The Feiring Line

Disco for the Wild Boar & Vinya Sanfeliu

We arrived in the D.O. Costers del Segre, after a harrowing ride where we lost one and almost lost me. I crawled out of Jose's vinomobile, leaving green Chris behind to sleep it off and with Jordi Sanfeliu, who was born and raised in this small hill top town, headed out into the hills, into astounding vineyards. Jordi has icy blue eyes and a warm, self-effacing way of being. Everything is felt deeply. "People farm with chemicals, it's a drug," he said in his vineyard, poppy flocked with huge shards, slabs really of limestone. "But people are becoming more aware of vinos naturalos." All around him are terraced wheat fields, deeply terraced. There are lentils in flower. Almonds waiting to fruit. He has always farmed without chemicals, no pesticides and the agrarian model is poly. His vines are soaking in the benefit of multi-culti and he even has a personal vegetable garden in the midst. And between the vine rows, are volunteer wild leeks. Poppies. Poppies. I wanted to lie down and roll. The dusk was coming slowly, like honey getting a chill. And then we ended up in a cherry orchard right next to the vines. Every tree a different taste. A different size. The night was falling faster. In the middle of the tree was a BIG BOX. It was quiet. Jordi kneeled down (maybe there will be an illustration here one day) and put this box ON. It blared music. The lights started to flash. Disco! He cried. The boars, such a problem. They eat the grapes, but when they trip on the cord the music blares. The boars run away. No neighbors around to complain. What a brain. You know, this reminded me of when my grandfather in White Russia told me of hooking up crickets to match boxes. Inventive. There isn't much to do out there. And Jordi works so hard. So do his folks. We left at nightfall and took over a house in a town that had one short road. We were drinking Jordi's trepat rose. The kind of wine you just can drink and drink and drink. No sulfur. Why? Read the next book. I'm not sure I want to give it away here. Let me just say he never made wine, he didn't want to use sulfur. He searched the net. He met Laureano. (stay tuned. more photos coming) I'm at JFK, at the bar, drinking a Hendrick's martini (pas mal) and just not feeling like going into it. Chris felt better, color coming back. All good. The next day, before we blew the day off. It was just too fantastic a little place to leave. Jose, Jordi and I went into a town to forage. We considered but settled on other meat bits and whatever vegetables we could scavenge. Heading back, we stopped in the vines to see Jordi's folks. Many of the grapes from these vines go into Frexinet of all places! His gorgeous fussed over grapes into those wines. I can't imagine. From all reports, I made a rather sensational roasted cauliflower, and we frittered the day staring at the olive trees, drinking trepat rose, sweating in the angular heat and pretending (or at least I was) that I wasn't an angst ridden woman about just about everything in life, The day ran like wild horses into the sunset. We drained the last drop of Trepat and left. Chris was restored to health. Bye, bye piece of heaven. 2007 was his first vintage. He never made wine any other way. Jose Pastor imports. Should be arriving on US shores shortly.

Gloria, Oriol, Berta aka Els Jelipins (part 1)

In the chapter, My Date With Bob, Mr. Parker and I had one or two rough spots. Oddly enough, Spain was an issue in both of them. Parker voiced his emphatic belief that Spain was the hot bed of originality because it was reclaiming many of lost vines and turning them into wines. He maintained that indiginous grapes were being celebrated all around the country. To me, most of Spain had lost it's soul. Now, to me, if something like Mencia is being tarted up to look like Syrah, that isn't saving much. Yes, it is so much better than grafting over to Merlot, if the right savior comes around to kiss the wood and make it blossom into its true self. But, I'm more interested in vine savers who are trying to delve into the mysteries of the grape, not to make it sing out of its range. I met an astrologer once (don't ask) who charmed me when he talked about the planets as if they were his best friends, when Pluto was squishing a Mars he felt the pain. The man transmorgophied planets, and I have come to see that the wines that I love the best come from vignerons who have the same relationship with the vines, such as Clos Roche Blanche and the 'old ladies' of Cot. The day after the conference, I waited in a parking lot under the shadow of the dramatic Monserrat for Oriol to pick me up. Oriol, with Gloria and the impossibly precocious Berta, comprise the winery, Els Jelipins of the Penedès. I climbed in and in ten minutes we were at the very vineyard I had noticed for its oddity the day before. "Wow!" I said. "Fantastic! I was wondering what these were, and they're yours?" These vines looked like spindly sumac trees. Turns out they are Sumoll, a strangely configured bunch of grapes, that barely is given a sentence in the last Oxford Companion. These are eighty years old and even though it's a grape that is native to the area, it is blocked from the DO, so table wine is what they make, pretty expensive stuff in the hands of Gloria & Oriol. So first a visit with Oriol.

I'm a Sangio man: Matt Steiner of Stella Fino

I didn't taste too many of the local wines when I was out for the lecture. The tone was set when Kevin and I met Robert Ames for dinner @ Brasserie Four. As promised Ames, a gentleman and a scholar, showed up with a Larmandier-Bernier 1996 Cramant. The depth and complexity, layers of litigation. Damn, it was so great that Allemand's 1998 Chaillot couldn't live up to it's patchouli nose. Under discussion was who was I going to visit? I wanted to revisit Caleb Foster of Buty. I met him when I was in Walla Walla in 2004 and had a good feeling about his future progression in winemaking. So that was in place. I asked Ames for some tips for my open slot. On the second morning of my visit, he picked me up and we raced along the road to visit some guy by the name of Matt Steiner. "Nice last name," he stated, with a wink. The name of the winery is Stella Fino. Turns out Matt is a thinker, a good wine maker and what's more he's got spunk as well as about 1200 cases and a day job. (sorry, bad and sloppy iphone) He left New York with his wife after 9/11 'cause he wanted to make wine and the wind basically blew him to Walla Walla. Well, actually someone at the enology school told him to come out. He did and didn't even last one semester. (Matt, if I got that wrong, correction please.) He had never been to Walla Walla. He just moved there. I'm still amazed. I am always in awe of people who pick up and move. Just do it. Action is so terribly sexy.

Steiner had a European influenced palate thanks to his dad and that's where he was headed, not to Europe but to refined. The results, so far from this self-professed Sangio man, is pretty. Think restrained Italian varietals with almost no new oak and no acid adjustment. 2005 Barbera seemed to be a great pizza wine. He's beginning to play around with stems and just experimenting with some native yeast. In fact, the 2009, native and stems has a little pickle but a nice cherry underneath (tastes better than it sounds) but with that lace of licorice is the kind of wine you want to discuss. $ is getting in the way of the lovely piece of land he wants to plant and tend. I say, this is a Steiner to watch. And after finally tasting the Harrington wines yesterday at the Bowler tasting, which I was greatly interested after the video, I have to say the Stella Fino are way more my kind of thing, enough so that I will be back to take a second look.

And the final day...

I was ultimately in the area to be part of a round table on wine homogenization. On the panel was a man often called the Michel Rolland of Spain. When our moderator, an adorable Cristina Alcala asked us, Ignacio as well as Cesar Cubillas, a rather simpatico wine importer, what are the components of great wine, Ignacio said, "Land is the least important." Then he went on to tell us about a viognier he made far, far, away on soils and in a climate that even made Ignacio wonder if planting the grapes and making the wine would disturb the natural order of the universe. A woman in the front row glared at me. She probably heard what I was thinking and hated me. It was her favorite wine. That night, Cristina, Rosa and Marta, all friends from Madrid went out to dinner. Remember this address, it was one of the best meals I've had in ages. Talent. Big talent. Casa Marcelo Rue Hortas 1 Santiago de Copostela casamarcelo.net amuse was frozen rhubarb, looking like a slab of tuna on crushed ice, all bitter, sweet, limey, acidic. A lovely alvarinho. Loved it. From Marcial Dorado,, previously a Galcian mussel fisherman and now a Portuguese winemaker. Perfect, salty, angular. And even though there was a parade of dishes, as there is no menu and Marcelo just cooks, this slab of shiny mackeral was like pure lardo in an assertive and smokey Pimenton sauce The next morning I left for the airport. Twelve hours and a few cancelations and fits later, I landed in Paris. Having missed my flight I was hosted by the Ibis (now known to me as the abyss) Ville, B&B. There are three Ibis at CDG. I went to all until I found the right one. As soon as I saw the desk I knew I was in for it. I could smell the critters when I walked across the threshold. I was carefu, didn't leave anything on the bed. I went down to eat--they give you free dinner and all. Great, I thought. I was suprised to find a very palatable celeraic remoulade. A decent pichet of quaffable cote du rhone. An odd place, it felt like an airplane even though I was on the ground. I left my nightgown behind. I had a sneaking feeling that it was the right thing to do. Two days later I was covered in bed bug bites. And am still watching and waiting to see if I brought them home with me. So far so good!

Galicia. Ribeira Sacra(Part 5). Hijacked

On Monday morning I, with the help of a local sommelier, headed out to see what I could see in Ribeira Sacra, about two hours from Santiago. Stunning. Steep. The hills have ghost vineyards underneath the brush. At one point before World War 11. the mountains were covered with terraces and now you can just feel the erosion. It's wet. The soil sags. And when you're talking about a potential 80 degree tilt to the land, disaster is around the corner. Even I began to think, perhaps it's time to retire this land. Of course you can't grown anything else on it. Vines can survive. It is not for wheat, not tomatoes nor potatoes. It is vineland. But I have to say I really was wondering if after centuries, as the Ribeira can claim wine back to Roman times, perhaps it's time to give the land and the farmer a break. I was happy to see this magical place, with rose quartz proudly strutting its prettiness in the vineyard. But ladies and gentlemen, I was hijacked. On the way up I asked my host, "Where are were going?" I admit, I asked because I was not trusting. He responded, "Where you requested." But first he had to stop, a wine pick up. The pick up started at 11am and ended at 5pm. He loved these wines. I did not. I was captive. There was no rental car in sight. I was trapped. The man, I cannot utter his name, because he was quite hospitable and kind, has a star winemaker. But wine after wine, from the garnacha to the mencia to the espadeiro (my new favorite grape) to the bastardo, they all had the same gritty texture and color. Tannins, I suspected. They weren't terribly tarted up but tarted up enough. "When I started out in 2001" he said, "people didn't understand these wines. They were looking for Parker wines. But Jay Miller gave these a 91 and that's the difference between Jay Miller and Robert Parker." Then we went to lunch, which iwas lovely, I must admit. A typical Galician soup of bitter greens and potatoes. A gorgeous fried egg. Why risk one's life to farm that land, laced with rose quartz amongst the slate, and fuck it up. I left my day, my only day in the RS, not having a clue what the soul mencia was, and this was my desire. Foiled.

Galicia; Rias Baixas (Part 4)

What's left of a home winemaker's 200 year old caino vine. He was wearing Sunday shoes and was wary of the muddy ground. As he tried to stay Sunday Clean he told us, "Albarino was never made in oak, it was always made in chestnut," he told us. The man's wine was terribly underripe, nice old vines, but still making wine for quantity not quality. It put the region's vinous history in context. Maybe as he suggested, they needed octopus. Honorio and Todd then ferried me to Forja del Salnes. The wines there are made by Raul Perez, the most famous winemaker in the area and farmed by Rodrigo Mendez, otherwise known as Rodri. Importer and all round fabulous man, Jose Pastor met me there, having flown up from Valencia earlier that morning. I was glad to see his cheery face. The best part of this visit was when Rodri took us to see a very special vineyard he started to rent. We piled into three cars, (these winemakers seem to travel in packs) and twenty minutes later we were at La Signora's who had always made wine purely for home use. Rodri seems to be the Tegan Passalacqua of Galicia. (Tegan finds old vines in peculiar spots for Larry Turley as well as Abe Schoener.) Like Tegan, Rodri's tail points when he sees a likewise pristine, old vineyard. And he found a good one. A great one. A star. We pulled up at dusk to a stone house, in the compromised light, it could have looked like a farmhouse in Walton. It was Sunday, and through the house's lace curtains we could see the family hanging out in some post lunch stupor. We walked into the backyard, with the alvarinho and caino vines pulled up on top of the grid, as if they were clothes being hung out to dry. It was too dark to see the soil, and I have no idea if the vines were farmed chemically, but I doubt it . "Look," Rodri said, "The subsoil is all granite." Yes. The soils was extremely poor, all vines were on their own roots. In fact, this vineyard had only been replanted through provinage--the method of sticking in the branch of one vine into the soil, as if the vigneron was stitching the soil. To my knowledge, I'd only seen one other winemaker farm this way. In Bordeaux of all places. In the north of Blaye. Dominique is a fanatic, on a mission and treats his vines like his garden. And here was the same situation in Galicia, in the back of a 72 year old woman's home. There is something about the soil being granite and the poles that support the vines being granite that struck me as truly holistic. "The vines give 1000 kilos per hectare because of how poor the soils are." I like Rodi. I like the way he talks about the soil. There was no doubt that vineyard with its 125 year old vines was remarkable, We headed into the winery in the garage, several ancient barrels, and La Signora's daughter who now makes the wines, showed us a few. Her 2009 Caino was peppery in that pineau d'aunis sort of red zinger meets pepper quality. Acidity barked, the fruit was very pure and pretty. The daughter is talented and in my opinion, the daughter of La Signora is the regions next star who has no interest in making wine commercially. Someone please draft her. Jose Pastor and La Signora's daughter. Back at Rodri's winery, we tasted wines from her vineyard. With more technology they just didn't have the life the woman's had. Case closed. If I had any doubt about the talent in those granite soiled vineyards behind the Walton-esque stone house, at dinner we had a 1964 Albarino from La Signora. There was a touch of old wood, like on Lopez de Heredia whites. But it had that edgy, mandarinity, just like I tasted in Todd's wine. I rest my case. Albarino is Spain's answer to muscadet. Keep it pure. Keep it simple. This grape on granite rocks (sorry, couldn't avoid the pun) as melon de bourgogne on granite sings. The area has terroir. To deny it and mess with it, as so many do, challenges my imagination

Galicia; Rias Baixas (Part 3)

Pergola, is the traditional way of farming the albarino vines and when walking under old vines, with thick barks and long tentacles, I can't get the image out of my mind that I'm walking under the legs of tarantulas. Todd in the vines his friend Honorio farms for Veiga Serantes. I disappointed Honorio, he had beautiful hairy crabs for lunch, we moved on to the next step, Lagar de Pintos Located in Salnes, the family has been producing since 1887. Part of the Domaine is set up like a museum to show what it was like then, barrels of wine fermenting in the kitchen, that sort of thing. But Marta, an oatmeal colored girl,thin with large orbular eyes, blue and serious took us to taste the wines. She does quite a bit of cash cow wines, didn't taste them, so I can't comment, and then the Lagar de Pintos. Marta had been making wine, like Todd, since 2003. She doesn't yeast but she does feed the buggers, if the chemistry indicates the organisms needs a boost. She also cools the grapes down quite a bit to 3 degree c. for 36 hours, and then destems and presses. She fiddles with the fine lees---20% of the wine rests on them, the others are separated. No matter what she does, the chick can make wine. The 2007, which seems to be a lovely vintage all around was deep and breathy, almost vermentino in its orange, and was quite juicy. With the acidity to match. Regarding her 2008, she said, it was the first vintage that made her cry. But I liked it. I love that wet wool quality and kind of edgy minerality. "It could be good to leave it there for a few years." she said. And I bet she does. On this trip I met people like Marta and Todd who are not in a rush to get the wine to market if more time is needed. We tasted the '09. and it was still extremely primary, bubblegum, cinnamon with a touch of silver. The big treat was the 1994. For the occasion, her father Jose, came to taste with us. I've often called albarino the muscadet of Spain and this wine is why. Shit. That was lovely stuff. As we tasted it Marta said, "I was 17 when this was made. I didn't know or care about anything other than boys and clothes." Meanwhile her dad was making a spectacular wine. Tasted now, it had a deep color from age, caramel, toast, almond and oxidized lemon cream and acidity that made me dimple. It was like an old house that had been opened up to wash itself in spring air. Did you ever read Hudson River Bracketed? This, my favorite Edith Wharton novel, has a scene where Vance Weston enters the old house, he is just about to meet Halo for the first time --she's reading in the houses library. I can feel the humidity from melting snow and the lilacs about to bloom and the dust seeping out into the forest. I loved that little wine and was so happy, albarino, good albarino can age like muscadet. Ah, what would the wine be like if the DO didn't require cold stabilization and ultra filtration? This fiasco started with the 1990 vintage because of the zero tolerance approach to sediment. It seems to me that abarino could develop a terrific marketing program; Calling all acid freaks! Of course that would mean it would have to be unfashionable to remove the acidity from the wine. An honest albarino is a lovely thing to uphold and it seems to me that the DO of Rias Baixas doesn't offer the wine much credibility for quality. It was 4pm and we almost missed lunch. In a panic, Honorio called a nearby restaurant and pre ordered. The food was simple. The freshest clams and sea snails and boiled octopus in all of its ink, salad for me --perfect tender greens. An unbelievable sole, Honorio dissected it perfectly. And the best surprise of all, the 'illega'l red wine of the area--Tinto de Barrantes. The wine is traditionally served in ceramic cups, which create a 'flower' as you drink, I imagine there's a flower reading tradition like one with tea leaves. But we sipped in conventional glass. The wine, the hybrid Folla Redonda arrived in an unlabeled bottle. It was 8% alcohol or so, tart and just delightful. I think it reminded me of the first time I had a dry Freisa. Tart and pippy. And illegal. This is an excellent address for warmth, deliciousness and authenticity. Tío Benito+34 986 710 287 Avenida de Bouza Martín 4 Barrantes, Pontevedra, Spain

Galicia (Part 2)

Because I liked Todd's wine so much and because it seemed as if he was a lone ranger kind of guy, I was interested to know what his Galicia looked like. I knew the commercial face, a lot of wine I couldn't drink. Gallo is rules there with its brands like Martin Codax and Kendall-Jackson is buiding a big estate --plantations are underway. I had been warned by the marketing arm that organic is very difficult in Galicia,so wet, I was told. See the celery green part of the map north of Pontevedra? That's the region, the Val do Salnes. First to his vineyards. Todd wants very much to focus on single vineyard albarinos. This was in his organic one--the kind of organic they say is so hard to do ;) in back of a church. The spongy, healthy soil---with diviets from the massive amounts of rain--was filled with thyme and mint and chunks of remarkable red/pink granite. I never saw this kind of granite in soil, gorgeous stuff and they were all around. To see them in the sun might have been exquisite, like TinkerBells in the vineyard. But it was as green as Ireland and as soggy. Inside his winery, in front of the Xoan vineyard, Todd took me through the wines, but first he had a sip of chocolate milk. Now, he's only been making wine since 2003, and is figuring it out. But he has talent. Definitely has talent. One of his odd ideas involves that chocolate milk --and yes you can say I'm a tease--go ahead--and that he often does not destem. Once again, I shock myself with my lazy notes. It is so hard to pull myself from conversation to write, if there was only a way to record my thoughts. Where is the iPhone microphone for the brain? The 2005 Bemil was extremely creamy on the nose and punchy with mandarin with a slight reduction, in a way that seems compelling, that note that I say is like halitosis--but in a good way. The 2004 Bemil had a bit of spritz, a cold metal finish and more mandarin. The 2005 Saiar was tangeriney and had some oxidation. 2008 Saiar, bitter arugula greeness with pineapple and the hintiest of tropical but NOT tropicale, if you know what I mean? Notes are silly. What's the point. Here's what's important. He's in the rarity of folk working with native yeast. All of the wines had brilliant acidity, enough to please acid freaks around the world, enough tangerine, mandarinity to mark it's difference and a freshness that is lacking in so many of the modern Albarinos.

Belly Dancing in Angers

After freezing our blood at the Dive tasting (coming up) and taking refuge at the Renaissance tasting in Angers, we headed to a party put together by Pat (of Domaine Griottes) where a woman was belly dancing up a storm. Blissfully grabbing recalcitrant winemakers to their feet. Annaick pulled the camera from my hands and trained it on me as Pascaline & Linda and I drank Clos Fantine at the time and tried to ham it up, failing miserably.

The Village Tart

News Flash There's hardly any good food in my hood, so when I passed The Village Tart on Kenmare and Mulberry I was curious. It sits oddly on the corner--crossroads of Soho, Nolita, Chinatown and Little Italy on the way to the Holland Tunnel. It was night, and the cafe glowed golden and siren-like. Inside, kind of cafe, kind of take out, kind of lunch spot, kind of wine bar, kind of romantic dinner hang. You know the kind of place you always want to happen upon? It occurred to me this fit the agenda--for tourist or for me, a neighbor. Unable to resist, I bought a piece of orange marmalade cake. I ate it for breakfast. Wondered why it was so delicious. The next day I went back and Pichet Ong walked in. Mystery solved. Full disclosure. I've been a long time fan of Pichet ever since my friend Melissa Clark wrote about his Kabocha squash pieand then hung out with him at a conference in Madrid. His palate suits mine. He likes clean, simple and is not afraid of heat and bitter. A rare chef who can do sweet and savory. their website Went back the next day. Carrot cake with a dulce de leche icing? Latte was tasty, if a little too warm. But they're barely up and running. The whole caboodle was Pretty damned yummy. Went back to dinner. It's actually ultra-cute, Balthazar meets art nouveau southern Italy. Given its location the clientele is the culture mix, who will be the regulars: that's hard to peg. There were a few Jersey wives in minks (in for their coffee--and) and some refugees from Fashion week who happened to stumble in. At the winebar there was a group who at 10pm had been there since 2pm. The lack of liquor license should save itself from a velvet-rope fate. Pichet rules. Those just slurping the coffee are missing out. The menu is Pichet's idea of comfort with nods to Italy; Sicilian inspired salads and Tuscan purity.Yes, there's a cannoli and then Pichet doing his own thing--always blending in a little bitter to the sweet. Amongst the big hits: halibut poached in a buttermilk --a delicate hint of dill, alongside spicy-hot spinach. Blood orange salad with crispy pistachios. 'Kashi,' salad, of perfectly pop to crunch grains, flecks of sweet caramelized onion and feta, and the salad of arugula with meyer lemon vinaigrette were favorites. Damn, missed the pizzette. Pichet sent out two unbidden desserts, couldn't resist. Apple galette resists being sweet. Sophisticated flavor. Ate like a pig and no food hangover. That's the thing about Pichet's food. He is so confident in his ingredient and nuance that he doesn't have to muck around with reliance on cheap tricks like fat to carry flavors. If you haven't noticed, this is rare in NYC kitchens these days. Wine? Assembled by Jerri Banks and it will soon have extensive beer list. They're looking to have several open by the glass. When I was there the list was limited, but the Lafarge Passetoutgrain ($13 btg) hit the spot. 80 Mulberry Street Desserts $8-$12 Salad & Soups $8-$10 Sides $7& $8 Wine BTG $8-$19