Dose Notes #3

A few months ago, my wife bought matcha.

I had almost no interest.

Part of that was probably my own resistance. Matcha had become ubiquitous. Bright green lattes everywhere. Ceremonial-grade everything.

I tend to lean away from things once they become fashionable.

Sometimes that instinct is useful. Sometimes it is just reflex.

What surprised me was how much the result changed depending on how I approached it.

That is increasingly how I think about wine too.

Gosset Grande Réserve

The bottle that reminds me that structure can be the pleasure.

Gosset does not lead with obvious fruit or softness.

The acidity is high. The weight is moderate. The whole wine feels tightly framed.

There is richness, but not overt ripeness.

Apple. Lemon. A little bright red cherry and dried cherry.

What I notice most is the chalk, stone, almost wet-rock feel.

Reserved.

Structured.

Very well made.

And absolutely a food wine.

Where it fits: dinner, especially when the food has enough richness to meet the wine.

Would I buy it? Yes.

What you’re paying for: structure, acidity, balance, and a serious house style without a prestige price.

Price: usually around $45 to $60.

The bottle I had to learn how to appreciate.

I was not much of a Bollinger fan fifteen years ago.

It felt broad. Rich. Maybe too much.

Then I had Bollinger R.D., a late-disgorged version of Grande Année that spends additional time aging before release.

That bottle changed how I understood the house.

What I remember most is structure.

The phrase that somehow stuck in my head was crunchy diamonds.

Clean. Controlled. Precise.

A rich tart filled with honeyed, ripe pear and stone fruit, all held together by acid.

A few bottles of Grande Année kept me interested.

Eventually I worked my way backward to Special Cuvée.

Not the usual path.

But sometimes you need to see the fullest expression of an idea before the simpler version makes sense.

Special Cuvée is mouthfilling and rich. I prefer it in a bigger glass, where the wine can open up. The oak and reserve wine show themselves in its breadth and texture.

Fifteen years ago, I might have called that too much.

Now I know when I want it.

Where it fits: with food, especially when you want Champagne with real weight.

Would I buy it? Yes.

What you’re paying for: richness, reserve-wine depth, oak influence, and a very distinct house style.

Price: usually $60 to $70 at Total Wine, and sometimes at Costco when they carry it.

Disgorgement dates deserve their own Dose Notes. More on that another time.

The bottle that needed thirty minutes.

At first:

Yeast.
Dust.
Not much else.

Then blood orange.

A little spice.

Orange creamsicle.

Pastry cream.

The acidity was not especially high.

It just needed time.

Champagne makes it easy to decide too quickly.

We open it cold.

Pour.

Taste.

Judge.

Sometimes the first impression is right.

Sometimes it is only the first impression.

Where it fits: a slower evening, or whenever you can give the bottle some time in the glass.

Would I buy it? Yes.

What you’re paying for: depth, texture, and a rosé style that goes beyond simple red-fruit freshness.

Price: I found it for $50 at Costco. Usually around $55 to $65.

The more I drink, the more interested I am in figuring out what I actually like.

Scores, reputation, producer, vintage, and price can all help. But they are context, not the experience.

When I am deciding whether a bottle works for me, I come back to four things:

What is the wine trying to be?

Bright and lean? Rich and broad? Mineral? Fruity? Vinous?

The wrong style for you can still be a very good wine.

What do you want the bottle to do?

Before dinner? With food? For a crowd? For two people over a long evening?

There is no single best Champagne. The right bottle depends on the moment.

Do not decide everything from the first cold pour.

Taste it. Give it 15 to 20 minutes. Let the temperature move. Use a bigger glass if the wine feels broad or closed. Then taste again.

Ask:

Would I want this experience again at this price?

A bottle can be very good at $50 and a poor decision at $80.

The wine did not change. The decision did.

About fifteen years ago, when I was much deeper into tea, I had matcha in Kyoto at a well-regarded tea shop.

I had read about the Japanese tea ceremony and was mesmerized by the process.

The whisk.

The bowl.

The deliberate movements.

The layer of foam across the surface, almost like the crema on a good espresso.

I remember the ritual more clearly than the taste.

The matcha itself was nutty, chalky, vegetal.

Interesting.

But it never became something I sought out.

Years later, my wife started buying it.

I still do not make matcha for myself. I make iced lattes for her and my daughter, then taste what is left.

Somewhere along the way, I started enjoying the process.

Sift the powder.

Get the water right.

Whisk.

Watch the texture change.

Water temperature matters most. Too hot and the bitterness takes over. The subtle sweetness disappears.

Quantity changes the foam, texture, and balance.

When it is right, I get nuttiness, a little grassy green, and something that reminds me of powdered sugar without actually being sweet.

More aroma than sweetness on the tongue.

It has enough body to hold up to ice and milk.

After enough repetitions, I can mostly eyeball it now.

Attention becomes instinct.

I tend toward the purist end of things.

Coffee black.

Tea almost always plain, unless nostalgia pulls me toward the sweet milk tea I grew up drinking.

A matcha latte should probably be outside my lane.

Instead, I have come to understand the appeal.

Done well, it is not so different from a well-made cocktail.

The point is not purity.

The point is balance.

For a moment, forget the score.

Forget the reputation.

Forget whether the bottle is famous, obscure, grower, or big house.

Taste what is actually there.

“If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still.”
— David Wagoner, Lost

Until the next bottle,
Manj

P.S. If something you once dismissed came to mind, reply and tell me. It doesn’t have to be wine. I read every email.