Two Fingers of Romanée-Saint-Vivant

On January 22nd, 2013 I had a belated birthday lunch with the folks. We dined at Benoit, Alain Ducasse’s midtown bistro. We started off with braised pork then moved onto caviar. For our mains, Mom and Dad shared chicken while I gorged myself with bacon-wrapped Scottish Salmon. Love my nitrates. Washed it down with a Spanish red.

We were having a spirited conversation about Joyce Carol Oates’ new book when Mom took another peek at the wine list. She was sniffing out port possibilities. Then she stumbled upon it. A mischievous grin widened on her face, and she implored me to have a special treat. No, not the scrumptious, syrup-doused Bosc pear gooped in warm chocolate (although I eventually succumbed to that too). She was referring to a libidinous libation, a two-ounce pour of trophy wine.
Who hadn’t read Florence Fabricant’s “Legendary Wines, Sold in Sips” piece in the NYT Dining Section? It sent every pocket-friendly winenut into a hyperactive state of euphoria. For a mere $45 bucks, you could taste a bit of Bordeaux’s Promised Land. How democratic?

Yes, I’ll admit my superficial side came gushing out. For shame. I thought I’d grown out of the trophy-hunter phase, but apparently not.

“Go for the Pétrus,” Mom dared.

That hedonist sentiment had been whispering in my ear sotto voce from the moment I took my seat. What better way to celebrate than to taste one of this mudball’s most lauded reds. Naturally, I wouldn’t have thought of letting my folks crack open a whole bottle, and of course, they weren’t daffy enough to indulge my Pomerolian prurience, but a two-finger pour? Why not? Except that the 1992 vintage was a big wash, and although Merlot fared better than the Cabs I had my reservations. I'm not a point man at all, but what I'd read about the '92 vintage had dripped into my subconscious. Was I going to go for the gusto and be disappointed or be forced to extrapolate what might be the stuff that made Pétrus the rock star of reds?

I was an enophile, a professional. The heavenly Pomerol was on every wineaux’s bucket list. I considered it my duty as a wine professional to drink it. But wait a second. Hold the cork. I mean, hold the coravin (thank goodness for the miracle gadget). My palate was craving a gem, but when I reflected on the fact that I’d tried all five 1st Growths and myriad 2nd , 3rd, 4th, and 5th Growths my top-heavy record of Bordeaux tasting left a gaping hole in that critical wine wonk zone, Burgundy.

If I was to truly become a wine wizard, Burgundy would have to receive greater consideration. So with this in mind, I decided to shoot the works with my first DRC, Romanée-Saint-Vivant. Benoit offered two fingers of the 1996, a very good, but not outstanding vintage. In recent years, I’d been leaning more toward Burgundy anyway. My palate had been changing, more inclined to that Burgundian style by way of Barolo and Barbaresco if you’ll pardon my cliché comparison, which is somehow useful as a cross-country analogue. Both Pinot Noir and Nebbiolo are thin-skinned varietals. They’re both infamously fickle grapes, and, even in the best circumstances, may not show their full potential. There, I said it.

The real question was whether or not I was deserving of two fingers of DRC? Was I in it for the right reason? What I’m driving at is this. Since I cut my teeth with Bordeaux, logging in so much time with their superstars, unsung heroes, etc., my experience had been shaped by Bordeaux. Was I justified in making such a leap to DRC when I hadn’t logged in enough time, brooding over the differences between Gevrey-Chambertin, Chambolle-Musigny, Morey-St. Denis, and Echézeaux? Forget about grand cru Burgundy, I hadn’t really had enough Fixin, Volnay, or Bourgogne Rouge.

I considered this, drumming my fingers for added effect. I could’ve ordered a full glass of Echézeaux, Pommard, or even Chambertin. If I was genuinely interested in making a commitment to Burgundy, this probably would have been the noblest route, but I had another agenda. I wasn’t wetting my toes, I was taking a head-first plunge into two-fingers of DRC. A little drumroll please. My first whiff of the 1996 Romanée-Saint-Vivant teased me into believing there’d be sweetness. Then it gave way to an earthier late Fall, forest floor. It had quiet brilliance like Stan Musial, the St. Louis Slugger who had actually passed away the day before. Initially, tangy chokecherry with a touch of vanilla soon blossomed into a strawberry field with notes of licorice, a hint of pipe tobacco. It tangoed me across a ballroom floor of tight-grained oak, and impeccable structure. How vibrant and bright in its Sour 17th Year. It had surprisingly good acidity for its age and supple tannin, silkier than a Hermès shawl.

Birthdays can heighten your sensibility, and sometimes add undue pressure. I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity, and I wished that I could say it was life-altering, but alas it wasn’t. Maybe because there was too much expectation riding on it. Maybe it was because the grinning lady, sitting next to me had her own set of expectations weighing on me too. She was smart enough not to get under the microscope and have her a swig analyzed, and yet she wanted me to be gobsmacked with unbridled glee.

I will definitely say this though. My two fingers of Romanée-Saint-Vivant was a much more welcoming experience than my first swig of Sassicaia. That was a long time ago in a galaxy far far away (You like hyperbole, no?). Truthfully, I couldn’t tell you with any certainty what my impression of that Sassicaia was because there was so much hoopla associated with it. I was also a hopeless newbie at one of those behemoth tastings that no pro wants to be a part of unless he or she is on the clock. I had to elbow my way over to the table that was kind enough to share its Tuscan royalty for all the heathens lining up. I remember it being a stunning, ruby-colored wine and nearly chipping a tooth as the buffoon beside me raised his arm. If that wasn’t enough there was the unmistakable, unpardonable wallop of Fahrenheit cologne. So overpowering was that Christian Dior bouquet that I swear I still smell a whiff of it every time I’m at a dinner party or some other occasion where Sassicaia is poured.

Given this reflection, my two fingers of Romanée-Saint-Vivant was pretty damn unforgettable (pipe in Nat King Cole), but I wish my sommelier had had a heavier hand.

Little Treasures From A Shoebox

I went with my dad and my friend Vinnie and his dad to my first baseball card show. I was new to the convention. Vinnie and his dad had gone many times before and had a game plan. If you didn't know any better you would swear each table had an elaborate cloth of baseball cards spread out in all directions in a giant VFW Hall. There were cards, autographed baseballs and bats, glossy photos. You could buy brand new packs of cards. Some dealers showed their cards behind glass cases, the prices stamped on like supermarket canned goods. I wasn’t shocked at the high prices. I had been reading Beckett price guide for a few months before that first show so I was schooled in the number's department. I wasn’t going to spend a lot of money. I had ten dollars on me. That would only go so far. My dad had already forked over the thirty bucks to get both Don Mattingly and Bret Saberhagen’s autographs. The Royals had just come off their World Series win over their neighbors the Cardinals and I wanted to get the ace pitcher’s John Hancock. My dad wanted me to have Don Mattingly’s autograph too because he thought he had a swing as sweet as the Stan “The Man” Musial.

Getting the autographs was something like a cattle call, the monster of a line dragged out to the front door. All the way off on the stage, the players looked weird in their street clothes. Actually, it was really off-putting. And as I thought about it, standing on the line, it was nothing more than a business deal. I’d asked ballplayers for autographs at the Stadium. That was fun. There was nothing like flagging down a player and having him sign it right there when you caught him off guard his spotless uniform in front of you. And that brief moment before he shuffled off and you looked down at the scrawled initials on your ball or glove or whatever you happened to offer and the rush of adrenaline as if you had just stuck your head into the mouth of a lion that was what it was like to catch an autograph at the stadium.

I stood on slowpoke line with my dad with an awful puss and he called me “smellpot” which was the name he gave me when I was in a mood.

“What gives?” he said.

“I don’t want it,” I said.

“Mattingly is going to be batting champ. Trust me, now is the time to get it.”

“Not like this.”

“You don’t like him?”

“He’s no Dave Winfield.”

This was more or less the thrust of our verbal barb. I moped on line until I got both Mattingly and Saberhagen’s autographs on 8 x 10 glossies. Then I went off and searched the show to find any nifty collectibles that would fit my budget. I shied away from the glass cases. Those cards were well out of my ballpark, but I helped myself to the dollar shoe box. Yes, there was actually a table that had a shoebox filled with mainly old common cards and a few surprises. I nabbed a 1974 Rod Carrew, his bat dipped to his back shoulder in a classic pose waiting to get into the batting cage.

Then I picked up a Ted Williams. He wore the same painless grin as always but was merely a splendid splinter of the early images I'd seen of him from books and newsreels and though he donned a red cap it was with the Washington Senators insignia and not the Bosox. It was a 1971 Topps manager card for only a dollar. Who could pass up such a find? There was also a Willie Mays in an Amazing Mets uniform. Holy Cow. I never knew he even played with them. It was his last card. To round out the playing field I took a Johnny Bench, and a George Brett. My five cards for eight dollars, a frugal but spirited selection.

I walked around some more and saw some odd things like Pete Rose candy bars. Never heard of them. I knew there were Reggie Jacksons and Baby Ruths, but these things looked stale. Who would want to buy old candy? And I never was a big fan of Charlie Hustle.

When I met up with my dad and my friend Vinnie and his Dad I saw that they had 2 boxed sets already clutched under their respective pits. Vinnie also had a few loose cards in hard plastic-coated shields, mostly new stuff with flaming orange letters Hot Prospects. Vinnie’s dad looked down at my stuff.

My dad saw the Ted Williams in my hand and a nonplussed expression washed over his face as if I had pilfered the Missing Link.

“Where’d you get that?” he asked, reaching over to get a better glimpse.

“Over from the shoebox. It was only a buck. I got all these cards for eight dollars.”

I showed them off, the Williams, Carrew, Mays, Bench, and Brett.

“That’s all they’re worth,” Vinnie’s dad said with the vacant eyes of poker player.

What an asshole I thought. He was a stick-in-the-mud if ever there was one, a killjoy from the word go. I felt a little bit crummy because I knew that these cards weren’t worth much. Sure it would be great to have a heyday Williams or a “Say Hey” Mays when he was on the Giants, but where the hell would I get the dough to buy them. But, I liked my cards and I wasn’t ready just yet to fully let the long thread of fantasy that made my cards magical leave my head or hands.