Swigg Real Wine, Craft Beer, and Spirits Blog

Sagittarius A* (Sgr A) is a super massive black hole at the center of our galaxy. I’m humbled to think that 25,640 light years away, time and space come, not to and end, but to a nothing-ness. Far away from Sgr A’s event horizon, the cruel demarcation line where no light or other radiation can escape, our blue marble of a planet enjoys the refuge of sitting on the outer tendrils of our spiral galaxy.Earth is an island within a greater archipelago of stars, planets and rocks protected by a vast onyx ocean of space, time and dark matter. However, I find solace in our isolated loneliness. We exist because of it.

I often think of our position and paradox in the universe when thinking about wine. I love island wines. Wines forged into existence through vines that have been coaxed to express the terroir of lonely, sometimes inhospitable rocks, cast about on Earth’s vast azure oceans and seas.These places may be geographically isolated, but very much alive. The vines that take residences on these rocky rafts often reflect a vibrant, radiant sun kissed, and lava inflected fruit. This type of purity and delineation of flavor are unattainable without the geological depravation that their desolate locals provide.

For example, one of the most exciting places for wine production in the world at the moment is the idiosyncratic island of Sicily. Once known for primarily bulk wine production several decades ago, there are now a multitude of charming vinous sirens from end to end of the Island that lure my glass to them.An active volcano on the Eastern side of the Island, Mt Etna, is the focal diamond in the crown of vine growing jewels that’s been bestowed upon Sicily. I’m currently sipping I Vigneri di Salvo Foti’s Vinupetra Rosso. Comprised of a single hectare of Nerello Mascalese and Nerello Cappuccio, the wine is a swirling inky vortex. A beguiling expression of grapes that have been cuddled by Mediterranean Sea breezes and forged in volcanic soil.

In the glass, the fruit is in Technicolor. Notes of fermented brandied cherries poured into terracotta amphora with hints of a dying fire conjour the molten soul of the planet from below and the perfume of the nervous nature above. This is the kind of alcohol that gives you grins and smiles instead of wrinkles and dark eyes.
Off in the distance, 25,640 light years away, another rapacious, faceless, swirling obsidian vortex lurks, ripping apart reality from the seams of time. Though an eternity in between, our horizons, our shorelines are the same.And though I wish we were a “piece of the continent, a part of the main,” we are merely islands. Each individual holding their head above the deluge of life.But this is not necessarily a bad thing. Islands have beaches and they have vines, and they have horizons. Places where time stands still, and hope is infinite.

Drink up!

-David Govatos
 

"I’m going to let you in on a secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen”– Special Agent Dale Cooper (Twin Peaks)
I miss Twin Peaks, and I miss Special Agent Dale Cooper. A man of duty, moderation and self-discipline. A man who lives his life with a higher moral code than the rest of us. However, even within the confines of his “Lynchian” universe he does not practice total abstinence. Instead, he is always aware and “present,” understanding that continuous simple pleasure in moderation is the key to a happy existence, “for a man who doesn’t love easily, loves too much.” Basically, Agent Cooper is the personification of Eastern philosophical thought. Just Google, “Agent Cooper is a Buddhist” if you want to dig deeper.

Unfortunately, in modern day America, the essence of Coop’s balanced philosophy has been replaced by two divergent extremes, excess and depravation. Like our current political environment there appears to be no middle and there are certainly fewer Agent Dale Coopers. Stuck between Dry-Januarys and Cirrhosis, I adhere to Coop’s philosophy; once a day, every day, to give myself a present, and just “let it happen.”

Agent Cooper’s tipple of choice is a hot cup of black coffee accompanied by a slice of cherry or huckleberry pie. My daily “present” is a cool glass of red wine “paired with Life.” Since I adhere to Coop’s “everyday” mantra, I look for something dark, pleasing, versatile and affordable. All can be found in the Barbera’s of Roberto Ferraris. Specifically, his “I Suôrí” bottling, “And Diane… if you ever get up around this way, it’s worth a stop.”

Founded in 1923, the Ferraris estate consists of 22 acres in the district of Agliano Terme, the prime chop within the Barbera d’Asti zone. Barbera shines in this terroir. Roberto’s 70+ year old vines cradled within the property’s natural topographical amphitheater result in dark luxuriously stylized wines. In the glass, the 2018 “I Suôrí” bottling demonstrates vibrant streaks of ripe red fruit. Warm notes of raspberry dominate with hints of cranberry and subtle blue fruit notes linger towards the rim of the glass. The sumptuous rich fruit is accented by whispers of spice, chocolate and a kiss of mint.

“This is…excuse me, is a damn fine glass of wine,” and goes pretty darn well with either cherry or huckleberry pie.

-Dave Govatos
 

Last month, for my birthday, Joanne planned a romantic weekend away for the two of us in my favorite little town of New Hope, PA. Joanne and I have always loved exploring the bucolic countryside between Bucks County, PA and Hunterdon County, NJ. In both courtship and matrimony, the rolling banks of the Delaware have offered Joanne and me a refuge from the “real world,” a chance to catch up on sleep. And most importantly the opportunity to reflect and dream without interruption or distraction.

Serendipitously, we always find ourselves there in the winter when all the cozy little towns dotting the Delaware in their frozen and fragile state, are as still, splendid and enchanting as a Currier and Ives print. Hand in hand, she and I sip espresso as we walk along the uneven New Hope streets flanked by Federal style facades. Later savoring cocktails underneath the shadows of Late Victorians in Lambertville, time begins to dawdle about life’s own icy design. And for a moment … maybe a weekend, Joanne and I gently press ourselves into the picturesque lithograph.

For these weekend getaways, we usually try to arrive at our destination early Friday evening. For this trip, Joanne booked a cottage through Airbnb. The cottage was implausibly perfect, detached about 200 feet from the property’s magnificent Main House, and painted to match. The cottage stood in diminutive perfection, adorned with seasonally withered wisteria. Inside, the space was expertly decorated with a tasteful and comforting Southwest motif meets Arts and Crafts revival theme. It looked and lived like a structure that a stylish hobbit would live in, or a well-heeled hobbit who reads a lot of Architectural Digest.

Once we unpacked, and shook off the awe of our surroundings, it was time for a drink. I had packed a number of wines for the trip, as BYOBs are plentiful in this part of the world. As Joanne will attest, about the only thing I’m prepared for in life is a town full of BYOBs. However, to toast the start of our weekend, I wanted something as warming, snug and simple as our new digs, and as comforting as Joanne’s head resting on my shoulder.

Everything was right in the world. I opened a bottle of Elio Grasso, Nebbiolo Gavarini 2018. I poured two glasses. I looked at Joanne, and we smiled at each other. We took a sip. Our world an hour away was in frantic motion. Yet, nestled inside our storybook cottage, a hallow satellite adrift on the Pennsylvania countryside, time was dilating. All of life’s hard edges, were now softly rounded brush strokes.

When you look at pictures of Elio Grasso’s winery perched atop the sun gilded hills of Monforte d’Alba in Northern Italy’s esteemed Barolo zone, it too appears to be a place lifted from an artist’s easel. A rendering of reality where time appears to stand still. If only Currier and Ives were around today … Piedmont Edition. Grasso’s wines, like the property itself, do not merely evoke emotions and memory they imprint them on the taster.
 

Elio, the patriarch of the family, handed over the wine making and operational duties to his son Gianluca more than 15 years ago, and the wines continue to ascend to new levels of greatness. It’s hard to overstate the quality of wine produced at the estate. Recently, Monica Larner of the Wine Advocate, bestowed a rare 100-point score upon Grasso’s 2013 Barolo Riserva Runcot. Adding, “I found my darling wine of the year.”
 

Grasso’s Barolos are stunning. But it’s the family’s humble Langhe Nebbiolo offering Gavarini that I find myself coming back to time and again for everyday enjoyment. It’s affordable, “correct” and delicious. A wine to meditate with while waiting for the family’s Barolos, Gavarini Chiniera, Ginestra Casa Mate and Runcot to age into form. Monic Larner notes, “The 2018 Langhe Nebbiolo Gavarini offers a very happy drinking experience with pure varietal typicity that underlines wild berry, cola, mint and licorice (91pts).” A very happy drinking experience indeed. Good Nebbiolo, like Grasso’s 2018 Gavarini bottling has always been my winter weekend getaway wine.

A female acquaintance of mine once told me that being in love with someone means you simply can’t get enough of that person, “you simply want to be together all the time.” If this assumption holds true, then I’m certainly in love with Grasso’s 2018 Langhe Nebbiolo Gavarini, New Hope and especially Joanne. And for at least a weekend there is no parting, no sorrow, no time.

-David Govatos
 

Last month I was tasked with pairing wine with arias for our ongoing partnership with Opera Delaware. The event was billed as Opera Uncorked, and it offered a chance to showcase the artistic beauty that parallels both music and wine.
Brendan Cooke, the dashing and talented pizzaiolo and Director of Opera Delaware offered me several arias from which I could choose to pair my vinous selections. The exercise produced some lovely pairings, while some required a little more imagination on both the part of the "listener" and the drinker. Luckily the vocal talent was exceptional and the setting beautiful and intimate.

My favorite pairing of the evening was Vissi d'Arte, from Puccini's Tosca paired with Bodega Rejadorada's 2015 Temple bottling. As Brendan had mentioned to me, Vissi d'Arte is sort of like Opera's national anthem. And though I had "listened" to the aria several times before, I'm not sure I actually "heard" it. As Wesley Snipe's Character, Sidney Deane, in White Men Can't Jump taught me, "there's a difference between hearing and listening." Up until last month, I had merely been listening.

Brendan's notes for me, prefacing Vissi d'Arte were as follows: "In the midst of an uncomfortable conversation with Scarpia about the fate of Tosca's lover, Tosca sings of the two great driving forces in her life: love and music." After reading Brendan's notes I decided to stop simply "listening" to Vissi d'Arte.
I queued up Maria Callas's 1956 rendition of Vissi d'Arte and read the full translation. It was at this moment I began to "hear" Tosca, and in my distant memory I began to recount the tragic story of Antona Garcia.

Pictured on the front of every bottle that leaves Bodegas Rejadorada is a little gilded gate that resembles a miniature golden patchwork quilt. The golden gate is symbolic of Antona Garcia, who in 1476 made the ultimate sacrifice to save her city. Toro at the time was occupied by the Portuguese. Antona, a Shepard's wife, sided with Queen Isabella I of Castile against the Portuguese support of Joanna la Beltraneja.In an attempt to aid Isabella, Antona supplied information to Isabella's army, helping lead a valiant, albeit unsuccessful attempt to take the town. Unfortunately, in the aftermath, she and her co-conspirators were rounded up and executed. Antona, for her part, was hung from the gates of the town. When Isabella's forces finally took Toro, the gate she was hung from was gilded in her honor.

I used to sip Rejadorada's Temple bottling and think of Antona. Now when I open a bottle of Rejadorada I must now think of both Antona and Tosca. Two very different women, one real and one imaginary. Both tied to the same grief, and tethered to the same Job-like refrain "Why Me?" Sempre con fè sincera diedi fiori agl'altar. Nell'ora del dolore, perchè, perchè, Signore, perchè me ne rimuneri così? (Always with true faith, I gave flowers to the altar. In the hour of grief, why, why, o Lord, why do you reward me thus?)
 

Rejadorada's Temple bottling is as dark and heavy as Tosca's heart and as bold as Antona's courage. Comprised of 100% Tinta de Toro (Tempranillo), It carries its 12 months of oak aging and 14.5% alcohol well. Though it tip-toes to the point of being overdone and extracted, it stands at the precipice with sturdy legs and square shoulders. In the glass, the wine attacks with cedar, vanillin, smoldered blueberry, black cherry and pan-grill. This is not for those who celebrate subtly, but neither did Tosca or Antona.

Like Antona, at some point in our lives, we will ultimately find ourselves festooned to the fences of both life's absurdity and deaths inevitability. Forced like Antona to question even our most noble decisions and plead like Tosca to a silent heaven. "Perchè, perchè, Signor, ah, perchè me ne rimuneri così?" (why, why, o Lord, why do you reward me thus?)However, as the curtain opens and closes with each act within life's cruel Opera, the stage remains a glow with music, art and wine, "which smiles with more beauty," than any one player's sorrowful song.

The show must go on!

- David Govatos
 

Flat Earthers, The Band & The First Drink After the Beach.
(Written Summer 2018, Re-Edited 2022)

I like to read books about natural history. It’s sort of a hobby of mine. I don’t believe there’s anything more terrifying than being confronted with the vastness of the universe. The loneliness that ensues with the awareness that we are exceptionally insignificant is sort of a mental and mortal roundabout kick to the human ego. Though I do not ascribe to any religious ideology, I’m a philosophical masochist at heart just the same.

I recently started rereading Bill Bryson’s book “A Short History of Everything,” which if you have just one curious sinew in your soul, I would encourage you to read. Sadly, curiosity is a commodity these days, as there are more convenient myths than inconvenient truths. The 1980s has always been known as the decade of, “Living in Oblivion,” but with the rise of such groups as the “Flat Earthers,” I think the moniker is more synonymous with this day and age.

Whilst delving through Bryson’s genius tome I often wonder about the “Flat Earthers,” and think how decadent a time we must live in for people to believe in such nonsense. For example, even though Voyager 1, launched in 1977 is traveling through our solar system at 38,000 mph, billions of miles away from us, and you’re probably reading this on your cell phone, there are actually people who believe the world is flat. Science…” forgive them, for they do not know what they do.”

As Bryson points out, the average distance between stars is “20 million million miles away” (The million million, is not a typo). There are an estimated 100 to 400 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy (who’s counting?) and don’t forget this little nugget, The Milky Way is just one of 140 billion or so galaxies, even larger than ours.” I’m sure Senator Clay Davis, of The Wire, would end all of this with a classic… “Sheeeeit.”

It’s been said by quantum physicists that time does not exist (at least the way we humans perceive it), and I’ve been told “that every distance is not near.” I have often felt the more knowledge I gain the lonelier I become. Maybe that’s why we have Flat Earthers? They just don’t want to be lonely. And though Science has gotten almost too good, an equation with a sum equaling divine salvation has yet to be written.

I get it. I honestly do. I’m actually there with them. As Voyager I, the Stars and the Universe expand out of our sight, so ultimately do the people and things we love dilate out of our world. All of “it” happens just a little bit at a time. So little at a time, you don’t realize it until the only light left is a soft golden halo of regret circulating life’s event horizon. “Spooky action at a distance,” indeed. Maybe there’s no such thing as death. Maybe all we are meant to perceive is order giving into entropy, giving way to unfathomable expansion, creating unimaginable possibilities. And then, back again…to do it all over again.

I took a little vacation last week over the 4th of July. It’s the longest I’ve been away from Swigg in quite a while. Rehoboth has always been my ancestral place of recess, and the sandy stretch of beach at the end of Virginia Avenue, has always been our family’s perch. Every morning we sleepily saunter from car to sandy nest, curtained by Maxfield Parrish painted clouds, and cocooned by a milky morning marine mist. Sitting under open sky, marooned on white sand, one gains a whole new appreciation for nuclear fusion.
Why is it, in the audience of the sun, and within the proximity of large bodies of water, time begins to slow within our mammalian brains?

I watched my children play in the water and I played with them. My wife and I smiled at each other quite a bit. I read some Hemingway, and took many half-asleep naps and dreamt of sailing, fishing and drinking. We played silly games, games of chance, games of skill and took home many shoddily made stuffed animals. This is what we did each day, and we lived what seemed like many days inside of one. We did this every day. We took deep breaths of salty umami air intermingled with even saltier aromas from restaurant fryers that festooned the boardwalk. We salivated over the drifting scent of caramelized sugar wafting from confections being made inside ancient seaside buildings and discarded melting cream and glucose on the planks of the splintering wooden avenue.

Every day we would return home, sun smothered and dazed from the Vitamin D. Feeling loopy and in love with life, I found happiness in the innocent introspective of my children and my wife’s omniscient smile. In my post sun-drunk content I poured a drink.

The first drink after a long day at the beach is an important one. It’s a moment to capture and accentuate the high Nature has already given. It’s a unique moment. A moment when the Universe channeled through ethanol, buoyed by the background radiation of the Big Bang, warmly lets you know, “everything can be replaced.” Everything Is going to be ok. If not in this dream, then the next. And in some instances, in the right light, you can see one’s existence, “come shining from the West down to the East.”
I brought a cache of Rosé down with us from a varying number of European locals. Nothing cerebral, just simple delightful stuff I can afford. I opened and poured a finely chilled example of such inside the unnatural stillness of my in-law’s house. Dorthy and I put on some deep cuts of Otis Redding as we prepped dinner. I began to pour big glasses of rosé for she and Joanne.

Later in the evening my son and I went out searching for amphibians of the night. We captured several toads and held them up to the slivered moon. We laughed at their beauty and design. “So cute” Griffin says. We scurried about searching for more specimens. I looked up into the light polluted sky and wondered where Voyager I was. I thought about the ocean tide we had played in all day and the Flat Earthers (Explain tidal forces). I thought about the distances between stars. I thought about Richard Manuel’s voice singing “I Shall be Released.” I thought about Bill Bryson (Man…the guy can Fucking write). I thought about entropy and time, and I thought about what to drink next. Griffin and I collected our catch and wandered home, and “I swear I saw our reflections somewhere so high above this wall.” Company had congregated before we had left. When we returned, we released our bumpy moist loves, and Griffin retired to a screen somewhere.I poured another glass of overly chilled rosé and rejoined the party.

“Any day now,
Any day now,
I shall be released.”

-David Govatos
 

I must say, over the last several years, possibly a decade or more, I have become incredibly lazy when it comes to “toasting.” That’s right, the social ritual of touching each other’s glasses with cacophonous clinks in a communal acknowledgment of good health, good life and good luck. Up until the last several months, I thought the social exercise was a trivial pursuit- “oh yes, we are all here now, where the hell did you think I’ve gone? Fake-smile…lets drink and eat.”

Basically, I took this ritual, as well as many other dining traditions as trite and old fashioned. The idea of “eat, drink and be merry,” had become a cliché. The mere act of toasting had lost all substance and meaning. This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Substance and meaning seems be to lacking in all facets of American society, not just at the dinner table. Gluttony often goes beyond food and wine.

Authenticity, kindness and appreciation have been crushed by a Sisyphean suburban rock of materialism, entitlement and ignorance. All of this got rolling quite some time ago; its reverberations, shaking the hands of my moral compass. The rumblings leading me to lounge sardonically in my dining room chair- tilting the lip of my glass to the tip of the bottle, without acknowledgement of my fellow man, woman or animal. Amongst friends…who cares if I touch your glass or not. We are all here tomorrow…right?
Then came Covid. And ultimately a cruel reckoning.We may not all be here tomorrow. I long for my fellow man, woman and animal. Joni Mitchell, as well as that shitty 80s glam-metal rock band Cinderella were right, “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone.”

I spent a number of strange Covid spring evenings at my dining room table, littered with my children’s school work, unentered invoices and a glass menagerie of wine and booze bottles.I slip back in time. In the dark stillness, a light corrupts the Dark-Room of my memory. A reel of the previous year’s dinner parties starts spinning through my mind. I picture each face, each smile, each stare. Everything is illuminated, carousel-ed, time-lapsed and spinning.

I’m with old friends. I hear my favorite song. I smell great food. I taste great wine. I feel alive!
The moment demands a toast!

Ding- Ding -Ding!

“Hey, hey… Hey, really…really, I want to say something. I have something to say. To all of you…as we sit here, this amazing food in front of us. This amazing wine in our glasses. I just want to tell you how much I appreciate you. To have all of you here!

Another old memory from my Father. He always told me, never give anything to anyone in life unless they appreciate it. Followed by a memory of my Mother. She taught me to always applicate life. We all know each other here, so I guess we all like each other enough to have us all back. Let’s hope it doesn’t take another several months to get us all together again. I know how hectic all our lives can be. I hope we are all enjoying life, or should I say appreciating life?

And one more thing. Just a quick something to share. Joanne and I were cleaning out her grandfather’s desk the other day. I found this Irish blessing in the pages of a moldy bible, filled with fading prayer cards:

“May you be in Heaven a full hour afore the devil knows ye’re dead.”
Let’s hope we don’t find ourselves in heaven anytime soon!
Seriously, I fucking love you guys. This is just the best. Really, no bullshit, we are so lucky to have this…”this.” I so appreciate you!”

“Cheers!”

Clink, Clink, Clink… Hold on, I have to get you too! … Clink.”

Back to the Strangeness. My head bends toward the table. School work, invoices and empty wine bottles are strewn about. I see my son’s first grade reader: “Sue has a kitten. His name is Mittens.”

The room is darker now as the reel sputters. The tape pitters to a flapping end. The drone of the refrigerator subtly slaps me to attention with an avalanche of self-awareness. Now just a hum. Now just a tinge. The carousel slows; the room spins to a halt. The jaundice light of memory scurries away into the corner of the room.

I pour another glass of whatever is beside me.

I think to myself; I want to be a better person. I say to myself; I want to give better “toasts.”
I peer into the empty room and stare at the empty chairs. I raise my glass to the ghosts …” I love you all!”

-David Govatos
 

“How simple and frugal a thing is happiness: A glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a Wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. All that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple frugal heart.”-Nikos Kazantzakis

I got home from Swigg late one evening last week. The kids and Joanne.. [...]

“She loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm it had the same significance for her as the elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others”

– Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

I haven’t written much in the last several weeks, as the frenetic pace of [...]

It was another hectic week at the Govatos household. Per usual, I spent about 100 hours at the store. Meanwhile, in a herculean feat of suburban mythological proportions, my equally overworked wife chauffeured our children around from practices to parties to exhaustion. However, at close of day and end of week, there must be early beds for overtired children and comfortable couches and real wine for sleepy adults. [...]