Mourning Shafer: Red Wine You Can Take With You.

Through a series of unusual events which I'll simply refer to as the Internet Nineties, I came to own a single thousand-dollar bottle of wine.

This wine competed only with my couch for "most expensive possession", as I'm not one for pricey self-indulgences. Too cheap to afford proper storage, I let him sit on my shelf. Too cheap to afford air conditioning, I exposed the boite to a range of temperatures, from the low 60's to the 100s.

A bit more on the liquid: He was a double magnum of Shafer Hillside Select '93 Cabernet, signed by the wine maker.

Though we both inhabited the same home for seven years, Shafer kept to himself. I'd look at him from across the room, pet him lovingly, and dust him occasionally; always trying to make sure he was comforable. I'd plan when I could introduce him to my friends, trying to find a time when he'd be comfortable and at his best. In these plans, I was extremely careful about who I would get to meet him -- a group who didn't appreciate his quirky beauty would be a waste of time, and of Shafe.

Last weekend, when moving to Park Slope, Shafe finally spoke to me. I was wrapping him in bubbles to ensure a safe passage, and tapped his cork keppe with my finger. It was moist, and blood red. I look down and saw that my finger was stained.

I called my neighborhood restaurant, and explained the situation to Perky the owner, who asked that I bring Shafer in immediately for a diagnosis. I walked the (very heavy) bottle to the restaurant, swaddled in side towels, and nestled in my bosom. Perky grabbed the bottle as I entered, unable to contain his disgust for my neglect.

Perk removed his prized screw from pants pocket and inserted it assertively. Shafer yielded, leaving cork crumbs on the bar. Patrons gasped. All eyes were on Shafer, and the stories came out. Of the '49 Lafites in far worse shape, tasting better than sex. Of the "far more expensive bottles" tasting like swill. One particular patron started to question me, "When did you get it?" "How much did it cost?" "How long had you had it?" "Why didn't you take better care of it?" I finally asked her to please, woman, show a bit of respect, hoping to put an end to her ill-timed banter.

Fifteen minutes after opening, Perk poured Shafe into delicate bordeaux glasses. He swirled, he sniffed, he consumed. He pronounced it dead on arrival.

I wasn't so sure. You see, the nose was wonderful...deep and rich and I'll spare you the rest of the wine talk. But once he was in my mouth, he tasted like, well, like a lot of what I'd been drinking for the last 13 years: cheap red wine.

Maybe I'd been watching too my Grey's Anatomy, but although Perk claimed corkage, I wasn't ready to write him off so fast. We could resuscitate! Or, we could educate! If my wonderful wine was ruined, I could at the very least have an education. I mean, how often does one get to drink a thousand dollars worth of disappointment? When I drank it I didn't recoil the way I do when I drink sour milk. I mean, it wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. As they say, even bad pizza is good.

Shouldn't that go for red wine too? I mean, sometimes I show up for a date, and I'm not looking great. Am I asked to go home? Refused a meal? When I show up at famiily functions after having gained a few, do they ask me to sleep on the porch? Come on. Where's the love, the inclusion? Can't we cut Shafe a break?

Perk was quickly becoming frustrated. He explained corkage to me by saying over and over, "It's corked and you're not drinking it." Since he knew I was not the relenting kind, he pulled a fine bottle of cab from the shelf, for comparisons sake.

It was wonderful. Tasted like burgundy-colored velvet. Like licking richness. I wanted to sit with it and drink and not talk to anyone. I just wanted a moment alone to explore it, get inside it and let it get inside me. This was not the feelings I had for Shafe, though I felt that his demise was of my own making. Perk left, and I was alone with my thoughts.

I walked over to a table where I was meeting friends (to celebrate). I asked the barkeep to pour us a round, and he resisted, as Perk had instructed him to NOT serve this wine, no matter what. I convinced him that a taste was not a serving, and we should at least have tastes.

My friends tried the wine, and were as puzzled as I. So it wasn't great, but it wasn't HORRIBLE. What is this whole corkage thing about? Maybe it just needed to open it a bit (it had been 13 years, after all. Who wouldn't be a little fuhklempt?) I mean, could we get sick from corked wine? Not for nothing, but I was sitting with 2 doctors, 2 NY newspaper editors, and a Fullbright scholar. Not a completely moronic bunch, and if American education is worth a damn, we should have a bit of sense among us.

We asked to be served the wine. The chef arrived and insisted we order a proper bottle. We were somewhat embarrassed by our lack of ability to pick up on the subtle corkage notes, and even more afraid of appearing gauche. So we ordered a bottle. I, however, stuck with a gin martini.

So let me be a warning to you, fair maidens and knights. When you find yourself fantasizing about a bottle of wine, looking at it, loving it, dusting it, for the love of god, don't forget to enjoy it. If that damn bottle hadn't spoken to me, I would have shlepped it around for ages, waiting for the perfect moment. If this doesn't have you running for your wine shelves, and you're still feeling that hesitation, call me. I'll drink it with you.


RED WINE VINEGAR
And poor Shafe didn't even get a proper burial. Don't let this happen to you. If life hands you mediocre wine, make vinegar!

See the following sites for vinegar casks:
Leeners: 2 casks and books

Grape and Granary (instructions)

4 Gallon Glass Cask with Stand

French Oak Cask