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Amis,
Everyday Drinking
    Hugh Johnson once remarked that he was surprised that no university had endowed a chair in German wine labeling. For most English speakers, such is the perceived complexity of the Gothic-looking labels, with their information overload and terrifying terminology, that they make Burgundy seem simple by comparison. Graacher Himmelreich Trockenbeerenauslese, anyone? Even hardened wine wonks ask themselves whether life is long enough to learn the difference between
Spätlese
and
Auslese
. (Admit it, you’re scared already.) German winemakers have long recognized this dilemma, without necessarily knowing what the hell to do about it. “The Germans haven’t made it easy for you, me, or anyone else,” says the importer Terry Theise, a passionate advocate of their Rieslings. Lately, though, some of Germany’s best Riesling producers are wooing American consumers with simplified labels.
    One technical term that’s worth mastering is
Kabinett
, the lightest of five “predicates” indicating levels of ripeness. For midsummer drinking, a low-alcohol, semidry
Kabinett
from the Mosel region is, to my mind, one of the few beverages that can compete with a nice dry pilsner and far sprightlier and lighter on its feet than the average Chilean or Australian Chardonnay. And Riesling
Kabinetts
are quite possibly the most versatile food wines in theworld—perfect not only for lighter fish, chicken, and pork preparations but also for sweet and spicy Asian, Mexican, and fusion dishes. They are also, generally, below 10 percent alcohol, which makes them more refreshing, and less punishing, than a 15 percent Chardonnay. Viewed from another angle—you can drink more.
    The typical rap against German wines is that they are “too sweet,” and many of us are under the impression that sweet is somehow bad. Most
Kabinetts
have some residual sugar, but this is almost always balanced by acidity. I think the German Wine Council should run ads featuring a modified version of the Blue Öyster Cult classic “Don’t Fear the Sweetness.” There is a trend lately in Germany toward dry, or
trocken
, wines, though the truth is that Riesling without some residual sugar can be shockingly tart. More and more of the wines from the Mosel, the Rheingau, and the Rheinhessen are being made in a style that’s drier than Dorothy Parker’s wit.
    Those of you who won’t be able to remember the word
Kabinett
five minutes after reading this essay are not necessarily out of luck. Raimund Prüm, of S. A. Prüm in the Mosel, understands your anxiety about those labels. He owns vines in some of the greatest vineyards in Germany, perched on steep, sun-trapping slopes high above the Moselle River, including Wehlener Sonnenuhr, named after the sundial that his great-great-grandfather Jodocus Prüm constructed in that famous vineyard in 1842. And one of these days, after you’ve developed an appreciation for great Riesling, you may remember the name of this vineyard, planted on blue slate, which is believed to impart a distinctive stony flavor to the wines. In the meantime, you can probably recall the term “Blue Slate,” the name of a semidry
Kabinett
-level Riesling that had its debut in this country with the 2003 vintage, and risk the $15 to give it a try. Prüm also makes a lighter, slightly fruitier $10 bottle called Essence, which is my new default beverage setting for Chinese takeout.
    Prüm’s roots in the region go deep; he says his family has been in the Mosel for eight hundred years. His roots are also tall—his grandfather, who served in Kaiser Wilhelm’s Dragoon Mounted Bodyguard, stood over six feet nine. Prüm himself tops out at a mere six four and is crowned with unruly flaming-red hair that has earned him the nickname
der Specht—
the woodpecker. Appropriately, he bobs his head as he gets excited talking about his wines, which can be pretty damn thrilling at the higher end (the wines, not his head bobbing). Every wine lover