For some reason I got a kick out of this. Someone pulled a Creative Commons Licensed picture from my Vinotrip photostream and used it in the Wikipedia article on Cabernet Franc. The picture was used originally for Wine Blogging Wednesday #44.

Link to my WBW entry

Some of my favorites from this go-round:

1WineDude drinking some Opus One
Food and Wine Blog tickles all of your senses as he moves from Arbor Mist to 2003 Etude Cabernet Sauvignon
2 Days Per Bottle toasts the Manischewitz

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.

But where there is death, there is life. The host of said party had a half-full bottle of the Selbach in his fridge since the party, and last week braved all odds and drank some of the month-old Riesling. The results were surprising, with the intrepid blogger saying:

This month-old Riesling is still quite pleasant, though. I think it might not be as crisp as it once was, but it pairs well with Mexican veggie burgers and Law and Order reruns.

This is as good of a wine review as you’ll get, and highly complimentary considering I didn’t even dignify the wine with a proper review, instead making a snarky comic strip about the violence I endured. Maybe the acidity was so high that it enabled the wine to keep for so long. Maybe the bottle of $11.99 Riesling was meant to be cellared for five years in glacial conditions. Maybe wine is a biter mistress, hell-bent of confusing bloggers and enthusiasts alike.

Happy Memorial Day.

At the party, I set out two bottles of cheap German Riesling on the counter. I set out a notebook, a pack of pens and markers, and instructions to drink the wine and write down thoughts. My thinking was that I’d end up with several pages of notes from the party-goers. As the notes wore on, they would be more and more influenced by alcohol and, thus, funny. I’d scan the pages and use that as my WBW post in May.

I set everything out and hoped for the best. Instead of the best, I got two notes. One from me, and one from The Wife. Erf. Back to the WBW drawing board.

“Combien plus lion?” I whispered, hoping my murder of the French language wouldn’t cause Henri to throw me from the boat.

“Silence,” he whispered said and looked around to the banks of the river. Both banks were under the cover of night. “The bloggures… they’re everywhere. Partout!”

My late start on Wine Blogging Wednesday had me in my current predicament. First, a trip to my wine shop revealed they were sold out of Loire Reds. “We got run through weeks ago,” The manager said, “There are some supposedly on a crate on the way here, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Ask any retailer who owes you pre-arrival wine, I thought, and there is always wine on a crate on the way Stateside.

Next, the distributors proved to be no help. There was no wine on the way for them and since I lived in Maryland I had no recourse such as having some shipped to myself. “Got to keep the minors safe,” a distributor told me, then lit a fat Cuban cigar with a hundred dollar bill.

I had one choice if I wanted to participate with WBW: Go to the Loire Valley.

And that’s how I found myself in this two-man dingy, straining through the darkness to make out our surroundings as Henri tired up the boat to a tree along the banks.

“Come now, American.” he said, and we stole off up the bank towards a dirt road.

Wine Blogging Wednesday had put a strain on the Loire Valley. There were only a few bottles left, my guide told me when we met in a clandestine meeting at the taxi stand at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Surely, I said, you mean a few bottles left of the current vintage. Perhaps we could find a back vintage, maybe from an off year. I pulled out my vintage chart and Henri snapped it out of my hand. No more bottles, he said, no more bottles anywhere.

“If you want the wine, you have to come with me. Maintenant!” he blew his nose onto my vintage chart and handed it back to me.

At the end of our dirt road, having navigated only by the light of the moon, we arrived at the back of a Chateau. There was a wooden door fit for a hobbit in front of us. It looked old enough to be pre-revolutionary. Henri knocked in a pattern: twice, then a pause, then once more. A code.

There was a long pause while we waited. I pulled my coat up around my neck to try and stay warm in the chilly Loire air. Frosted grass crunched underneath my feet as I shifted. Nerves trembled up to my brain. What if it was a setup? I hadn’t told Henri I was a Blogger. I hadn’t told him that I was part of the group cannibalizing this storied wine region. I said I was a journalist writing a piece on the quest for truth in wine. Henri believed me. At least, I hope he did. Any wine producer in America would be happy to have a run on his wines created by the Blogging community. Nobody in the Loire, though. Here, in the old world, we were the enemy.

The door swung open, before me was Philippe Barton.

Inside his cave underneath the estate, I found it hard to tell which was the truth: that Henri was very small or Philippe was very large. Philippe stood at least six feet tall, had a huge black beard underneath a mop of black hair. A homemade wool sweater hung over his gigantic belly. Phillipe shifted side to side as he walked me to the back, passing huge foudre after foudre of wine. Each had a chalk V on it. Vendu. Sold. I knocked on one. The hollow thump came back at me with disdain.

The bloggers. We’ve taken it all.

In the back, on the ground, there were six bottles on their sides cradled by the Earth. Five were to the right. On top of those there was a mini chalkboard that read “1945 Lafite.”

Beside the one other lone bottle, another chalkboard read “2005 Guy Saget Chinon.”

“Which would you like?” Philippe asked.

Struck with the inability to choose, I stalled. I looked at the Lafite. The labels were worn and moldy. The bottle was cold to the touch. Lafite wasn’t from the Loire, but 1945 Lafite! Thinking quickly, I tried to recall if 1945 was a good year. I stood up and pulled out my vintage chart, scanning for 1945.

“Let me help you.” Philippe said, and turned my vintage chart upside down. “There, now it is of more use.”

I looked at Henri for help. Henri spat on the ground and said nothing.

“I guess he is a journalist after all, Henri.” Philippe said.

I couldn’t tell if he believed me or if he was bluffing. Henri didn’t move. Philippe didn’t move. My stomach sank.

Just then there was a rumble from above. Something was coming down the wooden steps to the subterranean basement. Each step clomped louder than the last. Something large. Something ominous. Philippe looked up in fear.

“Philippe?” Came a voice from up the stairway that was deep and shrill at the same time.

“My wife!” Philippe said. “Allez, allez!”

“Que fais-tu, Philippe?” the voice said. The steps were getting closer.

“If she finds us down here, she’ll have our heads. We must go! The Chinon!” Henry whispered.

I grabbed the Chinon bottle from the damp earthen floor and looked up. The hobbit door was down the long row of foudres, at least 100 meters away. Besides that, the door was next to the staircase base from which Philippe’s large wife tumbled down towards us. We’d never make it in time.

Before I could think of anything else, Henri grabbed my arm and pulled me into a foudre. The front gave way, the inside was empty! An escape tunnel in the basement! We crawled on hands and knees down the pitch black tunnel. Behind me, I could hear Philippe take a lashing from his wife.

“Le dernier Chinon! Ou est-il?” I heard a crash, then a scream. Phlippe the bear-man was screaming. Zut Alors!

She was angry. It would not be a good night for Philippe.

Later, I stood silently on a train platform at Roissy Gare. A few hours had passed since we emerged from the secret tunnel that led us from Philippe’s basement to our salvation on a Loire countryside at dawn. The sky was gray. The air, chilly. Henri stood next to me smoking a cigarette, looking this way and that. He wasn’t protecting me, he was protecting the bottle of wine resting safely in my suitcase.

As my train arrived, Henri snubbed out his cigarette and said “Good luck with your column. Please spread the word about truth in wine. It reflects the Earth and the maker, not some score on some vintage chart.” I shook his hand and boarded.

From my seat on the rolling train I shouted back at him “Henri, you can read all about it…

…on my blog”

The train sped off toward Paris.

Fin

Initially the 2005 Guy Saget Chinon Les Tenanceaux was disjointed, astringent, and a little alcoholic, but after an hour or so it lightened up. Paired with a panini sandwich and roasted broccoli, it actually came together well. Nutty aromas with some coffee. Tasted like leathery red berries, which sounds bad but was actually pretty good. Recommended for $15, just watch out for Philippe’s wife.