20 April 2020
I’m not saying anyone owes me anything at this time. However, I’ve had an above-average day of quarantine productivity. Having finished Bosch Season 6, along with finally wrapping myself around the highly debated Popeye’s Chicken Sandwich, I got to bed at a reasonable time and popped up in the morning absolutely replete with positive energy and oomph! I sorted out an insurance issue, I sorted out a USPS issue, I fixed a board on my balcony, I ordered parts to fix my sliding door, and then I went to Trader Joe’s and bought, among other necessities this absolute dickhead of a wine. Tuatea Sauvignon Blanc, Marlborough NZ 2019 was case stacked to the ceiling on an end cap by the registers, basically insisting that it jumps into your basket without too much debate. It was like $7 or something. I’ve stated I cannot resist the hubris of these marketing twerps. This one looks a bit serious, without any hint of a private label about it. In fact, the branding is like a Heritage Colour blue, which suggests a degree of pensiveness; someone decided they wanted packaging that said “stock up, this is a hidden gem.” Well, like an utter mug, I jumped, and now I’m sitting here feeling like most people feel ten minutes into a Tinder date with someone like, well, me; presents well, but Jesus, what an absolute no-hoper. And yet, as I write this and it opens up a bit, I find myself less insulted. I guess my point is, if you are going to be 2-dimensional, at least go nuts with one aspect of the offering. Alas, nah, I was hoping this would at least have a metric fuckton of natural acidity but that too delivered high on the blue-ball scale, a shade similar to the label. Here is how this goes, the palate starts as a sort of watery elusion to New Zealand Savvy, a bit like a sad, uninspired, suburban high school chorus group trying their hardest to sing “Give Peace a Chance” to a group of bewildered elementary school kids, forced to sit through this spectacle, rather than play kick ball. Then, with an entirely flaccid effort, the main course arrives on the mid palate. Remember those magic markers that were meant to smell like some fruit relative to the colour? Purple was grape, Green was apple, Orange was self-evident, etc. Well, it’s as if they hired those same sad, balding, lab geniuses to mimic the actual archetypes of NZ Savvy. I get something like an exotic berry I’ve not seen in real life, a bit of NASA grapefruit packet, and canned peaches. Then, just as the climax is about emerge, the thing ends with a bitchslap rather than a monumental crescendo. The Minutemen can play a 30 minute song and leave me satiated. Haiku can be breathtaking, when the words are shuffled just so. However, this finish was so short, relative to the lack of engagement prior, that it left me feeling cheap and dirty. I’ve paid for a low price slapper, and then it only lasted 1 minute. Fuck me, are we now seeing a resurgence of wine for the sake of alcohol?