When it came to vino, turns out dad was a goddamn boss. Here’s how to be more like him.
Imagine a world where common television commercials featured wine, Chianti came proudly in straw baskets, and Liebfraumilch (mother’s milk)—a sweet, simple, inexpensive German wine—was in vogue. Prior to the infamous 1976 Paris tasting, in which a panel of reputable tasters awarded first place to a California red and white wine, most of Americans were not convinced there was much quality in domestic wine. Most were drinking sweet mouth-puckering concoctions that came by the gallon and whether these fermented juices paired well with dinner was of little consequence. But then, there wasyour dad.
He’d been to France. He’d taken a wine class in college and had friends whose parents referred to their wines merely by vintage—the “55s,” “59s,” and “61s.” This man, the patriarch and protector of a carefully curated family wine stash, would bring to the dinner table bottles of red wine sporting labels riddled with foreign words.
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