Before I get to what happened when I opened a bottle of wine costing $153.83, I must qualify myself as someone who has no business doing this.
About two years ago, frustrated by my inability to pick a decent bottle of wine from a restaurant menu or wine shop, I decided to dedicate myself to learning wine. And since then I’ve gone full geek — digging into wine books, websites, apps, videos, online seminars, winery visits, the whole deal. I’m a Wine Folly acolyte.
All of this has led me to enjoy wine more, and to understand it a bit.
Yet as my knowledge has grown, my household income has not. And so most of what my lovely wife and I drink costs $15 to $20 a bottle. I’ve gotten better at finding decent wines in that range. I’ve joined a wine club or three, and the good ones send bottles that would cost about $25 to $40 at retail. That’s as high from the barrel as we’ve drunk.
The $100 freebie
And then, after my first year of membership, the Wine Access club sent me a $100 credit as a thank-you for blowing so much money with them.
Delighted, I began scrolling the inventory by habit, prowling for decent $20 bottles.
But as I looked, I saw more expensive wines too. And I realized: Hey, I could buy one bottle with that $100 instead! Wouldn’t it be great to have one really special bottle? When might I have the opportunity to own a “free” bottle of $100 wine again?
Like, never.
And so I re-started my scrolling, this time perusing Wine Access’ inventory at around $100.
Boy, they had a lot of stuff in that price range. Storied Burgundies, both red and white. Esteemed Bordeaux, both left and right bank (see how much I’ve learned?). Venerated Châteauneuf du Papes. Badass Super Tuscans. A lot of wines from grapes grown on really old vines.
I read Wine Access’ write-ups on the hundred dollar wines. Their copywriters should get raises. The prose is rhapsodic, even operatic, making each bottle sound like a work of winemaking art certain to make you weep.
Welcome to Howell Mountain
I don’t recall how I fixed on a 2017 Howell Mountain Napa Cab from Beringer. The winemaker Beringer, I read, is one of the legendary names in Napa, making wine there since the 1870s (!).
This one was a single-vineyard bottling from Steinhauer Ranch. This meant nothing to me, but the Wine Access writers said convincingly that it was one of the most prized plots of dirt in the Napa region.
“Howell Mountain is best known for producing exceptionally concentrated, powerful Cabernet with a rugged personality,” the write-up continued. “If a wine could wear boots…this would.”
Select, quantity 1, place in cart, pay.
Vin du Sump Pump
When the wine arrived, I had to put it somewhere. It got the place of honor in the small basement closet where I keep wines to age, on the lower left shelf of my cheap wooden rack. There it would stay as cool as any other place in the house. It’s right next to the sump pump.
And so it sat for 18 months.
I kept waiting for the right occasion. None of my friends are wine geeks. I didn’t want my fancy Beringer Cab to just flow by, barely noticed, at a dinner party. I didn’t want to just sit around in front of a Netflix comedy special and knock it back with my lovely wife.
The wine was getting older, and so was I.
I checked, and by this time the bottle had quietly appreciated. According to the app Vivino, it now would retail for $153.83. (Fifty percent return in 18 months. I wish my retirement funds did that.)
And then I met my friend Kevin. He’s spent a lot of time in Europe, loves good food and wine, and cooks with enthusiasm. While brushing off suggestions that he’s a wine sophisticate, his pronunciations belie his denial.
Kevin and his wife invited us over to dinner with another couple. He asked us to bring a bottle of red.
Boom.
Hey, Gang, Let’s Drink!
Now, someone cultivated and experienced with great wines would simply have poured the wine and gently asked the guests how they liked it.
But this was me.
“Hey, I’ve brought this bottle of wine that’s worth $153.83!” I announced when I arrived.
I tried to strike a cheerily self-deprecating tone, to convey I was not the sort of guy who usually did this. We didn’t know the other couple at all, and Kevin and Alison are still new friends.
“I’ve had it for about 18 months and thought tonight would be a good night to open it!”
Kevin and the other guests ooohed with only slightly uncomfortable enthusiasm. My lovely wife laughed along to set the appropriate there-he-goes-again tone.
Into the Decanter
I’d brought a decanter and glugged the bottle in. I explained to the guests that we’d have to wait an hour. (The Wine Access write-up recommended “a few hours” in a decanter. Yeesh.)
We started with fondue (served with a Gewurztraminer, which, despite my largely ignorant German-wines-are-icky inclinations, actually wasn’t bad). Bread cubes twirled and disappeared. Lively conversation ensued.
In the kitchen, the Beringer Howell Mountain Cab quietly off-gassed.
Next came a raclette (I told you Kevin had spent a lot of time in Europe).
On the center of the table stood a flat stone surface, heated from below by some invisible source of fire. Under the stone were little shallow drawers.
The table was filled with chunks of steak, salmon, cheese, potatoes, bread, and vegetables. You could choose your ingredients and use the top surface to grill, the drawers to bake.
All very Continental, and a perfect meal to promote camaraderie and conversation. Not a perfect pairing with a super-special-awesome red wine that costs $153.83, but no matter.
The Tale of the Taste
When everybody was settled, I poured the wine into small glasses. We did cheers. With trepidation, I lifted it to my nose.
Ummmm. Nice. Dark fruit of some sort, but nothing huge and showy.
Next, the taste.
I am an intuitive taster, by which I mean I’m not so good at picking out notes of anise and peonies and wet leather and so forth, and instead try to just feel and sense the wine, to see what it does to my imagination.
In this case, with my first taste I saw a dark silk scarf, folded gently. Very smooth. Beautiful.
And quietly rich, dark fruit. A bit of bay leaf, oddly.
“Oooh, that’s lovely,” Kevin proclaimed.
“I love this,” my lovely wife intoned.
The guests nodded appreciatively. “Ummm,” they said.
Phew.
Beringer vs. Control
I know what you’re wondering: Was it really any better than another good bottle of red?
Well, as a “control,” I’d brought a second bottle, a Rhone — a syrah, grenache, and mourvedre blend. I love Rhone blends, and figured it would be a good “red wine I really like” point of comparison. It was one of those $40 bottles, also from Wine Access. (“The body bursts with black fruit, pink peppercorn, licorice, smokehouse bacon, and sagebrush.”)
We sampled that one against the Beringer. It didn’t taste so much like an inferior wine, but like a different kind of beverage entirely. It literally could not compare to the Beringer.
I continued to pass the decanter of the good stuff, filling up the little glasses as the grill sizzled with meat and salmon, the air fragrant with baking potatoes and cheese. We had a wonderful time.
Kevin and I noticed that the wine changed as the night went on. For me, the flavor extended into a longer finish, and the tannins seemed to come forward more, but not in a bad way.
Kevin said something about how he appreciated a wine “that takes a journey with him,” that changes in mood and tone as it reveals itself.
Can I Borrow a Couple Hundred Bucks, Please?
So now, of course, I’m ruined. I’m going to carry around that memory of the Beringer Howell Mountain every time I lift a Tuesday Night Special to my nose. A bottle I’d hoped would add to my appreciation for wine instead risks multiplying my disappointments.
Of course, I could just buy another $100 bottle, stow it by the sump pump, and save it for a special occasion.
Or, wait…I wonder what a $200 bottle would taste like?
Craig Stoltz blogs at eatdrinkgosmart.com.
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