It rained the other day, and if the smell of the woods after the first rain can be called petrichor, the smell of the freeway after a long drought can certainly be called “petrolchor.” But that rain and the slight nip in the evening air reminds us that summer is coming to an end. And granted, the fall equinox is still a month away, but now is the time we start to think about red wine — maybe not the tannic monsters of Napa or even northeastern Marin, or the denser pepper zinfandels of Sonoma, but still something more than a “lively” rosé or a “flinty” albariño.
And that is where pinot noir comes in. Sure, the kings of France would roll over in their tombs over the notion that pinot noir is a starter wine, but there, I’ve said it. Maybe I’ve become emboldened by the fact that the kings of France aren’t in their tombs anymore thanks to the French Revolution or because the notion of Burgundy being the “wine of kings” around here, where both chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon dominate and kings seem ridiculous, doesn’t matter.
For whatever reason, pinot noir is both a great way to bridge the gap between white and red, as well as a great way to blow that gap wide open, too. Luckily for us, we sit in, on or adjacent to some of the greatest growing areas for pinot noir there are. Hot days, cool nights and fog, hell we might as well be in Burgundy — if Burgundy had redwoods and San Francisco.
What did Herb Caen say about heaven? “It ain’t bad, but i.
