NON-OPENING ANNOUNCEMENT

Hello! Well, it’s been quite a year, hasn’t it? Thank you all for the love, support, and kind words — they mean the world to us.

Moving forward we will remain open for ToGo service only until all of our staff are eligible to be vaccinated and we see a sustained trend of lower daily COVID cases. As spring warms up, we’ll be sprucing up our outdoor seating area, adjusting our menu to bring you sunny day refreshers, and of course, continuing our weekly AWM Care Package!

We’ll keep you posted, and let you know when we think the time is right for a transition to indoor service. We look forward to that day! In the meantime, we’ll see you at AWM ToGo!

AWM in the time of COVID-19

Friends, we’re back.

We’re excited to announce that this Saturday and Sunday, AWM is opening for inside service, RESERVATION ONLY, 5p.m. – midnight. Reservations are live — book your seat now at Open Table, or by using the widget on our About page.

This is how it’s going to work:

• You need a reservation to be seated. No walk-ins, please.

• Face masks are required for entry and any time you are not seated.

• Maximum party size is four people. We won’t seat more than 20 people at a time.

• We have distancing, cleaning, and contactless service protocols in place to keep everyone safe and chill.

• This first weekend, our menu will be limited. (We'll get it built back up as our sales allow. Promise.)

Yes, it’s a little different than what you’re used to, but we didn’t want to reopen until we figured out how to create an experience where all of us can relax and feel safe. 

Still not feeling cool with the whole going-out-in-public thing? That’s OK. We have you covered.

• Care Packages are still available for Sunday pickup from noon – 3 p.m. Look for the Instagram post on Friday evenings letting you know orders are live.

• Food, bottles, and select cocktails are all available for takeout during normal business hours. Place takeout orders by phone (412.252.2337) during business hours; we’ll have our menu posted online tomorrow.

• We’ve put a few tables at the back of the adjoining lot for takeout orders only. There won’t be service, but you can take your to-go items and sit outside until dark. First come on those tables.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation. We’ve missed you. We can’t wait to see you. We know it’s kind of weird but it’s still just us behind the masks. If all goes well, we will be open Thursday thru Sunday starting next week.

Pilgrim's Progress: Why Everyone is Flocking to Galicia

Galicia presents a version of Spain gleefully at odds with our preconceptions. You don’t get white villages and windmills and death in the afternoon here. (Thankfully, we’re getting a lot less death in the afternoon all across Spain these days.) Rather, Spain’s Atlantic Northwest — the brow that furrows neighboring Portugal — is green, cool, rainy, and decidedly Celtic. If that sounds more like Ireland than Andalusia, take note: as the crow flies, Cork isn't much farther from the regional capital of A Coruña than Malaga.

Wine-wise, Galicia isn't completely in step with what we’ve come to expect from the rest of Spain either. You don't get Tempranillo and Garnacha here. In fact, the region's leading grapes are pretty much exclusive to this corner of the country (notable exception: Bierzo in Castilla y Leon, but Galician in climate and spirit) — though they do, tellingly, show up in northern Portugal with tricky Lusophone aliases. Isolated geographically and culturally, and always fiercely independent, Galicia's forged its own wayward, sometimes difficult, identity.

A bend in the Rio Sil in Ribeira Sacra

If anything, it's looking more and more like Spain’s answer to the Loire — from the maritime coast to the continental center, an inexhaustible source of complex, nuanced, minerally driven whites, and vibrant, food-friendly reds that provide a welcome counterpoint to the countries' more renowned regions, a place a little less bound to convention than, say, Rioja or the Medoc. If Galicia lacks the Loire's crémants and dessert wines — and sparkling and botrytized expressions of Albariño, while not exactly common, are not unheard of — the Loire can't lay claim to some of the world's most spectacular vineyard sites, or the tradition of heroic viticulture necessary to farm them.

But to draw the parallels more explicitly:

ALBARIÑO

Albariño vines under pergola in Rias Baixas

Now that we know that Albariño's origin myth — as a rogue Riesling clone that hitchhiked to Santiago do Compostela with German monks in the middle ages — doesn't have an ampelographic leg to stand on, it can finally be itself. And as growers pay closer attention to Albariño's sensitivity to site and vintners rely more on native yeast fermentations, the Riesling comparisons are starting to fade away. In the fjord-like Rias Baixas, the more apt analogy, anyway, has always been to Muscadet. Both are classic seafood wines with a distinctive tang of seaspray, and both gain considerable complexity from sur lie aging. Riesling-like peach and honeysuckle aromas are definitely still in the mix, but the region's granitic soils can also tease out herbaceous, flinty notes that recall another Loire stalwart, Pouilly-Fumé. It's taken several false starts for the real Albariño to reveal itself, but committed winemakers are doing great things with this grape.

Now pouring: Roberto Mendez and Raul Perez 'Cies' Albariño, Salnes, Rías Baixas, Spain 2017

GODELLO

Forty years ago, Godello was a near casualty of post-phylloxera neglect and Franco-era land reforms that rewarded farmers for bulk production. That was never going to fly with a delicate early budder like Godello, so all but a couple hundred vines were grubbed up and replaced with the far more reliable (and regrettably neutral) Palomino. Today, thanks to a small group of visionary growers and conservationists, complex, age-worthy Godellos from Valdeorras, Ribeira Sacra, and Bierzo are gaining consensus as, arguably, Spain's finest whites. Richly textured yet taut, with a bracing mineral presence, they can call to mind the dry Chenin Blancs of Savennières and Vouvray.

Now pouring: Cobertizo ‘El Blanco’ Godello, Bierzo, Spain 2016

MENCÍA

Heroic viticulture in action

The fact that for many years Mencia was thought to be a relative of Cabernet Franc (it isn't) should tell you where this analogy is headed, but it's only been since growers have planted it on the steep, schisty hillsides of the Sil River Valley that Northwestern Spain's signature red grape has earned the comparison to Chinon and Bourgueil, and, yes, even Pinot Noir from the Cote D'Or. If the latter seems like a stretch, consider this: last year Bierzo approved a new Burgundian classification scheme that will identify village wines, crus and, eventually, Grand crus, probably signaling the end of cheap, cheerful, unbeatable value Bierzo forever. Sigh.

Now pouring: A Portela Mencía, Valdeorras, Spain 2014

New Fun in the Old world.

We tend to forget how young much of the Old World is.

Think about it. Some of the oldest of Old World locales are really rosy-cheeked new kids in the modern wine world. Twenty years ago, Sicily was largely dismissed as a bulk wine wasteland, and today Nerellos from Mt. Etna have earned their place with Barolo and Brunello among the elite of Italian reds. And Greece is only starting to emerge from its retsina-soaked economic nightmare to show it’s true, stunning potential.

Our spring focus region, Northwestern Spain, comprising Castila y León and Galicia, is part of this old-is-new dynamic, too.

Spanish castle magic in Ribera del Duero. A young wine region, you say?

It certainly doesn’t lack for viticultural history. The usual cast of suspects — Greeks, Romans, Celts — were growing wine grapes here 2000+ years ago. Since the 9th century A.D., the Camino de Santiago has threaded through the heart of the region, attracting migrating grape varietals in addition to pilgrims. And it’s also home to what is arguably Spain’s most venerable and prestigious estate, Vega Sicilia, founded in 1864.

But by and large, wines from this part of Spain and their ascendant hipness are a very recent phenomenon. Take Vega Sicilia’s home appellation, for example. Ribera del Duero — today one of Spain’s premier appellations for Tempranillo-based reds — only achieved Denominación de Origen (D.O.) status in 1982. That’s the same year the Finger Lakes became an A.V.A. here in the United States.

In fact, of the fourteen or so D.O.s represented in our spring focus, only two of them predate the 1980s. (Ribeiro and Valderorras if you’re curious.) In terms of modern winemaking, that puts Northwestern Spain on roughly the same timeline as the U.S. and Australia.

We'll never tire of posting this pic of autumn vineyards in Ribeira Sacra.

They’ve made the most of their youth. Ribera del Duero stands shoulder to shoulder with Rioja, while Bierzo and Ribeira Sacra have elevated the Mencia grape to world-class status. Albariños from Rias Baixas along Galicia’s fjord-strewn Atlantic coast are among Spain’s most famous white wines. Further inland, Godellos of considerable finesse and complexity are emerging from Valdeorras and Monterrei.

It all comprises a brilliant cross-section of one of the most fascinating wine scenes on the planet. We can’t think of a better place to spend spring.

The Wonderful Vintners of Oz

As we bounce between deep freezes, icy messes, and the intermittent burst of weirdly April-like weather here in Pittsburgh, it's time we turn our attentions to the antipodes for our Winter Focus: Australia.

Wait, what? Australia? 

W(h)ither, Australia?

Terra Rosa: the dirt that made Coonawarra famous

Twenty years ago, Australia seemed poised to rule the wine world. Aussie Shiraz was so popular that it convinced other New World producers to start marketing their own jammy, over-the-top expressions of Syrah as Shiraz as well. Coonawarra Cabs grown on the region's famous terra rosa soils were giving Napa a run for its money for quality, and handily beating it for value. And, yea and verily, the 90+ Parker scores resounded throughout the land like a heavenly chorus of didgeridoos.

And then the 21st century happened.

There’s a laundry list of reasons you can cite for why Australian wine’s reputation has taken a drubbing over the past decade. Environmental factors — droughts, wildfires, and the undeniable influence of climate change — are certainly key. A decade-long grape glut depressed the domestic market and bankrupted many smaller, independent growers and producers, while forcing the industry to double-down on its already category-dominating production of industrial-grade, grocery store plonk. For many, Australia became a cautionary tale for what can happen when you get so gobsmacked by your own meteoric rise that you try to wing it through your second act.

But underpinning all of these reasons is a fundamental problem with the way Australia,  and its wines, are perceived by the rest of the world.

Larrikins, Ockers, and Barossa Shiraz

To be fair, it’s an image that, for decades, Australia has all too happily exported to the world at large: bluff, brawling, and bibulous, cheerfully unsophisticated, always ready for a good time, a knife fight, or both. Australians have at least half a dozen different names for their national caricature: larrikins, ockers, yobbos, bogans. Think Steve Irwin. Or that Energizer battery guy, the one who was mercifully replaced by the animatronic rabbit. Or Crocodile Dundee.

Or for that matter, Barossa Shiraz.

Here’s the dirty little secret about Shiraz: what we know as Aussie Shiraz — ginormous, inky, syrupy, with alcohol levels that singe your nostril hairs — is an almost wholly American phenomenon. It was created for the export market to appease American critics (three guesses?) and palates — and some deeply ingrained cultural preconceptions, it would seem. Brash, balls-out, and undeniably hedonistic, it's like a night out with Bon Scott in his prime.

But it's not the Shiraz Australians themselves drink. Grab a glass of Shiraz at a café in Melbourne and you might be surprised by how light, nuanced, and downright Northern Rhônish it can be.

Beyond Crocodile Dundee (and Yellowtail)

But, wait: this is Australia. Subtlety, we’ve been told repeatedly by Australians themselves, isn’t in their DNA.

Old own-rooted bush vine Grenache in Barossa. 

And that’s the sad moral of the Australian wine story so far. Remarkably isolated from the rest of the world, they’ve always made complex, subtle, place-driven wines — in Coonawarra, in Margaret River, in the Clare and Eden Valleys, even in Barossa and McLaren Vale, ground zero for the big, blustery international style — but in their eagerness to be all things to all palates, they’ve too often neglected what makes their wines so intriguingly Australian.

Fortunately, old hands and new — as well as a handful of adventurous importers — are recommitting to expressing just what that means. And, for us, it’s like discovering a new country.

Our Fall Focus: Bring on the Balkans

Love obscure, indigenous varietals? Archaic-yet-weirdly-hip production methods? Hate vowels? Then boy-howdy is this the seasonal focus for you!

We get excited whenever we kick off a new seasonal focus, but spotlighting the Balkans right now feels legitimately thrilling. It’s a region of enormous enological importance, yet it still feels a little bit mysterious, remote, even dangerous: Croatia, for instance — arguably the most important wine-producing nation and certainly the top tourist destination among the former Yugoslavian states — only confirmed in 2015 that all its vineyards are landmine-free. Despite claiming some of the most stunning landscapes and vineyard sites in the world, there’s a pall of tragedy and strife and hardship that hangs over the region, so much so that one of its most famous exports is its own name as a byword — balkanize, balkanization — for the state of being hopelessly, irreconcilably fragmented. The scars here run centuries deep and have barely begun to heal from the atrocities of the 1990s.

Dingac Vineyard on the Dalmatian Coast of Croatia. Sometimes you can just look at a vineyard site and know that great wine is made there.

Yet, led by Slovenia and Croatia, the region is starting to shake off its torturous history and draw serious attention for its wines for the first time in nearly a century. For Slovenia, the challenge has been escaping the shadow of neighboring Friuli and Austria and establishing its own identity. It found its moment in the sudden spike in interest among wine hipsters in orange wines, an ancient production method that’s never quite gone out of style in Slovenia. And there’s been a buzz about Croatia ever since it was discovered that Zinfandel and it’s long-presumed Puglian twin, Primitivo, are actually a rare Dalmatian varietal known as Tribidrag. (In true Balkan fashion, Montenegro now claims that Tribidrag, known locally as Kratosija, originated there.) But it’s Croatia’s savory, saline coastal whites that are the nation’s real rock stars.

Success tends to have a ripple effect, especially in a region this compact and entangled, and now we’re starting to see wines of quality and interest coming from Serbia and Bosnia and Montenegro as well. Even the most closed-off, cryptic nation of them all, Albania, is starting to make a showing for itself, as evidenced by Kantina Arbëri’s juicy, peppery Kallmet, currently a favorite on our list.

This will be a challenging but rewarding focus. The availability of wines from these countries in the U.S. is limited, and in Pennsylvania even moreso. The native varietals are virtual unknowns, often with tongue-breaking, consonant-heavy names like Grk and Skrlet. Sometimes information on the winemaker or the grape can be spotty or, worse, the victim of Google translate.  And quality, while on the definite upswing, can be somewhat hit-or-miss, especially as you move inland from the Adriatic coast. Many Pittsburghers can proudly claim Balkan ancestry, and we’re nothing if not eager learners, so if you have any suggestions, corrections, or general advice (or want to offer us your cousin’s villa in Dubrovnik for a week), we’re all ears. Zivjeli!

Vasaria will not be part of our Balkan focus because it does not exist.

Note: for the purposes of this focus, we’re defining the Balkans as the former Yugoslavian nations of Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Macedonia, and Montenegro; plus Romania, Bulgaria, and Albania. Due to proximity and the political and cultural influence they’ve exerted over the region, Hungary and Turkey will also be included. Greece, while inarguably Balkan, has a tremendously important, thriving and independent wine culture that merits its own focus — look for it in the upcoming year.  

Chillin Reds in the Summatime

"When does Summer of Rosé kick off?"

We've fielded this question dozens of times over the past month or so. You may not like the answer. We're not doing Summer of Rosé this year.

Take a moment. Freak out. Punch your pillow. Compose yourself. Fall to pieces again.

Rest easy: there will still be plenty of pink options on our menu this summer. But our particular brand of rosévangelism has always been built on the belief that rosé deserves a year-round place in our hearts and palates — it's no post-summer faux pas like white shoes after Labor Day. So as a dedicated seasonal focus, we're moving on. That said:

Long live the Reds of Summer.

Because there's nothing like inky, heavy, tannic AF Cahors in blast-furnace weather, amirite? Come on, you know that's not what we mean. What we mean are lighter-bodied, lower-alcohol, higher-acid reds that bring serious deliciousness, especially when you throw them in a cooler for 20 or 30 minutes. What we mean are Frappato from Sicily, Schiava from Alto Adige, Gamay from Beaujolais (and elsewhere), Xinomavro from Greece, Blaufränkisch from Austria, and old-vine País from Chile's Maule Valley. And on the bubbly end of the spectrum, don't forget Lambrusco! The Chillin Reds, we call them — and you'll find they're just as refreshing as (and probably a lot more complex than) any rosé you put up against them.

On a non-chill note, we'll round out our Summer Red list with some stone-cold BBQ classics like Zinfandel and Tempranillo, just in case you have a pig picking or bull roast to attend.

Look for our list to start changing over next week. First, we need you to help us drink through a glut of Loire wines from our spring focus! 

Another Spring, Another Loire Frost

We should never forget that, first, foremost, and above any sort of aesthetic or philosophical significance we attach to it, wine is an agricultural product. Sometimes we get reminded of that in the most brutal of ways.

Vineyard fires to ward off frost in the Loire, April 2017

Over a period of 10 days in late April, early morning temperatures in the Loire — indeed throughout much of France and Germany, and even pockets of Italy and Spain — plunged below freezing. Growers have a trick bag they can reach into to guard against frost — fires, turbines, even turning on the sprinklers —  but they’re not foolproof. This year's frosts presented something of a moving target, hitting vineyard areas not normally susceptible one night, then bouncing to another parcel the next. The old methods were largely ineffective.

The aftermath in Saumur.

Coming, as they did, several weeks after an early and vigorous budburst, the fallout was catastrophic. From the coastal Pays Nantais inland to Touraine, Anjou and the Center, the loss estimates were staggering: up to 80% in Pouilly. Terrible by any measure, but even worse in the Loire, where late frosts decimated vines last spring as well.

Our thoughts go out to the growers and winemakers whose livelihoods have been so grievously impacted. The Loire is a special region whose wines we hold dear. It’s going to take a few years for it to get back on its feet.

In the meantime, while you're sipping a glass with us or anywhere else, it's good to bear in mind how much outside the winemaker's control needs to go right for your enjoyment. Great wine is never a given. Cherish it.