I’m convinced Pinot Noir is evil.
As seductive as a piece of warm cherry pie, but much more dangerous.
Why do I love it so? No rational being will put up with the frustration of it. Face it—it’s hard to find great tasting Pinot Noir. So many versions have the taste of pickling spices, or they’ve been darkened and plumped up to resemble Syrah more than Gevrey-Chambertin. You can spend a lot of money searching for the right one; obsession takes over from mere curiosity, and you may find yourself broken and alone, folded up on a curb in some desolate town wondering what might have been. The wrong lover does that to you. So does the wrong Pinot Noir.