From December's The Feiring Line.
The rest is for the subscribers to The Feiring Line, the only independent, reliable source for natural, organic wines. How and what to drink and what issues you need to know about. --Alice
From December's The Feiring Line.
The rest is for the subscribers to The Feiring Line, the only independent, reliable source for natural, organic wines. How and what to drink and what issues you need to know about. --Alice
Last week there was a devastating frost in Burgundy and in the Loire and in Champagne. The pictures are so sad, life snuffed out just in the state of innocence. These are vines, not lives, but the heartbreak is certain. I have more to say about this, their survival and their strength but with this in mind as I think of all my many friends in France who were affected, I send my love and hope.
With that as the backdrop, I did want to share with you a story I wrote for World of Fine Wine on the concept of what is Burgundy........really.
and remember--for the definitive guide on natural wine, you do need to subscribe. As Eric Asimov said.
The night before Passover, about to dip a hunk of sourdough into olive oil, I started to smell a memory; hunting through the darkened house with my grandfather and a candle, a feather and a paper bag. In an inside-out retelling of Hansel and Gretel, my grandfather and I sought the crumbs hidden in corners by my grandmother.
That was very long ago.
I was as mystified as a teenager just as I was as a precocious baby.
The next day, I was in Long Beach with my mom. Just the two of us instead of the crush of relatives decades ago. We headed for seder #1 at the hotel down the block. At our table, the parents of a boy who used to have a crush on me when I was in Yeshiva at H.A.N.C. I hadn't seen them for twenty years ago, having bumped into them after gorging on onion rolls at Ratners.
He was pushing the walker, his mentation was far, far behind. She a still stunning--think Leslie Caron--survivor of Buchenwald. One of the evening's highlights, it certainly wasn't the food (Yes, I brought the Netofa red, it helped but I missed the rusticity of a few years back), or hiding the afikomen, Leslie told of her husband's paranoia, how he scuttles with his walker to look under the bed, then rushes to the window catch her lover racing away in their, 'fuck-mobile.'
I laughed unapologetically, wholeheartedly, mirthfully at her three-dimensional story telling. And she and she met me with toothsome laughter. It was a moment. My mother didn't know what to do so she went back to the gefilte fish.
That night Mom had a very impressive GERD attack. The next day she did not go to shul. The earth has to split for her not to go to shul. And when I visit her, the only way I get out of going to shul--which is always the goal is if she doesn't go. Spent from recent travels, still sick, I indulged in the cloak of the holiday and out of respect of my mother's orthodoxy, disconnected from devices. So, I slept deep and long except for getting up and rifling through the papers that still live in her dusty closet, always looking for who I used to be.
Letters. Papers. Diaries. They were psyche ripping. In fact, my seams are still torn apart. Looking over college papers I realized I couldn't construct a sentence or build a thesis or argument. I could't spell I still cannot.)
Was it my undiagnosed dyslexia? There I was left to deal with it on my own, back in the days when the dyslexic believed themselves to be stupid. Which of course I was. How could I not be?
I was the original "I'm faking it." I didn't write, I didn't build, there was no logic or thought process. I suffered, I was uneducated or was I merely uneducable? My ideas spewed like molten lava flowing and blobbing out of Mount Etna. That was me. If only they taught Latin in yeshiva instead of Hebrew, it might have helped. Instead skated on with that infant-like precociousness but by the time I landed in Stony Brook, I was lost and no wonder I danced, it was the only structure and discipline I understood.
I progressed on to my brother's letters. "Dear Mouse," he wrote from his hell-hole sentence when in Manila, in medical school. I forgot that years after I stopped being called Mouse, he still wrote to me as Mouse. I forgot that he used to also address me as Dearest Sister Alice---invariably followed by, you asshole, you shmuck, you... whatever and then the scolding of my inability to find a Jewish man or my stupidity of the heart.
You had to be there. It was all done with love.
I forgot how he played ragtime in the whore houses for tips and bowls of squid--he fed to the dog. How his roommate actually went to them, and how Andrew had to "jab his pimply ass" with penicillin when the roommate contracted The Clap. I would love to ask him about the whore houses, and why exactly he hated Manila so much---the days of Imelda and the shoes...so long ago. But he's not here. And the letters are a poor consolation but they help to deepen the layers of what exists of our connection.
I took my letters and even a diary which proved that I was far better writer when I was 14 than I was when I was a senior in college. I took my brother's letters as a testament that someone loved me and took me seriously, even if I couldn't write or think. But what I certainly excelled at was feeling.
I shouldn't care about who I was back then, before I became this thing, this wine writer, but I do. There's no going ahead without looking back. T.S. Eliot in all of his difficulty had the lifeblood in his hand, embedded in Little Gidding.
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
When in Verona on the eve of April Fool's Day I remembered a line I wrote in my playwriting days, "I wasn't brought up with me in mind."
Why? There we were in the Crowne Plaza in Verona, 50+. This was the welcome for all wine judges for the Five-Star and Wine Without Wine Awards. We waited for dinner, but first the intros from all. When it was my turn, all I could think of was that people were hungry and the introductions could take an hour. So I took it upon myself to be brief, "I'm Alice Feiring and I'm a wine writer based in NYC."
Stevie Kim--the energetic Queen Bee (Managing Director) of Vinitaly International--who invited me to organize this new wine award, must have been aghast. She ran up to me, grabbed my arm and said, "Oh no, you can't get away with that." And then she went on to introduce me properly. The basics: who I am and why I was there.
I'll fix it next year.
In the end, while my introduction bombed, the experience of heading up the world's first natural wine award proved to be a beaut. The Wine Without Walls, as I conceived it was not based on a numerical score but by unquantifiable, completely subjective parameters. But to be eligible the wine had to be organic and have no additives or adjustments--except minimal So2.
Here's how it went down.
After staying up bonding with my judges over some great bottles--such as--
--we, the next morning on April 1st, sat down at a corner table in a room full of wine judging and commenced. At my table were.....
It was a love fest. Pascaline Lepeltier from Rouge Tomate, Diego Sorba from Tabarro, Pietro Vergano from Convivium and Mike Bennie--consultant, writer and resident punting (drinking from the punt) expert. Each one brought another part of the puzzle to what it is we experience and talk about when we drink wine. I wanted a range of palates and view points, I wanted a range of technical training and straight from the heart reactions.
The first wines were oops, not that great. It's often that way. But there were some gems as we went along. Later in the afternoon we hit the school of wine fish. We reeled them in. One of them, 10.5 alcohol, silvaner from Franken, was sharp as a razor and refreshing. The 2007 trebbiano made our eyes rolled to the heaven. I kept my mouth shut, I had a good suspicion what the wine was. And it was sublime.
The Five-Star judges took three days, but with 76 wines, Wine Without Walls took eight hours.
We bonded over wines in a way I'd never experienced. I'd been on judging panels before but this was different. We were protective about the wines, we were upset by the interlopers that squeaked through. Yes, some of the wines that we rejected were yeasted, over-oaked, fine tuned. They went into the bin. But there was enough in front of us to do what we came for, to discover, not to judge. There were times we got stuck. But it was them I urged my team to go back to the guidelines. Emotional impact?
Evolution in the glass?
Sense of place?
I admit that when I created those criteria, I hadn't understood how they would work so well. They proved to be excellent guideposts to keep us on tract--even if a judge was wavering.
In the end we gave out 17 awards. And all of them were truly worthy. And what's more, I think as far as award winning wines, this was the finest collection of trophy snaggers I've ever seen. I was really touched that these winemakers entrusted us with their wines.
2014 Carfagna Ansonaco (Tuscany, Italy)
2014 Cascina Tavijn Ruché (Piemonte, Italy)
2007 Emidio Pepe Trebbiano (Abruzzo, Italy)
2001 Emidio Pepe Multipulciano (Abruzzo, Italy)
2014 Podere Giardino Lambrusco Rosato (Emilia Romagna, Italy)
2014 Ca' da Noci Frizzante Le Rosé (Emilia Romagna, Italy)
2013 Ca' da Noci Notte di Luna (Emilia Romagna, Italy)
NV Champagne Lelarge Peugeot (Champagne, France)
2014 DeMartino Muscat Tinaja (Chile)
2014 Pheasants Tears Mtsvane (Georgia)
2014 Pheasants Tears Rkatsiteli (Georgia)
2013 Ramaz Nikoladze Tsolikouri (Georgia)
2014 Iago's Wine Chinuri (skin contact) (Georgia)
2014 2Naturkinder Heimat Silvaner (from the hands of Michael Voelker, Franken, Germany)
2013 Radikon Slatnik (Friuli-
2012 Čotar Vitovska Grganja (Karst, Slovenia)
2013 Čotar Malvazija (Karst, Slovenia)
We left on a high, ready to head out to Bar Stella to plumb their wine list.
Outrageous, stupid. Oh those bureaucrats.
But let's talk about the French. We can be thankful that the French don't interfere on that level. But man, they sure are not perfect.
France's system is the big daddy of legislating what is allowed to be planted where.
They also have perfected the wine tasting committee to ensure wines that are qualified get the dignified appellation label to put on their bottle. Trouble is? They are constantly screwing up the notion of what is qualified.
Quite a few natural winemakers have been refused appellation because of grapes like menu pineau (hello the Loire's Thierry Puzelat) that are no longer allowed where they used to be, or for color and flavors that aren't cookie cutter. This has resulted in en masse defection from the AOC and the proliferation of the Vin de France, where there is more freedom but illegal to put the place--one of the most important pieces of information--on a label.
Some appellations are more lenient than others, such as the Jura and Alsace. But Burgundy and the Rhone? Hmm.
Just take the other week, two wonderful winemakers--who I drink as often as I can but who must remain nameless-- had problems. One is in the Rhône. He presented his gorgeous wine from a fancy northern AOC. His is one of the very few in the 'hood who don't bomb the wines with liquid tannins, new oak (on top of it all), velcorin, yeasts, etc. Alive, delicious. And? It was rejected two times.
Because of its color.
The wine was a comely, translucent ruby, instead of thick, viscous, cabernet-like ook. When he submitted the wine a second time, he just swapped his more expensive wine for his his basic Côte du Rhône of a more powerful vintage. The result? Parfait! And here you are with your nice label.
In Burgundy there was a similar situation from a winemaker who makes acclaimed wines. The Hautes Côtes de Nuits in question was rejected for perceived oxidation.
I tasted the wine in NYC a few weeks back and I can tell you, the wine was as solid and as free of oxidation as all of the previous sampled vintages.
These are not isolated incidents. This is not part of the mythology. These are all common. Not to be Trump about it, but it's true. I promise you this.
In the Burgundy case, the winemaker made it through the appeal process. Nevertheless, the winemaker is weighing the Vin de France options. The domaine is well known enough that the vigneron's name will sell the wine no matter what appellation.
But wouldn't it be a terrible loss if they lost these and other important winemakers? I mean isn't there something wrong with a system that encourages their Loire sauvignon blanc produces to taste more like New Zealand instead of the Loire?
Just think of it. What if you associated all of the Vin de France with natural and organic and the appellation wines with manipulated and market-driven? Is that really where the government wants to go?
So what is inevitable? Rebellion and change.
The rules about what a wine should taste like and look like should be reconfigured. Organic viticulture and minimal winemaking should be celebrated.
If some guidelines are necessary, keep them for unruly, screaming flaws. For example, VA to the point of vinegar and seriously heat damage. Wines that are terribly ove-roaked and over-sulfured, wines that are simply not drinkable.
In addition, education is needed. Wines made without sulfur should be judged by those who know how to taste those wines and have the vocabulary to discuss them. Coming soon will be a tasting in France of wines that had been refused appellation. What you will find should you attend? A collection of stunning wines. I promise you.
Of course one of the first responsibilities of a wine is too be delicious. But taste is so subjective that there is an essential need that the judges can taste. As evidenced by these two recent cases, I can surmise that many who sample the wine for the panels are not qualified to drink, let alone pass judgment on wine quality.
After all the French wine governance doesn't really want to become totally and completely ineffectual. Do they?
Am I being too much of a dreamer?
Like Vin Expo, the Grands Jours de Bourgogne comes around every other year. Unlike VE, this roving tasting---a celebration of the newly released vintages- which ambles through the winemaking towns of glorious Burgundy, tastes of the real. But I didn't know that. I have sworn off of most conventional cluster f* tastings for years. On top of that, I travel on my own to Burgundy several times a year. This might be why it took me so long to see how the BIVB handled their big event. Then they invited me. I went. That was March 2014.
If you decide to book your flight and reserve for the coming festivities this March, and if you're in the biz of Burg, you should, let me tell you what not to expect.
No bikini -clad models with trays of crémant.
No traffic jams.
No marketers showing wines.
There won't be a ton of those alternative wine tastings as there are at conventional tastings such as Vin Expo, Millésime Bio and the Loire Salon. In 2014, there was one "off," Les Affranchis. I hear that's on hold this year, in a move towards solidarity with the BIVB. (Let's see if that sticks.)
What you will get is the experience of tasting within view of the weeping (it is the season after all) vines. You'll find which wines are worthy for your store. You might pick up some new Burgundy producer.
For press, there's the new and the gossip, the snapshot of the vintage, in this case 2014 and the news on the 2015. And as I did, I stood in awe of the Asian buyer who was starting to tire of Bordeaux: Korean, Chinese, Japanese. Yes, they were out in force.
There are events for new talent, young talent, female talent and organic talent. There are the focused tastings spotlighting the villages. This is the event's spine.
The tasting starts up in the white town of Chablis, squirrels down to the Côte d'Or and then stretches to the Macon and Chalonnaise. Then it zooms back up to do Beaune; focus on Pommard and Corton--two appellations that do need a little help.
While the trade hall, Palais du Congrés is pressed into service, the key tastings, the ones that give you that moment of deep breathing are the ones situated in buildings hidden amongst the vines.
Some are held in grand venues, like the Vosne tasting at the Clos Vougeot. Some are more of the people, like the Marsannay Mairie. The Vosne tasting was packed with people who believe its Vosne or nothing. There was a pile up at the Mugneret sisters. On the other hand, more my speed Jean-Yves Bizot, had time for a coffee. My luck. Time for a good catch-up.
I have some advice for you; hunt the lower rents. Go and give the little appellations a little love. As happy and surprised as I was to find Jean Yves at the tasting, my time, for my reader, was better spent tasting the action over in Marsannay. It was there I discovered a fierce new energy as well as the soul-patched Giles Ballorin. That was the kind of thing I came for.
I also came looking for leads and gossip.
I found that piece off-site, on my last night, after the organic Burgundy tasting where I also discovered the groovy wines of Jane et Sylvain.
Still having never gone to Bar du Square (it's always next time) I took refuge at La Dilettante and as it happened, I bumped into quite a few people I knew, Marko and Niko. We sat and drank and drank and sat.
"Did you hear about the Marsannay dinner?" I asked.
After that village's tasting, there was a celebratory dinner. The organizers had snagged a guest of honor, the auteur, Jonathan Nossiter who was to show his then new film, Natural Resistance. A bold move. There's a lot of progress in Marsannay, the village still has a great deal of super-traditional growers and I couldn't imagine them taking kindly to the message of the film. The film was championing natural and natural is still a word not many people are comfortable with--even if they might work that way.
Turns out my friends had been there. "I heard it was a disaster," I told them.
They looked at me as if waiting for more of an explanation. "People were impatient. Wanting to eat. Had to sit through that drivel. People walked out."
My friends looked at me as if I was speaking Georgian. "Not at all! It was fantastic," Niko said, laughing. "People crowded Nossiter asking him to autograph their menu. It was an inspiration."
Things are changing. Truly. If you want to see that change, in the wine styles or in the people, or just understand what the hell the (wonderful) 2014 vintage is about, what you're going to buy and who is your customer, this is a great excuse to come to Burgundy.
The next edition of Les Grands Jours is March 21 to the 25. The vines will be weeping with life when you arrive and the air tinged with warmth of the coming season. In Beaune, there are few wonderful wine bars to visit, late nights and parties as well as low key times. Perhaps I isolated myself from an industry crush, but I found this event--yes--for the trade only--to be a make it what you want it, kind of affair. But there is wine, a chance to meander through the villages, and get a real grip on what a village's wine can be.
Why? Because Burgundy matters.
This is where the notion of terroir was born and where it flourished. It is about labels, about high prices but that's not all. There are real people who make real wines. Burgundy has been held captive by the collector for too long. My suggestion? Go and liberate it.
And where to eat and drink?
I was told that Pluto has finally moved on from my astrological chart, and I was safe. But the wine in my glass was pernicious. Was it Pluto's last gasp? Hah, and I thought that the widow Clicquot was as bad as it got. I was wrong. There was worse.
I am here to share a scary experience I had last night. Oh, given the devastation that can really happen right now, the tragedy of last night was a stupid minor one. Laughable, really. So keep that in mind when you read this trivial moment.
You know there are times when I show up and am not in control over what ends up in my glass. This happens even though I come laden with bottles that I do want to drink. Last night, three stood erect in the fridge,while all too quickly, one that I wanted to avoid was already in my glass. I was observed. A friend was waiting for my approbation. I turned my back, best not to be scrutinized.
I could not sip without tasting the scorched earth viticulture that still exists in Champagne.
This shit was all sulfur and sugar and bubble. It was cynical. It was false. It was a traitor.
Called a Brut it was sickeningly sweet, it must have had the maximum allowed 12 dosage. I now am positive, it is possible to make something called Champagne and for it to be grape free.
I discretely walked to the bathroom to slip the impostor down the drain.
Sham champagne. It was like veneer sold as solid. Like pancake syrup instead of maple. Okay, if you can't tell the difference between a sham champagne like the above and the real deal, does it matter? It does. Because the public is being taken advantage of.
If one needs to drink real champagne on New Years, and I do believe they do, there were bargains to be had for the first time in quite a while. Pierre Moncuit rosé was $31. The serviceable Brigandant was $27. Hell, and was a fluke, right after Thanksgiving I picked up the Vouette et Sorbée Fidèle for $44. One good bottle is a far better expenditure than three bottles of plonk.
When I reemerged the friend flashed a smile and said across the room, 1999!
I slipped, "That can't possibly be a vintage champagne," I protested.
He said, "Not vintage, the price at Trader Joe's."
Trader Joe's? Where's the Better Biz people?
Bottles like Charles de Marques are the ones that make me reconsider my conviction to stop writing about wine by 2017. Not because I so desperately want you to drink well. Well, I do. And I want there to be better wines and for people to care more for their vines in a responsible way.
But more to the point, it hurts me that people are snookered into buying crapola like this. Just because their palate's might not be discerning, does it mean that they should be deceived? Selling bottles like these feels like fraud. And if I stop jumping up and down on the apple crate saying, "J'accuse!" Who will? I'm waiting. Will someone please step up so I can go back to stories that made me a writer in the first place?
While I wait, I'm going to contemplate these events and the past and the future and celebrate the shooflying away of Pluto from my whatever. To help it along, I'll pop a bottle of Clémence LeLarge's, because sometimes we need to reinforce the real and the optimism in life.
Happy New Year to you all.
The EU has already dumbed down the organic wine market, making the way for organic additives. Now, they are headed for the natural. I offer you the next big wine thing.
Sulfite substitutions aimed at either reducing or eliminating the 'need' for the demonized element.
Since 2004 there's been EU bucks behind this research and the celebratory studies, products and eager additive salespeople are hitting the market.
Originally aimed at the rare customer with bona fide sulfite allergy, now there's another customer: the misguided who believes these products give them the path to make a natural wine.
In 2012 the French book, Les Grands Vin Sans Sulfites was published. Inside? Techniques for industrial non-sulfite wine. One of the products being flogged was a combination of 'beneficial' yeasts called Primaflora. Here's what a kid I know who worked on the research had to tell me about it a few years back.
Primaflora is the non sacharomices yeast/selected lactic bacteria/high on gluthanion yeast wall cells mix Mr Imelée advocates in his book Grand Vins Sans Sulfites. You prepare it like an LSA and you add it at the bin in the harvested grapes as soon as possible, then you encuve your grapes or press them and then you ferment. In theory the Primaflora (136€/500 grs) act as a biological fight on the grapes blocking brett and acetobacters. The thing works.
Pierre Sanchez, an enologist who consults with a lot of those working naturally, such as Patrick Meyer, had a different take on it. To him it's not so much snake oil as it is venom.
Primaflora is a mix of friendly microorganisms supposed to colonize the wicked micro organisms.
Ill let you feel the deep anthropocentric bullshit.
Maybe it works on grapes stunned and sterilized with napalm-like treatments, but in organic farming and healthy grapes? It is a complex bio protection monkey natural and effective complex ecosystem.
In other words, works? Perhaps. Expensive like the other options, yes. But ideologically, why add a mix of yeasts when the ethos of natural wine is native fermentation?
Because the natural world has been grossly confused with no-sulfite added. Towards the supposedly better, sulfur-free world, there's a tannin product derived from grape pips.
Another company is making a soup of enzymes staring lysozyme (a fairly toxic enzyme derived from egg whites.)
One California winery presenting their wines at the natural California winemaker tasting last November called Califermentation, has a 'natural' line extension of their more mainstream wine. Even though they make no mention of organic farming or no-additive winemaking they are happy to say they are the first to use a Swiss developed technology that's based on black radish--a heavy antioxidant (wait, isn't the grape a big antioxidant on its own?)
Then he went to the other heavily researched product that goes by the name of Sulphree, made by the Swiss company, Biomas.
Obviously the Protos is an extract of black radish!" Wrote Pierre to me. "With anti-oxidant power! It seems strange to me that this is even permitted by the oenological codex. This kind of products are often very often oenological treatments very expensive compared to the use of sulfur.Vendors of this type of soup sell an alternative product, (their message is) "You can not make wine without SO2 without replacing it with something.
But you can. There are plenty who do it and do it well. You can work well in the vineyard, clean in the winery, leave it out or reduce it to its bare minimum. You can leave the Campden tabs alone and investigate volcanic sulfur and use that gently.But was this the result of all of this emphasis on what is a natural wine?
Lower the sulfur or eliminate it, but make more conscious wine.
That should be the real #2016 wine trend.
If you care about drinking real natural, then you will want to subscribe to The Feiring Line. Just do it. #winetrend2016
Near the final scene of the new doc, Noma: My Perfect Storm, Chef René Redzepi--the seal fucker who won't let us forget it-- is surrounded by his staff. It was at the 2014 World’s Best Restaurant Awards and he's trying to stifle the emotion as if he desperately didn't want anyone to see. That is, how he truly desired that thing, that prize.
Angst-ridden Redzepi, thrice winner of best restaurant in the world, lost the the title in 2013.
There had been a bad situation, it was deemed a norovirus. Mussels were involved. The restaurant that pointed out new foragable corners in sea and woods, the restaurant that made Nordic Cuisine a thing, suffered. Even though the award was meaningless the first one wasn’t that meaningless, it changed everything. As he said “We went from zeroes to heroes… like that.” He wanted to be back on top, badly.
Graceful, ants perched on a cloud of cream.
Director Pierre Dechamps first feature length film captures the pain, the sorrow, the drive and the insecurity. He showed that Redzepi was not going to let a norovirus rumor sink him. Instead of total reliance on talking heads, he swaps it out for action and narrative.
This one: Boy gets big award. Boy loses big award. Boy recaptures big award.
It’s tried and true and works. Because who cannot relate to paradise regained? This longing fulfilled is primal.
For four years Dechamps trailed Redzepi, the chef, humbly born of a Macedonian immigrant and a Danish mother. Chef remembered racism. He remembered hardship. He viewed himself as an outcast in a society where it’s difficult not to be 100% Danish. Yet, Chef emerged as the creative force behind modern Scandinavian cuisine, whether moss, sap, ant and seal.
The film flags the paradoxes: the struggle between the t-shirt and chef whites. The imbalance between food for the people but served to the few. He shows a chef who sometimes cracks a charming smile. Dechamps balanced the tension, and pretension, royal and peasant. The moment where Chef is cooking for his son, breaks a yolk and says, “I’ll eat that one,” it lands with subtlety.
The director seems to throw more than one painterly and musical reference to the works of Peter Greenaway (from dramatic angle to use of Mozart and chorale).There’s some artifice, the slow and fast motion, but forgivable in the context of kitchen choreography. Yet, where was the drinking?
There is no wine or mention of its first wine director Pontus Elofsson or its second, Mads Kleppe.
I’ve gotten drunk with Mads Kleppe only once, but it seems like several times. I look forward to the next.While not an ingredient, wine and their controversial coffee program is an essential part of their restaurant experience, but how did they go missing in the film, even with a passing visual or mention?
The only drink on screen was a non-alcoholic one sipped from a hollowed out kohlrabi. Redzepi berates his chef who created it for its sugary simplicity. “Not just water with sugar," he scolds. In frustration he tries to explain the taste, “It’s just lemonade, man, it’s sugar and water …it’s beautiful, it’s pretty, but it’s hopeless.”
Chef casts a glance down. Then, as the kohlrabi is spirited away in shame, he does a double take as he says, almost as an aside, motioning to it, “But I’d like another glass of it," almost as he said to his child about the broken yolk, "I'll take that one."
Another glass? Yes, those are the kinds of wines he has on the list. The lists and the service is controversial (another piece for another time), but there are plenty of serious and vin de soif bottles. Those are wines were you think, I want another glass and another. Where were the people behind those bottles? They have stories, they have agriculture, they have wisdom. I wanted at least one of them.
Perhaps the connection between chef and wine is too obscure. But there were other connections to earth and sea. Foragers and suppliers were the piece of the film that provided pure emotion. Søren Wiuff stuffed his mouth with his flowery coriander. “René,” he remembered saying, “when are you going to use Danish coriander?”
Redzepi answered, it’s not native.
Wiuff responded, “It grows well here, it flourishes. His poetry was like so many that have sucked me into writing about wine, the connection to the soil and to the symbology of it all. Here, as with wine there was a man who grew and hunted greens soulfully. In his desire to bring coriander to Noma was another message. Redzepi was no different than transplanted coriander, who bloomed in the land of Denmark.
The man on the stage finally screamed out the best restaurant 2014, Noma!”
Redzepi walked to the stage, he pulled out a sheet and started to read. “Guys, we did it. Do you remember the opening they gave us funny names, we all remember the seal fuckers.”
The audience tittered with discomfort. They were not used to a chef using language like that out of a kitchen. “ Look where we are now," he said. "Wood sorrel conquered caviar. The seal fuckers were on top. My dear Seal Fuckers, let’s keep failing together.”
The film comes out on December 18th, in theaters Amazon Video and iTunes.
DISHES FEATURED IN THIS FILM IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Grilled romaine heart and summer greens
Apple on ice
Tartar of Beef and wood sorrel, tarragon and juniper
Bone marrow and spice flowers
Brown cheese and sloe berries
Duck, pear and autumn leaves
Pickled summer squash
Squid, fennel and broccoli
Beef short rib
Bouquet of greens and black ants dipping
Pumpkin and caviar
Fermented gooseberries and elderflowers
Pumpkin, barley and kelp
Potatoes, kelp and barley
Kohlrabi in Kohlrabi
Crispy reindeer moss, spice and crime fraiche
Onion and pear stew
Flat bread and grilled roses
Glazed pike head
Raw shrimp and ransoms
Crispy winter cabbage and samphire
Wild blueberry and ants
Sweet water pike grilled with summer cabbage
Cauliflower slowly caramelised and whipped cream
Sourdough bread, virgin butter, pork fat
Yeast caramel with skyr
Smoked quail eggs
Potato and plums
At first I was going to Paris on a whim--a friend was there for a conference, there was a FF ticket involved. I'd play tourist instead of journalist. Though I'm frequently in town, it had been decades since I played that role. But in the shadows of the November 13th events, I understood that I was flying to Paris to pay a shiva call.
One eats and drink at shiva. One mourns. One makes sense of the past and then realizes the future is inevitable. Finally one step is put in front of the other and life continues.
"Aren't you afraid?" I was asked.
It hadn't occurred to me. It had occurred to others. Out of self-defense I told my always-fearful mother I was going to Vienna. French friends said, stay out of the RER and the Metro. My flight to France was empty.
I landed into an quiet airport and a friendly city. Was that really a joke and a smile from the man behind the glass at passport control? Unprecedented.
With the Climate Change conference about to start the metro and RER were free. How was I to refuse such a generous welcome? I looked into the face of the weary passengers as we passed, and did not stop at Saint Denis and Stade de France.
I dumped my bags and guided my good friend to my Sunday morning ritual. The best cure for jetlag is the potato,onion best-latke-ever-galette at the north end of the Marché Biologique. But something was amiss. I heard no English, British or Brooklynese. There was no line at my favorite bread stall. You know, the one who has the pain aux fruits secs. The market had been returned to the locals.
The streets were stripped of its wall of tourists. Looking back there wasn't one couple carrying their Tonka Toy assortment of shopping spree. I saw no Asians struggling with Googlemaps. The city echo was loud when we snagged a table at Katsuaski Okiyama’s still hot, impossible to book, thumbnail of a restaurant L'Abri. True, the man who made the call has Okiyama's cell phone #, but still. Not a tourist except for me in ear shot.
The Clown Bar? A table available? Really? I asked my friends Robert and Renée-other Americans who had not changed their annual Thanksgiving in Paris plans. The resto is around the block from Bataclan, perhaps it was too close for some, such as a Parisienne friend of mine who lives in the 18th. I'd see her later in the week, near the comfort of her apartment. But meanwhile, eight of us met up at the restaurant.
We dined outside in the chill, under the warming lamps. There were tables inside if we had wanted them. I hadn't been to the small spot for about a decade, when the food was serviceable and the wines less so. The word was that under the stewardship of Ewen and Sven the resto had grown frosty. I felt no chill. Vegetarian, Renée and I mumbled as I waited for the arched eyebrow of disdain.
No scowls were forthcoming. Instead, only deliciousness. The milky topinambur soup, dreamy, seasoned to perfection, dancing slivers of mushroom and crunchy vegetable. Their chicken, white and buttery against the gamey pigeon, stripped off its carcass in front of me. I'm used to the paradox of sorrow and joy. It's the human condition.
American news reported that the French were taking back the streets, restaurants and cafés, it was their duty. This was not my experience. They weren't on the Canal. They weren't at cafés.
I did find them at the Batalcan, where there were a few other non-natives, South Americans. But no crush of people, more like a steady stream of thoughts, flowers and children. We stood in silence. No one looked at one another, taking alone moments with strangers.
I saw Paris tried to morph around its new reality. Guns poked out of police rear pockets. I couldn't help but think of unwitting tourists inviting pickpockets. Security guards at stores from Au Bon Marché to FNAC were ineffectual as they apologetically asked to inspect bags." "Unzip your coat," the motioned. I had to wonder, how would they handle finding explosives? 'Sorry Madame, you'll have to take that vest off. None allowed inside."
I sailed into the Musée Picasso. There were no lines. No wait. No buildup in front of glass cases. No foreign languages.
Paris was left to the French with few interlopers.
The tourists and the Parisian will come back as soon as the necessary denial and defiance snap back into place. But for now, Paris is in transition, to a place that has been alien to those of us who have already accepted a new world. When I left I could feel the city doing the necessary walk around the block after shiva and then next steps about to follow, even if shaky.
As far as making sense of it? That, I fear, is impossible.