The Feiring Line

Pre-Dive: First Night in Le Havre

In Paris when I mentioned I was going to Le Havre, no native French speaker knew what the hell I was saying. So I asked the wine importer, Jenny Lefcourt whether my French really was that bad. Turns out my French is worse than even I admitted to. She corrected me. I had to pronounce the town's name with an exaggerated HA as if I was saying Havad (as in Harvard with a Boston accent). So, equipped with proper pronunciation I took the train from Paris-- just over two hours.

I booked the same hotel as Dressner and Shawn Mead (his west coast colleague) directly across the street from the train station at the taxi-yellow-doored, 2-star, ultra-cheap Les Balladins. The walls were paper thin, the shower as tiny as an MRI machine but it was smoke and bed-bug free. (Those of you who fantasize and jealousize about my fabulous, glam life as a jet-setting wine writer might want to reread this paragraph.)

Because Le Havre is shuttered on Sunday night, we settled on dinner next door, the one with the sepia signage of a bubbie-like-creature ostensibly the restaurant's inspiration. Though we all knew it to be false advertising, our only other choice was Doner Kebab, which might have been the better option. As it turned out the carrots were sawdust, the beets were filmy, the marinated mackeral was a terrifying mistake, the fries were limp and it was a blessing that Dressner didn't go for the tartare.

The wine situation was just as dicey. We pointed to a Loire pinot gris ros from Reuilly hoping it would be the safest wine on the list. Dressner bowed to the pressure to taste it. He made a face as if the pink stuff was liquid tetracycline. Shawn and I, desperate to drink suspended our ethics and palate and just deal with it. Just then, with glass to lip, one of the Muscadet Gods, Guy Bossard walked into the restaurant. Dapper in his fly fisherman�s vest, he came over to our table to say hello, picked the bottle out of the ice bucked and raised an eyebrow in disbelief which surely said, �Such crap on your table?�

When he sat down to have his way way with the menu and wine list he didn�t do much better. Neither one of our parties polished off the bottle. But then Shawn and I made saved the night with some Calvados, 8-year old Roger Groult.

Sometimes you do what you have to do.

Guy Bossard after his more satisfying oyster-centric lunch break during the Dive.

Pre-Dive: First Night in Le Havre

In Paris when I mentioned I was going to Le Havre, no native French speaker knew what the hell I was saying. So I asked the wine importer, Jenny Lefcourt whether my French really was that bad. Turns out my French is worse than even I admitted to. She corrected me. I had to pronounce the town's name with an exaggerated HA as if I was saying Havad (as in Harvard with a Boston accent). So, equipped with proper pronunciation I took the train from Paris-- just over two hours.

I booked the same hotel as Dressner and Shawn Mead (his west coast colleague) directly across the street from the train station at the taxi-yellow-doored, 2-star, ultra-cheap Les Balladins. The walls were paper thin, the shower as tiny as an MRI machine but it was smoke and bed-bug free. (Those of you who fantasize and jealousize about my fabulous, glam life as a jet-setting wine writer might want to reread this paragraph.)

Because Le Havre is shuttered on Sunday night, we settled on dinner next door, the one with the sepia signage of a bubbie-like-creature ostensibly the restaurant's inspiration. Though we all knew it to be false advertising, our only other choice was Doner Kebab, which might have been the better option. As it turned out the carrots were sawdust, the beets were filmy, the marinated mackeral was a terrifying mistake, the fries were limp and it was a blessing that Dressner didn't go for the tartare.

The wine situation was just as dicey. We pointed to a Loire pinot gris ros from Reuilly hoping it would be the safest wine on the list. Dressner bowed to the pressure to taste it. He made a face as if the pink stuff was liquid tetracycline. Shawn and I, desperate to drink suspended our ethics and palate and just deal with it. Just then, with glass to lip, one of the Muscadet Gods, Guy Bossard walked into the restaurant. Dapper in his fly fisherman�s vest, he came over to our table to say hello, picked the bottle out of the ice bucked and raised an eyebrow in disbelief which surely said, �Such crap on your table?�

When he sat down to have his way way with the menu and wine list he didn�t do much better. Neither one of our parties polished off the bottle. But then Shawn and I made saved the night with some Calvados, 8-year old Roger Groult.

Sometimes you do what you have to do.

Guy Bossard after his more satisfying oyster-centric lunch break during the Dive.

La Dive Part #1

I had to come. I just had to. To make going to France sweeter, to make it a reality, to get me over the edge and hit PAY NOW for an airline ticket, I tried to extract an assignment from my usual resources.

When I couldn�t pull that rabbit out of the hat, I resigned myself to staying in NYC and waiting for snow and ice. Then Joe Dressner enticed me further when he told me he was producing a great tasting of his own in the Loire a few days prior to La Dive Bouteille. Temptation was too much. Even though I can be quite introverted, timid, shy, I am also not the kind of girl who likes to miss a good party especially when wine is involved. My book was finished. I needed to replenish. I needed an infusion. Most importantly, I needed to taste.

For seven years the Dive Bouteille was the underground wine fair that burbled in the limestone caves of the Loire, or in wooly places like last year when it occupied the Chateau d�Angers as a prelude to the more manicured and corporate Loire Valley Wine Salon. The concept? Twenty of the Loire�s most natural and crazy wine makers invited their closest winemaking friends from different areas of France. Many brought wines that were so natural they were almost frighteningly alive, but the better winemakers brought ones of stunning beauty. And afterwards, those of us lucky enough --who had friends who were close friends-- were treated to frenetic bacchanals.

This annual tasting holds an important part in wine history as it helped to launch the worldwide revolution in authentic and a thirst that has stretched outside of France to Japan and the US. Counter tastings are now wine�s street fashion--all of the good stuff happens here. Whether it�s the Dive or Villa Favorita or Nicolas Joly�s Return to Terroir, ils petents avec energie, (translation: �they fart with energy,�) I just love that saying.

But politics being politics- someone who had taken over organizing this tasting has a boyfriend who is a chef and voila--- this year the Dive is leaving its home base and heading to Normandy for the 2nd Omnivore Food Festival in Le Havre.

I still can�t figure out why I couldn�t sell this story idea. Really, am I the only one who cares?

La Dive Part #1

I had to come. I just had to. To make going to France sweeter, to make it a reality, to get me over the edge and hit PAY NOW for an airline ticket, I tried to extract an assignment from my usual resources.

When I couldn't pull that rabbit out of the hat, I resigned myself to staying in NYC and waiting for snow and ice. Then Joe Dressner enticed me further when he told me he was producing a great tasting of his own in the Loire a few days prior to La Dive Bouteille. Temptation was too much. Even though I can be quite introverted, timid, shy, I am also not the kind of girl who likes to miss a good party especially when wine is involved. My book was finished. I needed to replenish. I needed an infusion. Most importantly, I needed to taste.

For seven years the Dive Bouteille was the underground wine fair that burbled in the limestone caves of the Loire, or in wooly places like last year when it occupied the Chateau d'Angers as a prelude to the more manicured and corporate Loire Valley Wine Salon. The concept? Twenty of the Loire's most natural and crazy wine makers invited their closest winemaking friends from different areas of France. Many brought wines that were so natural they were almost frighteningly alive, but the better winemakers brought ones of stunning beauty. And afterwards, those of us lucky enough --who had friends who were close friends-- were treated to frenetic bacchanals.

This annual tasting holds an important part in wine history as it helped to launch the worldwide revolution in authentic and a thirst that has stretched outside of France to Japan and the US. Counter tastings are now wine's street fashion--all of the good stuff happens here. Whether it's the Dive or Villa Favorita or Nicolas Joly's Return to Terroir, ils petents avec energie, (translation: they fart with energy,) I just love that saying.

But politics being politics- someone who had taken over organizing this tasting has a boyfriend who is a chef and voila--- this year the Dive is leaving its home base and heading to Normandy for the 2nd Omnivore Food Festival in Le Havre.

A scene from the eating at the Dive 2007.

I still can't figure out why I couldn;t sell this story idea. Really, am I the only one who cares?

Why I Went to the Dive

Let's see, why did I take the train up from Paris to the seedy town of Le Havre go to the Dive?

Good question.

I will answer that one in the next entry but meanwhilel, I must get ready for day two; grab a lousy cup of coffee, book a train to Paris and pack as I head back to civilization late this afternoon.

This year the tasting has been folded into the French version of a conventional food festival called Omnivore. Local top chefs were presenting along with the ubiquitous Ferran Adria (who wore an apricot shirt). So far all seems a little sad. Good wines were here but the counterculture, frenzied atmosphere has been washed. The wines and vignerons are hipster still, but one's suited up and shaved ones. Enter the next step in the wine revolution.

Why I Went to the Dive

Let's see, why did I take the train up from Paris to the seedy town of Le Havre go to the Dive?

Good question.

I will answer that one in the next entry but meanwhilel, I must get ready for day two; grab a lousy cup of coffee, book a train to Paris and pack as I head back to civilization late this afternoon.

This year the tasting has been folded into the French version of a conventional food festival called Omnivore. Local top chefs were presenting along with the ubiquitous Ferran Adria (who wore an apricot shirt). So far all seems a little sad. Good wines were here but the counterculture, frenzied atmosphere has been washed. The wines and vignerons are hipster still, but one's suited up and shaved ones. Enter the next step in the wine revolution.

In the Airport

At the bar, waiting for the plane, Beefeater martini with some really scary olives and I read the NYTimes story on wine cellar thefts and there is Tom Matthews, the top editor of the Wine Specator. This is shocking because the WS has a policy of not speaking to the press, even for the Times. So I've got to wonder what happened that made this story safe enough for them to go on record? But, that aside, I'm here, about to go to the Loire to taste and giggling, I could just imagine some fine collectors I know, Loiristas, shouting," They stole my verticals of muscadet!" or..." Oh my God, they took my Chinon collection!" You know, it just won't happen. That's another reason to drink the Loire. As I don't usually drink gin, I beg your forgiveness for typos, hiccups, or other sloppiness. I couldn't resist, but now I've got to go back to the article before I board.

In the Airport

At the bar, waiting for the plane, Beefeater martini with some really scary olives and I read the NYTimes story on wine cellar thefts and there is Tom Matthews, the top editor of the Wine Specator. This is shocking because the WS has a policy of not speaking to the press, even for the Times. So I've got to wonder what happened that made this story safe enough for them to go on record? But, that aside, I'm here, about to go to the Loire to taste and giggling, I could just imagine some fine collectors I know, Loiristas, shouting," They stole my verticals of muscadet!" or..." Oh my God, they took my Chinon collection!" You know, it just won't happen. That's another reason to drink the Loire. As I don't usually drink gin, I beg your forgiveness for typos, hiccups, or other sloppiness. I couldn't resist, but now I've got to go back to the article before I board.

A Wine Bar Cure For the Cynical

(This should be a more inspired , but am about to head out to France to taste in the Loire and at the Dive, so postings for the next two weeks are somewhat on hold. See you soon.)

On the other hand there is the wine bar attached to the �Down Under� inspired restaurant, Public on Elizabeth Street. You enter "The Monday Room," as you would the restaurant but turn to the left at the reception and enter an alternative universe of leather clubby living room, leaving Public's wee- too- industrial- hipness.

Ruben, the super-friendly, super-handsome Spanish sommelier appears like a genie tableside. I wasn�t sold on him at first. Was he really in a Peter Sellers disguise? I was suspicious of his impossibly full mop of hair and furry mustache that I felt could be pulled from his upper lip in one swift pull. Could he really show me anything? I was born a cynic and at that moment the cynic within was not in hiding. But it didn�t take long for me to believe that his silky hair was authentic, it suited him and for him to coax out my inner innocent.

It turns out, Ruben is the real thing and not just some gushy wine guy in love with the wine lifestyle. He has investigated the bloodline of every wine on the list, and how can that not be inspiring?

He�s put his life on hold while studying for a Master of Wine. I immediately felt guilty that I had some how avoided the International Wine Center and never sat for the exam.

I looked over his list, one he had full reign over. He is way more generous than I. I'd have choked before I put on that Parkerized Barossa shiraz, and a Vougeraie, but I had to smile at his good intentions because he clearly was also catering to me with plenty of choices to bring on the goose bumps; such as the 2002 Levet Cote Rotie, 2000 Lafarge Volnay and the Arena Patrimonio red , which was utterly yummy, warm, rusty, sun baked.

At first blush the prices are high; $15.50 for a half glass of that 2002 Cote Rotie, the 1⁄2 glass was substantial, about the same size as a full glass as the Chelsea wine bar I visited in the last entry. However, all bottles are available in 1⁄2 or full glass, 1⁄2 bottle and full bottle. Order one of his flights if you wish or ask him to create another flight to suit you.

Food comes in small tapas bites, but not the size of pinxtos or NYCity sized tapas, real one or two bite but priced accordingly. The cheese plate are really terrific American selections from Saxelbys, but still, some bread and olives would be nice. Because wines like these need lingering over with some more nibbly bits to keep the wine company.

Bottom line is that the wine bar (no actual bar, by the way, more of a wine lounge) has adventure for the novice (in a romantically lit setting so no one ever need feel embarrassed), and it gives good drink for, well, the cynics like me.

A Wine Bar Cure For the Cynical

(This should be a more inspired , but am about to head out to France to taste in the Loire and at the Dive, so postings for the next two weeks are somewhat on hold. See you soon.)

On the other hand there is the wine bar attached to the �Down Under� inspired restaurant, Public on Elizabeth Street. You enter "The Monday Room," as you would the restaurant but turn to the left at the reception and enter an alternative universe of leather clubby living room, leaving Public's wee- too- industrial- hipness.

Ruben, the super-friendly, super-handsome Spanish sommelier appears like a genie tableside. I wasn�t sold on him at first. Was he really in a Peter Sellers disguise? I was suspicious of his impossibly full mop of hair and furry mustache that I felt could be pulled from his upper lip in one swift pull. Could he really show me anything? I was born a cynic and at that moment the cynic within was not in hiding. But it didn�t take long for me to believe that his silky hair was authentic, it suited him and for him to coax out my inner innocent.

It turns out, Ruben is the real thing and not just some gushy wine guy in love with the wine lifestyle. He has investigated the bloodline of every wine on the list, and how can that not be inspiring?

He�s put his life on hold while studying for a Master of Wine. I immediately felt guilty that I had some how avoided the International Wine Center and never sat for the exam.

I looked over his list, one he had full reign over. He is way more generous than I. I'd have choked before I put on that Parkerized Barossa shiraz, and a Vougeraie, but I had to smile at his good intentions because he clearly was also catering to me with plenty of choices to bring on the goose bumps; such as the 2002 Levet Cote Rotie, 2000 Lafarge Volnay and the Arena Patrimonio red , which was utterly yummy, warm, rusty, sun baked.

At first blush the prices are high; $15.50 for a half glass of that 2002 Cote Rotie, the 1⁄2 glass was substantial, about the same size as a full glass as the Chelsea wine bar I visited in the last entry. However, all bottles are available in 1⁄2 or full glass, 1⁄2 bottle and full bottle. Order one of his flights if you wish or ask him to create another flight to suit you.

Food comes in small tapas bites, but not the size of pinxtos or NYCity sized tapas, real one or two bite but priced accordingly. The cheese plate are really terrific American selections from Saxelbys, but still, some bread and olives would be nice. Because wines like these need lingering over with some more nibbly bits to keep the wine company.

Bottom line is that the wine bar (no actual bar, by the way, more of a wine lounge) has adventure for the novice (in a romantically lit setting so no one ever need feel embarrassed), and it gives good drink for, well, the cynics like me.