Limo Trash and Other Hazards of Napa Valley
by Malerie Yolen-Cohen
I’m a lager girl. I swig straight from the bottle – preferably Sam Adams, but Guinness on special occasions. I don’t get involved with the clarity, color, odor, or any such nonsense that would make my drink anything other than what it is; a nice pint of beer.
So when friends persuade me to take a prolonged wine-tasting trip to Napa Valley I am, to say the least, hesitant. My husband and I will tag along with some very serious wine aficionados – one childless couple in particular who think nothing of dropping a few grand on a decent magnum. “We don’t have kids,” Teresa explains. “We have wine”.
Eight of us, four days, thirteen vineyards, seven celebrated restaurants – an ambitious itinerary for anyone, but especially for this brew-buff whose understanding of “nose” and “bouquet” extends no further than sniffing a bunch of flowers. I am motivated, however, by the fear of looking stupid. So, before embarking on what would be for me a fool’s errand, I try to bone up on the purported nectar of the gods.
I read all kinds of Wine for Dummies books and learn a few things. Mostly that wine and pornography share a strikingly similar terminology. For instance the feel of the wine in the mouth or the “mouthfeel”; is it “well structured or limp”? Some wines, according to experts, are “hard in youth, softer as they age.” And you discover this after “laying down” a case of good red wine. I even hear that the proper pairing of food and wine leads to a “party in the mouth”. And not only is “do you swallow?” an acceptable question, it is a foregone conclusion Things are staring to look up. Wine for the moment, has caught my interest.
I study further about what is really the essence of wine – the attribute that moves a bottle from vineyard to wine cellar to table; it’s flavor. Wine tasting has to be the most confusing, suggestive, confounding aspect of the whole process – between smelling and sipping a lot’s going on. I read about apples and plums, blackcurrants, lemons and raspberries, dried figs and citrus peels. Nice, nice - wine by Welch’s, I think to myself. But then the baffling aromas are delineated – leather, cut grass, rotting vegetables and the most enigmatic of all – cat piss. Do I really want to take my hundred bottles of beer off the wall and trade them in for au d’locker room and litter box? I take a leap of faith and go to Napa anyway.
Four couples, we’ve been traveling the world together for the past several years; a photo safari in Africa, luxury barging through the canals of France, an all-encompassing tour of Morocco. This is our first trip together stateside, but we know one thing. We are serious about pleasure – and for most of the eight, this pleasure includes drinking lots of wine.
We meet “DC”, the driver who will shuttle us around in his 10-person limousine. Jeff and Teresa, the childless couple, have loosely planned the itinerary, but we allow DC some input. After all, he’s had his ear to the heartbeat of the valley for years. Over the next four days, his suggestions and connections prove invaluable. And a benefit never to be overlooked is the assurance of having a designated driver always at hand. With an average of 3-4 wineries a day, plus some aggressive downing of booze during lunch and dinner, we anticipate blood/alcohol levels a tad higher than the law allows. This, we soon discover, is not so unusual in Napa Valley.
“Limo Trash”, snorts Nancy, our tour guide at opulent Opus 1, gesturing towards a car identical to ours from which a boisterous group emerges. “Those people pour out of stretches like circus clowns, laughing and carrying on. They can’t even stand up half the time! And they drink but don’t buy.” This last observation is apparently what Nancy resents most about the drunken hordes that make their way, tasting room by tasting room through the Valley. She escorts our respectful group genteelly through Opus’s temple-like building while explaining the “gravity flow” winemaking process. She takes us to the edge of the vineyard where we see “the babies” – tiny bulbs of green that will be coddled and watched until they are lovingly picked for a glorious future in oak, in bottles and then, it is hoped, at someone’s celebration table. We ask questions – we are genuinely interested, we’re sober, and we’re waving our credit cards. This places us firmly outside limo trash classification. Wine lovers Ken and Evelyn, Jeff and Teresa spend a substantial amount in the tasting room. My husband and I try some 1995 Red and purchase a couple of bottles to remind us of the place. The drink tastes remotely of earth and berries. But not cat urine. I’m grateful for that.
Our winery visits are as varied as the vineyards themselves. From the Victorian movie-set acreage of Neibaum-Coppola to the money-is-no-object Willy Wonka caves of Jarvis (where we half expect to see Oompa-Loompas rounding each corner) to the slap-the-labels-on-ourselves Mom and Pop Guilliams – Napa Valley shows us the extremes of winemaking.
Though most wineries bespeak if not of elegance than a certain amount of decorum, Del Dotto is Wine by MTV. Limo Trash heaven. We’re ushered into moist catacombs by a couple of twenty-somethings who are more proficient at siphoning wine directly from dozens of casks than explaining the nuanced difference between them. Various wooden kegs are used here to age wine, and as a born-again taster I am supposed to be able to tell the difference between California oak and Texas oak and European oak and blended oaks. But by the 10th or 11th barrel, not only am I not noticing any oak, I’m having a difficult time standing up. We walk out with two $70 bottles of “The David 1999” and for the life of me I can’t remember what it tastes like.
Fortunately for my equilibrium, Del Dotto is more the exception than the rule. Our winery visits generally include a short course in winemaking along with gentle salesmanship. Each vineyard has their own formula – and after four days I learn to appreciate the complexities of cultivation, picking, aging, bottling. Each step in the process from vine to table has a thousand variants – some at the whim of Mother Nature and others by the hand of graduates from UC Davis. I’m intrigued by the intricacies – and not only that – by the passion and yes, love that vineyard owners show for their precious grapes. I’m sure, given the chance to make my own beer, I would not have the same affection for my malt and hops.
And that’s what it comes down to after all. The babies. The beloved fruit of the vine, which may end up tasting like ambrosia or urine – but started out as someone’s dream.
Has wine won me over? Let’s just say that with understanding comes appreciation, though I have to tell ya’ my home-brew kit is on standby in the garage.
Copyright © 2006 Malerie Yolen-Cohen
Malerie Yolen-Cohen is a freelance writer who still favors Guinness in Stamford, CT – her home.