Long before the walls of Wall Street came tumbling down, my bank went bankrupt, and General Motors asked if it could borrow a couple 'o billion (sorry guys, I'm a little short myself this week); Lanier and I enjoyed perusing the aisles of our favorite wine boutiques. "Oh look!" Lanier would cry out. "This Russian River Valley Syrah from Dutton Estate got 95 points from Robert Parker. And it's only $34 dollars." Melodramatically I would rush over and read aloud from the card below it Parker's poetic description as though I were on stage at the Kennedy Center. "....Delivering dense concentrated blackberry, wild berry, anise, fresh earth, cedar, and pleasing mineral notes. The finish sails on and on." It was at that point that Lanier and I would exchange a look that said 'when that ship sails, we're gonna be on it'. "Ahoy there matey, we're comin' aboard. Heist the Happy Wino flag!" I'd gleefully scream. Today I'd just scream period. Thirty four dollars?! Not a chance in hell!! Our naive Doris Day days of singing 'Que Syrah, Syrah' are over! We Winos have changed our tune. Our empty wallets have helped us see the error of our ways. That which we once scorned and ridiculed; we now humbly bow down before and ask its forgiveness. We’re talking of course about the 1.5 liter ‘double’ bottle. That's right, we’ve gone from 95 points to nine dollars and fifty cents. The only points we're looking at now during this Grape Recession are decimal points! It seems like only yesterday when I would shake my head and smile indulgently at the little old lady in Publix pushing her supermarket cart filled with small neat stacks of Lean Cuisines and a jumbo 1.5 bottle of Chardonnay. 'Bless her heart' I'd say to myself... Nowadays, instead of a smug inner monologue, I'm stoppin' the old grey fox and asking her right out loud. "Hey lady, that wine any good?" She pauses politely to reply. "It's got some very subtle notes of lemon grass, honey, and vanilla." then elbowing me in the ribs, she brags out of the side of her mouth "you won't find a better buzz for your buck in this clip joint, buddy!" Well... no, she didn't exactly say that. It was more like... "It's my favorite dear, but everybody's different". Being new to the 1.5 cult ourselves we needed more guidance than that. So Lanier and I decided to ask some of the more experienced devotees among our friends what their favorite ‘El Cheapos’ were. Lanier's good friend Kathy in D.C. said "Okay....don't laugh. My favorite supermarket wine is Pinot Grigio from Cavit ($9.99). For some reason it goes down well...all 1.5 liters of it!!" Our friend Gary who's a Beverly Hills bartender talked up the 1.5 La Terre Chardonnay ($9.99) "a lot of the restaurants here secretly use it as their house wine". Here's a few more that got high praise including some of our favorites. ( Yes, we actually went out and drank a whole bunch of 1.5's for you. Don't thank us, it's our job.) Faves were: Brownstone Chardonnay ($11.19) Folonari Montepulciano d' Abruzzo ($12.19) Peter Mertes Reisling ($11.19) Frontera Carmenere ($8.09) Frontera Cabernet Merlot blend ($8.09) (which also turns out to be the best selling wine in South Carolina) And if you've had a good night at the poker table or the bingo hall, you can always splurge on these two 1.5's: Red Cliffe New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc ($16.19) Ardeche Louis Latour Chardonnay ($20.29) Hint: Look for all the above on the bottom shelf of wine stores and supermarkets as they stock more pricey stuff at eye level in hopes you will be tempted. A mischievous vintner friend of ours in Napa recently poured his favorite 1.5 Cab into an empty Chateau Margaux bottle he had saved, slipped a paper sleeve over it, and snuck it into a blind taste test some local wine snobs were holding. Turns out 4 outta 5 of them picked it as their favorite. Needless to say they weren't too happy when he showed them the 1.5 liter bottle of ten buck bargain juice from Wal-mart their pretentious palates had plotzed over.
Oh by the way, in terms of wine etiquette, it is now acceptable to openly display your 1.5's. Yes, at long last, 1.5's, (everybody’s dirty little secret) has finally come out of the (liquor) closet. At a very fancy dinner party we recently attended, held at a beautiful 3000 acre plantation, our charming and sophisticated hostess rang a tiny antique sterling silver bell and servants rushed in to fill our crystal wine goblets with (are you sitting down?) 1.5 bottles of YELLOWTAIL!!!! After which they proudly placed the bottles out in the open on her 18th century $100,000 dollar sideboard. One word of warning though...when someone invites you to dinner and says 'you could bring a bottle of wine’ …they don't mean a 1.5. Keep 'em for yourself. We should also say, once you go '1.5' that doesn't mean you aren't tempted to go back to one of those skinny 750 ml high priced floozies. The other day a shiny new bottle of Pascal Jolivet Sancerre ($42) seemed to be knocking on our door asking us to come out and play. But we suddenly remembered a different leader, President Obama, and his Inaugural warning that "it was time to put away childish things". (Gee, you think he was talking about all those fancy bottles of high class swill we all downed these past eight years?). Guess we’ll put that $42 Sancerre on hold for now. In the meantime, we have faith America will be number 1 again. Or even better...1.5!
1/30/09
Keep ‘Happy Hour’ Happy!
You know winter is our time to get down with some spicy, heart-warming, berry-bustin' reds that make us want to throw another log on the fire and kick back with some sultry French jazz, letting our minds wistfully drift off to Paris. Beaufort, South Carolina ? We're familiar with it. We use to live there once, an hour ago. Before we moved here to the Left Bank. RING! RING! Dammit. We forgot to turn off the cell phone! RING! RING! "How many times is it gonna ring?!" "Don't they know it's 5 o'clock in Beaufort?!" RING! RING! "Oh my god, they're calling back!" "It could be an emergency." Lanier shakes his head 'no' violently and bugs his eyes out with his best 'don't-you-dare-look' -- "You know our rule." Indeed I do...it's 'NEVER answer the phone during Happy Hour'. How many times have we been warm and cozy, happily floating down a soothing river of red, nuzzling a bottle of say Chateauneuf du Pape (Feraud-Brunel makes one of our favorites--French Rhone red 2005--92pts.!) Okay okay...so we only had a bottle of it once and somebody else paid for it. (just using a little artistic license here, friends!) So what if it was a bottle of some much lesser known French red under $12 that the ‘Count de Costco’ was hawking from his supersized superstore wine cellar. The point is, we were in a beautiful boozy bliss. RING! RING! "What gives?". Has my godforsaken cellphone lost it's take-a-message feature? Verizon shall hear of this. RING! RING!
I look down and see it's my friend Rhonda. I love Rhonda. She's one of the funniest women I know. Actress, playwright, comedienne. No doubt she's calling to tell me her latest hilarious New York misadventure! Surely I can talk to her during Happy Hour. I take a nice long mellow sip and pick up the phone. "Finally!!" she barks irately. (Uh oh, not a good beginning!) She’s launches into a bitter take-no-prisoners tirade: "The deaf old lady in the apartment next door falls asleep with the TV blasting and I'm gonna kill her!" "Remember that guy I was dating? Guess what?? Turns out he's married!!". "Why always me?! Why??! Why???" she wails tragically into my poor ear. "I'm getting old and I'm broke! And I live in a dump! God, I hate my life!!" Once again, The Curse of the Happy Hour Haranguer is upon me. One hour later and I hate her life too and myself for being stupid enough to pick up the phone. Upstairs, I can hear Lanier happily tapping his foot to the angelic voices of ABBA. "You can dance! You can dance! Having the time of your life!" Downstairs, my friend's still on the rant from Hell. My empty wine glass glares accusingly back at me... 'How could you?! This was supposed to be our time!’ Now this is not just a fluke. I've had people call me during other Happy Hours to tell me in sad hushed tones things like "Estelle Getty just died." "Who?" I ask. "The oldest golden girl from the TV series." " And you felt the need to call and tell me this morbid little tidbit during my only happy hour of the day?" I ask flatly. Or here's another. "You'll never guess who's got cancer of the prostate." I don't wanna guess. I just want to drink my South Australian Shiraz in peace looking at the beautiful sunset from my porch trying desperately to affirm "Life IS beautiful." Instead, this unwelcome medical messenger of doom and gloom is babbling in my ear.-- "He's only in his 40's and he had absolutely no symptoms--it was a total shock!" I think "Hey, I'm in my 40's and I don't have any symptoms. This very minute I could be riddled with prostate cancer and not know it. Good God!" My Happy Hour comes to a screeching halt as I run to my computer to Google 'latest cures for prostate cancer.’ (Fortunately I find that red wine is listed as a preventative!) I know, I know... death, destruction, depression are a part of life. We know they're out there. But for at least one hour (okay, maybe two) we would like to drink a luscious Argentinian Malbec and revel in the miracle of the 'little red grape that could' that is now doing a delightful tango on our tastebuds. Is that too much to ask? No TV news. No opening bills. And absolutely no calls! Happy Hour is a sacred space in which we must see the glass of life as half full to be served with a side of witty repartee, laughter, and music. Aaahhh...........RING! RING! "Oh no you don't, whoever you are!" "Lanier, turn up the ABBA!"
Cheers!
I look down and see it's my friend Rhonda. I love Rhonda. She's one of the funniest women I know. Actress, playwright, comedienne. No doubt she's calling to tell me her latest hilarious New York misadventure! Surely I can talk to her during Happy Hour. I take a nice long mellow sip and pick up the phone. "Finally!!" she barks irately. (Uh oh, not a good beginning!) She’s launches into a bitter take-no-prisoners tirade: "The deaf old lady in the apartment next door falls asleep with the TV blasting and I'm gonna kill her!" "Remember that guy I was dating? Guess what?? Turns out he's married!!". "Why always me?! Why??! Why???" she wails tragically into my poor ear. "I'm getting old and I'm broke! And I live in a dump! God, I hate my life!!" Once again, The Curse of the Happy Hour Haranguer is upon me. One hour later and I hate her life too and myself for being stupid enough to pick up the phone. Upstairs, I can hear Lanier happily tapping his foot to the angelic voices of ABBA. "You can dance! You can dance! Having the time of your life!" Downstairs, my friend's still on the rant from Hell. My empty wine glass glares accusingly back at me... 'How could you?! This was supposed to be our time!’ Now this is not just a fluke. I've had people call me during other Happy Hours to tell me in sad hushed tones things like "Estelle Getty just died." "Who?" I ask. "The oldest golden girl from the TV series." " And you felt the need to call and tell me this morbid little tidbit during my only happy hour of the day?" I ask flatly. Or here's another. "You'll never guess who's got cancer of the prostate." I don't wanna guess. I just want to drink my South Australian Shiraz in peace looking at the beautiful sunset from my porch trying desperately to affirm "Life IS beautiful." Instead, this unwelcome medical messenger of doom and gloom is babbling in my ear.-- "He's only in his 40's and he had absolutely no symptoms--it was a total shock!" I think "Hey, I'm in my 40's and I don't have any symptoms. This very minute I could be riddled with prostate cancer and not know it. Good God!" My Happy Hour comes to a screeching halt as I run to my computer to Google 'latest cures for prostate cancer.’ (Fortunately I find that red wine is listed as a preventative!) I know, I know... death, destruction, depression are a part of life. We know they're out there. But for at least one hour (okay, maybe two) we would like to drink a luscious Argentinian Malbec and revel in the miracle of the 'little red grape that could' that is now doing a delightful tango on our tastebuds. Is that too much to ask? No TV news. No opening bills. And absolutely no calls! Happy Hour is a sacred space in which we must see the glass of life as half full to be served with a side of witty repartee, laughter, and music. Aaahhh...........RING! RING! "Oh no you don't, whoever you are!" "Lanier, turn up the ABBA!"
Cheers!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
