Hair of the Hound Dog

So, we’re riding through the Upper Peninsula last night and decided to stop in Hancock, Michigan. Walked into a little mom-and-pop liquor store called The Shottle Bop — I’m not kidding — and right up to a shelf with The King Cabernet Sauvignon 2003, third edition. The bottle features a photo of Elvis from his glory years: white suit and lariat-style belt, microphone in hand, bulges in all the right places. (Note: the label pictured above is different, without the enviable groin, but I was unable to find the one we purchased on the Graceland Cellars site, so maybe it’s a very rare collector’s item. . . .)

In any case, we had to buy it. Wouldn’t you? We took it back to our Holiday Inn Express (damn, don’t we travel in style), uncorked it and breathed in the plummy, purple essence of The King. This is not a subtle wine — I mean, not even for a Cab. It doesn’t just sit on the tongue, it puddles there: rich, dark fruit, anise, and chocolate flavors, like a Hershey-covered black cherry soaked in some kind of syrupy, blackberry hooch. Not that it was bad. In fact, I kind of liked it in an against-my-better-judgment Hunk of Burning Love sort of way.

I probably won’t be drinking The King on a regular basis, however. Because I awoke this morning with a not-hungover (I had less than a glass and a half) but racy feeling — likely more from the sulfites and sugars than the alcohol content (12.9%). But still, there’s that bottle. . .