Dark impenetrable ruby with bright purple edges. Nose of wet cardboard, cat piss and saute’ed brown sugar.
Ok, WHAT is this. No, seriously. What IS this. I know what this is. I’ve had this before. We used to buy this in boxes in college. Or large-format bottles. We liked to call them “Mags”. They had names like ‘Mountain Burgundy’ and ‘Vintage Claret’.
An over-watered-Grenache, cheap, cloying, fruit-forward entry. What did they make this out of–Red Flames?!? Instantly it turns to meagerness and miserable acidity, burning long into what I can only imagine the tasting-notes call a “Long, complex finish”. It is like drinking a sweetened chicken-farm. Wait–you’ve never smelled a chicken-farm?
I know the homage here is to vegetal dream-Euro-classics and IPOB correctness, but honestly things have gotta a little outa hand. I have been accused many times of having a Cali-centric palate and with it the inference I need big fat ripe oaky bombs, but nothing could be further from the truth. I can appreciate a mediocre Beaujolais or 6-euro Cote-Rotie with the best of them–and better than most bloggers with a sweet-tooth firmly lodged in this grand state. IPOB is supposed to be all about purity and simplicity and low-alcohol and this is opposite EVERYTHING.
Here we have balance and concentration gone awry. Instead of what should be clarified goodness, we have a stand-a-fork-up-in-it concoction. Instead of pure simple fruit, we have sweet fake boobs. Instead of varietal nuance, we have ridiculous rubber-band hipster bullshit. This guy is famous for lots of things, but gets an asterisk for this one. Making a 20-dollar Syrah isn’t rocket-science.
2012 Central Coast PS Syrah 14.1
