High Hopes & Low Production

It’s the next day in Cloverdale, and after a hearty breakfast at our fave, the Star, situated across the shopping center parking lot in front of the Super 8, we set out for our 10:30 a.m. appointment at Sky Pine Vineyards, home also to BobDog Wines, a label celebrating the now-deceased canine companion to proprietors Tim and Candy.

Sky Pine is Sonoma County’s highest winery, with an Alexander Valley elevation some 2,000 feet above the Russian River. No argument from Kathy or me: The tortuous roadway up to the summit where the winery facility is located has got to be one of the scariest adventures I’ve ever experienced behind the wheel. Twists and turns; old asphalt, gravel, then crumbling asphalt: I was white-knuckling it all the way, even before the directions suggested conquering one stretch of unpaved road either speeding up to 20 mph or utilizing 4-wheel drive.

The journey ended well at the winery atop Pine Mountain Road, with a warm welcome from Tim, Candy and Cabbie (short for Cabernet, and pictured above), a friendly old pup who couldn’t seem to wait to show us the best vantage points to take in the various blocks of all five Bordeaux varietal grapes terracing stunning views of the valley floor below us.

Some grape types are fussier than others when it comes to ripening, so it was fascinating to scope out the assorted terrain selected for each vine type, from 35-degree slopes to relatively gentle hillsides, but all necessitating hand-harvesting due to the topography.

And then it was into the cozy barrel room for sampling the literal fruits of Sky Pine and BobDog labels. Among a nice array of varietal bottlings, the 2009 Sky Pine Cabernet Franc and an ’09 BobDog Cabernet Sauvignon from vines grafted onto Merlot rootstock, were especially distinctive, offering up a flavorful exemplification of this unique mountain vineyard site.

Onward, and downward, automotively speaking, to the Old Roma Station, a converted rail depot for the old, and now-defunct, Roma Wines brand. Somehow, I still remember the Roma Wines jingle, maybe from my fascination with olde-tyme radio broadcasts and B&W television (My pal Jimmy Roberts was son of the first family on our block to have “color/cable.” I remember being invited over to watch “The Jerry Lewis Show”; some sketch with JL playing an archeologist, complete with pith helmet, has never escaped me. In color! Or, as an Ottawa, Canada lad should have exclaimed, “In colour!”).

Roma (my mom’s name BTW) Station is a cool one-stop shop for smallish tasting rooms. Pezzi King, not exactly boutique (we used to be members of their wine club when they hosted events at their erstwhile winery off Dry Creek Road), has just recently set up a small tasting bar in the Station, in the space that they previously used only as office space. It smacks of business forces: How can one be surrounded by tasting rooms, and then tell folks wandering around that one has nothing open to taste? Paperwork or a Pour: makes sense to combine.

Sapphire Hill, around the corner, featured an outrageous trove of varietal bottlings sourced from the valleys: Russian River, Alexander, Dry Creek and beyond. Very nice juice. We purchased a Sonoma County Zin managed by Dr. Valdez, and a Russian River Albarino taste untasted.

Had two especially, amazingly memorable experiences at das Station: Rebecca Allington hosted Kathy and I through a thorough flight at the Hudson Street Wineries, a co-op spotlighting ultra-small producers in one groovy setting. Savvy, funny (and apologetic that she was still tidying up from the special event the night before), Rebecca poured us a great sampling of these featured winemakers’ work. She also was impressed that I chimed in with trivia, a la Jeopardy, that apparently won me some sort of unofficial award.

I don’t remember (the wines were that good), but apparently I said something wherein the answers were:

Schooner

Beaulieu

Oh, that’s a famous dance company

And then we turn the corner chez Roma to Hart’s Desire.

Now, this chick puts the boots to “second generation.” Shea is a friggin’ goddess. The tasting room experience began with us wondering where the staff was, then wondering if the woman behind the stick really wanted to be here.

Shea was here, ladies and gentlemen. Man, was she here. Sounds like she is the parent trying to keep parents’ groove going. And it is a tasty groove, accentuated with a little Shea somethin-somethin. She has parties planned at das Station, featuring fam wines that are absolutely delicious, and have her personal hand- and bootprint. No slouch, her.

This trip was all about high altitude and cool attitude.

Room for all, don’t ya think?

The Sonoma Promised Land: Croquet, OK

Several lifetimes ago, when I was a struggling actor/comic in Los Angeles, I took solace in a couple of notions that gave me some goofy self-worth: I rented a cheesy converted maid’s quarters in Beverly Hills, and I joined the Beverly Hills Croquet Club.

Now, the club was a legit charter of the United States Croquet Association (USCA), an august governing body overseeing the tournament game which is an entirely different animal from the backyard version.

In those days, although my game was weak, my dues were welcome because I was one of the only members who actually lived in 90210, and the BH Parks & Rec department didn’t love providing services (and devoting an entire erstwhile lawn bowling court) at Roxbury Park to nonresidents wielding mallets.

I loved my Saturday morning matches, being able to walk to the park from my BH lean-to (I thought I looked so hot strolling down Rodeo Drive in my white togs, wicket-ly on a mission), to embarrass myself on the court.

During my tenure, I’d play against or, less frequently, with, members including Hollywood actors Cesare Danova and Maurice Marsac; Rhys, a published author who, at the time had just completed his manuscript documenting the search for Judy Garland’s “Wizard of Oz” ruby slippers; J.D. Salinger’s son, Matt; a good ol’ boy who lived in a trailer in Malibu, a la Rockford; and Bob, my fave partner, who made me a custom croquet mallet which I cherish to this day. R.I.P. Bob.

Now, know that almost all of these folks had dough. The number of times I heard them talk about USCA championships being held up in Northern California at regulation croquet courts at Meadowood in Napa, or Sonoma-Cutrer in, interestingly enough, Sonoma, had this Toronto transplant shrinking into the background faster than a drive-shot peel.

The other day, Kathy and I had an appointment for winetasting at Sonoma-Cutrer. And if the fact of multiple Chardonnays and a Pinot Noir, in beautiful stemware, on the patio at 10 a.m. doesn’t put you ball-in-hand (It’s a croquet term; whaddya think we’re running here?), the view overlooking the croquet courts should.

Cesare was right: none of Scorsese’s “Mean Streets” were in evidence at this oh-so-civilized venue. I so wanted to trot down to play some “hoops,” but was more than content to partake of some of the most distinctive, designated Chards to hit the glass. And, at price points in the $20s and $30s, there was absolutely no sticker shock. I’m already dreaming of our next visit to Sonoma-Cutrer. And I’d never thought that I’d say that the wonderful wine was a bonus.

Onward to Rochioli, a favorite Pinot producer which always sells out of its specialty bottlings of same to mailing list clients, but always has a couple of thangs at the tasting bar. It can be a dice-roll, and today featured, among a couple of other varietal bottles, a Valdiguie red which had recently been widely classified as Gamay until a visiting winemaker from France hipped them to their misnomenclature. Fact or fiction: I mean, it would not stop anyone from making the leap to Cru Beaujolais. Wrong grape, but still, what region: Brouilly? Julienas? Roll dem bones.

OK, so we’re off to downtown Healdsburg, a vibrant town square full of boutiques and boutique wine tasting rooms. A while back, we dropped in to what was once the Gallo tasting room; on that visit it had been transformed into a sparkling lounge, i.e., a “sparkling” lounge, featuring bubbles from the Boisset family.

It all came into perspective last fall, when Wine Spectator featured a cover story on scion Jean Charles with his wife, Gina Gallo, entertaining at their San Francisco joint.

We had a great tasting with attendant Jesse, bantering chez “JCB.” We bought $50 worth of Cremant. And then, Jesse had the Gaul to honor the 2-for-1 coupon. Whether it was Kathy or me, one of us got charged an $18 tasting fee based on the 2-for-1.

We may not have learned a lot while tasting and touring, but one thing that does slip out is that the folks behind the stick can do whatever they want to do: wave or waive. Just wish that JCB could have TCB.

That little bit of dosage would have ensured a return visit from us, and extended our history of purchases at the lounge. Two-fer or not, we may just walk on by.

Hit garagiste Roadhouse, a small Pinot Noir joint with a tasting room a few doors down. Glad we did: These guys are doing the do.

We left downtown to head a few miles west, to make our appointment at A. Rafanelli, a shrine to Dry Creek fruit. Man, this day we have never seen the pews so full: There’s a gate code that you must punch in; we did, and promptly had to back up for previous tasters leaving. Rafanelli has only two or three wines anyway; they’ll be the first to wonder whassup. A couple of head-on collisions on their driveway might figure it out.

On to Unti a mile away. Ran into Kate, who recognized us when she was pouring at Nalle a couple of years ago. Just goes to show that Tony being obnoxious and repetitive about his wine lore just might not doom Kathy and me to the back of the tasting bar. Again, they were packed, and we overheard a discreet staffer mutter, “Oh, they finally showed up.”

CSI: Sonoma.

So we check in to the Super 8 motel that we usually bed in. Look, whoever recommended visiting four wineries WITH a designated driver never did this right. Pal, we live two hours from this region; if you have to fly multiple hours to “Wine Country,” wherever that may be, you need just a cot and an ice machine.

We check in, and then hit a crazy tasting room north (North? We’re already out of das tasting loop!) of our Cloverdale Super 8.

Ulises Valdez has been tending vines, consulting on same, managing wine properties and, I’m only guessing here, wondering why he couldn’t do his own thang.

He did. And you don’t enter the biz without good grape sources.

This cat knows everybody: Watch his label. He’s wired.

See the USA, Start at Chappellet

Kathy and I had one of the best tasting experiences we have ever had up Napa way.

It was basically an “appointment only” thang that Kath set up, on a St. Helena road east of the easternmost main drag of Silverado Trail.

One of our Internet card/coupon deals hooked us up, a month-and-change ago, to RustRidge, a twisty-treat drive on a road that has never seen any days, nevermind better days.

We’ve posted a while back about the winery signs that we saw as we drove down the back nine. Some of those were the ones that K wanted to reach out to. Chappellet, Neyers, Gandona (an upstart poised to be the next cult juice) and Midsummer Cellars (headed by Rollie Heitz: yep, them Heitzes), all kickin’ it on the Pritchard Hill site east of The Trail.

We started by setting the alarm for 6 a.m. (not that we needed it with our kitties) to leave Oakley by 8 for our 10 a.m. appt at Chappellet. MapQuest estimated a 90-minute drive; we didn’t believe that it would be that quick. It was: We brought our Sunday editions of the Contra Costa Times and the San Francisco Chronicle (Kath loves all the coupons), thinking that our four tasting appts would never mesh.

We needn’t have worried: Appointment tasting is soooooooooooo different from bellying up to das tasting bar at a winery.

Kathy got through half of the Sunday ads in the Times, but only because we arrived 30 minutes early for our Chappellet rendezvous, up those crazy winding almost-real roads. Oh sure, man, it’s called Sage Canyon Road. But, as referenced above, we have to wonder how “Road” got applied to the county nomenclature.

Chappellet: an-oh-so-civilized tasting of estate Chard and Cab, plus a bonus Malbec, led by Don. The British say “Brilliant.” That must be a UK translation for “being seated at a communal vintage rosewood table in the barrel room. See: wonderful.” Chardonnay #1 is 50% malolactic in French oak; Chard #2 is 100%: Kathy and I were split on which one was brighter. We ended up buying both. Not sure what the Manhattan couple beside us was escaping with; they had a reservation at The French Laundry, for which they’d been waiting months. I picked up a little bit of their French convo, though Kathy noticed that they’d have to book to make their 11:30 reserv. We’ll always have an earlier love for this winery (the name is familiar on grocery shelves, even if the reserve juice is not), and no more for our discovery of their old-vine Chenin Blanc. Chenin, in the New World, has been usually chucked into a jug; Chappellet did it right. Alas, old vines are gone (See Kath’s photo of the remainder/reminder).

On to Neyers, up the road. I’d talked to winemaker Tadeo over a year ago, when Kath and I were trying to get a bead on Oakley-sourced grapes. Neyers has been trying to get out of the Zinfandel game, canceling a Pato contract. But, to belabor a “Godfather” reference, just when they think they’re out, they get pulled back in: this time with a Zin from our neighbor Tom Del Barba. He’s the dude who let me see his grapes’ Brix in the scope, and was so gracious on subsequent meetings. Neyers’ Tiffany led us on a wonderful tasting of whites and reds, ranging from the Sierra Foothills to the Santa Lucia Highlands, with perfect stops in our ‘hood at Tommy’s Zin off Laurel Avenue, as well as some Evangelho stuff up the road.

Our Sage Canyon Road trek continued with a stop at newbie Gandona.

Just an aside here, to mention the hillside. One always hears about the Napa cult wines, but one (well, me) always wonders where the Colgin, the Bryant Family, the Harlan stuff is. When in doubt, think “up a Napa hill.” You probably won’t go wrong. Gandona is probably the closest we’re ever going to come to a cult wine mailing list: They’re new, but with Philippe Melka blending the two bottling$, they ain’t cheap, a$ befit$ $ome of their pricey neighbor$ on Pritchard Hill. Co-owner Manuel Pires (see photo) was the sweetest host, leading us on an al fresco tasting of the Cab-based selection duo, plus barrel sample en chai of the not-yet-released Porto-style Touriga Nacional.

Kathy and I finished up our Sage Canyon Road tour with a stop at Midsummer Cellars, just off Silverado Trail. Rollie Heitz met us at the gate, and hooked us up with a nice outside place setting, beginning with a refreshing Rose of Grenache, followed with a delicious pair of Napa vineyard-sourced Cabernets.


Off the beaten track of Highway 29 and Silverado Trail? Yep. GPS and cell phone reception? Nope. But for cultists and consumers alike, an appointment or two up the hill can truly show the passion and the pleasure.

How Gracious was My Valley

So, Kathy found yet another Internet tasting deal, this one being the “Sonoma Passport” card, entitling two people to various and sundry bargains of varying worth. With this card, it might range anywhere from free tastings, to upgraded tastings (after you’ve paid the regular fee), a whopping 10% discount on a case (sarcasm intended), or a straight-up cash refund on a purchase.

Unlike a lot of the other Web deals of which we’ve availed ourselves, this one was all over the map (that map still being Sonoma County), but it did allow us to hit the valley north of the city of Sonoma with relatively few worrie$.

It’s actually pretty comical these days at small tasting rooms. They’ve all been hit by obvious telephone blitzes from the sales teams at sites such as Groupon, livingsocial, Amazon and the like. What Kath and I are seeing is more and more wineries signing up for all of the pitches, and then having to check their files to see the terms of the offer that we just presented. It’s of the order of, “Is this card for the complimentary tasting or the discount?”

We used our newly minted Sonoma Passport as an excuse to head up to Cline to pick up our latest club shipment, this one featuring a Zinfandel from our Oakley old vines at Live Oak Vineyard a few miles up the road from the manse, before heading up to a few joints, old and new to us, in the Sonoma Valley burg of Kenwood.

Kaz Winery is the very definition of shoestring: small production, limited tasting room hours, and wine poured by the winemaker-slash-co-owner-slash bottle-filler-slash-barrel-rotator. The card gave us a dollar-amount discount on purchase, but we were charged tasting fees, so it was a wash. Kaz’s wines were very distinctive: unfiltered, unfined and sourced from neighboring vineyards. They were also remarkably acidic; cellaring wouldn’t be just recommended, it’s probably mandatory. I’ll be dead in a year, but Kathy can hip you to tasting notes on the Kaz juice after a few anni. As befits K’s photo, winemaker Kaz is indeed the cock of the walk.

Motoring north on Highway 12 to the Versailles that is Ledson, we stumbled into the outrageously capable hands of tasting station agent Robert Blade, a law student working part-time at the winery, but who should own the friggin’ joint. Knowledgeable, personable and totally engaging, Robert upgraded our upgraded tasting to a bacchanal wherein the number of pours were written in invisible ink, and even the basic tasting fee miraculously disappeared. When we mentioned that we were touring from Oakley in CoCo, his eyes lit up: That Mourvèdre, still spelled “Mouvedre” on Ledson’s label, was one of the next in our glasses. Taste-tay.

Over the years at tasting bars, we’ve overheard some crazy shi-ite. A nouveau riche admiring a wine in a green bottle, not a wine glass (“Oh, look at that wonderful color!”); a beautifully bossy tasting room captain yelling at bar hogs to make room for us (“We have people who want to actually buy, here!”).

So when we heard the ignorami at the other end of Robert’s station go all “I don’t like this at all. I live in Europe” in a New Jersey accent, no less, the ears of Kathy and me went all Scooby-Doo.

Props to Robert, ever the pro. Should probably stand him in great stead with a judge as much of an a-hole as this tasting dude, once Robert passes the other sort of bar. But one could see that his party flustered him, not that said party cared about impressing anybody in the vicinity.

When Robert approached our bailiwick to pour some other special selection from what looked like Cost Plus condiment bottles, I made some lame remark about Homes, living in Europe, pissed that he couldn’t get Olympic Games tix. I needn’t have bothered: At Versailles chez Kenwood, protocol, like King Louis, rules. Screw cake, man: Let them chew Mouvedre.

And we stop, on the way back home, at VJB, also in Kenwood. It’s a winery specializing in Italian varietal wines, and the Sonoma Passport entitled us to freebie tastings at its new tasting facility. Nice stuff, and, like Jacuzzi down the road, they offer a Prosecco initially made in Italy. It did not hurt the final leg of the valley trip that the Old World patriarch of the enterprise walked into the tasting room and toasted Kathy and me with a “Salut!” as we held our flutes of bubbles.