Wine of the summer (so far)
I have spent the past couple months slowly depleting my local market’s shelves of Joseph Landron’s muscadet ($15 Detroit dollars). I find this wine inevitably drinkable in all situations. Most recently with an uncomplicated sandwich of lightly breaded, sweet fried lake perch on a Kaiser roll.
Amphibolite Nature is all green mango and dusty stones above a tart drink of sun, allegedly the expression of near-coastal France. So why is it a drink conjures the purple clouds on the horizon of Lake St. Clair after an evening of trolling for walleye, a languid stroll through the summer orchard, every thing green, soft curls of water caressing a sandy shore?
Yes, it is good with clams and broth. It is perhaps at its finest while reading poetry by candlelight on the front porch, marveling at the sadness of a train’s whistle. I fear this wine has rooted itself into my being and my being will not be satisfied until the very last bottle is dry. How does this happen?