White Bandol: Zest in a bottle

When I was 20, I ran around the south of France in glorified hotpants, subsisted entirely on banana and nutella crepes and took lots of pictures of window flowerboxes.

I had absolutely no concept of the utterly beautiful wine being produced in the region.

Located in Provence, Bandol is easily my favorite, and go-to, region in the summertime for rose wines. Take a bit of funky earth and combine it with a bit of strawberry and watermelon, make it pink and cold and you have happiness, right there in a bottle, at least for me.

Bandol is a small seaside fishing town, located between Marseille and Cannes. It's known mainly for the aforementioned ravishing roses, and even more so for its wild and leathery reds. The spicy and structured red mourvedre grape dominates the region, and must make up at least 50% of red Bandol wines by law. Other red grapes include grenache and cinsault, with a sprinkling of syrah and carignan. Roses from Bandol are produced via skin contact from these red grapes.

White wines from Bandol are lesser known. Produced from ugni blanc, clairette, bourboulenc and sometimes sauvignon blanc, these wines tend to be light and zesty, and pair well with artichokes, seafood and, apparently, veal brains.

Tonight I decided to give one of these unheralded white Bandols a try.

My darling friend Ilissa, who, by a happy twist of fate, works at my local natural wine store, Wine Therapy, helped me choose the 2009 Domaine Le Galantin ugni blanc and clairette blend.

A female winemaker is apparently at the helm of Domaine Le Galantin. She took over winemaking from her father. While Ilissa and I suspect lees contact, I couldn't find vinification specifics. Its website does indicate that grapes are grown on terraced vineyards with low yields, and the soils are a mixture of clay and limestone.

Translation: The grapes are probably hand-harvested, as terraced vineyards usually can't accommodate machine harvesters. Low yields generally translate into a wine with higher character and concentration of flavor. Clay and limestone soils typically produce grapes that are higher in acidity.

Here is what my palate told me:

• A nose of white pepper
• Lemon curd as the wine hits the palate
• A zestiness from high acidity
• Light in weight, though with a creaminess in the midpalate (perhaps from lees contact?)
• Juicy and crisp, with a short finish

This wine would be lovely on its own or as an apertif, and would be a fantastic accompaniment to seafood.

Now, who would like to come with me to Provence for some Bandol blanc and bouillebaisse?

The evolution of a wine snob

I certainly wasn't raised to be this way.

My parents didn't really drink much when my brothers and I were growing up. Every year during the holidays, my dad, a dentist, would receive liquor baskets from patients and colleagues that would sit untouched in the basement (they still managed to disappear over the years. I swear my house must have been haunted.)

In high school, we drank Bud Ice-- I think it had a higher ABV, though still shared the lovely flavor of watered-down piss with its uncle and cousin. In college, we would buy the plastic bottles of vodka and mix vats of "punch" in garbage cans.

After college, the means may have changed, though the end remained the same: I favored microbrews over Bud Ice, but I still drank to feel the effects instead of understand the process.

Then I started moonlighting at a friend's restaurant, hostessing, a couple of nights a week. Kristin, the owner and wine and beverage director, has won multiple awards of excellence from Wine Spectator. I loved the way it sounded when she said, "Chateauneuf du Pape," but never bothered to learn what it meant.

That lost opportunity wasn't to be found in Indianapolis. There, I worked at a fine-dining restaurant owned by a celebrity chef. The GM's prior relevant experience consisted of running the cafe at Nordstrom and the self-appointed "head waiter" conveniently combined "syrah" and "shiraz" into one handy word-- "shirah."

And then I came to New York. At the interview for my first job, as a bartender in Manhattan, I couldn't tell my interviewer what the base liquor was in a manhattan. I still managed to snag the job. I credit my red pants. And Pete.

I learned how to make cosmos and margaritas and the type of martini that is really just a big-ass glass of vodka, but my learning plateaued-- my benchmark being the Real Housewives of New York (Ramona sings the praises of Pinot Grigio. Enough said.)

And then I somehow stumbled my way into one of the best restaurants in the city (again, I credit Pete), with, more importantly, one of the best sommeliers in the city, whose taste in funky, earthy, sometimes dirty wine that remains balanced and elegant is right up my alley, along with one of the best mixologists in the city (the aforementioned Pete), whose skill at balancing unique flavors in a cocktail is matched by his creativity in incorporating seasonal ingredients.

Now, here I am, a snob. I am insufferable at times. My family, whose sweet tooth skews toward California cabs and pinots--not my glass of wine-- will attest. Sometimes I judge people who order grey goose cosmos as I sip on my negroni.

Really, this snobbery is the emblem of a newbie with much more to learn. And I intend to share that knowledge here, even if I'm the only one who reads it.

Welcome. I came. I drank. I conquered. Enjoy.