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By Ken Graham
The first wine I ever drank was a robust red blend from New York State. It had broad shoulders and notes of potting soil and motor oil. And grain alcohol. It was (and still is) called "MD 20/20". It was a "fortified wine", with about 18% alcohol content. The MD stands for Mogen David, but in the (admittedly underage) crowd I ran with then, it was affectionately known as "Mad Dog". I only ever drank it once.
It took about three days to recover from that little episode, and a few years before the idea of drinking wine seemed like a good thing again.
As I grew older, though, I began to develop an appreciation for the fact that, rather than being an end in itself (i.e., getting drunk), drinking wine could be a means to a much more useful end: impressing women. It always amazed me that a member of the opposite sex would have any interest in spending an evening with a dork like me, but I knew one thing absolutely for sure: wine could only make it go better.
The image I was trying to put forward was that of a mature and cultured young man who understood and appreciated the finer things in life, which of course included fine wine. I envisioned a conversation at a table at one of downtown Seattle's finer restaurants that would go something like this:
Me (to the waiter): Oh, yes, we'll try a rich, full-bodied red, possibly on the dry side. Perhaps a Cabernet? What do you recommend, garcon?
Her (smiling): Oh, my.
Waiter (getting ready to rush off): I know just the thing. It's a 1979 Goosefeather Estates Reserve, from Poohbah County. (That's somewhere near Napa.) I'll bring it right away.
Her (gazing into my eyes and reaching under the table to squeeze my hand): Goodness, you certainly are a wine connoisseur, aren't you, Ken?!
Me (blushing and smiling and returning her gaze): Well . . . what can I say?
In reality, the conversation at a table at some over-rated over-priced restaurant in Bellevue always went more this way:
Me (to the waiter): Oh, yes, we'll try a rich full-bodied red, possibly on the dry side. Perhaps a Cabernet? What do you recommend, garcon?
Her (not smiling, but with a look of serious concern): Oh, my.
Waiter (getting ready to rush off): Yeah, okay, I'll see what I can find.
Her (now looking completely annoyed): Well, I was going to have fish. I guess I'll have to order meat instead.
She then ordered a $23 steak (and remember, that's in 1980's dollars) and proceeded to only eat two bites. And she barely touched the wine. (The waiter, of course, brought a $60 version). And, needless to say, there was no hand-squeezing or romantic gazing going on. Just a lot of plate-staring.
Me (when I got the bill): Wow!
In the mid-1990s, when I settled in Dayton, it was exciting to be exposed to the new wine culture that had recently grown up in the Walla Walla Valley. It seemed that was all anyone talked about.
I dutifully went wine tasting and learned about the history of wine in our valley. I discovered (once again) that it was essential to understand what wine needed to go with what food. The wine you drank, I was told, made a statement about you. I began reading wine guides and learning that I needed to be on the lookout for notes of cherries and chocolate, and perhaps a hint of almonds or even caramel. (In fact, I started to think that the Holy Grail for winemakers must be something that tastes a lot like a banana split.)
Now, it seems that I've come full circle. I find myself once again drinking relatively inexpensive wine, simply for the pleasure of it. But today it's a much more grown-up thing. And the wine's actually really good. (It's always from the Walla Walla Valley, of course.) And best of all: no more of those nasty three-day hangovers.
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