Uh, I don’t know, I don’t know. Um, it’s a hard grape to grow, as you know. Right? It’s uh, it’s thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It’s, you know, it’s not a survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and uh, thrive even when it’s neglected. No, Pinot needs constant care and attention. You know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific, little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who really takes the time to understand Pinot’s potential can then coax it into its fullest expression. Then, I mean, oh its flavors, they’re just the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and… ancient on the planet.
I’m finished. I’m not a writer, I’m a middle school English teacher. Well, the world doesn’t give a shit what I have to say. I’m unnecessary. Ha! I’m so insignificant I can’t even kill myself.
Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can’t kill yourself before you’re even published!
Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’m a thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I’m a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.
It tastes like the back of a fucking L.A. school bus. Now they probably didn’t de-stem, hoping for some semblance of concentration, crushed it up with leaves and mice, and then wound up with this rancid tar and turpentine bullshit. Fuckin’ Raid.
Explain the situation? Yes. ‘Excuse me, sir, my friend was the one balling your wife couple of hours ago. Really sorry. He seems to have left his wallet behind. I was wondering if I come in, just poke around, I don’t know’
Let me show you how this is done. First thing, hold the glass up and examine the wine against the light. You’re looking for color and clarity. Just, get a sense of it. OK? Uhh, thick? Thin? Watery? Syrupy? OK? Alright. Now, tip it. What you’re doing here is checking for color density as it thins out towards the rim. Uhh, that’s gonna tell you how old it is, among other things. It’s usually more important with reds. OK? Now, stick your nose in it. Don’t be shy, really get your nose in there. Mmm… a little citrus… maybe some strawberry…
… passion fruit…
… and, oh, there’s just like the faintest soupçon of like asparagus and just a flutter of a, like a, nutty Edam cheese…
Yeah, right. Yup, I’m a homo. Yeah. Yeah. Just make up whatever you want and that’s what happened. Okay? Write out my gay confession and I’ll sign it. Okay? Just stop pushing me all the time. You’re an infant, Jack. This is all a big party for you… but not for me.
Victoria and I used to like this view. You know, once we had a picnic here. We drank a ’95 Opus One with smoked salmon and artichokes. But, we didn’t care. Oh, man, she has the best palate of any woman I’ve ever known. She could even differentiate all different kinds of Italian wines.
Yeah, I know. You told me. I’m all right with it.
A little citrus. Maybe some strawberry. Mmm. Passion fruit, mmm, and, oh, there’s just like the faintest soupçon of like, uh, asparagus, and, there’s a, just a flutter of, like a, like a nutty Edam cheese.
Mrnmm, yeah… but not really. It shifts around a lot. Like you also start to see everything from the point of view of the father. And some other stuff happens, some parallel narrative, and then it evolves – or devolves – into a kind of a Robbe-Grillet mystery – with no real resolution.
This week is not about me. It is about you. I’m gonna show you a good time. We’re gonna drink a lot of good wine. We’re gonna play some golf. We’re gonna eat some great food and enjoy the scenery and we are going to send you off in style, mon frere.
You see, the reason that this region is so good for pinot, is that the cold air off the Pacific flows in at night and it just cools down the berries. Pinot’s a very thin-skinned grape. It doesn’t like constant heat or humidity. Very delicate.
