Notes from the Cellar blog
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.
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.
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…
Who can argue with two mornings in one day? Particularly when the first is one of those incomparable Seattle summer mornings that nearly defy description – and the second dawns on you in someplace you’ve never been. A little bleary, a little worse for the wear and the tear, sure. But I get my second (third? fourth?) wind when Conrado, Laine and Jon(athan) are there to meet my new amigas, the dynamic duo of Portlandians Annie and Toni, and me.
In mere moments we’ve mounted our Citroën steed and accelerated onto the autopista, leaving Madrid and a cloud of metaphoric dust in the rearview. All we lack now is sustenance… but we’re not lacking for long, as Jon, ever the prepared Boy Scout soon provideth. Jamon and Sherry, baby. Does it get any better? (Perhaps, but if it does, this’ll do just fine until better gets here.) Sure, prosciutto is pretty fine stuff, but when it comes to ham, jamon is the goods, the acme, the ne plus ultra. Add a glass (or two) of Manzanilla Amontillado, bewitching, yeasty, slightly nutty, a dry hint of sea salt, marine and arid all at once. As close to heaven as you can ask for, on a Tuesday morning. I renew my new year’s vow to drink more sherry.
Until now, my impressions of Spain are a collage of scraps from a few history books, a Hemingway novel or two, synopsis and a few tunes from Carmen, and an old movie version of Man of La Mancha (don’t even ask which one). Pretty standard stuff for an Americano – and quickly re-filed in the fiction stacks of my cabeza as the real thing unfolds in front of my sunglasses.
Think arid, high desert – sort of. It’s hard to say whether it’s more verdant with an arid accent or more arid with strong notes of greenery. Whatever, while it’s essentially a vast mesa, it’s a mesa that’s liberally punctuated with undulations, folds, creases, river valleys and a relief of mountain ranges, sudden, looming granite fortresses. Part Okanagan, part Palouse, part high desert, eastern slope of the Cascades, part Yakima Valley. All stitched together into an expansive, intricate tapestry of terra firma.
Real-time, in-person geography has a way of making you mighty hungry and thirsty. Lucky for us, there are tortillas de patatas¸ that oh-so-satisfying alliance of eggs, olive oil and potatoe-y goodness, that’s as ubiquitous as jamon. And zumo de naranja—the most delicious orange juice I’ve ever had. Anita Bryant eat your heart out. This ain’t the Texaco off the interstate, and we’re sure as heck not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Café all around and we’re good to go. The morning is still young, and the day’s vino is still down the road a stretch. Onward!
We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.
Travel. There are as many reasons to budge from home and hearth as there are means of conveyance and places to go. But the accumulated miles in my rearview have led me to the notion that travel is best when the magic carpet yanks the proverbial rug from under your world, sets you adrift, throws open the doors and windows in your brain and leaves you more than a little bit lost, bewildered and flying by the seat of your intellectual and emotional pants. It should leave you speechless, lacking appropriate, adequate or accurate adjectives to begin to seize even a drop of the flood that breaches your mental seawall.
Spain… Miles Davis did “Sketches of Spain” -- not essays, not pictures, documentaries nor anything finished or in at all definitive. Sketches. Ideas, notions, impressions. If it worked for Miles, damned if it doesn’t work for me.
Iberia… It’s Europe, but just barely. The Pyrenees throw down a gauntlet at the peninsula’s point of attachment to the continent --a dramatic geographic, cultural and linguistic barrier. At the edge of the Old World, romance language wears a sultry, syncopated rhythm, shedding latin formality like a veil, while the dancer weaves between the Old World’s cold reason and the hot breath of Africa.
Wine… when you have to stick close to home base, choose well and it’s travel in a glass. When you’re travelling, it’s the extra dimension, high harmony, subtlety of texture and richness of color that tells the rest of the story.
Yep, just back from a week of being thoroughly enchanted in Rioja, Ribera del Duero and a tease of the Basque country. (And I do mean enchanted, in the most awe-struck, blown-away, bewitched sense of the word). And after all, as a writer, Quixotic tilting at wordmills is what it’s all about -- the part where the rubber meets the road, that speechless, no-words-to-describe-it place where you stare at the blank page and find a way. Onward, then. Stay tuned…
Risotto is not a solo affair. Not that it can't stand alone, can't deliver sustenance and satisfaction sotto voce. Quite the contrary. But it's at its best, sings the most expressively in its role as primo pare excellence, a bridge between the antipasto's summoning of palate and appetite and the savory, satiating majesty of the secondo. It offers creaminess as counterpoint for bright flavors and savory richness alike, who return the favor by bookending its lovely, nuanced simplicity. Elegant, simple, eloquent. Art in the kitchen, with inimitable Italian style.
Just as risotto shines in the company of other dishes, its charms are all the better enjoyed (and prepared) in good company. It's a labor of love, and as we all know, the fruits of love need to be shared (which applies to the stirring as well as the savoring). What could be better than a glass or two of lovely wine and a great friend to laugh with (and spell you at the stove while you fire up the grill) in anticipation of a feast?
It's been ages. Maybe it's the effort, the vigilance and the uninterrupted attention that good risotto requires. Perhaps it's the possibility of failure, the chance of chalky mediocrity or a gooey mass of glop, that make the task seem daunting. But, the idea dawned the a few weeks back while tasting an enchanting pinot nero vinificato in bianco (pinot noir vinified as white wine) -- and it won't go away. It's haunted me, along with fantasies of morels and white truffles, for days now. Finally, I'm hungry as hell and can't take it any more. The funghi can wait, but risotto can't. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Time to learn, practice, perfect. And to eat and drink along the way.
The table is set. literally and metaphorically. My good friend Brooke (aka The Teacher) is en route, with what turns out to be an astounding assortment of vividly flavored verdura from her garden (and the critical stick of butter I forgot). The shallets are minced, the stock is a-simmering, the Parmigiano Reggiano is grated and the rice awaits, shimmering like a dish of small, ovoid pearls. There remains but one box to check, one puzzle to solve, a small riddle, but nonetheless quite likely the crux of the affair: what shall we drink?
Stefano Inama's lovely, lovely Vin Soave? Or Cleto Chiarli Lambrusco Vecchia Modena? Something to refresh our palates and offer a just-so accompaniment to the rice, while setting the stage for grass-fed beef on the grill ... which of course begets another set of delicious possibilities to ponder.
A fine dilemma, non? How lucky are we?
Stay thirsty, amici. Ciao.
June. It’s raining. Hm. We shouldn’t be surprised, really. It does that here. But we hear stories about all those other places... Heck, everyone knows that the sixth month on this side of the planet is pretty much the down-payment on full blown summer. It’s a fact – except where it isn’t. But every once in a while, the planets, the ocean currents and the winds align to give us a textbook June, the kind we see on TV. So we start thinking that that’s the way it’s supposed to be, and get the blues when we awaken to a hard rain on a June morning and discover that it isn’t.
Well, alright then. Keep Calm and Carry On (with a bottle of rosé, or pinot, or Beaujolais). Step outside, make like a husky and sniff the air. It’s absolutely delicious this time or year, we all know that. Add a kiss of rain to the profusion of awakening verdura and it’s just that much better. Just as certain wines and beers marry well with particular dishes, so it is with the seasoning of the seasons, as it were.
Rain and rosé? You bet. A breeze of bright, fresh berries, notes of spice, a tangy note to play counterpoint with the cool goodness from the skies… Oregon pinot -- notes of forest floor, minerals, wild raspberries, just- ripe cherries harmonizing with damp firs, cedars, salt air, maybe a slab of salmon on the grill. Mmm-hmmm. Beaujolais – taut, expressive, exuberant fruit wrapped around a core of granite minerality… Or a fine pale ale, or pilsner. Really, the possibilities are as plentiful as raindrops.
Don’t wait, do it now. The sun’s is going to come out – and you’ll have to save it for a rainy day.
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 ...