The Bowdoin Orient

After eight months, 11 columns, 5873 words, 15.4 liters of wine and a grand total of four Bowdoin Orient online comments (Special thanks to “JC Strobaugh,” “Bear Grillis,” “eicrow,” and “Eduquest!”), our illustrious tenure at the Bottom of the Barrel is coming to a close. Though we have prided ourselves on our disruptive approach to collegiate wine criticism, we must also acknowledge that we too stand on the shoulders of giants. Therefore, for our final entry, we would like to offer an homage to Bryce Ervin and Brandon Oullette’s canonical April 17, 2015 installment: “Wine juice boxes: an Ivies alternative to bring our your inner child.” [Note that the following is a cross-platform, hypertextual companion to our celebrated April 25, 2016, Monday night master class “Bottom of the Barrel Presents: An Evening with Martin and Will: Imbibing on a Budget: A Vinophile’s Guide to Ivies.”]

We managed this year to find some metaphorical liquid diamonds in the proverbial rough of Hannaford’s wine aisle, but because of our self-imposed $10 budget constraint, we have also drunk a lot of shit wine. As a result, we have become viticultural virtuosos of jazz-like improvisation, adroitly converting our duds into more palatable blended beverages. Mimosas, sangria, even the exotic kalimotxo (red wine and Coca-Cola) are straight-shooting arrows in our quiver of taste.

However, our literary forefathers enlightened us to the potential for a drinkable Ivies wine that can be consumed unadulterated and without concern for grave glassware-induced injury. In a stunning Shakespearean betrayal, we sojourned to Bootleggers rather than Hannaford for our last dive to the Bottom of the Barrel. The tony wine refrigerator lining the back wall impressed us immediately. Drawn to the hypnotizing hum of properly preserved wine, we soon found exactly what we wanted. Just barely within reach on the top shelf stood two prismatic 1 L Tetra Pack® containers of Bandit® Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay ($7.99). Boxed wine seemed a natural extension of our tendency towards hexahedral beverage consumption, as evidenced by our well-documented Facebook official relationship with Boxed Water®.

Twisting open the conveniently re-sealable plastic lid, we were surprised to find two crisp whites sequestered within the aesthetically pleasing packaging. We expected a wine that claims to have been “born to run” to be revolutionary in all aspects, but perhaps the real act of rebellion was managing to combine extreme mobility with dependably good flavors. We wholeheartedly endorse Bandit® and its myriad of varieties as the key to a safe Dionysian Ivies experience.

Despite our longstanding pecuniary feud with the editorial staff, we would be remiss if we did not thank the Orient for providing us with an occasionally read public platform in which to hone our wine-based bona fides. Look out for our upcoming blog featuring our reviews of the Mongolian delicacy airag.

Tonight’s Soundtrack: “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel (from "The Graduate: Music from the Broadway Comedy").

Will: “I hope this column gets me endorsed for ‘entrepreneurship’ and ‘editorial experience’ on LinkedIn.”

Martin: “Is this column a failure if I still think all white wines taste the same?”

Nose: 2/5Body: 3/5Mouthfeel: 4/5Legs: ?/5​Taste: 4/5

This month, your esteemed critics were faced with a predicament that has plagued sitcom writers since the beginning of time—namely whether to produce a holiday-themed installment before or after the true day of celebration. Luckily, fulfilling our remaining Kickstarter rewards from last semester’s wildly successful $135 bacchanalia impressed upon us the necessity of delivering this review in advance of Passover. Thus, we have finally brought to fruition Will’s sororal obligation to sample Manischewitz Concord Grape wine.

While France and Israel have both developed robust Kosher wine industries, the Manischewitz bottle is what most American Jews reach for when celebrating Seder or Shabbat. Despite Martin’s preemptive chiding by a fellow Hannaford shopper when purchasing the wine, our consumption took place under decidedly non-ceremonial circumstances. However, we took care to pair our drinking with one of Manischewitz’s other Kosher offerings: Everything Matzah—an essential nosh not only for times of lessened leaven, but also for all 353, 354, 355, 383, 384 or 385 days of the lunar year.

The Passover season also allowed your esteemed critics to indulge their shared passion for musical theater, as the obvious soundtrack to our night’s proceedings was “Fiddler on the Roof.” Though we at first erroneously settled upon the 1995 Anthony Newley rendition, we were quick to correct our mistake and substitute in the exemplary original 1964 cast recording, anchored by legendary thespian Zero Mostel. The emotional roller coaster we rode from “Prologue: Tradition” to “Anatevka” proved the perfect accompaniment to our prolonged consumption of the generously sized bottle.

Though the 1.5L Magnum ($8.99) provided double the usual quantity of wine, its wide neck foiled our normal decanting method with the VinOair. Even without this aerating augmentation, the Vitis labrusca-corn syrup medley manifested itself in a powerfully “grapey” nose and mucilaginous mouthfeel. We immediately had transcultural flashbacks to the Scuppernong debacle of last January 29, but the ritualistic qualities of the Manischewitz proved much more comforting than its similarly sweet cousin. We were then transported even further back to the tweenage joy—real and imagined—of swallowing thimblesworths of “Mani” at bar and bat mitzvahs, dreams of adult beverage adulation whirring in our heads.

Now ready to make good on those earlier aspirations, we find that this wine performed poorly by every single college metric we have developed to date. However lacking in taste the Manischewitz may have been, it more than succeeded in reminding us of the rich cultural heritage of the Jewish people. Recreational Manischewitz use may prove to be unwise, and JSwipe may not pass muster as a digital Yente, but as we neared the end of the bottle, our yearning for connection was satisfied. Chag Sameach! Additional Notes:

Tonight’s Soundtrack: “Fiddler on the Roof” (Original Broadway Cast Recording)Will: “Can my quote be, ‘Could whoever took my boots with yellow laces from Red Brick please them return to me?’”Martin: “If I was an Israeli trap DJ, my name would be ‘Lazer Wolf.’” Nose: 3.6/5Body: 1.8/5Mouthfeel: 1.8/5Legs: 3.6/5Taste: 1.8/5

Long-time readers of our column will know that your esteemed critics are not only devoted aficionados of Bravo’s myriad “Real Housewives” series but also connoisseurs of fine wines. We can hardly go more than a few paragraphs without mentioning Teresa Giudice’s legal travails or Phaedra Parks’s thriving funerary business or Andy Cohen’s dog Wacha. Thus, it should come as no surprise that we have been dying to review one of Bethenny Frankel’s Skinnygirl® wines for our column. Thanks to a wonderful closeout sale at Hannaford this week that knocked the price of the 2012 Chardonnay down to $5.89, the oenophile entrepreneur’s wares finally met our singular review criterion. Skinnygirl®: The Wine Collection Chardonnay boasts the “complex, lingering flavors” of everyone’s favorite white, while still managing to come in at only 100 calories per standard serving. Strangely absent from the label, however, is the statistic that most other wines average only 128 calories per standard serving. Nonetheless, we wished to immerse ourselves in the lifestyle transmediated by way of Skinnygirl®’s intertextual advertising campaign. Could anyone become a Skinnygirl® as long as they identified as “sophisticated and sassy?” Or was it a privilege conferred upon an elite few, those willing to submit themselves to the aspirational dictums formerly espoused by Bethenny Frankel but now enjoined by the crypto-plutocratic regime of Suntory Holdings Limited? Does drinking Skinnygirl® make one a skinny girl, a Skinny Girl or a Skinnygirl®? We momentarily acquiesced to the idealized lifestyle peddled by this multinational conglomerate. But in doing so, did we lose any flavor when we said goodbye to those 28 calories, or, rather, does the wine taste better coupled with the knowledge that we can safely eat 14 Tic Tacs guilt-free at some other point in the day? The Chardonnay poured out of the screw-top bottle quite loudly, surprising your critics with a babbling brook of well-aged white. We made sure to follow the label’s suggested pairing with “food and friends,” ignoring the potentially cannibalistic interpretation of the phrase. We soon realized that the Chardonnay weighed in at a paltry 10% alcohol by volume, much lower than our previously reviewed bottles. This diminutive percentage may have contributed to the fact that the Skinnygirl® tasted very much like juice, a comparison your esteemed critics—unlike many other published reviewers—do not make lightly. As a result, the Chardonnay was eminently drinkable, though it did seem to lack the brio of other previously sampled wines. The overall result was much like drinking Diet Coke after a lifetime of imbibing Coca-Cola Classic. That being said, the faint peach intimations lulled us into such easy, convivial conversation that we felt empowered to embark on our own entrepreneurial endeavors. In the end, Skinnygirl® Chardonnay failed to deliver any memorable flavor or meaningful caloric savings, and the packaged fantasy of sinless sin promised by the promotional material evaporated as soon as we finished the bottle. Nevertheless, much like the reality show that sired it, Skinnygirl® allowed us to temporarily transcend the banality of our post-break Monday night blues. While the production status of “Real Housewives of Brunswick” may be still up in the air, any budding wine critics interested in pursuing a year of scholarship—and a life of learning—in the viticultural arts should contact mkrzywy@bowdoin.edu or wdanfort@bowdoin.edu for more information on continuing the illustrious legacy of Bottom of the Barrel. Additional Notes:Tonight’s Soundtrack: Billy JoelWill: “Do you think the CPC could help me become a reality television personality, talk show host, author, chef and entrepreneur?”Martin: “This is the flirtiest wine I’ve ever tasted.” Nose: 2/5Body: 1.5/5Mouthfeel: 3/5Legs: 3/5Taste: 2.5/5

There are these two young Orient columnists walking through Hannaford, and they happen to meet a managing editor walking the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys, how’s the wine?” And the two young columnists walk on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes,

“What the hell is wine?”

With apologies to David Foster Wallace, this anecdote offers some insight into the ontological confusion facing your esteemed critics this past week. At some point in the preceding days, we had been visited by the notion to expand the frontiers of our journalistic endeavor and review sake, the traditional Japanese fermented rice wine. Emboldened by this sense of culinary adventure, we set off to procure the necessary ingredient for our review. The Gekkeikan bottle on the bottom shelf of the wine aisle immediately grabbed our attention, with an arrestingly simple typographic label and a luminous green tint to the glass.

Once back in the safe eyrie of Coles Tower, we were soon disarmed by the ease of the screw-off top, which rendered impotent our arsenal of uncorking accouterments upon which we have leaned so heavily this semester in our criticism. Lacking traditional Japanese serving vessels, we were forced to rely on the heretofore-unquestioned orthodoxy of our Libbey stemware.  Our doubt and uncertainty were further compounded by the handful of serving and tasting techniques offered on the back label. How could we neophytes choose between the hot traditional manner and chilled on the rocks? We split the difference and sampled the beverage at room temperature. Upon pouring, the sake resembled a faint white wine, with a stronger pair of legs than one would expect from a similarly hued Pinot Gris. 

Despite our best attempts to understand the sake within our carefully constructed critical schema, the first sip obliterated our finely woven hermeneutical tapestry. The thin body apparent in the glass belied a syrupy viscosity that assaulted our taste buds and lingered in our olfactory membranes, as if someone had beguiled us into drinking ethanol. Like a work of analytical cubism, the sake broke up the basic flavors of rice into disorienting mix of its component parts without offering any sort of gustatory cohesion. Despondent—and just a bit nauseous—we spiraled into confusion.

Over the past few months, we had immersed ourselves so fully in the world of wine that we seemed primed to take on any challenge. We knew wine and we knew how to taste. But our conception of wine had become so hermetic and self-referential that even something as minimally divergent as drinking beverages fermented from rice rather than grapes could dispel the illusion of this column being our Künstlerroman.

Had we ever really known what wine was? We, as published connoisseurs, loathed our selection for this week, yet many laypersons had extolled its virtues. Were we hindered by our own expertise, or had our column just been constructed upon a false premise, with only witty aphorisms and sly references to support it? If rice can be made into wine, then what should one call the fermented product of other grains if not wine as well? Had the fiat of precedent falsely circumscribed us to view the world in only red and white? Or, rather, were the amber hues of beer part of our journalistic birthright as well?

For our own physical and metaphysical welfare, we will refrain from Gekkeikan sake for the time being, and would recommend doing the same. However, we’ve heard that Ballast Point makes a damn good IPA.

Valentine’s Day is here once more to remind us that Christian martyrdom is almost always rewarded with a great commercialized holiday. If the onslaught of winter assignments has left you scrambling for V-Day plans, never fear—your esteemed wine critics have you covered. Together, Martin and Will have distilled their respective romantic histories and added a dash of their trademark wine-based wit in order to bring you, our beloved readers, a fool-proof guide to a satisfying Valentine’s Day, with or without a significant other. While the amorous advice of two single senior men who spend more time on LinkedIn than on Tinder may seem suspect, our step-by-step plan is guaranteed to work. However, if our plans do fail to spark the flame this weekend, please direct all queries or complaints to orientopinion@bowdoin.edu.

Step 1: Purchase one bottle of Red Fire Old Vine Zinfandel ($8.99) from Hannaford. Billed as the “essential BBQ wine,” this Italian red is sure to ignite the passion of young collegiate hearts in this winter of our discontent. Though this pugliese Zinfandel suggests pairing with the “bold flavors and spice combos of barbecue” (note the change in orthography), we suspect the true intent of the original Italian tasting notes may not have survived the translation into English. Instead, we invite you to couple the wine with the second-tier chocolate of a Russell Stover assortment ($4.99, also from Hannaford). While the chocolate may lack the signature umami of grilled meats, it is hard to ignore the widely-acknowledged aphrodisiacal power of cacao products in mid-February.

Step 2: Attempt to open your Zinfandel with a Cork Pops Auto-Corker before discovering that your compressed air canister—an essential element of the device—is mysteriously empty after only two uses. Lament the all-too-human limitations of the Silicon Valley culinary technocracy before resorting to traditional Luddite methods. In wine-tasting, as in romance, the simplest way is often the best way.

Step 3: Exalt at the continued successful performance of the VinOAir vacuum aerator and pour the appropriate (and responsible!) number of glasses for the evening ahead. Marvel at the subtle jammy, sweet—but not unbecoming—medley of flavors presented by Red “Fuego” Fire. Exclaim how lucky you are to have found such a fantastic bargain wine at a time when the other sweaty-palmed would-be-romantics at Hannaford are nervously reaching for whatever slight innuendo-labeled wine they can find (your esteemed critics had the class and conviction to ignore the “Menage à Trois” and “Spin the Bottle” wines prominently featured in the aisle). Then, as you plop one of the Stover’s confections into your mouth, argue about the proper pronunciation of caramel (while Merriam-Webster accepts both variants, we all know which is correct) in your first real lovers’ quarrel.

Step 4: Congratulate yourself on executing a perfect Valentine’s Day evening, all for less than $15. Who says that romance requires overly priced cards or a dinner out to a restaurant like Trattoria Athena, where you may have happened to go for the past three years with someone else in tow before you had your heart cruelly torn out of your chest and stomped on in front of you? If, like Jason Derulo, you find yourself “ridin’ solo” this Valentine’s Day, take pride in your newly heightened degree of fiscal autonomy and treat yourself to another bottle of Red Fire Old Vine Zinfandel with all the money you’ve saved by being single. Rest assured that your esteemed critics will be doing the same in short order.

Like the Magi of Matthew 2:1-12, your esteemed critics have returned to Bowdoin bearing gifts from their distant homelands. From the maritime reaches of Silicon Valley, Will Danforth brings forth two tokens of the future. The first, the “VinOair,” is a plastic spigot that instantaneously aerates the wine through vacuum-tube technology. The second, the Cork Pops “Auto-Corker,” guarantees forceful wine stopper ejection via compressed air.

The introduction of such technological marvels raises serious ethical quandaries about the veracity of our expert appraisals going forward. Like Icarus, now we too soar at the boundaries of human potential. Have we transgressed against the laws of God, man and our editors through artificial aeration? At the dawn of this new year, does our use of these devices portend a millenarian shift for our column?

Perhaps these questions are best left to the philosophers; we have wine to drink.From the rolling hills of the Southern Piedmont, Martin brings a relic of our nation’s winemaking past: Duplin Winery’s Scuppernong. Derived from the muscadine, one of the only grapes native to North America and the alleged favorite of Founding Father Thomas Jefferson, the Scuppernong makes our tasting feel like yet another chapter in the perennial struggle between tradition and modernity. 

Despite the historical import of the Scuppernong to Martin’s home of North Carolina, his public school education failed to enlighten him about his state’s viticultural heritage. He hoped that North Carolina’s best could hold its own against wines tried in previous installments with provenance in Will’s home state of California.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Scuppernong reinforces widely held stereotypes about the pace of life in the South. The wine imparted a flavor reminiscent of sweet-sticky molasses as it slid slowly down our throats. Quoth James Jelin ’16, “This is incredibly sugary. Please don’t make me drink the rest of this [glass].” Indeed, each quaff left our mouths coated with a cloying residue that made us feel as though we were rapidly developing dental cavities. It was as if a six-year-old child had imagineered his understanding of wine into existence.

Nonetheless, our journalistic integrity dictated that we, as well as James Jelin, finish the Scuppernong. Given the historical success of this variety, the wine’s viscous and saccharine nature left us confused as to how anyone could finish more than a minute sampling. As we sacrificed ourselves on the altar of our column, we sought elucidation as to the wine’s enigmatic appeal from the bottle’s label. Though the seagull and lighthouse graphics may have been composed of Microsoft clip art, we found them oddly comforting. With outstretched wings, the bird ruptured the frame of its rectangular sticker, offering us the promise that, like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, we too could ascend to a higher plane of existence if we just kept flying. 

Enlightened by our journey, we finally concluded that the Scuppernong was nothing more than an inexpensive and disappointing alternative to port or sherry. We can only hope to avoid a renaissance of this anachronistic offering in our lifetimes.  

As part of their recovery from Rossi’s Burgundy blunder, your esteemed critics looked for rejuvenation grounded in traditional American values. What better way to satisfy this yen than Liberty Creek’s Cabernet Sauvignon, located in the bulk shelf at Hannaford? The cracked Liberty Bell on the label pealed glad tidings that resonated in our marrow, promising fulfillment of our founder’s wishes for “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness” (LibertyCreekWine.com, 2015). Inspired by our forebears’ own zeal for cheap and/or untaxed beverages, we utilized the Powers of Hamilton’s dependable tender to acquire this revolutionary rotgut.

Once installed in Yellow House, we quickly realized the errors of our patriotic passion. While Liberty Creek boasted a great wine smell, this proved to be merely an obfuscating veil. Our quaffs exposed a faint fruit-flavored serum. Despite its invocation of American exceptionalism, Liberty Creek was far from noteworthy. Indeed, subsequent examination of our tasting notes revealed that we drafted only a cursory description of the wine.

Hoping to rectify our situation, we looked abroad to Martin’s semester in Europe. Fond memories of Christkindlmarkts drifted upon the wintry winds that buffeted 75 Harpswell Road. Remembering how the autochthonous glühwein had warmed his spirits in Berlin last year, Martin hit upon a way to salvage this week’s installment of BotB and simultaneously indulge our latent Teutonic tendencies.

Cobbled together from various Internet sources, our Orient-approved mulled wine recipe— listed in our additional notes and perfect for any celebration secular, Judeo-Christian, or otherwise—metaphorically hit the proverbial spot. And despite the characterization of cinnamon as the “bane of American cuisine” by Kritika Oberoi, Cornell ’16, we channeled House Atreides and let the spice flow.

In what was Martin’s inaugural use of his home’s two kitchens, we began by creating a mélange of sugar, water, cinnamon sticks, oranges, and cloves. After evaporating most of the water to create a concentrated syrup, we poured in a quarter of our remaining Liberty Creek, and the resulting mixture could only be described as a “wine-flavored energy drink.” To amend this botheration, we emptied the rest of our bottle into our mulling vessel, throwing in an extra handful of cloves because as college seniors, we love nothing more than living dangerously.We kept a watchful eye on the contents of the pot in order to ensure that our wine was heated without evaporating the Liberty Creek’s greatest and only asset — its 12% alcohol content. After a sufficient period of mulling, our concoction was ready to consume. In order to protect our supple and well-moisturized hands, we substituted ceramic mugs for our usual Libby stemware.

The glühwein turned out to be just what we were hoping to cook up on this blustery winter’s eve. The mulling process imbued the wine with a comforting, nostalgic aroma and a vivifying warmth, and it is safe to say that Liberty Creek has never been so enjoyable. In short, it tasted like the love your esteemed critics had been searching for their entire collegiate careers.Liberty Creek’s wallet-friendly price was certainly alluring, but it was only through culinary transmutation that we—like the Yuletide alchemists of yore—were able to harness the true potential of this Cabernet Sauvignon and turn viticultural lead into gold.

Despite Bernie Sanders' best efforts, casino capitalism still reigns supreme in the world of collegiate wine criticism. Thanks to the generous soft money donations to our Kickstarter (SuperPAC), we found ourselves saddled with the troublesome burden of spending $135 on one bottle of wine. Freed from the tyranny of the Powers-that-be on the Orient editorial staff, we embarked upon a glorious odyssey.

Hannaford, with its plebeian $29.35 cap on wine prices, could not service our prodigious need. We looked instead to the West, traveling to the distant environs of Freeport’s Bow Street Market.  Unfortunately, our journey eerily paralleled the opening pages of Stephen King’s “The Mist.” Conor Tillinghast, our normally capable chauffer, decided to take the “back route” to Freeport—inadvertently plunging us into a haze reminiscent of an Epicurial milieu.  With great courage, your esteemed critics ventured forth.

After a perilous 10-minute journey, we were rewarded with the Bow Street Market’s expertly curated back-room liquor department. We inspected the wares and, after much searching, chanced upon Bertani’s 2009 Amarone della Valpolicella—priced at a paltry $114. Emboldened by the store’s gracious cashier, we returned to Brunswick on the more orthodox freeway.

Comfortably settled in Yellow House, our first order of business was to let the wine breathe. CNN’s pre-debate coverage helped pass the half hour before we could finally imbibe our ill-gotten gains. As Lincoln Chaffee confusedly ambled upon stage, so we too ventured into a realm to which we were not sure we belonged.

A hearty pour into our trusty mason jars presented a rich velvety color heretofore obscured by Beltani’s dark-horse of a bottle. Will’s quick swish revealed the finest legs your humble critics have yet to observe. Sturdy, thick, and robust, they provided the perfect support for the full-body that greeted us upon our first taste.

What can you say about a wine that has it all? Like a 7-layered dip, each quaff imparted a multitude of distinct, yet well-blended flavors. A sweet fruity greeting gave way to a smoky, almost spicy undertone as the wine sojourned through our oral cavities. To put it bluntly, we felt the Bern. Maybe even a little Chaffee. Despite the Amarone’s overwhelming dryness, we couldn’t help but reach for more after every delectable sip.

At this point, Martin decided to update his MacBook to OS X 10.11 “El Capital” so as to remove any and all technological distractions. Even with this impediment to our note-taking abilities, the complexities of Bertani’s offering were permanently imprinted upon both of our consciousnesses. Long after we finished, this wine ignited within us a lingering warmth—the kind of warmth that only money can buy. We felt like a proverbial Scrooge Mcduck, diving into a proverbial pile of gold coins.

Readers have corked up our mailbox, clamoring to know the answer to one simple question: was it worth it? In a word, yes. In more words, if we asked to spend $114 dollars of other people’s money at Bow Street Market for a Tuesday night debate companion, we would have a hard time saying no.

Additional Notes:

Tonight’s Soundtrack: Anderson Cooper’s dulcet tones and asinine questions

Will: “This is great. Let’s launch Kickstarters every week ad nauseam.”

Martin: “I feel like Moses entering the Promised Land. But just like him, I know I won’t be here next week.”

Nose: 5/5

Body: 5/5

Mouthfeel: 5/5

Legs: 5/5

Taste: 5/5

We would like to thank our wonderful Kickstarter supporters and we look forward to delivering your rewards soon.

After glowing reviews of our column two weeks ago from both our mothers (the only women we are beholden to), we have decided to push on with Sì’s bold Pinot grigio offering. By bold, we mean that Sì boasts the most exotic wine bottle design present in Hannaford’s wine alley. Not wanting to fall victim to the sophomore slump, your esteemed critics gravitated towards the most gimmicky bottle we could find. The result is Sì’s geoduck of a bottle.

While the intention may have to been to mimic wine skins of yore, we find ourselves with an especially Freudian take on the traditional wine bottle paradigm. A cobalt blue sheen augurs a progressive take on the Pinot grigio—fitting given its grapes are oft belittled as a mutant clone of the Pinot noir.

Given its bottle's curvilinear nature, perhaps Sì stands as an abstracted homage to the shofar blown at the end of Yom Kippur (Shanah Tovah!). Regardless of symbolic significance, Sì scores points for its convenient twist-off screw cap that rendered our preponderance of novelty corkscrews unnecessary.

In an effort to bring an air of authenticity to our tastings, we paired our wine with its natural partner: extra sharp Somerdale cheddar. The cheese packaging’s explicit recommendations made this pairing an easy choice. Who are we to say no to a cheese that knows what it wants? Of course, buying cheese necessitated buying the redeemingly bland and ubiquitous Carr’s water table crackers. While this column remains devoted to wine, we can’t help but praise the crumbly texture and decidedly dairy flavor of Somerdale.

Since one reviewer foolishly forgot to chill the wine before drinking, Martin is forced to wrap a wet paper towel around the frame of bottle and place it in the refrigerator to speed the cooling process. However, Sì’s neck presents a daring challenge to wine-lovers everywhere: its parabolic curvature offers no clear hints as to proper pouring technique. We daringly proceed, anxious of spilling this ostensibly divine nectar on 14B’s majestic lion rug.

Will then graciously outlines the major tasting steps for white wines.

Our devoted adherence to these commandments resulted in a much more complex flavor. Sì coquettishly revealed hints of citrus adrift in a medium body that fully warmed your esteemed critics on a chilly 52º evening.

We were also pleased to notice that unlike last week’s Merlot, Sì offered a very visible set of legs. Unfortunately, our satisfaction diminished remarkably after that initial honeymoon phase.

What we originally took to be interesting quirks of the Pinot quickly revealed themselves to be naught but a shallow veneer. The medium body gave way to a flimsy, almost tedious feel, leaving us disenchanted with what had only recently seemed to be a promising specimen.

Sì’s fantastic bottle design and enchanting initial flavors compelled us to say “yes.” Sadly, a long-term sensory relationship with the wine left us downhearted and disappointed, forcing us to say “no” to Sì.

In order to rectify our gloom, we have embarked upon an entrepreneurial endeavor. We are excited to announce the launching of our “Top of the Barrel” Kickstarter campaign. We are seeking to crowdsource the modest sum of $100 in order to fund the purchase of a truly exceptional wine. With enticing rewards to our benefactors, we hope to successfully regale our readers with a masterful critique of outstanding bottle of remarkable vintage in the near future. Details can be found here.

We will also graciously accept physical donations in the form of Diners Club cards, travellers cheques, and Spanish doubloons.

Additional Notes:

Tonight’s Soundtrack: ABBA

Surprise guest Jay Vaidya: “Will, you just ooze consulting.”

Martin: “I can’t smell the wine tonight because I’m sick, which is a blessing and a curse.”

Nose: 2.1/5

Body: 2/5

Mouthfeel: 3/5

Legs: 3.5/5

Taste: 2.5/5

Rules were meant to be broken, and what better way to start our turn at the helm of this column than by breaking the prohibition uttered by Paul Giamatti in the award-winning film “Sideways”—“I’m not drinking any fucking Merlot.” The film looms large in our consciousness as we obstruct the wine aisle in Hannaford.  

Will’s mother expressly forbade him from watching it as a child, and despite a priest’s glowing review of the Alexander Payne project in a 2004 Sunday sermon, Martin emerged from a late-night viewing last year feeling more than ever like a 45-year-old man.

We settle on a 2013 Beringer Merlot, whose handy flavor spectrum on the back label both previews its flavor profile and renews our appreciation for Bowdoin alum/sexologist Alfred Kinsey. 

Despite lacking the bottle-recommended “grilled meats” to pair, we decant to the scenic vistas of Coles Tower and swap anecdotes to establish our viticultural bona fides (at last reckoning, Will’s summer trip to Napa barely eclipses Martin’s semester of drinking €3 bottles of tinto in Spain).

In a beautiful homage to Ryan Peabody and Dan Lipkowitz’s first column two years ago, Will spends seven minutes sawing through the wax label with one of Moulton’s finest butter knives. 

And with some MacGyver-inspired finagling, Martin finally opens the bottle with a novelty corkscrew Will snuck past the TSA en route to school.

We let the Beringer aerate in our newly purchased mason jars (Hannaford inexplicably does not stock stemware) before we taste. 

We are confronted by a strong alcohol scent but soldier on and take a sip.  The taste is milder than the smell. 

While the bottle claims hints of currants and oak, the flavor instead assumes a more generic citrusy-sour note. Will notes that the wine has no legs, appreciating how the Beringer neglects to stick to  the sides of our mason jars. 

Subsequent tastes reveal hidden flavors, leading us to a begrudging respect for a wine that seems comfortable with embracing its $7.49 identity. The overall impression is one of thinness; the wine is quite drinkable. If you like the idea of water, but hate the taste, this might be the drink for you.

Our decision to go with Merlot was willfully contrarian, an attempt to buck the decline in California Merlot cultivation in the wake of “Sideways.” 

However, Wikipedia happily informs us that the wine, made from the blue French grapes favored by blackbirds, had already enjoyed its day in the sun in the nineties thanks to a “60 Minutes” report promoting the French diet.

While we are certainly enticed by the idea of drinking Merlot as a step on the path to Continental fitness, the wide variety of interchangeable French reds means that the Beringer is unlikely to make it into a regular rotation in our theoretical wine cellars.