You feel it creeping into the pit of your stomach. It’s there and it’s more than just the two tri-tip sandwiches you’ve had for lunch. You’ve had too much Syrah.
(Can you have too much Syrah?)
You’re drunk but you’re not happy. You’re horny, but you’re horny for weird deviant things involving microwaves and loaves of bread. You hate yourself, but you love how you feel when you’re hating yourself and it makes you happy.
That’s what Syrah does to a man. It stokes strange fires that can only be extinguished by even stranger anti-combustibles. It’s no coincidence that the legendary origin of Syrah involves its introduction to Rome from Syracuse by the Emperor Probus.
Is it the tannin? Is it the inky dark juice? Is it the aromas of blackberry, pepper, bacon and leather? Is it because it has the masculine androgyny of a Dykes on Bikes mixer? Or Robyn?
Long before that book brought Pinot Noir to Santa Barbara County, Syrah ruled the Central Coast and it’s coming back with a vengeance as Pinot Noir has descended from its Appetite for Destruction heights into the bloated depths of Chinese Democracy while Syrah has been consistently inconsistent for decades. It’s California’s punk rock grape. It’s California’s alt-porn grape. It’s Santa Barbara County’s emblem and should be its anthem, its deviant weirdness hiding just steps in from Toad the Wet Sprocket’s step-worthy shore.
Embrace Syrah. Embrace the deviance. Embrace the weirdness. Embrace the blackberry bacon black pepper. Embrace the darkness.
The Satellite Show 