I could almost say that I was oenophilically born again, in that last night, I opened my mouth, and accepted The Geyserville as my savior.
The Geyserville.
The 2010 Ridge Vineyards Geyserville, but we only ever said … The Geyserville.
Dinner was that kind of revelation — Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Geyserville.
—
Every dish delightful, every dish unique, and in the corner, Roland Micu and I, saying once again, The Geyserville.
And every guest delightful, every conversation bright, and at the table, Laurie Lindrup and I, saying once again, The Geyserville.
Roland Micu, Laurie Lindrup? So much talent, so much skill, so much gravitas!
And I, but a pagan in the fields, but a lunatic of zen, but a tale told by myself to simply no one, meaning nothing. Special Guest Christopher Watkins, who struts his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.
—
Thirteen Ways of Looking at The Geyserville
I
Four wines-of-place: three of the mountain,
and the Geyserville;
not of the mountain, but placed there.
II
I was of five minds,
like a field blend
in which there are five grapes.
III
The Geyserville swirls in the crystal;
emotion without speech.
IV
A lover and a lover
are one.
A lover and a lover and a Geyserville
are one.
V.
I do not know which to prefer,
the beauty of appearance
or the beauty of aroma;
the Geyserville poured,
or just after.
VI.
Sunset filled the long windows
with fading rays.
The bottles of Geyserville,
crossing them to and fro,
turned white plates
into mood rings
signifying happy.
VII
O thin men of the millennium,
why do you imagine golden lagers?
Do you not see how the Geyserville
wraps around the palates
of the people about you?
VIII
I know the juju
of The Jazz;
and I know, too
that the Geyserville is involved
in what I know.
IX
When the Geyserville dripped down
the side of the bottle
it made one of many circles.
X
At the sight of the Geyserville
pouring in the candlelight,
even the sommeliers
would cry out softly.
XI
I rode over California
on a motorcycle.
Once, a joy overtook me,
in that I mistook
the shadow of my saddle-bag
for a wineskin of Geyserville.
XII
The decanter is moving.
The Geyserville must be drunk.
XIII.
It was evening all afternoon.
It was sunset
and the sun was going to set.
The Geyserville sat
on the white linen.
—
Let me begin anew, or should I say, let this essay be born again! Let it open its mouth and accept lucidity as its savior!
What I’m trying to say is this, that dinner at The International Culinary Center last night was amazing! The food? Amazing! The service? Amazing! The rooms, the spaces, the places, the people; amazing! And let me say again, the food? Amazing! Matched in excellence only by my co-hosts (and I blush to so brazenly place myself amongst them) Roland Micu and Laurie Lindrup.
But what really got to me, what really moved me, what was revealed to me, was the divine versatility of the Geyserville. I swear it worked with every single dish!
Did we actually have thirteen courses? Of course not. But in thinking of the courses we did have, and the ways in which a new side of the Geyserville was revealed with each, I was reminded of the great Wallace Stevens poem “Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird,” which I reprint here below, as a gesture of apology for the borrowing I’ve done above:
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
—
Are you cooking tonight?
Yes?
Then allow me to suggest …
The Geyserville.
