TAKARA SHO CHIKU BAI SAKE—Have it hot, but don’t let the angels get it

My dad got home from Ontario today, and I foolishly thought this meant I’d have my choice of two typists. But they were busy reuniting. Go figure—ten years together and my parents are still into each other. It is totally disgusting.

sake takaraA toast, therefore, with something almost undrinkable: TAKARA SHO CHIKU BAI SAKE. No mistake about it, this California sake is rough stuff. Fail to heat it sufficiently and its vulgarity will hit you as full-frontally as two nauseating parents who forget to shut the door. You want this stuff almost hot so you can’t taste it, but not hot enough that you’re sacrificing booze unnecessarily to the angels (who might barf it back at you—if I were an angel with a sake predilection I’d hang out over Japan, for crying out loud, not California).

Does TAKARA SHO CHIKU BAI SAKE have any sort of flavor? you might wonder. There is detectable fruit in this sake, accompanied by sharp paint-thinner notes. If you make an effort not to discern any subtleties, you’ll find that it just tastes like booze, and therefore I recommend it. There are certainly worse ways to ingest 15% alcohol.

Moob Watch 2013

My Fellow Inebriates,

We spotted our first Moobs of 2013 yesterday, their jouncing thinly concealed under the reflective “X” of a shirtless garbage collector.

The day was radiant—cornflower-blue skies and 9°C—not spring but hinting strongly of it, and crocuses corroborating. Those Man Boobs had probably been confined all winter and were now having their day in the sun.

moobs-chart

Despite the obvious joyfulness of the scene, my mother narrowed her eyes as the garbage collector pitched our can across the next-door neighbor’s driveway and then ran off after his truck, his moobs a riot of springtime delight.

“It’s begun,” she said.

“I know, isn’t it spectacular? If I weren’t covered with fur, I could shake my moobs like that. All six of them. Really, it calls for a toast.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s 7:45 a.m.”

“Exactly.”

PETER LEHMANN WEIGHBRIDGE UNWOODED CHARDONNAY (2011)—Equipping us against a barrage of questions

My Fellow Inebriates,

The Tooth Fairy managed belatedly to grab P’s tooth from beneath her pillow this morning without her seeing it. P had seen only the coins and the red-tinged water glass and thankfully not thought to double-check the fairy’s thoroughness in securing her dental booty. It was a good save, and P’s belief in fairies survives yet another day.

mouse-toothAt breakfast she said, “My classmate W doesn’t believe in the tooth fairy. In his country it’s the tooth mouse.” This did not cause P any apparent conflict; she says there’s not just one tooth fairy but many, some of whom are boys, some of whom are girls, and some of whom are—oh yeah—mice.

It’s a perfect illustration of how Mum and Dad are missing their window to indoctrinate P with some religious mythology. She is a perfect canvas of credulity—perhaps more so than her little sister V, who evinced some skepticism when she asked what happens when you accidentally swallow a tooth.

Mum: “It just comes out in your poo.”

V: “Are you sure?”

Mum: “Yeah, teeth are so small, they just go right through you.”

V: “It doesn’t get stuck?”

M: “Well, no. You might have to drink a glass of water, but—you probably wouldn’t ever swallow a tooth anyway.”

V: “How do we get it out of my poo?”

M: “Well, don’t plan on swallowing a tooth.”

V: “Does the Tooth Fairy go into the toilet and get it?”

Mum has no answer.

V: “Or does the Toilet Fairy get it?”

However accepting P is of the Tooth Fairy and any other numinous characters she might be told about, V can be counted upon to hit you with a bunch of lawyerly questions. Her cross-examination continued until she erupted in chortles at the idea of a Poo Fairy pawing through her shit to find a precious tooth. V is a five-year-old cynic, and she will be the one who debunks Santa for seven-year-old P, unless she astutely reasons which way her bread is buttered and goes along with the fantasy until she’s a teenager. The kid is a nut, and she will tire all of us out before our time.

Peter Lehmann unwooded chard 2011When you’ve finally managed to get a child like V to submit to bedtime, you have no choice but to pour yourself a drink. Our poison? PETER LEHMANN WEIGHBRIDGE UNWOODED CHARDONNAY (2011). Not the super-stiff drink we probably needed, but much more bracing than any of the whites we’ve been drinking lately, this Chardonnay boasts young fruit and honeydew/peach aromas uncomplicated by the usual oaky finish. Our tastes have run to off-dry whites that tease the palate—not crisp zingers, so the first glass was a bit of a shock to the system. On to the second, then.

You really should never review a wine without drinking the whole bottle, or even two. That way you get to experience the wine going down and coming up. Unfortunately I don’t make such portioning decisions at LBHQ, so we settled for two glasses. Write off the first as a shock to the system. How does this Peter Lehmann number really add up?

Disclaimer: I wanted to dislike it after reading Lehmann’s bio: “never shirking the opportunity to challenge a norm” (much like palpating a five-year-old’s turd to find a swallowed tooth, I would imagine). But this unwooded Chardonnay is competent stuff—not as buttery or mouth-filling as I would have liked, but serviceable after a hard weekend with nutbag elementary-age kids. It’s more than inoffensive; it’s quite tasty if not overly interesting or sophisticated. Chardonnay grapes are tricky because they lend themselves to so many winemaking styles; you often have no idea what you’re in for when you pull a cork (or unscrew a cap). Without oak influence, Chardonnay’s fruity notes stand crisply on their own, unmitigated by vanilla or buttercream chords, and a certain roundness is lost. What’s gained, sometimes, is definition, and perhaps more bang for your buck. After all, oak casks cost money, and when they’re not involved in production, that $13 WEIGHBRIDGE price tag arguably goes a bit further.

After I got used to it, I liked Peter Lehmann’s unwooded Chardonnay. It’s well behaved, reasonably complex, and has a decent finish. As for the 11.5% alcohol…it’ll do. We need to be sober in the morning to cope with young interrogators.