John Marshall Chapter of the American Wine Society

AMERICAN WINE SOCIETY
A non-profit corporation

John Marshall Chapter

MAY MEETING: Don't Cry For Me, Argentina, presented by George Wilson

No one cried for the Argentina wines last month. It was all cheers and bravos, but some of us felt for poor George Wilson. He put on a one-man show, one moment presenting wines in the Great Hall of the mighty Pearmund Cellars, the next moment running out front to turn the meat on the barbie. Pull it off, he did, earning for himself as many accolades as his wines: two ears and a tail. Ole! Our featured wines, in the order of appearance, were as shown below. As the evening continued, the food just got better and better. In addition to the medium-rare steak provided by George, there was bowtie pasta with two pasta sauces presented by our Goddess of Gourmet Jennifer Crafts.

Producer	Year	Varietal	Cost	Comment
Finca Natalina	NV	Ugni Blanc	$6	One of the social white wines; 24 bottles purchased that nite
Eduardo Llaver	2003	Sauvignon Blanc	$14	Other social and white wine
Amor de los Andes	2003	Torrontes	$6
Amor de los Andes	2002	Tempranillo	$10	2nd highest votes for 1st choice; Top seller with 25 bottles purchased
Finca Natalina	NV	Syrah-Malbec	$7
Amor de los Andes	2002	Malbec	$10
Familia Llaver	1999	Malbec	$18	Highest vote-getter of the evening for favorite wine

Wine sales at a club meeting? Amigo, qué pasa? It just happened that local wine merchant Rick Stafford was in the neighborhood that night. He had a truckload of his new imports from, coincidentally, Argentina so he simply rolled out his order book. Even your humble scribe bought a case. The quality, the prices — what’s not to like?

JUNE MEETING: AWS National Tasting: Get the Hots for Merlot, presented by Mike Schlosser ~ Grace Cathedral, The Plains, Virginia; Social – 6:30 p.m.; Meeting – 7:00 p.m. (PLEASE RVSP if you plan to attend!)

This Sunday evening we’re back at the Cathedral, and Mike Schlosser will take us on a vespers visit to an old forgotten friend. Great by itself, the backbone of most Meritage wines, Merlot doesn’t get much press these days. Not very sexy, it seems. However, if Barbera is the Britney Spears of the wine world today, Merlot is the Susan Sarandon. Merlot is a classic for many good reasons, and Mike is going to show us seven of them. Six will come from California: the Sierra Foothills, the Central Coast, and Napa Valley. The seventh comes from France: Saint Emilion, no less. They will all be as different as you can imagine. The fun will be in finding what can they possibly have in common. Join us in rediscovering their roots on Sunday at “De Plains, bahz, De Plains!”

NOTE: Folks, this really worked well last month, so we’re going to ask again: to minimize waste and maximize our enjoyment, PLEASE RVSP if you plan to attend! Call Mike Schlosser at 540-752-4709, or email him at mwschlosser@yahoo.com. A head-count for this one will be greatly appreciated! Do it now, why don’tcha?

Directions:

From D.C., take I-66 to Exit 31, The Plains.
At the first stop sign, turn right.
Go 3 miles to the stop sign at the T-intersection in downtown The Plains.
Turn left, then go 2 blocks.
You can’t miss it — it’s the only cathedral in town.

JULY MEETING: Spanish Wines: North, East, South, and West, presented by Fletcher Henderson ~ Grace Cathedral, The Plains, Virginia; Social – 6:30 p.m.; Meeting – 7:00 p.m. ( Note that this tasting will be on Mother's Day so bring your Mom.)

July sees the return of the irreverent and irrepressible Fletcher “RiojaJoe” Henderson, last seen running with the bulls in Spain. He was more running from than with, but never mind. Fletch is back and has he got some goodies to share. Quoth the lad:

Just got off [de] plane from Spain at midnight last night, so this presentation will be fresh with the lastest and greatest info. We'll be going through some whites and reds, leading off with a Cava. The new generation of Spanish winemakers has created a new fruit-driven style with complexities that reflect the distinct terroirs from the Iberian peninsula’s four corners. The best news is, Spain has the highest quality-to-price ratio, so bring $10 and get your socks knocked off!

Or, don’t wear socks and let Fletch knock your shoes off. Do bring along some pennies out of your bank. There just may be a few bottles available for purchase after the “rillybigshew .”

WINO WISDOM: The Manly Art of Wine, Part V – Into the History Books.

[To briefly recap, we have been noting here for several months the passing of manhood from the American scene. Boxing, mud wrestling, football, drag racing — women are doing them all. The ladies even do really dumb stuff like tractor pulls and cigars. Soon, women will begin opening their own wine bottles — thanks to the latest dumb idea in the wine world, the screwcap. ]

But all is not lost, gentlemen. There is yet hope for both endangered cork and emasculated American male, and that hope is sabrage, the art of opening champagne bottles with a sword. Yes, we are going to introduce the opening of all wine bottles with a backslash of the sword. We will start here in Northern Virginia, but before long sabrage will sweep the nation, capturing the American imagination like nothing since the mullet haircut. Wine bottles will proudly be capped with corks again, the screwcaps consigned to the dungheap of history. And the American male, sword at his side, will stand astride the culture like a colossus. Holy caramba, what a story. Gives me chills just to think about it.

Our time has finally arrived, mates. By now, you have all obtained your swords over the Internet for about $90 ($5 more for the rhinestone scabbard). You have your beefeater outfit of orange tunic jacket with big brass buttons, black slacks, and tall bearskin hat — all veddy veddy. You have practiced slashing with your sword, first on weeds in the backyard, then on those little plastic bottles of water people carry around everywhere these days. And last month you took your first whack at a bottle of Andre champagne. If it didn’t go well, no matter. That stuff isn’t meant to be drunk anyway. Save it for a hot day and wash your car with it.

You have, of course, rehearsed your beefeater ploy and can rattle off your name, rank and reason for dressing thus: “I’m in the Her Majesty’s Royal Dragoon Reserve, and I’m here on bivouac. It’s all very secret, you see…” Your voice trails off and you change the subject, letting them think you’re part of the global war on terror. Your listener will think you are brilliant because you appear British and will question you no more. He or she will be in awe of your hat.

You have by now learned how to work with the hat: how to traverse doorways whilst wearing it, bending the knees and duckwalking, always erect, without breaking your stride. And, you have learned to scour a room with your eyes as you enter it, searching for that nemesis of the eat-beefer, the dread ceiling fan. YOU will not be blindsided, nosirree. Sir Reginald’s sorry tale was sufficient for you. [See last month’s missive for details.]

All this you have done in the privacy of your home. Even the missus is barely aware of your enterprise. All the elements are now in place. Only lacking is the occasion.

And — voila — here it is: an invitation by your neighbors, the Joneses, on a Saturday night in June for a neighborhood cookout. An outdoor event, a casual evening affair, among a supportive crowd. What ask can ye more? And so the appointed hour finally arrives. You in your regalia and the missus walk to the Joneses and knock on the door. John Jones answers the door and — WOW! — hardly recognizes you. You’re dressed up like a British BEEFeater, all orange and black with a big tall bearskin hat. And a sword too! What’s THIS all about?

You go into your explanation. Dragoon Reserves…bivouac…Her Majesty…veddy veddy. Your voice trails off as you duckwalk into his house, the missus three paces behind. You scan the rooms for ceiling fans. There’s one in the living room, stay outta there. And another in the kitchen, crikey. And, the dining room’s got one, too;. Keep close to the walls. Finally, you emerge in the backyard where 14 other neighbors are gathered. A huge uproar ensues as they recognize you and gather round. The kids want to touch your sword.

You explain again. British commandos… Prince Phillip… the sinking of the bivouac… global war. Your voice trails again. Then, you tell them that you have a little surprise toniht. “Upon the serving of the hamburgers, I shall open the wines for the evening, as we beefeaters are wont when about to consume the beef, by slashing them open with my… sword!” What a cry arises from their throats as they shout with glee and anticipation! The burgers are thrown on the grille forthwith.

And before you know it, the moment is at long last here. As the meat sizzles, you approach the table where stand all the wines. Everyone upon arrival has presented the host with a bottle of wine. You set aside the bottles of leibfraumilch in the stone crocks with the flowery labels. These will be used another day for washing the dog. You are left with five bottles, reds and whites, a number easily within the ken of the experienced sabrageur.

You glance up at your audience now to see that the numbers have swelled. Neighbors, bystanders, complete strangers have wandered into the Joneses back yard, propelled by curiosity and awe. There are now perhaps forty-six people in the crowd before you, eyes big as sewer-lids, watching your every move. And your hat.

And what’s going on with you? You notice a tingly feeling all over your body. The hairs on your neck stand straight out. Your entire body swells with a surge of energy, electricity. Voltage is shooting off you and lighting the night sky. . You feel like — a MAN! YES! It’s how you felt in your twenties – powerful, invincible, indestructible. Immortal. You haven’t felt this way since … the job, the house, the mortgage, the kids. Actually, since you had the family dog neutered.

[At this point I need to inject a concept of higher physics. There is among students of quantum mechanics the notion of parallel universes that sometimes intersect with our own, sometimes spun off from our own. According to the Schrodinger equation, a particular cataclysm in the space-time continuum, an “event horizon” can produce a “quantum decoherence,” causing a new universe to peel off, to unravel in some wondrous new direction, with decidedly different outcomes. Each universe will tumble on to infinity, perhaps one day again to meet. Or perhaps not. Now back to the barbeque.]

This cocktail of testosterone and adrenalin is coursing thru your body now, bursting you with confidence. Buoyed by the adulation of the crowd, you step up to the table. Bottles are lined in a row to your right. Slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y you draw your sword. Gasps emit from the crowd. Pins are heard falling in the grass. A woman swoons. Then another. You bring the back edge of the sword to your face as you’ve seen them do in the Marine Corps commercials — a salute of some sort, you figure. Then, you sweep into your backhand, slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y again, for maximum effect. You glance at the line of bottles. You squint and pick your mark, just below the bulge in the neck of the first bottle.

Suddenly a dark thought shatters your focus: ceiling fans! Are there any ceiling fans? Did you check? Immediate response: We’re outdoor so no ceiling fans. The assurance returns full force. All systems are GO-GO-GO! You cut loose.

***** SHHHWAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK! ******

You have uncorked an event horizon. The universe splits.

In Universe X:
The wine bottles stand there, slightly wobbling, their heads neatly severed below the corks. Immediately there’s a cheering and shouting not heard since the end of WW II. You are being carried aloft by frenzied neighbors, out of the yard and down the street. Passing drivers honk their horns, flash their lights. Sirens wail. Searchlights sweep the sky. Within moments, it seems the entire nation knows what you have done. As you bask in the adulation, know this: when you leave the Joneses tonight, you will duckwalk into history, right up there with Columbus and the New World. You, my friend, are a man. Make a mental note: when you get home tonight, apologize to the dog.

In Universe Y:
Things are not going well. Great shards of glass are flying, wine splatters, mingling with blood. There is loud screaming, low groaning. Bodies and parts are strewn in every direction. Your own right arm is severed at the elbow. Dan Rather interrupts the nightly rerun of Magnum CSI to announce a terrorist attack in Northern Virginia: “We have breaking news of a sword attack at a neighborhood barbeque. Seven persons are reported slain or maimed — one of them, it says, a one-armed beefeater? There must be some mistake; we’ll get back to you with more on this unfolding tragedy.”

A limo full of lawyers has pulled up. Several are taking depositions from witnesses. You are charged with seven counts of manslaughter and one count of womanslaughter — the missus didn’t make it. An officer is reading your rights: “You have the right to remain silent…” His voice trails off. He puts a handcuff on you. But, you feel that tingle in your spine again and your hair stands on end. With severed right arm tucked under your left arm, sword clutched between your teeth, head erect, and back straight, you duckwalk into the paddywagon. You, my friend, are also a man. As you ride off to a new future tonight, know this: you also will go down in history, not with Columbus perhaps, but certainly with Columbine. And don’t worry about the dog — he forgot long ago.

In Universe Z:
It’s time to go to bed. Make mental notes: (1) call Mike to tell him you’re coming Sunday; (2) mow the lawn tomorrow so you won’t have to Sunday; and (3) show your colors: wear your sword and bearskin hat to Sunday's meeting.

Have a great weekend, see you real soon!

Your humble scribe,

~ Bruce ~

P.S. Please feel free to forward this link to friends who share your interest in matters of the vine. Or, send webmaster@aws-va.com their names to add to our mailing list.

P.P.S. If you are no longer interested in getting John Marshall AWS news, please send a note to webmaster@aws-va.com and ask to be removed from this email list.