Wine ignorance


My father was fond of quoting one of those bumpersticker adages: It is better to remain silent and thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. That’s all well and good for maintaining the appearance of wisdom but does nothing to dispel the underlying ignorance. I’m going to go against my father’s advice and state my ignorance of wine openly. I must defend my ego by noting that I am not a complete ignoramus; I’m just the equivalent of a tourist who speaks only English. I have been able to negotiate good wine experiences around the world, I just don’t have the proper language to explain it to a fluent wine speaker.

I’ve decided to take the art student approach: sit myself down in front of the Old Masters and just copy until I’ve got enough confidence in my own ability. A dozen years ago, on a cruise along the Western Coast of Europe we made a trip into Bordeaux and had a wine tasting at Chateau Margaux, which I took as a personal invitation into the enjoyment of good wine. So, in the spirit of returning to certain dreams and ambitions temporarily set aside, I’ll begin my wine training with a bottle from the village of Margaux, a 2002 Chateau Brane-Cantenac. The vineyard is considered to be a first cru in Cantenac and is classified as a Second Growth in the Classification of 1855.

The wine is a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon (70%), Merlot (17%) and Cabernet Franc (13%). A review from Steve Tanzer says that it is to be admired for its very forward, minty, apple character. Neal Martin says that when he first tasted it, it had a dumb nose and lacked complexity. Three years have passed since that assessment and he now says “the wine has a muted nose: cedar and cigar box with a touch of mushroom but all very faint. The palate has marked acidity and lacks harmony. Stalky mid-palate with some astringency on the finish. Disappointing.”

Although the wine really won’t be at its best for a few more years, I open it a half an hour before I plan to drink it, to age it some. This can’t reproduce some of the subtler chemical processes that take place over time but the oxidation can improve the flavor considerably. I poured the wine, put y nose as deep in the glass as I could and inhaled deeply, trying to detect the aromas of mint, apple, cedar, cigar box and mushroom. To my nose, the fruit evoked was pear not apple. Mushroom I could discern. But mint and cedar I didn’t find and unless the cigar box was made of leather then I couldn’t detect it either. The overall impression was somewhat astringent, a sensation that provokes a certain anticipatory dread ever since an underripe persimmon in Yerevan, Armenia once turned my tongue in and around on itself like a Moebius strip. Not a great wine but a good learning experience.

***My physical training for the 2007 Marathon du Medoc continues. I do not plan to run the entire 26.2 miles but plan to run at least 10, a limited approach that is heartily endorsed by the race organizers. The website warns runners that although the course is a sanctioned marathon, those who are serious about their racing times might consider another race as the guiding spirit of this event is health and sensory enjoyment. On the advice of my physical therapist last year, who was helping me recuperate from an injury to my knee, I didn’t begin running until March of this year but I’ve worked back to my pre-injury speed and stamina and have been doing a fair amount of biking for cross-training. I’ve signed up for a couple of events in August: a triathlon and a 165 mile bike trek. Work may prevent that but I’m training with the expectation that I will participate.

****Until I can locate a teacher for conversational French, I’ll work through the Lexique de la Vigne et du Vin, which I found at www.vitis.org.

Acescence: maladie du vin, appelee aussi piqure, occasionnee par des bacteries acetiques et qui tendent a le render acide. Cette maladie peut etre evitee en mettant le vin a l’abri de l’air. A wine disease, also called pique, caused by acidic bacteria that creates acid. This disease can be avoided during bottling when wine comes in contact with air. This inelegant translation is the best I can do for the moment with only an internet dictionary.

Mussel bound

Today I spied mussels in the seafood section of Central Market and my mind was transported to Normandy, where I first ate mussels back in 1993. Moules à la crème fraîche--mussels in cream sauce-- is a signature dish at La Mere Poulard, a restaurant near the entrance to Mont St Michel, the stunning Benedictine abbey atop a rocky mass, which rises more than 300 feet out of the Atlantic. It was there that my Travel Dynamics colleague Richard Koegl and I escorted a group of 50 tourists from the cruise ship Aurora 2, our vessel for a journey along the west coast of Europe.

It was a remarkable itinerary but with a singularly uninteresting group of tourists. Nothing seemed to animate them: not the story of St. Ursula and the 10,000 virgins nor a visit to Santiago de Compostela during Holy Week, not a wine tasting at Chateau Lafite-Rothschild nor the light that danced across the facade of the Cathedral in Rouen. They weren't discontent with the trip itself rather they seemed to have arrived laden with ennui. Couples spoke little to one another, even less to other passengers. They would express their appreciation for the lecturers and the guides, compliment the food but it all seemed perfunctory, as if they were just going through the motions, unsure of why they were traveling. Thank goodness for Richard and his sly sense of humor; it was a vaccine against the dispiriting anhedonia of our charges.

It was with him that I learned to use a pair of mussel shells as tongs to pluck the meat from the shells. Our tourists were reluctant to follow suit though, content to stab at each shell with their forks, perhaps reasoning that it was more "cultured" to do so. I sensed an insecurity in them that they might appear unsophisticated, an attitude that strikes me as endemic to many moneyed Americans. There's an attempt to distance themselves from the lawlessness of the hoi polloi as they strive for what they see as the sophisticated freedom of the elite. This focus on following what they think are the rules is like that of a religious convert, an attempt to establish membership in the desired group by strictly adhering to the outward forms and visible objects. It causes an ironic rigidity as they pursue freedom from bourgeois convention by embracing it with zeal.

Back to Moules à la crème fraîche; the dish is actually quite simple. I sautéed garlic and parsley in butter until the garlic was soft but not brown then added a quarter inch of white wine and brought it to a boil. I added well-cleaned mussels and covered the pan, steaming the mussels for 4 or 5 minutes. I added a large splash of whipping cream to emulsify in the broth. After 2 or 3 minutes the mussels are ready to be served with crusty—preferably slightly stale—bread to sop up the broth.

Take particular care to clean the mussels well, discarding any broken or chipped shells or mussels that won’t close completely under cold water. Ideally, the mussels should be left for an hour in salt water so that they release any sand or mud that they might be holding. Nothing can so abruptly ruin a mussel dish as when one of the mollusks disgorges its black mud into the broth, like a spiteful little Exxon Valdez did once into my otherwise gorgeous Bouillabaisse. Even after a couple of rinsings, mussels still might be full of mud so open each shell slightly and check before adding it to your broth. Barnacles are not dirty, in fact they add flavor to the stock, but some find them unsightly so remove them if the presentation of the shells is important to you. Most mussels have beards, also known as byssal threads, which do need to be removed. A sharp yank on the mollusk’s little soul patch should be sufficient.

Last year I found myself on a couple of occasions in Albania. The Greek and Roman ruins in Butrint are a convenient stop for tourist ships traveling from Croatia to Greece. The port of Saranda is abject, not surprising after decades of debilitating government under the paranoid communist Hoxha then a series of hapless post-communist leaders. The town itself is a hodge-podge of crumbling old concrete shops and apartment buildings interspersed with foundations studded with spikes of rebar, rusting in the salt air until another infusion of money allows the owners to continue construction.

The road to Butrint gives the guides little to narrate so we are told of Albanians who have gained worldwide renown: Mother Teresa, John Belushi and the developer of Viagra. We were also told that Albania is best known for chrome, producing a tenth of the world's supply. I now think of Albania's triumphs when I see a particularly shiny bumper: a kaleidoscope of the Saint of Calcutta, the Blues Brothers and priapic old men.

As our bus continued along Lake Butrint, we saw mussel farms. Recalling Moules at Mont St. Michel, I later told our local agent Spiro Angjeli that I was really interested in trying some Albanian food. He arranged for us to eat at “the best restaurant in Saranda” where we tried mussels baked in yogurt, lamb baked in yogurt, mint-flavored meatballs and a tomato salad. I hadn’t expected to be wowed and wasn’t. I also hadn’t expected that expressing interest in Albanian food would be perceived as a come-on. Not only did I have to insist that the end of the meal was the end of the evening for me but for the next six months I kept getting email, phone calls and packages of Albanian language lessons. "No, I don't want to run the American office of your Albanian Tour Company."

My friend Maggie, a nurse practitioner who worked for years as a marine biologist in the Bering Sea, refuses to eat shellfish because she says they are bottom feeders and could have high concentration of dioxins and heavy metals. She has good information and good instincts and I have since learned that Lake Butrint has been damaged because of illegal fishing methods like dynamite and poison. But despite her caution and my Albanian culinary ordeal, I am unable though to give up mussels categorically. I don't want to live in fear, nor do I want to be fool-hardy so mussels are now only an occasional indulgence, two or three times a year. I trust that North American mussel farms are monitored then just double the garlic and cross my fingers.

Cheers to the Missing Link!


BUDAPEST, Hungary (Reuters) -- Monkeys and apes at the Budapest Zoo drink their way through 55 liters of red wine each year, albeit in small quantities each day, to help boost their red blood cells, the zoo said Monday.
Budapest Zoo spokesman Zoltan Hanga said it was the 11 anthropoid apes who drank most of the wine in 2005.
"Obviously, they do not have it all at once and get drunk, but they get it in small amounts mixed in their tea," Hanga said.
"And it's not Eger Bull's Blood or some expensive wine that they are getting but simple table wine, as it's mainly good for their blood cells."
Bull's Blood from the town of Eger in northeast Hungary became one of Eastern Europe's best-known wines under communism.
Monday, May 22, 2006; Posted: 12:52 p.m. EDT (16:52 GMT) Copyright 2006 Reuters.

Ah, Egri Bikaver! Bull's Blood is a wine I drink with great fondness. For 12 summers- from 1991 to 2002 my friend Bill Hrycyna and I ran the World News Crews intensive English language program in Krotoszyn, Poland where I learned the pleasures of Hungarian wine, black currant juice and the superiority of German non-alcoholic beer (Clausthaler, in particular) to the swill that is typically sold in the US.

There was a time when Egri Bikaver was sold for 4 dollars a bottle as few people knew Hungarian wine and Hungarians were in great need of western currency. The Hungarian economy has improved and a lot of Americans have discovered Bull's Blood, either by drinking it there or trying it here. It has since doubled in price, still a great price for a very good table wine.

Cheers to the simian oenophiles! Now we know what to serve at Koko the gorilla's next art opening.

Spring Roses

I’ll confess to having avoided anything pink for years, a phobia induced by being served way too much white zinfandel in the 80’s. It’s not as if my love of rose was spoiled then; prior to that pinks for me were high school training wines like the insipid Annie Green Springs or treacly wine coolers. At the recommendation of Paul Gregutt, wine adviser to the Seattle Times I revisited my bias and tried his recommendation last week-- Barnard Griffin 2005 Rose of Sangiovese, a dry rose from South Central Washington.

Sangiovese is an Italian varietal from Tuscany, the name is derived from Sanguis Jovis, Latin for “the blood of Jove.” The grape was likely known to the Etruscans, who preceded the Romans on the Italian peninsula by at least 3 centuries and was brought to California by Tuscan immigrants in the late 1800’s. A wine with a Classical allusions and a New World success story; at only $10 a bottle, I figured it was worth a try.

Winemaker Rob Griffin characterizes the color as light salmon but bright berry seems a more apt description to me, particularly since my experience of salmon is still very East Coast- pale and chemically enhanced. The wine is fruity and round, with flavors showing strawberry and pomegranate. It closes with a lemony bite that comes from spending a day or two on the skins. It’s a lovely wine and only available in the spring. I’m glad that I tried it; I like getting my bias busted. I’m also looking forward to eating more real salmon.

Along with the Sangiovese, I also picked up a bottle of Anoranzo, a 2002 Tempranillo from La Mancha, Spain recommended by Steve, the wine guy at Central Market. Tempranillo has been called the workhorse and the backbone of the Spanish wine industry and I’m generally pleased by the structure and aroma that the varietal provides but, sorry, Steve, this particular workhorse was a slouchy nag. It’s clearly time to set aside budget considerations and start investing in the Bordeaux wines that I’m likely to encounter along the Marathon du Medoc route.

I decided to start with my namesake wine, Chateau Margaux, described mysteriously in several places as “the interplanetary symbol of wine.” Sampling this otherworldly wine will have to wait as there was no Margaux in the two wine stores I tried. Rather than drive around town, I decided to get a 2000 Chateau Greysac, a Cru Bourgeois Medoc instead. I then emailed Chateau Margaux, asking what makes their wine interplanetary. Perhaps it’s fate that I begin with Greysac, what I might learn about Margaux might rock my world.

Last weekend I volunteered to help out at the Seattle Cheese Festival, an opportunity to sample the wares of some 35-cheese makers from throughout the United States and Europe. Among the triple crème, washed rind and raw milk cheeses, I encountered a pleasant chevre from Amaltheia Dairy in Montana at the end of Cheese Row near the Wine Garden. What caught my eye was a sign saying that the cheese was made with milk from “Transitional Goats.” Felicity Huffman’s performance in last year’s film Transamerica immediately came to mind, so I asked suspiciously, “What exactly are they transitioning to?” I was greatly relieved to learn that transitional goats are those awaiting certification as organic not undergoing some sort of Frankenstein modification into another species.

The name of the dairy is taken from ancient Greek mythology referring to the goat that suckled Zeus as an infant on Crete, where he was born. When Zeus became “king of the gods,” he rewarded Amaltheia by turning one of her horns into the Cornucopia which was always filled with whatever its possessor desired. He turned her skin into the Aegis, Athena’s legendary shield and placed her image in the sky as the constellation Capricorn. The connection made me smile, as I’m a Capricorn, newly arrived in Seattle, which makes me a Transitional Goat too.

A soft cheese evokes art and history

I recently made a baked praline brie: studding the top with cranberries, pecans and brown sugar for a lovely final course to a late-spring dinner. Eating this soft cheese brought to mind a passage from Mary Bancroft's Autobiography of a Spy. , a book about her experiences working for Allen Dulles in Switzerland during the Second World War.

“When I entered the Nuremberg courtroom the following day, Von Ribbentrop, his face the color of Camembert cheese, was on the stand. He seemed to have no idea why he found himself in his present humiliating position. In his opinion, he had never done anything wrong."

Prior to mid-20th century, the role of the fungi that produced the rinds of Brie and Camembert was poorly understood and the color of Camembert was most commonly blue-gray with brown spots, more likely von Ribbentrop's complexion than the ghostly appearance he'd have to be to resemble today's pasty white Camembert.

When Camembert is fresh it is rather hard and crumbly; it acquires its characteristic runniness as it ages. The sight of a melting wheel of over-ripe Camembert is said to have inspired the runny watches that Salvador Dali depicted in his iconic 1931 painting The Persistance of Memory. Juxtaposing this painting with a picture of von Ribbentrop at Nuremberg would be an interesting meditation on Dali's Surrealist aim "to systematize confusion and thus to help discredit completely the world of reality." Photos from Gitmo or Abu Ghraib and a package of individually wrapped American cheese slices might also be included in this theoretical Cheese as Metaphor exhibit.

Marathon du Medoc
There was a time when running a marathon, scaling Everest and jumping out of an airplane were on my life’s to do list. I don’t know if it’s wisdom or inertia that has set in, but these youthful dreams no longer claim a place in my heart. An expedition to the Himalayas seems too arduous just for bragging rights among climbers. After giving up skiing because of knee injuries, a few moments of freefall are hardly worth the prospect of arthroscopic surgery. And pounding the pavement for 26.2 miles? Well, there’s one marathon that is inspiring me to reconsider. It’s not the prospect of meeting the athletic challenge but the prospect of food and wine tastings among the villages and vineyards of Bordeaux, France that has captured my imagination and inspired a return to athletic aspirations. The Marathon du Medoc meanders through the villages and vineyards of Bordeaux, France, passing 59 pedigreed chateaux, including my namesake Chateau Margeaux.

The official snacks include raisins, bananas and oranges but spectators and businesses along the route offer tasty delights such as pâté and saucisson. Aid and sponge stations alternate with wine tasting stands. Fresh-shucked oysters await racers at mile 23, entrecote steak at mile 24 and a selection of cheeses at mile 25.
The days before and after the race are likewise devoted to enthusiastic eating and degustation of the region’s renowned wines.

Registration for this September’s marathon has long been closed but aiming for running in 2007 will allow me to prepare fully: training my body and palate and learning enough French to truly appreciate the experience. My physical therapist gave me the okay to begin running again and I’ve worked up to 3 miles, where I'm comfortable for the time being. Most invigorating has been riding with the Greenlake Title 9 Women’s Cycling group, who are preparing for the Courage Classic, a 3-day ride of 162 miles through 3 mountain passes in Western Washington. I’m not certain where I’ll be in August but riding these past few Sunday mornings has been great fun: we’re up to 26 miles.

As to learning French, I have to confess some trepidation. My travels in France have always been very pleasurable. I have never encountered the haughtiness or scorn that the French are rumored to hold against foreign speakers so it’s not performance anxiety but rather a sense of bewilderment at French orthography. What you see on the French page is not what you get in the ear. The thought of being able to chat about the food with the other participants encourages me to take heart. After all, I can properly pronounce “The tough coughs as he ploughs the dough,” the English spelling absurdity. For now, I’ll practice the motto of the Washington Wine Ambassadors: Will work for wine. Je travaillerai pour le vin.

Mysterious Doings in the Elysian Fields

As all initiates must, I will keep mute about the Eleusinian Mysteries held by the Butler Hill Group at the Elysian Brewpub on Capitol Hill in Seattle last evening but I will divulge that we did choose the location based on the reputation of its zymurgy.

Assuming that all of the brews were of equally high quality, I chose my beer like a true logophile- based on the name.

• Not wanting to tangle with the Norse god of mischief and discord I rejected Loki Lager out of hand.
  
• The Wise, an extra special bitter dedicated to the Goddess Athena, The Immortal, an IPA dedicated to Zeus and Perseus, a porter dedicated to the slayer of the Gorgon Medusa all seemed a little too aggressive for the evening.
  
• Ambrosia refers to the food of the gods which conferred immortality but it was a little too reminiscent of the treacly dessert of fruit and mini-marshmallows for me to consider this Maibock. Besides, life is too much in flux for me to consider remaining here for all of eternity.

Finally, I selected an Avatar, a jasmine infused IPA, in the wild hope that if I ordered a divine manifestation I would get one. The beer was most satisfying; the divine in the meanwhile is manifesting in mysterious ways, as word and flesh decide which gets to become which this time.

Through the lentils darkly

Every time I make lentil soup it is with a heavy dose of magical thinking. I approach it with the same sort of childish faith that I have when I buy lottery tickets-- that perhaps this is the time I can recreate what was the most exquisite soup I have ever had.

It was an early spring evening in 1995 in Damascus, Syria and the tour group I was managing had been greeted and given their schedules for the coming day and I was finally free to retire to my hotel room. Exhausted by the previous day's travel, I didn't have the energy or the appetite to go out to dinner so I ordered lentil soup from room service and began to draw a bath. I figured a hot soup and a hot soak would drain my road weariness and allow me to fall asleep, relaxed and content, to ready myself for the following day's busy schedule of touring.

The soup arrived on a tray under a silver dome, a small lemon with a light cheese cloth to strain the seeds on a small plate next to the soup bowl. I squeezed the lemon into the yellow potage and stirred lightly before lifting a spoonful to my lips, a transcendent moment that has been firmly fixed in my memory like a pole star. This was the soup by which all others would be measured.

A recipe in the tourist magazine I got in the hotel lobby indicated that there was no unusual ingredient, a reassurance that I still believe. I think that it's just a matter of proper proportions and sequencing and that I have as much of a chance of winning the "lottery" as anyone who plays. I comfort myself with the thought that there are far fewer people making lentil soup then buying MegaMillions tickets. I'm not sure the lottery odds-ratio is really relevant in soup making but keep the faith that one day I'll get lucky again.

The word lens comes from the Latin word for lentil so I find poetry in the search to recreate that Damascus moment. What I seek are corrective lentils. Now I know the recipe in part and await the day when I know fully and am fully known. None of my previous culinary mistakes will matter and I'll sit at the table with my beloveds face to face and we'll all taste that divine broth together and thank the roads that brought us here.

The basic recipe can be found here:
http://fooddownunder.com/cgi-bin/recipe.cgi?r=2029

ABC's of a Mayday dinner

Artichokes, Bagna Cauda, Chicken Piccata
Trinity Oaks Merlot

Artichokes on sale at the supermarket inspired the menu. Marilyn Monroe was crowned Miss California Artichoke Queen in 1947. I lived in Monterey while attending the Russian Course at the Defense Language Institute on the Presidio of Monterey from March 1983 to March 1984. In 1986, the Board of Supervisors in Monterey County declared artichokes as the county's official vegetable. Causal links have yet to be established. The artichokes were steamed in an inch of water and lemon slices for 25 minutes. According to the California Artichoke Advisory Board, each 12-ounce artichoke contains an abundance of vitamin C, folate and potassium and a mere 25 calories.

We overcame the paltry caloric offerings by dipping the artichokes in a simple Bagna Cauda: chopped garlic and anchovies cooked in olive oil until the anchovies dissipated. Bagna Cauda is an Italian dip from the Piedmont area, translated as both "hot sauce" and "warm bath." Some recipes call for the addition of butter or cream. Parsley and pepper are also lovely additions.

Piccata is derived from the Italian word for pike or spear, as the flavor of the lemon and capers that some use, is piquant or spicy. I dredged chicken pieces in corn flour then sauteed them in a mix of olive oil and butter. Once the pieces were brown, I added a half cup of pinot grigio and the juice of one lemon until the sauce thickened then served on a bed of brown rice.

Perhaps we should have served Marilyn Merlot, a tribute to the Artichoke Queen but we had Trinity Oaks Merlot instead, chosen in true bibliophile tradition because of the label, which features three feminine faces on an oak, evoking images of

• God the mother, daughter and spirit,
  
• the 3 Graces--Beauty, Mirth and Good Cheer, associated with the Underworld and the Eleusinian Mysteries
  
• the 3 Fates-- Klotho, who spins the thread of life; Atropos, who weaves the thread into the fabric of our lives; and Lachesis, who snips the thread when our days in Earth School have come to an end.
  
• and the Maeneds, Dionysus' wild female worshippers, whom he turned into oak trees to punish them for killing Orpheus, the lyre-player who sought to bring back his lost love, Eurydice from the Underworld.

We raised our glasses of Trinity Oaks in a toast to those who seek the Golden Bough and the wisdom of the Oracle of the Oak Tree. In Vino et Quercus Veritas!