At a stupendously good tasting-menu dinner at Elske, we had a Jacques Lemenicier 2014 Cornas. Medium-weight, pure, beautifully balanced between high-toned floral and deep, meaty notes; not tightly wound; very accessible now. Not especially tannic for such a young wine, and indeed there's a looseness on the finish that would make me skeptical about cellaring -- but for drinking tonight? Great and adaptable food wine.
Last weekend, we went to the Duck Inn, a fun spot on the edge of Bridgeport (Hoke will remember it) in what used to be an old pre-prohibition saloon; they specialize in, you guessed it, duck (rotisserie-roasted, with the breasts seared separately, served on a board with duck-fat roasted potatoes, wilted greens, and citrus). Weirdly, the wine list is actually pretty decent, but it doesn't list vintages. After inquiring, we went with a Maison Albert Bichot 2013 Mercurey, Champs-Martin, "Domaine Adélie"; this was a juicy, red-fruited, slightly tart Burgundy that leaned toward cranberry, but had a layer of earth and funk beneath it, and was pleasantly free of heavy-handed wood treatment, which made it an excellent complement to, without distracting attention from, the main event.
Then there was the weeknight we opened a McCay Cellars 2012 Lodi Zinfandel, Faith Lot 13 Vineyard. Part of a six-pack I bought on the strength of McCay's 2013 contribution to the Lodi Native project; his Grenache and Petite had been solid, but this was a mysterious, puzzling disappointment, thin to the point of seeming watery, and I'm not someone who needs his Zinfandels to have the consistency of molasses. Really, I don't understand how this was actually released. Down the drain. Next up, a Ridge 2012 Sonoma County Carignane, Buchignani Ranch. Kind of flat and inspid, but dinner's ready, so let's just drink it. Three sips in: corked. Third time's a charm? The next bottle I touched was a Colognole 2003 Chianti Rufina which my notes said was from 2005, but wasn't. I recognize the foolishness of opening a 14-year-old Chianti when what I need is a drinkable bottle of weeknight red wine, but this turned out to do the trick, having held up surprisingly well. Classic tart Sangiovese fruit, now somewhat muted, letting crushed almond and fennel notes come into the foreground. Nothing profound but, finally, some satisaction.
Finally, this weekend, I went off in search of the interesting all-Cab-Franc Irouleguy rouge I had reported on earlier this week. My only lead was that the somm at the restaurant where we'd had the wine also runs a small shop called Red & White, and there's apparently some overlap between the restaurant wine list and the shop's stock. I'd actually never been to this shop: it's not in my part of the city, and I somehow missed the buzz it generated; it turns out that it's been on all sorts of "best-of" lists in Imbibe and Wine & Spirits, etc.
I wasn't sure what to expect. In keeping with their stated "less is more" philosophy, the space is big and open and airy, and sparsely but fashionably decorated. There's a copy of Jon Bonne's book prominently displayed on a table. (They focus, to some extent, on sustainable viticulture and minimal-intervention winemaking.) There are a couple of bicycles leaning against a wooden pillar in the center of the space (this is a plus in my book). There is wine; but the shop is whatever the opposite of "chock-full" is; it's the sort of place for which the phrase "carefully curated selection" was invented. This, I figure, could get very precious and very Portlandia very fast -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
But then I started looking at the wine. And then I started talking to the staff. And I have to say, I was really impressed. They know their stock, they know their stuff, they're helpfully geeky, and perhaps most unusually of all, their selection is very strong on interesting bottles in the high-teens through mid-20s, rather than being focused on high-end treasures, although they have a little of that too. Not a bottle of Burgundy or Bordeaux or CdP in sight; I think the most expensive price tag I saw was ninety-something bucks for an Arnot-Roberts Fellom Ranch Cabernet.
I went by public transit, with my 6-bottle wine bag on my shoulder, to impose a limit on my purchasing -- but they kindly offered to store things for me until I could come pick it up.
So I wound up with a case and a half that included some Balthazar Cornas (that was the priciest thing I bought, by far); Guy Breton Morgon; Enfield Chardonnay (Heron Lake); their last bottle of Dirty & Rowdy skin-contact Semillon, which I can now compare to the "regular" one; a Julien Labet ouillé Chardonnay from Jura Sud Reverment, along with some Savagnin from Jean Bourdy; a Ruché I've never seen before; a new-to-me Sicilian grecanico by someone who used to work with Cornelissen; an inexpensive Syrah from some farmers-turned-winemakers in Collines Rhodaniennes; a Forlorn Hope Semillon; a Gobelsburg zweigelt; a La Clarine Farm Syrah, and so on, and so on.Between these folks, and Craig Perman's shop, and Lush, and Pastoral, and several other neighborhood shops with surprisingly decent selections, too, it seems like Chicago is now actually awash in small retailers that have found a way to thrive, or at least survive, in the shadow of the monolith that was formed by the merger of the two Beverage Superstores back around 2008.
It makes me happy. I don't even mind that they didn't have that Irouleguy.
