Vino Something You Don’t Know

I bit my lips to keep from laughing after the waiter told me the bottle of red wine he had just suggested was from – get this – Mexico. Poor guy, I thought. How deeply engrained his Mexican ethnocentrism must have been. I mean how could he, with a straight face, have just eschewed the French, Spanish, Chilean and Argentine offerings on the menu in favor of some libation borne from grapes that likely had grown on or near a cactus?

Kind sir, we are south of the border, not south of Bordeaux.

Needless to say, we went with a mid-range Argentine malbec – after thanking the waiter for his recommendation, of course. I didn’t want to seem rude, and fortunately was able to contain my snickering until after he was out of earshot.

We’ll give you the nod, Mexico, on tequila and some beer, but unless you are chucking in fresh fruit, orange peel and ice and calling it sangria, kindly keep your vino in the vat, señor.

A few nights later at another restaurant, the same thing happened – a waiter recommended another regional red, at which point Miranda and I tried to camouflage our laughter by feigning a cough. My thinking was that the terms “cabernet sauvignon” and “Mexicano” should never be combined in serious conversation. Such absurdities cause synapses to snap, like when one hears “Swiss courage” or “Canadian football.” Again, we politely passed on the waiter’s advice and ordered a Spanish tempranillo instead.

The third time we were steered toward a Mexican vintage, the suggestion came from our old friend Tony – the charming restaurateur/suspected crime boss whom we met during our first week here in Puebla, and whom I’ve mentioned a couple of times in previous postings.

Now, when an ordinary waiter recommends a Mexican red wine, you chuckle; when Tony Mena recommends a Mexican red wine, you order two bottles of the stuff and shut your freaking trap.

When the sample pour was finished, I gave it to Miranda to taste – giving me the appearance of a romantic and selfless man, when in reality I did it because I felt Miranda would be able to handle the stomach cramping better than I. She raised the glass and, just before taking her first sip, looked at me as if to say, “If I don’t make it back from this, I’ve always loved you. Bitch.”

With Tony standing over us, Miranda did the pre-requisite pre-sip swirl of the glass then stuck her nose into it to capture the fumes. (Miranda and I learned everything there is to know about wine from just a single viewing of Sideways.)

Then came the sip.

Miranda didn’t appear to suffer from any physical pain upon swallowing. On the contrary; she smiled and said “wow” as the cab sav slid down. Naturally I assumed she was just putting on airs – waiting until Tony Soprano left the table before running to the bathroom to purge herself. But when I reached for her glass to take a swig with the intent of applauding the wine in front of Tony, Miranda quickly pulled it away from me as if to say, “Get your own. Bitch.”

Actually, that is what she said. And if you had tasted what we drank that night, you would have said the same. It was one of the best bottles we had ever polished off – a mighty red kicking with pepper and sporting just enough fruit, with none of the excess residual sugars that make so many other inexpensive and mid-range wines way too sweet. (That’s right Yellow Tail, I’m talking to you.)

I felt the way the creature from Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham must have upon tasting for the first time what he was so certain would disgust him. “I DO like Mexican wine! I DO! I will drink it on a boat; I’ll get drunk on it and float. I will drink it in a box; forget about my vodka rocks!”

It was that good. Lucky shot, we thought. Surely this bottle was not representative of what most Mexican vineyards were corking up and shipping out. Surely Tony had picked the best of the best in an effort to impress us with what his countrymen were capable of.

The only way to find out for sure was for Miranda and me to drink a lot of national wine. And if anybody was up to the task of tackling bottle upon bottle of 30-proof pop, it was two ex-patriots who had been struggling for over a month to make friends, understand the local customs and muffle the local music. Mucho vino? Bring it.

Now, I’m not going to bore you with the fine details of our ensuing alcoholic exploration – mainly because I’ve already used up all the wine-related terms and adjectives I know – but let me just tell you that, over the past 2-3 weeks, we have yet to encounter a bottle of Mexican red that hasn’t tickled our palate pink.

While we are thrilled to have discovered such excellent and affordable wine in our new backyard, Miranda and I can’t for the life of us figure out why we have never seen such Mexican nectar in the States. I even called Whole Foods in Austin the other day, figuring they must have at least half a shelf dedicated to bottles from South of the Bordeaux; after all, I’ve gotten lost in their wine department before. (In my defense, Whole Foods really shouldn’t pour so liberally at free tasting stations.) But no, not even Whole Foods had any, though after hearing how excited I was on the phone, the wine man said he would look into ordering a few.

But that won’t really help, as most people would likely just walk by the Mexican bottles and laugh as Miranda and I did at the waiters in the two restaurants. What’s needed is marketing. Why in the hell is the fruit of the labor of such fantastic vintners – so close to the U.S. border – not being sipped and lauded all across our land? To date, the only easy way to obtain these too-well-kept secrets is to contact the wineries themselves, or to try one of the many online wine retailers that exist. Or you can come visit us (be sure to bring us some good cheese; the stuff that goes in quesadillas down here just doesn’t cut it).

I fear that Miranda and I will suffer serious withdrawal symptoms when we move back to the U.S. in July. The mere thought of heading to our local Austin wine supplier and seeing the shelves completely devoid of any product from Viños L.A. Cetto or Viños Pedro Domecq or Bodegas de Santo Tomás or, sniff, Monte Xanic is enough to make us consider postponing our return. Sadly, our Honda CR-V will simply be too full of suitcases, boxes and Dingo to fit any cases of wine to bring back. And even if we could squeeze in a case or two, knowing that there is such a finite number of bottles to enjoy would likely turn us into wine-misers, with Miranda and I closing ourselves and our precious bottles off from the world so that we won’t have to share. We might even turn on each other. (That’s turn on each other; not turn on each other.) I can just imagine one of us going so far as to arrange for the other to have an “accident” that would, in effect, double the amount of vino available to the survivor.

But for now, our marriage and lives are safe. Partaking in a prized vial of Mexican manna is as simple as moseying on down to the local grocery store or one of the dozens of restaurants within walking distance of our domicile.

So what if our best Mexican friends are bottles – is that so wrong? If it is, then Miranda and I don’t want to be right. We may still be struggling to adapt to the constant honking, the daredevil driving and the murderous music down here, but we have become quite cozy with several varietals from the nearby vines.

Don’t worry, we’ll be back. As good as it is, the wine isn’t quite enough to keep us from the country that’s filled with our friends and family. But when we do return, if you come over to visit us and begin to stare longingly at the bottles we've brought back, don’t be surprised if we try to avert your attention. And if you seem insistent, please don’t be insulted when we tell you to get your own.

Bitch.