In Vino Veritas

Lileks on the grape today:

You know, there’s nothing wrong with Merlot. That damned “Sideways” movie just made it difficult to drink without fear that someone will kick down the door, slap it out of your hand and make you drink something earthier, with notes of berry, fir, paper, turnip, and the digestive lubricant of the common weevil. I like earthy wines, but when someone gives you a merlot, you ought to drink it. Eventually.

I am going through my wine cellar, starting from oldest to newest (see? I’m not a total novice), just to clear out the stuff before it converts to vinegar. I know, I know: it improves with age. Except when it doesn’t, and gets ruined by temperature variations. I should note that the “cellar” is the downstairs storage closet – an excellent room for storing wine, but probably a little too cool. Or hot. I don’t know. I do know that I pulled out a white a while ago, and the stuff in the bottle would cut through the deck of the Nostromo. Then again, I bought it for the usual sensible, informed reasons:

It was on sale

I liked the label

I’ve said this before, but I’m convinced that label design is the single greatest factor in impulse wine sales. There’s a wine called “Barefoot,” and I’ll never buy it, simply because the picture on the bottle makes you think of someone’s foot squishing the grapes. I know it’s a fine honored old-country tradition, but if there is one item I do not want as the intermediary between the grape and my mouth, it is someone else’s foot. Usually I drink Australian wine – Penfold’s, to be specific, because the label had a classic old font and a severe, dignified layout. It looked like something they’d pull out in an English club in 1947.

Yup. I've noticed that even the Italians are getting into this. Most of my everday plonk comes from Bolla and Citra, both of which vinyards have been fiddling around with their look recently. (Don't mock me about the Citra. It is quite a few steps up from rat poison, it's under eight bucks for 1.5 ml and I'm on a guv'mint salary.)

As it happens, we're hosting our church's monthly-young-families-potluck "Circle" party this weekend. Although I loathe parties in general, I always enjoy these because it's such a nice and interesting group of people. Plus the fact that we're entertaining at Orgle Manor means that I will have complete carte blanc to do as much uninterrupted yardwork as I care to on Saturday.

One label I'm sure to see, unfortunately, is this one, IMHO the single worst cotton-candy-cum-cough-syrup available on the market today that doesn't actually come with straw to poke through the top of the package:

Ai! how I hate this stuff. And yet I can't remember the last party I attended at which it wasn't there, lurking on the drinks table, knowing full well that when everything else ran out, I'd come crawling to it despite its double-coyote ugliness.

Of course, there's always the odd chance that somebody will show up with this:

I've never tried it. I reckon it couldn't be any worse that the Yellow Tail, but then again, it could be just as bad.