Putt O'Nyos

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the tables have turned

In this is talking juice on November 22, 2012 at 6:10 pm

While I enjoyed Matt Kramer’s recent piece, “Interrogating Your Wine: Five Questions You Should Ask Every Wine,” interrogation does seem a bit one-sided. Wine is about conversation. I’m not advocating talking with inanimate objects (although wine is hardly inanimate) but I think it’s time we stop asking questions of our wine and instead ponder what a wine would ask of us.

The tables have turned, bitch: your wine is interrogating you.

Tokaji Aszú 6 Puttonyos, Hétszölö:

Hey, do you mind slowing down a bit? Yea, I’m talking to you: stop guzzling me down like some Frat Bro knocking back Jager Bombs. I’m sweet, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like regular juice. I’m botrytised, bitch. Do you even know what that means? It means workers are outside in the late fall –this is Hungary, not Napa- hand-picking berry by rotten berry. You see that number on my label? It’s six, not three. Six fucking puttonyos. But I’m guessing you don’t understand what that means, either. I’ll make it easy for you: do you smell apricots, quince, and saffron? No? Try again. Don’t be a girl, really stick your nose in the glass. You’ll smell at least all that because I’ve got a whole lot more of those botrytized berries in me. So slow the fuck down. I’m insightful, are you even trying to listen?

Excuse me? Did you just call me a Sauternes knock-off? What’s got a golden colour and 118 years on the Bordeaux Classification? This guy. I’m the Original Wine of Kings, the True Golden Nectar of the Gods coming from the world’s first demarcated wine region. Sip on that.

Barbaresco, Produttori del Barbaresco, 2006:

Ahhh, air. It feels good to breathe. Oh, and I see you’ve brought me to impress your boss. Don’t you deserve a pat on the back.

Wait, you’re pouring me already? How much air did you think that centimeter of space was actually giving me?

Muted? Is that what you just called me? I’ve been asleep for six years, remember? Here’s an idea: I’ll wake you up in the middle of the night and see how animated you are. I’m sure you’d have loads to say. 

The Queen to Barolo’s King? Feminine? What does that even mean? Google didn’t tell you that much, did it? Is it because I’m supposed to smell of rose petals? Maybe I would if you let me open up.

Still quite tannic? Gee, ‘ya think? I’m nebbiolo, bitch. I’m one thick-skinned and finicky mother-fucker, not grow-me-where-you-will-and-have-your-way-with-me chardonnay. I need time, but it seems you’re ok with infanticide. Bravo, Capo, you’ve really knocked this one out of the park.

Character? I’ve got plenty of it, and it’s not something you’ll find anywhere else. Believe me, many have tried. And failed. So treat me with a modicum of respect.

Is that truffle oil next to me? Oh, for fuck’s sake.  

Riesling, Rippon, 2007:

Hey, could you give me a chance?

Judging from the look on your face, you’re confused. Or constipated – that’s really a weird face you’ve got. I’m a Kiwi. I’m not Sauvignon Blanc. Get used to it, there’s a lot of us out there – although I do happen to be one of the best.

Whoa, now you look really confused. Is that because of the simultaneous sweet and acidic sensations you’re perceiving? That’s right, I’m Riesling, and that’s what I do best (and better than everyone else.) While I’m far from home, I’m doing very well, thank you very much.

Do you really want to save me for dessert? Is your sense of taste so primitive that all signs of sweet must be relegated to the end of the meal? Really.

What’s that? Are you talking smack about me? I know you love my German friends, but give me a chance. I’m from schist gravels in the southernmost wine region in the world. I’m never gonna be Spätlese from the Mosel, and I’m not trying to be.

You know what? Let’s have a brief chat now, and then get back to me in an hour. You probably won’t even recognize me, I’m that cool.

If you’re smart you’ll want more of these wines – but do they want more of you?