galoshes blog

Part I  Passing the Bottle Around

By Gavin Murphy

My earliest memories about procuring and consuming wine involve standing in front of a liquor store with one or two other underage accomplices on a forlorn section of Main Street soliciting passersby who looked like they might be willing – maybe for a buck or two –  to purchase us something to drink.

It didn’t really matter too much what it was – the premixed ‘Screwdriver’ in a quart bottle, some variety of Applejack in a pint bottle that was, obviously, derived from apples and could make you hallucinate, or something vaguely in the wine family – often what they called “fortified wine.” The higher alcohol stuff the ‘winos’ drank, like Bali Hai and Thunderbird, the classic brown bag beverage. 

Kerouac wrote a poem called ‘Skid Row Wine’ and proudly imbibed it in solidarity with the down and out common man. At this time I had not yet read On the Road but eventually would devour pretty much all of Kerouac’s books, including those that chronicle how drinking destroyed him.

Meanwhile, back on the street corner, going gourmet was getting Manischewitz Wine, a sweet syrupy concord grape concoction. That it was Kosher meant nothing to me. Being Catholic, much was made about wine being actually transformed into the blood of Christ during Holy Communion, but this again meant nothing to me when it came to what I thought wine was for: Getting drunk.

Ripple and Boone’s Farm came later, more of the same saccharine product but now marketed to a younger demographic caught up in the hippie era. Often these “wines” – to use the term loosely – were associated with pot smoking and acid taking. 

To be clear, wine was not the preferred beverage among the teenage/underage set I was associated with at the time. Beer was what we mainly wanted and the getting of which became easier after I convinced the owner of a deli in the neighborhood after several tries that I was indeed 18 years old (the legal age in New York in the early 1970s) though I actually was 15. I became one of his best customers, typically showing up on a Friday night with a written list that comprised everyone’s order, a six pack of this, a quart of that. (Malt liquor, in the tallboy size, also was popular.) I would drop maybe $50 in cash, not an insignificant sum for the time. The owner’s daughters scrambled to assist me in assembling my order, then I would have to carry the load out of the store by myself and stagger up the street a ways before my cohorts could materialize from the shadows where they waited.

Not everyone was a beer drinker, particularly some of the girls. They preferred something lacking hops, something sweeter. Liebfraumilch seemed to fit the bill. A German “semi-sweet” white wine, Liebfraumilch translates to ‘loving mother’s milk’ or in a more religious context ‘Our Lady’s Milk.’ An upgrade would have been buying a bottle of Blue Nun or Zeller Schwarze Katz – ‘Black Cat.’ Liebfraumilch was considerably lower in alcohol than other wines, especially the fortified kind, and it also went well with pot smoking.

These were the days when a bottle of wine was shared, even with strangers, passed around without regard to any concerns about germs. 

Rosé

The Portuguese rosés had a moment in the 1970s. Lancer’s came in a brown stoneware bottle. It was a bit fizzy and easy to drink and actually paired well with food. It was popular in restaurants. Mateus was a tad drier I thought and I recall it being featured in the fondue places that were popping up everywhere at the time. It came in a rounded bottle that often was reused as a candleholder. Enterprising hippies also could turn an old Mateus bottle into a water pipe using materials easily obtained in a local hardware store despite the suspicions of the store owners, who naturally wondered what was actually being ‘fixed.’

There was Lambrusco and Cold Duck, probably best forgotten, but perfect for drinking out of your Bota bag. Sangria was a thing too and recently seemed to be making somewhat of a comeback.

Soon I discovered the French rosés. Rosé d’Anjou was the sweeter, pinker variety. It hailed from the Loire Valley, where all the famous royal chateaus from the Renaissance era are located. The rosés from Provence in the south of France were drier, pale pink and puckery. For a long time French rosés were relatively inexpensive wines. I recall a bodega on the Lower East Side in NYC selling them for 99 cents in the 1970s. In recent years they have become trendy and prices have skyrocketed. Again, these were wines passed around in the park as everyone sat on the ground in a circle and somebody played guitar. There may have been marijuana smoke in the air. Now they are served at $15 or more a glass in chic bars. 

Let me back up here. My mother was a teetotaler. If an alcoholic beverage did touch her lips it was most likely beer, logical as she was of German descent. Dad was a shot and beer man. 

There was no wine in this picture. 

No suggestion about picking up some Chianti to go with the spaghetti. Certainly no debate about whether to have Cabernet or Merlot with the turkey for Thanksgiving. (My dad actually preferred capon, a castrated turkey. It didn’t matter to me as long as there was stuffing and gravy and later – wine.)

So there was no tradition of wine drinking in our family.

I can’t remember exactly how I got interested in wine beyond the getting intoxicated aspect of it. I do remember at some point in my teenage years hearing or reading something about American college students getting jobs as grape pickers during harvest season in France. I often imagined myself laboring in the sunny but cool fields of Burgundy or Bordeaux by day and drinking wine at night, perhaps while enjoying a hayride with a local mademoiselle. I never became a seasonal grape picker but it’s still something you can do today, at least according to the Internet.

When did I actually start to pay attention to grape variety, country of origin, maybe even the vintage? How the wine actually tasted and what it did to enhance food?

Well, that didn’t happen for awhile.

TINO

When I was about 15 or maybe 16, we moved into a rented house that had a large attic space accessible by a staircase. Exploring this space I discovered that the landlord –  a Yugoslavian guy named Martino – apparently was someone who made wine at home. I figured this out because he had left about 10 gallons of the stuff in the attic. Each gallon jug was a different shade of red, some raspberry colored, others a disquieting bruised purple, all with lots of visible sediment. They were sealed with tin foil under a cap and appeared to have been there a long while, sitting and baking in the hot attic in summer, not ideal wine storage conditions. 

For a long time I never touched the stuff, figuring the landlord might notice if any went missing and also thinking it likely was undrinkable. My parents, who typically had every square inch of the house under close surveillance, didn’t seem to go up in the attic much but I could never assume they weren’t closely keeping track of things up there too. 

Then, one night, I was late leaving for a party and wouldn’t have time to try and procure something from a liquor store using my fake ID. I remembered Martino’s wine in the attic and proceeded to smuggle a bottle out of the house. It wasn’t easy carrying a gallon of wine while riding a bicycle but fortunately the bottle had one of those finger loop handles. (Later I would figure out how to smuggle these jugs through security at rock concerts.)

Well, it was god awful stuff, barely drinkable, but it did the job. Everyone who drank it (again, the shared bottle) got pretty smashed and I won’t name any names but one crashed his bicycle into a parked car. By the end of the night we had dubbed the vintage as Tino.

Eventually, by popular demand, I would smuggle every gallon of Tino out of the house and drink it with friends. Each one was a little different but all of it had the same effect. 

Bus Boy

When I got a job busing tables in an Italian restaurant I finally was introduced to more refined vintages. A lot of Bolla Valpolicella and Bardolino was being consumed with the gourmet Italian fare. Both wines are from the Veneto region of Italy (that’s up north ranging from Venice to Verona) with Valpolicella supposedly featuring lower alcohol even though Bardolino is ‘lighter’ in body.  It took me a long time to be able to almost tell which wine was which, sampling intermittently from the typically small unconsumed amounts left in the bottles by our diners and swigged after being returned to the kitchen. It was traditional for the help to be served a meal at the end of our night shift. Unfortunately wine was not served.

Of course the restaurant served Chianti too, often the Chianti Classico upgrade. I also was introduced to Soave, the dry white Italian wine that often came in a fish shaped bottle. And Orvieto. At this time, my teenage palate was more partial to whites than reds.

Earlier I had washed dishes in a different restaurant where little if any wine made it my way. I was assigned a couple of times early on a Sunday afternoon to clean the bar when the restaurant was closed. One day it was very quiet and the lights were off except for in the bar. It was almost like being in church, but with no incense. The booze bottles were lined up on the illuminated glass shelves, reflected in the mirrored backdrop. I didn’t dare disturb them by trying to sneak a swig. On the other hand the beer taps were right there. Just as I was about to try and pour one for myself the owner suddenly emerged from the kitchen. The owner – and chef – was a rotund man and he would sometimes have me tie his shoelaces so he didn’t have to bend over. This time he wanted me to go downstairs to the basement ‘refrigidaire’ to get some ‘rig-go-tah’ which he needed for something he was preparing that indeed would be delicious. I scurried down the steps to where a recently disconnected keg of Heineken rested. I attempted to siphon off several mouthfuls of the still chilled lager at the bottom of the keg before fetching the ricotta and some pizza dough. 

Paris 1971

When I was a junior in high school I went with the French class on a Spring Break trip to Paris (I think it was called Easter Vacation back then). Fortunately I had been able to save the almost $400 it cost for the 10 day trip, including flying there on an Air France 747.

We stayed in the Lycée Saint-Louis – a famous ‘secondary’ school in the Latin Quarter where students boarded. The French students were on their spring holiday too so we American students stayed in their spartan dorm rooms. We also dined in the Lycée’s cafeteria, where we noticed the empty wine crates stacked in a corner. It amazed us that our French peers could drink wine with their cafeteria meals when our beverage choices back home were pretty much whole white or chocolate milk. Nevertheless, back in our Lycée dorm rooms after a day of sightseeing there was surreptitious rosé drinking and lots of bottle sharing while someone kept an eye out for the teachers and chaperones. 

There was a moment one evening when singing drifted up from the courtyard. A group of girls, from Ireland I think, had broken out in what seemed to be spontaneous song. They sang for only a few minutes, then disappeared.

I don’t know what the drinking age was in France then but whatever it was we were old enough. We bought wine in the shops and cafes. I recall we were taken to the famous Paris Opera House to see, I think it was Marriage of Figaro. We were in box seats and I made it about half way through the opera when I remembered there was a bar in the lobby. It wasn’t long before I found myself seated at the bar contentedly sipping a glass of wine, or maybe it was a Kronenbourg, seemingly the only beer served in France in those days. Soon, more of my peers trickled out and we basically took over the bar, a bunch of teenagers from New York. I guess this went unnoticed by our chaperone overseers who actually were listening to the opera.

Paris 1977

When I spent a college semester studying in Paris I didn’t have enough French francs to drink the good stuff. The supermarché offered plastic liters of cheap red wine and often the stuff served by the glass in a cheap cafe was pretty ‘rustic.’ Occasionally I enjoyed a bottle of vin mousseux, an inexpensive sparkling wine not held in high esteem that couldn’t be called Champagne because it wasn’t.

I did find myself in a couple places where decent to good wine was served. Once I was even invited to someone’s personal wine cellar. This took place because I had been in Chicago the previous summer working at City News Bureau as a cub reporter and living with some others, including a French couple, in a large apartment.

Philippe and Christine were working to save enough money to buy a used car and drive it across country to the West Coast.

When the summer drew to a close and it was time for me to go back east I discovered there was an agency in Chicago that used students and others to transport cars that the owners didn’t want to drive to distant cities. I arranged to get home by transporting a Ford Torino to NYC.

I explained to Philippe in my personal way of speaking French – he spoke very little English – that he might want to see if he could get something to drive to the West Coast. (I had subjected both Philippe and Christine to my French sometimes after drinking a couple big goblets of “Chablis” at a cafe style restaurant I frequented around the corner on Rush Street.)

Philippe followed up and ended up driving a Porsche to LA, with time to sightsee on the way, thus fulfilling his and Christine’s dream in high style. 

Well, I was their hero for turning them on to this opportunity. When I got to France they came to Paris and drove me out to where they lived in some far banlieue. Philip’s uncle or someone had a small winemaking operation in his own modest wine cellar and I sampled the wine, which I thought was very good.

Later, I was taken to an auberge – an inn – with more of the family and treated to a sumptuous meal, including more wine. It was a special treat to be able to have such a meal with a large French family as I often typically dined in student mess halls. 

As an indigent student, I frequented the Louvre on Sundays, when the museum was free to those in that category. It seemed that no matter what I planned for a Sunday, by mid afternoon I found myself wandering around the Louvre. While I mainly remember the gigantic Delacroix canvases  depicting the French Revolution and other dramatic scenes, I know there were innumerable artworks depicting the making, consumption – or over consumption – of wine – from Egyptian hieroglyphs to Greek amphorae and Roman statues to various depictions of Bacchus, including a famous one from the workshop of da Vinci and a huge painting wherein Christ keeps the wedding feast festive by converting water into wine.

When I first arrived in Paris all I heard about was couscous. How I must try couscous, which I never had eaten. Eagerly I went to a restaurant in the Latin Quarter by myself and ordered couscous. My expectations were way too high and I was completely underwhelmed by couscous. Especially when I got “l’addition” – the check. I don’t remember what wine I ordered that night but I’m sure it was overpriced.

I attended classes sponsored by the State University of New York but I did manage to talk my way – speaking French no less – into attending a class at the prestigious Sorbonne, if for only a few sessions. The subject was Aristophanes and his comedies.

While in Paris I sometimes stopped in the morning in a cheap cafe near school for a cup of coffee before class. The deliverymen would come and go, dropping off fresh baguettes and so forth. I noticed the cafe owner would go behind the bar, pour some red wine in a petite verre – small glass – and slide it onto the corner of the bar near the door. When the deliveryman departed he would stop and gulp the wine, then head on to the next delivery. 

“Pourboire” is the French expression for tip. It means “here’s something to buy a drink with” and I was left wondering how many petite verres these guys drank every morning while making their rounds.

Meursault

When I graduated from college and moved back to Chicago to continue my apprenticeship at City News Bureau I was being paid the princely sum of about $100 a week. This didn’t make for much of a wine budget.

Yet I was now getting more and more interested in wine. Most of my peers were still beer drinkers and some even thought wine drinking to be something only “jag offs” did. (A Chicago expression.) I really didn’t give a sh*t what those guys thought and fortunately in those days you could buy a decent bottle of wine – French wine no less – for maybe three or four bucks.

This was before California wines really took off in quality and popularity so the local liquor stores were well stocked with French wines. I quickly discovered Burgundy wine, particularly white burgundies. I was especially enamored with Meursault, which I stumbled upon.

Pronounced mare-sew, the wine had a smooth but fresh acidity and tasted of a mineral rich terroir. A wine that now goes for at least $40 or $50 could be had then for $5 or $6. I’m glad I drank quite a few bottles from various producers back then because, even though in inflation adjusted dollars today’s price might not be that out of whack, it still seems like $50 is a lot more than $5!

I liked white Bordeaux as well. Entre-Deux-Mers was a favorite as it was readily available and affordable. The name means between two seas and describes the region between the Garonne and Dordogne rivers in Bordeaux. Later, as my appreciation for red wine expanded, I was partial to vintages from Saint Emilion. Wines from Saint Emilion tend to have more merlot, Bordeaux being primarily a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, with some other grapes added to fine tune the final product.

That reminds me, it wasn’t that long ago that California Merlot was all the rage. The hippies turned yuppies, who didn’t pass the bottle around any longer, couldn’t get enough of the stuff, which is understandable. Merlot is luscious and soft, less austere than Cab. Producers amped up the supply and Merlot was everywhere. Critics began describing the wines as “flabby” – not a flattering term. The popularity of Merlot had become almost a joke and demand waned. (The Miles character’s disdain for Merlot in the 2004 movie Sideways didn’t help. On the other hand his rapturous description of Pinot Noir sent sales for that varietal soaring.)

The result: While it’s hard to beat a good Cab, you can often buy a Merlot for a lot less than a Cab. I often find them to be just as good or even better.

(Update: We recently did a taste test comparing the 2022 Charles Krug Napa Cab and Krug’s 2022 Napa Merlot. The Cab cost nearly $10 more per bottle, about $35. The pairing was an anniversary gift to ourselves. At first taste the Cab seemed more rich and fruity while the Merlot seemed a little hot and spicy. By the second day the wines had both opened up and it was difficult for my not all that sophisticated palate to even tell the difference. The Merlot seemed to pop a little bit more with food. Both showed light toasted oak and mild tannins. Google AI noted cherry, plum mocha and spice for the Cab and for the Merlot pointed to “notes of ripe red and black fruits, vanilla and spice.” By the third day it had become so difficult to tell them apart I was prepared to just pour what was left of both into one bottle. I have to admit to this kind of “blending” before. All in all the tasting confirmed my belief that Merlots are often a bargain, price wise at least.)

Now, before this goes any further let me make clear that I am in no way a “wine expert.” I once thought it would be really cool to be a sommelier – someone who makes a living being a wine connoisseur and expert – but I realized there is no way I could remember all the different vintages by year, all the different varietals, regions, chateaus, estates and important growers and exporters etc. My palate is not that sensitive either. I can detect fruity, as in berry and cherry and apple. I can taste citrus, gauge acidity and the presence of unspecified minerals, but when you start talking about leather or tobacco, well, most of the time my taste buds fail me.

I am certainly beyond the “they all taste the same to me” category. There is bad wine, good wine and really good wine. Price is not always, or even often, a good gauge of quality, taste or enjoyment. The most expensive bottle of wine I ever sampled was a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothschild. I was disappointed. To be honest I have had very limited exposure to really top shelf stuff and I won’t ever make it to the staff of Wine Spectator. Fortunately you don’t have to be a ‘connoisseur’ to enjoy wine.

Coming Soon:

WINE Part II

The Jug Wine Era

The last cigarettes are smoked, the loaves are sliced, and lest this be taken for wry sorrow, drown the spider in wine… – Charles Bukowski

Posted Jan. 2025