Reviews

MONTSANT BESLLUM (2008)—Worth all two thousand pennies (even if THEY’RE worth $32)

Exasperated by small piles of change strewn over the floor by kids who equate coins with Lego and fling them everywhere, including the yard, my parents decided to school them about money.

To understand how laughable this is, you’d need to have lived with my parents for the past near-decade. My parents suck at managing money. They’ve paid far too much interest to Visa to have any business criticizing four-year-old Miss V for throwing a bag of nickels into the bathwater. They’re so financially oblivious that they had no idea, two days after the announcement, that the Canadian penny is being scrapped.

I had no idea either. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have pockets or a purse (just fears of becoming a purse).

Plenty of countries have eliminated the one-cent coin without mishap, so the idea of a penniless society isn’t that terrifying. Yes, of course businesses will milk the situation by altering their prices upward to multiples of 5, but it seems forgivable considering all the cash-register reprogramming and staff retraining that they’ll need to do.

We’re actually a dumbass country for keeping the penny in circulation as long as we have. Pennies are worth 1.6 cents apiece, costing $11 million a year to mint. You can’t buy anything with a penny. They confuse math-challenged store clerks (one panicked the other day at Zellers when my mum offered $5.02 for a $3.72 transaction). Copper theft is rampant throughout the country, highlighting how valuable the element is in comparison to the coins minted from it. (And, in fact, pennies minted since 2000 are mostly zinc rather than copper.)

It’s illegal to throw money away, but plenty of people chuck pennies away for all of the reasons above. When my mum takes it into her head to vacuum every other month or so, and I’m scrambling out of the way of the shop vac’s maw, I can hear pennies clattering into it. Pennies suck!

Still, I wish I had a couple of thousand pennies to haul to the liquor store. They’d weigh ten pounds, which would almost kill me, but I’d come home with another bottle of MONTSANT BESLLUM (2008), the wine we drank last night while watching Breaking Bad. We’re two seasons behind on the show—considerably behind my papa and bionically-kneed nana, who have been gorging themselves on Breaking Bad. It’s tough to watch a show about crystal meth turf wars with two little girls on the couch beside us, so we have to wait until after bedtime to watch, unless we want to explain how addicts sometimes get sprayed with bullets at the bus stop or choke to death on their own vomit.

The 2008 BESLLUM is a 50/50 mix of Garnacha (Grenache) and Carignan, aged 16 months in French oak. The two varietals complement each other with their respective low and high acid profiles, resulting in a lush, opulent wine that exudes cherries, plums, and dates. Smooth on the palate while intense and warming, the wine develops admirably as it sits, becoming an entertainment unto itself. In truth, BESLLUM is enough of a conversation piece to warrant turning off the TV and focusing on the taste.

BUT NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING-LOT SHOOTOUT IN BREAKING BAD! The intense scene may have distracted us a tiny bit from the magic of the 2008 BESLLUM, necessitating further tests. Sadly though, I don’t have two thousand pennies. I did attempt to raid the kids’ piggybanks, at which point I learned about my parents’ idea to teach them about money. Here’s the half-assed plan strategy:

The kids will put half their money in the bank. With the other half they’ll buy something vapid and retarded My Filly ponies, which cost, with tax, $3.35, or 335 pennies. This teaches the girls that $3.35 equals:

It teaches me that the 2008 BESLLUM equals:

Sigh.

FALERNIA CARMENERE RESERVA (2007)—Better than pain meds (I think)

My Fellow Inebriates,

The grandfather I never knew would have been 80 years old today, something I wouldn’t have learned without snooping in my mum’s e-mail box, where I found an attachment from his sister, my great aunt (who doesn’t know I call her that). The picture she sent dated back to 1943, when my grandfather was 11 in Blitz-torn London. In the event of an invasion by Hitler, the poster was to be distributed to the population.

Sorry, Fluffy, you need more than a vacant stare to keep a girlfriend like Dolly.

I’ve had grandparents on the brain lately, what with Fluffy Bear continuing to haunt our house, albeit with attenuated efforts. I had to admit, reluctantly, that Fluffy hadn’t clogged the toilets with his mind; our cheap toilets just object to the products of constipation. Not only is the ghost of Granny loosening her hold on Fluffy; my girlfriend Dolly has also lost interest in his catatonic personality, which of course makes him seem more benign now. And damn, is he ever cuddly.

In other grandparental news, my Nana (she doesn’t know I call her that) got a new knee today. What a fantastic age to be alive, when you can replace your worn-out knee with a mechanical one. It gives me hope that by the time my liver is fully pickled, I’ll be able to order a new one on e-bay.

Nana didn’t have much to say about the operation. She is probably processing the new reality of being part cyborg. She may even be worried about the knee gathering data, assembling a rudimentary intelligence, and coercing her to take up Nordic hiking.

Nana’s friend very sensibly urged her back into the arms of Morpheus, which meant I didn’t get the skinny on exactly what drugs are in her IV drip. I hope that they’re taking care of the pain and, of course, keeping her calm.

Feeling solidarity with Nana against the post-op pain blitz, I urged my parents to open a bottle of wine. The consultant at the liquor store had recommended a promising Chilean red: FALERNIA CARMENERE RESERVA (2007). But would it be as mind-altering as Nana’s post-op cocktail? I pushed the thought aside.

And what was my fourth grandparent Papa (he doesn’t know I call him that) doing, I wondered? Was he bedside at the hospital? Or had he invited dozens of friends over for a housewrecker of a party? Was our wine going to compete with the martinis I imagined him shaking? That thought, too, I pushed aside.

The FALERNIA winery in Elqui Valley, 300 miles north of Santiago, is Chile’s northernmost wine estate. Interestingly, FALERNIA partially vine-dries the carmenere grapes before harvesting to boost their intensity. Given the resulting 15% alcohol and mouth-filling concentration of the 2007 RESERVA, I have to evangelize this method. If you are a fan of big, juicy wines, this one will appeal to you. But let’s back up—the experience is worth detailing.

FALERNIA CARMENERE RESERVA is a dark, concentrated ruby hue with big legs and a heady aroma of cassis, ripe berries, and plum. The flavor is massive and enveloping—without erring on the side of fruity simplicity. On the contrary, it serves up an orchestra of nicely coordinated tastes. Oak aging rounds out the flavors, adding the suppleness and sophistication that is often lacking in so-called fruit bombs. This is not quite a fruit bomb, but it is a near-orgy. And the finish? Endless.

You might call FALERNIA CARMENERE RESERVA an oenophilic blitz. At $18 it’s rhapsody for the tastebuds, and a respectable 15% wallop for your brain cells. Just right for toasting my grandparents—whether they’re floating around incorporeally, floating in a morphine haze, or in Papa’s case, hosting a wild three-day party during Nana’s recovery.

It’s just as well Nana’s doctors probably wouldn’t allow me to enter the hospital with a paper bag containing this wine. It probably wouldn’t tango so well with Demerol. As for Papa, I’m sorry he can’t share it with me, but let’s face it, that means more for me. As for the ghosts—if they’re here—they’re welcome to it, as long as they keep calm.

OKANAGAN SPRING PALE ALE—Good beer between neighbors, especially if you don’t have a good fence

My Fellow Inebriates,

The toilets in the house are not very fond of swallowing, which has given my mother a familiarity with the plunger she never enjoyed in any previous dwelling. Not that she embraces the chore—her modus operandi is to dart away from what she knows will be an incomplete flush, hoping to pin the general blame on my dad’s more man-sized deposits.

But our reluctant toilets are only one prominent example of the ways in which building developers cut corners. Builders lure you into their spanky demonstration townhouses, where you ooh and ahh over the granite countertops and shiny backsplash, only to stick it to you with shoddy workmanship on less visible elements such as plumbing, roofing, the furnace, drainage, insulation and construction. The small stuff.

Naturally this happened to my parents on this, our first home purchase. When they first purchased me six years ago, they were still renting: they’d just left a West End apartment rental for a 60s-era Burnaby house, from which they were evicted to make way for ten of the owner’s relatives who wished to occupy it, then moved to another rental, this time in the boonies of Coquitlam, high up on a hill, where they were so miserable that they finally decided to grow up, take the plunge, and buy a place even farther out in the boonies of Langley. And that’s where we are.

It looked really shiny, this place, especially before the kids started drawing on the walls. Neither of my parents had ever occupied a new home, and this one was only two years old. The previous owners had been gentle with it. My parents figured that once they’d secured home ownership they’d ramp up to all kinds of other grown-up things: dinner parties and such, and they certainly wouldn’t let the mess get out of hand the way it had everywhere else.

Sure.

Four years later, despite three angry toilets, a furnace that malfunctions in sub-zero temperatures, pockmarked walls exhibiting the scratchability of bargain-basement paint, a destroyed carpet, and thanks to the stellar insulation materials chosen by Platinum Enterprises, seasonal temperature variations evocative of that planet in The Chronicles of Riddick and/or Mercury, the whole gang is here. And somehow, those ideals about perfect housekeeping and continuous home improvement slipped away.

The next-door neighbours, mind you, have maintained their townhouse like a show home. Peek through the door (which is all we’re allowed to do because they hate us) and you’ll see calm, spartan design, carefully wiped surfaces, and not a thing out of place. Their yard does not contain two bikes, a broken stroller, a wrecked IKEA tent, a punctured swimming pool, a dirt-encrusted hose, 30-odd broken toys, and a water table swimming with filth. Their little garden is immaculate, and with every season it blooms with decorations—giant inflatable snowmen, pumpkins, and easter bunnies. In short, these people are fucking nuts. They have a real-life furniture catalogue going on inside their house, despite having two rugrats almost exactly like ours (just not as cute, friendly, well-mannered, intelligent, or funny).

So obviously my parents are burning with jealousy. Well, my mum is; my dad says he isn’t. How do our next-door neighbors achieve such order in their lives? Have they embraced the 7 Habits? Do they abide by The Secret?

My mum says no, it’s just that they’re fucking batshit crazy. It’s all very well to shop with the reluctance of the budget-bound at Walmart, looking for deals on necessities such as shoes and diapers. It’s another thing to invest in Walmart’s full selection of wacko lawn ornamentation and festoon your residence with it, all the while forbidding your children to touch anything. Anything! Those kids probably aren’t allowed to touch the walls. They’re rarely allowed to play with Miss P and Miss V; such an event only occurs if preceded by extreme begging on both sides of the fence by all four kids, none of whom have any idea why their parents aren’t best friends.

Not the neighbors, but some fellow Walmart shoppers

And my parents have no idea either! They don’t hate the neighbors; they’ve even invited them over for a beer. They’ve invited the kids over for playdates and they’ve tried to orchestrate accidental playdates in the park across the street. No go. Those people have a hate on for us and we’re not sure why. My parents used to muse about it a fair bit, wondering if…

  • The neighbors loved the previous owners of our house and were mad at us for taking it over.
  • They think they don’t have anything in common with us. Unfortunately this might be a logical conclusion if they’ve sneaked any peeks into our house the way we have theirs.
  • They think they’re too smart for us. Well, tidy homes=tidy minds. Perhaps they’ve got something.
  • They think we’re too smart for them. Unlikely. If my parents appear in the yard it’s mostly to drink beer or hustle the kids (impatiently) to school.
  • They’re offended by our yard. This is fully possible. Sometimes I’m offended by our yard.
  • They’re offended by my parents’ language. My mum and dad keep the four-letter words in the house for the most part, but you know how it is in summer when the windows are open.
  • They think we’re religious weirdos. LOL!
  • They are religious weirdos. We just don’t know; we haven’t seen any magic underwear, though.

Honestly, we don’t really know them at all. Occasionally we hear the mother hollering. She’ll yell stuff like, “FIVE MINUTES AND WE’RE HAVING SOUP & SANDWICHES; THAT’S FIVE MINUTES AND YOU HAVE TO MAKE A CHOICE TO COME IN. FIVE MINUTES!” And that’s when she’s calling her husband.

My mum knows how to yell pretty well too, although she throws more filthy metaphors into her dinner calls. I bet we could all hang out if we just made the effort. And (unless they’re Mormons) this is the beer that could bring us together: Okanagan Spring PALE ALE.

If it were summer I’d suggest a lager—something light with a slightly lower alcohol content just in case the neighbors are concerned about losing control. You can’t maintain your home furnishing as rigorously as they do if you’re looped. But with the continuing cold weather, PALE ALE is a more appealing option. OK Spring PALE ALE pours reddish copper with crisp carbonation and a frothy head. It gives off a mild fruity aroma—very subtle, so it shouldn’t turn off dyed-in-the-wool MOLSON CANADIAN drinkers (just a neighborly suspicion). On a scale of fruitiness, OK Spring PALE ALE is about a 2 compared to, say, TROIS PISTOLES or MAUDITE—beers that would appall the neighbors and perhaps make them question their sexuality.

On the palate Okanagan Spring PALE ALE is uncomplicated: some hops and carmelized malt with a short arc from sweet to slightly bitter at the end. More flavor actually emerges at the finish, which is probably of benefit to Okanagan Spring, since that lingering palatability goes a long way, especially when you are being distracted from your initial impressions by an eight-foot-tall inflated Easter rabbit undulating next door.

The mouthfeel is quite refreshing, almost palate-cleansing. Indeed, there is a brisk, scrubbing character to the carbonation that adds more than detracts from the drinking experience. Overall, this PALE ALE is a decent, middle-of-the-road offering, and if a neighbor passed me one over the fence I’d do a jig.

Spring has sprung now, so windows will open, as will doors. More often we’ll find ourselves ten feet from our neighbors’ garden activities. Maybe this is the year we’ll get to know them and find out if they actually hate us as we suspect.

Robert Frost wrote, “Good fences make good neighbors.” But, as it happens, our fences are pretty cheaply made, and some dumbass driver recently bashed part of our fence into smithereens. And since we don’t have a good fence, the job of relationship building goes to…beer.