Virginia Ain’t for Lovers (of wine)

Oh, the perils of red wine drinking. The fuzzy tongue, the puckery tannins, the headache, the arrest on criminal charges. . .

Okay, that last side effect of red wine wasn’t one I’d ever come across. Or considered. It is, however, what happened to my favorite niece Tamsin*, who’s facing a big fine and time in the slammer for drinking responsibly. Who knew that was a crime? In George Bush's America, for crissake!
*The miscreant's name has been changed for blogging purposes, and to protect her identity until after the court date. Because her mother is still my big sister, and I'm still afraid, I mean respectful, of her.

Background. . . Tam’s story is this: Home for the summer after her first year in college, the slightly built, slyly humorous 19-year-old was hanging out on the deck of a friend’s house with some of her buddies. Wine was offered, and consumed. She doesn’t know what KIND of wine, only that it was red, “and came in a big bottle. Not a jug, but one of those bottles that are bigger than the regular kind.”

Okay, so we can’t indict her for the crime of drinking wine from a box.

Tam, whom I’ve not known to be much interested in alcohol, had a couple glasses of wine that fateful evening. If you’re thinking “DUI” at this point, you can think again. Bright girl that she is, my niece had her friend Drew drive her home. “Home” is in Alexandria, Virginia, and Tamsin had been told more than once by the parental units to look out for the speed traps in the upscale ‘burbs, like the one in Vienna. The one where Drew was pulled over and ticketed when he unwittingly drove 45-mph through a 35-mph speed zone. His first ticket -- and on such a memorable night!

Now Drew hadn’t been drinking. Still, there he was, getting a ticket for speeding, probably grimacing at Tamsin during the process. It may be that Tam grimaced back, and the cop observed the telltale purply tongue that says so clearly, “I’ve been slurping red wine. Or chewing purple gum.” Or perhaps Tamsin leaned out her window and breathed a big red wine breath all over the traffic cop. Although I can’t think why she would do this, or why a passenger in a car would attract the attention of a police officer writing up a speeding ticket. It may be there are details Tam has not shared with me. It may be that she was lolling drunkenly on the driver’s shoulder and leering up at the officer. It may be that the cop had just bet his partner he could slap two tickets on the next car to set wheel on his turf.

Here’s what happened: The policeman asked the slender blonde college girl -- the PASSENGER -- to take a Breathalyzer test. Is that weird, or what? (Her lawyer's explanation was succinct. "This is Virginia," he said. Whatever that means. Although since it was prom night, I think it means, "Virginia cops are mean bastards, and love to pull over kids they think have been having too much fun at a high school dance.")

Mindful of stories about brutalizing police types, and nervous as most of us are when faced with an intimidating uniformed officer of the law, the PASSENGER agreed to the Breathalyzer. Now she’s been charged with “illegal possession of alcohol,” having registered a blood alcohol content of .08 or so. (Tam can’t be bothered to remember little details like her offending BAC, a quality of insouciance that endears her to her mother.)

As I’m hearing this story, I’m laughing my butt off. Insensitive on my part, to be sure, given that the responsible lass is facing a stiff fine, possible jail time, and undoubtedly many hours of community service, not to mention lawyer fees, but “illegal possession of alcohol?” I guess her bladder and bloodstream were in possession of the offending liquor, because there were no open containers of alcohol in the car, which would be a crime under Virginia law. And there was no driver who was intoxicated, or under the influence, or impaired, which would be a crime.

I try to google this authoritarian overreach, this railroading of a harmless, responsible imbiber, but everything out there is about the perils of drinking and DRIVING, not drinking and lounging in the passenger seat. In fact, on the Young Adults Educating Responsible Drinking site, I find practical advice under “What Should I Do if I Drink Too Much?” Not surprisingly, the reader is instructed to “Find someone who has not been drinking to give you a ride home.” Maybe Tamsin can sue YAERD to recover her legal fees and fines. “Your honor, it’s true that I’m under 21 and I drank a little red wine one night. At a friend's house. Whose parents were home. That makes me FRENCH, not a criminal.”

Tam would appear to be guilty of underage drinking, which in Virginia means that, if you’re under 21, it’s unlawful for you to register a blood alcohol level higher than .02%. (Where's the zero tolerance? Why not 0.00%? I think of this as the “Nyquil loophole.”)

I'll repeat that: She's apparently guilty of underage drinking. Guilty of underage drinking. Her attorney could have a field day with this one. "Your honor, let he who is without guilt cast the first fine here. Our jails are full of drug fiends and poor black men; we can't conceivably fit in another 100 million underage drinkers and those who would confess to having BEEN underage drinkers." Suddenly I'm transported back to my halcyon high school daze in Nebraska, a blur of weekends out under the trees sampling the delights of cherry vodka and Boone's Farm. . .

One question keeps nagging at me, all the more so because I’ll never get an answer: What kind of red wine were they drinking???? Tamsin has no idea.

I’m betting it was Glen Ellen. Or Vendange, or Inglenook. Or even Sutter Home. You know, those inexpensive so-so wines that often are packaged in double-sized bottles (they're called magnums, Tam). The wines that are at least wines, and a bare step up from boxed wines or Ripple or Strawberry Hill, or the mongo jugs o’ wine from Gallo or Carlo Rossi that were a staple in my parents’ fridge while I was growing up.

God, if only she’d been arrested for sipping on a ’99 Brunello, or a Tomassi Ripasso. The situation would still be ludicrously stupid, but at least it would be worth it.

The Reign in Spain

Sum-sum-summertime

Still "under the weather." Still soulsick in this unrelenting swampy Kansas City heat. Nothing unusual in it, but not much to like, either. It's gone on long enough that I was starting to reach for more white wine, reds seeming too. . . I dunno, warm, thick, HOT . . . but whites just don't trip my taste trigger like reds. They're refreshing, yes -- and another tip o' the winetaster hat to the consistently good Sauvignon Blancs from New Zealand's Marlboro County -- they're refreshing, and tasty on their own, without food, whereas reds seem to need food accompaniments to come alive -- but anyway, good old Costco had a bin of Rioja Crianza that caught my eye.

And am I glad it did. I picked up a bottle of El Coto Rioja Crianza 2001, even though I don't often reach for Spanish wines. Don't know much about 'em. . . This one, however, is made solely from Tempranillo grapes, and that's a grape I like. With pizza, for sure -- and with BLTs, as I just discovered. My gosh, what a GREAT summer supper: fresh tomatoes, bacon, lettuce, mayo on good wheat bread, with an ear of corn on the side. And a big whoppin' glass of the El Coto. Happy mouth!

Andie's tip on this wine: Let it breathe. She claims it tasted better the second glass.

Rioja lesson of the day: I just read this online, "Rioja is to Spain what Chianti is to Italy." Hmm. At first, when I read this, I thought, "Oh." Like I understood it. Because Italy is known for Chianti, and Chianti is seemingly ubiquitous -- so that must mean that Rioja is the big common wine of Spain; but then I thought, "Well dang, I don't LIKE or TRUST most plain old Chiantis. Chianti Classicos, sure. But there are a boatload of bad Chiantis out there. . . " Come to think of it, maybe that's what it meant. Widely available, and wildly inconsistent.

Here's the little I know: Riojas are blended from a number of grapes (which isn't true of Chiantis, which as far as I know are basically made from the Sangiovese grape). The primary Rioja grape, though, is Tempranillo, which has a nice spicy red cherry flavor to it. "Crianza" means the Rioja has been aged for three years before being released. If it's been aged four years, it's called a "reserva," and if it's aged six years, "gran reserva." My Spanish is pitiful, so forgive me if I butchered that. In any case, the Crianzas are more affordable, having been aged for a shorter period of time -- but I PREFER them to the reservas, because they're. . . fresher, I think is the word I'm looking for. More fruit forward. Young and summery.

The El Coto Rioja Crianza 2001 has won awards, I see. Well, AN award, anyway: a silver medal in an international competition. More importantly to me, it wins the Winetaster Summer Sippin' Award. Go fix a BLT, cool this baby for 45 minutes in the fridge, pop it open, and enjoy. It's only ten bucks.

I'm heading back to Costco for more.

The Color of Exploitation

It took three separate trips to California's Wine Country for me to get it. It sunk in slowly, one lush vineyard at a time, one campesino at a time: The color of wineries is brown. Beige, tan, rust-hued, like a rose gone bad. Like a peasant driving a horse-drawn wagon up a hill winding through endless rows of vines; like a Mexican immigrant trimming the artfully landscaped shrubbery at a faux-Mediterranean villa complete with fountains, ponds, bridges, sculpture, marble; like the dirt under the nails of a laborer in the fields whose native language is not yours. Or mine.

Like wine that derives from juice pressed and separated from the grape skins right after crushing, the color of wineries (in this country) at first appears white. Pale, like a straw-shaded Sauvignon Blanc, pale as all the servers in the tasting rooms, all the courteous Caucasians waiting on the pale-colored tourists at the counter, pale as the winemaker emerging from his immaculate, sunless cellars. Yet behind the pleasantly bland, colorless exterior presented to the public is the darker backbone supporting the wine industry, the sweat and the toil of the sun-baked peasants who work the fields to produce the grapes to make the wines of the white white owners of the wineries. Always it has been so, in California. Inside the white. Outside the brown. Inside the air-conditioning, the money, the pleasant chatter of the vacationing class. Outside the heat and the dust, the low wages, the halting English and fluent Spanish.

On some level, I've known for a long time that the serving class in this country is not white, not of this country (with the exception of servers at restaurants, who are most often white. White actors. . . ) But I've been color-blind when it comes to wines; that is, when it comes to the effort required to produce them. I love wines, as I love good coffee. Now, in addition to fending off attacks from friends who cannot understand my attachment to Starbucks (it's the coffee. But not just the coffee. And that's a story for another day.), I find myself defensive about wines. And with good reason.

Last night, I dreamed of wine. I dreamed that I called it "reflective, literally and figuratively." Smart dream, that: Wine is literally reflective, catching the light in crystal shards and tossing it back in the drinker's eye; and it's figuratively reflective, inducing meditative thoughts with its liquid beauty, its color. Its color. . .

I lift a glass of the Dry Creek Mood Hill Cabernet to the light, and it looks red, so red. I pour out a class of the overpriced, delicious Viognier from Pride Mountain, and it's so very white. Red, and white. Blood, and tears. How obvious is that? I've been colorblind.