The Vamparoo Incident

Rich kicked off the night with an Austrian curiosity: 100% Zweigelt, the homegrown crossing of Blaufränkisch and St. Laurent that supposedly delivers jammy cherry fruit with a pepper tingle. The table got the fruit — raspberry jam on the nose — but the spice mostly went missing, and in its place sat a Riesling-adjacent sweetness that split opinions. Ssezi pegged it as a Germanic-style sipper: easy, light, not much structure, and not really a food wine. Bill wavered sip to sip before landing on the pleasant side. Steve liked the entry but bailed when the mid-palate went sweet. Chris went all-in ("a real spank-your-mama kind of smell"), while Rich praised the gimmick-label-to-actual-quality ratio. Verdict came in split right down the middle. The consensus: probably the best gimmick wine we've had, though that's a low bar — and Ssezi changed her vote at the last second after being talked out of it.

A ten-dollar South Australian Cab that, against all odds, held its own following the sweetness of the Zweigelt. Fruit on the nose, a little musty undertone, tannin enough to give it structure but not so much it scared anyone off. For a sawbuck, most of the table was sold. Steve flagged the strange dichotomy — "awful musty smell" on the sniff but legitimately good in the mouth. Chris caught plum and cherry through the retronasal trick. Bill, not generally a Cab guy, found it surprisingly drinkable. The lone holdout was Ssezi, who got an unpleasant carbonated sensation and panned the whole thing. Another potential gimmick wine (it does have a checkered label) — but this one earned its keep on the merits.

A Chilean Merlot from a producer Rich generally trusts — cheap, decent, drinkable. Unfortunately the room had just plowed through a pile of Chinese food, which the group has previously confirmed wages chemical warfare on the palate. Whether that doomed this wine or not became the running debate. Bill got bitter, tart, metallic. John couldn't shake the Chinese food suspicion and bowed out diplomatically. Steve and Chris both shrugged — drinkable, smooth-ish, utterly forgettable. Ssezi caught a hint of croze-y spice and a little berry/plum but ultimately filed it under "middle of the road." Rich, who actually bought it, was the lone defender. A wine that may have been a casualty of takeout, or may just be unremarkable. The room couldn't quite decide, but nobody was excited either way.

Bill brought an $18 Chianti Classico he'd had earlier in the week and loved. Tonight? Less so. The bottle had spent the day in his cold car, the Chinese food was still lingering, and the wine arrived subdued — though Bill stood by it as a clean, smooth food wine and a sign of his growing Chianti appreciation. The rest of the table was lukewarm to chilly. Steve found it sour and tart with no finish. Chris, who admits he's not a Chianti guy, called it "wimpier than the Merlot." Rich got tartness and a sleepy finish. John warmed to it over time and caught some atypical spice. Dave dropped in just long enough to declare it a food wine and bail. One enthusiastic-ish vote, a few drink-not-buys, and a couple of passes. A bottle that probably deserved a better night.

Sip the blood of the vine, the bottle commanded. The table obeyed, and immediately regretted it. Ssezi opened with a Peace Corps anecdote about a friend bringing back syrupy plastic-cask Romanian wine — and lo, here it was again, in glass form. The descriptors stacked up fast and bleak: syrupy, sweet, thick like a Frosty, rank on the nose, *rancid Welch's*. Chris was actively dumping his glass in the background. John declared his first-ever toilet bowl. Ssezi followed. Steve, doing the wrap-up, downgraded mid-sentence to toilet bowl because every sip hurt. Bill — Bill, the man who once ranked wines against nightclub cover charges — wavered, claimed there were worse wines out there, and held the line at a *bad* no-drink-no-buy. Rich also stopped short of the bowl. Four toilet bowls. Possibly the worst wine ever poured at this table. *So far.*

After the Vampire, anything would have looked like a win. The 2003 Yellowtail Reserve Shiraz declined to take the layup. Sweet, vanilla-laden, jammy to the point of cloying — and supposedly the upmarket version of regular Yellowtail. Chris caught tomato (possibly a vampire hangover). Ssezi said it brought the night full circle to the opening Zweigelt's sweetness. John, a self-professed Shiraz fan, couldn't get past the sugar. Bill called it almost as distasteful as the Vampire. Steve, who bought it, laid out his theory of the case: "People who buy Yellowtail are kind of like people who buy Miller or Miller Lite, and this would be considered the Miller Highlife... the Champagne of Beers of Yellowtail wine." Three no-drink-no-buys, three reluctant drink-not-buys. The Reserve label apparently means very little.

Rather than pour the Vampire and the Yellowtail down the drain, John proposed a science experiment: blend them. 50% Shiraz, 50% Pinot Noir. The room braced for catastrophe — and instead got *something drinkable.* Bill led off: smooth, slight bite, pleasant finish. Steve invoked *Underworld* and dubbed it a vampire-kangaroo hybrid. Chris confirmed it was better than either parent. Ssezi noted the color and flavor had genuinely improved ("two lefts to make a right"). John, the architect, marveled that he had alchemized his toilet-bowl wine into a drink. Rich abstained from sipping but did contribute the name: **Vamparoo**. Other proposed monikers — Vampire Tail, Bloody Tail, No-Reserve Vampire, Trans Down Under — failed to displace it. Unanimous drink-not-buy from everyone who tasted it. As Bill put it for the official record: if you find yourself stuck with a bottle of 2001 Vampire Pinot Noir and a bottle of 2003 Yellowtail Reserve Shiraz — *do not drink them.* Uncork them both, pour them together, and pretend you got a decent wine as a gift.