Tout ce qui mérite d'être fait, mérite d'être bien fait. (Anything worth doing is worth doing well).
-- Le Corbusier
This is what it's all about. The real deal. Wines that are the fruit of a place.Wine that are about soul and character, wines that are made by people who think and care enough about that kind of stuff to operate on the principle that that's what always comes first. Do it well and the ducats will follow.
It doesn't hurt, of course, to have a couple centuries' worth of tradition, a rare grape variety and a unique method of vinifying it in your quiver. But just as you can't hit a belt-high fastball for a home run unless you swing the bat, all the tradition, history and rarity in the world don't make a milliliter of difference unless someone has the vision, passion and energy and courage to dispense with conventional wisdom and have a tilt at the windmill.
Clos Cibonne dates to 1797, when the Roux family purchased the property from Jean-Baptiste Cibon. Following André Roux's modernisation of the estate in 1930, the wines of Clos Cibonne became known as some of Provence's most distictive rosés. After a brief period of decline in the 1980's, Roux's granddaughter Brigitte and her husband Claude Deforge took over management of the proporty and began to reestablish of the considerable reputation of the domaine.
The soul of the estate is in the vineyard -- the native Tibouren grape, which André Roux believed to be ideally suited to the soils and climate of the region. Situated less than 800 meters from the sea,the vineyards lie in a natrual amphitheatre that promotes ideal maturation of the grapes. Following harvest,the grapes are fermented in stainless steel tanks, then aged under fleurette, a thin veil of yeast, in 100 year-old, 5,000 liter foudres.
It's a lovely composition: rare grape, a traditional, but nowadays unique method of vinification and a commitment to quality and character. The result is nothing short of mesmerizing, a lovely weave of sleek, but perfectly-ripe, bright raspberry, strawberry and citrus flower notes interlaced with hints of yeast and sea salt. In short, a lovely, seductive taste of Provence ...
Hey all! Thanks so much for shopping PCC, for following this blog, and for sharing your stories, thoughts and questions with us via our website, Facebook and Twitter. It's a pleasure getting to know you.
I'll be away on leave for a few months but look for some fun new features in this space when I return. One new trend: each PCC location is offering its own selection of super local products, delectable items like eggs from pastured hens, coffee roasted right in the neighborhood, and meat and poultry from small local producers (for example, Edmonds PCC shoppers, I hope you've become familiar with Spring Rain Farm & Orchard's organic stewing chickens by now! Trudy, co-editor of the Sound Consumer, just raves about their flavor when simmered in a traditional coq au vin).
Enjoy the sunny days ahead, and make each meal great in your own way!
"La Québécoise" is on the phone. Nicolas Boiron of Domaine Bosquet des Papes is in town, and presently in her car. Do I have time for them to swing on by for a meet and greet and tasting? Hmmm. Really, I don't. I'm up to my neck in boxes to check, running hard just to stay five steps behind. But then, this isn't just any winemaker "ride-along," not even just any Chateauneuf du Pape producer. Bosquet des Papes is, in my humble estimation, the real deal -- traditional, classic, old world, the soul of the southern Rhône. I'll make time.
Funny, wines like that almost always seem to be made by quality humans. Assuming the role of accompanist, playing a supporting dole to vineyard and terroir isn't a role that's well suited to hyperactive egos.. Nicolas is no exception. From handshake (the grip of hands that are well acquainted with real work) to au revoir, he's affable, unaffectedly gracious and modest -- charming as only someone who's comfortable in their own skin and who has no hidden agendas can be. A perfect example of the difference between "winemaker" and vigneron.
The wines are, not surprisingly, pure pleasure. We begin with a lovely treat, the 2005 blanc, essentially sold out, with only a few bottles to be had, but open for tasting juste pour voir. Think Provence on a warm, late Spring day, with notes of apricot, lemon essence, almond blossom honey and that characteristic southern Rhône foundation of stones. It shows the richnes of 6 years of bottle age, but is still crisp and taut, voluptous and agile at once. How many bottles can I have?
The 2009 Chateauneuf du Pape "Tradition" is classic: mostly grenache, with healthy dollops of mourvedre and syrah, seasoned with dashes of vaccarese, counoise and cinsault. It's bursting with red fruits wrapped around a core of brooding, dark stone fruit. An undercurrent of sun-warmed stones harmonizes with garrigues and a whiff of pepper. It's a complete, muscular wine, beautifully marring generosity and structure. While $50 retail certainly isn't a pittance, given the impressive quality of this wine and the going rate for comparable offerings, it's a bargain.
The cuvée "Chante le Merle" is the fruit of 80 to 90 year-old grenache, syrah and mourvèdre vines. It's a heady wine, grounded by brooding stoniness and dark fruit essences that offer enchanting counterpoitn to the raciness of its red fruit confit, lavender and spice notes. Wow.
Finally, "A la Gloire de Mon Grande - Père" is a monumental exhibition of of 100 per cent old vine grenache. Its' a lavish magic carpet, dark cherrry and wild raspberry fruit, with threads of lavender, spice, garrigues, pines and stones woven into a fabric of captivating, poetic depth.
allof which serves to evoke acute pangs for Provence. It never fails to amaze me, this lovley magic that captures, the aromas, flavors and the very soul of a place in a glass container. While the only complete cure for the jones it fuels is to actually go there, tasting wine like Nicolas' is without a double the next best thing to being there. A pretty damned fine interlude to the day's toil, too. It's people and wines like this that make this pretty cool métier. And speaking of work, back to it. Au boulot!
Just below the letterhead on Domaine Borie de Maurel's price list are the words: "Vignerons - Paysans." Neither word really translates very well, but the rough equivalent in English is "Peasant Vinegrowers." While the French is far more accurate in all its many levels of nuance, both pack a lot of meaning.
Vignerons-Paysans. I like that. Two words. Modest words, humble words, words with their feet planted firmly in the dirt. Words with more nobility by accident than all the money and the marketing in the world could ever imagine. Honest words, direct and and strong as a handshake with a work-callused hand.
There is no word in French (or Spanish, or Italian) for "winemaker." Italian producer Stefano Inama puts it very eloquently when he observes that the closest one can come to "making wine" is to labor in the vineyard, to work the soil, to prune the vines. Ask anyone who makes their daily bread aiding and abetting the transformation of grapes into one of life's loveliest pleasures what it is they do, and they'll reply that the best they can do is to pour love and energy into the vineyard, then intervene as little as possible while the magic happens.
Awhile back, a generous friend gave me a couple bottles from one of Woodinville's more exclusive addresses, an institution whose unabashed self-worth is reflected in both the price of the bottles (if you have to ask...) and the self-congratulatory verbiage on the back label. These, of course, are Wines made by Winemakers. Not to be confused with vine-growers (farmers) and certainly not peasants (anything but). Winemakers. Skilled, well capitalized, equipped with the and capable of turning agricultural raw material into luxury goods.
Wines like this, and the attitude that creates them, are certainly no anomaly. They're pretty standard stuff, really, a universal theme. From the gated faux "Chateau" to the invitation to join the "Select," "Reserve" "Prestige" or "CEO" club, to the Promethean "Winemaker" who boasts of "barrel programs" while name-dropping exclusive vineyard sources, the subtext is that the "right" wine, with the appropriate credentials is one of the trappings of upward mobility. Having an accepted label on one's table is among the de rigueur trappings of having gained admittance to the promised land. For those of us whose Horation alber aspirations may not have yet landed us among the 1%, a familiarity with the proper intoxicants is the wink and the nod that assures onlookers that, if not yet past the gates, we're certainly in the driveway and admittance is all but a done deal.
I'm not likely likely to drink those two bottles anytime soon, and will probably end up giving 'em away. I've had the wine before. All the parts are there in pretty much the properly proportions and there's no denying that it sings the notes correctly. It tastes okay, in a luxury wine sort of way, but it's not delicious in that je ne sais quoi kind of way. Let's just say that it just ain't got no soul, baby.
You just can't make or buy that stuff. You either have it, (or get it) or you don't. It can be anywhere, from Prosser to Lyle to Geyserville to Alba to Regua to Sablet to Félines-Minervois, but it has nothing to do with the right address or fancy digs (it seems to have a lot more to do with farming than finery).
In fact, what great wines have in common is in the people who grow them. Call it character: modesty, humility, strong hands that know the meaning of hard work, and a respect that runs to reverence for sun, rain, wind and soil--the sort of character you'd expect from someone whose business card might say paysan.
...all in a day's work.
Don’t make a fuss, just get on the bus. 28 hours down, 5 to go, give or take. It’s off to work for a while, a tasting with 30-ish producers from the Roussillon, followed by a dinner featuring a menu of Catalan dishes. Despite my glassy-eyed, just-wanna-go-to-sleep state, I’m excited, looking forward to exploring some new wines and satisfying my by-now raging hunger with Mediterranean flavors. Not to mention getting started on the home stretch, at the other end of which waits the big prize: sleep.
The second (or third, or fourth) wind is holding up well, though. Earlier, arriving at the hotel, I follow the tried and true routine: resist at all costs the overwhelming desire to get horizontal for a while, instead put on the running shoes and head out for a half an hour. An insult to the system, every footstrike feeling just plain wrong and requiring an effort of will – but that pays dividends once you’re done. Lungs cleansed with fresh air, blood nicely shaken (not stirred), it never fails to set me right. A quick shower to wash off all the airport juju and I’m good as new, sort of.
Out into the sun for a stroll to the Place de la Comédie to meet my comrades du jour, David, a wine writer from Austin, Andrew a sommelier from New York City(who over the next several days mysteriously becomes “Anthony” at odd intervals), and Jack, an importer from New Orleans, for a quick beer. Sitting in a café, outdoors in the late winter sun, who knew a mere Heineken could taste so damned good? Soon, the beers are replaced by a nice bottle of Domaine l’Hortus, from the nearby Pic St. Loup appellation, which just serves to underscore the sense or having arrived here. We drink and talk, the conversation ranging from Robert Parker (including indictments on what Bob hath wrought, and apologia for Bob the man) to Andrew’s tales of epic bottles, to politics. Jack saves the day, with a mention of fly fishing. Soon, we’re swapping stories of our favorite rivers, leaving the other two to run laps around the same old, same old wine guy track.
Later, acceptably cleaned-up for dinner, it’s on the buses with the rest of the Sud de France invitées, a interesting assortment of Russian, American, Chinese, Korean, Swedish, Polish, Japanese and Canadian wine importers, restaurateurs, retailers, distributors and writers, all similarly jet-lagged and slightly dazed. Off to the Maison des Vins de Languedoc for the Roussillon soirée, effectively a warm-up for the coming three days’ work.
The wines are quite good, for the most part, although just a few strike the sort of resonant chord that inspires poetry or purchase orders. Many have a Walla Walla or Red Mountain-esque ripeness that would undoubtedly play well back in the ‘hood, although with these wines, the sun’s sings in harmony with a counterpoint of firm acidity, the refreshing voice of Mediterranean breezes. As I taste, among the riper, more extracted wines I note another striking similarity to the fruits of Washington’s hallowed wine grounds – price, as in not at all timid, and seemingly directly proportionate to the level of extraction and/or oak aging. Wines that, as Randall Grahm once aptly put it, qui se Parkeriser très facilement. Indeed. The tariffs are perhaps not quite as dear as the back home, but relative to rest of the Languedoc, rather bold. Hmmmm.
The best of them are a dream. A Catalan reverie, a carrefour, a crossroad, a rond-point where sun, mountain, sea and centuries of tradition meet, merge and send palate and soul on a journey – à toutes directions! With food, they’re a revelation. And did we say food? There’s charcuterie – saucisses, jambon; cheese – lovely sheep’s milk and rustic cow’s milk cheeses; fruits de mer – oysters, shrimp, and best of all, fresh white anchovies spiced four different ways. An amazing daube (stew) of veal, olives and herbs is amazing with both a dry, spicy, deeply colored rosé and with a heady red, built on a sturdy, rather sauvage foundation of old vine carignan. Combined, they’re an alliance that’s seems made in heaven, this particular piece of heaven’s real estate, at any rate.
They also provide a soporific magic carpet ride. Just a drop of lovely Muscat de Rivesaltes as an exclamation point (or an ellipse?) and I’m hotel-bound. Sleep beckons enticingly, and there’s work to do tomorrow. It’s been a fine day.
Did you catch the recent 60 Minutes piece on sugar? If you have, no doubt you're pondering your own relationship with sweeteners. Here are a few popular resources from PCC to help you learn more about this sticky-sweet subject.
- Read more about natural sweeteners including honey, agave, barley malt syrup, and maple syrup in this PCC product how-to brochure.
- Wondering how to kick the sugar craving? Look no farther than this helpful Sound Consumer article from local naturopath Tom Ballard.
- Even better for those trying to quit sugar: take a PCC Cooks class on this very topic! Space is still available this spring for Tame Your Sugar Beast with instructors Birgitte Antonson and Karen Lamphere.
- Our staff nutrition educator, Nick Rose, speaks in greater depth about added sugars and how to strike a healthy balance in your diet in this Ask the Nutritionist podcast.
- For those searching for a less-processed version of sugar for your cooking and baking, check out this great list from Sound Consumer co-editor Eli Penberthy.
The world is your oyster...
Once your plane has managed to give the slip to Charles de Gaulle’s not insignificant gravitational forces, it’s barely an hour’s flight from Paris down to Montpellier. Just time enough for another chorus of the instant coffee blues, the turn of a page or two, maybe a quick snooze. Just an hour, but a world away, really. It’s worth noting that, as just about any native of the south will tell you, you’ve only just now arrived in France (“Paris, c’est pas la France.”).
Talk about magic carpets. In less time than it takes to watch a Rick Steves episode, you may as well have changed planets. Behind is the Europe where the North Atlantic calls the climactic tune and a cast of Celts, Gauls, Teutons, Anglos, Saxons and Normans wove the cultural fabric. Ahead is a place that bears the footprints of Greeks, Phoenicians, Vandals, Visigoths, Saracens and Romans. Not to mention a culture inspired by the Cathars, who had the cheek to thumb their noses at papal authority and had a whole crusade* launched against them for their trouble.
Thirty-some-thousand feet has a homogenizing effect on light. At that altitude it’s pretty much the same wherever you go, one big melting pot, the composite shade of the whole, wide world. (It’s down on terra firma that light meets terroir, assimilates, and becomes "local color.") As it descends through a thin veil of cloud, the plane is immersed in an illumination like nowhere else on the planet. It’s light that can make a person wistful, bring on bouts of everything from poetry to painting to impromptu wine-drinking -- and maybe even make a man crazy enough to cut off his ear.
The sensory conquest begun with the eyes is complete as my nose capitulates. Even in the jetway, mixed with wafts of jet fuel, the aroma of the littoral, the coastal flatland, all salt air and marsh plants is woven with that of the hills, rocks and garrigues blown coastward by the northwest wind. It’s a heady welcome.
Moments later, bag in tow, I find Valentine, Prune and the rest of the Sud de France contingent --evidently nearly everyone on the just –arrived flight from Paris. Group assembled, out the doors, into the late winter sun, under the row of alternating French tricouleur and red Croix Cathar flags flapping in the crisp breeze, and to the waiting buses.
At the first rond-point, one of my favorite things -- the ubiquitous “Toutes Directions” sign confirms that yes, you can get everywhere from here. Bienvenu, indeed. How cool is that? Despite the 26 hours that’ve passed since I awoke to a rainy Ballard morning, I’m amazingly energized. Good thing, too -- there’s still work to do. But first, there are a couple priorities to attend to: a chair that isn’t in motion -- and a beer.
*The real deal, complete with mass burnings at the stake and the wholesale slaughter of women and children.
Double shot: It isn't Starbucks. It IS Illy!
It’s a terrestrial and temporal purgatory. On the outskirts of Charlemagne’s hometown,* it’s somewhere between where you started and where you’re going. If you’re here, it’s a given that you’re just passing through. It's mere steps from the gates of hell when you’re late, stressed, sweating and irate, sideways from lack of sleep and jacked up on the instant coffee blues. In the best of times it’s fascinating. A gallery of humanity, a Babel of languages, a strange crossroads in perpetual fluorescent daytime, where you sleep with one eye open and on the clock.
Through security, running the cloying olfactory gauntlet of perfume, past the chocolate, designer boutiques, assorted knick knacks, and all the other forms of time-burning retail therapy for the edgy traveler, the Illy sign gleams like a red beacon. Café double and I’m good to go.
In their haste to seek fortune and freedom in the New World, Columbus and the Pilgrims forgot a few essentials. Valises packed with bold ambition, pioneering spirit and a Puritan ethic don’t leave much room for Old World nuance, structure and style. Or maybe they left those notions behind on purpose, thinking them decadent, too effete, contrary to the boldness their venture required. In any case, they forgot the wine. So I’m making like Columbus in reverse, seeking some of the spice that got left behind.
Like this coffee, for example. Instinctively, I’m set for that get-your-attention, slap-you-around, forty baritones singing fortissimo dark, dark, dark roast wake-up call like back home. Instead, what I get is a chorale, with the altos and tenors trading melodies, supported by the basses and the sopranos. Funny how nuance, depth and texture have a way of making you sip a little more slowly. Nice.
I find a trio of empty chairs near the gate, drop my bags and settle in with a tide of humanity and today’s paper’s installment of Sarkozy satire and scandal for entertainment. Three hours ‘til boarding...
*With apologies to James McMurtry.
Coffee at PCC is something special: whether bagged, brewed fresh or pulled as espresso shots, our entire selection is organic, shade-grown, fairly traded and locally roasted. Now we've added three new blends from Tony's Coffee & Teas in Bellingham, Wash. to our line up; during the month of March come on in and try an 8-ounce cup of drip in our delis for only 50 cents.
We're also debuting a new espresso roast from Tony's at our certified organic espresso bars. Choose from Organic Valley milk or from four organic milk alternatives — soy, rice, almond and coconut — at no extra charge. (Note: the soy, rice and almond milks available also happen to be unsweetened!).
If you like what you taste, head over to the grocery aisles where you’ll find each blend available in bulk, ready to take home and brew.
Foursquare, Facebook and Yelp fans: each check-in at a PCC store in March nets you a FREE 8-ounce organic drip coffee. Happy sipping!
Once around the block and just like magic, a parking place appears where there was none a mere moment ago. A good sign, I’m thinking.
The sidewalk glistens in that dull, wet cement sort of way, courtesy of the streetlights and a mid-February drizzle. I make my way up the street, scanning the numbers on the doors. In less than 50 paces I find 5905 Airport Way, just another Georgetown storefront, with nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors but a glaring lack of anything luminescent, fluorescent or otherwise visually loud. Except for a waist-high, lace curtain of multi-colored paper cut-outs, cavorting muertos encircling the expanse of plate glass facing the street. The cast of animated, grinning skeletons goes about “life” with a unbridled mirth that the living seldom muster. On the glass door, a hand-painted sign modestly states “Fonda la Catrina.” Not quite your basic beer neons. I’m getting a good feeling.
Reaching for the door, eyes sidestepping the reflections in the glass, I see that the place is packed with living, breathing, eating, drinking people who seem to be having nearly as much fun as the dead dancing by the windows. Hmm. So far so good.
I open the door, step inside, inhale. Oh, my. This is good. Who knew that heaven could smell so fine? So deliciously…earthy? We’re talking tortillas, real tortillas. And spices, chiles, limes -- maybe a little spilled beer and a drop or two of quality tequila. No wonder the muertos seem so damned happy.
The menu and the list of potables are concise but so lusciously appealing from top to bottom that I want one of everything. A wise person recently told me: “You can have everything, just not all at once.” So much the better. I can already envision becoming a “regular” here. So I order an IPA (thinking later that perhaps a Carta Blanca might’ve been just a tad better, but …) and start at the top of the menu with the Sopa de Garbanzos. It’s delicious, a heady whirl of tomatoes, coriander, ancho and pasilla chiles making a bright complement to the garbanzos. Next to me at the bar, plates of enchiladas verdes and an array of tacos arrive, followed by exclamations, oohs and aaahs of satisfaction.
Though my restraint is severely tested, the aromas permit me to taste vicariously. While these dishes have the vibrancy of Oaxacan cuisine, there’s a subtler interplay of flavors, a nuanced sort of richness that’s probably been simmering for millennia. Beyond that, there’s no fuss, no fancy-pants, self-aggrandizing bs about this food. It’s the kind of food that’s meant to sustain life, while turning the daily, necessary act of sustenance into a celebration. It’s the kind of food that makes a person damned glad to be alive to eat, to share with friend over a beer, a glass of wine and maybe a drop of mezcal or three. It’s real.
The prospect of tomorrow’s early alarm bolsters my resolve to be moderate. I’m out the door and into the heart of Saturday night, knowing full well that I can’t long resist the call of Alambre or Cochinita Pibil tacos, or Pollo Enchilado, Puerco en Salsa Verde or Rajas con Crema Y Papas. I’ll be back, that’s for sure. This is food to die for.
Fonda La Catrina
5905 Airport Way S.