Only 186 cases of this wine were produced from the Clos Electrique vineyard in the Red Hills of Dundee southwest of Portland. Located in Yamhill County, John Paul, a former Marine Biologist, founded this winery in 1984 (my birth year) and has established a reputation for making high quality Pinot Noir and Chardonnay in the Burgundian style. Natural, non-interventionist techniques are used in much of the winemaking process, from allowing natural yeasts to initiate fermentation to allowing the wine to take its sweet buttery time to complete malolactic.
The Clos Electrique Vineyard is farmed Organically with approximately two acres devoted to Pinot Noir. Yields are usually around 1.5 tons per acre (20.5 hl/hectare). In layperson's terms: hardly anything at all. Any of this wine you can get your hands on is precious and rare...
A friend of mine, Tom, called and asked if I wanted to grab dinner. Of course, I replied affirmatively, as I am a whore for hedonistic experiences. We discussed the possibility of several restaurants that are also accounts and settled on a favorite little Italian place of mine that shall remain unnamed for the sake of the employees who consumed copiously along with Tom and I last evening.
Because I know the people at this place I can usually get away with bringing my own bottle. I deliberated between a couple of (too young) Barolos from the well-regarded 1999 vintage before deciding on the Cameron. Let me mention that it was about 91 degrees yesterday and the idea of Barolo out on the patio just wasn't that appealing. Granted, of all the Pinots I could have chosen, I picked the masculine and rich Oregonian to bring to the party.
I arrived late, having just finished conducting a tasting for a new account interested in good value by the glass options for their soon-to-open gastropub. Tom was waiting for me outside with an oversized martini and had already dug himself into a hole by remarking to our waitress that her skirt was rather short (which it was) without explaining to her that he would be enjoying himself much more now with this added bonus rather than if she had been wearing, say, trousers. She thought it an insult and told me straightaway as I walked into the restaurant. "He's out back [on the patio]," she said. "What's wrong," I asked, perplexed by her attitude, which is usually friendly and warm. She relayed his comment to me at which I began to laugh and retorted, "Has he begun drinking without me?" To this she laughed also. (I am assuming all was forgiven?)
While Tom slurped down his triple decker Martini I enjoyed a Tuscan Rosé, the name of which escapes me at the moment, but was delightful and perfect with our very delicious caesar salads (with anchovies). I asked Scott, the manager, for an ice bucket for my contraband bottle and let it sit in there for a spell as the heat of the outdoors weighed upon us.
The pizza (the best in town, cooked on a charcoal grill) arrived and I yanked the cork out of the bottle and poured a taste for Scott in a reversal of the usual manager-customer relations. He approved of the wine, indeed, extolled the delectability of the nectar while I poured for Tom and I then topped him up. (I should mention that it was a slow night and therefore the staff could take the time to booze it up and merrymake with us).
Bold, dense, and dark from the glass. With game and earth along with ripe black cherries on the nose. On the palate it was full, rich, and assertive. This was no feint of heart Pinot. This was true hedonism with a pop of fruit that exploded onto the mid-palate exclaiming that Pinot is King, and that a truly great Pinot is generous and supple and DOES show its fruit. Definitely Masculine in the vein of a Cotes de Nuits, like Gevrey Chambertin or Nuits St Georges. My only reservation: a touch of alcohol on the finish that seemed a bit hot. Otherwise, a very wonderful wine, with time ahead of it, though drinking superbly now.
Our festivities must have caught the attention of the chef and sous chef for before long that had joined us and partook as well, as did our short-skirted waitress. A short while later the bottle contained not a drop more save for a bit of sediment, but neither did our pizza remain as we consumed it with gusto. Dessert arrived unbidden, but we received it warmly (I should say hotly, though the temperature did begin to decrease as the night encroached upon us). Scott turned on the outdoor lights and lit some candles for ambiance and opened a bottle of Moscato D'Asti to accompany the Tiramisu. This was also shared among the six of us (Tom, myself, the chef, sous-chef, short-skirted waitress and Scott). Moscato for me usually precedes and accompanies Sunday morning breakfast, though it served its purpose quite well on this steamy evening.
Eventually, we retired inside to the bar and snacked on some just-flown-in-from-Italy fresh Mozzarella and Gorgonzolla. Tom sipped (gulped) Glenmorange 12 year while I tried: first, an unwooded Chard from Australia that was decent enough and second, a glass of Barros Ten Year Tawny Port that was quite good with typical dried sour cherry and apricot aromas and notes of fig and walnut on the palate. A very, very persistent finish. Scott left the bottle of Scotch on the bar, to which Tom helped himself whenever his glass became empty (which it did with some regularity).
I summoned Scott for the check. He scoffed and let it be known that only a tip would be necessary, which he would share among the staff, the kitchen included. Tom dropped two Jacksons on the bar and we stumbled out into the night sated and full of fine feeling.
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