Why I Never Drink Alone

 

400px-Napa_Valley_Photo_D_Ramey_Logan_What makes St. Helena in Napa County different?

When the rain is pelting down (yes, we actually have some today); when the fire is blazing; when the book is riveting; it’s only a few small steps into the coveted wine cellar where one finds not a booze closet, but a liquid scrapbook — corked and bottled. Whitman said, “never am I less alone than, than when alone.” And one is never truly alone when Napa Cab is near.

So, when the day is done, and one sits — fire roaring, book in lap (maybe at a younger age, with something else in lap) — is there anything more apropos than a bottle from one’s own cellar?

Now I’m not talking pretentious blather about “A Parker-rated 98 with traces of plumb and raspberry — boasting currant flavors, with silky tannins, a strong finish — unpretentious but audacious.”

I’m talking about a label (sometimes hand-printed) which can’t help but bring up memories of neighbors.

It’s the law here. One never crosses another’s threshold without a bottle of wine in hand.

It does wonders for one’s own personal cellar.

Whenever the ichor (Google it) is uncorked, it is impossible to think of it as merely a container of fermented fruit.

Often it comes from someone’s private vineyard — maybe only an acre or two — or is made by a local wine buff whose kid played little league with mine.

The wines aren’t necessarily famous. Yet, each bottle has a story. And that’s where the poetry lies.

Tried a Casa Blanca? It may not be recorded in any wine anthologies, but it conjures up the best li’l kids’ Christmas Party at the White’s house. Casa Piena from Carmen Policy? A full house — full of Super Bowl memories.

It’s impossible to drink Mike Chellini’s Stoney Hill Chardonnay without remembering the night up there; we ruined that Ivy League Football Coach (who shall go nameless) who came to recruit my kid and sip wine. Uptight and buttoned-up he ended up downing tequilas with us — tie askew — arms akimbo and repeating over and over again, “I looooove you guys.”

Cabs’ Cab brings back 1,000 memories, not the least of which was sailing to Lipari with her and her husband and passing the belching Stomboli volcano in the middle of the night. Or being knocked down in a heap by a bamboo-toting, 450 lb. silverback gorilla in the Virunga Mountains of Rwanda.

Can’t open a Far Niente without remembering Gil Nickle (after my father died) insisting that Maggie, my mother, attend his black tie gala during wine auction week. Not necessary. Just nice.

A Lewelling Cab brings back thoughts of Dave tossing three TD passes against Calistoga when we were in high school, just as surely as a Trinchero Cab reminds me of the sting of snapping towels wielded by the older Roger Trinchero, in the locker room during boys’ P.E.

For most, Beringer’s summons up caves and the Rhine House. To us, it’s a 21-year-old Freddie, deputized on Halloween — chasing us through the vineyards after we’d egged him and Ezz (the police chief) in their car out in the gravel pits.

Charles Krug not only brings back thoughts of when the Mondavi brothers both lived on the property and Bob’s first wife, Marge would cook spaghetti, but how some years ago at “the hunt club” young Janice and Mark Mondavi taught our kids to fish.

Or Continuum? That windy day on Pritchard Hill when big Bob Mondavi, a month before he died (and unable to speak) sat in his wheelchair and blessed with his eyes Tim and Marcia’s extension of the legacy.

Domaine Depuy, Rambeau’s Red, Maggie’s Merlot, and many others bring back, private, select moments that would be boring to outsiders.

Blankiet, Jones , Araujo , Staglin, Harlan — to connoisseurs the names are famous. To neighbors, these are names which evoke private memories but their stories have been covered ad nauseam by the professionals.

Wine here never stands alone. It’s always been produced by people — men like Chuck Carpy at Freemark Abbey, who coached us in baseball as his father had before him.

People like John Konsgaard whose dad was the finest jurist in the County. Judge’s Zin, anyone?

How about Judge Snowden’s father, Wayne’s root beer — years before his family’s hillside cab?

My father’s favorite accomplishment was being an original (albeit minor) partner in Freemark Abbey, learning at the feet of winemaker Brad Webb.

So many vineyards, so little time.

Juice is only a small part of what goes into a bottle of wine. It truly has “personality” because it is made by people — people who actually live here, send children to schools here, work here and coach here.

Can you separate the dancer from the dance?

They really do put their soul into every bottle — it’s not just wine-writer hype. And because they do, folks like me, never, ever drink alone.

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  1. user_2505 Contributor
    user_2505
    @GaryMcVey

    That’s just gorgeous, Jeffrey. A terrific post.

    And as long as you ship an occasional bottle down here to southern Cal, we’ll be more than happy to send up TV comedies and 3D blockbusters.

    • #1
  2. douglaswatt25@yahoo.com Member
    douglaswatt25@yahoo.com
    @DougWatt

    Beautiful essay. Years ago I remember discovering Stags Leap Petite Syrah at Costco. I bought as many bottles as I could because after the first bottle with leg of lamb I knew my discovery would soon be discovered by thousands of others. The Napa Valley and St. Helena is the perfect antidote to those who believe California is San Francisco or Los Angeles.

    • #2
  3. user_352043 Coolidge
    user_352043
    @AmySchley

    I’m a social drinker.

    Whenever someone says they’ll have a drink, I say, “So shall I.”

    • #3
  4. Kay of MT Inactive
    Kay of MT
    @KayofMT

    There was a time when I could afford to order a case of selected wines to have on had to share. My favorite vineyard is no longer in business, however I didn’t know about yours.

    • #4
  5. Nanda Panjandrum Member
    Nanda Panjandrum
    @

    Lovely and evocative, Jeffrey…Thank you!

    • #5
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