Candy: I'm a lover, not a fighter

Candy is dandy,
but Liquor is quicker. -- O.N. (and Em)

With a nod to Dorothy Parker, Bitchqueen of Wit. "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

Oh that RWH!

A Strange Sulfite Blush
Debunking the Myth


Ow ow ow OW! I woke up with a killer RWH today. That is, I went to bed happily tipsy, dimly aware that my head was aching, and toward morning could no longer ignore the painful throbs beating against my skull. The inside of my skull. With a Thor-sized hammer whose blows increased in intensity with the rising of the sun. Or so it seemed. This, THIS is the price one pays for loving red wines. Sometimes that price seems too high, doesn’t it?

RWH=Red Wine Headache. It’s a recognized medical syndrome. . . recognized, but not well understood. Probably because would-be researchers are afraid to ask for grant money. Here’s what the pusillanimous scientific sorts have come up with on their own: What causes the dreaded RWH may be tannins; it may be histamines; it may be tyramine or some other chemical effect. What RWH is NOT caused by is sulfites.

Sulfites, which popularly are blamed for the queasy, stuffy-nosed, red-cheeked skull-pounding aftereffects of drinking red wine, are actually more prevalent in white wines. To which I say, Nya-nya-nya-NYA-nya. (Although I shouldn’t gloat, as white wines don’t usually cause headaches. What I SHOULD do is drink more white wines. Happily, that bit of self-advice coincides with the advent of warmer weather, always an inducement to quaff the clearer spirits.)

Sulfite, a natural byproduct of yeast fermentation, is used by winemakers as an antioxidant and anti-microbial. The FDA more than 20 years ago (that’s Before Bush, back when the FDA actually relied on science to formulate its positions) determined that a small portion of the population – less than 1 percent – is allergic to sulfites. These people lack the digestive enzyme that allows the body to process sulfites, which are also found in foods like cheeses and lunchmeats.

With its finding, the FDA required wines containing certain levels of sulfite to say so; that’s why wine labels may contain the phrase “contains sulfites.” Such information has oft been interpreted as a warning that people who get RWH’s should avoid red wine because of the sulfites. Not so. The warning on the label is intended for the wee minority who are allergic to sulfites. Sulfites can produce an allergic reaction – usually a breathing problem – in those lacking the aforementioned digestive enzyme; sulfites give headaches only to asthmatics.

In sum: If you have a sulfite allergy or asthma, you should avoid wine. I am so sorry.

For the rest of us, there are a few remedies out there to lessen the impact of RWH. First, ibuprofen or aspirin should be taken prophylactically. (If you don't have friends who are physicians, and therefore aren't familiar with this adverb, it simply means to take the pills BEFORE you begin your evening of wine.) I’ve tried this, and it seems to work. It is also suggested, probably by client-hungry dentists looking to bleach teeth, that one ingest black tea before and during wine drinking. I can’t remember why this is suggested – something about Quercetin, a bioflavin. I have not tried this. I think it would detract from the taste of the red wine, which is largely the point of red wine. For me, anyway. Also I think one would risk looking foolish, or piggish, or dam’ thirsty, with a mug of tea in one hand and a fat winey Riedel in the other. But suit yourself.

Or you can try mitigating the less pleasant effects of wine-drinking with some experimentation, with yourself as the subject. This needn’t be unpleasant; it merely requires that you record what you drink. Try different wines; different grapes; different countries of origin. Write down what you drink, and your reaction to it – your PHYSICAL reaction to it, not your degree of silliness or loquaciousness. Unless you want to.

The journaling/experimentation approach would involve sipping a half glass of wine, then waiting 15 minutes to see if a headache materializes. No headache, no problemo. At least not with that particular wine. See, write it down. Immediately. “I drank the Clos du Bois Zin (’99) with no ill effects.” Bad example, actually, as the 1999 Clos du Bois Zin isn’t a wine I’ll try again, most likely. It wasn’t big and Zinny enough, and there aren’t too many ‘99s out there in any case. But it didn’t give me a headache. And the point is that you can drink some reds without resultant headaches. You simply must discover which reds they are.

Joe Coulombe, the founder of Trader Joe’s, thinks that the solution to RWH lies in drinking older wines. Predictably, most Americans drink very young red wines from California. Enfants terribles, apparently: Some of the substances that cause hangovers become inert with age, so Coulombe suggests that drinking older wines will reduce both hangovers and RWH’s. The distinction between hangover and RWH? If you are laid low by a headache that comes six hours after “a full evening of drinking,” it’s a hangover. Don’t blame the red wine, don’t blame the sulfites, don’t blame your generous hosts. You overindulged, you’re hurting, and you need caffeine.

Winetaster opines that it is best to hydrate while imbibing, and to drink only really good red wines. Because guzzling water alongside your wine helps, and at least if you get a RWH, it may be worth the suffering.

There is Truth in Wine

The Age of Bullshit

I was reading about the "bullshit pandemic" the other day, and my mind leapt naturally to wine-tasting; that is, it jumped to wine-tasting terminology and how fatuous/pretentious it rings.

When Andie and I ordered up the premium tastings in Sonoma and Napa, we did very well for ourselves. The servers seemed to like us, and we had a good time with them, chatting and sipping and laughing. At almost every stop, we'd be offered extra pours of many wines not on the tasting list; often, these bonus pours were of expensive, lush wines far beyond our budget, but great fun to sample nonetheless. We speculated that the special treatment was due to our obvious, simple enjoyment of and appreciation for wines. It certainly wasn't because we're wine experts.

The servers at California's wine-tasting rooms have heard it all; don't even TRY to impress them. They sneer at and tell stories of those snobberooskies who belly up to the bar and act as if they know all there is to know about wine. "Ah yes, the 2001 meritage," (swirl, sniff, sip, exaggerated palate action) "the Cabernet grape is predominant, but the softer Merlot comes through, and oh what a nice bit the Cab Franc adds to the mix."

Whereas I, slurping at the Flora Springs Triology (a classic Bordeaux blend), blurted, "Yum!" Joe behind the bar smiled at my delighted grin, as I added, "Cherries and raspberries!" I did NOT say, "Ah so, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot and Malbec, to be sure." Wine masters can distinguish all these grapes with a swirl, sniff and sip -- not I. I could tell only that it is Cab-based, with cherry and raspberry dominating, and very smooth. Also a withering $60 a bottle, retail. But still, yummy.

"Yummy" about says it for me. "Yummy" or "Eh." To my knowledge, I have NEVER said anything remotely like "A soupcon of cocoa, with overtones of tar and leather. Brambly and a bit tight, but I daresay it will open up splendidly." Andie is more likely to say, "Omigosh, I like this one!" or, "I need chocolate with this." Mind you, at Dry Creek Vineyard, where the premium tasting led happily to the further exploration of another half dozen wines, Girlfriend managed to snag our server's interest with this pithy observation about a white wine: "It's got a bubblegum nose!" Rather than sneering, our amiable server arched her brows, grabbed a glass off the rack and poured a sample for herself, sniffing deeply. "I thnk you're right!" she laughed. "I can't wait to spring THAT on the winemaker!"

We very much enjoyed our tasting at Dry Creek, and recommend it if you're taking a Sonoma tour. http://www.drycreekvineyard.com/ Dry Creek pours its wines in a handsome building set on lovely made-for-picnicking grounds, only a few miles from a "garage winery," Amphora, where there's nothing but gravel, grapevines, a house, a cellar, and a Johnny-on-the-spot. At Amphora, you taste the wines in the cellar, a.k.a. basement, and if/when you spit, you spit into a drain in the concrete floor. Not in a nearby beaker, which Andie did, and which occasioned a near-panic on the part of the winemaker, who was (who could know?) blending and tasting and doing something scientific in advance of a reviewer's visit. Amphora is also the site of an annual semi-naked grape stomping by enthusiastic beauties from the valley who may not even DRINK wine, but know a good, messy, underwear-clad party when they see it. If you time it right, and if you're female, you too can whip off your outer garments and plunge into a vat of purple goop while drunken men take your picture.

You see, at Amphora, the slogan is " Only women can touch the grapes." Seriously. The winemaker, Rick Hutchinson, loves women and wine with a happy-go-lucky intensity. Don't ask him to choose between his two passions (and I second that emotion). Amphora also has begun to use its annual grape stomp to raise money to fight breast cancer. Wine, women, and breast cancer research: There's a winning combination. BONUS: They make Petite Syrah! It's a bit pricey ($30), but it's a deep-hued, delicious mouthful of ripe blackberries and pepper. In other words, Yum. http://www.amphorawines.com/

Gosh, I wish Kansas City had vineyards. . . and some mountains. Maybe a shoreline or two. . . but then it wouldn’t be Kansas City. It wouldn’t be affordable. It wouldn’t have those small plate tastings I’ve so enjoyed at Pierponts. . . where at least the wine steward speaks (mostly) in English. Commendably low on the bullshit factor, that’s what I’m trying to say.

One night at Pierpoints, Charlie the Wine Steward was talking up some Muscat or other multi-named French white wine, describing its lemony notes and its “hint of melon." I don't mind such descriptions. I can relate to lemon and melon, and those descriptors at least give me SOME idea of what to expect from the wine. That sure beats the graduates from the Wine School of Instruction who would have you believe Sauvignon Blancs often smell like cat piss. And that that is a good thing.

Lordy, I have three cats of my own, and three step-cats, and I can tell you that smelling their urine is not a pleasant experience. I can see saying, "herbal notes, grassy, citrusy." I can even see saying, "Ew, cat pee." What I CANNOT see is saying, "ew, cat pee," and then DRINKING.

I almost always pick up the scents and flavors of lime and grapefruit when I sample a Sauvignon Blanc from Marlboro County in New Zealand, the Emperor of Sauvignon Blanc. And I almost always read on the label of said wine that the wine supposedly smacks of passion fruit and gooseberry. As if. As if I even know what those taste or smell like. And if I did, I'd still sound like a major b.s. spouter if I said so. "Ah yes, I'm picking up notes of passion fruit and gooseberry." Try saying that at your next party, and let me know the reactions of your guests.

Words mean whatever I say they mean. Isn't that what Lewis Carroll wrote? It's apt for wine tasting: Whatever you, the sipper, tastes in the wine; whatever you, the imbiber, thinks of the wine, is the truth. In vino, veritas. Also a great deal of bullshit.

Straw-colored Surfaces

I am light of hair and pale of skin. I am the original paleface, my blonde childhood freckled with memories of adults teasing me about my freckles; I believed for years that the precipitation of pigment bespeckling my cheeks and nose was caused by eating beans, although I don’t recall instances of Mom actually feeding us beans. Why couldn’t those child-baiting tall people have told me the dots sprinkled on my face were angel kisses?

It’s due to the Dutch background, apparently. The paleness, I mean. And being light of flesh and hair, and oppositional in nature, I am drawn to those of darker mien. “Exotic” to my mind has usually meant someone of bronze skin and dark hair; no Norwegian beauties in MY attraction template.

And why do I ponder my Aryan physiology and its possible effect on my romantic inclinations?

I’m wondering if that’s why I prefer red wines to white. “Prefer” is too weak a word, actually; my hefty bias towards red is revealed by my wine cooler, which has at most two or three bottles of white wine in it at any given time. We’re talking a 50-to-1 ratio here. . . which hardly seems balanced, and as I have my moon in Libra or Libra rising, offsetting my fussy Virgo, or something like that, I DO like balance.

I used to drink white wines almost exclusively, socialized as I was to accept a glass of oaky Chardonnay or fruity Fume’ Blanc. Today, I have to forcibly restrain the contemptuous eyebrow lift, the almost-but-not-quite-inaudible sniff of surprise when a companion orders from the white wine list. (I know, “sniff” goes with “disdain,” but I’ve been working to eradicate disdain and have watered it down to a feeling of only slightly contemptuous surprise. Of course, “slightly contemptuous” for me is like “moderate” for Republicans, so it’s entirely possible I’m still making ghastly faces at the Chardonnay slurpers lurking at nearby tables.)

But when my love chose Thai food to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I turned toward the whites. Reluctantly, I turned, and I did NOT turn toward Reislings, which are often suggested as matches for spicy foods. Don’t like Reislings, no I don’t. Not much. And Andie doesn’t much like buttery Chardonnays, so that left only two choices in the cooler. ‘Twas a conundrum, and so it was that I opted for. . . the Conundrum.

This Caymus blend tastes to me of honey and spice. Although the winemaker calls it “brown sugar.” It ought to be too sweet to be palatable, at least to MY palate, but it isn’t, I suppose because there’s a nice smack of acid on the finish. The Conundrum is a high-end blend of – well, try it, and guess for yourself. I thought I could identify Semillon and Viognier and Muscat, and it appears the winemaker threw in some Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc as well. It was GREAT with the fiery Pad Thai and Jumbo shrimp we had for our private romantic dinner. No Hallmark Valentines for US, no siree. Girlfriend was lucky to get a bar o’ dark chocolate, hard to find when one is trying to avoid the tainted wares of the commercial cocoa-pushing confectioners who have been hauled into court recently to answer charges of using forced child labor to produce their yummy wares.

The infamous companies include Cargill, Archer Daniels-Midland – and Nestle. Yes, Nestle. N-e-s-t-l-e-s, Nestle’s makes the very best. . . slavemaster. The corporations have allowed forced child labor to be used on their West African cocoa farms, an abhorrent practice long condemned by human rights groups. If you don’t care for such exploitation, suck it up, because Nestle is a big dam’ company that has its corporate finger behind a ton o’ products. You’ll need to avoid buying KitKats, Crunch Bars, Baby Ruths and Butterfingers. Also Toll House. The morsels, the baking chocolate, the refrigerated cookie dough. I could go on and on, but this is supposed to be a wine column, and if you’re not a lazyass you can google this for yourself.

I finally found a chocolate bar that was from Brazil. Small slaves may have made it, but that information has not yet been uncovered by our intrepid press. Stay tuned.

Where were we? Ah yes, white wine. I’m actually looking forward to spring, so I can try the other white, the Ferrari-Caranno Fume’ Blanc racked forlornly in the basement. So it will stop whining at me every time I go down to select a nice red wine for dinner. (I hear ya, I hear ya! You’ve merited 90 points from some expert or another, and I’m sure you’ll make a great spring sipper.) Ferrari-Caranno makes a killer reserve Chardonnay as well, but at nearly $40 the bottle, I’ve only tasted it at the winery. Some part of me finds it excruciating to pay that much for a white wine. The pale part of me, I suspect. I’m a wine racist, I am. Blame my childhood. That’s what I’m doing.