That’s why I am going to  compare this 2009 Torre dei Beati Montepulciano d’Abruzzo Cerasuolo ($16.99) to a well-known woman, one who should be familiar to even the most casual student of early 21st century American film: Elle Woods, heroine of Legally Blonde.

First, there’s the color. I’d call this something between dark Barbie-pink and light cherry. “Cerasuolo” refers to a category of deeply colored, often fairly intense Italian wines that are somewhere between rosé and red.

Here’s a picture. Apologies that the lighting and glass don’t quite do it justice. We brought this over to a friend’s place, and I didn’t want to make a whole production about photography.

Just as Elle’s wardrobe choices made it impossible for anyone to take her seriously–who could forget when she shows up to her first law school party wearing a Playboy bunny costume?–the color of this wine practically screams frivolity.

Then there’s the aroma, which I can only describe as perfumed. Sticking my nose in the glass was like smelling a bouquet of flowers, with roses front and center. I was reminded of the scene where Elle passes her pink and perfumed resume along to her law school professor and soon-to-be swain Luke Wilson. “I think it gives it that extra something!” she says of the scent and really, who are we to disagree.

Based on first impressions, we’re expecting something inconsequential, dumbed-down and even cloying. But anyone who’s well-versed in Hollywood conventions (or the winemaking of Torre dei Beati, a small, organic estate, as well as the high-quality potential of the Montepulciano grape) knows what will happen next.

It turns out–suprirse!–that this wine is far from lightweight. There’s some real tannic structure here, as well as good acidity. Yes, there’s a touch of sweetness too, but nothing overwhelming. Ripe red fruits–strawberries in particular–are matched with a little earth and minerality. Just as Elle ultimately shows her smarts and prevails, with highlights and manicure intact, this wine manages to be charming and serious at once. And just as our heroine must hold her ground against any number of challenges, from a lecherous professor to catty classmates to lying witnesses, this wine can stand up to a lot. Tomato and mozzarella? Sure. Grilled chicken? Absolutely. Barbecue? A platter of cured meat and cheese? Why not.

So I invite you to pick up a bottle, pair it with pretty much anything that goes down easy on a hot late summer day, and raise your glass to toast the twin delights of Cerasuolo and Reese Witherspoon.

This wine surprised me right out of the gate. The color was a bit deeper and darker than I expected, lemon with a slightly golden cast. Toasted almonds, lime zest, and minerals featured heavily on the nose. Forgive the fancifulness here, but on some whites I get a smell I can only describe as wet slate paving stones on a hot summer day. (I told you it was fanciful.) I think it’s the combination of minerality + ripeness that does it for me. On the palate, this was verging on full-bodied, and the alcohol (13.5%) seemed a tetch high–not an observation I often make about Italian whites. This guy could stand up to a lot, like a heavily sauced fish dish, if you go in for that sort of thing, or a simple pork chop. In my case, I enjoyed it with this:

Yes, a turkey sandwich. (What can I tell you, I’m at the beach.)

Probably my favorite thing about this wine is that it would make an excellent “gateway drug” for Chardonnay lovers looking to expand their repertoire. There’s a lot to be said for lesser-known wines that offer a similar taste profile to more familiar ones. No one will ever go straight from drinking Clos du Bois Chardonnay every night to quaffing $100 bottles of Slovenian Ribolla Gialla. But turn them on to something that has a few of the qualities they like about Chardonnay–the full body, for example–and you’ll pique their curiosity. You’ll also save them a few bucks. While I’m sure you could find more complex and compelling examples of Pecorino, this wine is a pretty good value at $16.

But if this wine is any indication, Ruchè doesn’t need my pity. Or yours. It’s not a big wine in the conventional sense: ruby-colored, medium-bodied, with 13.5% alcohol stated on the bottle, the ‘Na Vota doesn’t exactly scream at you. But pay attention to the nose and the palate and there’s a lot going on, including dried herbs, dried orange peel and a whole lot of pepper. Like, a lot. There’s an underlying sharpness that reminds me of Cinsault, a French variety that’s commonly grown in the Languedoc. (Sorry, Italo-philes for the French connection…although there’s apparently a theory that Ruchè is descended from an unknown French import that was brought to Piedmont who knows when.)

I get some bitterness, too, beyond the regular astringency that comes with tannins. But there’s a chance that could just be my own prejudices talking. I believe that no one does bitter better than the Italians. There’s espresso, of course, as well as amari, the bitter digestivos that make the perfect end to an Italian feast. And do I even need to mention broccoli rabe, chicory, escarole, and any number of sharp, peppery greens?

I project this Italian=bitter theory on many Italian wines I taste. (I know, it’s patently ridiculous to generalize so broadly about a country’s wines, especially when that country has such a rich and varied winemaking tradition. It’s also ridiculous to spend $400 on a pair of shoes, root for the Mets, and enjoy the oeuvre of Mark Wahlberg, but that’s never stopped me from doing any of the above.) Of course, if I drank more Italian wines, I’m sure my thinking on the matter would be much more nuanced. But is it this perceived bitterness that keeps me from drinking more Italian wines? Hmm. A question to keep asking myself–and perhaps answer–as the week goes on.

I’ve been thinking about this character flaw a lot lately. In the past few weeks, I’ve had two great dinners with people who know a hell of a lot about Italian wine. First, an epic tasting of some thought-provoking older wines at ‘Cesca. (Tasting notes to come, I promise.) Gregory del Piaz of Snooth supplied the bottles, PR guru/Italian wine blogger Susannah Gold hooked us up with the great table, and fellow bloggers Diane Letulle (Wine Lover’s Journal) and Eric Guido (The VIP Table) provided the excellent company. And last week, I met up with Susannah and Diane to fête Susannah’s birthday and score some heavily discounted Barbaresco at Accademia di Vino, where (awesome bargain alert!) white wines over $60 and red wines over $80 are 50% off on Monday nights.

These events have inspired me to remedy my shortcomings, at least temporarily. This week is STBNY’s First Annual Italian Week^TM wherein I will drink nothing but Italian wine. I’ve already selected an eclectic line-up of Italian whites, pinks, and reds, all priced under $20, to enjoy over the next seven days. I’ll be sharing my notes with you in the most timely fashion I can muster. I’m on vacation this week down the shore, and while I can think of no better place to drink Italian wine than New Jersey, beach time will take precedence over blogging time.

On that note, I leave you with a snapshot I took last night of Asbury Park–if you squint, the top of the carousel looks a little like the Duomo, no?

One of the best wine tasters I’ve ever met is from the Philippines. One the face of it, that doesn’t seem like a particularly interesting statement.

But think about it for a second.

Even if you’ve never been to the Philippines, you could probably guess what kind of fruits and vegetables grow there. Coconut, pineapple, banana, mango, squash, taro, bamboo shoots, okra…the usual tropical suspects. And the Philippines being an archipelago in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, you might imagine it would be tough and expensive to import fruits and vegetable that don’t grow there. So if you’re living in the Philippines, most of what you eat probably comes from the Philippines.

So with that in mind, let’s take a look at some recent Daily Wine Picks from The Wine Spectator:

ZENATO Amarone della Valpolicella Classico 2005 (90 points, $70) Pretty aromas of boysenberry and sliced plum lead to a full body, with unctuous ripe fruit. Round and ready.

SANTA BARBARA Chardonnay Santa Barbara County 2008 (87 points, $17) Clean, fresh, ripe and pure. Medium-bodied, with a mix of lemon and citrus-laced green apple, spice and floral scents.

Boysenberry. Probably not a lot of berry cultivation in the tropics. Ditto for plums and apples. None of these fruits are likely to be in heavy rotation (if at all) in the average Philippine diet. The “floral scents” my friend likely grew up with–ylang-ylang, hibiscus, jasmine, etc. –are worlds apart from the rose/honeysuckle/violet aromas that I (and, I’d venture to say, the author of this tasting note) know well.

Not surprisingly, my friend found tasting in the U.S. really hard at first. She had no idea what a boysenberry tasted like. When she moved here, she spent hours training herself on what boysenberries, blackberries, blueberries, cranberries, strawberries, cherries, apricots, plums, peaches, red apples, yellow apples and green apples tasted like in fresh/cooked/preserved form. She tested herself constantly, and was eventually able to recognize and talk about these aromas and flavors in wine with impressive accuracy and eloquence.

So why am I telling you this? To call attention to the Eurocentrism of wine tasting notes? Hardly. I’m sharing this for two reasons. First, as a reminder that every person’s palate is different, due to biology, culture and experience. If your wine-savvy friend is waxing rhapsodic about the aroma of green papaya emanating from her glass of Chardonnay and you can’t smell it, don’t freak out. Maybe she backpacked around Thailand when she was 22 and dined on green papaya salad every night. There’s probably  something you’ll be able to spot that she never would have noticed.

And second, I want to assure you that it’s possible to train your palate. Cook with a new spice or fruit or vegetable. Eat at that Ethiopian/Nepalese/Honduran place down the block you’ve always wanted to try. And don’t just do it once. Come back to these different aromas and flavors repeatedly, talk about them with your dining companions, take notes on them, whatever it takes to get them fixed in your mind. You’ll accumulate a store of sensory experiences you can refer to when you’re tasting wine. You’ll find that some of these new aromas, particularly the ones you really love (or really hate), are easy to suss out, while others will elude you. That’s OK. Keep at it. Be patient, don’t be too hard on yourself–and remember that building a great palate is just as important (if not more so) than building a great cellar.

France is at its best when it manages to combine this old school adherence to tradition and standards with open-mindedness and energy. I thought of this a few weeks ago when Anne-Victoire Monrozier, aka Miss Vicky, stormed our shores with bottles of her father’s fresh, elegant Fleurie in hand.

I enjoyed the wine, but what really struck me was her aptitude for “le marketing” — not something that comes easily to a lot of smaller French winemakers. She traveled from Walla to Napa to the Lower East Side to promote the wine and deployed a truly impressive social media blitz. (Plus come on, how cute is this label?)

So Miss Vicky, I salute your embodiment of all my favorite French traits–and hope more and more of your compatriots follow your lead.

Santé!

Hi there. Yes, I’m talking to you, gangly guy in your early 30s with the interesting glasses on. Could I get a little help over here with the wine list? I have some questions. Yes, the woman at the table is ordering the wine! Crazy, I know. Yeah, I saw the look of surprise on your face when my husband handed me the wine list. Anyway, speaking of the wine list, you dropped the list off quickly, with a few perfunctory words, before rushing off to another table. Specifically, that table of guys sipping on their super-Tuscans, so I didn’t have time to ask you about your wine program. Do you feature wines from a certain region, or made from a certain variety, because the chef thinks they bring out the best in his food? Are you serving something new by the glass this week? I’d love to know. Actually, I’d love for you to tell me. The host, busboys, and servers have all been lovely so far, and your inattentiveness stands out like a sore thumb.

So. I wanted to ask you about this Sagrantino di Montefalco. I’ve had a few I’ve enjoyed, but I’m not familiar with this particular one. Can you tell me anything about it? Also, I’d love it if you could pronounce the name correctly. I’m not asking you to be fluent in Italian or even to have a decent accent, but if you could at least not add syllables that aren’t there, or omit ones that are, that would be great. If I dig this wine and want to order it again or purchase it at retail, I’d love to be able to say it right. And, I confess, another reason I’m asking about the Sagrantino is to telegraph that I know a little something about wine. That’s so you won’t automatically steer me towards a wine you think I’ll be comfortable with because it has a familiar name or a middle-of-the-road flavor profile.  Sure, I could tell you about my wine qualifications, but this is a date, not a job interview, and I’d rather engage you in a little conversation. Word to the wise: women are less likely to brag about their knowledge than men are. Yes, I know, it’s our responsbility to speak up. But the upside is, we’re much less apt to “demonstrate [our] hubris and wine knowledge like a rooster strutting before a cockfight.” So take a deep breath. Relaxed? Great. Now look me in the eye, smile, and try not to look bored.

And when I ask you to tell me about the wine, please lead with how it tastes and will match with the food. Right now, I don’t care about the yeast strain used, the history of winemaking in Umbria, or the producer’s stance on globalization. If I like what I hear, great–I’ll order it and then you can share a fun factoid or interesting story.  And if I’m not feeling it, let’s work together to find something else in the same price range. I promise to be specific about my likes and dislikes, if you promise not to just randomly point to a wine that’s $40 more expensive and say “that’s good, too.”

Once that fun is over, I’m sure you’ll do a competent job of presenting the wine to me, pouring it, and making sure our glasses are adequately filled throughout the meal. But I’m not sure that you’ll ask me how I like the wine, if it’s working well with what we’re eating, or see if I have any more questions. I understand that you don’t want to be intrusive, but the rest of the staff here manages to strike that perfect balance of warmth and professionalism–why can’t you? Did you miss that day? If I say I really like this wine, could you maybe write it down for me? Or even remove the label and give it to me at the end of the meal?* It’s the details and little courtesies that people remember. I can promise you that five years from now I won’t be able to recall what the food here tastes like, but if the server, say, brings us a second round of chocolates with our coffee because we couldn’t stop raving about them, I will never forget it. 

I get it–your job is super-cool. You get to taste amazing wines and meet fascinating winemakers. You know what else you get to do? Serve me. Because, whether you like it or not, you are in the service profession. So stop treating me like  a nuisance you have to deal with between the fun stuff you get to do. Clearly you know a lot about wine and love it, but that’s not enough. You have to know something about people, too.

*I’ve had sommeliers do this for me a few times at Gramercy Tavern and 11 Madison Park, and this kind of stuff is why I frequent Danny Meyer’s restaurants as often as my budget allows.

Take, for example, Bonarda. Several different grape varieties are known by this name, but chances are if you see the word “Bonarda” on the label, you’re drinking a wine that’s not made from Bonarda at all.

I know. I know. Let me ’splain: there’s “Bonarda” from Italy and “Bonarda” from Argentina. Three different grapes go by the name “Bonarda” in Italy. There’s the Bonarda that’s planted in north central Italy, particularly the Oltrepò Pavese and Colli Piacentini regions. That’s actually the Croatina grape. (If you see the word “Bonarda” on the label of an Italian wine, you’re likely drinking one of these wines.) Then there’s the Bonarda that’s planted in Piedmont, in northwest Italy, that’s really the Uva Rara variety. Finally, there’s the real, and very rare, McCoy: Bonarda Piemontese (also, somewhat obviously, from the Piedmont region). As you can probably guess, nomenclature in the wine world can be imprecise, and nowhere more so than in Italy.

Now for “Bonarda” from Argentina, which you’re much more likely to see at your local wine store. This is–surprise!–a completely different grape. It’s actually Charbono (also known as Corbeau in France, for those keeping score at home). Nonetheless, we’ll call it Bonarda here because, well, that’s what they call it in Argentina, where it’s the second-most-planted red variety after Malbec. And like its much more famous compatriot, Bonarda is a terrific value. I’ve never seen a Bonarda for more than $20, and they often come in around $15 or less. However, Bonarda provides a very different taste experience than Malbec, whose primary appeal is its deep, chocolate and plum flavors and soft, smooth texture. Bonarda, on the other hand, offers bright fruit, spice, and earth. What it lacks in body, it makes up for in acidity. Bonarda produces straightforward wines, meant to be drunk young. I can vouch from experience that Bonarda-and-burgers is a winning combo.

Paul and I enjoyed this Colonia las Liebres 2008 Bonarda along with some hamburgers straight from the grill. Made by Malbec mega-producer Altos los Hormigas, this Bonarda is a bit softer and rounder than most other versions I’ve tried. Still, the characteristic red fruit and spice flavors are there. It reminds me of one of my favorite quick desserts, strawberries macerated in some balsamic vinegar and topped with a few grindings of black pepper. If you were to distill the essence of that dish — fruity, tart, and peppery — you’d have this Bonarda. This is not a remotely complex wine, but it is a satisfying one. I found it at my local wine store for $12, but I’ve seen it online for as little as $9.99.

One of the highlights of the evening was walking the grounds. We checked out the greenhouses and their neat rows of every leafy thing imaginable, and made some new furry and feathered friends (none of whom were featured on the menu). Here’s a little photographic tour, with pics courtesy of my better half:

Up close and personal with an actual Blue Hill Stone Barns chicken. Bet he’s all like “this backyard urban chicken trend is total BS. Country chicken livin’  is where it’s AT.”

We got into a staring contest with some sheep.

And woke up the sheepdog. Sorry, buddy.

Me, posing awkwardly in front of a greenhouse. Feel like I’m in that scene in Talladega Nights where Will Ferrell doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Idyllic, no?

Chances are, the next word that comes to mind is Bolla–as in, Bolla Soave, the cheap, neutral, and very successful Italian white that flooded our shores (and TV sets) in the 1970s. This wine’s commercial success and ubiquity have long associated Soave with mediocrity in the mind of many wine drinkers. That’s too bad. Some of these wines can be good, and many of them offer really nice value.

I recently had the chance to taste through 9 Soaves, largely from the 2008 vintage, thanks to a promotional event sponsored by the Soave consortium. You’ll see my tasting notes below–but first, a little context.

Soave comes from the Veneto region, in northeastern Italy. The main quality grape at play here is Garganega, although Trebbiano di Soave, Chardonnay, and Pinot Bianco are also allowed. The best Soaves, including those from the hilly, and higher quality, Soave Classico zone, will be primarily Garganega (and won’t include the bland Trebbiano Toscano variety).

Soave is difficult to pin down. It doesn’t have the aromatic over-the-topness of, say, a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc or a Riesling. Nor does it have the rich, mouthfilling quality of an oak-inflected Chardonnay. At their best, these are subtle, elegant wines, with hints of citrus, minerality, and almonds. They’re rarely high in alcohol and match well with lighter fare, making them a good summer standby. At their worst, these wines are wallflowers. There’s just no there there — pale aromas and flavors and insufficient acidity — and tasting them can be as frustrating as trying to converse with a sullen teenager.

While Soave is never going to set my world on fire, there are some good wines here–the Inama and Gini in particular are worth seeking out.

Coffele Soave Spumante Brut 2000 ($22)

That’s the wine pictured above. (Positioned right in front of a spittoon–tasting wine is glamorous, no?) Sparkling Soave is a bit of a rarity, and rarely imported into the U.S. This one is mostly Garganega, with a small percentage of Chardonnay. It’s not going to make anyone forget champagne, but this is a pretty enjoyable tank-method sparkling wine, with a surprisingly fine mousse and some delicate citrus and toast aromas and flavors.

Rocca Sveva Soave Classico 2008 ($15)

Medium intensity, floral and citrus aromas. Some nice mineral notes on the palate — but I want it to have more acidity. Still, would be a nice match for simple grilled fish.

Coffele Soave Classico 2008 ($16)

95% Garganega, 5% Chardonnay. Light on aromatics, with some melon/apple/almond stuff going on. Falls on the wrong side of the fine line between “subtle” and “boring.”

La Cappuccina Soave Classico 2008 ($12)

100% Garganega. Bright citrus aromas and flavors (lemon peel, grapefruit, tangerine). Very short finish, very simple wine — but a decent value for this price.

Gini Soave Classico 2008 ($20)

Honeysuckle, candied citrus peel, and peaches, with a bitter almond finish. Well-balanced, more complex than a lot of other wines in this line up. If I ate fish in cream sauce, this is what I would pair it with.

Inama Soave Classico 2008 ($15)

My favorite of the bunch. 100% Garganega. Honey, dried apricot, roasted almonds, white flowers on the nose and palate. Fuller bodied than most Soaves in the line up. A really nice substitute for an unoaked Chardonnay.

Suavia Monte Carbonare Soave Classico 2008 ($26)

Just me, or is “Soave Suavia” not the smartest branding move? Some volatile acidity here that obscured whatever else was going on in the wine. Tried to go back to it a few times during the tasting, but still wasn’t getting much.

Cantina del Castello Pressoni Soave Classico 2008 ($20)

80% Garganega, 20% Trebbiano di Soave. Full-bodied, with floral aromas. Acidity on the low side for me. Several folks described this as “sexy” because of the fuller, richer mouthfeel, but I wasn’t feeling it.

Coffele “Le Sponde” Recioto di Soave 1999 ($40)

Recioto wines are made from grapes that have been dried for several months following harvest. Raisining the fruit concentrates the sugar, so the end result is a sweet, unctuous wine. That this is, although it lacks the aromatic punch that define the finest dried grape wines — and a little more acidity would have helped balance out the sweetness.