In the year of 2013, Papapietro Perry made a Pinot Noir on the edge of the Russian River Valley in a vineyard named after a man named Peter. The Wine For Sophisticated Homies tasted this wine. Here is the review that followed:
The town council is holding it’s annual Cherry Festival at the soda fountain and your invited. Cuff your jeans and slick back your hair and get ready for what will inevitably turn into a coming-of-age teen musical, wherein the baddest of dudes will at some point sing in perfect harmony. This wine invites you to leave all pretension at the doorstep.
This wine is every red fruit you’ve ever considered when making a list of red fruits. It’s berry picking at its’ most American. Think of juice running off an everyberry popsicle in the middle of July with some blond girl staring at you from across the pool as her hair blows in front of her face. And she’s got this red bike parked nearby. And there’s this dog playing tug-of-war with this guy in a bathing suit. They’re all there.
This wine is a poodle skirt and a bobbed ponytail. It’s nervous glances up on Lover’s Lane. This wine wants to be poured into Rubenesque goblets and drunk passionately while waxing poetic on the merits of freckles under bronzed skin. The palate sings sassafras hymns. Bunches of wisteria and white rose dance around the outer edges like ballet figurines silhouetted in a campfire’s glaze. And speaking of which, that toasty marshmallow oak? It’ll sneak up on you and hug you and hold you like sinful smores melting you into sleeping bag submission.
This wine is all the things you miss when they are gone, and all the longings of the last nights of freedom.
Oh to be young and beautiful.