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Drinking Experiences The Chef Wine

Beer Please?

Every other week there is a hotly debated discussion about beer vs. wine.  The beer advocates feel beer gets an unfair shake in terms of craftsmanship and are further looked down upon by wine drinkers.  The wine advocates think it is more difficult to make wine and feel beer consumers are what the commercials portray them to be, uneducated drunkards with zero palate.  Perhaps this attitude is not shared by the winemakers or workers in the industry.  Peek at the beverage that any one of these folks have in hand during leisure time and you can be all-in that the drink of choice is beer.

As Mr. Asimov pointed out in his blog, The Pour,  beer and wine need not be adversaries, merely complimentary choices.  The horrific marketing ads for beer made without quality paint beer consumers as dolts, and after any real discussion with an avid beer lover, you will discover the same passion and knowledge as a wine geek who casually spouts out malolactic fermentation and indigenous yeasts.  It begs the question, why the divorce?  Why not a reconciliation? If one can have several courses during a meal, why not several different beverages?  Why all the rules and animosity?

I like to start with Champagne, or beer or cocktail, then move towards wine, including sherry, ultimately returning to beer or champagne at the end.

Last week I had much to celebrate.  I received I high rank in Aikido, I was a guest on a cable tv cooking show, and I attended the JETS game.  My drink of choice is Champagne, but I opted for beer at the Burger Joint, located in the Parker Meridien Hotel (still my burger of choice in a burger mad city).  The Sam Adams Boston Lager was on tap and in pristine form, full of body and frothy, perfect for the occasion, having just finished my Aikido exam.  Later in the week I found myself at the underground (literally) pizza shop speakeasy at 6th and Avenue B, although I ordered a bottled beer that was much less satisfying.  Finally on Sunday, I celebrated the Yankees victory while watching the JETS, reaching for old standbys Bass Ale and Guinness on tap, which after those two kickoff returns by Ted Ginn Jr.,drowned my sorrows appropriately.

I look at beer as a mini Champagne, a tiny split if you will, and the only decision you have to make is to choose a good one, or at least one to your liking, much like I prefer drinking vintage over non-vintage, except that the cost comparison is recession friendly.  Six packs work just as well as a bottle of wine.  Two people or four can share.  At my favorite Cantonese place, Phoenix Garden, which has a BYOB policy, I often bring a six pack of lager, and then esoteric white wines, just to try different flavor combos and pairings, returning to beer throughout the meal.  But there is no need to quarrel over which, I say choose both.

This week I will be heading at Minetta Tavern for a celebratory black belt meal.  Will it be beer, Champagne, or cocktail to start?  Maybe all three.  The beauty is in the choice and my mood, no rules or arguments.  It all fits.  It’s all good.  It’s all celebration.

Categories
Drinking Eating Experiences Wine

A Spanish Rain Delay

There was a rain out on Friday, preventing the Yankees from clinching the series against the Angels, but as of today, we know the delay could not prevent the obvious outcome.  This did not deter the wine drinking family of Tempranillo, Inc., the Jorge Ordonez company that have placed more 90+ point wines on Parker and Wine Spectator’s radar than any other Spanish wine importer.

This was the annual staff party, winemakers invited and included, selected clients chosen, for an evening of wining and dining, Tempranillo style. My good friend Ramon del Monte invited me, and despite a busy evening at Pata Negra, I could not resist a driveby. The event was hosted at Solera, and with the seasoned chef Danilo Paulino putting out arroz negro and sliced aged beef, there was plenty of Spanish grape juice to match.

A lot of suits and Spanish testosterone for the bi-level restaurant, and only the gracious maitre d’hotel and wine savant Ron Miller can handle so many egos with such ease and care. There were lovely ladies present as well, wielding an intoxicating combination of beauty and wine savvy, such as the darlings from Tinto Fino, and my accompaniment for the evening, one of my managers, Chris, the fashionable Brooklynite whose thirst for knowledge about wine reminds me of my youthful discovery days.  If only I could have been exposed to such extravaganzas in my early twenties.

Everyone was in great spirits, buoyed by the glistening selection of oysters and clams not three feet from the entrance.  This paired gloriously with a cava from the house of Muga, Conde de Haro.  The jovial Juan Muga was present, ambassador for his family winery which need no introduction.  The Prado Enea 2000 was singing that night, having had the benefit of air, and mixed in with a line-up of heavier hitters than the middle of the Yankee batting order.  Aro, Malleolus, El Bosque, El Nido, and the list goes on and on, a battery of wines that have paved the way for New World style soon to be classics that can be laid down for the next generation.

A quick chat with Jorge Ordonez himself, wearing a detective hat indoors, perhaps shielding himself from the hordes of fans and clients, who took time out to tell me he knew nothing of my beloved Yanks, our conversation feeling like two old men playing dominoes on a street corner with Mahou beers, enjoying the pleasantry of differences and a shared love for life, as impressive a first meeting as any for me, a real character.

I was informed that the Moro brothers were missed, not only for their guitar and singing acumen, but also for their boisterous spirit.  The air about the evening was a bit subdued.  This did not suit Juan Muga, and so off we were to the Dream Hotel nearby (we might as well have been in Cleveland), for dancing and mischief.  In this respect New York should be like Madrid or Barcelona, with select bars and clubs open until mid-day.  Four in the morning just doesn’t give anyone enough time to get your groove on, especially if you work in the industry.

This made for a tough 7:30 am wake up, but I just look at it as pre-celebratory Yankees toast, as well as kudos for a bright future of Spanish wine at every table.

Categories
Drinking Experiences The Chef Wine

Great Match Wine & Tapas

Once again this fall, Wines from Spain organized the Great Match in an effort to create greater awareness of Spanish wine in the U.S. marketplace.  Although this fall’s turnout was not as large in the paste, there were still plenty of wines to taste and vintages to track.

The event was held at the Metropolitan Pavilion in Chelsea, and was more fun for me this time around, hauling my friend Chris, a Williamsburg native, who works for me at Pata Negra four nights per week, eager to soak up some Spanish wine knowledge.

My primary goals were to ascertain how vintages are drinking, and also to find some gems that may be hidden in the deep rough.  We tasted over 100 wines, slowed down by some friendly industry conversation.  There was no real time to eat; the lines were long.

The wines of Ribera del Duero were drinking well, as well as the verdejos, crisp whites from the Rueda.  I finally found a winery from Toro which I actually liked, from Bodega Palacio de los Frontaura y Victoria, who was pouring a 2005 Frontaura and Dominio de Valdelcasa.  Both wines were plush and bloody, what I expect from tinto de Toro.

Of the Riberas tasted, Torremilanos crianza 2005, Astrales 2006,  Federico Roble 2007, Arrocal 2004, Valduero Reserva 2004, and Figuero Roble 2006 were all drinking well.  It proved that the 2005 and 2006 vintage can be trusted.  Usually wines from the Ribera need time in the bottle, and most of these could benefit from that time.

Of the verdejos sampled, I enjoyed the Villa Narcisa 2008 from Javier Sanz most, followed by Blanco Nieva and the bestselling Naia.

Priorat made a small splash, represented by Vall Llach’s Embruix 2005, Solanes 2005, and Nita 2007.  The wines were plush and rich, deeply berried and round.

I have to shout out the sherries, but then again these are always the wines of these tastings.  The value from La Gitana and Solear cannot be overstated.

The wine of the tasting for me came out of left field, a cava named Rimarts done in the style of brut nature.  It was delicious, refreshing, and organic, full of minerality and bubbles, a serious effort from a small producer.

Perhaps the hidden producer of the tasting award goes to some ecological wines from Navarra.  The most curious of the line-up being a boxed tempranillo/bobal blend named Charla from Valencia.  This 2003 three litre quaffer hopes add to the boxed wine comeback, and I am listening.  Earth 3.0 Tempranillo  2008 and Casita Mami garnacha/graciano from 2004 were drinking very well.  These wines were aromatic and funky in the right barnyard sort of style.

It was a bit disappointing that some of the wines showcased exhibited similar flavor profiles, a sure sign that winemakers are listening to critics like Parker and Penin.  If the wines taste similarly, leading to higher scores and inflated prices, the same epidemic could occur in Spain as to Australia, and to certain extent California, where consumers lose faith in the market value of homogenous tasting wines, and refuse to pay the exorbitant prices.  Winemakers need to stick their guns, and consumers need to start really assessing what critics are saying.

I am still pleased with the increased awareness in Spanish wines and foods, and am encouraged in a more educated consumer market here in the U.S.  Enjoy Spain!

Categories
Drinking Eating Experiences The Chef Wine

Sour Grapes NYC

This brisk September morning gave way to a normal Tuesday for me, some writing, followed by a wine tasting.  The tasting was being held at Marea, hosted by T.Edwards Wines, one of the better importers out there.  The restaurant is quite accessible and lovely, and I managed to taste 45 wines with one of my staff members, Chris.  There were chickpea fritters and sepia croquettes, as well as a spoonful of ceviche to aid the palette, and a long table of charcuterie, cheese and grilled antipasto for heartier fare.  Everyone seemed to be having a marvelous time talking about wine and terroir and catching up with industry friends.  Yet for me, my mind was elsewhere, caught up in what I consider to be a typical, classic New York City moment.

On my way to the event, I was feeling good about myself and the day’s schedule.  I wore a velvet jacket with a hot pink shirt and jeans.  I took the express at 96th  St. and Broadway hoping to catch the local at 72nd St.  Just my luck, the train was there waiting.  I was seated at the last car when on 66th St., an elderly man with a walker tried to get off the train before the doors closed.  He was moving faster than normal and dragging his walker.  He made it out before the doors closed but then stumbled and fell to the ground.  Everyone witnessed the fall, but we all remained paralyzed.  He tried to get up, but failed and collapsed to the platform.  Two people closest to the door arose and asked if he needed assistance.  He waved them off from what appeared to be embarrassment at his predicament.  A young woman seated in front of me cried out, “Isn’t someone gonna do something?”  By then the doors had snapped shut, and the train ambled its way towards my destination, Columbus Circle.

Why didn’t I rush to help him?  What was so important that I didn’t lift a finger?  I got up immediately, trying to free myself from the scene, feeling disgusted with myself for having done nothing.  Quickly I tried to analyze why I had behaved so wrongly.  I didn’t want to be late to the tasting.  Check.  Someone else would eventually help him.  Check.  He could get up on his own.  Check.  He waved off the two people who offered him help.  Check.  If I had helped him up, I would have waited at least an hour for an ambulance and had to fill out accident and police reports.  Check.  Then why do I feel so ashamed and miserable?

The truth is that in our fair city, people are so concerned with their schedules and themselves that when it comes time to help our fellow New Yorker, we turn the other cheek.  Someone else who has the time can do the job.  I was so concerned about the wine that I was going to taste, I overlooked an elder in need and made countless justifications in a matter of seconds as to why I couldn’t do it.

It is easy to blame the pace of this town for my lack of care, and in this is only a part truth.  We are so caught up with this frenetic pace that we overlook the right thing to do quite often.    So often I will witness some public behavior that appears rude and savage, littering, the death of chivalry, outright rudeness and crimes against humanity.  Today the grapes tasted sour, and I felt ashamed to be a New Yorker and to be myself.  I am upset that my priorities are so mixed up that I couldn’t help my fellow man, even if it means the price of that special commodity – time.

I rushed to the booth to report the accident.  A worker was coming out of the booth to purchase a beverage. “There’s been an accident,” I pleaded.  “Report it to the booth,” she dismissed, so as not to take time from her break too.  There was a line, and I asked the gentlemen who was up next if I could please get in front of him, that it was an emergency.  He replied no, and I informed him that a senior citizen had fallen and required attention, and that I was merely trying to report it.  Further, that if he felt it was more important to purchase his metro card first, that he should continue.  “Only if it is an emergency,” he reluctantly retorted.  “There is a man who has fallen at the station,”  finally getting it off my chest.  “Someone will see him there and take care of it,” not the relief I was looking for.   “No, it was at the rear of the station and no one was around.”  She looked at me blankly.  “Call it in or anything that happens will be on you.” I left feeling ill, guilty and dissatisfied in my attempt to rectify my past error.

The tasting is over, and I have lots of notes, but none of this matter much.  On this gloomy September afternoon, I am thinking of the elderly man who fell at the train station, needing a helping hand, hoping for decency in a time of recession, and ultimately what is the responsibility of being a  true New Yorker.

Categories
Drinking Eating Experiences Food Travel Wine

Ribeira Sacra Day 2

Breathing mountain air facilitates resounding rest, and shortly after an early rise and a  quick cortadito, El Capitan and I were met by a two car entourage of winemakers, led by Raul Perez, winemaker of El Pecado and Leirana, and joined by Pedro Rodriguez, who produces Guimaro.  Also present, Luis, an enologist, and Rodrigo, a winemaker in Rias Baixas.

The ride to the vineyard was even more treacherous than the day before, the highlight being a stop near a 2,000 year old Roman iter near the Bibei river.  Conditions were muggier too, and for some reason communication proved difficult.  It was hard to translate, as too much information was being rattled off at an alarming rate of speed.  Winemakers can be passionate, so much so that they want you to know everything about their wines.  But we were looking for a sense of history and place, and so much got lost in translation because they had a different agenda. Our questions were never answered directly, but this may have been just the Galician way.

Through the quagmire, however, we did corroborate much of what we had learned on day one.  Winemaking had been a family occupation since Roman times.  Each family had different parcels and made wine for themselves, any leftover to be sold in bulk.  Cultivation was difficult to terrain, and so terraces were built for safety.  Much of the winemaking process was done on site in sheds, small hillside structures for sorting and pressing.  Much of the wine was sold to people of Lugo across the mountain ranges.  After World War II, young people started to leave the agrarian lifestyle for big cities and job opportunities, leaving the arduous work to the elders.  This trend continued until the 1990’s, when some of the youth decided to return to become farmers again, disillusioned with a capitalist and urban lifestyle.  Although the quality of the wine is controlled by the DO, certain producers are resisting the homogenous style in favor of making very uniquely terroir driven godello and mencia.  These wines have a potential for fine aging and hark back to the tradition of making wine for oneself.

It was a long day of tasting and information, much of it technical and academic.  By lunchtime things were smoothed over by an invitation for a family meal at Pedro’s mom’s house.  The structure, a typical display of Galician stone masonry and wooden beams, sported a long layout of warm rooms fit for mountain lodging.  The most interesting being the kitchen, with a natural rainfall runoff sink and wood burning oven that his 90 plus year old grandmother insists on using.  Feeding the flames with vines is integral to the flavor.  As we sat down for a typical Galician feast, 27 bottles were being uncorked and prepared for tasting, a dizzying number that I was sure would be blurred by bottle number 12.  The most interesting bottle may have been the first one, a thirty year old albarino from a female friend of the family producer in Rias Baixas without a label, a lime green bottle that delivered absolute pleasure and wonder of the grape varietal.

The food onslaught was intense, and intended for us to cry mercy.  I was up to the task but finally conceded by dessert.  A plate of Rias Baixas oysters to start, followed by an alluring plate of warm goose barnacles, a task which lets you suck out the marrow of life.  It took a few squirting mishaps for El Cap and I to get the hang of these curious delicacies, even though I have had them before.  “Break the claw open and suck the life out of the shell,” Luis suggested.  The enologist was the talker of the group, a former basketball player who clearly loved food and wine, but was strangely observing a diet and always talking, or complaining, which we soon learned was the Galician way.

Celtic Charcuterie

Percebes

27 wines

Walk into an empty Galician restaurant without reservation or warning, and the owner may look at you gloomily.  Moreover, he will err on the side of negativity, rattling off some inane excuses about being fully booked, and how you should have called.  What if I get overbooked?  Even though there is barely a soul in sight.  Then with a gleeful sigh, he will act is if he bent over backwards to seat you, and give you some time limit restriction or nudge as to what he wants you to order.  Lest you somehow figure out a way to screw him.  And that is how it appeared with the winemakers, that somehow we were there to screw them, or that we were going to report about their wines in a way that would be screwy, if you get my drift.

So the enologist was regaling us about how he went to the doctor for a rectal exam, and how he wouldn’t let them do it.  I damn near fell off the table translating the whole fiasco.  It turns out he is on a restrictive diet (four helpings instead of six-welcome to my world), and they’ve rescheduled.  Perfect dinner convo!  Every other turn of discussion had him surely taking it up the backside, and his symbol for his virginity being taken looked like a perverted version of Tiger Woods’ fist pump after a made birdie.   Whether it was town politics, or the DO, or the weather, somehow Luis was getting it, and he was going to take it, but not quietly.

At one point, after sitting next to him so attentively (grandma lost her hearing and was able to sit in the background, blissfully unaffected), Pedro’s mother tried to get a word in edgewise.  “But will you let me speak,” he erupted.  At which point I rose from my feeding frenzy to retort, “But you have been the only one speaking for the last two hours.”  That earned kudos and raucous laughter from his peers, and really loosened up the festivities.

An empanada with pork ribs (bone-in), hit the table.  “Save the pastry for the dog,” Pedro’s mom advised.  A plate of Galician choucoutre was next, minus the sauerkraut, but full of sausages and potatoes.  Tortilla from house eggs, celtic pig ham, pig jowls, chorizo, a 15 month old rooster killed in our honor served in a stew, chick peas, and more lacon.  Then a speed tasting of the twenty seven wines.  It was too hard to keep up and take notes, so I just drank what I liked.  I got the impression that this type of family meal occurs frequently, and that we were getting a glimpse of real Galician life.  Eat, drink, argue and enjoy!

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By the time dessert rolled around, a bica cake, flan, cookies and a coconut custard, we were four hours into the repast and busting at the seams, a second serving of cake was accompanied with a house made espresso liqueur which was irresistible.  The highlight was a wheel of manchego cured in olive oil for one year.  What a revelation! Out came the Cohibas, long ones, and turns by the window to enjoy fresh air.  Talk turned to wine and Ribeira Sacra, and plans were made for a party later that evening, if we could survive the late siesta.

P1000260P1000259Manchego

Weather was not on our side, and the party was moved indoors to a local pub in Monforte near the river.  The only cure was a cold caña, and Rocio, the birthday woman of honor, was buying the drinks, as per Galician custom.  We met so many fun people that night, and I switched to Havana Club and coke, my de facto European drink of choice.

It was under the drizzle that Pedro opened up, and communication was facile and interesting.  The informal venue away from the wine was the right environment, and El Cap and I learned a lot.  We met a German woman working as an architect and dating a Gallego.  She claimed she could not get used to the large weekly feasts.  I was of course jealous.  We turned into pumpkins by one a.m.  How entirely unSpanish of us.

We left Ribeira Sacra amidst lugubrious conditions, with a real sense of terroir and tradition, and an understanding that in Spain, under such Celtic climate and agrarian roots, lives a people who, cautious and pretending to look at life through a glass half empty, in actuality celebrating life to the fullest, a glass half full in my book.

The next leg of our journey was La Rioja, where the most familiar Spanish wine was crafted.  Our excitement was palpable, a piece of us left in Galicia.