Wine and chocolate do not go together!

Right now, most major food and wine publications are preparing their annual wine-and-chocolate article for Valentine's Day.

But it's all a scam. Wine and chocolate do not go together.

I sat in on a tasting once of about 75 different wines and maybe 20 kinds of chocolate. The best we could come up with were a few pairings that didn't suck.

The reason is very simple: Chocolate is sweet. It makes wines that aren't sweet taste sour.

The only way to avoid this is to drink an even sweeter wine -- vin santo, or Port, or something like that. In which case you have to ask yourself, why do you need the chocolate?

I'm going to say this again as the commercial candy fest that commemorates the mob massacre in Chicago gets closer. But I wanted to get this out there before your February issues of food and wine magazines arrive with ludicrous wine and chocolate pairing propaganda.

Drink wine with your sweetie. Clear your palates with a kiss. Then share a chocolate. Or do this in the opposite order.

But don't believe that Merlot, or Cab, or Zin, or any other red wine goes well with chocolate. They do not. And there's no reason they should have to.

Drinking and blathering on about it at the New York Times

Have you seen the New York Times' "Proof" blog? It's a collection of writers posting about drinking -- not the drinks, but the experience of drunkenness.

This fills a niche. There are scores of wine writers and at least a few dozen people aspiring to be spirits or cocktail writers. But all of us concentrate on the flavors we experience, not the feeling we get after imbibing.

I've always found this dichotomy strange, and have been annoyed more than once by an editor prudishly snipping out a reference to being schnockered at the end of a long tasting of Zinfandels, for example. It's the polite secret of the wine industry: Yes, Virginia, professional wine tasters do get tipsy. We just don't admit it.

In fact, it's important in the industry to be able to drink bottle after bottle of wine and not show really obvious signs of drunkenness. If you jump in a fountain or give a technicolor yawn in public, people will still talk about it years later with disdain, perhaps while opening the 6th bottle of the night.

Thus I think there's a good spot in American wine writing for what the Times is doing. The actual results are, so far, hit and miss.

What the blog seems to spotlight mostly are regretful essays from binge drinkers. This is definitely a way many Americans relate to alcohol, and it's a shame that it is.

But I for one would like to see more essays about why people like drinking in the first place. There's a great line very early in the movie "Trainspotting" about heroin: "People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid."

I really liked David Kramer's essay "Buybacks" about his feeling of being special at his neighborhood bar in Manhattan: it managed to convey both the reasons people like to while away their lives in bars, and the reasons they probably shouldn't.

He writes: "McManus is one of those rare New York bars that still understands and holds dear the concept of the buyback — a drink on the house for every few you buy. And depending on the bartender and the length of my drinking session, the buybacks could be plentiful. Every now and then, the cadence of the buybacks would increase and I would find myself going one-for-one with the bartender, which made it difficult to slip out in a moment of polite one-upmanship.

I thought this was just great. I knew that buybacks didn’t go to just anybody. They were a perk of the inner circle, the handful of patrons who were genuinely liked and trusted by the staff. So a buyback didn’t just mean free beer — a great concept on its own. It meant acceptance. It meant I was on one of the rings of the inner circle."

... but later ...

"I told her about that split-second, how I was frozen on my bar stool and didn’t know what to do. But then every free drink that I had ever had, and the potential of that ending — forever — flashed before my eyes. No more special treatment. No more buybacks … The thought was staggering. I just had to do something."

Good stuff. Read the whole post.

That said, after Kramer, there's work to do: too much grimacing, not enough winking. Hopefully the Times will find more writers to highlight interesting things about drinking, because otherwise "Proof" will deteriorate into an unending elegy of eloquent regret, alleviated by occasional glitters of bright celebration. Sound like any activities you know?

Marilyn Manson's absinthe ("Mansinthe") rocks

The bottle of Mansinthe sat on my desk, amusing me, for weeks.

I like weird packaging: I had a box of Mud & Bugs cereal on my desk for a while, and I kept for several years the cardboard container for a Japanese-made can opener that assured me, "This product will be your lifelong companion. We can see that it has mild heart."



You can see the appeal: Is that really an absinthe-addled Marilyn Manson on the label? If so, the stuff's really as bad for you as its 19th century reputation suggests. And no wonder -- it's 66.6% alcohol. (Surely that number is no coincidence.)

Mansinthe is made in Switzerland, and the back label copy is in Swiss-German, not one of my best languages. But I can report that the primary botanicals in this concoction are Swiss wormwood, green anise and fennel. It's produced in an 80-year-old distillery that was re-engineered when Switzerland lifted the absinthe ban in 2005.

Press materials for the product claim that Manson "was intensely involved in development by constantly tasting samples, critiquing and providing feedback to the distillers. Marilyn Manson has been drinking absinthe for years and has had the connections and opportunity to taste all qualities, including vintage absinthe. His palate for absinthe is well developed and he would not accept an inferior product that would also bear his name."

Yeah, that name. Mansinthe. I just like saying it. "Taste of Mansinthe, big boy?" Created in Switzerland with San Francisco in mind (though "Manjuice" might be even more appropriate -- an alcoholic eggnog endorsed by O.J. Simpson, perhaps?)

Anyway, the Mansinthe brought me pleasure similar to Marilyn Manson's music: fun as long as I kept it at arm's length. Curiosity didn't overcome me for weeks. Until today.

I couldn't let the year end without tasting Mansinthe. Would it be better than a Manwich? Or a Manhandler? Or Men at Work?

Mansinthe is very light green until you add a little water (at 66.6% alcohol, I don't see how you could drink it straight). Then it turns an eerie shade of yellowish-green that gives the impression of glowing slightly.

The aroma is strongly licoricey; the anise dominates other botanicals to the extent that it's almost medicinal. I feared the Mansinthe, but I refuse to let fear determine what I put in my mouth (don't tell my HMO).

I closed my eyes, took a sip -- and was very pleasantly surprised. Mansinthe is quite smooth, with flavors of anise, fennel, eucalyptus, and even a hint of almonds. The finish is long and breath-cleansing, but in a good way. If you like pastis or sambuca, you'll like this. Despite its potency, I found it refreshing for the palate.

Now I know what you're asking: where can I procure some Mansinthe? Try the official website, which complains bitterly about another blogger who panned the stuff. I wonder if Marilyn Manson bothers to write a screed complaining about every blogger who doesn't like his music. Don't slam me, Marilyn, I like your Mansinthe. I'm laughing with you. This time.

Dear reader, may your 2009 be filled with happy surprises in the mouth.

Sebastiani sale for the best

Don't shed a tear for the sale of Sebastiani Vineyards and Winery. Sebastiani wines are more likely to continue to be good (I'm a fan) than they would have been if the winery was unsold.

Here's why: the dynamic branch of the Sebastiani family had already left the building, literally. Don Sebastiani left the company in 2001 to form his own eponymous company, which is one of the most energetic, creative companies in northern California. They make lots of wines you know, like Smoking Loon and Pepperwood Grove, and a host of smaller production wines you might not have encountered with crazy names like Used Automobile Parts.

Don Sebastiani, grandson of Sebastiani Vineyards founder Samuele Sebastiani, is an innovator who goes with his gut. I don't know why he left the family company seven years ago, but he didn't lose his shares in it and it seems clear from the San Francisco Chronicle story that he was a major force in engineering the sale.

Without Don running it, the company was under the nominal leadership of Mary Ann Sebastiani Cuneo and her husband. They were not dynamic leaders, but the winery has continued to make good wines because of its outstanding winemaker, Mark Lyon.

Lyon is an unabashed fan of new technology and new thinking. He makes ripe wines with great fruit that are easy to appreciate right now. He's creative and has a great palate. Yet what will serve him best in overseeing the transition in ownership are his political skills.

The buyers are not Heublein or Coca-Cola or even debt-stretched Constellation; instead, it's the rapidly expanding Foley Wine Group out of Santa Barbara County. So far, this group has shown a commitment to fine wine. It hasn't blown up the production levels of popular labels until they bear little connection to the founders' intent (i.e., Inglenook, or more recently Ravenswood.)

Like other businesses, unless they're blessed with the terroir of Domaine Romanee Conti (and even to some degree if they are), wineries need to keep moving forward. Cuneo wasn't able to marshall her family's support, and support of owners and management are needed for essentials like replacing expensive equipment.

Foley has money, apparently, and its leaders should be smart enough to keep Lyon on board. The Sebastiani family winery name is safer in Foley's hands.

Besides, it's not like there isn't still a family-owned winery named Sebastiani making some pretty good wines. That Used Automobile Parts Bordeaux-style blend is actually pretty good.

The power of 90 point wines

This is a true story, but it has to stay anonymous.

A major wine merchant that provides its own wine ratings recently offered a red wine for sale with an 89 point rating. It wasn't an expensive wine, selling for about $10. As for its quality, it was solid, but not a sock-knocker: 89 points was appropriate, and at $10, it was a great deal.

The wine didn't sell. Not a famous region, not a well-known brand. Having tasted it, I would choose it over 95% of the other $10 red wines out there, particularly the generic giant brands. But the average consumer did not.

The merchant removed the wine from sale. A few weeks later, it offered the same wine to its customers, this time with a 90 point rating.

The wine sold by the case: scores of them, in fact.

There were no other changes to the price, description, or logo, or anything else. The only thing that changed was one point in the rating.

Think about that the next time you reach for a 90-point wine to put in your shopping basket.

Beyond supertasters -- are some people just super percepters?

Are you as sensitive to small differences in quality of music or movies as you are about wine? If so, maybe you can relate to this experience.

I went to the eye doctor today for an annual checkup. I have poor vision and am a big fan of ultra-thin lenses. I'm also a big fan of eyeglasses in general and have about a dozen. I've had to cut back, though, since reaching the age where I need progressive lenses -- I can't just buy my two favorite frames at a time.

Anyway, the doctor was testing my vision and she remarked, "You're very sensitive to small changes." Apparently I'm noticeably better than the average person at saying this twist of the knob makes my vision better, and that one makes it worse.

I may be sensitive, but in fact I wear a variety of different prescriptions because I'm loath to discard glasses I like from years past. Sometimes I wear progressives (these replaced bifocals, for you bastards who have perfect eyesight), sometimes not. I have some frames (generally wider) I wear to the movies or hiking, and a pair just for the computer. I sense the differences, but I accept whatever the qualities of my vision will be from the different glasses. Sort of like loving both Pinot and Cab for what they are.

I told the optometrist that I was probably no more sensitive than the average person -- but having been a critic for much of my life, I was more likely to pronounce A over B. She disagreed; she said other patients simply couldn't tell the difference between much larger adjustments.

Though fully correctable, my vision is my worst sense. There's no way I can claim to be even close to as visually perceptive as the average person. So what's going on here?

She got me to wondering if there's a gene for sensory distinctions. It's not just wine on which I can choose A over B. I have been a movie critic and a music critic. I've written (for pay) restaurant reviews, book reviews and theatre reviews. Until today I have always assumed that the reason was simply my willingness to express myself.

But maybe not. Thanks to Dr. Linda Bartoshuk, we know about supertasters and non-tasters. I am friends with a few non-tasters; their lives are simpler and less costly than mine (unless they let me order the wine ...)

I also have long known people who profess to care little about what music is on in the background, or what the view out their window looks like. I am intensely sensitive to these things. I can't ungrit my teeth if I hear the Journey singer's voice, for example, and I insist on living and working in places with a view of some green.

Is it possible that some of us are more perceptually acute across an entire range of senses than others? Or do some of us simply pay more attention to details (perhaps at the cost of unshakable concentration on work tasks, never a strength of mine)?

How big is your Pinot?

Last night I opened a huge Pinot, both in bottle size and palate weight: 2001 Sine Qua Non "No. 6" Shea Vineyard Yamhill County Pinot Noir.

The wine was delicious, no question. Lots of cherry fruit with a very long finish. It wasn't complex initially but as it got some air the aroma added a little violet perfume and a little slate. Generally, though, this was a pleasant mouthful of fruit that lingered on the palate.

The body wasn't huge -- I've enjoyed Sine Qua Non Syrah, and this wasn't that. But it was made in that style. It was medium-full bodied, and the mouthfeel was muscularly sensuous.

I liked the wine. My companion liked the wine. The waiter liked the wine.

So why do I feel something missing?

I'm not a Burgundy purist -- the alcohol level (14.2%) doesn't bother me, and while the absence of great complexity isn't a plus, that wasn't why I had a nagging, nitpicking feeling.

It comes down to weight on the palate -- I simply do not want a Pinot Noir to feel heavy. I don't mind that quality in a Cab, Merlot or Syrah. But for Pinot, I want something -- always -- that's a little bit more delicate. This wine was like C.C. Sabathia in a ballet outfit -- impressive, but out of place.

Increasingly, though, because America loves both big reds and Pinot Noir, the two are intersecting. That's a shame. To me, what makes Pinot Noir great is that it's not a big red. Except when it is.