CROSS COUNTRY #21 Eh! What's a Nappa?

Goldie: Sniff............seems ok, .......let’s inhale.......cherries....vanilla...pepper....hay....smoked oak.....where are we? Ahhh....Napa Valley......wine country.

Didn’t palate used to be for oil painting? I remember the day my former mother-in-law put a brush in my hand and offered a set of tubes to me. We painted side by side on the same first canvass...and a new world was born. How many shades of green can comprise a forest, what are the ranges of reds in a rose...what color is a shadow? Cerrulean and viridian became familiar terms, burnt and raw umber new ideas. Every glance at life yielded the frisky joy of new ways of looking.

Napa held a bit of that....we’ve been to Provence and the glorious wine country in South Africa, as well. Yet Napa explains itself so clearly. Most being so new, the wineries are each contemporary works of conscious art...lovely to behold. Exhibits and guides educate one to the nuance of the vinter’s art.

A winery wall chart shows major international wine producers: Italy, France, South Africa, U.S.A., Chile, Australia, Russia......."RUSSIA?" Barry’s voice carries incredulity. "I thought they only drank vodka!?" We step outside and are seated by our haute couture dressed maitre d’ for a meal of much anticipated haute cuisine.

The waitperson has a memorably husky voice....we have a choice of five white sparkling Domain wines, including the one from their "reserves" and another designed for the millenium. Figuring the latter as expensive gimmicks we select one fruity and one ultra dry. Thought all champagne tastes alike and is tolerated for social ritual?

My mother reads a menu like some people eat fine food...gradually, savoring the imagined tasting of every dish and then orders a grilled cheese or plain chicken breast. I read like she does but when it comes to ordering......mmmm. We started with local smoked trout marinated in brandy served over creamy goat cheese and feathery greens with a light honeyed dressing topped with toasted scallion shreds. Oh....oooh...this was the rare time I wished Barry and I weren’t sharing one meal for two.

The first of the wines arrives, poured by the white gloved wine steward, her thumb planted in that indentation in the bottom of the bottle and poured with obvious skill. From there the Merlot glazed halibut over large grain Israeli couscous with asparagus and mango chutney appears....it went so fast! The next wine glass arrives, drier, goes down easy... You know...

There was that time in Shargorad, Ukraine. The old Byzantine-style synagogue still stands, walls perhaps 18 feet thick to fortress the Jews, when necessary. I was surprised to see it was freshly whitewashed, almost gleaming. We knock and three pleasant peasants open the door. Golden teeth gleaming in the rare sunlight, wearing red stained aprons and the omnipresent babushkeh.....My translator asks if we can tour the synagogue.

"Nyet synogogo...." (It’s not a synagogue...or something in Russian to that effect.)

"Nyet?" (No?)

They step back, shafts of light pierce the ancient interior to reveal...vats. Converted to a winery. (Who was it that said "Get thee to a winery?)

They invite us in....we see small boarded windows high above the cavernous space, notice with sadness the recessed area which once hid an ark and then, all the lights go out. Outside is broad day light, inside pure blackness. My heart pounds in my ears...will we be robbed? Is there a war?

A match is struck and a candle flame appears in the hand of one of the workers. He seems unconcerned....all seem unconcerned. They sit down on the wooden floor, lean against the cool stone walls and motion to us to do the same. A jar of reagent strips appears from a pocket as he tests the PH of the vat and nods approvingly.

My translator looks at me for my intention, obvious questions don’t always cross cultures. "Ask why the lights went out, please." She does.

"They go out every other hour." replies the woman. Instead of volunteering more information she pulls up a ladle, dips into the vat which is embedded in the floor (rows of them dot the room, one could barely see to move between them without falling in) and takes a long, deep sip...offering it around to each of us....I pass.

"Ask her why the lights go out?"

The response comes after a great sigh escapes the man, Nikoli. "Here electricity costs more than people. The wine does most of the work. Every other hour we are paid to sit and drink in silence. It is the best job in town." The stub of candle goes out. Seems there isn’t another...we will have to wait for the lights to come back on.

The ladle comes by again. I pass, fearful of sharing germs. The woman cocks her head at me, reaches into another pocket and draws out a glass which she wipes with her apron, motioning for me to dip into the vat on my own. I don’t pass. Time does.

We shmooz, sing patriotic songs of which I know not a word but seem to divine instantly.....they bemoan the fact they can’t break into the American market with their product.....we sing and reflect on capitalism...my glass keeps finding its way into the plum wine...usually a thimble of shabbos wine does it for me....our signing begins to sound professional...soon they have learned the traditional blessing over wine....their Hebrew sounds better than my Russian....I fancy myself a choral director.....

The lights come on, scattered ten watt bulbs feel blinding. All struggle to their feet. I ask the translator to arrange for me to buy some of this great stuff. We can’t. They ask me "where is your bottle?"

You guessed it. Townspeople come to the back door and ring the bell. They bring their own crockery bottle or keg and pay to have it filled. No labels, no bottles, cash on the barrel. I dip my glass in a final toast and pour myself out into the dazzling light of day.

"Can I interest you in a dessert wine?" The wine steward’s husky voice jolts me back to Napa reality. "No, thanks, I appear to be high enough." As we get up and walk out into the Domain winery rose gardens, I turn to Barry and say, "Wine in Russia? Did I ever tell you about that day in Shargorad?"