7/24/2011. Today, true wine continuation, jubilation. For the record, I’m not one smitten by the sight, smell, nor savor of chocolate. Until, I met the mother-daughter duo of Linda Bartlett and Alexandra Keys, the impetus forwarding Truffle Gateau. One chocolate, dark. The other, stroked with coffee notes. Both pairing bewitchingly with Cabernet, Merlot, and Port, at St. Francis. As I’ve always said, you never know who’s going to walk through the tasting Room’s doors, or make an appearance on the floor. Both these young ladies were not only knowledgeable, but confident in their pairing suggestions. Chocolate and wine, chocolate and more chocolate, chocolate to its own device/vice, even paired with olive oil. Truly a highlight in my day. Told them I would “pitch” their line on podcast. They deserve words, the page, more than some slummy endorsement in some episode. Raising my glass, sippingNscribbling for my new, sweetly masterful, lovely, counterparts.
Interesting flow of traffic. Not as busy as I thought it would be. Saying such, as the weather couldn’t have been configured better. Worked with my brother Rony, which always results in scribe-worthy equation. At one point, he and I walked around outside, just beyond the tasting Room’s patio, by the lawn. While Rony went on about Cabernet in Sonoma vs. Napa, I looked up at the Mayacamas, then down at the Wild Oak Vineyard, thinking to Self, “This is the wine industry, the real picture of wine, here, outside.” Wine knowledge, appreciation, existence, can’t be forged. Ever. The money will come, as I realize the bottles need be sold. But to be part of wine’s collective composition, you have to be here. With the grapes, their terroir. With the bottles, the consumers, corks, glasses. Each ingredient. My patience descends to residual as I age. Wine swine, never deserving of my time. The consumers, the Humans genuinely fond of wine, its continuance, I respect. Much like the gentleman from New York, lady from San Francisco, I met today; Raising glass to my new allies in the publishing world. But, I realize it’s unrealistic, irrational for me, the dreamer wine pen-mover, to expect all to be pattern-minded. And I shouldn’t want that. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Alright. You got me, pig. But I won’t be silent. Ever. I tonight sipNscribble, here in my pleasantly temperatured studio, sipping for the honest bottle followers.
Another highlight, Mom and Dad just dropping by, to say hello. Such an act, reviving. Because, and I’ll be honest, some guests that pass though those heavy doors, bubble my blood. “What happened to tasting Room etiquette?” one guest today actually posed. Could have went on a reactionary, rattlesnake response of a diatribe, but withheld. Now in night’s summation, I sip, scribble, with a much linearity as I can. But the syllables limp. Maybe drained from the day, the tasting Room’s rhythm. Felt good, though, I not-so-confidentially concede. Love the pouring of wine, the new characters, the new languages, interactions, wine antiphons. Puddles on the counter, stained napkins, even the empty bottles, the misplaced ones that somehow find their way to the Reserve Room. The wine, magic. Now, before bed, temped to bite into this new chocolate discover. Refraining, saving for morrow. Have to share it with NewWineGig colleagues. Incredible day, being on an actual wine stage; one not forced, or contrived. No need to “immerse” Self, as this oenoActuality lands afore my pattern prominently, tastefully.