Winery Tour-better know as the Bodega Visit
The tour comes to an end as Eva, a who knows what generation Riojan proudly shows us their 7,000 new French oak barrels meticulously stacked behind a sparkling clean glass wall. Darn these Riojan women are gorgeous. The perfection of her facial features, the way the rr’s roll off her tongue, her deep dark brown eyes, the length of her fake eyelashes, and her well endowed chest leave me mesmerized. She articulately speaks of their cooper Jose Felix and the attributes of French oak that sparks questions and controversy while my mind wanders off to a fantasy of Intima Cherry lingerie from the store front window on Jorge Vigon Street in Logroño.
In stilettos, black lace, and organza silk that artfully expose and conceal Eva approaches me - her chestnut hair collected in a loose messy bun and her round bouncing breasts encased in fitted seductive lace with her deep dark brown eyes fixated on me and only me. I am a moor that must surrender here in our last bastion of Rioja-the Baja- I lie here powerless before Eva.
I sink into the grandeur of a feather bed and the century when Spain was an empire and Rioja flourishing. I feel empiric too in this 16th century Calahorra Castle. Almost as much as that famous Riojan Conquistador, Martin de Calahorra who chartered his own boat to the new world in 1517 . Eva saunters over high heeled and now straddled on top of me feeding me dusty blue graciano grapes one by one..their acidity is biting but Eva sure ain’t no sour chick. A sudden vibration clouds me… is this me
It happens again and jolts me back into the disappointing reality of my iphone.
It’s Sam, my secretary in Houston saying he stayed late to finish this quarters’ reports and confirmed numbers are down 9%, hence even more of a reason to add a Rioja Oriental zonal Rioja to my portfolio. Eva invites us into the parlor for an aperitif before lunch with the winemaker Ventura Gomez de la Cruz de la Fuente. Patricia the distributor from Seattle leans over and asks, “ What is his last name? I missed that. Did Eva say de la Puente…like the bridge.” Still trying to recover from the fact that my fantasy is not my reality I answer her curtly with increased volume, typical of Americans with poor linguistic skills, “NO she said de la fuente like the fountain,” maybe you should hold off on the next flight of Tempranillos Patricia and save them for lunch”) I am stuffed but starving. How can you not be when the cuisine of this region is steeped in rich raw ingredients. Siestas are history and lunch and dinners seem seamed together. This reality still beats mine in Houston. “Excuse me, can you please pass the white asparagus”.
