Yes, I tried to convince you, perhaps even seduce you. I thought it would be easy. Not that I’m overly confident, but I do know I’m special. I also know however, it takes a certain someone who can truly appreciate my elegance, my raciness, my subtle yet profound beauty. Anyone can drink from my vessel, guzzling me down without notice, but not just anyone can savor me, relish me… take pleasure in understanding each of my delicate nuances and learning every unique thing about me. I know I’m difficult, unpredictable and perhaps a bit fickle, but that’s part of what makes me exciting—call it complex. I guess you just don’t get me. Bottle after bottle, again and again, you’ll just keep going back to your dependable Syrah.
So, come on. Tell me. What does Syrah have that I don’t have? Two names? I do too, really! Did you know in Germany, I’m known as Spatburgunder. Come on, how sexy is that? I know it doesn’t have the same stripper finesse as say, Shiraz, but Baby, I’m a class act. Perhaps I’m just not big enough for you though, you like a fuller body. Have you tasted me after a season hanging around California? I can plump up real nice. Not dark enough? Well, you must not have tasted me when I was (at my worst and) completely over-extracted. Perhaps you prefer overt to subtle? Intense and powerful versus restrained? If that’s truly your preference, my love, I will never be what you’re looking for.
So, I give up. I lay myself down in defeat. I will lie here for years gathering dust, aging gracefully, until the one who can truly appreciate me, the one who really wants to see me open up, the one who desires both a sensual and intellectual experience, takes notice. That person will pick me up gently, tenderly brush the years away from the sweep of my neck and curve of my body—and with their eyes agape, in awe of the treasure discovered, make all kinds of plans for exactly how they intend to enjoy their precious and most cherished love of all, Pinot Noir.