A New Era Begins

We are incredibly pleased to announce that the future leader of the Drink Real revolution, Reed Martin, was born early this morning. He is a healthy little boy, and by the look of his nose already a fan of Cabernet Franc and Lambic. The father, Ty, the driving force behind our world wide operation, and mother Beth, enlightener of little and large minds alike, are both doing well. We raise a glass to you both with heartfelt hope, pride and congratulations, and we leave you with a thought from our attaché in Québec.

"I never thought of myself as an adult until my newborn, still warm from birth, clutched to me for security. It was as if I could feel my heart in him."

there's a bluebird in my heart

We'd like to give a special thanks to Duncan Mitchell (proprietor of The Chapel Tavern) for single handedly selling us out of Coniston's Bluebird Bitter. Luckily we have more arriving later this week. We consider ourselves lucky to work with someone like Duncan, and a handful of other bar owners, who understands that there is world outside of cheap corn based beers. Allow us to pay homage with Charles Bukowski-

"there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pur whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he's

in there."

The Beer of Bandits

We've been gone so long and so much has happened we don't really know where to start. Most importantly, we are working with The Shelton Brothers' beer portfolio. They have so many incredible brewers in their book that we would be fools to list just one, but that's what we'll do because we're full of fool's wisdom.

Blaugies La Moneuse

Go to St James' Infirmary and order one.

It's Just So Good

Our egotistical leader finally relented, after three months and change of soaking up the well wishes of others, and decided to let us move forward with wine blogging and worthless tidbits. So it begins again. We have started working with a new superstar in the Loire Valley. His name is Eric Chevalier and he makes mind boggling (when your mind boggles you're truly living) Chardonnay and Fie Gris from somewhere in the Muscadet. Above is a picture of the young turk with a bottle of his Fie Gris. The wines will arrive in May. We humbly request you buy vast amounts.

December 3rd 2008

One year ago today our absentminded and feckless leader, Devlon, was admitted to St. Mary's regional hospital for corrective heart surgery. Wherefore he asked to issue a brief statement. This breaks with our code so we put it to a vote. Just as our president elect was fond of doing while in the Senate, Devlon voted "Present." 

151 voted yea. 

150 voted nay.

The statement issues forth. Let it be know that the opinions expressed are neither supported or condoned by Cépage Selections, LLC.

"We usually leave all communiques to our press advisor in Budapest but I couldn't turn down the perfect opportunity to strum on your heartstrings and guilt you into a sympathetic purchase of organic European wines. Please write your generous order on cigarette paper,  roll it, place it in a tube and attach it to a Homing pigeon's leg. 

At one year, I'm thankful for the skilled and steady hands of Doctor Rakesh Pai, for all those that kept me caring and laughing (if you received a text or email from me today saying "Thanks.", it's you), for the absurd burlesque that is this world, for the authentic and delicate wines of Marc Ollivier and Didier and Catherine Roussel, for the many people that say our wines are too dry or too unusual, for putting my faith in what is tangible such as family and friends (if you received a text or email from me today saying "Thanks.", it's you) and not the supernatural, for bikes and treadmills, for no longer having holes in my heart, for pictures snapped at random, for arugula mixed with bacon, for the professor in college that compared my writing to Virginia Woolf, for the literary agent that said my writing was rubbish, for the person that told me she loved Chardonnay but hated Chablis, for Cabernet Franc and Gamay, for my suppliers who saw me through the almost zero sales mouth of last December and the subsequent hardest year of my life, for the subtle rhythms of Cummings and Elliot and Nabokov et al etc... for all that have told me they loved me, for the whole LDM crew, for the chance to wake up this morning and look at something and someone beautiful, for bright planets and steam that rises off of teacups, for all our customers that have the will to hand sell wines, for various and sundry songs, for text messages at once private or peculiar or very very funny, for mothers fathers brothers aunts uncles et al etc..., for good restaurants with real wine lists, for having all my fingers and functional tear ducts, for obese Pomeranians, for fluctuating currencies and (to paraphrase Beckett or maybe it was Charlie Wilson) for having another chance not to fuck up the endgame." 

Devlon Moore

Happy Birthday Boo!

In a couple of hours the brilliant Laurel Cook turns 27 years of age. Laurel is based in London, but runs our advertising department and keeps the minutes from our daily meetings (we are truly a global conglomerate and much like Citigroup too big to fail). Laurel is a trusted advisor with a keen business mind. More importantly, she is also a loyal friend and the world does not bequeath many of those. We hope the 26th of November brings Laurel as much joy as a hot bowl of baked beans does our spiritual advisor above.

Talking in Bed

Lately, we've been updating our sales book, and in order to keep our sanity we've used the downtime to reread some of our old college favorites. Philip Larkin has been especially appealing. We're surprised we lost track of the old Brit, but perhaps years of excess in the french hipster wine scene have dulled our memories. Larkin is known for such works as "This be the Verse" and "Church Going" but his true masterpiece is a small poem called "Talking in Bed." We suggest our rabid readership commit it to memory. You will be better for it. Just don't drink it away.

Late last night we were speculating about Mr. Larkin's wine tastes. Boringly, we settled on claret and port but not in a stuffy Michael Broadbent kind of way. If Larkin wasn't 23 years in the grave we would send him a bottle each of Moulin-Pey-Labrie and Quinta do Infantado with a small note: "Wines at once true and kind."