I thought it would be a simple thing to find a split of Veuve Clicquot yellow label champagne (Brut) on a Thursday afternoon. A split -- the bottle size that holds 350 mL as opposed to the regular bottle's 750 mL -- holds about two glasses, and is therefore just the right size of bottle which with to surprise the love of your life at the start of dinner, while still ensuring that he is able to drive you happily home at the end of the meal. With the regular size, you see, it ends up being one of those bowling-ball-for-the-wife-type gifts: "Here you are, honey, a whole bottle of champagne! But you're driving, so you only get one glass, and I'll have to drink the other three." No, a split was clearly the thing.
Nobody had one. I called boutique wine stores, grocery stores, boutique wine stores recommended by the sommeliers at the grocery stores -- nothing. I was verging on desperate when I remembered Mill Creek's Central Market and their killer wine selection.
They had one. I rejoiced. In fact, they not only had a split of brut, they had the next step up, the slightly sweeter demi-sec. So I bought that one.
And it got me thinking: where did all the half-bottles go? I used to see them everywhere, but now they only crop up every now and again and mostly during winery-located tastings. And where did they come from? Are they a product of the old economy's luxury and hedonism? Are people even buying their champagne in bulk now?
I went where I usually go when looking for basic history facts: Wikipedia. And -- holy crap! -- there is a disagreement. Either Wikipedia must be wrong, or everyone I've ever talked to about wine has let me persist in my ignorance about the definition of what a split is. According to the site, a split is .1875 mL, also known as a quarter bottle, a piccolo, a pony, or -- my favorite -- a snipe. Immediately I want to go to the snazziest restaurant in town and call out, "Garçon! A snipe of your finest champagne!" Then I will shoot my cuffs and polish my monocle on my cravat until it gleams.
But wait -- it gets better.
Once you get up to the double magnum (4 regular bottles) the list of wine bottle sizes reads like a list of begats from the Old Testament. A double magnum is also known as a Jeroboam, and then you move up: Rehoboam (6 bottles), Methuselah (8 bottles), Salmanazar (12 bottles). Balthazar, Nebachudnezzar, and Melchior (16, 20, and 24 bottles respectively). What -- says the kid who was raised Catholic -- no Gaspar? Poor unlucky third wise man. Thereafter the measures get weird, with Solomon (26 and 2/3 bottles), a sovereign (33 and 1/3 bottles, so presumably the sovereign in question is Jesus, the King of Kings, who died at 33, which makes me wonder if the sovereign is supposed to measure the amount of water Jesus turned to wine for his first miracle at the wedding at Cana -- see? raised Catholic). Last we have the primat (36 bottles) and the Melchizedek (40 bottles). Think about that: a bottle that holds 40 other bottles of wine.
You can buy a Melchizedek of Drappier champagne, but not, I think, on their website.
Don't even get me started on wine bottle colors and shapes -- that's a whole post in itself.
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Que Syrah Syrah ...
When I talk about this wine, I am supposed to put the winery name in all caps. SYZYGY. So there. It looks extra emphatic in bold.
It is harder to find a science-y wine in Fred Meyer than in Fremont, and harder in Fremont than it is in Kirkland, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it did. Of all the bottles I investigated, this was the only properly scientific-looking one, a dashing blue and orange label (here hot off the press) with a properly space-age sans serif font. The term 'syzygy' refers to the moment when three celestial bodies in the same gravitational system -- say, Earth, the moon, and the sun -- are in perfect alignment. (Among other things.) Supposedly this is when the winery harvests their cabernet sauvignon grapes, at a moment of eclipse in 2005. I mentioned this to friend Ray, who was properly (scientifically) sceptical: "It takes longer than the length of an eclipse to bring in a harvest." Nevertheless, the label pleases me, although it is less friendly than Educated Guess.
The new Cab Sauv is due out at the start of may -- the bottle I take home is a full, unblended Syrah from the -- say it with me now -- SYZYGY winery in Walla Walla. I spent my four undergraduate years in Walla Walla, and Syrah was one of the first reds I was exposed to, so I was hoping for something particularly special from this bottle of wine. It was pretty good -- rich, and full, and warming -- but it wasn't anything particularly stunning. Maybe I'll keep an eye out for the cabernet sauvignon in a month.
Syrah's history in the United States, interestingly, involves a group called the Rhone Rangers. They were initially formed in the 1980s, disbanded in the early 1990s, and revived before the end of the prior millennium. The entire purpose of this group appears to be the promotion of and education about the Rhone varietals in America, which includes links to various articles on same from around the country -- including this Australian article detailing how the source of Shiraz' peppery tone had been located by a group of Australian scientists. Considering this and the recent efforts to lock down varietal relationships with DNA tests in oenology labs around the world, a clear tension between Old World terroir-centered methods and New World science-tested methods begins to emerge.
It is harder to find a science-y wine in Fred Meyer than in Fremont, and harder in Fremont than it is in Kirkland, which shouldn't surprise me as much as it did. Of all the bottles I investigated, this was the only properly scientific-looking one, a dashing blue and orange label (here hot off the press) with a properly space-age sans serif font. The term 'syzygy' refers to the moment when three celestial bodies in the same gravitational system -- say, Earth, the moon, and the sun -- are in perfect alignment. (Among other things.) Supposedly this is when the winery harvests their cabernet sauvignon grapes, at a moment of eclipse in 2005. I mentioned this to friend Ray, who was properly (scientifically) sceptical: "It takes longer than the length of an eclipse to bring in a harvest." Nevertheless, the label pleases me, although it is less friendly than Educated Guess.
The new Cab Sauv is due out at the start of may -- the bottle I take home is a full, unblended Syrah from the -- say it with me now -- SYZYGY winery in Walla Walla. I spent my four undergraduate years in Walla Walla, and Syrah was one of the first reds I was exposed to, so I was hoping for something particularly special from this bottle of wine. It was pretty good -- rich, and full, and warming -- but it wasn't anything particularly stunning. Maybe I'll keep an eye out for the cabernet sauvignon in a month.
Syrah's history in the United States, interestingly, involves a group called the Rhone Rangers. They were initially formed in the 1980s, disbanded in the early 1990s, and revived before the end of the prior millennium. The entire purpose of this group appears to be the promotion of and education about the Rhone varietals in America, which includes links to various articles on same from around the country -- including this Australian article detailing how the source of Shiraz' peppery tone had been located by a group of Australian scientists. Considering this and the recent efforts to lock down varietal relationships with DNA tests in oenology labs around the world, a clear tension between Old World terroir-centered methods and New World science-tested methods begins to emerge.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
In Vino Veritas: Science, Wine, and Science-y Wines
Obviously there is a lot to be said about oenophilia, and in particular about the delightful absurdity of its vocabulary. It is easy to get distracted when your technical terms are words like "supple" and "hollow" and "chewy" -- which rightfully have no place in beverage descriptions -- and before you know it you're slinging around your favorite uncommon adjectives -- wistful! sly! insouciant! -- with a complete disregard for accuracy and comprehensibility. Nor does it help in the quest for clarity to note that many varietals have specific aromas that have been identified seemingly at random: for instance, the pencil box note in a glass of Cabernet Franc.
Much as I love this mode of language, I need some sort of anchor if my oenological leanings are to progress. For a while I stood by the German Rieslings, which are invariably delicious, but now I'd like to investigate the reds and the drier whites as well. But where to start? Even if you ignore the less common varietal grapes (Carmenère, anyone?) there's still no obvious place to begin. All you have to go on is a hunch and the impression made by the design of the label on the bottle. Therefore I have decided -- where is my triumphant horn section crescendo? -- to investigate wines with science-y themes.
It is entirely appropriate that the first wine I choose is called Educated Guess, from the Roots Run Deep winery in the infamous Napa Valley. The label approximates an old blackboard, with hexagonal molecular structures and chemical processes chalked out attractively in white on the black background. The winemaker's description is as follows: "Rich, ripe and focused with juicy blackberry and boysenberry fruit, all tied together with a creamy french vanilla middle and a lingering finish." Mine is much less evocative: delicious. Of course, they're talking about the 2005 vintage, and the bottle I tasted was the 2006, which appears to have a much stronger spice than the earlier bottle. For the first time, I have a sense of how the spiciness of a wine can play with both its fruitiness and its sugar level: the peppery note here provides a sharp opening note supported by the rich velvet tone of the fruit, and a smooth lingering sweetness binds the two together like a silk ribbon tied around a stack of love letters. In fact, the more I drink of it, the more I like it -- so much so that by the end of the bottle I have bestowed upon it the title of Favored Red, a title heretofore only possessed by L'Ecole 41's Recess Red.
The varietal here is Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the reds I am growing more interested in, and one which for years was thought to be descended from Roman grapes. However, more recently its true lineage (a blend of Cabernet franc and Sauvignon blanc, just as the name would suggest) was revealed by, of all scientific things, a DNA test.
Much as I love this mode of language, I need some sort of anchor if my oenological leanings are to progress. For a while I stood by the German Rieslings, which are invariably delicious, but now I'd like to investigate the reds and the drier whites as well. But where to start? Even if you ignore the less common varietal grapes (Carmenère, anyone?) there's still no obvious place to begin. All you have to go on is a hunch and the impression made by the design of the label on the bottle. Therefore I have decided -- where is my triumphant horn section crescendo? -- to investigate wines with science-y themes.
It is entirely appropriate that the first wine I choose is called Educated Guess, from the Roots Run Deep winery in the infamous Napa Valley. The label approximates an old blackboard, with hexagonal molecular structures and chemical processes chalked out attractively in white on the black background. The winemaker's description is as follows: "Rich, ripe and focused with juicy blackberry and boysenberry fruit, all tied together with a creamy french vanilla middle and a lingering finish." Mine is much less evocative: delicious. Of course, they're talking about the 2005 vintage, and the bottle I tasted was the 2006, which appears to have a much stronger spice than the earlier bottle. For the first time, I have a sense of how the spiciness of a wine can play with both its fruitiness and its sugar level: the peppery note here provides a sharp opening note supported by the rich velvet tone of the fruit, and a smooth lingering sweetness binds the two together like a silk ribbon tied around a stack of love letters. In fact, the more I drink of it, the more I like it -- so much so that by the end of the bottle I have bestowed upon it the title of Favored Red, a title heretofore only possessed by L'Ecole 41's Recess Red.
The varietal here is Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the reds I am growing more interested in, and one which for years was thought to be descended from Roman grapes. However, more recently its true lineage (a blend of Cabernet franc and Sauvignon blanc, just as the name would suggest) was revealed by, of all scientific things, a DNA test.
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