While dining at Andrea's last night I was struck by the similarities of essential characteristics between my old girlfriends and glasses of wine. For example, my first girlfriend Becky from freshman year of high school can be aptly described as "light and simple, with a fresh fruity finish." She was young but simple, like a new Beaujolais, but nothing beyond much of a nice table wine and, after a taste or two, I desired something more complex.
So I moved on to Caroline, your typical beautiful-psychotic-Ur-Bitch-with-an-estranged-skinhead- ex-boyfriend. She is best typified as a young Bordeaux: high level of tannin and a certain raw austerity. Though her bouquet was clean and fairly well-balanced, her palate had a definite astringent quality which betrayed the fact that she was rough and tart around the edges. Though she was somewhat coarse and peppery, I'm certain that over time her components would come into harmony and marry well. It's been eight years, maybe I should give her a call...
However, this particular vintage turned on me and, after gouging my heart out with raptor-esq lacquered nails, spit in my face and ran off with another man. It took me quite some time to recover, and in the interim I juiced my crippled ego with several varieties of your average white-zinfandel-in-a-box. I spent two years at the University of Miami among those straight-outta-Nappa, colorless, immature, fruit-lacking yet heavy on the apple, sweet while unripe little numbers. Then, my ego recharged, I returned to New Orleans where I met Sylvia, my exotic next-girl from Mexico whose aromas of blackberry and cherry complimented her plum and spice flavors... revealing a soft silky finish. Yet she was a bit too taut and robust for me, and though her velvety nose was both well-balanced and mature, we went our separate ways.
I wandered the dank corridors of beer for a while, cynical and disillusioned... thinking I would never find the perfect year. Then I met Crystal, whose earthy character contradicted her tangy, zestful body. She was aromatic and flowery as well, and her spicy yet subtle bouquet won me over. At last: perfection; complex, yet accessible... a cordial whose crisp palate and long-lingering finish revealed the mark of a truly great wine.
Yet she was too mischievous for me, and I was blinded by her finish. For under her noble exterior lurked the harsh and bitter taste of smoky, pungent female betrayal. I was overcome by her powerful perfume, and her insipid charms rent me in a way which Caroline never could.
But I forgive her, realizing these things are simple the mark of an immature St. Emillion, corked too early and fermented in an adolescent oak barrel. Perhaps as the years pass her acidity will diminish and her tannins mellow... revealing the piquant suppleness which her potential holds.
So now I'm off on a voyage of discovery... seeking to unlock the tawny secrets of Oporto, to deflower the shy, virginal maidenhead of the nubile Australian Shiraz, all the while looking for that cynosure; that elusive prize: a bottle of 1842 Roullet et Delamain.