williams Selyem, Rochioli, Failla, Merry Edwards, Dutton-Goldfield, Lynmar, W.H. Smith, Coup de Foudre and Flowers all made magnificent wines from the Russian River Valley/Sonoma Coast. Down in Santa Rita Hills, so did Foxen, Bonaccorsi, Tantara and Testarossa. In neighboring Santa Maria Valley, Bien Nacido Vineyard produced exceptional fruit for its clients. The new Caleras hit benchmark highs up on Mount Harlan. In the Santa Lucia Highlands, Roar, Tantara, Testarossa and Bernardus (from Pisoni) all had good bottlings. Even Carneros–never my favorite spot for Pinot Noir–over-performed, with some great wines from Mira, Donum and Stemmler.
Why did these wineries succeed in such a challenging year? I suspect it had a lot to to with viticulture, especially sorting. They simply had the commitment to get rid of bad bunches of grapes. No amount of new oak, by the way, can mask the green taste of unripe grapes and stems. Nothing can.
* * *
During my tasting session yesterday, I had a number of wines in screwtops. Good wines, too: high-scoring. And I realized it’s been years since I mentioned “screwtop” in a wine review. I used to do it, in the sense of saying something like, “Don’t worry about the screwtop. It doesn’t mean that the wine is cheap.” I felt I had to reassure readers that it’s legitimate to put a screwtop on an ultrapremium wine–more than legitimate, actually, since it assures that the wine will never be corked!
But I don’t mention screwtops anymore because, to me, it’s a non-issue. In fact, I wonder why more wineries haven’t turned to them, instead of corks and (worst of all), artificial corks. I suppose it’s because the public at large still considers screwtops the sign of a cheap wine. We educators will just have to work harder to let them know otherwise.
For those of you who don’t understand the role Mayacamas plays in Napa Valley’s history, consider this: When a former owner produced the winery’s first Cabernet Sauvignon, in 1962, Mayacamas joined only a handful of Napa wineries (including Charles Krug, Beaulieu, Inglenook and Louis M. Martini) that specialized in the variety.
And Mayacamas is even older than that: it was originally founded in 1889, then re-established in 1941. The name most closely associated with it, Bob Travers, purchased the winery in 1968, and ran it for all these years, until selling it recently to Charles Banks.
Among critics, Mayacamas had a very special role. Bob Thompson called its Cabernets and Chardonnays (all grown on the Mount Veeder estate) “two of the region’s most praised wines.” Hugh Johnson, no huge fan of California wine, dubbed it “first rate.” When the late, great Harry Waugh (who was on the board of Chateau Latour) visited, in 1969, he declared the 1967 Cabernet “another for my collection”; even the 1968 Chardonnay was “one of the wines I would buy for my own collection.” (That was high praise indeed from old Harry.)
Travers always made his wines lean. Even as the world marched away from that spare, angular style, Bob kept at it; as a result, his critical acclaim fell, to some extent. I liked his Cabernets well enough, but the highest score I could ever give one was 92 points, for the 2004. Even in that hot year, its alcohol was only 13.8%, and the wine showed a certain ungainly character, with streamlined, herb-infused fruit cast into fierce tannins. Bob’s style was more amenable, I thought, for white wines: his Chardonnays and Sauvignon Blancs benefited from that grave linearity, and often reflected the terroir of their mountain soils.
I think it’s fair to say that Mayacamas, for many years, has been underperforming. Oh, I know this is all in the eye of the beholder. If you dislike that lush, fat modern style, you might find yourself inclined to favor Mayacamas. But the truth is, the modern style, which 99% of Napa has embraced, left Mayacamas at the station long ago; or perhaps Travers simply chose not to board that train. Either way, I always review its wines with a certain wistfulness. Such a great name (said to be Native American, for the howl of the mountain lion), such an iconic history, such a noble perch up there on the mountain. Surely, I always thought, Mayacamas could do better.
But there were tales of vineyards in sorry shape, of an aging leadership, of run-down facilities; and even the price of the wines, which hardly varied over the years, put them into the dreaded “relative value” category; the Cabernet, for instance, remained at $65 for a long time. Perhaps Bob Travers felt he dare not raise the price in order to be able to afford improvements in the vineyard and barrels. Perhaps he was philosophically against high prices.
When Banks bought Mayacamas, last April, there were high hopes that he would spruce things up. After all, the guy had money (he’d formerly owned Screaming Eagle, and recently bought Qupe). He seemed to have discernment and taste. I met him only once, a few years ago, when he and his wife, Ali, brought me to dinner, just the three of us, in Los Olivos. We talked for a long time, and he convinced me of his sincere commitment to quality, in whatever properties he owned. (This isn’t always easy–I mean, convincing me. Everyone talks the talk but few walk the walk!) But Charles did. Thus, yesterday, when I got the latest Mayacamas newsletter and order form in the mail, I paid it more than the usual amount of attention.
The first thing of note is that the newsletter is signed by a familiar winemaker: Andy Erickson, who has been associated with, in one way or another, Screaming Eagle, Dalla Valle, Harlan, Spottswoode, Dancing Hares and Ovid. Banks, I’m sure, has offered Andy a great deal of money to oversee the renaissance of Mayacamas, but it will have been money well spent.
Andy vows “to continue crafting wines of elegance, longevity, and rustic mountain power.” I don’t think he would come right out and say that he’s going to entirely revamp Bob Travers’ approach; that would be disrespectful. But reading between the lines, you can infer that Andy knows exactly what’s wrong up on Mount Veeder, and how he intends to fix it, starting with the vineyard. “We’ve also been analyzing the unique soils and how they contribute to making such distinctive wines,” he writes, suggesting that “new vines planted this year” will help bring about a quality revolution in the near future.
And Banks himself, in his cover letter, says “We’ll be…upgrading winery equipment, and renovating some of the facilities.” More money out of pocket: Ka-ching! But that’s what it takes. In this day and age, you can’t make great wine on the cheap.
I’m thrilled to see what’s happening at Mayacamas, and can’t wait to follow their progress, especially the Cabernets!
I suppose I can see the logic (if that’s the right word) of charging many hundreds of dollars for a wine of known provenance (Lafite, for instance). But when a new brand, right out of the gate, releases itself at triple-digit prices, some sense of justice in me is aroused to the point of disgust.
I wrote “releases itself” but that is, of course, an intransitive verb structure, the kind we writers recoil from, because nothing in this world occurs intransitively. So let me rephrase it: When a new brand is released by its owners at triple-digit prices, something in me is disgusted.
I could choose from among any number of Napa Valley wines to illustrate my point, but since I have to live, and get along, with these people, it’s probably a better idea for me to turn abroad. To Australia, in this case, where the new Thousand Candles winery has released a Pinot Noir and a Shiraz, both at the price of $110 U.S.
The winemaker, William Downie, told Bloomberg News’ Elin McCoy about “the surprising backstory” (McCoy’s words) concerning the wines’ “true expression of the site” (we’ve heard that before). “I believe a great wine tells one story: Who am I?” Downie said. (Never mind that Thousand Candles’ owner is anonymous, and Downie didn’t disclose his/her identity; what kind of “story-telling” is that?)
Downie did admit to McCoy that “We have been accused of hubris,” referring to the controversy that gripped the Australian wine scene when the wines’ prices were revealed. Indeed, Qantas Airlines’ online web site said “No inaugural wine release was more controversial than that of Thousand Candles…”. (I should add that I have not tasted the wines, nor has anyone at Wine Enthusiast, yet.) Such reviews of them as I’ve found online have been mainly positive. Most emphasize the wines’ uniqueness, and that may well be true.
There are certainly arguments supportive of releasing some new brands at high prices. One is the pedigree of their creators; indeed, this is generally the most-used rationale. Such-and-such a famous viticulturalist and winemaker is involved; such-and-such great terroir: these usually are the prime justifications. In the case of Thousand Candles, there seems also to be a desire, on the part of the winemaker at any rate, to reassure the world that Australia, despite its well-publicized woes, is capable of producing top tier wines. Now this gets us into the through-the-looking glass world of perceptions: If a wine costs that much money, surely it must be good!
We know, from studies and through anecdotal evidence, that the tendency of the consumer to believe that price and quality are related is practically hard-wired into the brain. I don’t quite understand what the evolutionary value of such reasoning is; perhaps someone can explain it to me. But it’s a powerful driver; even if you intellectually understand that price and quality aren’t that tightly connected, a high price has an emotional impact on most people that’s makes it hard for them to reasonably dismiss it. Look at art: if it’s a scribbled daub on the bulletin board at a local school, it’s considered minor. Put it in a fancy frame, in a museum, and suddenly connoisseurs are willing to pay millions for it.
There’s something else going on with these super-expensive wines that also touches in on human psychology. It’s the feeling that, even if you taste the wine and don’t particularly care for it, there must be something in you that’s missing in action, not something in the wine. If you tasted a Two Buck Chuck and thought it was a thin disappointment, you wouldn’t give it a second thought: It’s just a cheap wine that doesn’t deserve to have you lavish time and energy trying to understand it.
But a $110 wine is somehow different. Consider this review of Thousand Candles, from the Wine Will Eat Itself blog. The writer, Jeremy Pringle, is trying very hard (it seems to me) to be fair and objective in his assessment, for which I give him credit. He doesn’t robotically fall into line worshiping the wine, just because it’s expensive. Instead, he revisits it, thinks about it (a lot), considers the opinions of its critics, doubts himself, and retastes–these all are admirable qualities for a wine critic to possess. In the end, he writes, while the wine may not immediately dazzle (“Those who criticize this wine based on some sense of objective value for money are probably spot on”), he concludes that “it is a cerebral wine…best shared with others and within the context of a discussion if not a debate.”
I understand where he’s going…kind of. But why would you give a wine so much power over you, if your first impression of it is “Meh”? I’ll tell you why. Because it’s expensive, because it has a “surprising backstory,” because the chattering classes are all mumbling about it, and because you, as a wine writer, don’t want people to think you’re not “up” on the latest important developments. So you give that wine extra consideration–extra time in the glass–extra thought. You want to find great stuff in there, so you look, and look, and look, and talk and talk about it, and suddenly, Voila! There it finally is: great stuff.
Well, this of course is precisely the reason to taste blind. But I am not ignorant of the fact that there’s a huge other side to this debate, and that is, as Pringle writes, “There are occasions when context matters a great deal.” Evidently, tasting Thousand Candles requires context. Does tasting Lafite require context? Does Harlan Estate require context? Does an Arrowood Cabernet require context? Does Two Buck Chuck require context? Where is the line? How does the critic determine which wines require context, and which can be summarily dismissed?
Good questions; no good answers.
Some years ago, there was a lot of talk about so-called “supertasters” — men and (more frequently, women) with more than the usual quantity of tastebuds in their mouths that makes them unusually sensitive to flavors.
The term had been coined by a Yale professor, Linda Bartoshuk, who in 2004 vividly illustrated the difference between super- and regular tasters with this metaphor: “Supertasters…live in a ‘neon world’ of taste, while nontasters [sic] are in a ‘pastel world.’”
I remember at the time feeling slightly embarrassed that I wasn’t a supertaster. For some reason, I developed the feeling that being a supertaster made one a better wine critic. For example, Robert Parker was said to be able to identify wines double-blind, surely the mark of a supertaster. And Jim Laube’s well-known sensitivity to TCA, which suggested supertasting abilities on his part, was enough to bring wineries to their knees.
I, by contrast, had to be content with a palate that was, at best, no better, if no worse, than everyone else’s. It caused me some moments of imposter syndrome. Who was I to be telling people what wine tasted like, if I didn’t even have a super-palate?
All this was brought up again last Saturday night when I had dinner with old friends, one of whom is a supertaster. I knew she wasn’t a big fan of seafood, but during the course of our meal, her other food antipathies emerged. Rosemary, for example: she can’t bear it beyond a miniscule amount, because it overwhelms everything else in the food. Frankly, my friend confided, being a supertaster isn’t a blessing: it’s a curse. In fact, she added, that’s why she decided not to become a wine writer. (Her work is in a separate field of the wine industry.) She’s so extraordinarily sensitive to everything that she figured she could never be objective.
Well, that cast things in a different light for me. Maybe, I figured, it’s not so good after all to be a supertaster. So I Googled up the term and found a whole bunch of suggestions that supertasting ability can indeed be a drag.
For example, here, from Yale Scientific (Bartoshuk’s own university), the professor says supertasters are “also super-perceivers of…the burning sensation of…ethanol [the alcohol in wine],” which causes them “oral pain [and a] burning sensation.”
That, surely, must be a handicap, if not an outright bias, for a wine critic, especially of California wine.
The British publication, The Guardian, addressed the issue squarely on when it wrote, “It is often assumed that the world’s top foodies must be supertasters, but the jury’s out on whether being one is something to brag about in the industry.” The website How Stuff Works amplified on this theme: “Usually, it’s great to have heightened senses like 20/20 vision or sharp hearing. But a heightened sense of taste, no matter how delicious it might sound, is really no joy.” Since everything is amplified, sensations like the pepperiness of a Syrah can be overwhelming. Slate Magazine, asking “whether being a supertaster helps you evaluate wine,” concluded that “being a nontaster [i.e. regular taster] was not the career death sentence [for a critic] it appeared to be. For another, being a supertaster turned out to be not nearly as good as it sounded; in fact, to the degree that it matters at all, it is probably more of a liability for a wine critic than an asset.” [Bold face mine] The “flavor of alcohol…astringency and acidity…spiciness [and] bitterness” that characterizes so many wines “may make wine–or some wine styles–relatively unappealing.”
Well, I’m ready to buy into Slate’s suggestion that “being a supertaster is no blessing when it comes to wine.” But it does make me wonder to what extent the modern wine style (often called Parkerised) of exceptional ripeness, fruitiness, softness and sweet oakiness is the result of the domination by supertasters of the wine criticism business over the past 25 years.
I love my job of tasting the wines of coastal California, from Napa and Sonoma all the way down to Santa Barbara County. But I do sometimes miss the world catholicity (small “c”) of my tasting before I was a professional wine critic.
In the Eighties, when I developed this crazy passion for wine, I was lucky enough to be living in San Francisco, where the entire world of wine was available for drinking, if you had the interest and connections. I had three ways of obtaining wine: I could buy it, of course, and back then, it was relatively affordable for a struggling student like me. I could even occasionally afford classified growth Bordeaux (although not First Growths).
A second way was through the old Les Amis du Vin tasting group, which I was a member of. We tasted a lot of interesting wines, often poured by visiting winemakers who were on marketing trips through The City. In June, 1989, for example, they held a tasting of 1986 Bordeaux at the World Affairs Center, downtown. It included La Lagune, Clerc Milon, Pape-Clement, Pichon Lalande, Leoville-Barton, Montrose and Mouton. (My top-ranked, blind, was the Mouton.) Not too shabby!
And the third way I had of tasting was at tasting bars. We didn’t have “wine bars” per se back then (well, maybe a couple), but some of the retailers offered tasting; and I was lucky enough to be friends with the guys who ran them, which offered certain distinct advantages.
(I don’t think I’ll get anyone in trouble for telling the following story. Remember Liquor Barn? They were sort of the predecessor of BevMo. There was a branch down on Bayshore Boulevard where I used to hang out. The guy who ran the tasting bar liked me, and would ask what I wanted to taste. I remember once when I asked for Yquem, fully expecting he’d say, “Dude, are you kidding?” But instead, he immediately pulled a bottle from the shelf, popped the cork and poured me a glass. Those were the days, my friend.)
As a result of those experiences (and widespread reading, of course), I developed a pretty sound knowledge base of the various wines of France, Germany and, to a more limited extent, Italy. Once the Nineties arrived, and I began writing for wine periodicals, I got on the mailing lists of the various trade associations and restaurants that sponsored tastings in San Francisco, and so was able to further broaden my palate. Some of you may remember Square One, Joyce Goldstein’s fabulous, pioneering restaurant in San Francisco’s Jackson Square district. My old pal, Peter Granoff, M.S., was the sommelier there, and his wine classes were as radically innovative as Joyce’s Mediterranean-style food. I learned a lot from Peter. In November, 1991, he held one on Condrieu and Cote Rotie. I mean, wow. That was quite an eye-opener for me, although, looking at my scores, I was more impressed by the idea of tasting these wines than by the wines themselves! I scored them all between 88-91 points, but this may have been because the wines were far too young to appreciate: the vintages were 1987-1990, and I don’t know that I properly understood how to look for ageability
Then there were the Bon Appetit tastings, run by Anthony (Andy) Dias Blue; these tastings, I must say, were historic in their scope. There was one in particular that I still have my notes for. It was in December, 1990, at a downtown restaurant. Andy served up, among other Cabs, Diamond Creek 1980 Gravelly Meadow, Dunn 1979 Howell Mountain, Laurel Glen 1981 (whatever happened to that wonderful winery after Patrick Campbell sold it?) and a 1978 Mayacamas. You don’t get to taste wines like that anymore–at least, not without paying big bucks.
I was still a cub wine writer at that Bon Appetit tasting, and was puzzled when I got to the Dunn. My review indicates my puzzlement. “Dead?” I wrote, describing its “raisined nose.” I added, “Massive tannins either hiding it all, or this wine’s gone.”
Well, I needed some help understanding it, and fortunately there were two gentlemen present a lot smarter and more experienced than I was: Jim Laube and Andy himself. So I asked their opinion. One said it was dead; the other, that it needed many more years to come around. (Unfortunately, I no longer remember who said what.) That left me more puzzled than ever–but it taught me a valuable lesson. If two guys as wise as Jim and Andy could come down on diametrically opposite sides, that meant my judgment was as good as anyone’s!
Incidentally, my highest-scoring wine at that tasting was Ridge 1975 Monte Bello. At the age of fifteen years, it just wasted me. I’d love to try it now.
Anyhow, I miss those more innocent times when the world of great wines was made available to me, courtesy of the kindness of people like Peter, Andy and my friends at the tasting bars.