Tuesday, October 11, 2005

the winemaker

From time to time Safeway has incredible deals on the mainline brands of wine and a few local makers as well. Ours sells the Duck Pond's Pinot, Chardonnay, and their Columbia Valley 2002 Syrah- which was of special interest to me and also on sale. I couldn't resist throwing it in the cart with the cat litter and ice cream for which my mom had sent me, suddenly plunging back into memories of last winter. The first time I had this particular wine was December 2004 when visiting the Duck Pond Cellars on my birthday. At that time I declared that this was the wine that I wanted at my wedding, or at least a pony bottle by my bedside. Inky, bold, metamorphic, I found it completely tantalizing and still do, to Marion's amusement. "Here we are in territory famous for pinot and you still manage to fall in love with another syrah..."

Last December, my boyscout and I set out to educate ourselves about the finest pinot noir in the world, venturing off to most of the main vineyards in Dundee and several obscure, off-the-road wineries. One such small place was called the Hauer of the Dauen. We were both attracted to and curious about the name, laughing about how ominously it rolled off the tongue. As we pulled into the gravel parkway, there was no ostentatious display, no fancy tasting room, just the naked operations of wine-making. The cellar master was there in the room with all the oak barrels, though you would never have guessed by his coveralls and soil-covered hands that he was the man in charge. I loved him immediately. He was sensitive about the soil in a way that only a winemaker can be, and he spoke to us about how he was one of the only ones in Oregon who attempted to make Gewurztraminer. There was nothing pretentious about him, nothing that would distract from the beauty of what he was creating. We saw only the painting, and the hand of the painter never intruded to ruin the magic. His pinot was some of the finest I've ever tasted. It was raw and edgy and bore the unique personality of the cellar master. Not everyone was guaranteed to like his brand of viticulture, but then again he wasn't mass-marketing his wine. He made it, because it pleased him and grinned happily as we tasted. I nearly cried. We left with several bottles and an experience that would forever change the landscape of my palette.

February was our baptism into bordeaux, when I flew to Paris to see him on his break from touring Europe. The first time I was in Paris was a brief excursion with the co-leaders from the DTS that I staffed, Yasuko, the sweetest Japanese woman I've ever met, and Maida, an Egyptian woman who taught me that living in the joy can be even more difficult than learning to trust. We wandered Parisian street markets with our cups of hot wine in one blissful evening before catching the train back to Geneva. But this time I had two weeks, and I was with my boyscout, the man whom Maida's wisdom had prepared me for, and though my whole world was in his eyes, I found renewed energy exploring the sites of Paris. Every day we tried a different bordeaux, gradually learning which vintages were good and which were better left to other buyers. It didn't matter that it was mind-numbingly cold that time of year, because the adventure was more than experiencing all the bordeaux anyone could wish for. I was getting to know my long-time American friend on foreign soil, coincidentally the same soil that produced bordeaux renowned the world over. I still harbored a secret allegiance to my hometown pinot and bought a French pinot just to compare, but it didn't hold a candle to Oregon winemakers. "We already knew that," he said. I just needed confirmation, and though I felt triumphant, it was my pleasure to discover again what was always evident. My tongue fell in love with the fruit of the soil that was dealt to my corner of the world.

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