Funny how some of the most wonderful flavors in the world are often also the most misunderstood. Flavors with character, the distinct accent of their particular home terre – and more soul than the waiting room in purgatory – flavors that have been unjustly tarred with bad press in the forum of conventional wisdom and that bear the ignominy of the of pseudo-sophisticate’s scorn.
I’ve had Beaujolais on my mind these days. New releases from some of the region’s best producers have been showing up in town almost weekly, and as our thirsts have been whetted, La Copine and I have had the opportunity to open a bottle or two. It’s been a treat, as always – one of those little pleasures that don’t cost a heckuva lot, but that provide a unique kind of loveliness that is beyond quantifying with any price tag.
Think ripe fruit. Not bursting with sugar ripe, but the almost tangy, vibrant flavor of berries or cherries when they’re at that solstice – like instant when sweet fruit, the earth it grew in and the sun that nourished it all seem to come together in a harmony so delicious that it’s best enjoyed at mezzo piano. Just enough volume to hear, the intrigue and allure of the flavors prompting you to open your senses and “listen” more intently.
Meanwhile, Beaujolais Nouveau is days away from making an appearance. Traditionally, this is the first red wine of the just completed vintage – and an opportunity to taste what a season in the vineyard has bestowed upon the region’s growers. Nouveaux or “primeur’ wines from honest, scrupulous growers can be lovely, youthfully bright expressions of the vintage that give a good idea of what the growers more “serious” wines will be like(although Nouveau from many of the region’s best growers are plenty “serious” in their own right).
Sadly, however, the good name of Beaujolais Nouveau – and the region in general -- has been trashed by the exploitation and marketing wizardry of Georges DuBoeuf, whose ersatz, factory-made, manipulated, wine-like product has come to virtually define the region by dint of its ubiquity. (If I were a Beaujolais grower, I’d lobby for M. DuBoeuf to be exiled for treason. Stripped of his French citizenship and given the boot. Adieu, pour toujours.)
But enough trash – talking. We’re here to talk about real wine. The nouveaux arrive today, and will vanish into waiting glasses before the year is done – but there’s plenty of gorgeous Beaujolais to be had year-round. And while great Beaujolais is delicious in any season, the contrast of its bright sunny fruit, with the smell of fallen leaves and the early dark and chill of an early evening is soul-warming. We’re thirsty now – and counting the minutes ‘til the day’s work is done…
Enjoy. Life is short – make every glass count!
I love words. From the cadence of a well – turned phrase, to the absurd randomness of surrealism, to a wicked double-entendre, to a metaphor that keeps on delivering in several dimensions, words can be as delicious to the brain as a good glass of wine is to the senses. How cool is it, then, when the name of a place seduces you like the waft of savory things in the kitchen, delivers in spades on the intrigue – and serves up astounding food and wine, to boot?
La Copine and I got together a few nights ago with some of our favorite Friends in the Wine Business to check out Renée Erickson’s cool new joint on Stone Way. That’s some mighty damned fine food, I tell you, and a wine list nothing shy of brilliant. Perhaps the only problem I could dream up is that it’s nigh on to impossible to choose from lists where everything makes you salivate. Tough, tough decisions, believe me – although we did manage to soldier on...
And then there’s the name. “The Whale Wins” is plenty clever enough on its own, fetching your curiousity with a quirky, not-too-stuck on itself kind of whimsy. It gets your brain a-wonderin’ -- then delivers the aforementioned fine victuals and potables (brilliantly) and keeps right on riffing.
Soooo… If the whale wins, then who loses? Judging from the 18th century era print that hangs in the dining room (and graces the web page), the short end of the stick goes to the whalers. The painting shows a whale shattering a whale boat, tossing occupants and gear aside like so much flotsam and jestsam. Damn, but I love that.
To my way of thinking, the whale represents inspiration and the pure, unabashed goodness of quality, honestly – raised food and wine. The whalers, on the other hand, represent the cyncicism, homogenization, and the drive to commodify pleasure, to turn food and wine and the joys of the table into widgets. The whale is the wine you can only describe in words, while the splintered boat is the 100 point rating system. The soon-to- drown guys and their harpoons are the big, belligerent distributors—the kind who tell you that you hafta have their products to be successful, the ones who’ll tell you that you can’t have a restaurant in Seattle without a bunch of big name Washington wines on the list – while the whale is a wine list that offers wines with soul, with character and a sense of place – and matches them with the foods they actually complement.
I could, as always, go on (and on). But I’ll cut to the end and just say to hell with the harpoons and that my money’s on the whale. And bravo to Renée. We’ll be back. Soon…
It happened again yesterday evening. La Copine and I had a couple sips of the Priorat, the fruit of ridiculously low yielding hillside vineyards, resplendent in its raiment of polished tannins and adornment of spendy French oak. Proceeded to dump our glasses in prder to refill ‘em with the sample bottle of eleven dollar Carinena, straightforward, unadorned, and as amiable as some character down at the corner tavern. You know, wine that’s just wine. Wine that has the local accent of its birthplace. Wine that’s not self-conscious, wine that’s made for people to drink, inconspicuously, just because it tastes good and goes with food and friends. Just a beverage.
It’s gotten to be damned near a habit, this business of dumping out the fancy – pants, big points, high dollar, rock-star-enologist bottle in favor of drinking the modestly priced vino from some hard working grower who toils in relative anonymity. Last week it was a bottle of Rosso from one of Friuli’s most revered estates, where the wines are spendy, practically impossible to get, and whose owner routinely blows off appointments with the likes of Robert Parker (a practice we applaud). Same story, the wine was technically correct, with all the parts executing their roles at virtuoso level. But there just wasn’t any “there” there. No soul, no character. And interestingly enough, the estate is farmed biodynamically, producing lovely, lovely fruit—grapes that should express their terroir with profound focus and depth.
So what’s the deal? Where did all that goodness go? I lay it at the feet of the idolatrous idea that anyone can make wine. Take great fruit and try to craft it to hit some sort of paparazzi-pleasing, points-garnering, popular “profile” –and the result is character turned to soulless, buffed-up, innocuous product. (Think Coltrane, teamed up with Kenny G’s producer. ).
And so it goes. La Copine and I have the fortune to both work “in the biz”, hence exposure and the opportunity to taste lots of wines. It's astonishing how, given all those choices, how often we find ourselves loving the unheralded, un-ranked wine made by blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth farmer types. In the end, not only do we get a heckuva lot more pleasure from the deal, we save a few ducats – and those ducats get to support families, rather than big egos.
More on this topic later. Meanwhile, open your bottles--they're for drinking, not saving.
We're off to a strong start in our efforts to get I-522, the GMO foods labeling initiatve, placed on the November 2013 ballot in Washington. Here's a quick update on where we stand, by the numbers:
- 150 plus = The number of PCC partners, including creameries, organic bakeries, restaurants, health and body care producers, chocolatiers, pasta makers, dairies, coffee roasters and so many more who have endorsed I-522 and support the labeling of genetically engineered foods. See them all here.
- 241,153 = The number of valid signatures backers of I-522 (hopefully, including you!) must submit to get the initiative on the November 2013 ballot.
- 50,000 = The number of signatures PCC wants to collect, with your help, in the month of October.
- $100,000 = The sum PCC contributed to the signature-collecting effort.
- 70 = Percentage of non-organic, processed foods that already contain some, or several, genetically engineered ingredients.
Learn more about I-522 and why we support it here. Want to sign a petition? Check this map for locations around Washington state or visit any PCC store. Want to get involved? Email us: GMOvolunteers <at> pccsea.com
We know it's an uphill battle to collect more than 240,000 valid signatures by year's end to put I-522, the GMO foods labeling initiative, on Washington's November 2013 ballot.
But it's worth it.
I-522 would require producers to tell us whether any food we buy from stores was created via genetic engineering. We already know knowledge is power: think how much better we understand what we eat since 1990, when calorie and nutritional information was required on labels, and since 2002, when country-of-origin labeling was required.
PCC has pledged $100,000 toward the signature-gathering effort and has petitions available to sign at all nine of its stores and at its University District headquarters in Seattle. If you'd like to help gather signatures (and we'd love your help!) email GMOvolunteers <at>
If it were a car, it’d be a Rolls Royce. No, make that a Bentley. Every bit the luxury ticket, but a bit more eclectic still. Just off the sleepy two lane highway that winds through vines and farmland at siesta in the baking heat, a simple, but all-business gate is the looking glass to one of the wine world’s wonderlands.
Vega Sicilia. Big ticket stuff. One of Spain’s most prestigious, expensive and generally unavailable wines. As Hugh Johnson once noted, if Marques de Riscal and Marques de Murietta are the Lafite and Mouton of Spain, then Vega Sicilia is the Latour, albeit from a “vintage that has rasined the grapes and fried the picking crew.” A beverage for those don’t have to ask the (considerable) price.
Heady stuff. They’re mighty proud of it, too -- as well they oughtta be. Behind the unassuming gate is a campus devoted to the study and creation of luxury. Manicured lawns, gardens, gleaming state-of-the-state-of-the-art crush facilities, fermenters and cellars that are part shrine, part museum.
The wine is everything it’s touted to be. Lavish, focused, precise, polished. You can damned near taste all that attention to detail and every ducat of the expense that wasn’t spared. It’s wine that studiously extracts any hint of the ordinary. Imperfection? Not a word that’s uttered in those hallowed halls.
Which is perhaps why this wine just ain’t got no soul. It’s like seeing a virtuoso singer, violinist, or pianist perform—countless yours of practice make for flawless technique, with years of study providing a researched interpretation of the work. But often the pursuit of technique and perfection elide passion right along with technical shortcomings.
I guess I just don't get it. Maybe I’m a hayseed, or a tariff well beyond my everyday means gives me a case of sour grapes (pun intended), but I’ll take passion over perfection, any day. While I can't deny that this is mighty impressive hooch, it nonetheless fails to make my heart sing. Give me soul, give me warmth, give me imperfection. Give me a bottle of wine made with humility, with a story to tell – and with a price tag that’ll let a mere proletarian drink daily.
Alright then. It’s Ontañon Crianza. Sould, pleasure and damned good wine, to boot. Plenty good for me.
It's green. It's wacky. And for math fans, it's even a fractal!
Mmm... Delicious logarithmic spirals...
It's romanesco broccoli, an especially eye-catching member of the brassica family, and when you spot it in the produce department on occasion throughout fall, you don't want to miss your chance to enjoy its slightly sweet, earthy flavor with your pasta, in your stir-fry, or alongside other roast vegetables.
Bacon is on our minds often here at PCC, especially now that stew and chili season has just about arrived.
Here are more than a dozen delightful PCC recipes that call for bacon, including Fresh White Corn, Bacon and Cheddar Popovers and Pan Seared Brussels Sprouts With Red Pears, Bacon and Cranberries.
Here's my favorite chili recipe of all time (Smoky Beef-and-Bacon Chili, from Sunset Magazine).
Here are five great picks from our bacon selection. Did you know all bacon sold at PCC must meet the same high standards as the rest of our meat department? That means bacon from animals not treated with antiobiotics or added hormones and preserved with naturally derived nitrates. More on that.
And now for that Bacon Number. Perhaps you've played the game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, the goal of which is to discover the shortest path between any Hollywood type and veteran actor Kevin Bacon, who has appeared in films across a startling array of genres. Google recently made this game even simpler: type "Bacon Number" into the search engine, followed by the name of any actor, and it will reveal their connection.
What are your favorite ways to enjoy bacon? One suggestion: sprinkle bacon bits atop this Maple-glazed Popcorn.
As PCC shoppers, we're famous for wanting to know exactly what we're eating, from the berries that top our oatmeal to the salmon that sizzles atop our grills.
Now we have a chance to require producers to tell us whether any food we buy from stores was created via genetic engineering: Initiative 522.
Through December, you can sign this petition in any of our stores to help get I-522 on the state ballot. Or, download the petition (see below for link) and help gather signatures in your community.
Our director of public affairs, Trudy Bialic, sums it up nicely:
>> "The People's Right to Know Genetically Engineered Food Act," I-522, is simple. It would require food sold in retail outlets to be labeled if produced through genetic engineering. Calorie and nutritional information was not required on labels until 1990. Country-of-origin labeling wasn't required until 2002. The trans fat content of foods didn't have to be labeled until 2006. These labels are accepted now as important, and consumers use their information every day.
Since the Food and Drug Administration says we must know if our orange juice is fresh or from concentrate, doesn't it make sense that foods engineered with foreign bacteria, viruses, insect, plant or animal genes should be labeled, too?<<
Visit this page to learn how you can help, whether it's with a donation, gathering signatures, or sharing this information with your community so that like-minded friends can help the cause and get I-522 on the November 2013 ballot.
Montana got nothin’ on this sky. You know you’re in a big, wide open place when the earth tips up and you climb a few thousand feet without the slightest sensation of having gained a single meter. It’s a sky so big that the mountains seem like little more than gentle rollers, the highway signs warning of winter snow the only obvious clue that you’re ascending.
Over yet another scarcely perceptible pass the horizon falls away a few degrees and the Citroën Steed gallops downward* through a broad swath of those cool – looking pines that you never see in our neck of the nuevo mondo. At Aranda de Duero, we take 90 degree left and head west, through what could easily pass for the high desert agricultural land of Eastern Oregon or Washington on a sultry hot summer day. Sort of.
Just a few kilometers further the road bends a few degrees further left and another subtle transformation takes place. We pass from flat, high desert farmland into a broad bottom land, soft shoulders at the sides of the draw showing the imprint of millennia of water. This is it, the storied Duero, that further on up the road goes all chameleon, slips into Portuguese and calls itself the Douro. Heading west, we’re literally listing to Port.
Mere instants later, around another bend, we pass vines. I can smell them. Jon scoffs, says that I’m hallucinating (although he doesn’t phrase it nearly so kindly). It occurs to me that Jon looks a lot like the cartoon character, Butthead (this explains a lot). In any case, my eyes confirm what my nose knows -- vines, baby, vines. We’ve entered Ribera de Duero, among the viticultural world’s more storied rising stars. Refreshingly, there’s not a faux castello or high-end SUV in sight. Jon sums it up perfectly, in words any adolescent could grasp -- Spain is cool.
Soon, the highway dovetails with the river, cloaked in lush greenery that stands in sharp contrast to the surrounding, dun-colored, parched hills. We roll west, through a nearly deserted river bottom strangely reminiscent of Texas. Nothing stirs, the entire landscape is in a torpor, baking in the mid-day heat.
Soon, we’re passing wineries. Interestingly, they bear no resemblance whatever to the Old World knock-offs that line such storied thoroughfares as Highway 29 or Silverado Trail back home. Makes sense. After all, this is the old world (been there, done that, invented it a few centuries back, moved on). These aren’t cover tunes, they’re originals, architectural statements (occasionally a little grandiose, but don’t tell me that Napa or Walla Walla’s most grandiose edifices aren’t built on ego, more often than not without an original thought to stand on).
Whatever. Any similarity to the American Southwest or the New World (period) vanishes as canter into Peñafiel. Hi-ho Silver, forget the Alamo, this sure don’t look like Texas, amigas y amigos. This is the madre of real deals. We have an hour to kill before we’re due at Vega Sicilia, so we head on up the hill to the castle, to have a look around…
*Conrado, despite his avowed disdain for anything French, drives the Citroën stagecoach like John Wayne. Perhaps it’s an Iberian thing, a way with horses, or maybe Conrado would say that the Spanish were meant to master the French, who knows…