Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Angels With Flirty Cases


Kathy and I motored up to Kenwood, California, in the Sonoma Valley to check in on our newest wine investment.

We first got hipped to Naked Wines through one of Kath’s myriad Internet specials. Originally a U.K.-based wine incubator designed to shoulder the marketing responsibilities for small-production winemakers, allowing them to do what they do best, Naked has made converts of us.

Offering a Web-based special of a full case of juice from all over the globe, crafted by experienced vintners who are perhaps fatigued of churning out product for bigger labels, Naked Wines has yet to disappoint us, a pair avowedly New World-centric (and West Coast USA, at that) in our palate preferences.

Our first case was, literally, all over the map. French Minervois; blends from Spain, Chile and Portugal; as well as small production lots sourced from Lodi, Napa, Sonoma and Monterey: around the world in weighty ways. And we were hooked: Kathy and I had both been put off in the past by a lot of Old World wine at reasonable (OK, low) price points; their rusticity and rough edges didn’t jibe with our (OK, my) need for approachability in a wine.

But from that first sip of Minervois to the final gulp of South American Carmenere, we knew that Naked invested in passionate winemakers we could trust. The vintners, freed from business constraints, could hook up with a responsible custom-crush-and-marketing mechanism. And said small engine could combine business savvy, a unique biz model and international consumer tentacles to, literally, pass the savings on.

To paraphrase the Los Angeles crack dealer in the alley off Franklin Avenue, across from my beautiful Hollywood Tower apartment, speaking to a neighbor years ago: “Hey baby, the first one’s free.”

But I digress. The “Naked” model (and the semi-provocative moniker is meant to, like that of chef Jamie Oliver, connote transparency, exuberance and simplicity) seeks to form an all-inclusive pool of worldwide “Angels”: investors who contribute $40 per month to their own wine account. Then, as banks used to do back in the day, Naked Wines invests these funds in their select group of winemakers, freeing them up just to do their thang. As Angels, one’s funds are still in their personal account to spend on the wine, with prices discounted some 40%.

Kath and I went all in. And then, two months later, with $80 in our Angel account, we found out that Naked Wines was opening a physical presence of winemaking facility and tasting room in the Sonoma burg of Kenwood.

These particular Angels may not have wings, but as long as the Prius holds out, we’ll be flying up to the Valley to rescue souls, even if the only two are our own.

Y’all, what a perfect New World outpost this location is for the U.K. vanguard’s arrival, escaping to Cali climes. And how nice was it for an ex-pat Canuck and a Washington state alumna to sip, sun and shade.

A gorgeously welcoming tasting room, although the tree-canopied brick patio ringed by mature vineyards kinda obviates bellying up to the well-appointed bar inside; a full custom-crush winemaking operation with all the toys, including oak barrels (your Angel dollar$ at work!), and a client list of vetted winemakers that keeps on growing (Karmically, it’s sorta cool to see that it’s not just the consumer who has to wait for a spot on the mailing list for a hot winemaking operation); and a staff that definitely knows their shi-ite from a list of three dozen global selections: Naked is the real deal.

So much keepin’ it real that Rowan Gormley, Naked founder (dare we say “The Nude Dude”?), late of an online beverage concern that became part of Richard Branson’s Virgin Wines, yet another Lego snapped onto the amalgam, was the gent strolling out to our table on said patio to pour us our Grenache Rosé from Navarra, Spain.

Check out Kath’s photo: Rowan (at right) uses the “thief” to hook us up with some young red in the winemaking facility. Yep, the Naked founder, newly relocated to Cali, takes the time to lead a few folks on a tour of the newly “Nude” digs.

Yep, we gladly spent our Angel bucks, draining the account. Then spent some more. Kathy and I rolled back home with two cases costing what might have bought us six individual bottles at the neighbors’ joints.

Man, it’s the kind of joint that you want to visit weekly, California highway tolls be damned.

And then, Rowan, the newly transplanted frickin’ founder of this enterprise, after taking us on das tour, invites us to “have a bit of lunch” with his fam at an adjacent table.

Damn you, Naked Wines: You draw a very crisp pencil line between stakeholder and stalker. We will see you soon.

OK, ya think I just crossed that 2H Ticonderoga pencil line?

Thursday, September 20, 2012

The Yountain of Truth

We had a great time exploring some heretofore unvisited joints up Napa Valley’s western flank. Lots of names we recognized, but none of them on the main 29 drag.

After the Hess event, we headed back to our Spartan digs at Maison Fleurie in Yountville. I had one of the best sleeps I’d ever had out of town. OK, there was a moment when, at 3 a.m., the empty wine bottles from neighboring bistros hit the Dumpster (CSI: Yountville). Other than that, and a possible scavenger in said Dumpster trying to score bissel California Redemption Value bank, Kath and I have had many worse neighbors.

OK, I mess up the Internet directions from this boutique gem to our first appointment off Silverado Trail.

But the downtown Napa Valley town of Yountville (basically Washington Street) is OZ.

And so I try to follow Mapquest and Google Maps, in Y-ville that apparently prides itself on street signs on posts at stroller-level, rather than semi-quasi-sorta-kinda driver-level.

Yep, I don’t follow Kath’s carefully calibrated directions, because I messed up on the wooden posts.

Anyhoo, we end up off the twisty trail to Burgess, located in Angwin, a Seventh Day Adventist conclave that abstains. I mean ABSTAINS. 

Burgess’ tasting guru, Mike, was the king. We started out overlooking the spectacular scene featuring the water that provides Napa with its aqua (see Kath’s photo), and then tasting the all-red portfolio that is now Burgess.

We bought a Burgess Merlot and a Napa Grenache. Rarely does a Cali Merlot put the boots to our Washington state varietal allegiance. The Burgess bottling triggered a vinous ‘Nam flashback, man.

So, we’re heading home, and south is a couple of joints, back on Washington St. in Y-ville that K had hooked us with before the white-knuckle drive that always becomes my trip home.

Girard is great; we’ve praised them before. Disruptive road construction right in front of their tasting room must be driving them bugs. We dig the wines, but, just as a winery becomes “yours” if the hosts are cool, the opposite reigns as well. Our Lot 18 discount card got us the free tastings, but dude neglected to give us the one-time percentage discount on purchases. We phoned, when we got home two hours later, to hip him to the “inadvertent” slight; he was a snot to Kathy, telling her that she’d have to return in person to make the adju$tment (Pity our pal from Philly on the flight home).

All was made right a day or two later, when Kevin, our host on our first visit months ago, phoned me at the house to waive any and all (all!) charges to the card. Class, man. And that’s why Girard is not a write-off destination.

So, back to the present in Yountville; we stashed our Girard purchase in the hatch of the Lisa Marie, and then walked past Chef Thomas Keller’s French Laundry garden. We were a shade of envy more green than a New World Sauvignon, considering our poor raised beds chez Oakley.

We had a reservation a few blocks down Washington, at Ma(i)sonry. It’s a wine collective-slash-art-gallery specializing in artisans both mixed-media and Meritage. Kath and I were so fortunate to be attended to by Daniel Orrison, Director of Hospitality; a moniker could not be better engraved on a business card.

Our Internet deal allowed us a restricted tasting; Daniel took us off the grid and all over the map, pouring juice based on our broad preferences. A couple of succinct questions, then a wine hook-up from a voluminous list of winemaking partners.

All outdoors. All surrounded by outrageous sculpture.

Cheers, General George Yount. I know for certain that this was not what you envisioned while reaching for that scabbard.

But, sir, well, dot dot dot.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Appointments With Destiny Redux

Napa. Tasting room appointments. Two of the $carie$t words-slash-phrases ever uttered.

Kathy did the research, and off we were to Spring Mountain, up the hill to the west of the Napa valley. We had such a blast on the other side, up Pritchard Hill east of Silverado Trail, that we had to do the do.

OK, one thinks about appointments to taste 95-pointers in a rarified atmosphere well above The Valley.

Welcome to Keenan and a Spring Mt. estate tasting hosted by Laura and pup Scrappy. Not a frill in sight, and Laura was the coolest. Didn’t hurt that the Keenan juice was tasty. Laura even sent us away with ripe figs from the site trees.

Hit Domaine Charbay up the mount. Lucinda led us through the distilling process, and then hooked us up with some of their still wines (as opposed to wines from the ‘still’). On the way to the sermon on the (Spring) mount, we noticed Terra Valentine, an appointment-only winery a couple of hairpin turns south of Charbay. Lucinda called on our behalf for a Valentine rendezvous in an hour, so we repaired to the garden for lunch, a Port-style wine and a cigar. Eleven-thirty ayem, surrounded by Buddha’s Hand citrus and a cloudless blue sky: And how was your morning?

Terra Valentine was outrageous, man! It’s a crazy quilt of a stone fortress built by a self-sufficient European émigré described candidly by Blake, our tasting host, as, well, a “nutjob.” An uber-crisp Riesling on the rock balcony looking down onto the Napa Valley floor merely set the scene. Blake next led us into our formal tasting venue, a sit-down room paneled in spare wood that William Randolph Hearst couldn’t use at his Xanadu down at San Simeon!

Nothing like a grand mash-up of Cabernet Franc and Charles Foster Kane, baybee.

Kath and I had a love/not-like vibe on the Mt. with our next winery, Pride. Guide Tracy was awesome, hooking us up to the fact that the winery straddles both Napa and Sonoma counties: Grapes picked in each county have to be weighed in same for tax purposes. (Check out the boundaries in the photo; and Kath and I used to think that Washington state masking tape on the floor [one side of the tape contained the cases of wine on which the taxes had been paid; the other, not yet] in a bonded winery was tough!)

Our final stop was with Charlie Smith at Smith-Madrone. He, with his bro, has been reclaiming this vineyard from the then-encroaching Madrone trees for almost a half-century. The conversation was frequently interrupted due to Chardonnay grapes arriving from the fields; they had to be tended. Harvest waits for no one. And old-skool is still in session. Beautiful.

Kathy had booked overnight lodgings at Maison Fleurie, a little joint in Yountville just behind restaurant Bouchon, a mere chanterelle’s toss from The French Laundry on Y-ville’s restaurant row. Extra savings for a tiny room chez Fleurie translated into freebie wine-and-snacks Snappy Hour in the brick-lined lounge, as well as a full breakfast in same the next morning. We had a great convo at Snappy Hour with some dude from Philly, who apparently is able to set up tasting appointments with winemakers all over the Valley. His wife holds the glass by the bowl, and he doesn’t seem to appreciate a lot of subtlety in the glass, though he talks a great game.

We pull out of the parking lot for our tasting event at Hess, only to find Homes pulling on a cigarette at the curb. Sigh.

So we get up the hill to Hess, just in time to hear the first set of Kit and the Branded Men, a Bay Area outfit kickin’ it honky tonk-style and featuring mucha-inked Kit Lopez, as well as Glen Earl Brown Jr.

Talked to winemaker Randle Johnson at the “Artezin” tasting booth; turns out that when we mentioned “Oakley,” he got all excited since he’d just talked to Frank Evangelho (of our ‘hood’s eponymous vineyard) that morning. His Artezin label under the Hess umbrella is poised for wonderful things.

We did not win any of the Hess raffle prizes, so we left in a huff. The huff did not start, so we got back to Maison Fleurie in the Prius.

We’ll talk again soon. Day Two was cool, too.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Labor Day: The World’s Our Oyster, Making Us Happy as Clams

This past weekend had Kathy and I keeping up with the Joneses: our frequent oyster joneses, that is.

It’s the second Labor Day that we’ve motored up northeast to the Tomales Bay Oyster Company, and their bacchanalian picnic site overlooking the bivalve beds in the eponymous inlet separating Point Reyes and Bodega “The Birds” Bay from the Pacific Ocean.

We had a lot of civilized fun in 2011, so Kathy thought that it had great potential as annual tradition. Man, was she correct.

The joint is so rudimentary that it’s downright sophisticated: Picnic tables on various tiers, each table with its own anchored charcoal grill; bags of Tomales Bay oysters, clams and mussels available for purchase (cash only; ATM onsite, FYI); you bring your own charcoal, wine or beer, utensils, condiments, citrus, and then go to town. And if you happen to forget anything except the booze, you can purchase it there.

We didn’t BBQ last year, but Kathy had, as usual, the master plan. First, it turns out that arriving 60 minutes after post time last year, and grabbing a free picnic table was veritably serendipitous (I think I wrote last year about an anxious couple hovering near us, asking if we were about to leave; tables were scarce). This year, Das RosenKathmeister left nothing to chance, and she even threw a wrinkle into the mix: We were going to BBQ, and bring Das Chimney.

OK, first things first. Directions: We swapped Mapquest’s vertigo-inducing (again mit da Hitchcock? Oy!) twisty-treat road warring for TBOC’s own breadcrumbs. We got there well before seafood-selling opening time, found prime parking onsite, and snapped up a wonderful spot adjacent to last year’s lair. Kath and I saw a crazy lot of “Reserved” signs on tables everywhere we looked; seems like the Co. has cracked down hardcore on clans who come in and try to commandeer multiple tables, sometimes using that old cinema trick of placing a coat (in this case, a bag of groceries from Trader Joe’s) on to the next table. TBOC’s rules push back: I guess that there is a cat that one Yelp commentator (take that with a grain of Coarse Kechil) took issue with for questioning an extended family of eight staking out three tables, while hopefuls behind the imaginary velvet rope for a table have parked their vehicles aside Highway 1, hoping that their tires don’t touch the solid white line, lest they get ticketed.

Guys, it was outrageously nice at Tomales Bay. Beautiful, cloudless sky, and K had a stash of cash for seafood purchases, as well as a picnic checklist of provisions to pack into the Lisa Marie before embarking on our Labor Day waterside feast:

Lemons.

Oyster-shucking glove.

Cutting board.

Paper towels & cloth napkins.

Ice from our freezer. Knives for cutting & spreading.

Baguettes, cheese, garlic, diced tomatoes.

Multiple bottles of chilled Muscadet Sevre-et-Maine.

Oh, and that aforementioned charcoal chimney. Now, I was scared. It’s a device that I can not believe that everyone does not use for a charcoal fire. Two sheets of newspaper (Ah, maybe that’s the problem. Damn you, digital media!), to fire the coals and we had our picnic neighbors inquiring about the device.

In fact, we saw folks at tables below fanning alleged flames, and then adding more petrol. The grills at TBOC were perfect for us to do the flue, while Kathy prepared the clams in a pouch of wine, tomatoes, garlic and parsley over the coals. Ten minutes later, the packets elicited open clams bathing in some nice aromatics and jus.

We brought games, too. Kathy had 3 Yahtzees and still lost. We did the two-person “Sorry!” game wherein each player controls two “Home” colors; I won that. This never happens; she usually whips my butt!

You guys, I was so afraid that my little newspaper in the chimney would offend these folks with petroleum starter. No worries. The burnt paper smoke dissipated faster than lighter fluid stench. And as mentioned above, the resulting gourmet meal “en aluminum” was delicious and attractive. In fact one passing TBOC staffer remarked, “Oh, that looks good!”

Life was good. Can’t wait for Labor Day 2013.