So there we were. Armed to the teeth with high octane cult
wines and speeding over winding mountain roads, headed
toward some of the most exclusive wineries on the left coast
with a sinister madman at the wheel. Miss Vicky presented
Madame and me with togas and sandals that fit surprisingly
well, though Madame was hesitant to don them at first.
Finally, after more "Borgundy ", we relented and settled in to
meet some of our fellow "seekers." (There's a "seeker"
born every minute.) There were about 20 of us, and Madame an I
ended up deeply involved in a game of Sonapanoma
Monopoly with Muttman, Pester, Spazz, Clitis and Vin Plays
Doc. I was the first to drop out, and Madame won, as usual,
but the most impressive singular aspect of the game was the
fact that Cay-moose was relegated to the space normally
occupied by Baltic Ave. Someone at Porker Bros. has a
twisted sense of humor.
The Borgundy kept flowing, and we were in quite the state by
the time we arrived at the first stops of the day, but we
weren't drunk by any means; there was more of an altered
state thing going on.
The first two producers we visited gave me a bit of a shudder,
since they so succinctly described certain attributes of my once
girlish figure as I approach middle age...
Saddlebag and Plumpbutt are adjacent to each other, and share
the same winemaker, Neil Schmenge, who is also an
accomplished accordionist and polka aficionado.
The
Saddlebags showed some serious new leather, black cherry
and blueberry vanilla, whilst the Plumpbutt was a fat @$$ed
sweet oak low acid big berry mutha huffer. We enjoyed
ourselves immensely until Bacchus and Schmenge started
headbutting each other. This went on for about 20 minutes;
finally Neil dropped like a Led Zepplin and we went off in
search of fresh meat.
Our next stop sent my heart all a-flutter. Rodent Ridge, what a
showplace! This state of the art facility is all oak and mirrors.
Our love for the Puxatawny Muskrat Rouge is well
documented, but we were also taken with their proprietary red, Porta Bello, with its mushroom and blueberry
characteristics. We were in heaven!
That evening, we dined at Chez Guevara, known for its
revolutionary Cuban cuisine. Afterwards, I snuck off to enjoy
one of the Canusis, but my path was blocked by Bacchus,
who insisted that I rejoin the others. He said the smoke would
adversely affect my palate, so I reluctantly returned to our
table, much to his obvious relief. Something here didn't quite
wash, but I didn't give it further thought, perhaps due to the
cumulative effects of the Borgundy.
After dinner, we returned to the No Tell Motel, where we slept
uneasily, as an unearthly voice insinuated itself into our
dreams, repeating the designations "g3po" and "If 6 were
9."
The next day was more of the same, as we stopped at two
more wineries.
Snowjob is up in the hills overlooking Sonapanoma. The wine
is a swindle, all style and no substance. Starts out tasting great,
then just disappears.
And then there was Harlot. Vintage after vintage, this wine is a
one trick pony, but it's a trick most hookers would give their
tush to turn. It's like illicit sex in a glass, all creamy and
dreamy.
The Borgundy flowed freely all the time we were on the bus.
The effects of the libation were not so much intoxicating as
they were mesmerizing and hypnotic. I don't remember
stopping for food or returning to the motel. There was only the
Borgundy and a sinister whisper in my subconscious hissing,
"g3po, resistance is futile..."
More later...
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