Know What You Don't Know

In his new column on WineSpectator.com, Matt Kramer makes a confession that I imagine many, many people wish they had the confidence to say publicly: Despite years of studying Italian wine, and living in the country, and collecting and drinking its wines, he still finds himself confronted--rather regularly--with Italian grape varieties and producers that are unfamiliar.

This is huge for a highly regarded wine writer to admit anything but vast expertise in his specific area of the field--but there it is, right on the computer screen for all the world to see.

On a recent visit to the restaurant A-16 in San Francisco, for example--the spot is known for its extensive selection of Italian wines--Kramer “was handed a superbly flavorful dry white wine: 2008 Pecorino Colline Pescaresi from the producer Tiberio,” he writes. “I don't mind telling you...that I had never heard of the Pecorino grape variety, the Colline Pescaresi district or the producer Tiberio. Other than that, I'm an expert.

“Mind you, this Pecorino wasn't just some bland white wine mouthwash...This was really dazzling stuff, zingy with minerality and scents of herbs such as rosemary and sage delivered with an impressively dense texture. There wasn't a trace of oak, by the way, and none needed. It was a ‘where have you been all my life?’ white wine.

“Of course,” Kramer continues, “when I got home I raced to the computer to become a know-it-all about Pecorino. It turns out that the grape variety wasn't even isolated as such until the 1980s and that the first varietally labeled Pecorino appeared only in 1996.”

And so it goes with wine, as it does with music, film, literature: Only by opening ourselves up to experiences we’ve never had before can we truly be charmed and educated and won over in equal measure.

Last night, for example, we held a wine and cheese cake tasting at Wine Chateau Piscataway, and nearly every single person in the room commented on how they had either never tasted red wine and cheese cake together before, or experienced those particular wines in the past (Negro Amaro, for example, or a ripasso). So what was intended as a fun way to spend an evening actually turned into much more: An education, and an eye-opening one at that.

The wine world is so big, and so diverse, that it always--always--pays to explore previously unfamiliar territory. The rewards are tremendous, and often far more pleasurable than you ever imagined.

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Olallieberries!

My friend Scott Turnbull, sommelier at the excellent Fountain Restaurant at The Four Seasons Hotel Philadelphia, is a wine lover, pure and simple. And despite the prestige and high profile of his job--he manages, and pairs food with, one of the top wine cellars in the region--he is, at base, the kind of person who is in this line of work because he truly enjoys wine, and loves sharing that passion with others.

As a result, Scott, like so many wine professionals and others with a deep knowledge of all things grape-related, is often frustrated by unnecessarily baroque descriptions and formal tasting notes.

He recently posted an example of this on my Facebook wall, and it seems like something that all of us should read and rebel against.

Here it is, a description of the Pinot Noirs from Marcassin that appeared on page 42 of the July 31, 2010 issue of Wine Spectator:

“The Pinots deliver a beam of complex flavors with olallieberry, wild raspberry, porcini, and red and black licorice...”

Olallieberries?!

To which Scott editorialized: “My guess is that they may also smell like dreams, wishes, and rainbows, as long as we’re being hyper-specific.”

I could not agree more with Scott and what I think he was implicitly getting at: That specificity in wine writing is laudable and, yes, necessary. But when it is done in such a way that the language itself becomes exclusionary--when the references are so esoteric that none but an uber-select few members of some sort of gustatory inner-circle understand them--then their utility is diminished, if not completely undermined and destroyed.

Luckily, you could make the argument that this type of “purple wine prose” is on the wane, and represents the last gasps of a dying wine culture in which knowledge of, and comfort with, grape juice was used as some sort of stand-in for social status or cultural currency. Indeed, the democratization of wine--the fact that consumers from a beautifully wide range of professions, income levels, backgrounds, and education are, in varying degrees, exploring all that wine has to offer--has rendered this sort of language, and the exclusionary worldview behind it, so antiquated as to be practically irrelevant these days (thank goodness).

Now, I don’t want this to come off as an attack on Wine Spectator, which is still one of the best wine magazines being published, and a fantastic way for consumers and professionals at all levels of knowledge and interest to grow their understanding and stay current with the news that shapes the wine industry. It is, however, time that all wine writers (myself included), and the outlets that publish them, consider the ramifications of the words printed on their pages and web sites. A good tasting note is descriptive, evocative, and, in many cases, challenging to the reader--this is a good thing. But when it perplexes more than it enlightens, its entire raison d’être is rendered moot.

To be sure, wine writing should not cater to some sort of lowest common linguistic and experiential denominator, using only the most basic words and references. Indeed, I tell clients all the time that one of the best ways to increase enjoyment of wine, and to grow the range of words one uses to describe it, is to maximize the size and depth of the so-called flavor spreadsheet in their minds: Learn the difference between the aromas of a chanterelle and a porcini mushroom, or the similarities in flavor between a peach and a nectarine; become familiar with the unique and easily differentiated nature of the meat of an orange, its pith, and the oil of the skin.

And while there will always be flavor and aroma references that are unfamiliar to some (this is ultimately beneficial, as it forces consumers and professionals alike to familiarize themselves with them and, in the long term, likely increases their enjoyment and understanding of wine), they should at least be “learnable." I wander through farmers markets several times a week when the season permits, and am always on the lookout for new foods that I’ve never tasted before. But never once have I come across an olallieberry--and I taste things for a living!

It makes my skin crawl to think of the damage that a reference that impenetrably obscure does to the confidence of the budding (or expert) wine lover who reads it. Enough is enough--the woefully obscure olallieberry is one exclusionary reference too far.

NB: Wikipedia defines the olallieberry as “a cross between the loganberry and the youngberry, each of which is itself a cross between blackberry and another berry (raspberry and dewberry, respectively).”

Wow.

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Wine and Chocolate

I’ll be writing about Port and rosé tomorrow--two of my favorite wines this time of year--but for now I thought it would be interesting to focus on a pairing that divides people as much as it unites them in agreement: Dry red wine and chocolate.

Personally, I’ve never been a big fan, even with the best chocolates, of pairing them with dry reds...and even then I tend to be skeptical. Except for a very few instances, the chocolate tends not to bring out the best in the wines, making them a touch astringent. Still, some people are passionate about the pairing, and I thought that this would be a good time to include a video (this one is from the Wine Spectator) that discusses some of the details and strategies for making the most out of this high-wire act. It’s risky, but the rewards can be substantial.

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Holiday Wines: Thanksgiving Edition

Last week, as part of my trip to California, I made an appearance on "View from the Bay," the afternoon talk show on ABC 7 in San Francisco. The segment, which focuses on unusual wines for the holidays, is below, and includes two wines that are available right here at Wine Chateau, the Pine Ridge Chenin Blanc - Viognier and the ForeFront Cabernet Sauvignon.

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From The Chesapeake to The Four Seasons

Great food and wine go together, and lovers of one are likely to appreciate the other. I’m someone who believes firmly in the symbiotic relationship between the two: A great meal—for me, at least—is somehow incomplete without wine; and a great wine is often lifted even higher by the right food.

Readers of this blog know that, over the past several months, I’ve visited some of the most interesting wine regions in Europe, from Bordeaux to several regions in Austria. I’ve posted tasting notes, travelogues, and videos, and have focused primarily on the wines themselves, the production techniques, and the land from which they come. Indeed, the process that a wine goes through, from grape to glass, has been a recurring theme in my coverage here.

Today, then, I’d like to look at the other side of the coin and talk about food—specifically, a recent experience I had that was as profound and exciting as any food and wine lover could hope to have.

Several weeks ago, I received an invitation to attend a small lunch in the private dining room at The Fountain Restaurant at The Four Seasons Hotel Philadelphia. The General Manager, Harry Gorstayn—known to one and all as “Mr. G.”—is an avid and accomplished fisherman, and he had recently returned from Florida with a seriously successful catch.

From snapper fish and chips with a mojito aioli, to dangerously addictive kingfish quesadillas, to sautéed mahi mahi with mango pineapple salad, this was a feast in the truest sense of the word. And the fact that we enjoyed it with beers from Land Shark and Corona and a crisp, refreshing Arneis, all in what I personally feel is the best restaurant in Philadelphia (and I’m certainly not alone in that assessment—here is the link to the recent glowing review in The Philadelphia Inquirer) made it even better.

And as great an experience as that was, it was just a prelude, because a few weeks later I had the chance to join my friends from The Four Seasons on a fishing expedition to the Chesapeake to see for myself what went into a meal like that.

After a 2:45 a.m. meeting time in the lobby of the hotel (my wife and I slept there the night before to lessen the pain of the middle-of-the-night wake-up call; I got up at 2:00…she slept in while I literally foraged for food that she would enjoy later that week…poor girl!) and a two-hour drive to the Chesapeake, we started motoring out to the fishing grounds.

Our boat, the Jennifer Ann from the excellent Fish Fear Us Charters, must have had the best luck of any vessel on the Bay that Monday. Because within just a couple of hours, we had caught our striped bass limit of 13—two for every guest on board and one for the boat. The real pro that day was Farra D’Orazio, the hotel’s Director of Public Relations: Her almost preternatural ability to lure fish to her hook and lift them into the boat would have been a thing of beauty had it not highlighted my own lack of skill on the sea. (The fish are safe if I’m holding the rod!)

Also fishing that day were Mr. G; Rafael Gonzalez, the executive chef at The Fountain; Scott Turnbull, the sommelier; and Bill McGaughey, who shot a fantastic video (click here for the link).

After fishing our striped-bass limit, we headed out to find spots, a much smaller fish that’s perfect for the fish tacos that Chef Rafael does so well. And that’s when we hit our jackpot: 48 fish in what must have been some sort of record time.

Thoroughly exhausted from the early-morning wake-up call and in a collective state of deeply satisfied, food-based sleepiness from the sandwiches that Rafael had brought along, most of us passed out in the fresh breeze of our boat ride back to land, dreaming about what the fish in the cooler would taste like when we prepared them back in the kitchen two days later.

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Fish scales can move. You wouldn’t think so, but those little guys can really fly. So it only makes sense that, after scaling three or four fish, I would spend the rest of the day with gently shimmering hair, the occasional scale that I’d missed catching the light and sparkling like an odd-smelling jewel.

Upon arriving that morning in the kitchen of The Fountain, I was presented with a Four Seasons chef’s jacket, led downstairs to a tiled room with gleaming stainless steel counters, and introduced to Sang Luu, the restaurant’s expert fish butcher. He and Chef Rafael took me through the process of scaling, removing the fish’s organs, de-boning, and slicing the meat into appropriately sized filets—a skill that, like sushi-rolling or golf, requires years of dedicated work to master.

Once we’d worked our way through 45 minutes or so worth of fish, I headed upstairs to work with Chef Rafael on the lunch. The alchemy of great cooking—like great winemaking—verges on the miraculous. Just two days earlier we had caught the fish that we were about to enjoy in one of the most beautiful, elegant dining rooms in the country. And the transformation of those fish from jittery, flopping creatures on the deck of the boat to the deliriously delicious and perfectly composed ceviche with ginger; seared fillets with sweet corn, fava beans, cherry tomatoes, and lobster; and a steamed composition with tabbouleh salad and a dill-cucumber yogurt, was nothing short of astounding.

Then again, maybe I should have expected it: This was not just a seafood version of the much (and justifiably) lauded farm-to-table eating. It was, rather, something far more profound—a meal that I had seen through from its very beginning, on a fishing charter in the Chesapeake, to its thoroughly wonderful endpoint at a table in the dining room of The Fountain.

With great food, as with great wine, that kind of experience is as satisfying, and as life-affirming, as it gets.

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