July, in my opinion, is the convection oven of the Las Vegas year. It’s not Chamber-of-Commerce-poster-child time here in Sin City.
Inside of the building, there is a stunningly beautiful tasting bar made completely of Onyx and backlit underneath. Wow.
That chunky, short-haired person talking with Paul is me back then. Now I have long hair. Still chunky. Whatever.
We were having such a good time – and The Wineaux Guy™ was a magnet with his huge hat – that the next thing we knew, we were being escorted out at the end of the event. What!? How did that happen!?
It seemed like every American-made Viognier was a wannabe Chardonnay – kept in so much oak that the floral aroma that makes it so distinctive was lost in a sea of butter.
Something has happened during my time here, and that’s called “resting.”
The Wineaux Guy thankfully talked me off the precipice, insisting that 5:00 a.m. was not “late.” Ok. He had a point.
In between there will be roaming the California coast from Santa Barbara to Solvang, Paso Robles to Monterey. My cameras and notepads are at the ready, and I’m jonesing for adventure.
I remember enjoying it because it came out of a bottle that had a cork and wasn’t cloyingly sweet. It was a real wine, and I never drank the Strawberry Hill again.
The finish was pleasantly bitter, hinting of Meyer lemon and coffee. Delicious. And did a fairly good job of slapping my palate around a bit.
Someone had said that they had really good food and were a “microbrewery” with “hand-crafted beers.” Whatever that was.
If they make it rich, then kudos. If they don’t, I can imagine that they would continue to make wine until the very end.