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The Freewheel line with a couple of English friends.

It takes a lot of beer to keep the wine business running smoothly. Here in Redwood City, we are very fortunate to have a great English style ale producer right in our backyard: Freewheel Brewing Company. The staff of K&L are fictures at our local pub, and it is a rare moment when one of us isn't there having a pint and a bite of their excellent food. We are also lucky enough to be the first place to offer their bottled beer for sale. If you have never had it, the Freewheel Brewing "FSB" Freewheel Special Bitter, California (500ml) is the benchmark in fresh, balanced, smashable ale. We will do our best to keep some in stock for you, the customer too!

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Tasting with Oliver Krug

Upcoming Events

We host regular weekly and Saturday wine tastings in each K&L location.

For the complete calendar, including lineups and additional details related to our events, visit our K&L Local Events on or follow us on Facebook.  


Visit our events page on Facebook or the K&L Spirits Journal for more information.

>>Upcoming Special Events, Dinners, and Tastings

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« All Bouzy Rosé from De Meric, for Spring | Main | March Gems »

Berg, Private Eye

I awoke with a start, my face dripping with perspiration. What a nightmare...there were acrobats and Republicans, cocktail waitresses and an Indian elephant. Man, scary. I looked next to me. There was a tusk sticking out of the covers. Time to get up. There was work to be done. Not by me. I didn’t have any. Semantics. The door opened. She lit up the room like a nuclear Christmas tree. I was pining already. “Mr. Berg?” she asked with a voice that dripped molten honey. “I have a problem.” So did I. I remained seated. “I’ve been robbed. Cases of wine from the estate of Pichon Longueville, Comtesse de Lalande. Three different vintages: 1994, 1995 and 1996. Mr. Berg, I MUST have them back by Saturday. I’m hosting a dinner party for international diplomats. Can you help me?” The Lord helps those who help themselves. But asking her if I could help myself was out of the question. I assured her that I would do what I could. Even if it took a million years. It’s all about billable hours. Her name was Tatiana, a liason to the American consulate. The diplomats in question were flying in from Sweden, Norway, Lebanon and Canada. I checked backround information on all of them—clean as a whistle. I searched motive, and found none. My mind raced like Jesse Owens. I ran over scenarios like a monster truck from hell. Nothing. The Swede was Staffan. He was still bristling over the jokes that Olaf, the Norwegian made (three Swedes leave a bar after one drink. Well, it COULD happen! Haha! Ya sure). Neither were an easy suspect. The man from Lebanon. He was interesting. Could have cut his teeth on Musar, Lebanon’s finest wine estate, and later developed a taste for Bordeaux. The Canadian? A beer drinker. Doesn’t fit the profile. One thing was certain; The three vintages of Lalande served a very useful purpose: The 1994 ($159.00) was a tremendous success for the vintage. The bouquet is a kaleidoscope of warm, lush black fruit, and the wine can be enjoyed now. The ’95 ($309.99) is smoother and more debonnair. Smoke, cedar and bittersweet chocolate notes balance the rich red and black fruits. Outstanding. The ’96 ($299.99) is built for the long haul, as one enjoys first the ’94, followed by the ’95. Sweet, rich fruit it has, but the structure for long term aging is ever present. Time was running out. Time always runs out. But who did it?... Then it hit me like an angry blackjack dealer. I leapt up, grabbed my hat, made the bus in seconds flat… I burst into the room like a poltergeist on acid. Tataiana spun round like a dervish. The room got as quiet as outer space. Metaphors hung in the air like clouds. “Tatiana, I have solved the crime. Olaf, please step forward.” A nervous Olaf stepped up. “You may go. Staffan, you may go as well.” I stared at the Lebanese diplomat, then turned to the crowded room. “This is the thief. I kept wondering: Why three consecutive vintages? Then I realized… Tripoli! Triple, for three vintages! And Tripoli is the capital of Lebanon!” I was smug as a Cheshire cat, really feline good. Then the Canadian spoke. “Impossible, yknow, eh? I took the wine.” Gasters were flabbered. Instead of the cheese course, incredulity was served. But I was dining on crow. “Why? Why did you take my three vintages of Lalande?” Tatiana bellowed like an accordion. The Canadian smiled wanly. “Hat Trick.” —Joe Zugelder

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