Libation Station... "The Wine Shop Chronicles"

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

New Friends, Wine and Food

Friday nights in the small town where we live are usually a night spent sitting in front of the TV and vegging out from the hectic week. But last Friday, out of the blue we got an invitation from one of our favorite distributors, with an offer we just couldn't refuse. We were invited to sit with friends, eat and drink (a few of our favorite things to do) with the fantastic winemaker Agusti' Torello' i Sibill of Kripta (my new all time favorite bubbly), Catherine (Spanish Table), Basi and his agent. The Cava tasting was over the top with the Tapas we were served. How about Foie de Pato con Arrope, or Revuelto con Gulas just to name a few. The Harvest Vine in Seattle was the perfect setting and ending to a long week. Rich and I can't thank the group enough for inviting us...ĦA la vida buena!

Posted by gjdustin :: 4:58 PM :: 1 Comments:

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Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Cork vs Screwtop...

This basically sums it up for me.
"This is one of those things where something we have done for years that is traditional is actually the sustainable choice," said Jim Bernau, owner and founder of Willamette Valley Vineyards in Turner. "How often can you say that for anything we've done in the past 50 to 100 years?"
But we must innovate and improve, it is our nature. I'm not sure we are doing anything to improve the wine... just the distribution and at the expense of the environment. Remember when pop cans had the disposable detachable pop tops? The same issue with aluminum coated plastic stops exists. Can we please quit following this course of throw away supply side economics especially when its not necessary?

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Posted by RM Dustin :: 7:25 AM :: 0 Comments:

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Monday, August 27, 2007

just plain mad about medieval...

There is an interesting science recently made available to curious creatures, ones who worry about millennium crossed genealogical accumulative worth, fringe walkers who stay awake until the wee hours pondering the role of ancestor-hood as a possible reason we are survivally built the way we are and act the way we do within the current reality we exist.... ones like me.

Upon request and though probably with considerable out of pocket expenditure, DNA can be extracted from any individual wishing to confirm or reaffirm perceived suspected ancestral heritage, routed through devices of such technological magnitude that within nanoseconds, your beginning as a leaf sprouted from twig, from branch, from trunk can be plotted on a map of origin, printed, and offered for show and tell at cocktail parties.

There are risks. If you are puritanically pale and living with such minded people in the cul de sac of your choice, you may find that there is a significant genetic connection to black African Serengeti nomads that accidentally made their way to the Ivory Coast just in time to be captured as slaves bound for North Carolina. If you are black and feel that your roots must be stemmed from the south eastern coast of Africa and that you most likely are a descendant of the great Shaka Zulu himself, only to then find you have much more white DNA from Northern European stock, specifically originating around the late 1500's in Amsterdam when marketable prostitution demographically poised for seafaring folk headed to the Dutch Indies was at it's all time lucrative peak. Bummers abound all around in the most interesting of nooks and crannies.

I have often felt I must come from Northern European tribes, particularly the ones that later united enough to build long ships that took their bad pillaging selves around the northmost coastal regions of Scotland and finally resting in Ireland. Prior to those magnificent feats of conquest, I feel extremely connected to these peoples of Roman lore, Druids who hurled themselves out of Scandinavian and Scottish highland regions, red hair aflame upon pale white skin, tribally marred and scarred, men, women, and battle worthy child alike, naked and crazed, ferociously attacking Roman Legions compiled of horrified professional soldiers wishing to be civilly battling someone else somewhere else . Dispatches sent back to Caesar from remote Governors have been found to contain detailed accounts of such peoples carelessly throwing themselves to their deaths, thousands at a time to wear down the Roman advance, sometimes eating their opponents when weaponry failed, mounting the heads of their victims on spears to be ceremoniously lit around celebratory campfires. This is the warrior class from which I was spawned. I just know it.

The Viking sword, huge and non-ornate, adorned without jewels, nothing of artistic mastery worthy of hanging on mantels or fetching high prices on Ebay were built for one reason... mayhem. Even wielded by arms the diameter of most legs, the weight was such that a second blow was not feasible or warranted, the first one was sufficient; the parry, lunge, and thrust was a moot exertion. To me, this is the epitome of ancient reactive response, one I have felt recently akin to as our little wine shop battles competitors wishing to feast upon our creativity for the purpose of our demise and their ascension, the State which for the sole reason of regulatory compliant expediency wishes to tax and punish us into oblivion, and a distribution cartel that wishes to engulf and devour us as a tributary of there own empire.

I cannot find my sword. If I did, I would not be allowed to lop off a head or arm of my choosing. The new wave legions aligned on all our flanks are masterfully equipped with suit clad soldiers, Blackberry and brief in hand, heavily funded from deep coffers poised to overrun weakened positions of the disjointed and soon to be plebes strewn about their path. I feel I am in the wrong time and in the wrong place. I dream of battle torn fields with the bodies of my slain enemies piled in heaps, a monumental display for any or all that would attempt to enter such an uninvited realm for reason other that a neighborly howdy-do. I'm actually thinking of a tattoo, a Viking sword piercing a heart on my battle arm, and a crest denoting a repulsing defiance on my shield arm. Being ambidextrous, I'm having a difficult time defining which is which right now. And anyway, all this is but a metaphor apropos in another life, I suppose. I would take the DNA test if not for the fear that my perceived noble past of warriordom is not quite as I expected, maybe devastatingly worse, like coming from stupidly wayward stock of migrant Ukrainian potato farmers waiting for the next rape and pillage via Goths or Mongols looking for a fun romp on their usual day off. Like a said... bummers abound.

So while pulling into our parking lot you happen to notice a sword wielding lunatic on the back of a V-Twin mount, chopping down hordes of wholesalers and bureaucrats and adjusters of insurance and accountants while pedestrians scream in horror and the sirens of civil order approach, feel free to stop in for a howdy-do. I may not be able to chat long, but it's the thought that counts.

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Posted by RM Dustin :: 8:34 AM :: 0 Comments:

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Tuesday, August 07, 2007

The insurgency beneath...

The building old and tired, actually just got a considerable face-lift and the Vietnamese restaurant upstairs is now ground level, and the underworld we were about to descend to even more so as the sidewalk and maybe street looked elevated from when the last we had tread upon them. Yet the front of the structure was so reworked I totally missed the entrance. I stood staring in horror at the possibility too much had changed. Then we began our submergence down the stairwell and the twang of familiar sensitivities took over.

This is another time, another place--has to be; a cavernous hollow zone carved out of ancient brick and mortar, sunken, floor cracked, swollen, barely able to resemble a foundation holding palette after palette of classically assembled vintages from parts of the world where such wine was first given life, let alone a dining experience featuring samples of spicy South East Asia and even a few floors more of something else. And gathered this evening: Dharma drunks, Zen juice-junkies, buyers and sellers all--drenched in the ways of the grape. A modern meld of chiming cell phones, exchanged emails, and yet long thoughtful draws on cigarettes, gulps of more than legally advisable portions swilled deep, and the State is above ground dampening such zealotry elsewhere, but not here. Amidst barely lit dust covered box and crate, on a long table strewn with partially drained pen and crumpled paper, elbows angled supporting poise and contemplation, many variations of bottled offerings are sampled, some swallowed--some expelled and decisions of worth to cellar and portfolio are made. Dancing about are crazed madmen intoxicated with potential and possibility as meticulously prepared dishes are splashed with juice perceived apropos and the winner hands down is the pairing of the bell pepper almond medley and Sirio... a dry Muscat projecting a fruity girth accompanied by such a balance of acidity and alcohol that no food stands much of a chance to escape being persuaded into submission. And we all suspected that would be the case.

And then finally without cue or cause, bows are taken, gratitude is offered, and gifts are tucked tight under arm and as seemingly pretentious as the experience began, it trickled off as such would with wine warming the belly and heart. Product displayed, procurement promised, and sales closed in the most ancient of human ways as the momentum of satisfaction carries all into the evening in search of a dinner worthy of finalizing the night. And later, somewhere on I-5 in the northbound lane, a sigh is heard.

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Posted by RM Dustin :: 9:12 AM :: 0 Comments:

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Wednesday, August 01, 2007

growing pains...

I think we are growing in magnitude, both on an inventory scale and within the consciousness of the wine buying community. I'm not sure. Our bank transactions are definitely showing increased multiples, but the books are plagued by the incompetences of yours truly and a computer meltdown. We have been trying to get our new point-of-sales running now for 3 months. We are still not there. I've made several attempts to lure other people with offers of money to "handle it" but that does not seem to be how the service industry is wired as of late. They still want the money but somehow skirt the decision process. They recommend courses of action with many options but it is still up to me to shoot myself in the foot. They still send us a bill though.

In the meantime, as our inventory grows so does the feeding frenzy displayed by our distributors. Yesterday Georgiann entertained about 8 of them, many arrivals overlapped and everyone seemed to just sit around and toss about industry gossip. That was different. I spent more time on the motorcycle than not except for a hearty round with the ever intruding blackberry bushes that surround our humble abode. How's that for dealing with the maniacally cyclical redundancy of business growth. Actually, I quite liked the experience. Not sure about Georgiann though.

There's a wine walk tonight, and a concert down the street. It should be a little toasty out. I'm thinking slurps of something on the crisp and refreshing side of juice. Maggie is getting clipped and fluffed at the groomer. Someone broke our fake chair in front of the shop last night. No one broke in. And that's about it.

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Posted by RM Dustin :: 12:34 PM :: 0 Comments:

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