WINE WILL MAKE THE BLUES GO AWAY

The Golden Gate Bridge looking southwest on a gloomy but meaningful early Spring Sunday

Last Sunday, my partner and I began our day with a kerfuffle – well, maybe a little more than a to-do. But we decided to get some fresh air in hopes of clearing out the argle-bargle in our heads. So, we drove down to Cavallo Point near Sausalito, and to a spot not 100 yards underneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Despite it being the start of Spring, we wore our winter coats. While the scene was spectacular and the day was gloomy, cold and cloudy.

I had never seen the bridge from this angle, despite living in the Bay Area for more than a half-century. Looking southwest, we watched as a cargo ship, larded with what seemed like six stories of shipping containers, cautiously make its way out of the Gate. Its mast cleared the bottom of the bridge – as we heard the rumble of cars on the top deck -- from our vantage point -- by about two feet. It was a majestic site, but holy cow. I thought, what if a big wave had come rolling in from the Pacific at the same time?

It didn’t. The scene was desultory, not unlike a Turner painting. But Tina and my mood lifted a bit (although I won’t speak for her). When we got home, Tina began taking a red-lidded container from the freezer. Her light and fluffy meatballs (whether chicken, or beef and pork, are always gossamer and fabulous once they hit your mouth). To add to the deliciousness, she started putting together a marinara-like sauce with lots o’ garlic and red pepper flakes. That sauce is one of my favorite Italian accompaniments to pasta. Her marinara is sweet and lovely, just like she knows how I like it. This time the pasta was penne regate.

Which brings me to the point of this essay: The drive under the Golden Gate Bridge and Tina’s cooking acumen that day began to ease my malaise and earlier annoyance, and make it fade away. I was inspired.

I immediately went to where our wine was held, in the bookshelves in the usually dark, quiet and cold (we live under the redwoods), family room. The collection is modest, less than 100 bottles, I think. Some of those have been resting there for about 10 years. I instantly thought of a Barberesco Tina had bought me.

I had been holding onto the 2001 Marchesi di Gresy, Gaiun Martinenga Barberesco for a long while – like some of those bottles I’ve deemed special and/or not ready to drink. I knew that Tina would be thrilled I had chosen the wine; of course, I couldn’t wait to open it.

Anecdotally, the Nebbiolo for this wine was likely picked on or near September 11, 2001, a day that will live in infamy. I landed in Milan — about two hours from the vineyard from where this wine came — and about two hours before the attack.

This wine helped create a better mood. Wine can do that.

The moment called for – no, demanded – something special and something that I thought would help us get through and beyond our day’s despondency. And so, I fought through my momentary hesitancy to hold onto something – my mood, my crabbiness, the wine – that might elevate Tina and me from our fog.

It did.

The Nebbiolo (fog in Italian) still had great color despite its 25 years, with only the slightest bit of browning at the edges. And the fruit – full-on dark cherry aromas and flavor – was all there, still. It was in perfect balance but not big, perhaps light- to mid-weight.

And it went down so easily and wonderfully with Tina’s pasta and meatballs; and even made the salad with local creamy blue cheese, pop. More importantly, for the first time that day, we were smiling at each other. Our mood had lifted.

So, before you find yourself in shitty day like that – and I know you will – I urge you to look for the di Gresy. It’ll be hard to find but if you do, it’ll run you about 100 bucks. More failsafe though, it’s best to look for another type of special wine – and it doesn’t have to set you back much, something like a Cru Beaujolais or a Nerello Mascalese from Sicily or a Priorat from Spain – which will serve to help take you out of yourselves.

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This piece is dedicated to my friend Cy Berlowitz – who I’d known for 57 years – who died recently; and who really got a kick out of drinking Spanish wine with his wife Judith.