CVIndependent

Sun11172019

Last updateTue, 18 Sep 2018 1pm

I’ve mentioned wine clubs to folks who don’t spend much time in tasting rooms.

“I think there’s one of those around here,” one woman said.

A wine club, right? A place where like-minded people get together to sniff and sip? Not exactly what I’d meant. At wineries, club membership is more like frequent-buyer programs. It gives wineries a consistent source of income. It gives me a consistent source of wine. Signing up means agreeing to buy something like a case of wine a year, or maybe three or four bottles every three or four months.

The wine shipments are discounted—and that’s the big draw. Some wineries release special bottles, limited-production stuff, only to their members.

As a member, a simple aficionado like me gets to feel like a member of the winery’s extended family—drinking with the homies, at a place where everybody knows your name.

I’ve been a member of as many as nine wine clubs at the same time. My husband Dave is also a joiner. Once, between us, we were in 14 wine clubs. That’s before we maintained two separate households. Now I’m in two clubs.

The trend’s obvious: I join when I’m a little tipsy, usually after I’ve tasted wine at one or two places during a trip to wine country. I can resist the impulse for my first few ounces of wine. But by the third or fourth winery, I’m itching to hand over my credit card.

The process can be accelerated by a trip to a winery’s barrel room. That’s where a prospect gets to taste unbottled wine to identify its potential. Wine out of a barrel is deceptively light, but jam-packed with alcohol. Oh, yes, this is good! I’m fine. I’m fine. Then I’m signing on the line.

I joined a club the first time I went wine-tasting in Amador County. Dave and I barely dented the long list of places to go. The Amador Vintners Association has 40 members, all with tasting rooms. And not all wineries are members.

So much wine. So little lunch. So fast to sloshy am I.

By Winery No. 3, I was ready for the pitch: Do I want to buy the yummy wine I’m drinking for less, less, less? Do I want to drive back to Amador for free pasta? Because I’ve been invited to join Villa Toscano’s Bella Piazza wine club! All I have to do is fill out a card, hand over my credit card information—and I’m one of them.

The thought of a pasta buffet hooked me. Free noodles sounded irresistible to my growling stomach. I imagined coming back for a weekend and dining on linguine dripping with pesto. Sampling wine and more wine.

Over the years, we’ve been back to Amador plenty of times. I never did get to the pasta buffet.

No matter. Wine club wine, it turns out, is the gift that keeps on giving—and the charges on your credit card keep mounting. If you can’t pick up this season’s shipment at the winery, they’ll ship it to you.

You can cancel. But that means a phone call. Or an email. So much work!

These days, I join clubs to buy consistently great wine that’s more affordable to members. As a member of Myka Cellars in the Santa Cruz Mountains, wine crafted by genius winemaker Mica Raas is half-price all the time. That $44 bottle of 2011 Reserve Malbec? It’s $22, any time I want it. Which is basically now.

Locally, Tulip Hill’s September wine-club shipment included four bottles of wine, retail value $132, for $60. That means I basically paid about $15 for the newly released 2010 Tracy Hills Inamorata—a mouth full of flowers and raspberries! (Opened it within days. Drank it. Mmm.) It’s $36 in the tasting room.

Most wine clubs include free tasting flights for self, partner and friends. Some tempt me with winery swag. At one winery, new members were rewarded with a wine glass that holds an entire bottle. Who thinks that’s a good idea? I do.

When we were members of Winery by the Creek in Fair Play, we could sign up to spend a night in the winemaker’s cottage—in the middle of the vineyard—for the cost of cleaning the unit. If we timed it right, we could be there for the sister winery’s all-you-can-eat pizza buffet on Friday nights. So, it was like $40 or $50 to eat, drink and stay in a cute cottage in a field of wine on the vine. Yeah!

Unlike the pasta buffet, we actually made this happen. Twice.

And the Winery by the Creek’s wine kept coming. Shipments of six bottles at a time. Drinkable and affordable. We possessed our own wine jug that we could refill with sfuso—loose wine—from a giant stainless steel tank. Damn, I’m pretty sure we had two refillable wine jugs.

Finally, though, I dashed off the sad email. Consider me cancelled. I did the same with seven or eight other wineries.

Why would I end such beneficial relationships? To save the expense, sure. And the wine was piling up, indeed. But most importantly, the upside of wine clubs is also the downside: We ended up going back to favorite wine regions and spending all our time at member wineries, picking up bottles for which we’d already paid, and tasting loved but now-familiar wines.

It was hard to discover new bottles of bliss.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody does not know your name. But they’re still glad you came. They might even take you into the back and give you some of whatever’s in the barrel.

Below: A perk for members—the pond-side picnic grounds at Indian Rock Vineyards in Murphys, Calif.

Published in Wine

If wine grapes made noise, Mourvèdre would hum low and long, like a foghorn thrumming out a warning in the dark, thick stratus. Perhaps a melodic tune would emerge—something a stand-up gal could capture with the strings of her bass.

Thum-bum-ba-dum, hum-ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

If grapes had personalities, Mourvèdre would be the brooding dude standing on the party’s outer ring like a non-sequitur, quoting Sartre and the obvious. “Consciousness is prior to nothingness and ‘is derived’ from being,” he’d say. “Weather forecast for tonight: Dark.”

Mourvèdre captures my imagination, and inspires the notes of black and blue paint that are making a muddy glum on my canvas.

I’m drinking and painting—or at least using assorted brushes to glop oil pigment on stretched white fabric. I’m brandishing the artistic confidence of a 4-year-old not yet ruined by school.

A friend is staying at my place, and we are drinking and painting for fun and obviously not profit. The wine is Twisted Oak’s 2010 River of Skulls, a Mourvèdre from Dalton Vineyards, Angels Camp, blended with nothing. The canvasses are 14 by 18 inches.

Billie Holiday’s voice crackles from a vinyl album.

My friend expresses concern about working with oil paints. She hasn’t done it since childhood. The canvas is so big, she says. So much space with which to work.

I proffer my own lack of expectations as an assurance: Just slather some paint on the pale expanse and reduce its blankness. Replace fear with joy, nothingness with being. Sometimes, a person should think long and hard about choices. Other times, hell, we’re just playing, pretending we can make art. Because we can. Because it’s winter, and we went out on the town last night.

Later, we can watch Netflix.

I keep our glasses filled. The wine is ruddy red, dirty plum. An unblended Mourvèdre wine is a rare treat, if you like the grape.

I love the grape, a Rhone varietal from France most often used in blending with Grenache and Syrah. It’s mixed with these grapes so often that the blend has its own acronym, GSM. About 900 acres of Mourvèdre was grown in California in 2012, a drop in the bottle compared with 80,000 acres of cabernet sauvignon. The numbers are from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which has fun charts you can read here. You won’t actually see Mourvèdre on the list, because it’s identified as Mataró and also known as Monastrell.

Confusing, yes. But the grape is called Mourvèdre on my bottle, so I’m going with that.

Some winemakers won’t make a 100 percent Mourvèdre, because the grape oxidizes easily and can attract a buildup of the kind of yeast that gives wine an earthy funk. Now I’m all for a little earthy funk, but I don’t like to feel like I’m drinking wine straight from the compost pile. “Worm castings” is how my friend aptly describes this when she gets a nose full of it at one winery’s tasting room or another.

She likes to pretend she knows nothing about wine. It’s a ruse.

The River of Skulls has the tiniest smidgen of funk, just enough to accent those dark, rich fruits that I love so very much. Then there’s silky spice and a gruff, lingering vanilla finish. It’s a perfect bottle of wine.

Did I mention the label is a red skull?

The wine’s name comes from Spanish Lt. Gabriel Moraga’s discovery in the early 1800s of a Central Valley river filled with, you got it, human skulls. “Perhaps an ancient battle. Or perhaps a really great party gone horribly wrong,” suggests text on the back of the bottle.

I bought the River of Skulls in the Sierra foothills just after Thanksgiving, during my Christmas-present wine tasting adventure with my husband, Dave. Mourvèdre was on our holiday wish list. A couple of years ago, I ordered a glass of Vina Moda’s 2008 Mourvèdre at a restaurant and wanted more, more. Dave and I went to the tasting room and bought two bottles. We drank them both in 2012 and decided that this wine was one of the best we’d tasted that year. Why, oh why, didn’t we buy three bottles?

No problem. We thought we could drive back to the Sierra foothills and procure additional deliciousness. We attempted this for my birthday last March. Sadly, when we went to Vina Moda, the Mourvèdre was gone. Sold out. Owner and genius winemaker Nathan Vader suggested a couple of stores and restaurants that might still have bottles. We spent a good part of a day on a futile odyssey in search of the 2008 Mourvèdre. No luck.

So when we returned after Thanksgiving and tasted Vina Moda’s 2009 Mourvèdre, we bought a few bottles and put them in safe places. The winery describes its Mourvèdre like this: “She is a lithe and mysterious spider. Shining mirrors of geometrical balance and perfection. Dangerous? Possibly. Irresistibly alluring? Absolutely. Climb into her web, we dare you …”

Dare taken.

Vader made 123 cases. When he runs out, don’t look at us.

I bought only one River of Skulls on this post-Thanksgiving trip. I'll miss it when it's gone, a moment that's fast approaching.

Billie Holiday is singing: “The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea.” And my friend is singing along: “… They can’t take that away from me.”

We’re finishing up the bottle and the better part of two paintings. Mine loosely depicts a bracket fungus on the end of a log, but could also be read as a gelatinous Casper the ghost floating through swirls of grubby ectoplasm. The clean geometric lines of my friend’s landscape—bright rolling grasses and the clean angles of a far-off barn—provide an intriguing contrast.

We put the art in a closet to dry, sip the last of the Mourvèdre, and watch the “Blood Donut” episode of Orange Is the New Black.

Art plus wine—that’s easy living.

Published in Wine