Category: Experiences

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Drinking Experiences

So Is it J-O, or C-H-U?

By Scott Coscia

I’ll never claim to have the same wine knowledge as Chef Mateo.  The man just knows way too much about fermented grapes.  Then again, Chef Mateo could never tell you the day Felix Unger was asked to leave his place of residence.  It was November 13th just in case you were wondering.  Mateo and I have different skill sets.  One thing we both do share is a passion for the fermented grain and fruit concoction known as shochu.

Neither of us had really heard of the liquor before until one night when we were out at a favorite little spot of ours, a small, below street level Japanese bar that until recently had been quite underground.  That was until a certain critic from a major metropolitan daily blew up our spot, as the kids say nowadays.

The place was a bit of an oasis where if you didn’t have the money or the time to seek out a sports bar in Tokyo or Hokkaido, you could travel to midtown for the same experience.  One night we were sitting there enjoying a couple of Sapporo drafts and eating enoki mushrooms wrapped in bacon (I will pose the argument that anything tastes better when wrapped in bacon,) when the only other non-Asian person at the bar sat next to us.  We were watching the Yankee game and had switched to sake.

The mysterious stranger, (well OK he wasn’t that mysterious, but I want to enhance the mood,) sat down next to me and had a tall frosted bottle put in front of him.  He poured the clear liquid over ice and then put something that resembled a cherry into it.  I was intrigued by what he was drinking, so I inquired as to his glass’ content.

Normally strangers in a bar in New York City don’t typically converse, but the only geijin at an underground Japanese isakaya breaks all rules. It was almost as if we were three expats in the land of the rising sun.  He not only told me what the elixir was, but offered Mateo and myself a glass.  The mystery drink was shochu, a Japanese rice based vodka.  I was leery at first to drink vodka just on the rocks with some sort of red thing in it.  I’m not much of a hard liquor drinker when it’s straight up.  I like it mixed with other things that will bring out the flavor.

The man insisted that Mateo and I join him for a glass.  I’m by no means an expert on Japanese culture and traditions, but one thing I do know is that it is rude to turn down a drink. I took the man up on his offer and had my drink the same way he consumed it, on the rocks with the quarter sized red fruit, which I later found out was something called ume, a Japanese pickled plum.  I figured I could swirl the ice around enough to dilute the impending burning sensation in my throat that would accompany the liquor.

My first sip of the liquid was quite surprising.  It was crisp and clean and did not have the same bite that I was expecting.  I thought maybe I had over prepared my body for something and had found a way to turn off the pain receptors in my throat.  In an effort to confirm my mild delusion, I took another sip.  The next sip was very revealing.  It did not confirm that I had found a way to conquer the whole mind over body equation; it revealed that what I was drinking was very smooth and did not have the slightest hint of harshness to it.  I then asked the man if I could look at the bottle.  He obliged.

I studied the bottle carefully and tried to gain some insight into the liquid set in front of me.  I figured maybe it was very watered down and did not carry a high alcohol content.  The label read, “Tori Kai,” a vodka made from rice  The surprising thing about this liquor was the alcohol content.  It was forty proof, which meant that it was twenty percent alcohol.  I’ve tasted hotter California cabernets that were only thirteen percent.

Shochu tastes like somebody had created a liqueur that was based on the taste of water.  This was good stuff.  The ume gave it accents of cherries.  I wondered if all shochus were like this.  For me the only way to find out is experimentation.  The next time I was out, I ordered a shochu called Ichiko.  It was made from buckwheat and I found that I enjoyed it more than the Tori Kai.  I felt it had more body to it, and it was still smooth, yet a little rougher than the rice based versions.  It was also earthier and just a bit nuttier.

If you are at all intrigued by the stuff, then good; but please be forewarned that it’s not the easiest to find.  I have found only one place that has any kind of selection, and that is Landmark Wines on 23rd Street in Chelsea.  The proprietor Ken will be happy to answer and questions that you have on the subject and is always pleasant to talk to.  I am fortunate enough to be dating somebody who lives right across the street, so it’s not a far stumble when Ken opens a bottle to let me sample something.  I use the word sample loosely.

If you want to order it out in a restaurant, then don’t look to your neighborhood sushi joint for the stuff.  Sadly I have found that most places don’t carry it, or its Korean counterpart soju, which only differs in country of manufacture and the spelling.  If you can find a place that carries it, then you’re in luck.  You can get it many different ways, such as with your choice of fresh squeezed citrus, (one place I know of gives you the strainer and allows you to squeeze the fruit yourself,) or with green tea.  Normally places that carry shochu also carry a variety of it.  In addition to rice or barley, I have seen it made with sugar cane, sweet potatoes, limes, and even tapioca.

Whenever I see it on the menu, I make sure that I order it.  The best part is that it’s a very friendly drink.  It’s very difficult to replicate the mood that tequila induces in me when consuming shochu.  The best part of the stuff as far as I am concerned is that with its low sugar content, I don’t feel hung over the next day from partying with a few glasses.

In an interview, Japan’s Shigechiyo Izumi credited shochu as his secret to a long life.  He lived to 120, so I guess he did something right.  If the beverage native to Japan’s southernmost island, Kyushu, was good enough for Mr. Izumi, then it’s good enough for me. Kampei!

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Drinking Experiences Wine

Taste Off

Part of the job of a professional in the wine industry is to attend tastings where hundreds of wines may be offered. Industry protocol dictates to spit, so as not to be affected by the amount of alcohol. That way wine number 43 can actually be judged accurately. My only problem with this is not experiencing the finish in a wine, which is the most enjoyable part after the aroma. This is not as difficult as one might think, in that inherently there is a lot of piquette out there, not worthy of being swallowed anyway.

Not so during a recent tasting held by Louis/Dressner selections on a beautiful, sunny autumn afternoon at a loft atop East Fourth Street. The affable Joe Dressner was omnipresent, having organized a miraculous spread of delicious and most interesting wines, with the added bonus of several winemakers such as Eric Texier, Silvio Messana, and Monique & Pierre Luneau.

The wines are vinified naturally, resulting in some of the most exciting wines in the marketplace today, thus leaving the old world vs. new world squabble to the rest of the producers. I have been fortunate enough to have tasted many of these wines over the years, although each vintage is different, so I had to carefully strategize which wines I just had to taste.

Table 1 highlights Larmandier-Bernier, a biodynamic producer, crafting gorgeous, bone dry champagnes that get the party started right. Onto Philippe Pacalet for a taste of light, aromatic, almost ethereal pinot noirs, a real treat. Radikon made its presence felt with 2002 Ribolla Giallas , chardonnays, and Tocai Friulanos, about as wild a white as you will encounter from Friuli, Italy. Then I hit the Lunea-Papin table, where aged muscadets were on display, such as the brilliant 1989 and 1990 vintages.

Silvio Messana stood behind his Chiantis, well dressed and pouring juicy smooth rossos and chiantis to my delight. Next to Silvio I met Eric Texier from the Rhone valley. Apart from a fab CDP white and a stellar Cote-Rotie, his 2004 Brezeme stood out as a lovely example of an unpretentious syrah.

On to Roagna for some Barolo and Barbaresco. Boy do these babies need bottle age! Olga Raffault put out a 1990 Chinon, a cab franc that has serious aging potential. I said hello to old friends (wines) Domaine de Pepiere, Domaine du Closel, Terres Dorees, and Michel Tete, Francois Chidaine, Catherine and Pierre Breton, and Thierry Puzelat, all go to favorites over the past few years.

I came away from the tasting with a sense of happiness, that so many dedicated vintners are creating such great wines, and how fortunate we are to be able to taste the fruits of the earth, in an age when working with nature is not practiced or valued nearly enough.

Categories
Eating Experiences Food

Spain in the city

Specialty shops thrive in neighborhoods that were once delineated by the type of immigrants. In an age where every ethnic store is under attack from wealthier franchises such as Starbuck’s and Duane Reade, the survival of these shops is at critical mass. Imagine Arthur Avenue without Teitel’s, Washington Heights without bodegas, or Greenpoint without the local Polish kielbasa butcher. Curiously enough, certain countries appear underrepresented. Perhaps because a country like France is so diverse, items like olive oil is sold separately, so is chocolate, etc.

Nowadays a consumer can find ingredients over the internet, almost taking away from the pleasure of shopping in these types of general stores, where a family behind the counter and free samples are the norm.

Spain, however, has been well represented for over twenty years. Jackson Heights has been home to Despana brand products and recently has opened a Broome Street branch.

Jovial owner Marco and his lovely wife Angelica have created a slice of Spain, showcased in a trendy format, fitting for its new address.

The store is visually astounding, with black lacquered shelves opposite shiny white tiles, separated by an attractive glass casing displaying artisanal cheese and meat products. A fabulous collage of Spanish life centers the back wall, and a large leg of jamon Serrano keeps the eye on the prize. The shelves are stocked with everything from Arborio rice to honey to jams to olive oil to whatever the well-stocked Spanish kitchen should have, with little tastings offered along every step of the way. Towards the rear is a glass enclosed open kitchen where delectables are put out daily by Chef Ignacio, a great interpreter of Spanish cuisine. To the right is a small eating area, flanked by a cooler of wines, waters, and ciders. You can buy boquerones, the prized white anchovies from the Cantabrica coast, and even buy sangria pitchers or paella pans too. Whatever you don’t see on display, you can order from the Queens flagship store, and after a round of fried almonds, cheese, olives, and sausages, you’ll be hard-pressed to leave empty handed.

Aside from the traditional chorizo, there are other pork sausage products offered such as fuet, chistorra, butifarra blanca y negra. Don’t miss out.

Many tastings and classes are scheduled at Despana, and they usually are taught by an expert flown in from Spain. They should not be missed, as invariably there is a meal at the end of the rainbow, delicious and refreshing.

At a recent event, I learned much about Spanish olive oil. Categories include Hojiblanca, Picual, Arbequina, Greca Empeltre and Gold Empeltre. The Gold happens to be my favorite. It is an extra virgin olive oil that is even, smooth, silky and golden. The Greca was a bit harsh, but tasted of almonds. The Hojiblanca was strong and pungent, almost woodsy and raw. The Picual tasted of figs and was very fruity. Finally the Arbequina was medium bodied, herbal and grassy. It boasted a long finish and seemed to be the most balanced.

Then a repast followed. First a pea shoot salad with Serrano and melon balls. Then boquerones under tomatoes and anchovy paste. A stellar black mushroom risotto anchored the meal, followed by a salt cod with cured Serrano ham. A mousse in the shape of a chocolate pyramid capped things off with a few glasses of albarino as the paired wine.

Then the ham expert was on hand, giving a slicing demonstration, and offering delectable pristine, glimmering slices of jamon Serrano. He explained the slicing technique and preservation tactics. It was all quite fascinating. The ham was of course delicious.

The famous iberico de bellota (pata negra), or black footed pig will finally become available in the states, and Despana is the place to get it. These pigs dine only acorns, yielding a meat that is swirled with high levels of flavorful natural fats, tasting like no other ham in the world. The hams will prove to be very expensive, but call the store for scheduled free tastings.

Sometimes you stroll into Despana and you’re in the middle of a party, with people mingling, noshing and having a good time. That’s is what Despana is all about, promoting the culture, cuisine, and spirit of Spain, all from a modest ethnic shop.

Perhaps this is a model other stores can adapt to, keeping the claws of franchise at bay.

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Drinking Eating Experiences Wine

Memorial Day

Under the guise of Memorial Day, recently at my friend Dr. L. & Y.’s, we gathered to have dinner with his folks, an unofficial pre-birthday celebration for his dad, even though the actual date is June 24th. I am a big fan of this practice, as birthday celebrations should be drawn out and rejoiced, especially milestones such as number 65.

Dr. L. prepared a steady flow of perennial favorites including N.Y. strip steaks, lamb chops, and a chicken from Quebec. As usual, the wine pairing was very important, and what a glorious chore this became when we found out his dad was eager to share a recent birthday gift in the form of a 1989 Haut-Brion. This is the time one might flaunt Parker scores, in this case a solid 100.

We started dinner with cheese and salumi, whetting our palates with a 2000 chardonnay from Movia, the cutting edge master winemaker of Slovenia. The Quebecois roasted chicken was luxurious, curiously accented by fennel seed, crushed clove and juniper berry, garlic and olive oil. Sugar snap peas were thrown in for good measure. I brought an old standby, a wine I feel can stand up to many others more than twice the price, the Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé.

There is a reason why rosés and rosé champagnes are making a strong comeback. The quality has improved 150%. The other night at Fatty Crab I enjoyed a Lagrein Rosé from the Alto Adige by a good producer, Suditroler, which was so balanced and delicious it rivaled the food on my plate. The sweet champagne rosés and rosés still exist, but there are so many dry, crisp, fabulous wines being made to counter this former trend.

Having tasted several vintage champagnes over the years, my money rides on this bottle.

It is a real wine, full-bodied, not bready or sweet, dry and balanced revealing complexity and restrained fruit. My choice for a straight up proper rosé is the 1995 Lopez Heredia de Tondonia Rioja Rosado. This wine will have you swooning about rosés in your dreams.

What to do about the Haut-Brion? Decant it? For how long? What about the sediment?

In my memory I compared the experience to the time we had the 1986 Lafite. But the Lafite was in an Imperiale format, built to last, and 1989 was a different year altogether.

Upon concensus, for some reason I felt that we should decant it just before serving, so as to take the journey of evolution with the wine. Sometimes old wines disappear and change too quickly when decanted, and I certainly didn’t want that disaster. I even suggested that we chill it for five minutes, because the room temperature was humid.

As it transpired, the moment of truth was ecstatic. We poured out one glass and passed it around the table. The aromas were at first vegetal and then wildly, savage, full of smoke, earth, herbs and spices. We sniffed and swooned for several minutes. Then we tasted, sipping slowly, carefully swishing it around to get the full effect. Wild raspberries and licorice created a luxurious feel in the mouth, sexy, unctuous velvet, that distinct perfume reminding us of its terroir. It was a bit closed at first, but over the course of the next hour blossomed beautifully. We decided to decant the rest due to the sediment.

The boneless N.Y. strip steak was expertly prepared in Fredo (Dr. L.’s cast iron skillet) and a darling match for the wine. The lamb chops ensued and proved a bit fatty, a less suitable partner. Despite a solid fruit and cookie course, we went through the motions, having been quite fulfilled by that Haut-Brion.

John is a folk singer, and played two of his recordings on his latest CD release Frontiers for us. One of his songs is titled “Remember Me” and was written to commemorate war-time vets. I have several things to remember about this evening, among them great food, close friends, a clever white, a dandy of a rose, and the inimitable Haut-Brion.

Categories
Eating Experiences Food The Chef

Jury Duty Blues

The magic slip with the red bar code came via mail two weeks ago, and that can mean only thing: jury duty. The mere words strike anxiety and panic into the busiest metropolitans, and excuses are prepared in advance as if lining up for a confession.

Crisis in Chinese also means opportunity, the chance to seize the day or go down with the ship. For me, it means several well-timed meals in Chinatown, a foodie neighborhood I have been researching for years. Over a two day stint, that means four breakfast spots, four lunches and a couple of early dinners.

In the mornings I headed to Mei Lai Wah, that bastion of a coffee shop known for their pork buns. They come baked or steamed and are exquisite, fluffy, a bit sweet and savory. Only great discipline can prevent you from ordering more. Several other bakeries provide arrays of eggs with croissants, pork bun variations, coconut pastries and shumai. The quality is fairly even, so form your own alliances according to service. The excellent dumpling house is a sure-fire way to unload your Washingtons, testing economic theory that there is no more bang for your buck. One dollar yields five pan fried dumplings or four juicy buns. What a bargain! There’s no time for dim sum, otherwise I would be firmly planted at Tai Hong Lau (70 Mott St.).

For lunch, the sky is the limit. Though Chinatown holds its perils, and the wrong turn can yield an unforgettably bad meal. Understand also that chefs come and go as quickly as the moon tides. Some family run businesses will actually close if they can’t keep a chef from within the family.

I headed over to Big Wong on Mott street for a roast meat sampler. Roast duck, roast pork, and chicken with ginger usually does the trick. I follow this up with fresh shrimp crepes and barbecued spare ribs. Big Wong stands for the tremendously phallic donuts they serve which are more novelty than nutrition.

I love to top off lunch with a bowl of soup, not the run of the mill wonton, egg drop, or sweet and sour kind either. Several shops are dedicated to soups with choice of noodle, dumpling, won ton, and roast meat which can adorn a healthy bowl of Chinese goodness. Judge a soup by its broth first. It should be translucent like a consommé, full of chicken stock flavor ready to be slurped from the bowl. The rest of the ingredients are up to you, as I have rarely not enjoyed the dumplings, or the noodles, or the roast meats.

Later that day I was released early. Before my next appointment, I headed over to Grand Sichuan for a spicy double pork lunch special, sliced, tender pork and scallions heaped on top of fiery Szechuan peppercorns, easily one of my favorite dishes in all of Chinatown. I whet my appetite with the won tons in hot oil in preparation for a meal of true grit and ecstasy.

The next day I replicated my breakfast routine, except that I supplemented my regimen with a coconut banana chocolate croissant from nearby Bouley Bakery, just for stark contrast. At lunch I dined at Chan Noodle, and excellent soup shop on Mulberry known for the fried rice. The fried rice with two sausages is the real deal, and because they’re in season, the soft shell crab was light, crispy, and ethereal. I ordered some soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai just because, and of course had an encore of the baked pork bun at Mei Lai Wah.

When I was ultimately released from service and handed a letter for proof like some sort of empty diploma, I contemplated the Peking Duck House for some great duck-filled tortillas, but was running late and had to forgo one last Chinatown sup.

Between siestas for those two marvelous days, visions of dumplings pranced in my head, and a note of sadness came over me as I left 111 Centre Street. It will be another six years before I perform my civic duty again, the crisis with the great foodie perks.