WBW #48: Older Vintages

The fog peeled down off of Twin Peaks. I pulled the hood of my hoodie up to keep the chill off during another typical San Francisco summer day.

I turned into Chronos, my favorite wine shop in Noe Valley. Boxy, dusty. Bottles stacked to the ceiling. It looked and smelled like a used book store that was swelled beyond capacity. If I was going to find my wine, this was the place. I needed a 2002 Tormaresca Bocca di Lupo for Wine Blogging Wednesday and I needed it in a hurry because I was late. It was turning into Wine Blogging Friday.

The owner, and by all appearances the only employee, was an old man with thick coke bottle glasses. Like every other day, he was posted behind the counter reading a book that looked a hundred years old. Inside the store, you crane your neck up high to see the tops while you’re walking making you likely to trip over some bottles on special laid out on the floor. Common plonk. Rare, hard to find deals. It was all here. Sections were marked with little index card shaped chalkboards with familiar names scrawled in chalk: Tuscany, Bordeaux, Burgundy. They get you to the right area but if you’re looking for something specific, you’ll need to ask.

I needed something specific.

2002 Bocca di Lupo changed how I feel about wine. I was just starting to get into wine and this one was my first WOW. Loved the smoothness, the composure. Like a refined wine, but one that still didn’t take too much fuss to make.

I asked the owner: did he have any bottles left?

Nope. None left of the Bocca. The 2001 was fantastic, and the 2002 followed suit with a sellout.

“Where could I get some?” I asked.

“It’s gone. Everywhere. We have plenty of reds from Puglia and some nice Aglianicos. You can find something you like, young man. I’m sure of it.”

“I need the Bocca. The blogs are doing this thing where we drank wines from back in the day and I was going to blog about the Bocca–”

His ears perked up and he cut me off.

“Blogger, huh?” He sized me up through the think glasses at the end of his nose. “I like blogs.”

I found it hard to believe that this old man had ever even seen a computer, much less a blog. It was San Francisco, though, he was probably a retired dot-commer like everyone else.

He sized me up again. “Maybe I can find some somewhere. How bad do you want it?”

Badly.

He led me back through the stacks, through a back room with a low ceiling and one dim lightbulb, down a rickety staircase, through a dank and moldy hallway, down another set of stairs carved out of the stone foundation. Finally we cane to a wooden door. On the door hung a simple sign:

Older Vintages

He opened the door and motioned me in.

I went into the darkness and he closed the door behind me. I immediately turned around and went back out protesting that there was no wine in there, only darkness. The man was gone. It was just me in the musty cellar.

I went up the stairs, down the hallway, up the other stairs, and back out into the store.

Sunlight poured in from windows that had been previously covered by stacks of wooden wine boxes. People milled about the store comparing prices and bottles, deciding what to buy. Behind the register was the owner. He looked fresher. His hair less gray. His lenses thinner. The whole place and an all-together sunnier atmosphere.

“I Couldn’t find the Bocca in the basement,” I said.

“I’m sorry?” He replied.

“The Bocca Di Lupo. It wasn’t in the basement. Funny trick.”

“I’m sorry I don’t follow,” he said. “If you’re looking for the Bocca di Lupo, the 2002 just came in. It’s in the corner with the rest of the Southern Italians.

I looked a the owner, he looked at me, then I looked down at the Wine Spectator on the countertop.
It was dated May 2004.

He caught my confusion and smiled. “Ah,” he said, “I’ve sent you back.”

He leaned in and whispered to me “You must be one of them. A blogger. You must be worthy. Take what you need and be along. Don’t dawdle, otherwise you may run into yourself.” He smiled. I went to the Southern Italian section without another word.

There were three vintages of the Bocca Di Lupo available: the 2000, 2001, and the 2002 which I had sought to buy. I took out my pocket vintage chart to compare and deciphered the colored grid quickly. 2001 was no doubt a superior vintage. Would that be cheating if I drank that instead of the 2002? Could I pull it off? The temptation of the vintage ratings, it was always there.

I decided to stick to the 2002. Who are we bloggers without our integrity?

I slipped out the back of the store, through the dank room, down the wooden stairs, the musty hallway, down the stone stairs, and back to the nondescript door. This time, the wooden sign said:

Pre-arrivals

I liked the joke so much I almost didn’t notice the fat man in a suit sitting on a folding chair in front of the door.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “You can’t take that.”

I knew it. A catch. I can’t get home from here. I can have the wine but I have to stay here.

“I have to taste it here?” I asked.

“Not the wine,” he said, and motioned to the vintage chart still in my hand. He plucked it from me with his meaty fingers and opened the door.

“Have a good trip, sir.”

When I got back, I tasted the 2002 Tormaresca Bocca Di Lupo. The old world Earth was there like I remembered. The tannins gripped and the black fruit welled up on my tongue. It was more jammy than before, less elegant and more flashy.

It was less moving than before. The wine was still strong, but since I first tasted it I had been through many more fantastic wines. Not bad, not disappointing, but the Earth did not move.

I can always go back and get more.