In the Oz-stentatious corner (get it?) we have Wirra Wirra Church Block, a comely Aussie blend of Cab, Merlot, and Shiraz. In the Zinful corner, there stands the Artezin Zinfandel, hailing from the mountaintops of Central California.
The former is the favorite of one of my wine customers, whereas the latter is one of my faves from the prestigious ZAP ( Zinfandel Advocate Producers) festival of 2009. (Note: there is an even cheaper, and almost-as-good Zin; it is called Seven Deadly Zins, is widely available at grocery stores (and even cheaper, through me), and besides having a name cooler than a cucumber in Tierra del Fuego, it is a very good wine for your basic $11 or so).
Anyway, the Wirra and the Artezin are about the same cost (think maybe in the $14 ballpark?). I poured these babies in double-fisted fashion, to enjoy with ancho chili-braised beef short ribs. What an ideal foil for a challenge! Those ribs have: lime juice, maple syrup, coffee, soaked ancho chili water, and if you don't think that sounds excellent then you haven't had them at my place.
The Wirra Wirra dispensed with polite nasal distractions; on the bouquet it sported just a hint of imaginary muscle car, as if to say, "Only poofters worry overso about the nose of a wine. Let's get it on!" It was like your friend's rebuilt 1968 Camaro in high school, repainted dark black, revving at a red light in hopes of a drag race, whereas the Artezin lifted up a proud melange of blackberry and spice. IT was like your favorite high school girlfriend in a pretty dress, posing for pictures before the dance. Or, rather, it was like how YOU felt while you watched your girlfriend pose for those pictures.
On palate, the Wirra is big and pushy. If you're feeling like the world just doesn't understand your jokes, if you wanna sing "Forget You!" like Cee-lo doesn't (I think he uses a slightly different F-word, and since when has a song with the F-word been nominated for a Grammy? My, how times have changed; I suppose we'll all start using the F word in everyday conversation now, such as "Why, F*** you, yes, I would like some more water,"), then this is the wine for you. If you admire a wine that can lift a fist from its glass and punch you right in the schnozz, this is it. But the Artezin is class in a glass; it sings a harmonic balance. It redefines "concert." It's velvet wrapped around a woman's body, but with an edge of finely-wrought steel. It is a thousand pure-throated singers all giving us a diminished 7th at the end of a song by The Who, before an audience that includes you, me, but also some princes and princesses, with smoke still hanging in the air from some successful stagecraft but maybe something else.
There you have it. Wirra Wirra: B/B-. Artezin: A/A-. Govern yourselves accordingly.
K
PS-That's our Goddess, Justice, in the photo, ready to weigh these two wines for us. You can find that relief statue in the halls of the New York Supreme Court. I don't really know this Goddess firsthand, but she's a friend of a friend. Six degrees, no?
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