And I’m hardly surprised in this case as my sister was the maker of this wine. Quick notes, as more specifics are to be later typed: dark, heavier body than most Zin pursuers will be used to; dark notes, chocolate, maple, cedar– balanced, playful, and antagonistic. I won’t lie, I’m a fan of my sister’s wines. While at St. Francis, I tasted the only Chard they were pouring, the SoCo, and three Zins. This is the one I brought home. Was proud of myself for only getting one bottle, as I’m such a wine bagger. Paired this bottle with carne asada tacos. Now I want to research winemaking more, get myself to a knowledge level where I have the choice of starting my own “label” and knowing it’d be successful, profitable in the first year. But then I choose to write about it. Why spend all that money when I could just find one of my legal sheet blocks?
Another sip… a little hot. Think the alc is 15.5 or 15.8. A little higher than I’d like, but I can’t think that way as a consumer; winemakers won’t make wines for you. There’s a balance of expressiveness and artistic integrity, and then vintage/varietal representation and its marketability. She has a tough job, my little sister, one demanding and changing and unexpected, and around-the-clock. I used to be obsessed with Zinfandel, the only wine type I’d pull from shelves, but then I found bottles that were too fruity and too everest in alc, unbalanced and barbaric. But not this RR fruit; there’s a poise to its personality that would overshadow the alc even if it were in the 16’s. It’s hard for me to calculate and solve, but then maybe it’s not meant to.
I look at what’s left int he glass. And I don’t want to sip it– wait, am I writing my review right now? No. I don’t write reviews. I react. And this wine is vocal and elementally enigmatic about its accentedness. And it’s a Zin. Russian River’s known mostly for Pinot and Chardonnay, I guess. So with that little capsule of sagacity I can only be somewhat stunned with a Zin from their AVA. I keep staring. The color. How’d she get it to such fuliginous, and with oak-woven notes that can only a palate provoke– Ugh, I sound like a wine blogger now. This is the kind of wine I’d write to, that I’d finish a novel to. That’s I’d have in my hotel room, writing, watching unfamiliar streets from a high floor as I did in Paris, with my wife asleep behind me.
I’m just playing with the vampiric cloud in the glass, turning it clockwise, then counter, seeing how its shape changes and varied intentions become even more postmodern. Now, more smoke; then chocolate covered cherry. I used to write about a character who sipped this very form of red. What would she say? She sip slower than me. I’m a writer, a Beat– undisciplined and rattling– an incensed mamba. “Understand the voice,” she’d urge, then go back to painting.