2011 Clos Canarelli "Corse Figari" Rouge

In the naked house, there are no secrets. Welcome to the naked house.

Apocryphal stories? Artistic licenses? Blonde jokes? Bold-faced lies?

False modesties? Forbidden fruits? Golden calves? Local colors too rich for the rainbow?

Marriages of convenience? Monuments to hype?

Needles disguised as haystacks? Opinions masquerading as facts? Pillars of salt? Pillow talk? Shotgun marriages? Strange bedfellows?

Tales tall enough to touch the stars? Unnamed sources? White lies? Whoppers? They’re all here. This house is a litanist’s mecca, the hub of the raconteur’s wheel. But if you’re looking for secrets, you’ve come to the wrong place.

You have the right to remain skeptical. It’s not like these truths have been, are, or will ever be self-evident. Nobody forced you to come in. Yes, the front door is kept unlocked, in keeping with the old traditions, but you’re the one who opened it and stepped over the threshold.

No, I don’t live here. Not in my wildest dreams. To call myself a regular, or even a frequent visitor? That would be an exaggeration. One I’m guilty of making, to be sure, especially in conversation, but the spoken word follows a different set of rules than the written one. Let’s just say the house agrees with me, and that one day, if I behave, and learn how to take my own advice, I might agree with the house.

The thing about secrets—the reason they’re banned—has to do with the sickness of exclusivity. Once or twice a year, I get a call or an e-mail from somebody who’s tasted a great wine and wants to share it, but under one condition. I have to agree—the better word might be “swear”—not to write about the wine, no matter how much I love it. My response is always the same: If you want me to keep your secrets—about love or wine—don’t tell them to me, because I’ll repeat them. Wine is not a cult. Wine is a language, and that language is spoken all over the world.

Which brings us to the 2011 Clos Canarelli “Corse Figari” Rouge.

Clos Canarelli is located at the southern tip of the island of Corsica, near the town of Figari and the village of Tarabucetta. Grape vines have been cultivated on l’Île de Beauté since 500 bc. The beaches, fields, hills, and mountains facing the Strait of Bonifacio are among the most beautiful in Europe. For the last ten years, stories about Yves Canarelli and his wines have made the journey from rumor to reputation and from reputation to legend. At the heart of that legend is a simple truth: Canarelli’s wines distill authenticity.

In the glass, the 2011 Canarelli Rouge gives a whole new meaning to the expression “the wine dark sea.” As dark as it looks in the bottle, the wine gathers even more depth in the glass. Keep a lit candle on the table so your eyes can follow the way this wine changes colors. The bouquet has a rhythm. It beats like the pulse of a wild animal. You don’t smell this wine as much as you inhale its feral aspects.

On the palate, Canarelli’s Rouge combines immediacy with patience. Canarelli’s Blanc and Canarelli’s Rosé are generous wines. They embarrass you with their riches. Canarelli’s Rouge is less overt, which is to say that it unties its ribbons, opens its boxes, and celebrates its gifts more deliberately than the Blanc or the Rosé. By the time you get to the finish, you are simultaneously prepared for and surprised by its length. There are many great red wines that require extra time to drink. This wine gives you extra time as you drink it.

Some final thoughts about where you are and why you’re here:

Leave your shoes by the front door. There’s food in the kitchen. All you can eat. Down the hall to your left are the rooms of golden silences, red flags, and silver linings. Access to the basement is through the library. Look for the elevator door paneled with tin. The Rorschach room is in the basement, across from the vault where the black arts are stored. Viewer discretion advised!

The only bathroom is here on the main floor. Some-times there’s a line. Don’t let that discourage you. In the bathroom you’ll find all kinds of soft touches, including the infamous laughing toilet, mirror of eternity, and walkaway tub fed by hot tears. The stairs to your right will take you up to the second story, where you’ll find the room of sighs, the room of whispers, and the narrow, rickety stairs that lead to the attic. Single file on that stairway, okay? And no pushing or shoving. This place has had its share of accidents.

If you’re lucky enough to make it to the attic, one thing you’ll notice is that your clothes will come off. You won’t remember getting undressed. It’s not something you do. No buttons, snaps, or zippers. Your clothes just turn into skin. If you’re lucky, you won’t feel a thing. One moment you’ll be wearing what you had on when you got here, the next moment you won’t. It will just be you, the air around you, and the pressure of other people’s eyes. Of course there are explanations. But who wants to hear them? That’s why it’s called the naked house.

One Bottle is dedicated to the appreciation of good wines and good times, one bottle at a time. You can write to Joshua Baer at jb@onebottle.com.