By Josh Perilo

Recently, I talked a little about an obsession I’ve had: Comparing different wine varietals to different genres of popular music. Any critic loves making lists and metaphors, and, even better, lists of metaphors. I started by laying out my thoughts on why I think Merlot could be compared to Pop Rock. This week, I present my second thesis: Cabernet Sauvignon is Hard Rock, or in classic terms, good old-fashioned, straightforward rock ‘n’ roll.

Cabernet Sauvignon stands tall as the cornerstone of red wine grapes today. Its big, meaty tannins are fuzzed-out guitar licks, squealing from feedback. The oak barrels they age in are distortion pedals, bending the notes of flavor. The dark berry fruit blasts forth like an overcranked Marshall stack, blasting into an audience of thousands at Red Rocks.

These are rock star wines. And I’m not talking about the lead singer of Maroon 5 or Nickelback, either. This is the rock star that played Altamont and Woodstock. The first one. This is Jimi-frigging-Hendrix.

This is Cabernet Sauvignon.

The left bank Bordeaux producers make wines that are, by law, at least 51 percent Cabernet Sauvignon. Many of them are made up of almost all Cabernet Sauvignon. These are our old-school grandfathers of rock. Muddy Waters and Chuck Berry are the big, bad boys of the Haute Medoc. Elvis Pressley’s “That’s Alright, Mama” is the great Chateau Latour. These are the architects of the style that was to come and the style that created what a Cab was “supposed to taste like,” just as Chuck Berry created the idea of what a guitar lick in a rock song was supposed to sound like.

If you listen to the first jangly riffs to The Kingsmen’s version of “Louis, Louis,” you are hearing the first serious vintners in Napa Valley in the early 1970s tasting their brand-new Cabernet Sauvignon. It was modeled after the classics in Bordeaux, just as the Kingsmen’s noisy garage band classic was modeled after the blues riffs that came before them. There was a new take, though. Something that’s more forward and more accessible. Maybe simpler and messier, but something that the world would sit up and take notice of immediately.

As the Napa Cabs evolved and became more complex, carving out an identity of their own, they moved from the “garage rock” versions of their early incarnations and into more sophisticated takes on what became known as rock ‘n’ roll. The California “Cult Cabs,” as they became known, were the next step in the evolution of Classic Rock. The fruit got bigger, the structure more refined, and a masterpiece like Diamond Creek’s “Gravelly Meadow” becomes the Sticky Fingers of Napa Cabs. Ultimate wines that tend to define the grape varietal are common among these cult wines. Take the ultra expensive and untouchable Screaming Eagle. Quite simply, the liquid version of Houses of the Holy.

As Cabernet moved across the West Coast, it lightened its step and took itself a little less seriously. By the time it reached Santa Barbara and Santa Ynez Valley, the grapes were riper and higher in alcohol, and the fruit was juicier and simpler, if not more fun to enjoy. These Cabs rollick along your palate like a scratchy LP of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Just enough twang to remind you it isn’t Napa, but the classic roots-rock structure of the Cab is still there to hold everything together.

In the ’80s, the winemakers of Tuscany, Italy, began experimenting with Cabernet. It was against the law to call these wines anything other than “red table wine,” so they were unofficially labeled “Super Tuscans.” This unorthodox take on Cab was a redux on the classic format of the Cabs from the past. The first Super Tuscan was Tignanello. Those first squealing notes blared out again from an overpumped amp, just like they did when The Kingsmen reinvented rock music. Only this time it wasn’t Napa, and it wasn’t the Kingsmen either. It was The White Stripes’ “Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground.” The volume knob was up to 11, and the wine world would never be the same.

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By Josh Perilo

In 1965, writers Milton Glaser and Jerome Snyder set out on a mission. They began scouring Manhattan to find great meals, in every neighborhood, that could be had for no more than $2. Granted, at the time, that was an easier feat, but $2 was still a relative bargain for an entire meal.

The two ate and wrote and wrote and ate, and finally published, in 1966, the first edition of The Underground Gourmet. And last weekend I found a copy of the 1967 second edition in a thrift shop, and haven’t put it down since.

Being obsessed with the food and history of New York (particularly Manhattan), this was like finding a culinary time capsule. I immediately dove in. What I found was shocking, both in the similarities between then and now, and in the differences.

The most obvious change was the immense amount of restaurants that no longer existed. These were not landmarked establishments, by and large. Most of them were hole-in-the wall luncheonettes, inexpensive Chinese restaurants and greasy spoons. But the sheer number of losses was stunning. Of the 101 restaurants profiled, only six survive today: Katz’s Delicatessen, Manganaro’s, Yonah Schimmel’s Knishes Bakery, The Puglia and La Taza de Oro. About half of the establishments were housed in buildings that no longer exist, especially in the Midtown area. The proliferation of “lunch counters” also illustrated the evolution of this city’s eating habits. For every kosher “dairy lunch” joint that went down, it seems as though a Jamba Juice or Pink Berry has taken its place.

Even more shocking was how similar the city’s variety of cheap eats was. There are numerous listings for Japanese restaurants, all of which served sushi (which the author describes to the uninitiated as tasting “not unlike that of the very best smoked sturgeon”). There were a number of Middle Eastern restaurants as well, ranging from Syrian to Lebanese. There was even a new-age vegetarian hangout for “East Village cultists” called Paradox that could have easily been the forefather of today’s Zen Palate or Gobo.

The book itself is an interesting artifact. The restaurants are all given two to three pages, starting with a breakdown of the facts. Telephone number (some restaurants using the two letter prefixes, some using all numbers… and some without a telephone), days of business, air-conditioning and hygiene were all listed and rated, if applicable. The writing was half prosaic and anecdotal, half plain-Jane restaurant review, but always interesting. True to form, none of the entrées or meals bought and eaten by the authors cost more than $2. They even included two short sections in the middle of the book with an illustration of ethnic food-stuffs that the reader might not be familiar with. Some of the drawings are so abstract that it may have confused the reader more than it helped.

After reading the book in its entirety, I was overcome with mixed emotions; one-part longing, one-part invigoration. The Underground Gourmet couldn’t have been written at a more mercurial time in the 20th century. It was almost as though the food being eaten reflected the vast social and political change surrounding it. Mired in the cheap eats that had been carrying its working class forward for decades, there was clearly a change brewing. New foods and new ideas were taking root that would grow and forever change the culinary landscape. This was a snapshot of a city in transition.

I won’t pretend that I can truly understand a period of time that I was never able to experience firsthand, but I feel lucky to have been able to walk the streets of 1960s Manhattan in my mind with the help of The Underground Gourmet. I can only imagine how delicious the revolution must have been.
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josh@penniessepicure.com

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By Josh Perilo

“If you had to describe a Merlot to someone who had never had it before,” my friend Bryan challenged, “how would you do it?”

This was the statement that started me thinking about the metaphor that I eventually obsessed over: wine and music. These were, after all, my two greatest loves (after my beautiful wife, of course). The thought went round and round in my head, and I started coming up with some entertaining comparisons. The first and most obvious to me, however, was this:

Merlot is Pop Rock.

Merlot, a grape that is low in tannin and acid, almost coats the tongue. It is the dulcet tones of a four-four beat at a moderate tempo with hand-claps in the background. The rhythmic G major, D major, E major chord progression that goes down smooth and fruity. It’s a lead singer that is a “nice boy” but still sexy (albeit “safe sexy”).

Ah, Merlot.

The classics are the classics, and with Merlot the great oldies reside in Bordeaux. Layer upon layer of intricate, intertwining harmonies and melodies, five tracks devoted entirely to backing vocals, horns and timpani, and a Theremin. The classic example of Right Bank Bordeaux brilliance is Chateau Petrus, and its brilliant, complex and easily digestible audio equivalent (and perhaps the most beautiful pop song ever written) is “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys.

When Merlot grabbed its foothold on the West Coast of America, its lush, fruit flavors softened even more. The amazing Duckhorn Merlot creeps in, finger-picking its guitar, rambling “I am just a poor boy though my story’s seldom told…” The verse builds with a simple harmony as the plum fruit on the front of the palate becomes dates and spice. Then pepper and vanilla. Then the guitar is joined by a thump and a mouth harp. And the flavors race around and the story evolves and the palate expands and you realize this isn’t just a wine. And this isn’t just a song. Until the finish, when you swallow and are overcome with…

“Lie-la-lie! Lie-la-lie-lie, Lie-la-lie!”

When Merlot moved to the Pacific Northwest it grew bigger and riper. In Washington State, especially from the Walla Walla area, the Merlots are monsters with their Peavey amps turned up way louder than they should be. The grapes get riper, so the alcohol level gets higher, which in turn gives the fruit and structure further amplification. It sounds like too much, but somehow the combination of the weather, soil and sunlight works. One sip of this over-amped juice and Big Star’s “September Gurls” mows down your taste buds with chewy riffs and addictive hooks. This is Power Pop… or power Merlot. The three-chord structure is turned up and taken to the edge with the exaggerated fruit flavors of “Go All the Way” by Raspberries, “Just What I Needed” by The Cars, and later “Girlfriend” by Matthew Sweet.

Merlots from Australia became popular later in the game, offering lighter bodied, almost syrupy, overripe strawberry flavors. It’s so sticky sweet, you almost feel guilty about indulging in it. “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga and “TiK ToK” by Ke$ha pound through your head as you swallow the fruity extract, trying to remind yourself that you’re actually drinking wine, and not unfermented juice.

Merlot has tended to have mass appeal in this country for the last several decades, but many “connoisseurs” will dismiss them for their lack of complexity. One could argue that even though “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies is a classic, it doesn’t have much depth. That doesn’t matter, though, to people who just want a catchy tune that’s easy to snap your fingers to.

The wine snobs of the world can huff and puff all they want, but it won‘t change the fact that Merlot will always go down easy.

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By Josh Perilo

When my friend Shirley returned from her trip to Spain and Portugal, she couldn’t stop talking about it. I was completely intrigued.

“It’s called green wine!” She kept saying, “And they have it everywhere!”

“What’s it like?”

“So light. So refreshing. It’s like mineral water with a kick!”

I looked everywhere. Granted, I was going to school in North Carolina at the time and the area I was in had very few wine stores with extensive Portuguese sections. But I was sure that I would find it somewhere.

I ended college never having found the legendary green wine and subsequently forgot about it for several years until I started working at a wine store. As I was preparing the tasting table one summer afternoon, setting out several bottles of our delicious light summer wines we would pour later, it suddenly hit me like a bolt.

I was an idiot.

One of my absolute favorite wines in the store was a Vinho Verde, a light, slightly fizzy white wine from Portugal. And, of course, Vinho Verde means “green wine” in Portuguese. I felt like Magellan finding his namesake strait, only a bit stupider. I couldn’t believe I had missed it that whole time! Now, however, it all made sense. Shirley had been raving about a wine that I, too, had begun singing the praises of.

While Portugal’s best known export, Port, comes from the south, Vinho Verde comes from the very different landscape of the north. It is referred to as Green Wine not because it is green in color, but because it is meant to be drunk very, very young. So young, in fact, that a lot of producers don’t even give their Vinho Verde a vintage. It is the most popular wine in Portugal, so it’s safe to assume that if you’re drinking a bottle of it, it’s going to be from the most recent vintage.

Vinho Verde can be made from any of 25 different Portuguese varietals, but the most common are Loureiro, Trajadura and Pederna. There are some made from the slightly more prestigious Alvarinho grape, but the quantity is small and the chance of finding those in the U.S. is much more difficult.

There are, actually, some red Vinho Verdes as well, although they are nearly impossible to find in the U.S. They are light, bracing red wines that are high in acidity and have the same signature slight fizz. Almost like a Portuguese answer to Lambrusco, they’re great just slightly chilled.

The white kind, however, has become increasingly easier to find in the states, especially in the summer. It is not only light and fizzy, but lower in alcohol, so sipping a glass of wine in the sun on a hot summer day doesn’t necessarily have to lead to a headache and a hangover.

There are a couple producers whose products are available virtually everywhere. One of the more popular brands is the Gazela Vinho Verde ($6.99 at 67 Wine and Spirits, 179 Columbus Ave. at W. 68th St., 212-724-6767). It is a basic, entry level Vinho Verde that will give you everything you’re looking for in a simple and refreshing summer beverage. Crisp with a lot of minerality and only a hint of citrus peel, this is a wine you serve ice cold in the middle of a heat wave.

For a Vinho that’s just a touch more complex, try the Aveleda ‘Fonte’ Vinho Verde ($8.99 at Beacon Wines and Spirits, 2120 Broadway at W. 74th St., 212-877-0028). Still light, fizzy and fun, this wine has a touch more fruit to it. Hints of white peach and orange zest make this a Vinho Verde you could definitely serve with a seafood salad.

So make sure you “go green” this summer with some of Portugal’s tastiest and most underrated fizzy white wines!

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By Josh Perilo

“Her name was Mara Palmer,” instructed Artemus in his genteel Southern drawl, “and she was a Bulgarian Aristocrat.”

“And this thing she had,” I said, “it was like an antenna?”

“It was a swizzle stick. A Champagne swizzle stick. It was made by Dunhill.”

Artemus described again, in detail, the odd contraption that this fascinating Mara (who sounded like a character from a Raymond Chandler novel) would use whenever she drank sparkling wine. A small, silver cylinder encased a set of prongs. When extended, the prongs would be inserted into the glass of Champagne and twirled quickly.

“Wouldn’t that get rid of the bubbles?” I asked.

“Why, of course!” Artemus guffawed. “One doesn’t want the violent effervescence of one’s drink to spoil one’s makeup.”

As soon as I got home, I immediately started researching this magical anti-fizz stick. After calls to several boutiques and an email to the main headquarters, no one at Dunhill that I spoke to had heard of it. The only place I could find any trace of it was on the website www.etsy.com, a haven for the homemade, hard-to-find and collectible.

An instrument so popular that it was once used by aristocrats and members of royal courts was now so antiquated that its very existence had been relegated to anecdote.

This got me thinking about other antiquated (or near-antiquated) wine artifacts and customs. I started wondering why these items were going the way of the Dodo. Certainly, some were due to a certain “natural selection,” but others, it seemed, still had a very real purpose but weren’t exactly in vogue anymore.

For instance, the wide-mouthed Champagne coupe that was ubiquitous with the early 20th century (especially movies from the 1940s) has thankfully crept into the background and made way for the more elegant and purposeful Champagne flute. Having been invented in the 15th century, the coupe had certainly overstayed its welcome, and while it may remind one of an era gone by, it does nothing to preserve the sparkle of a sparkling wine.

On the other hand, an almost extinct item like the tastevin actually serves a very real purpose, yet is looked upon by American diners and drinkers as pretentious. The tastevin is a small, metal dish worn on a chain around the sommelier or wine director’s neck and is used to taste the wine before pouring it for the customer. This is to ensure that the bottle being opened tableside has no imperfections.

While there are still a few American restaurants that employ the tastevin (Le Bernardin, most notably), there has been a very strange backlash in the states to the idea of someone tasting the customer’s wine before serving it. Even a recent New York Times article has been written addressing that issue. Because so many customers are becoming more and more wine-savvy, the idea that someone else needs to tell you whether or not the bottle you bought is any good is being taken as an insult.

Aside from the fact that many customers feel uncomfortable sending a bottle back, the fact of the matter is that, even if the customer is an absolute expert on wine, the sommelier and the people working for him or her know the wines on their list better than the customer. It’s their job. They’ve tasted those wines many, many times and will know immediately if there is something even slightly off. If employed correctly, the tastevin will always provide the customer with a higher-quality wine-drinking experience.

There have always have been and always will be rituals, instruments and wine accoutrement that have become outdated for one reason or another. Because wine is looked upon, by many, as something more than merely a beverage, there is an almost OCD, rigid reaction to any change in tradition. The ritual of opening a bottle is as gratifying to many as pouring and drinking the wine. If you had told an oenophile 40 years ago that a bottle of vino with a screw-top cap could sell for $50, you’d have been laughed out of the room.

Now, this is simply the norm. Welcome to the new wine age.

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By Josh Perilo

I was heading home from the bodega with a bag of ice cream and beer tucked under my arm when I saw the limo pull up at the end of my block. Out stepped Mayor Bloomberg. Just earlier that day he had won the right to run for a third consecutive term and he was clearly out to celebrate.

“Congrats, man!” I called out to him as I passed by.

He smiled humbly and ducked into the restaurant in front of him.

I would soon learn that this restaurant was one of his favorites in New York City. It had fast become one of my favorites as well. And after 32 years of caring service and amazing food, the Upper East Side lost one of its treasures June 30, when Ristorante Primavera on 82nd Street and First Avenue closed its doors forever.

Nicola Civetta opened Primavera on June 28, 1978, and it soon became a neighborhood haunt for the wealthy, or those who wanted to pretend they were for an evening. The ambience was pure old-school New York. It was the type of place that conjured images of Scorsese movies and echoes of Sinatra ballads. Forever a holdover from a culinary time gone by, there were no “foams” and “deconstructed entrées” on their menu. This was the land of gigantic, unapologetic slabs of veal and heaping bowls of pasta.

It was also the home to the warmest service I have ever had at any restaurant, ever. While some higher end New York restaurants focus on sterile accuracy and presentation, and others want you to feel like the wait-staff’s “bud,” Primavera simply made you feel like a member of the Civetta family. Whether you were the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or a meager writer who scraped together enough cash to have a single evening of gluttony, you were always treated like a VIP.

The first visit I made was with my wife, Natali, for a birthday of mine several years ago. Course after course of indulgence was brought to us (many of which we didn’t order, but the waiter insisted that we must try). Wine flowed, and when the waiter found out that it was my birthday, he brought by complimentary grappa and limoncello for both of us.

The grappa was so good, I asked him if he could tell me the name of the producer. He brought the bottle over to my table, held it above my glass and said, “Here it is… perhaps you can read the name better if I tip it a little?”

With that, he tipped the bottle, pouring an enormous second glass of grappa for me, winking at the same time.

This wasn’t just the food you wanted to eat when you went to a New York restaurant. These were the waiters you wanted to meet. The owners you wanted to be greeted by. The clientele you wanted to be surrounded with.

The last time we were inside the restaurant was in late May. My wife and I had just witnessed a car accident and the woman from the cab that was struck was panicking. As I dialed 911, standing on the corner of 82nd and First, Nicola stuck his head out of the front door of Primavera and beckoned us into his restaurant.

“Please! Come in and sit!”

As I spoke to the operator, Nicola, his wife and the bartender talked to the young woman and Natali. As the young woman was taken off in an ambulance, Nicola ordered Natali and me to sit at the bar and have a glass of wine with them. As we left later that evening, feeling warm inside from both the feeling of helping another person and the Chianti, Nicola beckoned to us.

“Please, come and see us again… soon.”

“We will!” I said, knowing it would be months before we would be able to afford another visit there.

I am so glad to have had the chance to experience the Civetta’s wonderful restaurant. I wish them, their family and their staff only the best for the rest of their days. Salut.

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By Josh Perilo

With the Fourth of July fast approaching, I was given pause to think about the state of our union and the divisiveness that currently seems to hang in the air. While there are always issues being fought over and differences of opinion in this vast country, right now there seems to be more conflict than ever. It is at these times that a holiday like Independence Day holds the most significance.

So instead of merely suggesting wines that might match well with picnic fare or barbecue, I’ve decided to show my national pride by highlighting wines that are made in America. Not only are these wines made in America, but they are made in the cradle of America, the birthplace of the union: These are wines from the original 13 colonies.

A few places in the original 13 are actually considered world-class areas for growing grapes and making wine. Most, however, are up-and-coming, mom-and-pop operations that are only beginning to experiment in winemaking. At this time, every state in this country has at least one operational winery within its borders. While that effort is commendable, unfortunately there is a reason why only certain parts of the world are renowned for wine. Most of this vino blows.

However, there are some shining lights within the mass of “hobby wineries” that can truly compete quality-wise with other big-name wines from around the world.

Starting in our own backyard, New York has had a long history of winemaking. The wineries of upstate New York have a longer history of growing grapes and making wine than even California. More recent to the fermentation biz, however, is Long Island. Only a handful of decades ago, the areas now inhabited by wineries were potato farms. Now they are home to myriad producers. For a fantastic rosé from this area, go to the South Fork of Long Island and try the Wolffer Estate Rose 2009 ($13.95 at Sherry Lehman Wines, 505 Park Ave. at 60th Street, 212-838-7500). This crisp Merlot and Chardonnay blend has a light, salmon hue and a refreshing acidity that will remind you of a French Provençal-style rosé.

Further south, in the home state of our country’s first Presidential oenophile, Virginia has a burgeoning winemaking community. Thomas Jefferson was a fan of Bordeaux and Burgundy, but the wines here tend to be much more new world than anything that our third president likely drank. For a great example of the type of light, summer reds that are being produced currently in Virginia, go no further than the Veritas Red Star 2008 ($18 at www.VeritasWines.com). This Meritage blend is made up of Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Chambourcin grapes, and the end result is a light-bodied, berry-packed wine that is a perfect stand-in for a Beaujolais Nouveau.

Even further south, in North Carolina, many old tobacco farms are slowly being converted into wineries. It is not uncommon to drive through rural North Carolina and see miles of trellised vines. The attention to quality is also on the rise here. On the grounds of the Biltmore estate in Ashville, one time home to the Vanderbilts, lies one of North Carolina’s highest quality vineyards. The Biltmore Dry Riesling 2009 ($12.99 at www.shop.Biltmore.com) shows a commitment to serious wine production. Made in the style of a typical Australian Riesling, this zesty wine has intense floral and citrus notes that make it a great match with a North Carolina-style (vinegar-based) barbecue pulled-pork sandwich.

Explore the original colonies this summer and you’ll be surprised at what these historic areas have to offer the ever-growing world of wine.

josh@penniessepicure.com

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By Josh Perilo

Summer is fast approaching: Hamptons rentals are being gobbled up, sweaters are being stowed in under-bed containers and white wine is flying off the shelf.

In the area of light summer whites, there are thousands to choose from. However, when I think about my ideal summer white, I almost always turn to one area: France’s Loire Valley. In the northwestern corner of France, just south of Brittany, this area is often underestimated and overlooked in the international French wine conversation, but it has an amazing array of versatile offerings. Covering more than 600 miles in length, the area offers wines that vary greatly in style, but all subregions contribute to the great summer white wine collective.

Starting as far inland as the valley extends, we find the area of the Loire that encompasses the famous white wines of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fume. In this neck of the woods, Sauvignon Blanc is king, and it is argued that most great Sauvignon Blancs made around the world attempt to duplicate the flavor and nuance of these wines. Because Sancerre and Pouilly-Fume are so well known, they tend to be the most expensive wines that come from the Loire. While only a Sauvignon Blanc made from grapes inside the strict confines of the Sancerre or Pouilly-Fume areas can carry this prestigious name, wines made from Sauvignon Blanc from just outside these areas can be just as good without commanding the same price. Henri Bourgeois Sauvignon Blanc 2007 ($10.99 at Yorkshire Wine and Spirits, 1646 First Ave. at 85th St., 212-717-5100) falls into this category. Grapefruit flavor and scents of fresh cut grass and flint make this a pitch-perfect Loire Sauvignon Blanc.

Farther west in the central Loire, more distinct personalities are found from subregion to subregion. While the flavor profiles may change as you travel, Chenin Blanc is almost always the grape that dominates the white wines of these collected areas. Chenin Blanc is a chameleon grape that can taste as full bodied and complex as a Chardonnay from Burgundy, or as light and sweet as a German Riesling. The best-known incarnation of this grape from the central Loire is Vouvray. Even within this area, Chenin Blanc is made into different styles of Vouvray, from sticky sweet to austere and bone dry. The best examples tend to straddle the line between the two extremes. A great example of what the central Loire’s Vouvray area has to offer is Domaine de Vigneau-Chevreau Vouvray Sec 2007 ($19.45 at 67 Wine, 179 Columbus Ave. at 68th St., 212-724-6767). Lots of white peach and apricot flavors burst on the palate and a veritable bouquet of wildflowers are present on the nose. This is the absolute best that the central Loire has to offer at this price point.

The easternmost area of the Loire sees the river empty into the Atlantic, and the terrain turns from fertile to rocky. This is where the lean and mineral-y Muscadet wines of the Loire are made. Contrary to what the name suggests, these wines are not made from the Muscat grape, but from the obscure Melon de Bourgogne grape. The best examples of these light white wines are the ones that are left to mature on spent yeast cells, or lees, after they ferment. This gives the otherwise flimsy wine more body and character. When choosing a Muscadet, always look for the words Sur Lie on the bottle to ensure this feature. Domaine de la Batardiere Muscadet Sevre et Maine, 2007 ($9.99 at Beacon Wines and Spirits, 2120 Broadway at 74th St., 212-877-0028) is a perfect example of this style of Muscadet. Almost as light as the ocean spray, but with just enough creaminess to match perfectly with any raw shellfish, this is a must have for any summer seafood feast.

When searching for light summer whites of any style, look to the north of France for inspiration. There’s enough variety to keep you trying something new every week till it’s time to put that seersucker suit back in moth balls.

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By Josh Perilo

“Just tell me how it tastes,” The Doctor said, cutting me off before I launched into my usual exuberant spiel. “And avoid words that have more than three syllables.”

The Doctor was one of our regulars at the wine store. He could be somewhat annoying, in that he only came in for the free tasting every day and never actually purchased anything. You could, however, always rely on him for blunt honesty. If he didn’t like something, he let you know.

“This tastes like crap,” he said, tossing the plastic cup into the trash. “And no matter what fancy words you use to describe it, it’ll still taste like crap.”

He was right! If there was one thing I learned from The Doctor, it was that winespeak can be just a smokescreen for wine professionals to explain away a bad wine or make a mediocre wine sound better than it actually is.

The fact of the matter is that winespeak, when used correctly, can actually be helpful. The terms used to describe a lot of wine’s characteristics are very specific and if conveyed in an unpretentious way, can illuminate rather than confuse.

One term that is constantly used (and overused) to describe red wines that are more Old World in style is earthy. Does this mean that the wine is going to taste like a handful of soil? Probably not. What it does mean, however, is that if you are looking for a wine that tastes primarily of big fruit flavors, this wine is not going to be for you. “Earthy” usually implies a complexity of flavor that can include fruit flavor, but does not put the emphasis on it. Other flavor notes and smells that are reminiscent of non-food items like pipe tobacco, cedar and smoke often go hand in hand with the term earthy. These are wines that tend to be better with food, generally speaking.

On the other hand, when you hear a sommelier use the term jammy, you can pretty much expect the opposite of earthy. The word jammy evokes a big jar of strawberry preserves to me—and that’s pretty much what it means. A jammy wine is going to be less complex, and the main event will be the fruit flavors. Jammy also tends to connote darker fruit flavors that have a concentrated taste. Strawberry preserves, again, is a good example, as is baked blueberry and stewed fruit flavors.

That brings us to another term that is closely related to jammy, but has its own nuance: fruit forward. A wine that is fruit forward simply means that the first flavor you taste when the wine hits your tongue is fruit. Therefore, a jammy wine can be fruit forward, but a complex wine that has more than just fruit flavor to offer can also be fruit forward. The flavor of the wine changes as it runs from the front of your palate to the back, so a wine that starts fruity may end tannic or spicy.

Perhaps the term that is the most often misunderstood and misused is dry. This term is misused because most people think of the term “dry” as subjective. It is not. Dryness in wine specifically has to do with the amount of residual sugar once a wine is bottled and ready to drink. It has nothing to do with the perceived fruity flavors of a wine, which is the common misperception. For example, a wine that is low in acidity and very fruit forward, like a Viognier made in a warm climate, may come across as less dry than an oaky Chardonnay from California. The truth of the matter, however, is that the Viognier is most likely much more dry, as it is a common practice in many oaky California Chardonnays to leave some residual sugar to balance out the oak flavor. Even though the Viognier tastes less dry because of the fruit flavors, it is not.

Understanding the basic terms that are thrown around by wine professionals can not only help you find the type of wine you are looking for, but sort out the treasures from the chaff.

josh@pennilessepicure.com

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By Josh Perilo

Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I’m standing in the middle of the supermarket, my voice rising incrementally and bleating: “I don’t care how many viewers it has, I think Family Guy is the un-funniest show that has ever aired on national television!”

Do I really care all that much about Family Guy? No. But for some reason, whenever there’s a consensus about one popular thing being plunked down into a solid “good” or “bad” category, this raises red flags for me and I’ll usually take the opposite position, just to try and even out the score.

So it is with wine as well. I’ll be the first one to admit that I am not immediately drawn to a Chardonnay that has been either fermented or aged excessively in oak. This was a style that caught on in the late 1970s and grew in popularity through the 1980s until the market was saturated with this style of Chard in the 1990s. Then came the backlash.

It started with wine geeks who, rightfully, hated the cheaply made “oaky” Chards that tasted like a stick of butter nailed to a two-by-four. These wines were often not even made using oak barrels, which are very expensive. Instead, oak chips were (and still are) dumped into a stainless steel vat of wine to add oaky tones. Sometimes even sawdust is used.

These are terrible wines. You will get no argument from me about that. However, there has been hysteria over the last decade or so about Chardonnays that have any oak flavor at all. Any use of oak is looked down upon and thought of as bourgeoisie. This is an incredibly ignorant point of view that has, unfortunately, become the norm now in the oversaturated world of faux wine connoisseurs.

Oak is good. Oak can be amazing, actually. It takes more talent to use oak correctly in winemaking than not using it at all. And when done the right way, the end product is breathtaking.

For a tremendous example of what the new world can offer along the lines of well-made, oak-laden Chardonnay, look to the Arcadian Vineyard “Sleepy Hollow” Chardonnay 2005 ($33.99 at Astor Wines, 399 Lafayette St. at East 4th Street, 212-674-7500) from California’s Central Coast. This wine is both fermented and aged in French oak barrels. The result isn’t an over-the-top, wet particleboard smackdown. Instead, it starts on the nose with ripe oranges and notes of French bread. On the palate, the super ripe citrus continues with pineapple through the middle. The end has flavors of honey, white pepper and even a hint of caramel. This vino is a meal all by itself, but would be the ultimate match-up for lobster and drawn butter.

The old world has plenty of good, oaky Chardonnay to bring to the table, as well. The Chateau Fuissé Pouilly-Fuissé “Les Brûlés” 2005 ($65 at Sherry Lehman, 505 Park Ave. at East 59th Street, 212-838-7500) from Burgundy is a touch lighter, but no less intense. There are massive amounts of ginger and crème brûlée scents. The palate is all about vanilla, white peach and spice. The finish has hints of cinnamon, allspice and quince. This wine is a masterpiece.

So break off from the mob and open your mind. Try tasting a truly great wine that is made, if not to please the masses, then at least to please those who appreciate expert craftsmanship.

josh@pennilessepicure.com

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