The Feiring Line

Excepting Alice

The dining hall was on the ridge above the mall with a gorgeous view of the placid, White Lake. That was the summer I would play GiGi. I would protest color war. I would have a huge crush on an unattainable boy. That was before I had morphed into a full-fledged shy teenager. 

During the summer of 1968  I was a prisoner in summer camp. In September, life as I knew it was about to unstitch.  I was preparing for my supportive role as one of the most miserable pre-teens you ever met.

Early into the season, another inedible dinner was over, and the sun was still strong. Outside the Rabbi's talked, the girls flirted with boy's who tried to get lucky.  There was a boy  I had noticed since I had arrived and had no idea how to talk to him. He was somewhat older and toiled in the kitchen. His long, dark hair fell into his eyes as  he played his acoutistic. He was a Cuban Jew who spoke Spanish, went to a military academy and he had beagle eyes. In other words, exotic.

 When I was little, at a bar-mitzvah in Pittsfield an accordionist had played Alice Blue Gown. But he had a much better idea, "Alice? Alice? Really, Alice? I've got a song for you, Alice." 

Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on - two years ago on
Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the
restaurant, but Alice doesn't live in the restaurant, she lives in the
church nearby the restaurant, in the bell-tower, with her husband Ray and
Fasha the dog.

The Rabbis  caught wind of our innocence, that there was something to mistrust about his singing to me. I was told to stop speaking with him, a perceived no-goodnik, and ignored them all, because it was just talk and song, and anyway, he had a real girlfriend at home. I was already dedicated to Phil Ochs,  Dylan but this pushed me deeper into a new world of Arlo and Joni and Butterfield, and soon to Blind Faith, which somehow brought me to the Holy Modals which somehow carried me to the Incredible String Band and the salvation that carried me through. And those Rabbi's would have stopped it all, silly men.

Soon after, I was thrown into full throttle hormonal change and family tsunamis. There was one phone call when it all started to crumble. And then a chance meeting on the pier a decade later.

When I'm 90 looking back on that moment, or just now, when the airwaves can't get enough of Arlo,  I'll always feel the way the sun on my face played off the deep longing. 

I am instructed not to bring wine with me for dinner tonight. This is going to test my ability to obey orders. 

VinNatur Zurich (the Nossiter/Bourguignon edition)

Veneto winemaker activist Angiolino Maule  took to the stage with an aura so intense, I saw him as the Clint Eastwood of the Western wine world. 

At the outset of the "Natural Wine, the scientific approach," tasting/seminar in Zurich last week, Maule briefly delivered an overview of his group, VinNatur. 

His members work naturally to produce wines of terroir, and wines that do not pollute the land or the consumer. To insure his flock behaves (and to try to keep the group safe from poseurs) he tests their finished wines for pesticides, herbicides and sulfur. If after three years those pollutants aren’t diminished, members get the boot. No matter how you feel about the biblical nature of the testing, it's Maule's group and he gets to decide who plays.  So no problem so far. In addition, the group is engaged in active research, how does yeast work, how does one reduce copper and sulfur in the vineyards.

With Isabelle Legeron as the day's MC, the day then commenced. First up, Claude Bourguignon. 

Down to the flashing fingers ringed in silver and his thick, wavy head of hair, the soil scientist is a royal. He is also a limestone supremacist  ("7% of the earth's geology is limestone, and 55% of that is in Burgundy."). His last name, after all is Bourguignon and the stretch of the Cote d’or is his benchmark.  

Speaking in machine gun fast English Claude's presentation had at its core the two types of wines, wines of technology and wines of terroir. Land should trump climate, he said.  

Besides the obvious, you are what you eat, it seems to me that there's another factor;  climate will change yet the soil is constant.  He then added, that the natural approach, the least intervention you can get away with,  is the only path to express terroir.   

As illustration, CB stated, "New Zealand will finally  make good wine when they stop with big canopy & irrigation."  (Note the limestone supremacy example. NZ has a great deal of it.)

In other words, perhaps if the New World listens to the soil first and stops with the meddling technologies, (especially irrigation which CB is violently opposed to), they will make wine that is true to their place.

His illustrative example was  of course Burgundy.

In Burgundy the cooler and higher elevation is in the Cote de Nuits and it is more suitable for reds. The Cote de Beaune is warmer and for some reason more suitable for whites. The monks knew what they were doing, as they made their decisions based on the quality of the soil, the quality of the mineral (limestone) content of the clay.

During the long day there were calls from the peanut gallery for a natural wine definition. For me it is sufficient to say, "Wines made with as little manipulation as possible, wines made with the goal of nothing added and nothing taken away." But others seem to either this is not enough or refuse to hear it and instead need a very detailed iron clad set of parameters.

Seems to me a set of rules would be a dangerous situation. If there are rules then one can get around it. How does one have rules, afterall, for a philosophy?

I kept on thinking about the  Dogme rules.  I loved Lars Von Trier's Breaking the Waves as well as  Thomas Vinterberg's The Celebration. Both powerful and brutal.  Dogme could well be the film version of vin naturel, especially with their view of chastity. Rules were broken from the first film. Some of the rules prohibit creativity. Though the ideal to create film with as little artifice as possible is an interesting one, especially in an artificial medium. The movement 'died' in 2005. 

The day was long and ended up with my past neighbor, Jonathan Nossiter (Mondovino) gave some random thoughts. He is eloquent. He speaks six languages (or is that seven) fluently,  studied ancient Greek, studied painting, claims Brazil and Italy as homes and frankly, makes me feel like the village idiot.

But the talk was a very good one.

Jonathan with some dejection said, "There is no room for film as cultural expression any more." And that was his lament, also about wine. As far as definition? It is useless to define. He riffed more on my dogme thought from another side of the film divide, saying, " Rules for natural wines, like telling the Italian film directors of the 1950’s, Rosselini, Visconti, Fellini let’s make rules for neo-realism. If you don’t make films in this way, you’re out of the movement."  

He then switched to the Nouvelle Vague, "We need to change our head, the same way that the films of Godard changed the film world. I didn't like all of his films, but  Godard made people question what is the basis of making the film. He turned narrative on its head and it makes people question what is the reality. There isn’t one person since, even conventional films in Hollywood, who don’t question what it is they are making, who hasn’t rethought what is a film narrative.

 The natural wine movement is doing that to any winemaker. 

 And with that we went off to taste the wines in the back room. What did I find.........(coming up next)

 

Comparative winemaking styles in Rioja

Last week Pep Roca of Can Roca in Girona told me he was appearing in a little tv show that would be of interest. Turns out it's a Spanish TV show  that drew inspiration from the Spanish Chapter of my book, The Battle for Wine and Love.  Even if you don't speak Spanish,  it's a fascinating comparison of the winemaking of Remírez de Ganuza  with that of  López de Heredia. This is a must watch.

 

Is the cocktail really sexier than wine?

Is the cocktail sexier than wine or is it all smoke and mirrors. Maybe it's the word, cock-tail. Maybe it's the uniform; piercings or the tattoos or the little bar caps, or the unkempt historical beards.  Maybe it's that tactile opportunity to hold a glass, or the sex-toy like bar tools. Perhaps its the flirtations with barkeeps, or the sultry whiskey voices. But in competitions --even in writing--the spirit (mixed or straight) is the victor. As I told Elin McCoy who lost the James Beard award to a spirit book a few years back, it's really tough for a wine book to win, the categories should be separated.

Not only is it for some reason sexier, but most consider spirit more  accessible than wine. Geeking out about the history of the cocktail is seen as everyman while geeking out about pruning techniques or stems vs. destemming is seen as patrician. 

I like a well-placed spirit. I delight in an Islay or Calva. But a mixed do? Concoctions are mostly too sweet and anything but refreshing. Mixologists, barchefs and bartenders rely too much on sugar the way chefs often fall back on fat, the cheap trick to carry flavor. I find the cocktail that can deliver what it promises is not unlike the politician who fails to deliver campaign platform when in office.  

The roots for my discontent might go back to my early suburban days when all was well and Becky jumping over the fence
was enough to keep me cheerful. But on those afternoons, early sips of parental high-balls tasted insipid. Martinis tasted like shaving cream. I could never cotton to the vanilla candy affectation of the cigar dependent Manhattan.

With age and experience I added a few recipes to my  quiver. I eventually warmed to the chilled martini, especially after Mr. Bowtie showed me the merits of drinking them wet, fifty/fifty, with aromatic vermouth. (One underappreciated drink if there ever was one.) My admiration of gin met my passion for champagne in the French  75. Love them. There was a time when I whipped up lip smacking margaritas . But ladies and gents, that's all.

While a little cocktail might be the perfect thing at the right time,  I just don't want to sacrifice my liver to a potent (and caloric) cocktail when I want to save organs and calories for wine.  So, if I have to  bow to peer pressure, and start the meal with a cocktail, I stick with a low alcohol and bitter Campari and soda. 

Sometimes fate has something else in store. That's when I met The Fall Classic at Gramercy Tavern.

There I was, drinking a big pile of crisp. burning leaves after dark. Drinking that adult cocktail, I was a kid kicking the dried leaves.  Not a bad blowback for me, the cocktail denier. Not only that, but bourbon? Was this my gateway drug to the spirit?  

After the second time I went back just to drink the Fall Classic I gave in to desire I emailed the Wine Director of Gramercy Tavern, the under-sung and uber-talented Juliette Pope, would she send me the recipe?  

She did.

 The Fall Classic. Juice and calvados. Where did this come from?  Layering in the flavors. Made sense. I dug into cocktail books to find out its roots. My favorite cocktail guy, Gary Regan said, congratulations! You're writing about cocktails! He was so happy, I didn't want to tell him, no no, it's just a one off to see if it's sexier than writing about wine.  (I've written about spirits, but never cocktails.) He sent me some pages from his essential tome, Joy of Mixology. While mixing calva and bourbon with citrus was common (he mentioned the Deauville from the '30's) the mixing with apple cider might have been a Gramercy T. original.

When looking at other similar recipes, like the Apple Sidecar, I realize that the GT version is far more sophisticated, the sweet flavors tempered by the dah or three of bitters.

Next step was shelling out the dough.

Gramercy recommended Bulleit for the bourbon. Looking for a good price I eyed the whiskeys at The Whorehouse (as The Owl Man used to call the Warehouse on Broadyway & Astor). I reached for the $34ish bottle and the guy next to me sneered, no.

Obviously he thought I had no taste. So much for the everyman of cocktail culture. But the Bulleit is less assertive, more about finesse than power, it was the right choice.

Over at Astor I was pointed to some dirt cheap calva but I thought, why not get something  for ten dollars more that I want to drink after this cocktail flirtation.

 Groult pays d'auge.  ($38).

I needed Angustura. They had a huge bottle at $24. I was getting cheap. I'd hit the supermarket, that is if the shortage is over. I could not leave the store without  pocketing the  Domaine de la Chevalerie Bourgeuil, (Cassiopée) for under $14. So, you use it was my own fault that by the time  I got the cider, the thyme, and the booze, I was nearing a $100 price tag and having a panic attack. When I got home there was a bottle of Angustra on my spice shelf! It was years old. But free. The price of the cocktail just came down by $20.

That was plenty elitist for an experiment and I felt extremely poor even if it was tax deductable. I tried not to fret or see myself homeless on the street, clutching my bottle of Bulleit and instead dusted off and scrubbed my shaker.  

It's absolutely impossible for me to follow someone else's recipe, so I added more lime juice and cut back on the sugar. The thyme syrup is a lovely touch, and I topped with a dried apple. I liked it, my guests loved it. I dumped mine half way through it, (anyone know how long bitters stay fresh? That might have been my problem, after it all, it practically smelled like the tincture of gingko in my fridge.) and then reached for the bourgeuil, where fake it as I might, my passion really resides. 

For me it was not as good as Gramercy's execution, theirs had more angles. Mine had more lushness. I prefer the angles. I added more lime juice, cut back the sugar. Hey maybe I didn't infuse my syprup with enough thyme. Maybe I underestimated the quantity of a bitter dash. My guests loved them, I dumped mine after drinking half. Then I pulled out my favorite bar tool, a corkscrew, and had myself an orgy.

Zurich, Naked Wine and Real Gamay in London

If you're at the VinNatur tasting in Zurich, please say hi. And if you're a reader of mine in London, come hang on Thursday night, November 17th. The event will be staged at  Soif, the newest winebar in London.  Buy a book, let's talk and drink and Q&A, and schmooze, because I tell you, Kate Thal knows how to put on a show. It's going to be terrific! And in the spirit of Nouveau Day, come and take back Gamay! The real deal for real people. 

Last random thoughts of Georgia

For the last words on that Georgian adventure:   I loved the native spring water,
so compellingly saline. Wild stuff. (The native water is always an intersting clue to a regions terroir for me)

The best foods were those marvelous clay oven breads, the odd wild capers marinated, the dumplings, the carnelian cherry juice, the vivid Matisse like colors of the table, the fresh herbs on the table for munching instead of chips, buffalo milk cheese, the feral tasting honey, the bean soup and the pickles. I couldn't bring myself to taste the river fish that looked too dead (look closely in that water photo.) I didn't see one piece of cake or cookie. This seemed wrong. I guess I'll have to go back. 

And the wines? I loved the best of them. Favorite grapes of their over 500 native ones are for the whites, Kisi, Chinuri, Rkatsiteli, Mtsvane. For the reds, Saperavi and Shavkapito.

The reds often have a gritty tannin I rather enjoy. Some descriptors? Prune, plum, spice, brick. The whites were; begonia, waxy, bee, rich, honey, spearmint.  Instead of what we're used to;wines with oak and wines in steel (or cement or..)  here the qvevri wines are; those fermented on their skins and those pressed off their skins. So you get one version elegant, one version full throttle, but still either or are expressions of the grape without added wood flavors.

On the night at Pheasant's Tears I was forced to drink from the wine bong, one of the traditional 'drinking vessels," not sure what exactly the purpose was except that perhaps these contraptions predated Zalto glasses. 

But bong aside, what was it about the wines that touched me?  John of Pheasant's Tears  summed it up this way, "There is no ego here. The winemakers job is to deliver the year's work in the vineyard directly into the bottle."

 From John's own Pheasant's  Tears,  
                                                                    to Iago's    

to Manavi    to Nikoladze's



                                   to Our Wine    and to this 95 -year -old man who cultivated vines he found from wild grapes and rushed to That Crazy French Woman and me to show us the wine he made from them.   

 

The truth of what John said, the comment about these wines made without ego, struck me; here in the wines was a humble quality. Yet, while lacking ego, were filled with husbandry  pride.  Of course, I can see it crumbling as winemakers eye qvevri wines from Friuli selling for $120, while theirs are mostly under $30. I can see the ego coming.

But right now, the wines have this purity. Even if they change as they seek higher price points and perhaps with that, more technology and reaching for more conventional flavors, I will enjoy this very moment, of their wine emerging; delicious and  innocent.

The week of my visit,  Americans in the wine industry were popping up like weeds. MWs, MSs, and even on the last day, at the last lunch, I was stunned to see Clark Smith, the winemaker/technician/consultant/teacher who founded the company  Vinovation. He was part of this group of tastemakers who were brought over as a consulting arm as Georgia prepares to bring their wines to the western world. I admit my first reaction was one of protective mother. I wanted to defend the country against MOX and revese osmosis. I had a difficult time hearing him reflect on the wines, and their flaws and their need for tannin management. Of course, that group was taken to see more industrial wineries as well, the kinds of which add things to their wine in their desire to be more commercial. Those were not my focus.

Whether or not he had a come to Jesus moment over there or not, we hadn't talked, I did hear that he softened and embraced the wines for what they were, simply pretty. In an email from a friend I head, "He said he was brought over to make suggestions, but felt that he had nothing to teach but a lot to learn."

If that is true, then Georgia is magical indeed.  I look forward to talking to Clark about his experiences, his impressions, and why he had a lot to learn.

'll leave Georgia for now, and get on with the rest of life and posts, but I wanted to leave you with one scene from the conference.

There was scientist from Germany who was studying yeast. She made the oft parsed statement that a wine made with only native yeast will be more complex than with commercial, but it will be more problematic because the bad yeasts might take over.

There was a flurry of noise from the audience , but one arm shot up before the other, he was the oenologist for the Alaverdi monastery. This man who bore something of a resemblance to Gorbachev, stood up. He was wearing traditional garb, a sword decorating his hip. As he started to speak his voice shook with such emotion, he accused her, as if she was a heretic, "Are you saying that G-d did not provide the grape with everything it needed to make wine? There are no bad yeasts."

I'm not much for religion. I ran from it decades ago. But I was struck, and continue to be struck by the connection the clergy of Georgia has with wine and natural winemaking. Perhaps it is a reacition of being on the other side of the Caucus mountains where wine is forbidden. When the Muslims pulled up the vines, the Georgians planted them. There is is more than just wine, but an expression of life and freedom. France and Italy and Spain yes, all of those great countries have wine embedded into their life and culture, but Georgia was the first time I saw wine as a connection to their lifeline.

 (For more of a Georgian Diary with good bits of detail, visit Tony Aspler's blog.)