In my last post I wrote about getting to Napa and Sonoma and getting through a day of wine tasting. Today I want to talk about trusting the man or woman holding the bottle. Please note that I have promised myself not to rant in any one place about any one wine thing. Wine culture in America has going through such a transformation these past few years, that us winos should all stand up and applaud – well, not like a State of the Union, every four or five sentences applause; maybe just sit back, kick the chair on its heels and smile, one big, mouth guzzling grin. That sounds about right. However. What happened this past Friday night saddens me. And I get this bile ridden, guttural feeling that it happens – a lot. I went to a cultishly popular wine store in Napa Valley for an Italian wine tasting. It is rare that we California wine country types drink anything but California wines, so this was a treat. I adore Italian wines, more than, well, maybe, my dog. And since she can't read and is not Italian, but Belgium, I know I am probably pretty safe with that hypothetical comparison.