I always get the purple wine lips. We like pinot noir best. I ask her what she detects and we don’t look at the label. Sometimes chocolate, a hint of vanilla, blackberry, and usually cherry. We playfully talk about mouthfeel and the tannic nature of the grapes. But every joke is half serious.
Perhaps with a lamb shank, with ripples of flaky meat in a white bean Cassolet Toulousain and a bed of leafy greens with a balsamic vinagrette, the pinot is ideal.
What is it about lamb? Maybe it’s something in the cultural unconscious that takes us back to the days of animal sacrifice. Every time you eat lamb it’s like you play god.
Moment of post postmodernism: I always write about food. I love food. It is one of the three most carnal urges, along with sex and sleep. And although sometimes you don’t have the best meal, you know that you still need it and it is gratifying in itself. It just helps when it’s especially dank. Like lamb shank with pinot noir.