Whoever came up with the adage, “Don’t cook with a wine you wouldn’t drink”, is an idiot.

He’s an idiot for two reasons. Firstly, unless you just served him a sole Véronique, anyone who claims to be able to taste the quality of a wine through a braising sauce is either seriously delusional or a freak of nature–and I welcome neither at my table. Secondly, there are times when necessity demands that you drink a wine you wouldn’t even cook with.

Tonight was one of those times. I had a spectacularly productive day at the library, in which, among other glorious things, a paragraph that had been bothering me for some time finally succumbed to the pressure of my glaring at it for hours each day, and became…well, not exactly good, but bearable. (Let me tell you, I have a newfound respect for people who write the blurbs on the back of novels. Try writing a synopsis of a book without boring people who’ve read it or alienating those who haven’t, and get back to me.)

So, I wanted to celebrate. But the only thing I could comfortably afford in the chilled section of my local wine store was the fruit of my most abhorred vine: sauvignon blanc.

Once upon a time, I worked in the wine business and got to go to lots of fancy industry-only tastings in crazy venues like the Natural History Museum’s Rose Center for Earth and Space. During one of those tastings I had an epiphany: sauvignon blanc smells like armpit.

I’m sorry if you disagree with me: lots of people do, some of my dearest friends included. But I know my palate, and it doesn’t make concessions to popular demand. At its best, sauvignon blanc is white Sancerre and mereIy smells of sweat. (Red Sancerre, however, is some of the thinnest pinot noir you can get–so thin you can drink it cold–and I adore it). At its worst, it starts off sweaty and then bursts into so much tropical fruit that I can’t even taste my dinner. (New Zealand producers, are you listening?)

The bottle I bought comes from South Africa and is really the worst of the worst: poorly made, with an acidity that is searing instead of refreshing. That’s what you get for buying an $8 bottle of wine at a time when iced coffee costs $3.

The recipe I am about to give is the shortest I have ever posted, but equally the most important, because it makes celebration possible when there may be nothing at all festive about your finances. My spin doctor training (did I mention that I used to work in public relations?) wants me to call it an antioxidant kir, but I’m not biting: this is starving writer’s kir.

I was an exchange student in Dijon, where the kir was invented. As you might expect, I drank a lot of kir. If you’re not familiar with the cocktail, it’s a mixture of two local products: a sharp, young Burgundy known as aligoté, with a fat slug of the viscous blackcurrant liqueur called crème de cassis. (In the US, we like to substitute the raspberry liqueur, Chambord, which is bad and wrong.) The kir royal cocktail is the same idea, but with Champagne.

If you find yourself forced to drink cheap white wine, don’t make a spritzer. The acidity of the seltzer will amplify, not dilute, the problem. Buy yourself some 100% pomegranate juice, and use it like you would crème de cassis. The complex flavors and subtle astringency of the pomegranate will fill in all the holes of your hapless vino, and give it a rich jewel hue to boot. (If you can’t get a hold of pomegranate juice, eating sharp cheese with your wine has a similar effect, minus the pleasing jewel tone.)

Starving Writer’s Kir

INGREDIENTS

Abominable white wine
Pure pomegranate juice

METHOD

Pour a glass of white wine. Top up with splash of pomegranate.

Enjoy. Do not drunk dial.

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