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?

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.

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.

Biodynamics is based on the writings of Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner. Biodynamics posits that each farm is a self-contained unit, with complex relationships between plants, soil, animals, and even the cosmos. Biodynamics incorporates organic farming (that is, working the land without the use of of synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, herbicides and the like), as well as some more fanciful techniques. This includes the use of biodynamic preparations in the soil, like composted chamomile flowers that have been stuffed in a cow’s intestine and buried underground for the winter. According to Steiner, these preparations bring “forces” to the vineyard, the soil, and the vines so that the soil is ready to “receive energies streaming down from the cosmos and upward from within the earth itself.” (I’m quoting from Monty Waldin’s Biodynamic Wines. Waldin is a well-known and vocal proponent — and producer — of biodynamic wines, and this book provides a handy summary of Steiner’s very, very extensive writings.) Steiner also thought farmers should work the land  in accordance with the phases of the moon.

As you could probably tell from the name of his blog, Smith thinks biodynamics is complete hogwash. Here’s a sample from his introductory post:

“I submit that if you believe in science you cannot believe in Biodynamics, and the corollary is just as true, if you believe in Biodynamics you cannot believe in science.  As you can tell by the title I believe that Biodynamics is a hoax and deserves the same level of respect the scientific community has for witchcraft, voodoo and astrology.”

Stu had long looked askance at the biodynamic movement, but recently felt it was time to go public about his opinions. Fundamentally, he sees biodynamics as an example of Americans turning away from science. Or, as he puts it, “we’re moving into the 21st century by going back to the Dark Ages.”  A graduate of UC-Davis with 40 years of winemaking under his belt, Smith approaches the whole biodynamic endeavor with a healthy dose of Voltairean skepticism. He sees outing biodynamics as his civic duty — and some of his fellow citizens agree. After he wrote a letter to the Santa Rosa Press Democrat last year debunking biodynamics, he says his many of his neighbors and peers thanked him — but when he asked them to chime in publicly, they refused, citing their business interests with biodynamic producers. (And no, he’s not naming names.)

Of course, as the proprietor of a non-biodynamic vineyard, Smith has a vested interest in this debate. For biodynamic adherents to say that their soil, vines, and wines are superior to non-biodynamic ones without research to back these claims is a shot across the bow. Nonetheless, he comes across as exasperated and incredulous, rather than angry or threatened. He couldn’t help but laugh when he recounted some of Steiner’s zanier theories. One of Smith’s favorites: Steiner believed that our predecessors on earth were Atlanteans (yes, as in habitants of Atlantis) who could fly around in air ships powered by germinating seeds. (Check out Atlantis: The Fate of a Lost Land and Its Secret Language on Google Books if you want more.) Of course, you can believe in biodynamism without believing in the rest of Steiner’s wackiness–but the whole germinating-seeds-powering-air-ships thing should at least give one pause.

For Smith, the lack of scientific proof is a major sticking point. Where’s the evidence showing that biodynamic wines are better than non-biodynamic ones? There are many excellent producers around the world that have gone biodynamic, with great results. But are these wines measurably better than they were prior to biodynamics? (As Smith pointed out during our dinner, Domaine de la Romanée Conti made pretty decent wine even before they started experimenting with biodynamic techniques.) And if they are, how do they know what caused the difference? Biodynamic viticulture requires that producers go organic and wean themselves off of chemical fertilizers, pesticides and the like. There’s an abundance of research out there showing that organic agriculture is beneficial to the health of the soil. (See here or here, just for starters.) So is it the organic piece of biodynamism that makes the wines better? Or is it the biodynamic piece — for example, the fact that your compost has been sprinkled with yarrow flowers that spent a year decomposing in the bladder of a red deer stag? (This article from The World of Fine Wine lays out a similar argument.)

I’d add that biodynamics is possibly closely correlated with some other factor that explains high quality. It’s expensive and time-consuming to farm biodynamically, and all that extra time and attention (and money) spent on the vineyard might account for the improvement, rather than the biodynamic practices themselves.

Of course, while it’s undeniable that there are excellent biodynamic wines out there, it’s equally true that there are terrific non-biodynamic wines in the world. To insist that biodynamics somehow has the monopoly on excellence makes no sense.

I admit, there’s something about biodynamic agriculture that’s incredibly appealing–hell, I’ve written here about a lot of biodynamic and organic wines that I really like. See for example, another passage from Waldin:

“Whereas the conventional chemical, and even the organic, approach allow the substances [in the soil] that are missing to determine the substances that need to be applied, the biodynamic approach thinks in terms of living forces in addition to substances. Scientific knowledge of soil chemistry is not completely discarded by biodynamic growers, but they are also looking to go beyond it, using biodynamic compost to release these forces into the soil, the crop, and the farm as a whole.”

Living forces! Who wouldn’t want to drink a bottle of wine that was imbued with living forces? I’m not sure what that means, but it sure sounds good — magical, even. And couldn’t we all use a little magic these days? Especially those of us who devote a lot of time thinking tasting, drinking, and writing about wine (and zero time producing it). Because in general, we’re a pretty jaded lot, and fairly homogenous at that — myself included. Urban, left-leaning, secular. We roll our eyes at people who talk about the power of prayer, but then we speak of making “pilgrimages” to Michelin-starred restaurants and embrace the kind of mysticism that calls for burying a horn full of cow shit in a vineyard because “Steiner saw the cow horn as a powerful captor of astral energy.” (Waldin, again.)

Are many of these wines wonderful to drink? Of course. History is littered with examples of humankind turning away from modernity  in the hopes of returning to a simpler time — to beautiful effect. Think of the Arts and Crafts movement, with its emphasis on the handmade, craftsmanship, and designs and motifs drawn from nature. At the end of the 19th century, it provided a respite from the dreariness of urbanization and industrialization. In many ways, we find ourselves at similar moment, when our yearning for the sublime has us looking for religion in a glass of cloudy, oxidized white wine or loaf of artisanal bread. Biodynamics is a great and quirky story, and one that satisfies our longing for a sense of mystery. Just don’t confuse it with science.

I picked up this wine a few weeks ago at a hit-or-miss liquor store in my neighborhood. I’ve bought some real gems, as well as a few losers, at this shop. Fortunately, the Evodia falls into the former category. The wine hails from the Calatayud region in northeasternish Spain. Summers here are hot and dry–no fun for people, but potentially very good for grapes, especially Garnacha. (Which you may know by its French name, Grenache.) Garnacha, as they call it en España, loves the heat. So do I, which is one of the many reasons I feel a special affinity for this variety. I also have a soft spot for Garnacha/Grenache because it plays a central role in some of my favorite wines: Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the  intense, concentrated wines of Priorat, in Catalonia, and the rich sweet reds of Banyuls, in France’s Roussillon region, which marry perfectly with chocolate. This grape is not a wallflower. If you want the delicacy of a cool climate Pinot Noir, look elsewhere. Wines made from Garnacha/Grenache tend to be high in alcohol, full-bodied, and full of ripe fruit.

Evodia is no exception. Made from 100% old vines Garnacha, and without any oak aging, this guy is all about the fruit. Blackberries, raspberries, cherries (even a hint of cherry cola) — they’re all in here. An undercurrent of earthiness happily keeps things from going off the fruity deep end. This is a terrific buy for $10.99 — probably the best wine bargain I’ve picked up in the past 6 months. The wine is imported by Eric Solomon, who specializes in Spain, and for the life of me I have no idea how he’s able to price it so reasonably.

It would go wonderfully with barbecued chicken or spicy grilled sausages — a great excuse to bust out the merguez. One word of advice: this bottle, and a lot of Garnacha-based wines, taste best when they’re a little bit cool. The lower temperature keeps the alcohol and fruitiness in check. If, like me, you live in an apartment that lacks central AC, ten minutes or so in the fridge should be just fine.

Until last night. It was a warm and humid, Paul was firing up the grill, and rosé seemed like the perfect choice. It was just what I was in the mood for, something clean, crisp, fruity, and not too complicated. I opened the bottle, poured out a heathy dose of the salmony-pink wine, and stuck my nose in the glass. What I smelled was anything but clean and crisp. There was a little vanilla, a hint of brown sugar, something vegetal, and, if I really searched for it, a layer of ripe red fruit underneath. What, exactly, was going on here?

In a word: oak. Turns out this wine is barrel-fermented and aged for five months in French oak. This adds some heft and richness to the wine, not characteristics normally associated with rosé. It’s a pretty unusual approach, although not entirely unheard of. (López de Heredia, an ultra-traditional producer in Rioja, ages its Viña Tondonia rosado in barrels for four and a half years, for example.)

Located in Southold, on the North Fork of Long Island, Croteaux Vineyards specializes in rosés, offering a number of still and sparkling variations on the theme of pink. In yet another unusual move, they name several of their wines after the variety of clone they’re made from–hence “Merlot 3.” (Clones are basically different “types” of the same grape. Producers choose what kind of clone, or clones, to use depending on a number of factors, including growing conditions and the characteristics they’re looking for in the wine.)

In my heart of hearts, I prefer the crisp, dry and fruity style to this oak-inflected one, but there’s lots to admire here. The toasty notes would make it a happy partner for smoked chicken or pork chops, and $18 is a decent price for a wine with this much personality. I’d be curious to see what happens to this wine with a little age on it. Rosés are usually meant to be drunk young, but the oak treatment here could provide some staying power. Mostly, I like this wine for what it represents: namely, that rosés aren’t monolithic, and there’s tremendous versatility and variety in this category.