Vendange White Zinfandel

I like White Zinfandel. It’s easy to drink, goes well with just about anything, and is hard to screw up.

And so it goes with our current test subject. Vendange’s White Zinfandel came in a 500ml container, rated at 11% alcohol. It had no year listed, so its vintage is up for grabs. The packaging was small, which was good, because it was easier to fit in my fridge than any other wine I’ve purchased. It was also cheap ($6).

“Tell them about the legs!” the Generalissimo insisted.

“What legs?”

“The legs! You have to do the swirly thingy with the glass, then you look at the legs!”

I swirled the glass. “I don’t see anything.”

“You’re doing it wrong!” He snatched the glass from my hand and gave it a swirl, spilling large quantities of wine on my carpet. Again.

“Did you see any legs?” I asked.

“No! It is an amputee!”

“Did you take the right pill this morning?”

“Yes! Several!”

The box said that their White Zinfandel “is delicately fruity with crisp notes of strawberry.” And for once, I actually tasted something on the box. Hurray! I tasted strawberries! Very sour, very old strawberries! Amazing. My only real annoyance: the aftertaste was a little bitter, which is out of character for a White Zin. Like I know what the hell I’m talking about or something.

“It is from California, that state of oenological significance and erudite introspection!”

“Huh?”

“It tastes like butter!”

“It does not.”

“Does too!”

“Are you supposed to drink alcohol with those pills?”

“What pills?!”

“The ones you took this morning.”

“I can’t feel my lips!”

I sighed. This had happened before. “I’ll call the Generalissima. Maybe she can give you a lift to the ER.”

“No! She will be most displeased! I promised to take her tasting this time, but I forgot!”

“Blame me.”

He damn near cried. “Do you...do you really mean it?”

“Of course. What’s the worst thing she could do to me?”

“Would you like the whole list?”

“Tell me while I finish off this box of wine.”

“But you have not given it a grade!” He was back in his yelling groove. Goody.

I shrugged. “Two thumbs up?”

“And a pair of mustaches! And a partridge in a pear tree!”

Yeah, what he said.

Green Path’s 2006 Chardonnay

“I thought we discussed this!” the Generalissimo said. “It is not a box!”

“Sure it is. See?” I squeezed the box, sloshing some of Green Path’s 2006 Chardonnay out of the spout and onto my shirt. I’d love to tell you that was the first time that had happened that night, but...

“It is the color of the last sample I gave to the fine physicians at the free clinic!”

“Why were you at the free clinic?”

“Give me the glass!” He took a gulp. Then another. He continued until the glass was empty. “Superb! But it is not from a real box!” He slammed the glass to the ground, shattering what was once my favorite wine goblet. Maybe goblet is a stretch. It was a Snoopy mug I got at the thrift store when I was in college. Still.

“But it’s organic, sir.” He loves the organic. He believes that pesticides are responsible for his chronic kidney stones, as well as the voices he hears in his head. I wasn’t gonna be the one to tell him otherwise.

“Organic? Indeed?” He picked up the box.

“And it’s got a screw top. You love screw tops.”

“It is true! I love them!” To prove this, he unscrewed the top. Then he screwed it back on. Then off. Then on. Off. On. Rinse. Repeat. His mustache got all twitchy with joy.

“Read what it says on the side,” I suggested. He loves reading the sides of boxes. Buy the man a box of Fruity Pebbles, give him a pencil, and he’ll spend hours trying to figure out a puzzle designed for eight-year-olds.

“It says here that Green Path wines are made to satisfy the most discerning wine buyer!”

“You’re a discerning wine buyer. Is it up to your standards?”

“Is what up to my standards?!”

“The wine in your hands.”

“No idea!”

I took the box from him. The container says that the Chardonnay, “displays ripe nectarine characters with vibrant notes of tropical fruit salad.” Sure. All I tasted was cheap wine. It goes on to say that, “It’s a superbly balanced wine that fills the mouth with flavor and has a lingering finish.”

It filled my mouth, alright, but just because it’s got flavor doesn’t make it good. Same with the lingering part. Morning breath lingers. My ex-girlfriend lingered. That creepy guy who hangs out by the elementary school lingers.

I found the wine to be palatable, with a crisp intro, followed by a hug of intense wine flavor, followed by a quick reach-around of burn as it went down my throat. But as none of you care what I thought of the wine, I decided to ask the expert. Again.

“Is this a wine you’d recommend to our discerning readers?”

He shrugged, then tipped the box upside-down, emptying its contents into his gullet. I couldn’t tell if he was swallowing or gurgling or possibly training himself to resist waterboarding. When he finished, he tossed the box aside.

“So?” I asked.

“So what?!”

“The wine you nimrod! The wine! How was it!”

“What wine?”

“GAAAAAAA!”

Hardy’s 2008 Riesling

Let me begin by saying how much I enjoy writing wine reviews while actually consuming the beverage in question. Yeah, so my typing skills go south rather fast, but it makes for a much more entertaining evening.

“Quit bogarting the box!” the Generalissimo said. Well, maybe he slurred it just a bit. We’d been going at it for a few hours.

“Kiss my ass!” I said.

“That’s the spirit!” He slapped me on the back, hard enough to knock the box of Hardy’s 2008 Riesling out of my hands.

I’m a big fan of the Riesling. It’s sweet. It’s nice when chilled, and equally so when not. No one hates Riesling, making it an ideal wine to bring to someone’s house. But mainly, it’s a pleasant drink before, during, and after dinner. Can’t say that about most other wines. Well, except for the fortified ones, but those don’t really count, and they don’t go all that well with paella. Riesling? Lovely with paella.

“Tell them about the wine!”

“I am.” I’m not. My bad.

It’s yellow. It’s slightly sweet, but not like a desert wine, or even an off-dry Riesling. It’s not too tart, not too pungent, and it doesn’t leave my esophagus reaching for the Tums. It’s not the most flavorful wine I’ve ever had, but it’s got alcohol in it. And really, what’s more important than that?

“Tell them about the wine!”

“I did!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Vive a France!”

What he said. The box says that it is, “A refreshing, crisp wine with intense lime and lemon flavor and a soft lingering finish.”

Sure. And I’m the Queen of Norway. The only lemon or lime I tasted came from the Jell-o we had for dinner. The fact is, it’s not going to win any awards for complexity or its subtle nose of citrusy goodness or its palate of mooseberries. It’s simple, it’s easy to dink, and it’s cheap when you think about how many normal bottles are in that Mylar pouch.

Drink it. Don’t drink it. I don’t care. Now leave me alone. The Generalissimo is trying to get Zak the intern to join him in a spirited game of Twister.

“Put your pants back on you crazy bastard!” I yelled. Ah, screw it. Where’s that box of wine?

2007 Bandit Merlot

“What is this?” the Generalissimo asked when I handed him the container.

“It’s called wine.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“But the container...”

“I know, I know. It’s not a box in the way you know and love them, but it’s still box-like.”

“But, where is the spout?”

“It’s got a screw cap.”

“Blasphemy!”

I unscrewed the top and poured him a glass. “Give it a shot.”

He stared at the glass, his lips curled into a frown that matched the curve of his mustache. He picked up the glass, tentatively bringing it to his nose. He sniffed.

“It smells like box wine.” He swirled it. “It looks like box wine.” He closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, and poured the contents down his throat. He swallowed. His eyes popped open. “Indeed! It tastes like box wine! It is...magnificent!”

Magnificent might be a stretch. It’s not bad, as wines go. The taste is smooth without being bitter. The box wisely didn’t try to tell me it had subtle hints of cranberry or a nose of ripe melon, but instead tried to convince me of the value of wine sold in a container like this. It had a list of ten reasons, but only a few struck a cord with me. Number 2: more wine. Number 3: lower shipping weight=less fuel emissions. Number 8: made largely of renewable resources (I’m hoping they meant the box). Number 10: you can crush it on your forehead. That last one was by far the most important.

“It tastes like a freshly caught mule, ripened over a roaring flame, then plunged into the mountain spring waters of the Sahara!”

“Um...”

“It smells like the Generalissima after she’s bathed!”

“Wow, that’s way too much information—”

“I give it seven mustaches!”

“Out of?”

“Out of what?!”

“Out of how many mustaches?”

“I like piñatas!”

Bandit’s 2007 Merlot is good. I’d drink it again. That’s all that matters.

2007 Bota Box Pinot Grigio

This was my first foray into the exciting world of boxed wine, and the Generalissimo insisted we start off with something simple: a 2007 Bota Box Pinot Grigio.

Thank God.

My wine palate is a lot like my finger painting palate: minimal, trending toward the mundane, with an odd fascination toward anything showcasing shiny colors and smelling faintly of vanilla.

The Pinot Grigio was fine. It smelled like wine, tasted like wine, and didn’t burn my throat on the way down. The box said it “has rich aromas of tropical fruit and citrus which perfectly complement its light, crisp flavors of pears and peaches.” Um, okay. All I tasted was a slightly sweet wine with undercurrents of mediocrity and a light dusting of alcohol.

“It has the nose of a much younger woman, with extracts of nutmeg and allspice!” The Generalissimo sniffed his glass like he knew what he was doing.

“Nutmeg?”

“I certainly hope so!”

“And the taste?” I asked.

“Tastes great! Less filling!”

“I meant—”

“I can taste the ocean! And the subtle aroma of misplaced keys, interrupted by an incandescent effervescence of intransigence!”

“Huh?”

“I like it!”

“Effervescence of intransigence?”

“Indubitably! I give it six mustaches!”

“Out of?”

“Out of petty cash!” He drained his glass and went searching for the box. Again.

I’ll give it a:

B