alcotourism
Day 2 in Wine Country: Alexander & Russian River Valleys
First, we have to give props to a couple of books we used to figure out what we were going to do:
At this point, it might also be instructive to list the wineries we visited, and some we planned to, but didn't:
In the Alexander Valley:
In the Russian River Valley:
Was it any wonder we were up early? We were excited to try our most ambitious day of wine tasting we'd ever planned, and besides, the "queen size" bed at the Geyserville Inn was hard as cut granite (seriously, guys—our kidneys ached). Of course, it also helped that we were in bed early the previous night, since there is nothing to do after dinner in wine country. But rising early was perhaps not the best plan, since none of the wineries opened until 10. So we drove into Healdsburg for breakfast, upon the insistence of the Alcotouristess, who wanted to visit the Downtown Bakery & Creamery. Every guidebook and online review coos about this place, and the Alcotouristess was quite impressed with the blueberry plum pocket she ordered. Before you go, consider that there is no seating, and if you're not taking your pastries home or back to your hotel, your only option is to enjoy it in the Healdsburg town square among the throngs of migrant workers who gather there each morning.
It's worth a pause here to tip our hats to the underground economy poised on the backs of migrant workers that allowed us to have a hedonistic and decadent vacation in wine country. I'm not an expert on the issue, but I suspect that the gente we saw in the park did not have any kind of health insurance or 401(k). As a consumer of wine and spirits, I'd like to declare that I would not mind the upcharge per bottle that a good health plan would cost for these workers.
So we sat in the park with the aforementioned blueberry plum pocket, a sticky bun, a whole wheat currant scone, and two coffees. I found the scone dry and dreadful, and was glad the Alcotouristess opted for sweeter fare. The coffee was very good.
We finished our breakfasts and headed back to Château Souverain. It was 9:15, and the castle didn't open until 10. We suddenly remembered we needed a disposable camera (donations of a digital gladly accepted) from the drug store. So we drove back to the Healdsburg Rite Aid to kill some time. We got back to the castle at 9:45. We must have looked like desperate dry drunks.
Fortunately, the best thing that can be said about Château Souverain is that the building and the grounds are stunningly beautiful. We took a little walk through the gardens and looked at the lavender plants, heirloom tomatoes, Italian peppers, squash, blackberries, pear and apple trees, all growing in neat little clusters around the vineyard. We joked that we would affectedly point out "hints of lavender and pepper spice" in their Merlot, like some balding, hypertense sommelier. If that were only the case.
The opulent tasting room doors opened, and we entered what looked like Dean and DeLuca's wet dream. You could buy all manner of corkscrews, decanters, aprons, jams, jellies, oils, tapenades, and home decor. We went straight to the counter. A college-aged girl greeted us, and when she found out where we were from, announced that she was studying Journalism in Long Beach. Good for you. Now pour.
The wines that we hoped had soaked up the opulent atmosphere were flat and had little character. I've learned to dread the "we're famous for our Chardonnay" pitch that you hear at every third winery in the area. Eventually, we wised up and asked for "reds only" tastings, but this was the first stop of the day, and we indulged the budding journalist.
"Nutty," I said.
"Ick," I thought.
None of the rest of the wines merited dissertation, but we picked up a $20 bottle of Mourvedre to recoup our $5 tasting fees (a failed strategy, as pointed out by the Alcotouristess in the Day 1 article). The journalist only knocked $5 off, since it was only one bottle—a pretty cheap move, I thought, for a girl who works in a castle. Which brings me to this rule of thumb: Wineries whose names begin with Château usually focus more on the castle than they do on the juice. If you want to impress your dull-paletted in-laws, go ahead and take them to a Château. If you want to try good wine, you can generally skip the places with the over-manicured lawns and storybook turrets.
Off we went to Trentadue, another over-opulent property in the valley. Both Trentadue and Souverain, it must be said, were hosting weddings on this particular Saturday. We were glad we got an early start. I would not have been able to resist spilling something on a bustling wedding planner as she waddled by, madly arranging place settings or something. We were greeted by a very professional looking host at the counter, who made us cough up another five bucks each to taste. If we made a comment on a particular wine, she would smile and nod like a real estate agent trying to sell a tract house. There was another group of two young couples there who seemed to be enjoying themselves. One identified himself as a "local." That's nice. We reached the end of a rather short tasting, gave our "we're just tasting today, and we don't want the wine to spoil in our car, and anyway we'll come back to purchase before we leave on Monday" speech, and left. We were off to a disappointing start.
If Trentadue and Souverain were suburban castles, Clos Du Bois did nothing to hide that it was a factory. We have a soft spot for Clos Du Bois, because we really started our fascination with wine around their '97 Merlot. Jammy and tannic for that varietal, it was pleasing to our novice palates. It must also be said that our "Clos Du Bois" period coincided with our first year of dating—a mad, randy, ravenous affair—so it has a charming patina, looking back. However, nothing we tasted on this day quite measured up to our reveries of that '97. We entered the tasting room and came up to an empty spot on the horseshoe-shaped counter. Another co-ed host in a midriffless baby-doll tee quickly told us that those spots on the counter were reserved, and we had to go taste from the crowded side. We squeezed in among some brochures for Kendall Jackson and the petrified forest—charming. We got to taste almost everything, though. The co-eds even poured us some Marlstone and Briarcrest proprietaries, which were good, but not enough to take home. I liked their Pinot, but the Alcotouristess poured it out. Off we went.
And that's when we reached the Canyon Road winery, which was the first really good place of the day. We tasted in a little outbuilding next to their big stone cellar, and the hosts were full of youthful candor and enthusiasm. We particularly enjoyed a unique Zinfandel made by their (female!) assistant winemaker, Ondine Chattan, under her own label. It was called XYZin, and we bought a bottle for $30—a great value. It wasn't an old-vine Zin in the classic sense, but it had an exotic spicy character that we thought was delicious, if esoteric. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
Next, we traveled to the east side of the Alexander Valley to visit Stryker, which had the best view yet. Their glass tasting room was perched on a knoll with a 180-degree view of the valley. We were treated to some fantastic Zins at this small estate winery, and took a bottle of their 2001 Dry Creek Valley Zin home for just $22. The wine reveals exotic fruit and spice with that distinct alcohol stab of a Zinfandel. Zins are high in alcohol to balance the incredible power of the fruit. More than once, after a nudge-nudge, wink-wink from a host, we were told that the particular Zin we were drinking was nicknamed "panties off," or something similar. We've already had the Dry Creek bottle at home, and can vouch that it removes panties expertly.
A bit down the road, we found Sausal, an unassuming little tasting room butting the hills on the east side of the valley. They had a great young man serving the tastings, and he was eager to pour "off-list" wines, which we always appreciate. He asked us what we'd enjoyed so far, and we told him about the 2002 Omaggio at Seghesio, a Super Tuscan we bought. He smiled and pulled out Sausal's own Super Tuscan, a 2003 Sogno Della Famiglia, a young wine, to be sure, but bursting with character and potential. We bought a bottle for $30, and he refunded both our tasting fees (thank you very much). He also told us not to miss the Zins at White Oak Vineyards across the street.
We were in need of lunch, but far afield. We carefully pulled out of the driveway and drove across the street. We asked the host at White Oak politely if we could try only the reds, and she courteously complied. The Zin was another winner. We took home a bottle of their $36 2002 Estate Zinfandel, which was luscious and peppery, with almost numbing amounts of alcohol and anise. We really needed lunch.
We headed back to Healdsburg, but made an ill-advised stop at Alexander Valley Vineyards on the way. The Alcotouristess was in fits of hiccups. I was still okay to drive, since I'd been dutifully pouring out the more potent Zins after one taste. We tried to discreetly ask the host if they had a deli, or any food available on the premisis. She said they didn't but generously poured the Alcotouristess a glass of water while I tasted. I'd been looking for a nice Cabernet Sauvignon, and found a leathery, dark-chocolaty 2002 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon. I picked up a bottle for us, and one for a co-worker who is into Cab. It was only $20, but here is a warning you can take to the bank: Recently, I saw a bottle of the same wine at Vons, a grocery store in Burbank, on sale for $15.99. It's always good to ask about distribution when you're tasting. If the bottle is available in your local grocery store (or even grocery stores in wine country, which as you can imagine, are really well stocked), chances are that you can get the bottle cheaper there. The wineries don't have a choice, as contractually, they can't undercut their distributors. Retail stores are not bound by this, since they are the end of the supply chain.
We took the Alexander Valley Vineyards brochure home, and I later saw that they run secondary fermentation on their reds, which I found odd, since that's usually something you only do to remove malolactic acid from whites—it's what gives a lot of Chardonnays that "creamy" taste. As I understand it, reds do a natural secondary fermentation on their own, so I'm not sure why you'd add another dose of yeast, unless you were trying to hide something. If anyone can set me straight on this, please post a comment.
We limped into Healdsburg, and stopped at the Healdsburg Bar and Grill for lunch. We had a wonderful, pungent pizza with gorgonzola and sun-dried tomatoes, and some of their famous onion rings. We craved grease. We didn't have any wine with lunch, but drank copious amounts of water. We boxed up half of the pizza, and put it in the back of the car. Happily sober again, we continued down the Russian River into its namesake valley.
I was excited to see Roshambo, since they do this silly rock-paper-scissors motif, and I saw a thing they did on seitan (say "satan"), a wonderful meat substitute made of wheat gluten that can convincingly masquerade as braised chicken, flank steak, or even lobster. According to our Lonely Planet guide, Roshambo had this "I worship Seitan" t-shirt, which I thought was fabulous. But then we got there and there was no place to park. It's not that I'm overly concerned about parking—it's just that I don't like crowds in a tasting room, and Roshambo looked like a zoo. We adhered to our "no parkey-no tastey" policy, which we also later invoked at V. Sattui in Napa, and moved on. I'm sure there's some clever rock-paper-scissors pun in this, but we're not that kind of blog.
Most wineries close at 4:30 or 5, and it was already past 2. Hop Kiln was the winery I most wanted to see in the Russian River valley, so we skipped Belvedere, since we saw that it was open until 6. Apparently, the Russian River valley's cash crop was once hops, and not grapes as it is now. In later posts, I will reveal my full obsession with the hop, but for now, I really wanted to see the winery built in an old hop kiln, which is essentially a high-ceilinged barn used to dry hops. Its namesake vine grew on the outside of the building, and I rubbed a few hop cones in my fingers and sniffed. Ambrosia. We went in, and the rustic barn was hopping with people that out-aged us by 20 years at least. The wines were generally inexpensive, as Hop Kiln has a tradition of making jug wines. Still, for the price, the nonvintage Big Red blend was a great value at $13.50. I picked up a bottle for another co-worker who professed to be a "wine virgin." I couldn't think of a better bottle to start appreciating wine with. It was bold, fruity, not too tannic, and while not complex, I'd tasted much simpler wines that day for twice the price.
Next, at the insistence of the Alcotouristess, we visited the Korbel Sparkling Wine estate, a sprawling ode to yeast and tour buses. We tasted some grocery store champagne, looked at the deli, and left. Still, it was a refreshing afternoon break.
We then headed south to Topolos, where I thought we'd taste and then have dinner at their on-site restaurant. We found the winery in surprising disarray. All wines were on clearance and the restaurant was closed. Someone had bought the property, and Topolos appeared to be in the middle of its last gasp. We tasted anyway, but found nothing remarkable. I mused we weren't giving Topolos a fair shake because of palate fatigue, but we were pleasantly relieved of that presumption at Bevedere (more on that later). The wines were shabby and unremarkable. One thing of interest was a thank you note on the wall from former first lady Hillary Clinton. They had poured Topolos wines at an estate dinner for some Greek diplomat, and sent their kudos and a picture. That was nice. I'm sure Laura Bush is too busy firing her chefs to ever send out a thoughtful thank-you like that to a winery, and anyway, her psychotic husband is (now) a professed teetotaller.
We made it to Belvedere by 5:30, and found a revelatory Zin and the best Pinot we'd tried all day. The Zin was lively and complex, but not too staid, and the Pinot was smooth and delicate with multiple layers on the palate—the best I'd had outside of Santa Barbara County. Anyway, the grounds at Belvedere were beautiful, with multiple picnic tables on a terraced lavender garden. They also do something here that few other wineries do—they sell wine by the glass, and let you enjoy it outside. The sun was going down on the hill behind us, and we took our glasses out to a secluded picnic table, fetched the rest of our pizza from the car, and watched the reflection of the sunset on the high east hills of the valley. They told us to sample the Pinot grapes in the adjacent vineyard, and we did. Marvelous. We finished our pizza, and walked around the grounds, scaring up quail and enjoying the breeze as it wafted through the eucalyptus. We stayed until after 6, but the folks at the counter didn't mind. Everyone was enjoying the waning sun.
One weird thing about the experience was that Belvedere used a pneumatic wine corker. It is essentially a carbon-dioxide-driven hypodermic needle that you inject past the bottom of the cork, and then blast the inert gas into the bottle until the cork pops. Over the top.
We then took a drive up to Lake Sonoma and hiked around for a while. I then got it in my head that we should take the mountain road to the beach, which was 34 miles of hairpin turns, high climbs, and dizzying descents. Way too ambitious after the day we had. By the time we reached the ocean, we had to look at it by moonlight. We tried to find a better road back by going south on the PCH, but that was harrowing as well. We finally made it back to Geyserville past 11:30, exhausted. The Alcotouristess was carsick, and not even the plank-hard bed at the Geyserville Inn could thwart our impending unconsciousness.
Lonely Planet Road Trip: Napa & Sonoma Wine Country. Well laid out, with color maps and some catty commentary, but far from comprehensive. Still, we reached for it a lot in the car, since the layout makes everything pretty easy to find. One gripe: The author, Richard Sterling, seemed to be OBSESSED with where to get a "good martini" in wine country. Is there any such thing as a "good martini"? Come on! This book is supposed to be about wine country, and I think he mentions the garbage cocktail for mindless Sex in the City zombies six times in a 64-page guide book. Then I looked at his picture, and all was revealed. The man wears turtlenecks.- The Best of the Wine Country by Don and Betty Martin. After finding the Lonely Planet book inadequate for planning our itineraries, I picked up this tome in a map store. I wanted comprehensive, and I got it. It has itineraries, winery descriptions, activities, restaurants, and the kitchen sink on all major California appellations, not just the Napa/Sonoma region we were visiting. I based our itineraries for the Alexander and Russian River valleys on the Martins' sample itineraries. What's cool about it is that the itineraries are ordered geographically, and then the descriptions of each recommended winery follow in the same order. If one description failed to impress, we simply crossed it off the itinerary and kept going. If something piqued our interest on the road, we could look it up immediately. We plan to go to Paso Robles, Temecula, and back to Santa Ynez in the future, so this book is definitely a keeper.
At this point, it might also be instructive to list the wineries we visited, and some we planned to, but didn't:
In the Alexander Valley:
- Château Souverain
- Trentadue
- Clos Du Bois
- Canyon Road
- Stryker
- Sausal
- White Oak (not on our list, but recommended by Sausal, so we went)
- Alexander Valley Vineyards
In the Russian River Valley:
- Roshambo (On our list, but when we arrived the lot was full, so we split)
- Belvedere (skipped it at first, but so glad we returned)
- Hop Kiln
- Korbel
- Topolos
Was it any wonder we were up early? We were excited to try our most ambitious day of wine tasting we'd ever planned, and besides, the "queen size" bed at the Geyserville Inn was hard as cut granite (seriously, guys—our kidneys ached). Of course, it also helped that we were in bed early the previous night, since there is nothing to do after dinner in wine country. But rising early was perhaps not the best plan, since none of the wineries opened until 10. So we drove into Healdsburg for breakfast, upon the insistence of the Alcotouristess, who wanted to visit the Downtown Bakery & Creamery. Every guidebook and online review coos about this place, and the Alcotouristess was quite impressed with the blueberry plum pocket she ordered. Before you go, consider that there is no seating, and if you're not taking your pastries home or back to your hotel, your only option is to enjoy it in the Healdsburg town square among the throngs of migrant workers who gather there each morning.
It's worth a pause here to tip our hats to the underground economy poised on the backs of migrant workers that allowed us to have a hedonistic and decadent vacation in wine country. I'm not an expert on the issue, but I suspect that the gente we saw in the park did not have any kind of health insurance or 401(k). As a consumer of wine and spirits, I'd like to declare that I would not mind the upcharge per bottle that a good health plan would cost for these workers.
So we sat in the park with the aforementioned blueberry plum pocket, a sticky bun, a whole wheat currant scone, and two coffees. I found the scone dry and dreadful, and was glad the Alcotouristess opted for sweeter fare. The coffee was very good.
We finished our breakfasts and headed back to Château Souverain. It was 9:15, and the castle didn't open until 10. We suddenly remembered we needed a disposable camera (donations of a digital gladly accepted) from the drug store. So we drove back to the Healdsburg Rite Aid to kill some time. We got back to the castle at 9:45. We must have looked like desperate dry drunks.
Fortunately, the best thing that can be said about Château Souverain is that the building and the grounds are stunningly beautiful. We took a little walk through the gardens and looked at the lavender plants, heirloom tomatoes, Italian peppers, squash, blackberries, pear and apple trees, all growing in neat little clusters around the vineyard. We joked that we would affectedly point out "hints of lavender and pepper spice" in their Merlot, like some balding, hypertense sommelier. If that were only the case.
The opulent tasting room doors opened, and we entered what looked like Dean and DeLuca's wet dream. You could buy all manner of corkscrews, decanters, aprons, jams, jellies, oils, tapenades, and home decor. We went straight to the counter. A college-aged girl greeted us, and when she found out where we were from, announced that she was studying Journalism in Long Beach. Good for you. Now pour.
The wines that we hoped had soaked up the opulent atmosphere were flat and had little character. I've learned to dread the "we're famous for our Chardonnay" pitch that you hear at every third winery in the area. Eventually, we wised up and asked for "reds only" tastings, but this was the first stop of the day, and we indulged the budding journalist.
"Nutty," I said.
"Ick," I thought.
None of the rest of the wines merited dissertation, but we picked up a $20 bottle of Mourvedre to recoup our $5 tasting fees (a failed strategy, as pointed out by the Alcotouristess in the Day 1 article). The journalist only knocked $5 off, since it was only one bottle—a pretty cheap move, I thought, for a girl who works in a castle. Which brings me to this rule of thumb: Wineries whose names begin with Château usually focus more on the castle than they do on the juice. If you want to impress your dull-paletted in-laws, go ahead and take them to a Château. If you want to try good wine, you can generally skip the places with the over-manicured lawns and storybook turrets.
Off we went to Trentadue, another over-opulent property in the valley. Both Trentadue and Souverain, it must be said, were hosting weddings on this particular Saturday. We were glad we got an early start. I would not have been able to resist spilling something on a bustling wedding planner as she waddled by, madly arranging place settings or something. We were greeted by a very professional looking host at the counter, who made us cough up another five bucks each to taste. If we made a comment on a particular wine, she would smile and nod like a real estate agent trying to sell a tract house. There was another group of two young couples there who seemed to be enjoying themselves. One identified himself as a "local." That's nice. We reached the end of a rather short tasting, gave our "we're just tasting today, and we don't want the wine to spoil in our car, and anyway we'll come back to purchase before we leave on Monday" speech, and left. We were off to a disappointing start.
If Trentadue and Souverain were suburban castles, Clos Du Bois did nothing to hide that it was a factory. We have a soft spot for Clos Du Bois, because we really started our fascination with wine around their '97 Merlot. Jammy and tannic for that varietal, it was pleasing to our novice palates. It must also be said that our "Clos Du Bois" period coincided with our first year of dating—a mad, randy, ravenous affair—so it has a charming patina, looking back. However, nothing we tasted on this day quite measured up to our reveries of that '97. We entered the tasting room and came up to an empty spot on the horseshoe-shaped counter. Another co-ed host in a midriffless baby-doll tee quickly told us that those spots on the counter were reserved, and we had to go taste from the crowded side. We squeezed in among some brochures for Kendall Jackson and the petrified forest—charming. We got to taste almost everything, though. The co-eds even poured us some Marlstone and Briarcrest proprietaries, which were good, but not enough to take home. I liked their Pinot, but the Alcotouristess poured it out. Off we went.
And that's when we reached the Canyon Road winery, which was the first really good place of the day. We tasted in a little outbuilding next to their big stone cellar, and the hosts were full of youthful candor and enthusiasm. We particularly enjoyed a unique Zinfandel made by their (female!) assistant winemaker, Ondine Chattan, under her own label. It was called XYZin, and we bought a bottle for $30—a great value. It wasn't an old-vine Zin in the classic sense, but it had an exotic spicy character that we thought was delicious, if esoteric. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
Next, we traveled to the east side of the Alexander Valley to visit Stryker, which had the best view yet. Their glass tasting room was perched on a knoll with a 180-degree view of the valley. We were treated to some fantastic Zins at this small estate winery, and took a bottle of their 2001 Dry Creek Valley Zin home for just $22. The wine reveals exotic fruit and spice with that distinct alcohol stab of a Zinfandel. Zins are high in alcohol to balance the incredible power of the fruit. More than once, after a nudge-nudge, wink-wink from a host, we were told that the particular Zin we were drinking was nicknamed "panties off," or something similar. We've already had the Dry Creek bottle at home, and can vouch that it removes panties expertly.
A bit down the road, we found Sausal, an unassuming little tasting room butting the hills on the east side of the valley. They had a great young man serving the tastings, and he was eager to pour "off-list" wines, which we always appreciate. He asked us what we'd enjoyed so far, and we told him about the 2002 Omaggio at Seghesio, a Super Tuscan we bought. He smiled and pulled out Sausal's own Super Tuscan, a 2003 Sogno Della Famiglia, a young wine, to be sure, but bursting with character and potential. We bought a bottle for $30, and he refunded both our tasting fees (thank you very much). He also told us not to miss the Zins at White Oak Vineyards across the street.
We were in need of lunch, but far afield. We carefully pulled out of the driveway and drove across the street. We asked the host at White Oak politely if we could try only the reds, and she courteously complied. The Zin was another winner. We took home a bottle of their $36 2002 Estate Zinfandel, which was luscious and peppery, with almost numbing amounts of alcohol and anise. We really needed lunch.
We headed back to Healdsburg, but made an ill-advised stop at Alexander Valley Vineyards on the way. The Alcotouristess was in fits of hiccups. I was still okay to drive, since I'd been dutifully pouring out the more potent Zins after one taste. We tried to discreetly ask the host if they had a deli, or any food available on the premisis. She said they didn't but generously poured the Alcotouristess a glass of water while I tasted. I'd been looking for a nice Cabernet Sauvignon, and found a leathery, dark-chocolaty 2002 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon. I picked up a bottle for us, and one for a co-worker who is into Cab. It was only $20, but here is a warning you can take to the bank: Recently, I saw a bottle of the same wine at Vons, a grocery store in Burbank, on sale for $15.99. It's always good to ask about distribution when you're tasting. If the bottle is available in your local grocery store (or even grocery stores in wine country, which as you can imagine, are really well stocked), chances are that you can get the bottle cheaper there. The wineries don't have a choice, as contractually, they can't undercut their distributors. Retail stores are not bound by this, since they are the end of the supply chain.
We took the Alexander Valley Vineyards brochure home, and I later saw that they run secondary fermentation on their reds, which I found odd, since that's usually something you only do to remove malolactic acid from whites—it's what gives a lot of Chardonnays that "creamy" taste. As I understand it, reds do a natural secondary fermentation on their own, so I'm not sure why you'd add another dose of yeast, unless you were trying to hide something. If anyone can set me straight on this, please post a comment.
We limped into Healdsburg, and stopped at the Healdsburg Bar and Grill for lunch. We had a wonderful, pungent pizza with gorgonzola and sun-dried tomatoes, and some of their famous onion rings. We craved grease. We didn't have any wine with lunch, but drank copious amounts of water. We boxed up half of the pizza, and put it in the back of the car. Happily sober again, we continued down the Russian River into its namesake valley.
I was excited to see Roshambo, since they do this silly rock-paper-scissors motif, and I saw a thing they did on seitan (say "satan"), a wonderful meat substitute made of wheat gluten that can convincingly masquerade as braised chicken, flank steak, or even lobster. According to our Lonely Planet guide, Roshambo had this "I worship Seitan" t-shirt, which I thought was fabulous. But then we got there and there was no place to park. It's not that I'm overly concerned about parking—it's just that I don't like crowds in a tasting room, and Roshambo looked like a zoo. We adhered to our "no parkey-no tastey" policy, which we also later invoked at V. Sattui in Napa, and moved on. I'm sure there's some clever rock-paper-scissors pun in this, but we're not that kind of blog.
Most wineries close at 4:30 or 5, and it was already past 2. Hop Kiln was the winery I most wanted to see in the Russian River valley, so we skipped Belvedere, since we saw that it was open until 6. Apparently, the Russian River valley's cash crop was once hops, and not grapes as it is now. In later posts, I will reveal my full obsession with the hop, but for now, I really wanted to see the winery built in an old hop kiln, which is essentially a high-ceilinged barn used to dry hops. Its namesake vine grew on the outside of the building, and I rubbed a few hop cones in my fingers and sniffed. Ambrosia. We went in, and the rustic barn was hopping with people that out-aged us by 20 years at least. The wines were generally inexpensive, as Hop Kiln has a tradition of making jug wines. Still, for the price, the nonvintage Big Red blend was a great value at $13.50. I picked up a bottle for another co-worker who professed to be a "wine virgin." I couldn't think of a better bottle to start appreciating wine with. It was bold, fruity, not too tannic, and while not complex, I'd tasted much simpler wines that day for twice the price.
Next, at the insistence of the Alcotouristess, we visited the Korbel Sparkling Wine estate, a sprawling ode to yeast and tour buses. We tasted some grocery store champagne, looked at the deli, and left. Still, it was a refreshing afternoon break.
We then headed south to Topolos, where I thought we'd taste and then have dinner at their on-site restaurant. We found the winery in surprising disarray. All wines were on clearance and the restaurant was closed. Someone had bought the property, and Topolos appeared to be in the middle of its last gasp. We tasted anyway, but found nothing remarkable. I mused we weren't giving Topolos a fair shake because of palate fatigue, but we were pleasantly relieved of that presumption at Bevedere (more on that later). The wines were shabby and unremarkable. One thing of interest was a thank you note on the wall from former first lady Hillary Clinton. They had poured Topolos wines at an estate dinner for some Greek diplomat, and sent their kudos and a picture. That was nice. I'm sure Laura Bush is too busy firing her chefs to ever send out a thoughtful thank-you like that to a winery, and anyway, her psychotic husband is (now) a professed teetotaller.
We made it to Belvedere by 5:30, and found a revelatory Zin and the best Pinot we'd tried all day. The Zin was lively and complex, but not too staid, and the Pinot was smooth and delicate with multiple layers on the palate—the best I'd had outside of Santa Barbara County. Anyway, the grounds at Belvedere were beautiful, with multiple picnic tables on a terraced lavender garden. They also do something here that few other wineries do—they sell wine by the glass, and let you enjoy it outside. The sun was going down on the hill behind us, and we took our glasses out to a secluded picnic table, fetched the rest of our pizza from the car, and watched the reflection of the sunset on the high east hills of the valley. They told us to sample the Pinot grapes in the adjacent vineyard, and we did. Marvelous. We finished our pizza, and walked around the grounds, scaring up quail and enjoying the breeze as it wafted through the eucalyptus. We stayed until after 6, but the folks at the counter didn't mind. Everyone was enjoying the waning sun.
One weird thing about the experience was that Belvedere used a pneumatic wine corker. It is essentially a carbon-dioxide-driven hypodermic needle that you inject past the bottom of the cork, and then blast the inert gas into the bottle until the cork pops. Over the top.
We then took a drive up to Lake Sonoma and hiked around for a while. I then got it in my head that we should take the mountain road to the beach, which was 34 miles of hairpin turns, high climbs, and dizzying descents. Way too ambitious after the day we had. By the time we reached the ocean, we had to look at it by moonlight. We tried to find a better road back by going south on the PCH, but that was harrowing as well. We finally made it back to Geyserville past 11:30, exhausted. The Alcotouristess was carsick, and not even the plank-hard bed at the Geyserville Inn could thwart our impending unconsciousness.
posted by Alcotourist | 7:55 AM
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