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Aug 2012 01

by The Wine Guy

Real men drink Rose (pronounced rowzay). Why is that? A real man is not afraid to have his sexuality questioned because of what he drinks. Gay, straight, bi, good wine is good wine. And what the average person may not know is that most of the best ones are not sweet. In fact, the vast majority are dry to bone dry. We are not talking about White Zin here, and if that’s what you are drinking, please stop, immediately.

Rose is made from 100 percent red grapes most of the time, but there are some that have white grapes blended in. So why is the Rose pink instead of red? Because the maceration period is reduced, meaning the skin is left in contact with the pressed grape juice for a much shorter period. A rule of thumb being, the lighter the color, the shorter the maceration.

Maceration gives the wine both its color and tannins. The grape used also plays a huge part in the wine’s hue. A Rose made from Cabernet Sauvignon will tend to be darker and have a fuller body than one made from Pinot Noir, just like the red wines themselves. While I personally like my Rose to be made from Pinot or Syrah, I have found Roses made from many different grapes that I have truly enjoyed.

When a Rose is made correctly, the result is a wine that is neither red nor white, and that is what makes Rose so special. There’s just nothing like them, and they come in a surprising amount of styles. If you have never had the pleasure of sitting outside on a warm summer day, drinking a crisp, elegant Rose, then you should make that happen as soon as possible. While France remains the unquestioned King of Rose, there are plenty of good domestic ones, with more being made daily as the wine’s popularity increases.

As a wine seller, if I had a dollar for every time I suggested a Rose to a man, and he looked at me like I was from outer space before saying something like, “I don’t think so,” then I would be rich. Are you really so insecure that you can’t drink pink? Or do you feel uneasy already just by virtue of the fact you’re drinking wine to begin with?

A bone dry Rose Bandol (an AOC or Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée wine from Provence) on a hot summer afternoon can taste like fucking magic. We’re talking about a crisp, lean, and very refreshing wine. A Rose can take the best qualities of white and red and combine them to perfection. When learning about wine, the first thing you have to learn often is that your assumptions are wrong. Thus Rose is commonly and unquestioningly assumed to be sweet, but, as I mentioned, they can be some of the driest wines made in fact.

The other spectacular thing about Rose is that because so many people are so resistant to them, they are undervalued. You can get a high quality Rose for $15 dollars, and if you spend double that you should get something spectacular. For example, a Montrachet Rose made from some of the finest Pinot Noir grapes in the world can cost you less than $25, whereas its red equivalent will be at least double that. It’s even more of a good deal when you take into account that Rose, for the most part, is meant to be drunk young, so it’s easy to buy and enjoy the wine at its peak, which is always a huge plus.

However, the best Rose comes in the sparkling fashion, both from Champagne and other bubbly producing areas. These are some of the most delicate, balanced, and exquisite wines you will ever encounter. There is a reason that the Dom Perignon Rose is four times the price of its brut counterpart.

Last year the best wine I had all year long, (and I had a shit ton of wine) was the Charles Heidseck Brut Reserve Rose. It was absolutely incredible. This baby was light on the palette, but explosive in flavor and incredibly long with new twists and turns with each sip. The bubbles were tiny, and shot up the glass as if coming from a fish tank treasure chest – all for around $70, which in Champagne terms is an absolute steal. That said, you could find a sparkling Cremant for around $20 (or less!) that will make you rethink all your future sparkling choices because of how good it is.

Now that I have you ready and raring to go Rose, lets talk about what you should look for. As mentioned earlier, France is a great place to start. Want to save some money, buy some from the Languedoc, France’s largest wine producing region. Many bargain Roses hail from that area. Want to get a fancier bottle? Provence is almost always a safe bet. Want to go for the gold? Then Bandol is the way to go. I’ve never had a bad Bandol, not even once. Spain is a lovely place for Rose as well. You can find some very affordable Rioja Roses for under $20.

Want a reasonably priced sparkling Rose? Try one from Alsace, or Bourgone, as they tend to be cheaper than their Champagne counterparts. When buying a domestic Rose, I always try to go local. There are some bigger wineries that make decent Rose but a lot of times they will be sweet or mediocre. The local winery typically makes the Rose for the season, and it is a labor of love so you get a higher quality. Look for the case production on the back of the bottle or on the internet. If it is under a thousand give it a shot, if it is over ten thousand give it a pass. The bottom line is, next time you are wine shopping and you can’t decide between red or white because it’s too hot outside or because the food you’re going to be eating your wine selection with is too light for a red but a little too strong for most whites, buy a Rose!

***

The Wine Guy sells wine for a living, and lives to drink it. It’s his first and foremost passion. He avoids factory wines, loves to seek out bottles that are interesting and unique, and gets excited when he finds a grape he’s have never heard of.

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Jul 2012 25

by The Wine Guy


[Malloreigh in Sauced]

When you are a kid, unless you’re a fussy little twit, you will eat almost anything. You have very little understanding of the highs and lows of food. You may know that your mom’s meatloaf is yucky and that her pot roast is yummy, but that’s about it. When you first start drinking it is the same way. PBR, on sale! What luck!!!! Well you’re a purported adult now, so it is time to lay the crap down and drink better.

But how do I do it? There are so many choices! The most important thing to do is to find a good store with a wide selection – and inside of that store find a knowledgeable employee who can guide you. At this point in your life you may have some inklings as to what you like and do not like. You might be holding on to them tightly like someone adrift in the Pacific with a life preserver. These can either be a tool or an impediment to your success. Tell the employee that you like this wine and want to try something similar. If there is too much hesitation on their part, and they are not at the very least happy with what they finally choose, then they are probably not going to be a good guide. Take their recommendation home and try it. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Was it an interesting miss? When you report back, a good guide should be able to use that information to improve their selection, and you should learn something important about your taste.

However, there are now two possible problems: One, the employee does not know what they’re doing. Or two, when you return they are not there. Now you are faced with a giant wall of wine and have no guide. Arghhh! Fear not, there are some tricks you can use to make your gambling odds improve.

Wines to avoid include domestic wines labeled by state only. This means that they probably grabbed grapes from wherever they could find them from and it’s going to have a generic bland quality. Wines with the word “reserve” on them should also be avoided. The term has no official meaning and can be slapped onto to the world’s worst wine. Personally, I love it when there is no regular version, just the reserve; they must have thrown away the regular version as it was toxic, or they put those special grapes into their California blend!

Good things to find on the label include verbiage that indicates the case production is under a thousand. That means the winemaker touched every grape and every bottle. “Estate grown” is another great phrase. Unlike reserve, it is highly regulated and is usually a sign of quality. If you buy estate wine and it sucks, cross that winery off your list.

I know that there are internet reviews and phone apps that can look up wines, and in a pinch these things can be solid tools. What those things lack though is a personal relationship, flesh, blood, and interactive communication. Over time I know what my customers like and do not like, and as we move forward the wine choices get better and better. Plus, their pallets get broader and broader – and I don’t mean more and more expensive.

Almost without fail, the most expensive wine in your wine shop is not ready to be consumed and would be a great disappointment if you bought it for immediate consumption. These are the kind of wines that are designed to be aged, and just do not perform well when they’re young. That said, the myth of the $10 bottle that drinks like a $50 one is total bullshit. While there are plenty of overpriced wines and an almost equal amount of hidden gems, the fact remains that it costs money to make great wine. There are so many factors that go into the making of the wine: grapes, climate, time, facilities, barrels, equipment, and more.

But Keith, I do not want to drop everything that I am doing and become a big wino like you. Still, there’s is no need for you to join wine clubs, attend wine tastings, and buy every bottle of Cabernet Franc you can get your hand on. What you need to do is stop buying plonk. Whenever you decide that you want some wine – whether it be for a special occasion or for a Tuesday night dinner – take a little bit of time and buy a better bottle.

It could be that Spanish Garnacha for ten bucks instead of the Coppola, it might be the 347 case production instead of the Robert Mondavi, but please make an effort. You are an adult now and should care about what you are putting into your body. You gave up Twinkies and orange soda, now it’s time to give up lousy wine.

Demand that your store purchase local wines. Support real winemakers. It’s a win/win – these guys make wine for the love of it. You are purchasing their dreams, and in return you are getting a handcrafted wine. All you get when you buy a factory wine is the name on the label. Worse than that, you send a message to the people that run the shop you bought it from that they should buy more factory wines. And you tell the whole industry that factory is the way to go. Drink better folks. Spend a little, save a little, but either way put that crap down and enjoy a well made bottle of wine.

***

The Wine Guy sells wine for a living, and lives to drink it. It’s his first and foremost passion. He avoids factory wines, loves to seek out bottles that are interesting and unique, and gets excited when he finds a grape he’s have never heard of.

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Jul 2012 19

by Laurelin

Last night, sitting in a barstool while sipping my Sam Adams Summer Ale, I seriously wished that I were anywhere else. My mind wandered: I thought of going on vacation, I wondered what everyone was doing at my bar, if it was busy, I wondered about my bed, and what would be on TV when I got home. I wondered if it was going to rain tomorrow, if I would sleep in or if I would get up and go for a run. I wondered if I would be hungover. Probably not.

It’s another Tuesday, and the most excitement I’ve had all night is tracing the outline of the snakeskin print leather barstool. My two friends sitting next to each other are squawking about their relationships and I am trying not to fall over out of sheer boredom. We’ve been out since 7 PM. It was 1 AM. My brain had officially turned to relationship mush.

“He doesn’t touch me anymore,” one says. “I go home, he ignores me, he wakes up, goes to work, I know he doesn’t love me.” The other shakes her head vigorously in agreement.

“I KNOW,” she says. “Mine doesn’t love me either. I said I love you to him and he didn’t say it back. Laurelin, what do you think?” She says, turning towards me and asking for advice that I know she’ll never take.

“I think I’m going to stab myself in the throat,” I say absentmindedly. The two girls look at me, horrified. I totally didn’t mean to say that out loud. What I meant to say, and what I had been saying all night is this: How can two beautiful, amazing, once independent woman stay in these loveless relationships simply because they don’t want to be alone?

“We live together,” one says. “

We work together,” says the other. I’ve been down both of those roads, and you know what? You do right by you. You make the important decisions and you trust that one day, you will meet someone who is right for you. Some day you will find your best friend, that one guy who wants you to come home and crawl into bed even if it’s late, the one who won’t leave you sobbing in the street after telling you you’re “lucky” he came home because he totally could have banged that chick at the bar.

These poor women; They often look at me with sadness in their eyes because when I ask them to go out a lot of the time they can’t – they’re with their boyfriends. “Aren’t you lonely?” they ask, the question dripping with pity. Yes. The answer is yes, I am so lonely that sometimes it’s all I can do not to just fling myself into bed at the end of each long day, praying to never wake up. I am so lonely sometimes that I call my ex-boyfriend and tell him to come over when I know he’s been drinking, just so I can listen to him snore and remember what it’s like to sleep next to a warm body.

But I am not so lonely that I would ever do what these girls are doing. Love is hard and relationships need to be worked on. But these, these have been dead for a long time and that type of lonely, well that is something I don’t have. My lonely can be solved with the simple concept of hope. I haven’t met someone yet. I will. I always do. With every sunrise and sunset I never know what’s around the corner, but these girls, they do, and it makes me so sad and bored for them that I could just die.

We walk home later, and one of them is crying. “I can’t do this anymore,” she says. I hug her and tell her to do the right thing, whatever that is. I fall asleep alone, and I know she’s drying her eyes before her boyfriend sees that she’s been crying.

I text her the next day, “How’d it go?” and she writes back like nothing ever happened. “Fine,” she says, “I was just being silly. He went golfing. We’re going to the movies later.”

I’d rather go alone.

***

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Jul 2012 05

by Laurelin

I enter this week with a heavy heart. Usually I have something to look forward to, some great event that with the passing of each shift at work I can say that I’m one day closer to. I enter this week with a heavy heart because I have no one, no increased heartbeat when my cell phone lights up on the end of the bar because it might be him. There is no him. I enter this week with a heavy heart because when I look ahead I see only the same thing day after day; I see only what I feel the majority of the world sees: plain and boring monotony. My heart is heavy, and it’s crushing me.

This week is my chance to shine at work. With my boss on vacation for one week I am the next in line, so this building and everyone in it is mine to run. My walls, my liquor, my beer taps and kegs, my neon lights and my whole staff. Seven straight days of bartending to make sure nothing goes wrong, to make sure this place looks better than when it was left this past Monday. But with no days off to look forward to I can’t help but feel like I’m in a war zone. No Boston waterfront for the fourth of July, no sunshine in my face at the beach, my tan lines fade and my eyes lose their spark as I adjust to sixty-three hours indoors. Even breathing becomes boring.

I fight the sinking realization that this means for one week I am left alone with my own head, my own abilities or inabilities. I have no time to drink with friends until it’s all numb, until I can only laugh about everything that right now seems so overwhelming. I have only time to wonder if I am really upset about working so much, or if I am upset about being able to drink too little. I know it’s only one week; after this weekend my schedule is back to normal, but for some reason the days seep by slowly like spilled molasses.

To make a change one must desire change and create change. I desire change. I also desire sunshine. I desire men, and I desire sangria. Instead, this week, I get sixty-three hours. This week I get discipline, ruling others, and myself. This week I bitch slap my liver and other neglected body parts so they don’t fall into misuse. This week, it will take everything in me not to fade to dust…

***

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Jun 2012 21

by Laurelin

I promised I would never write about him again, and it’s amazing how easy that promise has been to keep. (This totally doesn’t count.) I haven’t wanted to, needed to. I’ve had nothing to say worth even remotely remembering. I remember this feeling before, just like all the others. That slow creeping suspicion that you feel fine, that he’s on your mind but not as close to the surface as he was the day before. With it comes this really stupid lost feeling: like, what am I going to DO now that I’m not thinking about it all the time? The answer is very simple: anything I fucking want.

I find myself smiling for no reason throughout the day because all of a sudden I’m no longer trapped in my own mind. I’m acutely aware of the sunlight shining off the top of the Prudential Center and how my city is so beautifully illuminated in the summer even in the midst of concrete. The Charles River glistens as I listen to the sound of my own feet slapping against the sidewalk and I’m running for me, not because he’ll only like me if I’m thin like all the other girls. I feel almost like this was a test, to see if I could pull myself out of the quicksand and be all the better for it.

Granted I haven’t been tested yet. I’m dreading the moment I run into him somewhere. I can imagine my blood turning to ice and my stomach turning. That’s one thing that never changed, feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut every time I see him. One can only hope that whatever dreams he chooses to chase take him far away from where I’ve already found mine.

It’s cloudy in Boston today, and I’m shivering writing this on my porch on my day off. I’m planning my usual Tuesday night city waterfront sangria crawl and I have a new phone number in my phone and the memory of smiling last night at my bar, my heart pounding as I’m pouring this guy a drink and inviting him to come out –– someone new. I’ll go to the same spots and do the same things, but it will be different. Maybe tonight’s the night I’ll stop looking for him every time the door opens.

“What do you guys think?” I ask the waitresses once he finishes his drink and walks out.

“So. Hot,” they say, and I smile.

Outside on my porch, the clouds roll in as the wind picks up. It’s getting colder but I don’t care. For once it’s beautiful, not gray to match my mood. I could sit out here all day.

[..]

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May 2012 31

by Laurelin

I had this post written over a week ago. I had just walked home from his house for what I knew would be the last time. I was so sad that I could have cried, but I didn’t. I sat down and I wrote about it. When I woke up later and re-read what I had written, I knew it could never see the light of day. He didn’t deserve those words, like he didn’t deserve me. Words help me remember, and I desperately need to forget.

I had written something like it before: ten years ago sitting in an ex-boyfriend’s house in Providence. He was going to leave me, I knew it, so while he slept I would look around. I memorized the way the black curtains fell across the dirty cracked window pane, the way I could see the black bars of the fire escape over the setting sun and Providence skyline. I memorized every poster: Marilyn Manson, The Crow, the black and white kissing girls. I memorized the way it smelled, like Yankee Candle’s Moonlight Path mixed with the shavings from the snake and iguana cages. But most of all I would look at him.

The way his two metal gauged hoop earrings clinked together when I touched his face. (Years later I would buy the same earrings just to hear that sound.) My fingers had traced every outline of his body and just watching him sleep was enough to make me want to cry. Because I knew he was going to leave me, and I wanted to remember. I didn’t want to ever forget a single thing.

And when he did leave me, I wrote it all down. I said that the sky would never be as beautiful as it looked though his window. I was foolish; that that one didn’t deserve those words either. But I always treasured them. I remember being caught scribbling by one of my sorority sisters, and when she asked me to read her something I had written I hesitated before deciding to read her that essay. I got about halfway though when I noticed she had tears streaming down her face. When I was done she grabbed my hand and told me that I should never stop writing. We cried, but I was happy to have finally shared him with someone.

Last Friday after creeping in from his apartment I decided that enough was enough. I would never again notice how leaving the bar drunk my hand slides so easily into his. I would never again get so drunk that I would try to not feel ashamed for winding up in his arms, knowing he was only holding me because he had no one better. Last Friday I wrote my final piece about loving him, and I said goodbye.

I had traced his every outline, but his feeling will fade, and in time so will this sharp feeling of total loss. I might run into him again down the line, and hopefully by then I will be able to genuinely smile. Hopefully by then I won’t have to turn away so he won’t see my lower lip trembling. I write to remember, but some things need to be forgotten, erased. Hopefully one day I can come back to this and remember how last Friday was the start of something worth remembering.

[..]

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May 2012 10

by Laurelin

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that I’ve been in a serious rut lately. I don’t know if it has to do with my approaching 30th birthday, my increased responsibility at work, my lack of any romantic interest in anyone besides an ex that I just want out of my head, or a lethal combination of all of these things. Either way, I haven’t been very happy lately, and I really don’t feel like myself. I feel…lost. Sad. Alone. Rejected. Like I’m standing in a crowded room screaming — and no one can hear me, or the ones who can just don’t care.

I know it is nothing more than a temporary hiccup in an otherwise smooth existence, so I have been dealing with this the best way I know how: drinking, reading, working out, whatever. I’m choosing one night a week to do something really fun and taking it to the next level in a vain attempt to forget that for one second, when I go home, I will probably just start to cry about the same thing over and over again.

The one constant in my recent fall from my ever-perfect life is my ex-boyfriend from a few years ago. He was the person who inspired me to start writing this column; first in anger, then as time went on in friendship and in unwavering support. He moved to Los Angeles about five months ago. His leaving made me feel like a part of my life was seriously over. I felt conflicted; devastated and happy at the same time. This city eats bartenders alive, and he was ready for a change. We always said we would go together, and when we broke up I was the one dead set on leaving… but I wound up staying, and months later, he left, and I cried.

He knows me better than most of my girlfriends, and when I call him drunk and crying about another guy at 4 AM, he always answers and he always knows just what to say. Just hearing his voice on the other end of the line is like being thrown a rope, something to keep me hanging on for just a little bit longer.

“You were crying about birthday cake,” he said the other morning, “it was cute, and sad.” Birthday cake, the one that I had custom made for a guy who never showed up for his party I helped plan in Boston, and who shut off his phone when I called to ask what was going on. Instead, I carted the cake home to my apartment and my roommates and we tore it apart; ate half of it and threw the rest in the trash. And I got drunk and I cried, because I was an idiot to care about someone who never cared for me, again.

And then, a few weeks ago, my ex called from LA to say he was coming home. He had had enough of California, and for once, I didn’t cry. He was coming home and finally, maybe, things could get back to normal. He’s been back for two days, and when I woke up this morning I was tangled up in him and for once, I didn’t feel lost.

I woke up, I took his clothes and I washed them with mine. I pulled his old dusty Tupperware container out of the closet and got him new socks and underwear and one of his T-shirts. I made coffee while he slept, and when he woke up he rubbed my back because I had run twelve miles in the rain the day before and I was cold and sore, and we were happy.

We might not be together anymore, and I don’t want to be, to be honest. We’re clearly both lost, but we take care of each other, for now. Sometimes, when you’re in a rut it’s nice to have someone throw you a rope. Other times it’s nice to have someone climb down and sit there with you until you’re ready to muster the strength to get out on your own.

[..]