Those Vintage Whines From the Corn Belt

As a lover of wine, whether only mediocre or simply superb, I am always delighted to make the acquaintance of a new vintner’s product.

I have tasted the local wines in Hungary, Romania, Austria, Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Portugal and Morocco, and, since my palate is not sufficiently sophisticated to tell one from another, I enjoyed them all.

For years I have drunk no other kind of alcoholic beverage, except for an occasional Mexican beer--I am unmoved by the TV commercials for American beer during football games--but I have not learned to judge between one and another label; to me they either taste wonderful or they taste like vinegar.

I buy wine by the basketful at Trader Joe’s, always looking for the Chardonnays that go for $2.99 or thereabouts; sometimes one is vinegar, but mostly I find them not only palatable but divine. The trouble is, whenever I find one that is especially good, I can’t remember the label next time I’m in the store, so I rarely profit from my experience.

I am particularly poor in the wine lover’s patois. I know such words as chalky, young, fresh, fruity, dry, crisp, coarse, rich, buttery, and so on; but I never know which word to apply to any recognizable quality in the wine.

I have always envied the sort of chap who can simply smell a glass of wine, swirl it around a bit, take a taste, run it back over his palate, and with lofty self-assurance pronounce it “a bit acid,” or disclose that it hasn’t traveled well.

So I am looking forward to the introduction in California of wines produced in Ohio. One simply does not think of wine in connection with Ohio. Can you imagine Cleveland Chardonnay, or Toledo Chenin Blanc? The image Ohio gives to most of us is more likely to be corn. If they drink anything at all in those places it would more likely be Miller or Bud.

Evidently smarting from the notion that we in Los Angeles look down on Cleveland, perhaps in recompense for the scorn heaped on us by New Yorkers and San Franciscans, the Ohio vintners have unleashed an advertising campaign making fun of us who live in what they call La-La Land.

I have long since accepted La-La Land as being an appropriate epithet for Los Angeles, and, as always, I welcome the repetition of the usual cliches about our culture. Would that we still deserved the charming labels invented for us.

According to a story in our business section, the campaign’s radio ad begins with soft rock music ( soft rock music?) and a guy who says, “Hi, we hang out in L.A.” Then a female who is evidently supposed to be a Valley Girl says: “It’s like so laid-back here. Right now, we’re opening a bottle of wine that Brian’s ex left when they broke up. Oh wait! It’s from Ohio. Oh yuck! How could you, like, live with a person who drinks Ohio wine? Brian! Ohio is like a soybean subculture.”

The ad goes on to say: “Some people think good wine only comes from a Napa Valley address. Not true. Today, Ohio actually produces more types of varietal wines than California. . . . Ohio wines. They’re better than you think.”

In fact, I note that in Andre Simon’s encyclopedic “Wine of the World” almost a full page is devoted to the wines of Ohio. Mentioned are Chardonnay, Johannisberg Riesling, Gewurztraminer, and even a champagne called Mon Ami. The entry notes that the Steuk Wine Co. at Venice, 4 miles east of Sandusky, was established in 1855 and claims to be the oldest winery in the nation. It concludes with the comment, “Ohio is not to be discounted as a major American wine producer.”

OK. I’m willing to give Ohio wines a try, and give up thinking of Ohio as a state whose main cultural image is of monster college football teams and corn-fed cheer girls.

But to convince me that they’re sophisticated enough to produce a decent Chardonnay, they’ll have to scrap that cornball ad campaign with soft rock music and out-of-date Valley Girls.

Like, yuck.

Today’s Valley Girls talk like Diane Sawyer and drink nothing but Diet Coke. They’re about as laid-back as caged cassowaries. Or am I out of touch?

Holy Toledo.