I don’t like Chardonnay. More specifically, I don’t like oaky, buttery Chardonnay. It’s the malolactic fermentation, the lingering buttery mouth-feel that gets me. It reminds me of a crappy gas station donut, the film that’s left on the roof of your mouth after you eat it. I can absolutely taste a Chardonnay that’s been oaked and tell you it’s Chardonnay. That’s not hard. But I swear I’m getting to the point where I can smell a wine and tell you it’s Chardonnay. Continue reading
I do yoga sometimes on Monday nights, with a group of girls and a couple of bottles of wine. I meet up with girlfriends at the wine bar for happy hour and regardless of what restaurant I’m at, I’m far more apt to be interested in the wine list than the 100 beers you have on tap. Conversely, Chef Boyfriend takes a six-pack over to his buddy’s for Friday night poker and would never think of grabbing a bottle from our cellar.