Swill is Swell

Ok, its official: I'm a Potter-geek. I spent roughly 8 hours over the past 2 days blazing through all 759 pages. I even dreamed about the potential let down I would feel once the book was done and the series was over. Perhaps it just hasn't hit me yet, but I feel quite resolved about the whole epic tale. I truly only mention this because my original plan was to blog yesterday and this apparently did not happen because I was Potterized. However, I can now be devoted to my entry without any further temptings of the book calling me.

Last weekend a group of us went on an adventure to Plainsfield, Indiana. It was a Friday night which meant that one of the local wineries was doing free tastings, opened their grill, and had a band. Although it wasn't Sonoma, it sounded like a nice summer night. The winery we were heading to was Chateau Thomas Winery. Sure, the name sounded impressive. But who is this Thomas guy?

Charles Thomas used to be an OB/GYN and will not let anyone forget it. Just click on the link and you'll see what I mean. What this signifies is that he is a surgeon by training. Surgeons, especially old school ones, have a certain reputation for being a bit...well...hoity toity and arrogant. Why mention that he was a practicing doctor, let alone his specialty, if now he's a winemaker? That is really my only point.

I suppose with a name like "Chateau" I was expecting quaint, charming, cozy. Perhaps a cottage and some lovely grounds surrounded by grapevines. What we found was a warehouse surrounded by Chili's and Motel 6's right off of the freeway. A warehouse, y'all. The grounds were not landscaped, but simply a parking lot where the band played. The band was a completely different story.

The band consisted of two individuals. The man was seated with a synthesizer and a microphone and the lady was standing with a tambourine and a microphone. They were both middle aged and played, what was advertised as "contemporary," music. I heard renditions of Air Supply and "Abracadabra" that made Will Ferrel's and Cheri O'Terri's SNL skit look like it was hip. Escaping the crowds and music (and yes, there was a crowd), we went inside to the "tasting room." Before we entered the warehouse we saw that their "grille" was not a lovely restaurant with brightly colored umbrellas and wrought iron tables as I had envisioned, but simply a grill. One person charring burgers and another with a register on a card table with poster board announcing the prices.

The tasting room was a long oval bar with pourers everywhere. We muscled our way past the ever so enticing merchandise like tee-shirts with rhinestones spelling out, "Wine Diva," and what looked to be macrame hanging wine ranks to the bar. The lady handed us a sheet.
Are y'all seeing the top line? "for the discriminating wine enthusiast" Ooohkay. The descriptions of the wines were generous if not imaginary. For the first samples that each of us ordered, the looks on our faces were priceless.

"Its good, huh?" Nodded the wine pourer smiling maniacally.

There isn't much to say when your taste-buds are swimming in flavors that resemble Smuckers grape jelly that has fermented and gone bad. We were given three samples from the list. I think we were all overly optimistic when we ordered our second selections. One of us asked the pourer to give them her favorite. And, again, Welsh's grape juice would have been welcomed to our palates instead of this swill. Ah, and did I mention all of these samples were being served in essentially clear plastic dixie cups?

As we were pondering our third and final selection, grasping onto a hope and a prayer, we found it on the sheet (this alone caused me to take the menu so I could take pictures and blog about it.)
"A diabetic wine?" said one of the physician friends we were with.

There is something INHERENTLY WRONG with the idea of putting in artificial sweetener into wine, yet, only in the USA would you see this done and proudly advertised. I think it was the same friend who spoke up actually looked up the chemical formulation of Splenda on his palm pilot (yes, a bit geeky, I know.) Someone else ordered it just to see if it was as bad as it sounded.

The pourer had to get the red wine out of the fridge! Not a wine fridge, but a regular college dorm mini fridge. That should have been sign #812 as red wine, as a whole, should not be uber cold.

He managed to choke down one swallow and left the rest in the cup on the bar. As we left the rest of our semi-sipped samples on the bar and our stomachs turning, J kept apologizing about the grand idea of going to the winery. None of us really minded though. We got a lot of great laughs out of the experience.

Beauty, and "taste" for that matter, are all within the eye of the beholder. Perhaps good ol' Charlie should go back to practicing medicine and leave the wine making to others.