Odd Bacchus

I like to stretch out rosé season as long as possible, and now that the nights are flirting with freezing, I’m stretching it indeed. But my goodness, I know of few other styles of wine so broadly consistent as the long-maligned pink. How many dry rosés have I tried, made with who knows which varieties from heaven knows what godforsaken backwater — and they’re almost all at least good.

Why is that? The theory I’ve adopted is that since rosés can be tough to market, winemakers who choose to make them make them from the heart. These aren’t dumbed down to appeal to everyone, so the wines have a point of view, and have a good chance of reflecting the vineyard’s terroir. The winemaker is, hopefully, expressing him/herself with the rosé, and perhaps having a little fun. And fun is the point of a rosé — it should be lively and joyous, if not necessarily deep or complex or profound.

But even I have limits, and I find it difficult to work up enthusiasm for rosé in the winter. That’s why it’s important to pick up a bottle now and open it immediately, while the leaves still have a touch of green. You could do much worse than a 2011 Kir-Yianni “Akakies,” which will likely be my last pink of the season. Yep, it’s made from a who-knows-which variety in a godforsaken backwater, and it’s great.

In fact, it’s made from Xinomavro, one of the three grape varieties starting with “X” listed in The Oxford Companion to Wine. The name means “acid black,” according to the Companion, and it’s “one of the few Greek vine varieties which may not reach full ripeness in some years.” Perhaps that’s less the variety’s fault and more due to the fact that it’s popular in the cool, high-altitude vineyards of northern Greece.

This particular Xinomavro is a 100% varietal from Amyndeon (as spelled on the label), a region in inland Macedonia just south Greece’s border with Macedonia the country (as distinct from the Greek province of the same name). Adding to the geographic confusion, since Greeks use the Greek alphabet, the Arabic spelling of place names can get creative. In my various wine tomes, I have found it spelled Amyndeo, Amyntaion and Amindaio.

In any case, the region on the northwest side of Mount Vermio “is so cool that it can produce aromatic whites, a denominated Xinomavro rosé, and good sparkling wine,” according to the Atlas. I was delighted to see Sotheby’s note that the “brilliant” Alpha Estate is realizing the full potential of the Amyndeo terroir with its fine Xinomavro-based red blends. I first wrote about the Alpha Estate “Axia” here, and I liked the wine so much that I served it at my wedding.

But let’s get back to the Kir-Yianni rosé, because with autumn fully upon us, there’s no time to waste. A deep pink color, it smelled of sweet cherries and watermelon. On the palate, it exhibited juicy fruit, a slight prickle on the tongue, some tightly wound acids, a chalky midsection and a tart finish. A fun ride, and delicious paired with some slightly spicy red beans and rice.

So even this rosé of Xinomavro from Amyndeo (or Amindaio, or Amyntaion) — a risk if there ever was one — proved to be quite fine. Which again goes to show that taking a risk on an unknown dry rosé isn’t really much of a risk at all.

SUMMARY

2011 Kir-Yianni “Akakies”: Fruity, but tight, focused, minerally and tart. An excellent choice with food that’s lightly spicy. Chill well in the refrigerator before serving, and serve it soon. Its summery flavors will soon feel out of place.

Grade: A-

Find It: I purchased this bottle at In Fine Spirits for $15.50, and I see that Binny’s also carries it.

I’m spending a glorious week away from computers and cell phones in idyllic Door County, Wisconsin. It couldn’t come soon enough!

I’ll be back posting about various oddball spirits and unusual wines shortly. And who knows? Maybe I’ll find something fun like this Death’s Door Gin I discovered last year!

In the meantime, drink something amazing, and tell me about it in the comments below or via e-mail: [email protected].

Cheers!

When I see an older bottle of wine, I usually can’t help but feel impressed by its age and desirous of sampling the liquid inside. Older does not usually mean better, however. Most wines should be consumed shortly after you purchase them, especially if you, like me, lack a uniformly dark and cool space in which to lay down a few bottles.

But every once in a great while, the opportunity arises to try a wine that has been aged properly, and by all means, you should take advantage of that opportunity. I remember dining at Aureole in Las Vegas with some friends a few years ago, and I was having trouble wading through the hundreds and hundreds of wines on the list. Then I spotted an Austrian Riesling that was about 10 or 15 years old.

Only a handful of whites can age well, but trusting that a wine-focused restaurant like Aureole would provide optimum conditions, I took a risk and ordered it. My friend took a sip, and though she wouldn’t profess to know a lot about wines, she always seems to be able to encapsulate the character of wine with just a word or two (as a blogger seemingly incapable of writing posts of fewer than 500 words, that’s something I envy). She said, “This wine tastes wise.” And so it did. Not big or flashy, but well-balanced and smooth, with impressive depth of flavor. I can’t imagine having an experience like that with a wine just a year or two old.

Frequently, older wines will also go through more of a change in the glass as they breathe. Sometimes this can be problematic. A few years ago, my father gave me several bottles of 1975 Inglenook Charbono, and even then, you had to drink the wine within about five minutes of opening the bottle. After that, whatever fruit and structure that remained simply fell to pieces, resulting in a drinkable but flabby, watery wine. This wine has aged too long.

More recently, I received a 2003 Banfi Chianti Classico Riserva from a friend with a well-constructed wine cellar in her basement. Because it had aged in the proper conditions, it remained in excellent shape. But I didn’t think so at first — the aroma was fruity and meaty, and though the wine still felt tight, with red fruit and iron flavors, I felt flab in there as well. After 20 minutes or so, the wine had a chance to unwind and pull itself together. The flab disappeared, replaced by some pleasantly dusty tannins, deeper fruit and some real structure. After slumbering so long, the wine just needed a chance to wake up and remember who it was.

I don’t advocate aging wines on purpose unless you have one that needs to be laid down and you have a properly dark and cool place to do so. It’s too easy to simply let bottles collect dust. Before long, they’re too special to open, and then they just die a slow death on the rack. But if you do have a chance to taste a properly aged wine, don’t pass it up. And don’t decant it. You wouldn’t want to miss out on how the wine changes in the glass by over-aerating it in a decanter.

Most important, if you don’t have place in your basement to age wine, don’t age wine. Drink it now! It won’t taste any better tomorrow than it does today.

Madeira, a fortified wine produced on the tiny Atlantic island of the same name, ages in an equally odd fashion as sherry (see the previous post). The best madeiras end up ageing for years, usually decades, in the attics of lodges in Funchal, cooked by the warm Madeira sun. This method is called canteiro, as opposed to the less-time consuming estufagem process which involves artificially heating the wine.

Exposing wine to high heat and wide temperature swings for decades at a time is exactly the opposite of how I was taught to treat fine wine, but it seems to work quite well for madeira. In fact, after suffering through summer after summer in a semi-tropical attic, Madeira becomes quite resilient. After all, what else can you do to the stuff? It can last in the bottle for decades or even centuries.

You’ll see standard madeira blends classified by flavor profile (dry, medium sweet, etc.), but if you’re going to buy some madeira, spend a bit more and go for one with a more specific classification, such as Sercial, Verdelho, Bual and Malmsey, which indicate the predominant grape variety as well as the level of sweetness. Sercial is the driest, and Malmsey the sweetest (you can read more information about these styles here and here.) These categories are then further subdivided by age.

At Stella! in New Orleans, I had a Rare Wine Company “New York” Malmsey Special Reserve, produced by Vinhos Barbeito. “Malmsey” on a madeira label indicates that it’s made from Malvasia grapes, and the words “Special Reserve” guarantee that the youngest wine in the blend is at least 10 years old. Although this is among the sweetest styles of madeira, I didn’t have it with dessert. The creative sommelier, Marc J. Doiron, paired it with some crispy veal sweetbreads with andouille sausage, turnips and egg yolk.

Good heavens, what a marvelous pairing! The madeira smelled rich and woodsy, with some wheat toast in there as well. It tasted predictably sweet and caramelly, but amazing bright acids kicked in on the finish, ensuring that it would be food friendly. It complemented the delicate sweetbreads but stood up to the andouille and turnips as well. Quite the balancing act! I don’t often write “Wow!” in my notebook, but write it I did.

I don’t currently have any madeira at home, but you can bet it will be on my Christmas list. I could imagine it pairing well with some roast pork with sweet potatoes, or perhaps turkey with stuffing. Indeed, madeira was quite popular in colonial America, making it a thoroughly appropriate choice for Thanksgiving. Get a bottle now, give it a try, and if you can manage to avoid drinking the whole thing, you can serve the rest to the more adventurous palates at your Thanksgiving table, assuming you have a few.

If you don’t, then I say forget hosting dinner and head to Stella! instead. It’s not inexpensive, but my goodness, the food and wine is sheer delight.