I had the chance to challenge my opinions a few weeks ago, when I was invited to a tasting of 2001 Amarones made by some top, family-owned producers. These are wines that need a lot of time to develop, so even the 2001s were a bit rough around the edges. As a whole these wines are big, tannic, and dry. They also feature some unusual, striking flavors(the phrase “chocolate covered craisins” made more than one appearance in my tasting notes). I loved the chance to taste these wines. I loved hearing about them from the people who made them — or, at the very least, the sons and daughters of the people who made them. The 25-year old son of one producer said his father only just started letting him pick the grapes for their Amarone, because it requires so much expertise and care.

I admire these wines more than ever…but I just don’t like them. They don’t move me. Nor do I see how they would really fit into my life — I don’t think I’d enjoy them much on their own, and there are plenty of other big, intense wines I’d turn to for food matching first. So basically, Amarone is the vinous equivalent of this:

I mean, amazing shoes, right? I just can’t see myself wearing them.

I get it, really I do. But. Wine lovers rejecting Bordeaux is akin to Americans hating on George Washington. It’s an integral part of wine’s history, its mystique, and its hold on our imaginations. Plus a lot of it tastes really, really good.

I was fortunate to experience this first hand a few weeks ago, when Snooth Editor-in-Chief Gregory Dal Piaz opened a few choice Bordeaux for a group of wine writers. The line up included:

1986 Cos d’Estournel (a little stern, but likeable)

1989 Cos d’Estournel (velvety and seductive, if a bit hollow)

1986 Lynch-Bages (corked, alas)

1988 Château Meyney

1989 Château Meyney (my favorite of the bunch – well-balanced, highly drinkable, and remarkably fresh)

1990 Château Meyney

No single wine was perfect, but each offered a snapshot of what Bordeaux can offer: elegance, balance, structure and, of course, longevity. Old-fashioned virtues, I guess, but ones that every wine lover should learn to appreciate.

Besides, without Bordeaux, what would the cool kids have to rebel against?

I thought of all this a few weeks ago, when Human Rights Watch released a depressingly familiar report on human rights violations in South Africa’s wine industry. It was a hot topic among wine people when it came out (see, for example, the post and comments here) and as I followed the debate, something struck me: this was the first time I’d ever heard wine folks talk about the people who actually work in the vineyard. We spend a hell of a lot of time obsessively analyzing pretty much everything else, from rootstocks to yeasts to soil composition, so our silence on this topic is notable.

And it’s not an insignificant point, especially for Americans. According to the Oxford Companion, “few reasonable observers would dispute a claim that [California's] clandestine, 600,000-member Mexican labor force constitutes CA’s greatest asset in the competitive arena of international fine wine production.” This workforce is not only large and hard-working, but also incredibly skilled and efficient. (No wonder producers were able to replant to Pinot Noir so quickly after “Sideways” came out.)

And if we’re really serious about the whole “natural wine/great wine is made in the vineyard” thing, then we need to talk to the people who are actually doing all the vine- and grape-coddling we wax rhapsodic about. The more I drink and study wine, the less I care about a given winemaker’s “philosophy” (talk is cheap) and the more I care about execution (how exactly does grafting work, anyway?) As wine writers and educators, my compatriots and I owe it to you to delve deeper here — and as wine consumers, you owe it to yourself to understand and appreciate all the hard work that goes into your glass.

1. Box it up. There are some good box wines out there (even the New York Times thinks so), and ounce for ounce, they represent a great value. Serve it up in this adorable “vin de maison” carafe so people will think you’re charming, not cheap.

2. Ditch the glass. Yes I know, many restaurants have amazing wine-by-the-glass selections. But how many times have you gone out with a friend, drunk a few glasses between the two of you, and realized you could have gotten more wine, for less, if you had just ordered a bottle? Find a happy compromise on a wine you’ll both enjoy and opt for the full bottle.

3. Put a cork(age) in it. Bring your own bottle and pay the restaurant’s corkage fee, usually around $25. Of course, this makes the most sense when you have a pricier bottle to share. If you want to bypass the corkage fee, I’ve found that Asian and Middle Eastern restaurants are pretty flexible about letting you bring  your own booze. Another option: scout out brand-new restaurants that don’t have their liquor licenses yet.

4. Try something new. A lot of the wines at the fringes of the wine store (ie, not California, France or Italy) can offer really great values. Portuguese whites are cheap and super-refreshing, and sherry is, pound for pound, one of the best value wines around. It’s also high in alcohol and served in smaller portions, so if you’re entertaining, a little goes a long way. Grab that can of Planter’s peanuts in the cupboard, fish out those olives from the back of the fridge, ask a friend to bring over some dried sausage or cheese, and call it a tapas party.

5. Be honest. Now is not the time to pussyfoot around. Tell the wine store salesperson or the sommelier exactly how much you want to spend. You may feel cheesy about it, but being straightforward will actually make their job a lot easier.

6. Free tastings. Every wine store worth its salt has ‘em. They’re a great way to new wines and avoid disappointment. (Even a $10 wine is a crappy value if you don’t like it.) If you taste something you like, make sure to tell the salesperson, so she can recommend similar wines in your price range.

7. Befriend a pregnant or nursing wine blogger. OK, so this one is a little specific. But when I was pregnant, and during my brief breast-feeding phase, I was mostly tasting, rather than drinking. I relied on friends to finish the bottles. I’m just sayin’, don’t be afraid to be opportunistic.

The thing is, if I wanted to have a night like that at a restaurant in New York City in 2011, I would have no idea where to go. Certainly, I know where to go for great meals and terrific service, and anyone who knows how to use Google could figure out what the latest trendy hot spots are. But where to go for a sophisticated night on the town with my husband? Not a clue.

I’m partly to blame. We don’t have an unlimited budget and we love to cook, plus my husband’s a bit of a homebody, so we don’t go out all that much. But. Even the occasional restaurant-goer can see that something’s afoot. That while we’ve become very sophisticated about food, we’ve become very childish about dining.

You see it everywhere. The “small plates” craze suggests that our appetites have become dimunitive, not quite adult-sized. The Earnest Eating movement (sustainability, slow food and the like) has much to admire, but  it’s turned restaurant-going into a pedagogical experience, rather than a gustatory one. We’re not diners anymore as much as we’re eager students, reading up on the latest ingredients and producers and purveyors. There is also something deeply unsexy about many of these places, with their raffia-tied, relentlessly tasteful rusticity and exaltation of homespun ingredients. (I love kale too, but I’m not putting on 4-inch heels and paying a babysitter $14/hour to hold hands with my husband over a plate of kale salad.)

And then of course there’s the no-reservations policy. One of the very nice things about being a grown up is that you can decide not only what you eat, but also when. Unless, that is, you’re trying to get into that hot new place in that only serves grass-fed beef burgers topped with organic kimchi made by some dude in Bushwick who spent six months traveling through Korea to find the most authentic kimchi of all kimchis, the urtext of kimchi recipes, in which case you will eat when the hostess damn well pleases. There’s nothing like waiting at a cramped bar for an hour as your blood sugar drops precipitously to turn you into a cranky, fussy five-year old.

We’ve never had better, and more varied, food at our fingertips. However, in our pursuit of the best, the latest and greatest, and the most authentic, we’ve lost something. We don’t know how to slow down, how to enjoy our food, how to have a real conversation (and no, a conversation about the food itself doesn’t count.) We’ve forgotten that when it comes to truly enjoying a meal, what’s on the plate is nowhere near as important as who’s at the table.

It’s true that overly alcoholic wines are no fun to drink: they’re not great with food, they lack subtlety — and they can make for an unpleasant morning after. But I wonder if people are making too much of the matter, with a slightly obsessive focus on the alcohol percentage number. That number can be helpful, but fixating on it can be misleading. Context, as they say, is all. Last week, I opened up a 14.5% Rhône blend from California that hit you like a blunt instrument: it was dull, massive, and sure to cause a headache. It was an expensive wine, a gift, and I weirdly felt obligated to finish it. Drinking it (over the course of a few days, of course) felt like a chore. Tonight, however, I cracked open a 14.5% Rhône blend from Australia that had me wanting one more sip, then another, and yet another. Sure, it’s a big wine, but it wears its size well, and with elegance. It’s the difference between:

and

I’m all for less of the former and more of the latter, but it’s the artistry and the effort, not the number, that makes the difference.

However. When I got an invitation to meet Michel Chapoutier and taste his Bila-Haut wines two weeks ago, I simply couldn’t pass it up. I’m not big into  wine “celebrities,” but Chapoutier is someone I’ve always wanted to meet. One, because I like his wines. And two, because he’s an intriguing character. He’s crazy ambitious — outside of his native Rhône Valley, the guy has business interests in Australia, Portugal, and China, just to name a few, plus he’s investigating opportunities in England. Chapoutier says he’s looking for opportunities there to create a lower alcohol white wine, somewhat surprising for a guy who’s made his name on robust reds from warmer climes. Plus, the guy is not afraid to speak his mind. (Check out this interview, for example.) Good wines, and a guy who makes for good copy — how could I pass it up?

The wines, which hail from Chapoutier’s holdings in Rousillon did not disappoint. And neither did the man himself. Here are some highlights of the afternoon’s tasting. (The reds are a blend of Syrah, Grenache and

The Wines

Les Vignes de Bila-Haut Rouge, Côtes de Roussillon Villages 2009, $13. Syrah/Grenache/Carignan. This is the entry level wine, and a darn good one. I’ve had it and written about it before. I like hearing Chapoutier talk about using Carignan in the blend as a condiment — too much of this much-maligned variety common to France’s south introduces an overwhelming vegetal/animal/smoky element to the wine, which Chapoutier is against. He’s admittedly not a big fan of the grape and compared its character to the smoky finish on bourbon. This was kind of a revelation for me; I’m similarly ambivalent about Carignan and bourbon, and now I see that they both have a similar taste profile I can do without.

Les Vignes de Bila-Haut Blanc Côtes de Roussillon 2009, $13. A mix of Macabeu, Grenache Blanc and Grenache Gris, it’s a nice enough, well-made wine, with  a refreshing hint of bitterness on the finish that seems almost Italian, but it didn’t do much for me. It’s probably a psychological block on my part as much as anything — the idea of white wines from the Rousillon, the sunniest spot in France and better known for its big reds and dessert wines, is a tough for me to get my head around.

My favorite was the Domaine de Bila-Haut L’Esquerda 2008. (You can read my review here.) Syrah/Grenache/Carignan, with a smaller percentage of Carignan than the straight up Bila-Haut Rouge. It’s a lot of wine for $18–really a terrific value. Chapoutier cites the smell of “summer rain on hot stone” as a characteristic of his Bila-Haut wines, and that aroma is in full effect here. (If that scent isn’t evocative for you, think of the smell of wet slate paving stones around a swimming pool on a hot day and you get the idea.)

Les Vignes de Bila-Haut Occultum Lapidem Côtes du Roussillon Villages Latour de France 2008, $25. Syrah/Grenache/Carignan. Again, another mental block on my part with this wine. To me it smelled exactly — and I mean exactly — like those Mon Chéri chocolate-covered cherries. Beyond that, I wasn’t getting much and I’m guessing it will take a bit of time for this wine to evolve.

Les Vignes de Bila-Haut Visitere Interiore Terrae Côtes du Roussillon Villages Latour de France 2008, $125. Grenache/Syrah. I’m not a very musical person, but sometimes I think about wines in terms of treble and bass. Champagne or Riesling, for example, are wines with a lot of treble, for lack of a better way of putting it. Deep, mellow and elegant, this is a wine with a lot of bass. I enjoyed it a lot, but the price tag seems a bit on the steep side — time will tell if it lives up to it.

The Man

Chapoutier held forth, entertainingly, on everything from the history of the AOC system, to his love of granite soils, to his tête de veau recipe. (He wasn’t giving any too many specifics, but I made him promise to whip some up for me if I ever pay him a visit.)

Here are some of my favorites:

On the overintellectualization of wine: “one does not need to be a gynecologist to make love to a woman.”

On the role of obvious fruit in a wine: “fruit is to wine what disco is to music.”

“You know why Chave [iconic Rhône winemaker Gérard Chave, that is] is a great winemaker? Because he is a great cook!”

After tasting his Bila-Haut white: “C’est bien ça..the only problem? It is too inexpensive.”

Attending a vertical wine tasting, at least a good one, always reminds me of this class. A tasting of the same wine from multiple vintages, a vertical gives you the chance to focus on subtlety, meaning and nuance the way a “hey, let’s compare 40 Italian whites” tasting never can. When the wine in question comes from a single vineyard, and is made from a single variety, the experience is that much more enlightening. And, of course, when you really enjoy the wine, well, that’s what makes it fun.

Which is all to say I had a lot of fun last week at a vertical tasting of Corison Kronos Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon at the Brooklyn Wine Exchange. Kronos Vineyard is one of the oldest vineyards planted to Cabernet Sauvignon in the Napa Valley, and producer Cathy Corison has been making wine in Napa for nearly 4 decades. I’ve had her “regular” Cabernet Sauvignon before, made from grapes sourced from vineyards around Rutherford and St. Helena. But this was my first shot at tasting wines from Kronos Vineyard, which she owns.

We ran through six vintages, with the refreshingly low-key Corison giving us the chance to taste and make observations on our own before sharing her insights. She says she’s looking to make wines that are “powerful and elegant,” an intention that comes through loud and clear. Not surprisingly, the younger vintages (2004 and 2006) show off their power more readily, with prominent (but not overwhelming) tannins that indicate these wines are ready to go the distance. They would be lovely to drink now, but if the 2000 and 2002 are any indication, why not wait? The 2000 was my favorite of the night, with mellow fruit aromas (think plum and blackberry), spice and herbal notes, and excellent structure. “Balance” is a word bandied around quite a bit in wine circles, and it’s a concept frequently discussed but rarely encountered. Corison’s wines, the 2000 in particular, exemplify the word: there’s no oak jutting out obtrusively, or alcohol or tannins to overwhelm the palate. Everything works together as one cohesive whole.

Corison loves her wines with lamb. If I were a)drinking more and b)able to spend $138 on something non-baby related, I would definitely pick up a bottle of the 2000 from Brooklyn Wine Exchange to accompany a nice leg of lamb for Easter dinner. Alas I am neither a) nor b) these days, so I leave it to you all to snag one of their few remaining bottles in stock.

Here are two of my favorite producers showcased this week:

La Grange Tiphaine

Adorable couple Coralie & Damien Delecheneau make still and sparkling wines in Touraine and Montlouis,  in the heart of the Loire Valley. I liked all of their wines, but my favorites were the sparkling white and rosé, both of which had me dreaming of summer. Not just the weather, mind you, but my post-pregnancy life when I will actually be able to drink immodest quantities of insanely refreshing wines such as these. The white, Le Nouveau Nez, is made from Chenin Blanc. It’s softly fizzy, with some subtle citrus notes, and would be great to drink all on its own. (As in, without food — not by oneself.  This is a highly sociable wine.)

If you have a keen eye and a little French, you’ll also note the cute play on words here:

“Nouveau Nez” means “new nose” but is also a homonym for “Nouveau Né” — that is, “newborn.” And that purple splotch on the label’s upper right hand corner is actually the profile of Coralie & Damien’s first baby. Coralie and I had a nice little chat about babies. (Note: being very visibly pregnant is a great conversation starter at a wine tasting.)

I also enjoyed their sparkling rosé, Rosa Rosé Rosam. One’s interest in this wine, I’d argue, would be directly proportional to one’s love of strawberries, as this is the vinuous equivalent of that fruit. Not in a sickly sweet, fruit wine way — just that this wine has the same appealing sweet/tart balance and subtle, slightly flowery scent as a great strawberry. Astor Wines has some of last year’s offering in stock, but as this wine is all about freshness, I’d recommend waiting for the next version, set to arrive soon. A little patience required — the wine has yet to be disgorged (that is, taken off its lees), hence the cloudiness:

I also loved the wines from Els Jelipins, a microscopically small producer working in the hills of Catalonia. Gloria Garriga (below — again, adorable) and her husband Oriol Illa may be running a tiny operation, but they have big ambitions.

Their reds are made from the ultra-obscure (and entirely new to me) Sumoll grape, have brilliant purity of fruit, and are somehow intense and subtle at the same time. The 2005 had sold out the day of the tasting, but look for the 2006 to hit the U.S. sometime in the next few months. For all those wine peeps who like to deride American taste in wine, take note: when I asked her if they sold a lot of their wines locally, she shook her head vigorously. Spainiards, she said, preferred to stick to the tried and true varieties and regions. “You Americans,” she said, “are much more open.” Cheers to that.

The experience went something like this: following a very pleasant half-hour of chatting with fellow invitees/bloggers and the supremely charming Jean-Marc Gallot, president of Ruinart, we took our places, which were set thusly:

Each of the 8 vials in the box contained a different scent, which, according to the brain trust (nose trust?) over at International Flavors + Fragrances, was present in Ruinart’s Blanc de Blanc champagne. It was our job to identify each of the smells and match them to the correct answer on a pre-printed list of 16 different aromas. Of course, we each had a glass of the Blanc de Blanc to help us along.

With Gallot teasing/encouraging us, we sniffed and scribbled away. Was #2 lemon…or grapefruit? The table arrangements held clues — like this little pot of pink peppercorns:

You’ve heard of blind tastings? This was more of a “blind smelling,” which put our collective olfactory skills to the test.

1. The folks over at LVMH are some damn fine marketers. Ruinart is the oldest continuous champagne house, and one with a slightly below-the-radar profile here in the U.S. This event was the perfect way to position Ruinart as a “boutique” brand, less mainstream than Moët or Veuve-Clicquot, but more accessible than Dom Pérignon or Krug. Gallot is the perfect guy to lead the charge. He has that all-too-rare combination (at least in the wine business) of American openness and French, well, Frenchiness. When I asked him what he liked to drink when he wasn’t drinking champagne he said he loved Bordeaux but…was beginning to really enjoy Burgundy. In New York, where obscurity is often touted as a virtue, and it’s nearly impossible to keep up with whatever the wine hipsters are drinking (“What you mean you’ve never had Grolleau? That was so 2010!”) it’s refreshing to remember that one can very happily stick to the classics. (If one has the budget for it, that is.)

2. Delicacy and simplicity are not the same thing. The chief virtue of Ruinart’s Blanc de Blanc is its finesse. Made from 100% Chardonnay — that’s what “Blanc de Blanc” means — this champagne is definitely on the lighter, crisper, end of the spectrum, which is the style I prefer. I think of champagnes like this as “lacy,” although I’m not sure how helpful that comparison is for anyone else. Nonetheless, it’s fair to argue that most of the smells they gave us were somehow present in the wine itself. I might take issue with the white peach, and I definitely wasn’t buying the pineapple (not coincidentally, the only one I got wrong), but ginger, jasmine, cardamom? Why not? Just because a wine is delicate or subtle, that doesn’t mean it can’t have a lot going on. I think it’s particularly difficult to detect this complexity in champagne, where texture (i.e., those bubbles) rather than aroma/flavor, makes the strongest first impression. Hence my classification of this wine as “lacy.” If that word doesn’t make intuitive sense to you, so be it: but I’d encourage you to pay as much attention to a wine’s texture as to its flavor. This is easiest to do with the extremes — say, sparkling at one end of the continuum and port at the other — but it’s not too hard to detect the silkiness of a good Pinot Noir or the roughness of a too-young Barolo or Bordeaux.

3. Wine bloggers are a competitive bunch. I’ve been to some fancy schools over the years and live in a city filled with Type A personalities, but nothing compares to a roomful of wine writers trying to out-smell and out-taste each other. I’m not sure why that is. Perhaps the subjectivity of wine-tasting makes it all the more important that we state our opinions with authority? Or because an evening of sipping champagne in each other’s pleasant company doesn’t feel enough like work, so we have to be extra-serious in our wine analysis? Whatever the reason, I’ll cop to it as much as the next wine blogger. God knows, I’m still annoyed I only got 7 out of 8 right. Do you think I can turn in an extra-credit assignment?