Whatever worries you have in this world, you will forget them with the first taste of this wine, Barrique Cellar’s 2009 Syrah from Sonoma County.

But if I were to remember those worries, it would be about my tendencies  as of late to buy French wine, but this bottle (and yes, foreshadowing to the final review, it was the entire bottle) made me believe in America again and all that is good.

I know I should start with the fruit flavors (they were there–ripe, jammy plums, baked currants, softened blackberries), but I won’t.  This wine was was silk.  Smooth, medium bodied fruit intertwined like Italian lace with smoky leather and soft cedar, licorice and a dusting of pepper flavors.  The alcohol–at 13.5%–was there, but seemingly hid in a shadowed corner, like Boo Radley taking on a protective gaze over Scout in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

This wine was also comfortable and familiar. The body, tannin, flavor and lingering notes invited me into a leather-book lined library at dusk where a soft wool rug awaited me before an unlit fireplace as Van Morrison melted a ballad out of the nearby speaker.

I am lucky, this bottle was a gift (I have great friends), but the little bird on the bottle told me it was from Schneiders in DC on Capitol Hill.   I didn’t know it at the time, but I skipped straight to the workout to drink the bottle, and have no regrets.

Ever have those Tuesdays that feel like a Monday? Today was that day.

A full day of work sandwiched between three workouts–TRX, a bike, a run–and a whole lotta Tuesday blues in between.  After the bike helmet came off and the robe and slippers came on, I consciously said to myself as I went into the kitchen, “Don’t go for the wine.  You don’t need a glass every night. Think of the spandex.”

But as I passed by the fridge on the way to make the salad, the broccoli and the turkey, the ubiquitously screw-capped bottle of Australian Shiraz mocked my self-control.  Leave it to the Aussies to make it that much easier.  (Side note: This was also a bottle a friend brought over for dinner, so I have a little wine guilt about not opening it for the dinner.  Definitely a Ms. Manners faux pas I decided I could erase if the bottle went away).

As many are, I was a little leery of the cap and the painstakingly clever and designed label–the French would never stoop to the low of putting a cartoon on a clever-titled wine.  And to label it, The Boxer? “Pshaw” (huffed with a French accent).

But as soon as the first taste went past my lips, and my mouth hummed in recognition of the heat-filled berries of a McLaren Vale Shiraz, I felt the honor of our brethren to the way, way South redeemed.  Cooked, fruity and jammy, the plum flavors danced against some deeper spice notes of oak and chocolate.  Medium tannin, medium acid, the wine had a nice medium (sense a theme?) finish to it.  However, the alcohol, in tune with the heat from its origins, was slightly high (Translation: 15.5% alcohol).  Overall, the wine was balanced, on its toes, and ready to take on the night or any red-blooded protein, if even a little tipsy.

I’m glad I worked out before drinking “The Boxer” because I could easily lose myself in the bottle.  Ping that friend to call you in the morning to make sure you work out if you take home this bottle, because at Australian prices, this wine is definitely more lover than fighter — you might not want to get out of bed in the morning either way.