“I want to gather together to drink dead whites.”
Fearing some sort of stealth Black Panther rally, I rubbed my eyes and re-read the email. “Unusual whites,” it actually read. Oh, OK. That’s better.
The call had gone out from the Rajah of Rioja, the Master of Moose, the man that puts the salt in cod, the Humbert-Humbert of Hamburger, Mighty Young Joe, Mr. Roll Bar, the man that keeps exotic upholstery manufacturers in business…many know him as Joe “I’m-not-the-lead-guitarist-of-Aerosmith” Perry…to assemble on a tiny island off Boston’s North Shore for the imbibing of whites that were, in Joe’s words, “off the beaten track.”
“What do you mean by that?” I queried.
“You know, no popular whites. No riesling, no gewürztraminer, no chenin…”
“Chenin is popular?!?”
“Well, what I’m thinking is…”
“Gewürztraminer is popular?!?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
A resigned sigh. “Yes, I think I do. You want to drink oxidized whites from Spain.”
“And the Rhône. Don’t forget the Rhône.”
“Oh, no. How could I?”