it's a cheeky little chardonnay with no breeding but I think you'll be amused by its presumption
Title from a vaguely remembered New Yorker cartoon.
Tonight we drank an "Australian Shiraz" given to us by the kindly 80 year old matron of what my sister calls the "Pastel Palace" B&B where we have been staying. It's a home-made wine, and like obnoxious assholes, we stuck our noses in our Mason jars, sniffed deeply, and pronounced:
"cheap orange popsicle"
"transmission fluid on hot asphalt"
"burnt spaghetti sauce"
And to balance all that out, we have the more tender observations:
"smells like a headache"**
A few days in Victoria and we're all drunk on rhododendrons.
* my father said, gently tapping my wrist
** my brother said, who only three days ago, when shopping with me for wine, lifted a bottle and asked mechanically, "will this one make us barf tomorrow?"