Garnacha, the Spanish name for Grenache, can't tumble from my mouth without my hands clicking a pair of imaginary castanets.
Spanish wines--chest-puffingly proud of their turf--don't often allow themselves to be mistaken for another.
Exceedingly good at evoking the smells, sights, and sounds of travels passed, inky Garnacha swells with flavors of star anise, candied violet, seaspray, and blackberries.
One sip rouses you from your siesta, laces a pair of espadrilles up your ankles, and sends you into the sultry evening air.
And just like the hot, dry weather along the craggy coastline and scrubby inland of the Mediterranean where the grape's most widely grown, Garnacha (click, click) makes the backs of your knees sweat and leaves you clamoring for every last, salty gamba and albóndiga and scrap of jamón.
Translated for an American with more responsibilities than vacation days, thankyouverymuch?
Invite your friends over, station yourselves grill side, and sip cellar temp Garnacha (click, click) until brows drip with sweat, laughs become unfettered and boisterous, and nothing but olive pits, Manchego rinds, wooden skewers, and candle wax remain on the table.
Hardly a concession.