“Here’s to the nights we won’t remember, with the friends we’ll never forget, and the wine that brought us together.”
– Unknown
Writing this series of articles has helped me realize something: Friends make a wine memorable. A mediocre wine improves noticeably with good company. A great wine with good friends becomes unforgettable, which is one of the more civilized arguments for having both.
90. Orin Swift Mercury Head Cabernet Sauvignon 2018 – Any wine with real money on the bottle has to be good.
My friend Molly and I met at a weekly wine tasting. Molly has a discerning palate, and I always enjoy sharing a bottle or two with her, purely in the interest of continuing education, of course. One day, we had lunch at Wally’s Wine & Spirits — Las Vegas, at Resorts World. Molly had never been to Wally’s, so lunch promised to be a treat. Fortunately, I am rarely opposed to research involving wine, food, and comfortable seating.
I first went to the original Wally’s in Beverly Hills in the early 2000s. There is also a Santa Monica location, which I have not yet had the chance to visit. Wally’s became my go-to wine shop whenever I was in Los Angeles. What began as a local liquor store gradually expanded to include cheese, charcuterie, gourmet and specialty foods, and, eventually, a well-regarded restaurant. Wally’s now offers more than 8,000 spirits, wines, and beers, along with more than 100 wines by the glass. In 2020, it was named a Wine Spectator Grand Award honoree, which is apparently what happens when a wine shop decides moderation is for other people.
Wally’s is now owned by a group that includes the founders of GUESS, Inc. I had several outstanding wine dinners with Christian Navarro, Wally’s former CEO and co-owner, and numerous Zoom calls with him during the COVID quarantine. I had the chance to speak with Christian again after Wally’s opened at Resorts World. He told me they were considering multiple locations around the country, including New York City and Miami. I am delighted Wally’s came to Las Vegas. Some civic improvements arrive with roadwork; this one arrived with wine.
Molly and I settled on one of my favorites, the Wally Burger: a Wagyu beef burger which I paired with truffle fries because restraint is sometimes overrated. Having decided on our entree, we wandered into Wally’s special room, home to its better Cabernet, Bordeaux, and Burgundy selections. Just give me a glass, a corkscrew, and perhaps forward my mail. If anyone needs me, I will be in aisle Bordeaux, pretending this counts as self-care. I love that room.
We chose a wine she had not tried before: Orin Swift Mercury Head Cabernet Sauvignon from Orin Swift Cellars. This wine is more than merely enjoyable. The first thing that catches your attention is the real silver Mercury Head dime affixed to the bottle in place of a traditional label, hence the name. It is one of the few bottles where the label may be worth pocketing, although I suspect that sort of thing is discouraged. Besides, at this price point, the dime is the least expensive participant. Orin Swift had to jump through more than a few hoops to put a coin on a wine bottle, but what is inside the bottle is what takes things to another level.
Molly and I settled on one of my favorites, the Wally Burger: a Wagyu beef burger which I paired with truffle fries because restraint is sometimes overrated.
Dave Phinney was only 24 when he founded Orin Swift Cellars, a name created in homage to his father’s middle name and his mother’s maiden name. He became known for The Prisoner, his flagship wine, which he sold in 2010. It was sold again and is now owned by Gallo, proving that even rebellious wines eventually find corporate supervision.
Phinney collected coins as a child and had a particular fondness for Mercury Head dimes, which were issued from 1916 to 1945. The Mercury Head Cabernet Sauvignon is Phinney’s crown-jewel wine. He is exacting about it and will not produce the wine unless conditions are right and the fruit is worthy. Mercury Head is predominantly Cabernet Sauvignon, filled out with Cabernet Franc and Merlot, and aged for 15 months in 50% new French oak. If you drink it away from home, take a rideshare: at a whopping 16.1% ABV, Mercury Head is less a glass of wine than a very persuasive closing argument.
This wine paired beautifully with our Wagyu burgers. Deeply purple in color, it offered the classic aromas of a Napa Cabernet: cassis, blackberry, cigar box, and violets. On the palate, it was sumptuous, rich, and full-bodied, with notes of blackberry, blueberry, caramel, cherry, and plum. A secondary layer of dark chocolate, leather, Rutherford Dust, sage, and graphite added structure and complexity, with the promise of even more to come with age. The wine was focused, with firm tannins and enough personality to make the burger feel slightly underdressed.
Molly and I reveled in our excellent burgers and remarkable wine. Somehow, a bottle miraculously followed Molly home for her cellar, as fine wine occasionally does when properly supervised. Can anything improve on a great meal and a great wine? Yes: a dear friend.*
91. Marqués de Murrieta Castillo Ygay Gran Reserva Especial 2010 – Wine Spectator named this wine its #1 on the Top 100 list for a reason.
I wrote about the first time I had this remarkable wine in Part 10 of this series, following an outstanding tasting of Rioja wines. The tasting, held in September 2018, was co-sponsored by Southern Glazer’s Wine & Spirits and Rioja Trade, the trade group for wines from the Rioja region. I had enjoyed wines from Rioja before that private tasting, but I came away gobsmacked and became an apostle of Tempranillo and Rioja writ large. I believe “gobsmacked” is the official wine term for “I did not know grapes could do that.” Naturally, I became determined to share my newfound devotion with as many people as possible, even if they did not ask for salvation.
My friend Kimberly is new to fine wine, but she is developing a wonderful nose and palate. I enjoy sharing new wines with her. One evening, I decided to introduce her to Tempranillo and Rioja through one of my favorite expressions of both the grape and the region: Marqués de Murrieta Castillo Ygay Gran Reserva Especial 2010. The 2010 vintage is particularly remarkable because Wine Spectator named it Wine of the Year in 2020. This wine sits at the top of the food-, or should I say, wine-chain. If wines had corner offices, this one would have the view, the leather chair, and someone screening its calls.
Tempranillo is an excellent alternative to Cabernet Sauvignon, especially with lamb or steak. Although it is complex, it does not usually have Cabernet’s depth, but it more than compensates by playing nicely with cheese, which not all red wines manage to do. Cheese, as always, has standards.
The Rioja Denominación de Origen Calificada (DOCa), Spain’s most prestigious appellation category, is located in northern Spain and is the country’s premier wine region. Rioja comprises about 55,000 hectares (135,000 acres), whereas Napa comprises approximately 18,349 hectares (45,342 acres), as a comparison. Rioja became Spain’s first official appellation when it earned DO status in 1926, and in 1991 it became the country’s first DOCa. Apparently, Rioja was not content merely to be excellent; it also wanted the paperwork to prove it.
Castillo Ygay is Bodega Murrieta’s flagship single-vineyard wine, sourced from the best grapes in the 40-hectare (99 acres) La Plana vineyard. The fruit is hand-picked from vines planted in 1950 at the estate in Rioja Alta, located 485 meters (1,590 feet) above sea level. The vines yielded 3,500 kilos (3.85 short tons) per hectare, which is another way of saying the grapes are not exactly being asked to multitask. The wine is a blend of 81% Tempranillo and 19% Mazuelo, also known as Cariñena, a local grape. The Tempranillo is aged for 34 months in American oak barrels, while the Mazuelo is aged for 34 months in French oak barrels. After blending, the wine remains in concrete tanks for 20 months before release, because apparently patience is also part of the recipe.
This wine is extraordinary. The cuvée is produced only in selected vintages, and only when Bodega Murrieta deems it worthy. Amazingly, just 24 vintages have been released since 1852. At that pace, the winery releases vintages with the sense of urgency usually associated with glaciers. The estate is so particular about quality and tradition that it has not changed the label since 1852, either. The wine is at once elegant, intense, and complex.
The wine opened with aromas of ripe strawberry, thyme, tobacco, leather, cedar, rosemary, and a hint of earthy mushroom. On the palate, it managed the neat trick of being both explosive and elegant, a combination not often achieved outside very expensive tailoring. Notes of orange zest, dried cherry, sous-bois, vanilla, and black tea mingled harmoniously over beautifully rounded tannins. Pair this magnificent wine with beef, lamb, game meats, or rich seafood, and contentment should follow shortly thereafter.
Kimberly now worships at the altar of Rioja. I do not want to say I converted her, as there may have been a tasting glass and a small sermon involved. You may become a Rioja apostle yourself, especially if you have the magnificent Castillo Ygay.
92. Domaine de la Zouina Volubilia Gris – Morocco will forever remain in my heart.
I was working at my first bank in 1983 and had not taken a holiday in more than a year. I had accumulated over a month of leave, and we had a “use it or lose it” policy. There was no way I was donating that much time back to the institution out of sheer organizational generosity.
I had recently joined the board of an American subsidiary of an Italian company. The company held its board meetings in Italy, and my first one was coming up in September. I decided to use my accumulated leave to attend the meeting in Milan and then take a proper holiday. I wanted – no, I needed an adventure. Having grown up in Iraq and Nigeria, Morocco seemed like a uniquely appealing blend of the two: a Muslim country on the African continent. Geography, at last, appeared to be cooperating with my restlessness.
I had met Gerry, my future ex-wife and the mother of my now-kidults, a scant four months earlier in New York. Since our meeting in May, we had continued what was then called a telephonic relationship, because apparently romance once required both patience and a working landline. I was leaving New York for Milan, which meant Gerry and I could see each other for the first time since that initial meeting.
It was wonderful to see Gerry again. We made plans for her to visit me in Las Vegas, and after that September 1983 trip to New York, we managed to see each other at least once a month until we became engaged on Leap Year Day in 1984. Even my romantic timing, it seems, required a footnote. It is hard to believe that Gerry has now lived in Las Vegas longer than she lived in New York.
The Italian leg of my holiday went well until the next-to-last day, when I was accosted by expert pickpockets. They deftly removed my travelers’ cheques. Remember them? No, they were not American Express, and Karl Malden was nowhere in sight. You will understand this reference if you are a person of a certain discerning age. For younger readers, travelers’ cheques were what we used before apps, passwords, Venmo, and panic attacks.
I sent a telex message to my bank in the 1980s to authorize replacements. The bad news kept coming. Visa-Barclays was unhelpful. There were no U.S. dollar travelers’ cheques available in Europe, or in Morocco, as I was soon to learn. I was left with less than $1,000 in cash and a Visa credit card to last for three weeks. As if that were not enough, I discovered upon arriving in Rabat that my Visa card had been canceled, which made the situation somewhat less festive.
I thought about going back to New York and getting to know Gerry better, but I had said I wanted an adventure. I had some contacts in Rabat, Marrakech, and Casablanca, the cities I was visiting, and my hotels and airfare were already paid for. I decided to see how far pluck, luck, and wits would take me, which is to say I briefly mistook a personal finance problem for character development.
I had a short stopover in Paris, and then took a flight to Rabat, Morocco’s capital. Luck, at last, was showing signs of employment. My seatmate from Paris was a delightful gentleman named Maleek Hawsawi, who worked as the equivalent of an assistant attorney general. Maleek and I quickly attorney-bonded, and we spent the flight discussing the differences between the Moroccan and American legal systems. Morocco, being a former French and Spanish protectorate (I refuse to use the term “colony”), has a legal system based on French, Spanish, and classical Mudawana law, which is rooted in Islamic teachings.
Maleek suggested that we have dinner that evening after I checked into my hotel. I had never stayed at the Swiss hotel chain Sofitel, but it was the one I was going to use whilst in Morocco. My hotel was lovely and stood just across from the magnificent Mohammed V Mausoleum, with its white marble façade and the adjacent Hassan Tower. It made me feel as though I had chosen accommodations with better judgment than usual.
There was one thing I had to do before dinner: visit the souk, or marketplace. My goal was to blend in whilst in Morocco, so I wanted to buy a djellaba, the ankle-length, flowing garment favored by Moroccan men. Men walking down the street wore djellabas. Some wore Western clothing, but many wore either a djellaba alone or a djellaba over Western clothing. I was not yet Moroccan, of course, but I was prepared to make a textile-based effort.
A djellaba is similar to the dishdashah worn by Arab men in the Middle East, except that a djellaba has a hood. I looked Moroccan. I had let my beard grow, as I usually do when I travel, and my transformation was apparently complete. People assumed I was Muslim because of my beard, especially when I was wearing a djellaba. It turns out that the right garment and enough facial hair can do a great deal of cultural heavy lifting. I was not exactly undercover, but I appeared to have passed a rather informal audition.
My Arabic was a bit wobbly, as I had not spoken it in about 12 years. I also spoke Classical Arabic, whilst Moroccan Arabic blends Berber, French, and Arabic. For example, the Arabic word for tea is “chai,” whilst in Morocco it is the French-derived “thé.” As for my accent, the less said, the better. Once people realized I was not Moroccan, they usually asked whether I was Egyptian, Libyan, Kuwaiti, or Saudi, since I looked as though I could be from any of those countries. I always confessed to having lived in Iraq. That usually ended the inquiry, since I also look Iraqi.
Maleek and his wife, the ever-engaging Hadiya, collected me for dinner. They laughed and were delighted that I was wearing a djellaba. We arrived at a lovely restaurant and nightclub. The first thing I noticed was men and women dancing together. Then I noticed the bottles of wine and cocktails on the dinner tables. Nothing adjusts one’s cultural expectations quite like a corkscrew making itself useful. Morocco, I quickly learned, was not auditioning to be Saudi Arabia.
Hadiya was utterly delightful. She was a journalist and, as journalists tend to be, very inquisitive. She wanted to know all about the United States, as they had not traveled there. She and Maleek had been married for about 13 years and had a daughter and a son.
I love Moroccan food. The way meats are slowly cooked with fruits and vegetables in tagines gives everything a depth of flavor that suggests patience is not entirely overrated. I told Maleek and Hadiya I was surprised to see men and women dancing together and drinking wine and cocktails. They laughed and reminded me that this was Morocco, which was culturally closer to Iraq than to Saudi Arabia. Apparently, my cultural compass required minor recalibration and perhaps a glass of wine.
Moroccan wines, like South African wines, are a bargain in the United States when you can find them. In Morocco, however, alcohol is expensive by local standards, so most bars and restaurants serve mint tea, which is its own experience. Moroccan servers can pour tea into a glass from as high as 40 inches without spilling a drop. Moroccan tea has been a staple in my home since that trip, though I remain too nervous to pour it from anything higher than about 12 inches. My floors, tablecloths, and dignity are all grateful.
Maleek insisted that I try Moroccan wine, since I had never had any before. Morocco traces its viticulture back to around 2000 BC. The Greeks, and especially the Phoenicians, along with other Mediterranean cultures, had long oenological histories, so it is hardly surprising that Morocco developed a winemaking tradition of its own through its Mediterranean cultural and economic ties. Winemaking continued during the Roman era, only to come to a presumably sober pause when Islam swept through northern Africa in the 7th century, as alcohol is haram, or forbidden under Islamic law.
French and Spanish influence in the 19th and early 20th centuries brought back both winemaking and social drinking. By the 1950s, Morocco had become a leading wine exporter, helped by French investors and winemakers who brought techniques suited to a terroir and climate they understood. History may be written by the victors, but it is often much more enjoyable when poured by the glass.
Maleek ordered a bottle of Domaine de la Zouina Volubilia Gris, produced in Meknès, a city in northwestern Morocco between Rabat and Fes. Meknès sits in the foothills of the Atlas and Rif Mountains, where the region’s vineyards benefit from the cooling influence of the Atlantic Ocean, only about 130 kilometers (81 miles) away. This makes Meknès an ideal place for growing Rhône- and Spanish-style varieties, including Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon, Tempranillo, Caladoc, Mourvèdre, Marselan, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, Sauvignon Gris, Viognier, Vermentino, and Grenache. In other words, Meknès does not suffer from a lack of options.
Zouina (an Arabic term for a beautiful woman) fittingly describes Zouina Volubilia. The vineyards are part of the Upper Meknès Plateau AOC, where they approach 850 meters (2790 feet) on the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. The plateau is lush and fertile, benefiting from ample amounts of sunshine and mild temperatures. The terroir also experiences the “Chergui,” the Saharan wind similar to the strong Mistral winds that blow from southern France into the Mediterranean Sea. Apparently, even grapes appreciate a little drama with their sunshine.
Volubilia Gris is a delightful blend of Mourvèdre, Caladoc, and Marselan. Pale in color, it is wholly reminiscent of wines from Provence, which is never a bad thing to resemble. It is fresh and aromatic, with delicate notes of ripe peaches and flowers. The palate was crisp and piquant, with lively acidity and abundant mineral notes, followed by mouthwatering white stone fruits and blossoms. The wine was elegant, serious, and a perfect introduction to Moroccan wines, an opening argument, as it were, for further investigation.
My first night in Rabat came to an end, and I said goodbye to Maleek and the charming Hadiya. We have remained in touch over the years, and their young children are now adults with children of their own, which is both lovely and a rather rude reminder that time insists on continuing its work.
I have had many Moroccan wines over the past 40-plus years. I still wear my djellaba around the house, especially when Moroccan food and wine are involved. Each time, my mind drifts back to that first night in Rabat. I went to Morocco looking for an adventure, and that night was the start of one. As for the rest of the trip, I will save that for another time. A man in a djellaba should not reveal all his secrets at once.
Bshah!
*Wally’s Wine & Spirits – Las Vegas is now holding wine tastings on Saturdays as they do in Santa Monica. The line-up of wines changes weekly, but they are always interesting. Ask for Greg, Aaron, or John; they are knowledgeable, and they will help you find that special wine.
