Growing up, did you ever say, “I know exactly what I want to be”? Quick show of hands: How many of you wanted to work in a wine tasting room?
Am I the only one?
I remember being in Mrs. Herr’s kindergarten class. All my classmates wanted to be nurses and firefighters, but not me. I couldn’t wait to pour a sassy Sauvignon Blanc and talk about brix levels. When my friends were collecting baseball cards, I was collecting wine labels. At the ripe old age of eight, on a bright Saturday morning, my dad poured me a glass of Welch’s grape juice and set it next to my Captain Crunch. I took a sip and pronounced it undrinkable. “This is swill. There’s no nose to speak of, and the finish is reminiscent of the 1969 Cubs. It’s completely pedestrian.”
In a voice that came from someplace behind me, my dad said to my sister, “You know he isn’t one of us. We adopted him.”
Eyes on the prize
Alas, my dream of going pro was shattered in a tragic accident involving the ingestion of a heaping helping of five-alarm chili that was only supposed to be two-star. My taste buds suffered third-degree burns while the pungent aroma wafting from the chili en fuego caused my nose to become sterile. At the age of 12, my wish of running a tasting room was swept aside. I picked up the pieces and contented myself with visiting tasting rooms, learning about decanting, barrel aging and developing an unquenchable knowledge for all things wine. As I grew older but not up, I joined wine clubs, collecting wines of modest vintage, and developed my own theories about wines.
For instance, food pairings have always broken down into white with fowl and fish, and red with red meat and heartier fare. But seldom was I invited to a dinner that centered on the wine. (Seldom was I invited to dinner at all—but that’s a story for a different day.) The point is, friends would say, “Come on over. We’re going to grill some steaks,” not “Come over. We’re going to bust out a 1970 George deLatour and then polish off whatever we find in the refrigerator.” I began to think that, perhaps, you should drink whatever sounded good to you, regardless of what was on your plate.
Another theory began to emerge from the morass between my ears. I thought you should drink according to the season. For instance, when the mercury was tipping 90 degrees, I noticed I seldom had a powerful hankering to get deeply into a complex Pinot Noir. Rather I was partial to a Sauvignon Blanc or maybe a chilled Rosé. On the flip side, winter made me long for reds. But there’s a limit to the whole drink with the season deal. At Christmas, for example, it’s always a mistake to drink anything with Santa or elves on the label.
Then there’s the idea of vintage. Speak with those in the wine industry, and they can rattle on endlessly about how one year produced fruit of such high quality that a 12-year old with a modicum of taste and his mom’s mixing bowls could have turned out a winning Syrah. Of course, in other years, killer frosts, hurried harvests or bugs that hitchhiked in from foreign soil wreaked such havoc on the vines that nothing with that year stamped on the label was truly memorable.
My idea on vintage is different. For instance, in 1993, my mom died in June, and my wife announced in October she had a powerful need to be single. For me, that year wasn’t so good, and thus wines from 1993 aren’t high on my list. On the other hand, I’m happy to uncork wines of a 2006 vintage, as that year saw my friends and family join my wife, Cindy, and I in New Orleans for our wedding.
Going pro
I began to think that, perhaps, I needed to test my theories with wine professionals. Those who knew me advised me to get another kind of professional help, but I looked at the NorthBay biz editorial calendar, noticed the Harvest issue and saw the stars aligning. I saw Bacchus smiling down on me. And I saw a chance to salvage my dreams from ruin—to watch them soar like a Tiger Woods nine-iron heading for the flag, the shot landing with such backspin that it hits six feet past the hole, bites and spins back so close to the hole it’s a gimme.
Don’t tell me I can’t imagine with the best of them.
My editors at the magazine liked the idea, and even offered to find a likely tasting room over which I could preside. I welcomed their assistance, as I realized that many of my favorites might not be a great fit. For instance, one organic winery I’m partial to doesn’t really have a tasting room per se. Another winery I favor would never be comfortable with the likes of a rank amateur like me mixing with its customers.
My editor, Julie Fadda, came to the rescue, suggesting Murphy-Goode, because it’s a winery with a sense of humor. This, I knew, was code for, “they might take a chance with a smart ass like you.”
What followed was a series of phone calls between me and the Murphy-Goode public relations staff. I don’t know if I’d characterize it as a negotiation, but I was definitely doing some selling. I talked about the upside for the winery, the free publicity for its brand new tasting room.
They were concerned about the legality of having me pouring wine for the public. After all, I wasn’t an employee, a professional or, for that matter, a real adult. They were concerned I could possibly serve somebody who’d already done enough tasting. They didn’t know how to classify me. They were worried I might make fun of the people who would come in to taste wine.
I explained I had put myself through college tending bar; I understood when to gently tell somebody they were a chocolate mess. I told them they could call me an associate, a consultant or a no-good-card-carrying-left-leaning-media-son-of-a-bitch if it satisfied the guys in the legal department.
And the last thing I was going to do was make fun of folks who had the good taste to come in and learn about the fine wines of Murphy-Goode. Mostly, I was gonna make fun of myself—I mean, when you have a Cadillac, you drive it. (When I told them all that, I meant every word. As it turns out, though, there are some behaviors in a tasting room that are impossible to keep to oneself. Who knew?)
At any rate, on a Friday afternoon, Murphy-Goode gave the green light for my “employment” the next day. I’d indeed go behind the plank and pour wine. This meant a night of cramming like a madman on the wines, fermentation, harvest, winemaker and everything else regarding the winery. I was serious about representing the winery in a professional manner. I spent quite a bit of time on the company website, which I recommend with all my heart (www.murphygoode.com).
For instance, I learned the colorful history of Murphy-Goode. Founded by Dave Ready Sr., Dale Goode and Tim Murphy in 1985, the winery was a family affair until Jackson Family wines acquired the brand in 2006. I learned that Tim Murphy used to voluntarily open Mickey’s in Geyserville before the owner would get in and start the coffee for all of his friends who grew grapes in the valley. After breakfast, they’d play liar’s dice to see who got stuck with the breakfast tab. From this charming tradition, Liar’s Dice Zinfandel was born.
I learned that winemaker David Ready Jr. is a huge Minnesota Vikings fan, and thus the winery colors (and, for that matter, the tasting room color scheme) are purple and gold. I also learned about the wines, that the Minnesota Cuvée acquired its name not from the Vikings but from the native oak that the wine was aged in. The Fumé Blanc is aged in both steel and oak and capitalizes on the best techniques of three different Fumés the winery has created in the past.
And I can personally attest to the drinkability of “The Fumé.” I felt it was important from the standpoint of accuracy to become familiar with the wines—and sample them as I wrote this piece. The Fumé was excellent at 9:45 in the morning, as I sat on the deck pounding out this tale , and was equally delicious at 10:15 that evening. (Please bear in mind that I didn’t drink steadily from morning until late in the evening. That would have been unprofessional. On the other hand, it might not have been a bad idea.)
Team players
On that fateful Saturday, I was paired with two pros, Kellyann Azevedo and Larry Tedeschi—and a heavy Viking influence. The display cases are purple, as are the large dice that sit on the floor. Like other tasting rooms, it has plenty besides wine to take home. Sweatshirts, hats, golf shirts and posters are among the items for sale.
The walls are adorned with large pictures of Murphy-Goode employees plying their trade and having a good time. The new facility includes solar panels, a sod roof and the tasting bar contains recycled glass shards. The romance of Wine Country has been sacrificed for the sophistication of the downtown Healdsburg location, which makes sense. Most of the visitors are tourists who are enjoying the ambiance of the upscale downtown. With the exception of wine club members, locals aren’t yet beating a path to the tasting room door.
Lacking a confidence born of thorough knowledge and bedrock experience, I hung back a bit to watch Kellyanne and Larry handle a few visitors. The pair moved easily behind the bar, gauging whether the visitors simply wanted to taste or talk about tannin levels. “You pick things up from them pretty easily,” Larry says.
“You end up taking a cue from them, about what they want to know,” agrees Kellyanne.
But the pair didn’t let me observe for long. Soon, I’m pouring wine, my notes stashed below the bar so I can glance quickly, trying to create my own blend of stolen knowledge, the gift of gab and a hint of innocence. I’m soon chatting happily with a couple from Washington State, who seem to be out for more than a pleasant day in Healdsburg.
Turns out, they’re in the wine distribution business, and this is indeed a business trip. I’m clearly in over my head with these two, even as I describe the Chardonnay aging in both steel and oak and talk about the late harvest, which turned the fruit up a notch (I describe it as “apple pie in a glass”). They nod, and so far I’m pulling it off. But I know it’s only a matter of time before they ask a technical question I won’t even understand.
The time has come for me to confess my sins, own up to being a pretender on assignment. I’d consciously decided to keep the story out of my conversations, if possible. That way, people would be able to have the wine tasting experience they came for, and not feel like a guinea pig or as if they were getting the second string talking to them about how a little Petit Verdot smoothes out a Cabernet.
It’s fair enough to say I’m doing a George Plimpton, aping the late author of the famed book Paper Lion, for which he spent training camp with the Detroit Lions in the hopes of playing a few downs in an exhibition game. But Plimpton was taking a risk, lining up at quarterback, facing defensive ends who were 250 pounds and fighting for a job. I, on the other hand, was merely facing the trade-off of embarrassment for a story. And, as somebody who once struck out on three pitches from Dave Righetti, I’m certainly no virgin when it comes to humiliation.
So I pick a lull in the conversation, let them know I’m gathering material for a magazine story and offer to get them a real pro. They’re gracious, saying they had no idea and that I seem to know plenty about Murphy-Goode’s fine wines. I continue to pour them different tastes, now blatantly referring to my below the bar notes, since the cat is out of the bag. I begin to pick up little things from them. They invite me to stop and see them should I get up to Seattle. I take their card and turn it over to Kellyanne and Larry, hoping the winery can do some business with the couple in the future.
Kellyanne and Larry encourage me, telling me all I need to do is talk to people—have conversations and not worry about imparting too much wine knowledge. This is a good thing, since I clearly don’t have much to offer.
Meet and greet
A large group comes in, and I begin taking them into the white selections. It seems some of their group has ended up lost, and have headed down the road to the old winery (where the tasting room used to be). But the folks standing in front of me are more than pleased to dive into the white wines while they wait. They’re clearly casual tasters, and I throw out the occasional observation about the wines, a food pairing here, a tasting idea there.
They’re all over the map, talking to me about everything from a shopping spree to what I’d serve with the Fumé Blanc. I’m tempted to say “food,” but then I realize this may be a little too on the nose. I tell them Fumé is traditionally the most food-friendly of wines, pairing easily with seafood, spicy Thai selections—and I’ve even served it with chicken tacos. I neglect to mention that I’ve also served cerveza and aged tequila with the same meal, though not in the same glass.
Not long after the group clears out, having purchased a few bottles of wine, two couples walk in and stop before me. They’re of a younger vintage, though clearly of age to enjoy what we’re pouring. I greet them and take notice of the way they’re dressed, and in one case, not so dressed.
One of the gents appears to be Kevin Federline’s stunt double, better known as Britney Spears’-ex, a guy who went from dancing in her videos to trying his hand at rap, to wedlock and divorce with the aforementioned tabloid queen. Our wine taster is sporting a fedora cocked at angle that suggests he’s either failed to run across a mirror recently or is so hip he doesn’t care. His wife tells me they’re making their annual pilgrimage to Wine Country. I’m imagining a grand tradition that includes a long flight from a far flung locale, a stay in a beloved B&B and meals taken at favorite haunts and new hot spots. My imagination is quickly reigned in by her next comment: “We all live in San Mateo.”
Oh.
The second couple is also a feast for the eyes. He sports the kind of a casual, five o’clock shadow that’s only achievable with a beard of a couple days’ aging and a combination shaving instrument/laser implement. The look is supposed to say, “I’m on vacation, didn’t bring a razor.” But the result is screaming, “I require more prep time than my mate.” His work takes a backseat, however, as his wife is stealing the show.
Madame is sharing with all of us a décolletage that’s anything but shy in nature. Her husband not only seems to be aware of her generosity, but he’s encouraging her to open up, so to speak. She speaks to me about which wines I like and what we’re pouring today. I downshift into the male common sense to approach such a display: I answer her questions, making serious eye contact with her as well as other members of the party, treating her cleavage as if it were an eclipse, never looking directly at it for fear of an injury. This seems to bother her some, causing her to actually go to greater lengths to show me her wares.
God knows I tried
While I found this group amusing, they didn’t take first prize. That award went to a trio of gentleman who came in late in the afternoon. There was a father, a son and one of dad’s buddies, and they were making the rounds of the downtown tasting rooms. We begin going over the tasting menu, and I answer a few questions about Murphy-Goode. I then pour the whites, noting one of the trio is quite interested in the varietals used for the wines, the aging process and the blends that have produced what he finds in his glass. As we move from Fumé to Chardonnay to other wines, he uses a word I’ve heard before but in a different context.
He begins telling me he has a friend in Canada who has a daughter who is “a som.” While I’m a babe in the woods when it comes to the wine business, it’s clear to me that he has shortened the word “sommelier” to fit his need for casual expertise. As a recovering Catholic, I’m more familiar with the word “psalm.” After he uses “som” for a fourth time, I find myself challenged by my inability not to make fun of this gentleman. I fade into the background as Kellyanne, sensing my growing amusement with the gent, takes over. I casually lean over and whisper to Larry, “Somebody comes in talking soms, they damn well better be talking about a mass.” He shakes his head and grins.
As I look back on my day with Kellyanne and Larry, I’m struck by how easily they managed the people—flowing effortlessly from pouring for somebody who wouldn’t know a Zinfandel from a Pinot Gris, to tasters who collected and talked of a wines’ legs and aging potential.
And for a moment that day, my experience and their generosity made me forget about the chili accident and my dad’s claim I was not of his blood. But it all comes flooding back when I open a bottle of Liar’s Dice. Fortunately, the wine always washes those memories away.
Bill Meagher is a regular contributor to NorthBay biz. He also pens the “Only in Marin” column. He would like to thank Murphy-Goode for its generous participation in this story, and women with serious cleavage just in general.
