Retweet this: Taste of boring Beaujolais bears little likeness to scent

Bottom of the Barrel: A drink worthy of the gods: local mead is sweet as honey

Be this Valhalla? Nay, tonight we drink in the great hall of Tower 6A. We have fought long and hard and laid with women, men and beasts, but now the horn of plenty showers our heads with golden mead. A reward from the gods of Hannafjord aisle four for our fortnightly efforts.
Honeymaker semi-sweet mead is produced in Portland, Maine. Many meads are simply a type of wine, aged to allow the honey-derived sugar to convert to alcohol. Others may be brewed, hopped, spiced, and fruitened (a technical term). Ours is made from honey and water, simple by design.
Meads are some of the oldest alcoholic drinks in existence, dating back to 2000 BC across Eurasia. Mead’s first professional review came from the Brythonic bard Taliesin, in his song Tanu y Med, which peaked at No. 3 on the Brythonic Billboard Hot 100 in 550 AD. Mead was famously consumed by the Norse gods and dead warriors in Valhalla, where it sprung forth from the udders of the goat Heiðrún. Unfortunately, we struggled to find a mead goat, so we bought a bottle from Hannaford and duct taped it to Jordan Goldberg ’14’s belly.
While suckling at Jordan’s singular teat, we were struck by the incredibly rich golden color, effervescent in the torchlight of our banquet hall. Our drinking horns amplified the sweet honey nose. Anything normally expected in the nose of a wine was nowhere to be found; a pleasant scent of honey was the start and finish. We weren’t that surprised when the taste followed suit. A strong, sweet body was moderately supported by accents of light wildflower and a noticeable alcohol presence with a touch of dryness on the back end. We were happy to find that the mead is not at all syrupy; the body stays light and refreshing rather than heavy and cloying.
In Norse mythology, mead imbues whoever imbibes it with either berserker rage or poetic inspiration and intelligence. Mead—as well as immortal goat milk—has its origins in divine spittle. When the gods of Æsir and Vanir made their peace, they hawked heavenly loogies into a vat; from their spittle the man Kvasir was born.
Kvasir was quite intelligent. In fact, he was so smart that he embarrassed a bunch of dwarves, who, in turn, became angry with him. They killed him and poured his blood into a new set of two vats and a pot, respectively named Óðrerir, Óðrørir and Óðrœrir.
In Denver, Colo., pots are still named to this day, but more along the lines of “Sour Diesel” and “Maui Wowie.” Back to Kvasir. The dwarf mixed his blood with honey, told the gods he had drowned in his own intelligence (specifics on this are still unclear), and mead was born. Then it was somehow put in that goat.
Whether found in vats, goats, or on the shelves of a local Brunswick supermarket, mead is a wonderful way to expand your palate. Who knows? It may just give you the wisdom to ace that test next week.
Or maybe, you’ll get written up for berserker rage. Either way, pour a horn of Honeymaker, recite a skål or sumbel, and drink up, for the battlefields of Ásgarðr shall await us in the morn.
Additional Notes:
Ryan: I think I grew a third chest hair.
Dan: Tanu y Med is on my “spring jams” playlist.
Nose: 3/5Body: 4/5Mouthfeel: 4.5/5Taste: 4.5/5
Pairs well with noble death. $13.99 at Hannaford.

Bottom of the Barrel: Post-Ivies whine: the nectar of Nantucket

Ah, Nantucket. Take a deep breath and smell that salty sea air. The land of decadence and high society, an island of 20th century Gatsbys frolicking in the summer sun. Yachts, seabreeze, seagulls: the American dream. With a nod to CBS’s The Jeffersons: “We’re moving on up…To a deluxe apartment in the sky [over Nantucket].”
And what do they do in Nantucket, these captains of high society, fame, and fortune? They sail across the whitecaps in their yachts, wearing only pale red shorts and sipping the local vintage. We recreated the atmosphere by washing our underwear with red sweatshirts, taking to the sea in Ryan’s newly purchased kayak. The only thing left was the wine. The nectar of Nantucket, if you will.
Nantucket Nectars Grapeade wine was dateless; its label gave no hint of its age or origin. The wealthy residents of Nantucket drink nothing but the best. This ambrosia of aristocracy is above such sycophantic labels as age or alcohol by volume. If we were to mingle with our peers successfully, we needed to figure this wine out on our own.
The avant-garde bottle surprised us with a Snapple like pop-cap (no time for wine openers when you’re yachting). Nevertheless, we managed to open the bottle. The exterior of the beverage’s vessel is emblazoned with a clump of what could only be Nantucket grapes. Massive orbs of crimson and violet rest in quiet repose on the grass. Nantucket is a small island nation off the coast of Mass-o-chumpchump. It remains populated with the wealthy and wonderful and isolated from the plebes of the mainland. Nantucket is governed by what can only be described as a “totalitarian theocracy.” A man known only as Murray controls access to his trademark red vintage with an iron fist. Fortunately, this local wine is sold in Maine.
Grapeade shines translucently, a pale orange-red that shows little sediment. Its nose is filled with sweet, sugary grape notes, without a hint of bitterness or earth tones. Forward, fresh and dangerous. This Nantucket wine suited us perfectly.
Due to Murray’s legal system, ABV is not required to be printed. We thus have no idea how much alcohol was in our Grapeade, and we extend our compliments to the vintner on his ability to hide its flavor. The skill with which this wine was made is apparent. We noticed almost no alcohol as we drank this “ade” (an old oenological word used in Nantucket to characterize their wines).
Nectars should be drunk young and chilled, preferably on a yacht. However, the imprint on the bottom of our bottle told us that our Grapeade would be drinkable until February of 2022.
Without any trace of alcohol, the sweet nature of this wine shone through. It starts with a splash of grape on the tongue, fading to the pleasant refreshment of Nantucket spring water. A sort of granular sugar dominates the middle, leaving a nice, sugary grit on your teeth, before dropping out to leave an artificial taste of sour fruit.
You know that moment when you pee, look down, see that it’s red and say, “Maybe I should see a doctor. Oh well, it’s Ivies?” People in Nantucket do that every day. They drink Nantucket Nectars Grapeade, whether they like it or not. It is the only beverage allowed to be drunk on the Island. Be like them, drink like them. Persevere. It might seem like a long, dark road, but do you know what will be on the other side? Us, on a beach, sipping Nantucket Nectars Grapeade.
Additional Notes:
Dan: More like nom-tucket. Drink it for taste, drink it for power and prestige, drink it for Nantucket.Ryan: That was Nan-titillating.
Nose: Doesn’t matterBody: Doesn’t matterTaste: Yee-haw Nantucket
$1.89 at Bowdoin Express.

Bottom of the Barrel

Retweet this: Taste of boring Beaujolais bears little likeness to scent

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

April 17, 2014

The editors of a should-not-be-named college paper, that may or may not be too proud of publishing once a week longer than anyone else, wanted us to review Franzia Chillable Red. You all know what that tastes like.

In case you’re still wondering, it does not taste very good. Naturally, there are always worse things to drink, including: radiator fluid, chilled strawberry soup and orphan tears.

Eric Asimov at The New York Times (which publishes every day) sent out a request for reviews of Beaujolais, a French wine that neither of us had ever tried before. So in our constant bid for retweets (find us on the Twittersphere), we found ourselves sitting in Tower 6A with a bottle of 2011 Jean-Marc Burgaud Les Vignes de Thulon Beaujolais-Villages instead (#payattentiontous).

The deep red of the wine grabbed our attention right off the bat. An inky erubescent, the Beaujolais remained translucent when held up to the light. The wine resisted clinging to the glass, in line with its lower alcohol content (12.5% ABV). According to wikihow, the best way to get retweets is to reference the J.J. Abrams upcoming Star Wars: Episode VII. So be prepared, Star Wars reference dropping is about about to go down like Alderaan in episode IV.

If you haven’t noticed yet, we have an entirely self-serving agenda in writing this column. Step one: review Beaujolais instead of Franzia. Step two: get retweeted by Eric Asimov. Step three: gain Twitterverse momentum (#masstimesvelocityequalswinecolumn). Step four: get retweeted by J.J. Abrams. Step five: use our notoriety to meet our personal hero, nationally acclaimed and beloved superstar chef Guy Fieri.

If you would like to help, please submit our column to Buzzfeed (“15 pictures of wines and pandas that are better than Franzia”) or Upworthy (“These two college students drank a bottle of wine and you won’t believe what happened next!”).

Viticulture has been practiced in the Beaujolais region of France since Roman times. Modern Beaujolais wines are made primarily from the gamay grape, a 14th century grape that became popular when residents of Gamay realized that it ripened far quicker than pinot noir. Recovering from the black death, village residents had occasion to drink and began planting the grapes everywhere (because seriously, #blackdeath #winewednesday). In 1395, however, Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, declared the grapes to be full of “very great and horrible harshness” and outlawed them to increase pinot noir production. Grape cultivation retreated south to the Beaujolais region, a Degobah-like refuge.

With a relatively weak nose, this wine made us feel like we were like two patrons in a Guy Fieri restaurant, wandering in search of olfactory hints to the character of what lay before us. We were able to detect notes of blueberry and blackcurrant, with hints of sugar. As the wine warmed, alcoholic heat began venting, bringing to mind Asimov’s instructions to chill a Beaujolais slightly before drinking.

The taste stood in contrast to the nose. Hints of dark berries were trumped by a strong sour acidity and a metallic taste on the back of the tongue. The saccharine elements we recognized earlier were nowhere to be found.

You know what else is nowhere to be found? Retweets of our column. Get on that. A low alcohol content left the Beaujolais light in the mouth, with a slight tartness that intensified as the wine became warmer. Beaujolais are fresh wines, meant to be drunk at a young age. A 2011, our Beaujolais was certainly pleasant, but was not fantastic. Promised fruit tones die out early, leaving only acidity and a weak sour feeling.

For the money, you would be better off buying an order of Guy Fieri’s dragon chili cheese fries or another bottle of wine. We were left slightly bored and underwhelmed. That being said, this wine is easy to drink and perfect to bring to a party and show you’re sophisticated and deserve more twitter followers.

Additional Notes:

Dan: This wine is as great as Guy Fieri’s frosted tips.
Ryan: Still better than Franzia.

Nose: 2/5
Mouthfeel: 4/5
Taste: 2.5/5

Comments are permanently closed.