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With Halloween behind me and a miserable Ducks road trip safely in the rearview mirror I cannot help but start looking forward to greater food-centric holidays and the prospect of watching my favorite hockey team string together a few wins. I am certain that good food and wines to match are going to propel me through my countdown as the year winds down, and as far as the Ducks—no promises. With all the looking ahead though, it would be hard for me to forget the festive party I attended (at my apartment) a few Fridays back, and the three wines I uncorked for the spook soiree.
My roommate has always been a fervent calendar observer (he maintains that it is only at Halloween and Christmas but, I must attest, his adherence and excitement are constant), planning ahead, decorating accordingly and throwing a dedicated bash. When I came home, late from work, to his party, this was no exception; everyone clad in costume from Occupy Wall Streeters to Where’s Waldo’ers. Myself, I was a stranger in my own home but I was armed with the treasures of a wine salesman, plentiful samples for just such an occasion. In my possession were the wines of a Malibu Winery—Cielo Farms—from the Saddle Rock AVA, wines that I was familiar with only by name. I was excited at the promise of something great. A believer in local.
As the night began, a co-worker joined me and I promptly uncorked the 2009 Malibu Rouge (#151) and poured generous measures of concentrated vino into our beakers. Relying only on Halloween lights, it was difficult to discern the hue of the wine, so, we made use of our other faculties to assess its quality. The young wine had a bouquet of luscious dark fruits and little else. The Malibu Rouge was soft (smooth tannins) and full-bodied with extraordinary amount of fresh fruit that spilled over the tongue—very rich. It was a hedonist’s delight.
Getting into the spirit of things I opened another heavy bottle from Cielo Farms, with fruit sourced from Napa Valley under the moniker Moulin-Rouge (#150). Without knowing what fruit constituted the blend it would be hard to tell what exactly I was drinking, or the order of the bottles, but I was happy with the results. The Moulin Rouge had a bit more going on on the nose and in the mouth. Ripe fruit, coffee and some smoke exposing itself, with refined tannins, a little heat (from alcohol) but everything seemed to be in proportion.
I took a required break, the alcohol on both Malibu wines tipped over 15%, and its effects were beginning to show—we were drinking, not just tasting. Enjoying the party and some of the spread—compliments of my roommate’s girlfriend—I ate a fair amount of the savory items that were laid out on the table. An hour elapsed and I had aired out. The group was on the verge of a séance and I thought it a good time for a bubble break. A quick reprieve before things got creepy. The NV A. Margaine Champagne (#149) was the pinnacle of the night. The Premier Cru Champagne yielded decidedly nutty and toasty notes. The sparkling wine had a terrific mousse as I poured at an angle into my makeshift flute. I shared this wine with everyone who wanted some; there were a few takers but most people passed—a real shame. I take every moment I can to enlighten others on the prospect of bubbles outside the sphere of influence cast by Veuve Clicqout. The A. Margaine was delicate and racy with bright acidity and soft almond and golden apple flavors that sounded long after the last sips of the Grower Champagne.
The séance-insistent crowd subsided and the talk turned mundane. After a serious amount of wine I was ready to take things easy and enjoy the remainder of the shindig before retiring. I knew full-well the quality of the Champagne I had selected and was happy to create a few converts along the way, but the more surprising were the samples from Cielo Farms. The genuinely local wines were a hit, with an uncanny fruit-forwardness that made them dangerously easy drinking. I am still looking ahead to brighter days as a Ducks fan but I have to say that Halloween is growing on me.
Whether subtlety and adventure meet to rough you up for your own good or are completely absent, everything transpiring on that busy cross section of streets between La Brea and Vine in Hollywood, is titillating, perhaps obnoxiously so. I rarely drive through it, vexed by certain gridlock, and, I feel less inclined to make it a destination outside of burgers safaris (because hamburgers, like most big game, know no boundaries), due to the huge mass of people reverberating in that congested space. But, as fate would have it, in that nexus of clamor and excitement, an ethereal buzz was brewing, less overt, sure to be overlooked on most radars—a Champagne tasting at the Roosevelt Hotel. I was fortunate to be invited to the Winewise Champagne tasting, by the distributors of undoubtedly some of the finest RM’s (récoltant-manipulants)—Farmer’s fizz—in the world.
I looked forward to the tasting, clearing my schedule months in advance so that there would be no way to miss this holy experience. There were esteemed guests in attendance, winemakers, and family representatives of the boutique houses, such as: Didier Gimmonet, Laetitia Billiot, Etienne Goutorbe, Arnauld Margaine and Jean-Baptiste Geoffroy. These ambassadors would be pouring their stock and enlightening the buyers, bloggers and sommeliers as to its worth, as they would circuit the tables; eighty-eight sparkling wines were available for tasting, including some alternatives to Champagne, like bubbles from Greece, Germany and Spain.
I made my foray a little later than the start time, not quite breaking the tape, but fashionably (thirty minutes) late to hide my kid-in-a-candy-store mien. I checked in with the gracious and benevolent host of the affair—Hiram Simon—and quickly armed myself with a packet of information and stemware. The vibe was electric and tastefully casual. Like the Riesling tasting earlier in the year, some of the tables were self-serve while others were attended—even if we are “professionals”, one could presume a unanimous decision to pour liberally with the Vilmart et Cie Champagne.
I rounded the tables slowly, allowing my palate to fully receive the information, as it would undulate from flute to flute. I made it to Pierre Peters, early on, one of many standouts, with a favorable amount of toast, respectful acidity and a luscious combination of dough, mineral and fruit.
I savored my time at each table, paying scrupulous attention to each bottle of chilled Champagne. In what seemed like no time I had gone through the first forty wines, arriving at an assortment of Gaston Chiquet wines—Special Club and all. I was eager to try my first Special Club (Club Trésors de Champagne) wine, which stands as an argument for terroir amongst 26 top-growing récoltant-manipulants.
Beginning with Chiquet then Gimonnet and finally tasting through Hébrart’s Special Club they were a rare treat for me, each bottle unique in mouth feel and structure.
As I tasted through an exquisite flight of wines from A. Margaine and René Geoffroy, it hit me that though a lot of the flavors were overlapping up to this point in the tasting, the texture of most of the wines was changing dramatically. The similarity of tastes could be ascribed to any number of factors, but the most striking differences came from the encépagement (composition of the blend), some were identical, comprised of only Chardonnay, or blending the same percentages of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir—and the weight and structure… and yet each had a different feel to them. I recognized that this was a monumental breakthrough for me; my tasting notes in the past were often littered with the same adjectives and especially the same accolades but this time I found myself scribbling in new descriptors, writing sentences about how certain wines behaved. The composition-plus-weight-and-structure on the palate was paramount in differentiating all of the quality wines that were being poured as well as adding a serious dimension to my notes because I am not often forced to pay attention to this coupled aspect as I was here, although in hindsight, my other tastings had been leading me here.
The constant rhythm of texture played steadily up to Vilmart—a requisite manned station—this table had some breath-taking examples of bubbles and I was lucky enough to taste the prized “Coeur de Cuvée” before that bottle had run empty.
I had an earned palate fatigue by the end of the eighty-eight wines, but I was comfortable with it, knowing that the experience that I had gained and the intimacy of the tasting reached the zenith for an event of this kind. While Hollywood danced to another tune over the star-studded pavement, with people lining up to take photos with Shrek and Marilyn Monroe impersonators as I exited the hotel, I was spiritualized after having attended the numinous showing of sparkling wines. Divine.
The Maverick Palate 
On the Vine