quaffology

Ugni Says Shine Your Light on the World

2006-07-14T14:17:00.000-07:00

Last October, M. Quaff and I had the great good taste to rent a flat overlooking the habour in the lovely village of Cassis, just a few miles east of Marseille. A fishing village in the same way that East Hampton is a potato-farming town, it is nonetheless utterly charming and positioned in the most fortunate way among small limestone fjords called calanques, the hike to which is best rewarded with a luscious swim and a grand picnic. If the picnic was composed from the best offerings of the Wednesday morning market under the plane trees and includes some Corsican sausage and a bottle of wine from one of the most idiosyncratic caves I've ever encountered, it is holiday the way god intended. Did I mention that the hills rise up from town, terraced with vines, and that Cassis produces one of Provence's loveliest rosés? Which we will get to shortly. Less well regarded are the reds and whites, although if you ask at the Chai Cassidain, you will be recommened the Clos Ste. Magdelaine, and rightly so. The same question about rosé brings forth a rhapsody on the rosés of nearby Bandol, and then the mention of the local Domaine Du Bagnol. A long afternoon walk brought us to that very Chateau, the first and to date only winery we have visited in Europe, just as their tasting room was closing. Overcoming my accute embarassment, we tasted and admired — but sadly all the 2004 rosé had already been sold away! A bottle of white, then, in hand, we descended to town and picked up a rosé there. Today I am opening the white, it being a suitably beautiful Friday afternoon and me missing France. Holiday France that is. What an interesting colour this wine is — a greengold yellow. Alas if it were only so distinctive in taste! A sharpish tropical bouquet gives way to a short, tangy flavour, followed by that little burn you get from table wine at the back of the throat. There's nothing wrong with it, we put gallons away with the local seafood, it's perfectly refreshing. I'd serve it in a ceramic pitcher at a light summer luncheon and be happy. This bottle cost me about 11 euros at the local Casino (think minisupermarket). The composition is 15% Ugni Blanc, that workhorse of white French table wine, 35% Clairette and 50% Marsanne. Domaine du Bagnol is now in the hands of Jean-Louis Genovesi, the lucky git. That and the barely detectable sense of ocean breeze adds at least seven euros.

A Rosé is a Rose is a Rosé

2006-07-06T18:21:00.000-07:00

I learnt an important lesson today. Hamptons-bound for a hen-party weekend, I wanted to purchase a particular bottle of prosecco I had tried at a Friday wine tasting a couple of months ago. I had thought about buying a bottle at the time, since it was the most delicious prosecco I'd ever had and cost $14, but I didn't. Today I was informed that the bottles the store had then, in May, were the last to be had in the country. Next time, I'll pick one up. As an aside, the clerk mentioned that it was partly to blame on the bangin' business they've been doing this summer in prosecco, and rosé. Which helped gladden my heart. I've long believed that people in the US don't drink enough fizzy wine. Even I can't bring myself to open a bottle of champagne just because there's one in the fridge (I recently opened a perfectly unexceptional bottle that had been rattling around for a year, having a good enough reason to celebrate, and knowing exactly how silly it was to have saved it). But prosecco, cava, sparkling moscato, heck, sekt even if you're so inclined although I find it undrinkable, there's nothing that makes a little gathering more fun. Effervescence is infectious. And regular readers know that I am one of the city's biggest boosters of rosé. Which is why I am delighted to report that I am sitting here, on a warm Thursday night, the sun having just descended below clouds the same colour off our west-facing deck, with a glass of what may well be my new favourite rosé. For some years now, I've been converting non-rosé drinkers with wines that surprise them, have some substance and usually a dark tint, like Tavel from Provence and Xynomavro from Greece. I don't tend to pick up the paler rosés, fearing insipidness, but this is a midrange beauty. It's a Rosé de Loire (which has it's own appellation) from Chateau Soucherie, no year noted on the bottle although it is likely I am drinking the 2005. Now, I love Loire whites and I love the odd few rosé Sancerres (made from pinot noir) I'd had over the years, so this seems obvious -- why haven't I picked it up before? Because I've been seeing it in every wine shop in town. I admit it, I was wrong to eschew the masses. The very first sniff was a revelation, it smelled like gentle wild roses. A rosé that smells like roses?!? Then a very difuse herbal grassiness, also present in the mouth. The body is perfect -- not too light, not too heavy. It's a very clean wine, present without being assertive (my other preferred rosés can be just a bit bossy) and featuring some real minerals, which makes it marvelously refreshing and suited to a wide variety of foods. I had mine with some a raw zucchini salad made with oil-cured Morrocan olives, the season's very first proper tomatoes, basil and thyme, and it loved every ingredient. Particularly the thyme. Forget the moscato, I'll be bringing this to Wainscott instead. The wine is 80% Cabernet Franc and 20% Grolleau, with an unsually swelling hips-shaped bottle, and I paid $10.99. This family, famed for chenin blanc, has been making wine since the 1780s. Long enough to know what they are doing, and it shows.

Sin-so

2006-06-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Some years ago as part of our never-ending search for good value wines, we, well, M. Quaff really, discovered an incredibly cheap red called Les Heretiques. It's been the house red off and on ever since, juicy and lusty and just damn quaffable. Once, as we were standing in front of the bin deciding how many bottles to cart home, another shopper spontaneously started raving about the winemaker Andre Iche and his other productions. Watch, we were told, for anything marked "Chateau D'Oupia." Interestingly, a Swiss publisher with a house in the region, said region being the Languedoc, again completely unprompted, did the same some months later. I did once find a white, which, predictably, I remember rather disliking, as I would, this being a wine from one of the parts of France I know I don't appreciate (see The Curse of the White Rhone). But, roses are a completely different matter in southern France. So imagine my curiosity upon espying Chateau D'Oupia Minervois 2005 rose. Perhaps I should have been slightly worried that Iche's name is on the front of the bottle. Now, I've nothing against a little write-up on the back label; heck describe your wine as trucker-friendly and tell us your star sign if you so please, but the front, that bespeaks, shall we say, a certain self-regard not generally compatible with any of the finer human characteristics. Nonetheless, glasses were poured and the wine's pleasing dark pink tint, almost as deep at Tavel, admired. On the nose, all the delicious strawberry-rhubarb pie one could wish. It was only on the tongue that things went screwy. Now I'm a girl that loves a tart wine more than just about anyone you've ever met. I'll always err on the side of generosity towards a wine that would probably be best mixed into a vinaigrette. But this has almost nothing else going for it besides powerful acidity - the sort that burns the soft palate. A high 13% alcohol doesn't help. Searching in vain for a hint of cranberry, another sip takes the burn to the esophagus. Finally a little fruit is detectable on the very front, but it's just not worth the effort. Maybe it's the Cinsault in the blend; the other grapes make perfectly unexceptionable roses: 52% Syrah, 24% Grenache, 24% Cinsault. Should by weird chance you be even more of a vinegarhound than I -- and I'm someone who has been known to take swigs of malt vinegar for the sheer love of it -- you can pick up a bottle for $10.99. Which is less, really, than some of the cultish infusions I can replace in my salad dressings with this.

Curse of the White Rhone

2006-05-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

This will be an unusual post for several reasons. Firstly, I wouldn't normally drink a white Rhone. Mr Quaff is, as you know, very fond of the region's reds, and justly so, and I have tried with true spousal loyalty to find a white that I like from the producers we prefer -- Guigal, Jaboulet, anyone. Nonetheless, I find the whites from the region singularly unappealing, fat and blowsy, even the fancy ones like Condrieu, which is voignier anyway. Indeed, as I'm sure I have mentioned before, the one single glass of pleasing white Rhone I have ever encountered was in a wine bar in Avignon. Nonetheless, I found myself in possesion of a bottle of Domaine des Remizieres Cuvee Emilie Hermitage 2000. A bottle that cost just shy of $50 -- the other reason this is an unusual post. I've been meaning to open it for a while, on a night with a good home-cooked meal. The evaporation of a forecast thunderstorm and a fetching branzino at the local market conspired to make this the night. With a salad of dandelion greens, fava beans, and mint and a crusty whole wheat baguette, we had just the sort of easy meal we love to savour over sunset on our west-facing deck. And this wine. Which completely overpowered the meal. I admit I was rather expecting it to, but we had to drink it sometime. Still, this is a very full-bodied wine -- an oenological version of Scarlett Johansson's muffin-top in Match Point -- as is apparent as soon as it sees a glass. I don't think I've ever seen a wine this yellow, and to be honest it's a little offputting to sip something that so resembles urine. One sniff of course reveals it to be nothing so acrid, indeed it was very honeyed on the nose. In the mouth it's all baked goods, just oozing vanilla and butter. This baby has seen a lot of oak. Like the 1998 Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet I had by the glass at the Modern last week, it was noticeably more in balance with the rest of the wine's flavours, and I could understand why white wines are sometimes oaked and even how they might appeal to some tastes. But I emerge from the experience only more convinced that what I want out of white wine is tart leanness, not this rich unctuousness. Honeydew melon, which we both found to be among the dominating tastes in this bottle, is lovely to eat but less so to sip. This particular bottle featured mostly Marsanne with a small quantity of Roussanne, the two white Rhone varietals (the exception being Condrieu, see above).

Crafty?

2006-05-12T18:13:00.000-07:00

Friday night, dough rising on the warm spot on top of the fridge, onions slowly melting on top of the stove (is there a better smell in the world than onions speckled with herbes de Provence cooking in good olive oil?), you've guessed I'm making pissalidiere. Which I am. Naturally, you'd expect a report about a rose, perhaps even the headlining 2004 vs 2005 Domaine du Bagnol Cassis rose bout we've been anticipating since we espied the new vintage in town. But. No rose before its time, and the pissalidiere won't be emerging hot from the over for some time yet. I'm a firm believer that a glass of wine on the counter when you're cooking leads to better results, fostering a looser hand and a willingness to experiment. So an alternative was required. Fortunately, last week I encountered something totally irresistible -- an obscure varietal from Hungary, priced at $7.99. Now, there is some fine, fine wine coming out of Hungary; their sweet tokajis are justly praised. But weird cheap white? I've had some weird cheap white from Slovenia and Croatia, and been very pleased with the result (as must be the wine managers at Mario Batali's Otto, since from time to time I spot Marco Polo or Dancing Man Meritage on the restaurant's otherwise proudly and, frankly, overwhelming all-Italian wine list). And Turkey. And Lebanon. But never Hungary, so I bit. The grape is called -- I mean, come on -- Királyleányka, to get all the accents correct. Out of the fridge and into the glass, it's pale and light-looking, but under the nose, very taken aback, I thought I'd been served a pina colada. A quick look at the label shows a 2003 vintage. I'm learning an interesting lesson here, much as O Senhor is with cheap 2003 Bordeaux. A lot of heat on an undistinguished red can render it friendly; a lot of heat on an undistinguished white is perhaps less desirable. This is a wine that improved as the chill faded, but its acid still fell down the far sides of my mouth in an unpleasant way (how strange to drink a wine that doesn't fill the mouth, but sincerely feels relegated to the outer limits!). When the acid finally clears, there's a tarty finish, in the overly-made-up sense. I've had more unpleasant wines, 'struth this isn't as bad as all that, but I'm hard pressed to say when I've been more disappointed. The wine's name is Woodsman's Craftsman, it even has a flash website, and is clearly made for and pointed at what someone perceives as American taste. I don't read the research until after I taste, but in this case I wish I had. The marketing geniuses compare it to Chenin Blanc and Voignier -- a stretch, I think, as this is a clombering wooden clog of a wine to those dainty silk slippers, but I avoid both as much as possible. I wish to believe that there is, really, an interesting varietal buried in there somewhere, but I think I'm going to have to scratch this one of my list.

The Other White Meat

2006-04-29T15:08:00.000-07:00

I can't recall when I first heard of Aligote, but I do know that it wasn't long before my first grown-up trip to Paris a few Marches ago. The description lodged in my head -- Burgundy's Other White Wine, I was told, it was bracing and lively and Not Chardonnay. Okay, it was sometimes dismissed as crap wine only good for making kir -- which it is in the classical preparation -- but good ones could be interesting. Its own varietal, I was told it was the sort of wine I'd see by the glass in modest bistros. And so proved to be the case. I enjoyed quite a few glasses of Aligote around town, although not, naturally, in the Montmarte wine bar named Sancerre. I do recall one particular afternoon in St. Germain, a bright cafe clad in wicker and ferns, and a lovely glass of Aligote. I determined to make it a regular in my rotation. It's a good wine to know about, because it suits fish very well, and being not terribly well known, can offer good value on restaurant menus. O Senhor and I shared a bottle over a plate of oysters and local cheeses standing (because there aren't barstools, all the better to deter lingering) at the bar at San Francisco's no-longer-delightful Zuni Cafe. Alas I didn't note the producer, and I recall that bottle tasting just the littlest bit greasy, which one sometimes has the back luck to encounter with this wine. Fortunately, the bottle I have in front of me right now, a 2002 Bourgogne Aligote from Domaine Rollins Pere et Fils, is a treasure. I poured a glass as the late afternoon spring sunshine was drenching our kitchen, and as the light passed through it, the wine glistened with pale beauty. The nose is light without being overmodest, fresh and light green, bringing to mind nothing so much as alfafa sprouts. There is the barest hint of cedar, an otherwise overpowering scent that is here no more than a fading farewell. Hitting the tongue, it is acidic without being shockingly citrus-y. The fruit is closer to pear, underripe but still pleasant, bearing a hint of the tree's flowers, and there is a mellow herbal quality also, a tamed Italian parsley. It actively makes me want a fine, leafy, well-dressed salad. Yes, I like this wine...I like th'swine...I bought this bottle on sale at Astor for about $12, but in my experience Aligotes are more often seen at about $15 . At four years old, this is drinking beautifully, but I would be wary of the 2003s. I doubt Aligotes much benefit from hot weather and wouldn't be surprised if it engenders the greasiness I've disliked in them.

More Pizza Reds

2006-04-16T13:51:00.000-07:00

It's been a few weeks since we've supplied any news from the world of red, and that's all my fault. I've been mired in bad cheap Bordeaux (a topic I've covered already) and bad new-world Pinot Noir (ditto). The stuff I've been enjoying is also old news: chocolate-and-cherry-tasting light-bodied reds from the South of Italy.

Just arrived at Vino is a $10 Puglian red that I've never seen anywhere else. It's in the lower of the two pictures above: Gioia del Colle. Long, narrow bottle. Inside is Primitivo, Negroamaro, Malvasia Nera -- and also some Sangiovese and Montepulciano. The latter two make it a little less rustic than my other pasta-pairing favorites, but make no mistake: This is a table wine suitable for tables clothed in red and white checkerboard. I wouldn't mind a case.

The higher picture is of the basic red from Planeta, an up-and-coming producer from Sicily. We had the great pleasure of discovering Planeta while visiting Sicily a few years ago and have been delighted to see them succeeding in the States. A few weeks ago Planeta was featured in a piece on the newly thriving Sicilian wine industry in The Economist (you can borrow my password - just ask).

The amazing thing about Planeta is that they find happy mediums between the demands of the international market and local Sicilian winemaking traditions. The Segreta red is a blend of Nero D'Avola (the main red grape of Sicily - rough stuff for table wine) with Merlot and Cabernet. It's soft and round, and around $13 a bottle, yet retains the spicy, sun-drenched character you'd expect of a Sicilian export. The newly relocated and revamped Astor Wines added this and other Planeta wines to its formidable shelves. The white is an even better value. Elisabeth will tell you all about it, I'm sure.

Rose Cheeks

2006-04-13T16:55:00.000-07:00

Someday, I am going to have the Countess Tasca D'Almerita teach me how to cook Sicilian, using the produce from her estate and tipple her wines all the while. Just as Julia Child did, and just as the clever author of an upcoming book -- a tour of high-end, short-term, tourist-oriented cooking schools in France and Italy -- did. In the meantime, I'm going to make sure that I am good and comfortable with the viniferous side of the operation. Their solid Sicilian table wines (the estate also produces olive oil, grappa, and more distinctive wines) are sold under the name Regaleali, and to prove that these are wines which get some respect, I was once served the Bianco over lunch, the house's choice, in Modena. Which is in the north, very serious about cuisine, and very bougie. There are a few major-league producers in Sicily now, Planeta, whom we'll meet soon, being another, and I am consistently impressed with their consisently enjoyable basic wines.

Today I am opening the Regaleali 2004 rose. This is about the darkest rose I've ever encountered, vinified from Nerello Mascalese and Nero D'Avola. It looks bordello luscious, could almost be taken for a light pinor noir, until you smell it and all that delicious summer fruit wafts into your brain. There's some earth here too, and a bit of toffee, irresistible. A sip, and your mouth is watering at the full, rounded tartness in evidence. The finish is nicely long, and that toffee shows up again after a savoury blast of red currant-y goodness. A perfect aperitif, this could also sit well alongside heartier lunch fare, a fava bean salad, say (save the salad nicoise for something with a bit less body); and I can't wait to see what it does for grilled sardines.

Relearning My ABCs

2006-04-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

I recently received, as gifts, two bottles of Chardonnay. One is from California, one is from Chile. I never, ever buy myself Chardonnays from either country, in fact I almost never buy Chardonnay of any kind (even Chablis), so I thought it would be interesting to taste these two side by side. Basically to see if there was anything redeeming about them at all. It's not fair, I know, to charge these two bottles with reversing my opinion of two continents and one of the world's most popular varietals, but I figured they're likely to be reasonably representative. First down my gullet was the Mont Gras 2005 Reserva from Colchagua Valley. It surprised me out of the bottle, being pale greenish-silver, an unusual colour for Chardonnay, which so often looks like piss from a cat with kidney trouble. The aroma was also pleasant, with some peach tarted up with green apple. In the mouth, though, the dreaded oak. I admit I was looking for it and it's more restrained than some, but it leaps out over the initial rather nice fruit character and drowns it, lingering into the finish and, nastily, on the roof of my mouth. I grant that there is a certain freshness that's not entirely unpleasant, and if this sounds like your sort of wine, it can be purchased here for $8.99

Next up is the 2003 Distant Bay Chardonnay from Monterey. Oh how nice of them to make it rhyme so. This glass is rather more colourful, but less aromatic. It smells like nothing so much as paint. It's making my eyes water. Really. I'm not getting any sort of fruit off this. So might as well taste it. Right away there is a good tartness, but again the oak comes in over it and just drowns it. Is this what winemakers mean by "rich?" Here the contrast is stronger, the fruit is tarter and the oak's vanilla sweetness more pronounced. As there is above, there's probably a nice enough wine there, but it's trapped in a big, fat oak coffin. Interestingly, tasted next to the Chilean, the tartness is much more apparent, while the longer creamier finish of the Mont Gras is highlighted by the side-by-side the comparison. I'd imagine that the Chilean goes better with food, but I'm still never going to buy either. Should you wish to, it's $12.99 here.

My Pastime

2006-03-23T17:22:00.000-08:00

Always in search of new varietal stimuli, I recently picked up an elegantly elongated bottle of Bisson's Bianchetta Genovese from 2004, a wine the maker named U Pastine. I am more aware of Bisson's rose, which was suddenly all over Manhattan wine lists last summer (someone owes their publicist a big bouquet). Probably because it's somewhat more costly than your average rose -- roses remaining great bargains in general, much to my cheapskate joy -- and they could get away with asking $38 for the bottle. I drank my fair share, though, and thoroughly enjoyed it, so this white, from the Gulfo del Tigullio DOC near Genoa, naturally piqued my curiosity. A little research reveals a dedicated winemaker in Bisson's Pierluigi Lugano, a man committed to preserving local varietals and production methods, which happily for him involves living in Liguria, one of the most beautiful places I've ever been (beautiful enough that I didn't mind the fleas infesting my hostel bed or the smell of cat piss in my sheets). Many of the vineyards I saw were steeply terraced down to the sea, and I imagine the grapes that went into this bottle growing in such surroundings. The wine itself is light-coloured but full-bodied. A hint of pineapple on the nose grows into a strong herbality, a scent I've come to associate with Italian whites, but generally more Southern ones. Maybe it's the proximity of the sea. In the mouth it is big and tart and a tad rustic, with plenty of seaweed minerality, a touch of sulfur, and barest hint of young peaches. When summer rolls around, this is what I'll be serving with simple grilled fish sprinkled with a little serious olive oil and fresh oregano. It can be purchased for $18 at Brooklyn's Smith and Vine which includes the standard small Brooklyn shop's pass-it-on-your-way-home convenience markup.

Looking for Delphic Love

2006-03-12T14:00:00.000-08:00

That marvelous Astor sale a few weeks ago provided not only the chance to try more pricey selections than usual, but also an irresistible opportunity to grab cheap bottles for really cheap. I am always on the lookout for a consistent, reliable $8-or-less bottle to keep around for general quaffing, and have already written about a few of my favourite choices. Having recently become so enamoured of New Zealand sauvingnon blancs, I thought it worthwhile to explore the cheap end of the spectrum from that general area, ie. the Antipodes and South Africa. This Oracle Sauvingnon Blanc 2005 from South Africa cost a ridiculous $4.20 during the sale, and an easy $6.49 otherwise. On the odd occasion I've had white wines from South Africa, I've been relatively pleased; they are often good values on restaurant menus, and I remember with pleasure a bottle shared one night at Artisanal that cost just $26 and made everyone at the table very happy. However, I might have tried this one with excessive expectations. I found it thin and sharp on the nose. There was a bit of sugar on it, too, a worrying sign on a white. In the mouth it was fruity indeed, but the grapefruit was candied instead of juciy, and it lacked that last burr of grassiness that I look for in even cheap sauvingnon blancs. A simple wine, then, and perfectly quaffable, but for a dollar more I'll go back to my old French friends at Ferrande and Tariquet. A quick search online turns it up for $5.99 at Shopper's Vineyard, and at that price it's probably worth laying in a few bottles.

Late Winter Warmer

2006-03-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

Some months ago I had an opportunity to taste some of the most-renowned wines from the Cotes-du-Rhone, including a vertical tasting of Chateau Beaucastel. These were important and impressive wines, even the second bottlings, and we became fans. The family that produces these wines, the Perrins, also produce a very basic red and white that one often sees in restuarants. I'm not fond of white Cotes-du-Rhone (the only good one I ever had was on an afternoon stop in Avignon, on the banks of the Rhone itself), even the expensive ones, and the Perrin Bros white is not something I would willingly buy. Now, I've discovered, they have an even more modest line available, called La Vieille Ferme, the one above being a 2004 Cotes-du-Ventoux rose. You know it's modest because they sell 1.5 litre bottles as well, party size. Last Friday was about the warmest March day in remembered history, and in the mild air on the way home I suddenly felt a strong craving for rose. I should have specified somewhere along the way that I'm not really solely a white wine person, for I very much love a good rose. I drink it all summer long, and it is usually the wine of compromise when we're eating out and want a bottle to share. So I wandered into Fort Greene's new Best Buy Liquors -- formerly Ashland Liquors -- a large and curious shop we'll be mentioning a good deal in coming weeks, and what did I find but a lovely young French woman pouring rose. So I bought a bottle, $8.50 for the 750ml and $15.50 for the l.5 litre. This is an excellent transition wine; as you can see from the photo it is a deep, bold pink, really just a shade away from a light red. This is a wine with some booty, so your red wine friends will like it, and as a result it doesn't feel too light and summery to drink now. It smells a bit like raspberry boiled sweets, but that bothers me less in a rose, especially one as hearty as this. On the palate, it is all tart cranberries, with none of the other berry fruits one often finds in rose, and being a simple wine doesn't linger at all. You could serve this with pork, or you could if you eat pork, which I don't. Adam just brought a chunk of Cabrales around for my inspection while preparing an antipasto platter and I thought, yes, this rose would be a great aperitif with that. The wine is composed of 50% Cinsault, 40% Grenache, and 10% Syrah, all in a convenient screw-top bottle. I'm not sure I'll be drinking it in July, but for now, it makes me very happy. Rose in the glass, primroses on the windowsill, and sun that feels warm on your back. Spring is indeed close by. Also available online at wine.com for $7.99.

Half Amazing

2006-03-11T07:59:00.000-08:00

No, that's not an airline bottle of Bordeaux; nor are your eyes deceiving you. It's a half bottle - dwarfed by a gigantic jar of dijon mustard. Elisabeth goes through one of those in a coupla weeks!

Speaking of the wife, it was she who purchased the 375 ml. Brought it back from London for me. There's a shop called Lea and Sandeman in Kensington (there're also locations in Chelsea and Barnes I see) that has the best half-bottle list we've ever seen. Half bottles are more than twice as easy to pack in a carry-on bag, y'know.

The salesman Elisabeth dealt with recommended Chateau Meyney 2002 as an underrated Left Bank Bordeaux. I guess Sainte Estèphe gets overshadowed by all the neighboring First Growth action, which must draw attention like so many tremendous pots of fancy mustard. You can't see it in my photo, but the Meyney is labeled "Cru Bourgeois," which means it's in the classification system a notch below the entire "Cru Classé" hierarchy. Did you know that already? The other thing you're supposed to remember when shopping for Bordeaux (if you want to be a sophisticated European shopper like Elisabeth) is that the Left Bank is the side where they use mostly Cabernet Savignon. (I forgot that and had to ask when choosing the bottle of Pomerol I'll be writing about in a week or two.)

One more hifalutin fact before the tasting notes: The price of the half bottle was 10.95 pound sterling.

I liked it a lot! This despite a dominant note of oak barrel - in this case convincingly old, dry and clean. Maybe this is what a tobacco barn smells like. I didn't get much fruit on the nose, but without straining a bit could taste black plum, fresh fig and -- after it opened up a bit -- plump cranberry. The finish was surprisingly long for a young wine. I'd bet it was the classic Brodeaux structure that inspired the salesman to call it underrated. Nothing says "victory" to the value wine shopper like tasting a bit of what all the fuss is about without going through all the fuss.

Don't Mess with France

2006-03-04T14:17:00.000-08:00

For a long time I barely drank American wine at all. I never wanted to try new bottles for fear of ending up with something that tasted like a piece of Quaker furniture had been blended into it. Or if not that, then some other out-of-key note that calls attention to the winemaking process at the expense of the wine. My West-Coast friends might find it worthwhile to navigate this minefield (though I notice none of them drink California Chardonnay), but as a New Yorker I have as-good or better access to European wines. Not that European means better. It's just that the French/Italian/Spapnish/Portuguese/Greek/etc. table-wine traditions jibe better with my personal wine values.

My major exception is Pinot Noir from Sonoma's Russian River Valley. Almost every one I've tried conveys the humble majesty of grape and soil. Things between me and this Californian category were going so well that I got bold. I decided to branch out to Washington State, and to spend a bit more than I usually do for an American wine I know nothing about. Benton Lane Pinot Noir ($19.99) was the choice. I didn't like it. Too much oak on the nose, and on the palate. When it fades and the fruit finally comes through, the note is cranberry, which I like, if it's not quite so tart. I guess 02 was a cold summer in the Pacific Northwest.

I aimed to rekindle my love for Pinot Noir a few nights later. I guess I could've gone back to the Russian River, but I really wanted to stack the odds in favor of ignition. Thus: Burgundy. Parent's is $2 cheaper than the Benton Lane and about twice as satisfying with a steak. There's less of that playful raspberry note you get with the Sonomas, and none of the rich earth you get in Burgundies with names of villages on the label. Just light-bodied ripeness and a comforting bit of dust.

Parent Bourgogne is available at Olivino and online at Main St. Wines.

Oh Can't I?

2006-02-21T16:55:00.000-08:00

For the next few weeks, we'll be tasting wine a bit above my usual spending ceiling, thanks (be to heaven) for Astor Wine's monthlong inventory reduction scheme, er, 25% off sale. Where it really paid off to be a white wine drinker: while collectors may have cleared them out of major reds, the whites were pretty much left for the likes of you and I. I went a little mad. But there should be some fun ahead as I explore some of the classic French whites of Burgundy and the Loire, some enticing prospects from Austria and Spain, and some exotic new Italian bottles, such as Gulfi's 2003 Carjcanti. Hailing from Sicily, where the wines get better, and sadly more expensive, every year, this is a schizophrenic wine. I expect soft, honey flavours from Sicilian whites, due to the heat, but am often pleased by the balance they present with good acids cutting through any potential blowsiness. This wine takes it to an extreme. The smell is like walking through an orange grove a little after the sun has gone down, dusty, woody and gently warm, with a sense of lightness after the heat of the day. The first taste keeps you there, breathing orange blossoms. Then the oak kicks in and totally takes over, dominating and sending my brain little "eek" alarms. Just when I'm totally ready to hate the wine, a suprise turns up on the very long finish, pure fat lemon acid. It is 100% Carricante, a Sicilian varietal I have not encountered before; I agree with about half the flavour profile provided by the vineyard: The wine features a firm, fragrant and steely aromatic profile, with notes of grapefruit, almonds, anise and chalk. The wine shows tight and ostensibly young structure on the palate, framed by vibrant acidity, resinous white fruit and dusty minerality.
Granted, this was a 2003, which was an unusually warm year, and it may be less overblown in other vintages. I paid $14.24 at Astor, where is it normally $18.99 and where I won't be adding it to my splurge list.

Saudade Blanc

2006-02-14T17:29:00.000-08:00

Some years ago I acquired a cookbook, entitled Taste, that presented David Rosengarten's collection of recipes of things that, damn, he just loved to eat. Turns out my favourite dishes and his overlap a lot: gazpacho, gumbo, crostini properly grilled over a hot fire. As an appendix, he added some notes about wine (and beer, at the time I was very titillated to see him write that Rolling Rock has a fine place with food), and basically said that you can't go wrong with New Zealand Sauvingnon Blanc, especially the ones from Marlborough. Although this is now a cliche, the book dates from ten years ago, and it was daring advice that I took to heart, even ordering Cloudy Bay Sauvingnon Blanc at a memorable dinner at Union Square Cafe, the kind where you're 25 and trying to prove sophistication to your date and, more importantly, the staff. It's never done me wrong, but there's a world of difference between that and the pure, heady infatuation I feel right now for Kim Crawford's 2004 edition. I freely admit that I picked this bottle up because the Wall Street Journal's always entertaining wine columnists, Dot and John , chose this as their best-of-tasting a few months ago in a roundup of NZ SBs. And there's no argument -- this wine's sheer force of personality is irresistable. Featuring one of the most intense noses I've ever encountered in a white wine, the kind where I'm happy just to sniff and enjoy the foreplay without wanting the main event, it's a carnival of gooseberry (yes, I've actually had gooseberries in my life, I'm English) and grass. The kind you mow. In the mouth, it's bracing in that way that causes the two back sides of your tongue to water, and while offering alluring references to all the classic sauvingnon blanc flavours, from stone fruits through to herbs, it settles finally on passion fruit. I spent some time in Belem, Brazil, and became deeply, irrevocably addicted to passion fruit, ie., maracuja. I ate them as jam, I ran them through blenders with sugar to make juice, I sucked them straight out of their skins just off the vine tart and warm from the equatorial sun. I decided then that it was the single best, most satisfying flavour in the world, and have had no reason to think otherwise since. My one small caveat about this wine is that it is so domineering, so lusciously intense, that it might be too much for light foods. It would make sole disappear, and rather clashed with the contents of the the neapolitan escarole pie I just had for supper, except for the rich shortcrust pastry which it cut through like a samuri sword sharpened for seppuku. This is not the Sauvingnon Blanc to serve with goat cheese. I bought this for $14.99, which is less than you often see it for; it is until the end of this week $11.24 at Astor Wine, if there's any left after I get back there.

Blizzard of '06

2006-02-14T16:36:00.000-08:00

This post isn't wine related, though we were quaffing heartily during the first several hours of the big snowstorm. I took these before-and-after shots in the room wherefrom this blog comes. Sorry about the screen, unless you think it looks sort of cool.

Budget Bordeaux

2006-02-12T17:58:00.000-08:00

Every red drinker has a favorite cheap Bordeaux. How satisfied he is with it is inversely proportional to how much decent Bordeaux he's tasted. My means are modest, but I'm skilled enough at showing up for tastings to know that my favorite cheap Bordeaux, and yours, suck.

Let that be the context for this report on the better-than-average specimen offered by 57th St.'s Crush. We had a good time at this store. One of its owners is Drew Nieporent, founder of Montrachet and Nobu. A lot of thought seems to have gone into the selection - and the presentation. For example, the signage promoting the $9.99 La Grange de Grenet (not to be confused with Chateau La Grange, a much more common ten-dollar Bordeaux) was precisely targeted at hopefully skeptical cheap Bordeaux shoppers. Closed the deal for me.

And I'm glad it did. La Grange de Grenet 2003 serves up a wafer-thin slice of Bordeaux satisfaction. Rich tannins, leather and tobacco, sophisticated, shadowy black fruit...they're in there, and in harmony. You could pay much more and do much worse. Especially in restaurants. This stuff is so cheap, you can bring it to a mid-priced bistro, pay the corkage fee and still come out ahead. Especially if the bistro serves a decent burger. Way ahead.

The Local Primitive

2006-01-23T15:45:00.000-08:00

Here's the latest red fruit of my quaffological labors: a $6.99 Primitivo from Villa Fanelli, available only a few steps from my Brooklyn door. The purveyor is friendly Olivino.

Like the subject of my last post, this one is from the underrated region of Puglia. It gets hot down there in the high heel of Italy's boot, so in order to like Primitivo you have to enjoy bold, ripe juice. It's called Primitivo not because it's relatively old (though it's been cultivated for at least 2000 years), but because it plumps up for picking relatively early. Note that Primitivo has been proven to be an ancestor of Zinfindel - we're talking about pretty much the grapeist of the grapey. Expensive Primitivos (I've seen some above $50) smell like pure essense of raisin.

It seems every wine shop in New York has a $10 Primitivo inferior to Villa Fanelli's (Olivino's competitor The Greene Grape, for example). What makes the cheaper option better is its modest table-wine structure. No oak-aged pretensions here. You get that blast of liquid Smucker's while you're quaffing, but then a bracingly dry burn after the swallow. Sets up that next bite of falafel sandwich just beautifully. (By the way, did you know that there's an Italian version of falafel? It's called panelle and it's from Sicily. You can get them at Ferdinando's, or out in Bensonhurst.) I'm tempted to say it's a beer-drinker's wine, but I think it's more accurate (if less economical) to call it a wine-drinker's wine for what might otherwise be a beer-drinking situation. Y'know: one to have when you're having more than one.

All you poor souls who don't live in New York City but aren't so unfortunate that your state prohibits online wine buying can get Villa Fanelli Primitivo for $7.99/bottle here.

More Fun Than a Xarel-lo Monkeys

2006-01-22T16:14:00.000-08:00

Xarel-lo. Is there another grape with a name so evocative? It makes me think of lost Mayan cities, opium den dreams, princesses beloved of Mongol hordes. Pure exoticisim. I first heard of it on a recent visit to Barcelona, nearby where a great deal must be grown because it's tossed into everything, like wild fennel in Sicily. One night, it was the tasty surprise in a bottle of Sauvingon Blanc (Jean Leon Terrasola 2003, eur. 12.60 over dinner at Origen 99.9%). Everywhere else, it was a vital ingredient in the cava I was slurping down with grand abandon. So it proved irrestistible when I espied a bottle of the varietal, CastellRoig's 2004, $13.99 at midtown's wisely-named Crush (I'm blushing just to think of how fanciable a shop it is). This is one of those wines in which aroma and taste match perfectly. Delicate but with a notable sense of toasted nuts--possibly what it brings to the blends that become cava--and bright green apples, it brought to mind something I've heard about pigs intended for top chefs feasting on a diet of nuts, chestnuts, and apples before slaughter. Being a Penedes wine, there's no chance you don't think immediately of almonds and ham to serve with this, but it is an irresistible combination. If you swirl it you'll produce miniscule bubbles that you wouldn't otherwise notice. The perfect next step after that aperitif bottle of cava.

Ranting and Riesling

2006-01-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

I have to admit I have riesling fatique even though I almost never drink the stuff. I am so, so tired of being told that it is the perfect answer to any wine situation. What to drink with spicy food. How to broaden the palate of your mom who only drinks white zinfandel. Well, I'm here to tell you that it is far from all that. It's got its moments, but don't let anyone try to tell you, as so many do, that it's not sweet. There's nothing wrong with sweet wine, or liking sweet wine, but there's something about the way that riesling's sweetness is often described as something else that I find irritating. I should qualify this by specifying that I am talking about the bulk of rieslings I've had in this country, be they from Alsace, Australia, Germany or New York. I have, on rare occasions and mostly in Germany, encountered incredibly acidic rieslings -- I spend a lot of time in Frankfurt asking young men carrying trays around cocktail parties for a "weiss wien, bitte"-- and I really don't understand why I can't turn up similar wines here. From time to time, brainwashed by yet another newspaper piece into giving riesling a go, I'll try, but no matter how studiously I dig for the right sort of trocken, I never find anything that tastes much different from the Saint M 2004, from Pfalz, Germany, I have sitting in front of me. It does, I'll grant, smell delicious, all honeysuckle, apricots and early summer. It has a pleasingly light body, a little less alcohol, and evokes nothing so much as slightly underripe peaches in the mouth (a teeny bit of acid appears at the end, but I wouldn't go so far as to mistake it for the advertised "crisp minerality"). But I never want more than one glass, and I certainly don't want it anywhere near the sort of boldy-seasoned Mediterranean vegetables I eat. Or the cheese, olives, nuts and crakers I snack on. Or the seafood I prepare on special nights. Or the dried fruit I serve at the end of a meal. God forbid this wine see red meat.

A thank you must be posted to my sister, who graciously enrolled us in a wine of the month club, from which this bottle came, and had the great good taste to make sure it wasn't a Californian one. And, as the exception that proves the rule, if you ever have a chance to try Plantagenet riesling from Australia, do so; I had either a 2003 or 2002 in a New York's Craftbar (an establishment in which I've made any number of happy discoveries). I could remove my nail varnish with that wine. Yes, that is a compliment.

Puglia? Boo-Ya!

2006-01-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

I share my wife's enthusiasm for the treasure trove that is Vino, Manhattan's great Italian wine resource. I've never seen another American shop with anything like its selection of Southern Italian reds. This is one of my favorites, from the Salento Peninsula in Puglia. That's the heal of the boot. No surprise to find great Puglian wine at Vino; the family that runs the affiliated restaurant across the street, I Trulli, is from the region.

Conti Zecca's "Cantalupi" Salice Salento Riserva ($18 at Vino) is 80% Negroamaro. It's much softer than the many rustic reds that feature this grape and leave no question as to why Puglians named it "blackbitter." The other 20% is Malvasia Nera, famed for its aromatics.

The winery's website lists the bouquet notes as red fruit, small berries and spices. I wouldn't argue with that, though I also get a touch of sweet dried fig, and to me those "spices" are suspiciously reminiscent of rich dark chocolate. Tasting now. I get it again on the finish: a chocolate revery on the heels of ripe wild strawberries with the same pleasing bitter bite.

It's a shame to drink almost any Italian wine without food, and this one is no exception. It's a good idea to serve the Cantalupi to guests because it's both unique and affable. And I'm gaga over how it harmonizes with the traditional Southern Italian seafood pastas I prepare with a little help from my friends Marcella, Arthur and Mario.

Erbaluce, Herbaluce, 'erbaluce

2006-01-17T17:06:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned that I am a sucker for varietals I haven't encountered before? Especially ones from regions where I already have familiars? Italy is great for that. If you like falanghina, here, try greco di tufo! So of course I couldn't resist when Vino, one of the most reliable shops we frequent -- connected with a restaurant and irresistible enoteca across the road, they sell only Italian wine -- spotlighted the 2004 Orsolani "La Rustia" Erbaluce pictured above. Erbaluce is another grape from Piemonte, home to some of the only red wines I honestly get excited about (not exactly original of me, seen as they are Barolos and Barbarescos) as well as the cortese I love so well in Gavi and its own darlingly inexpensive Cortese del Piemonte...my mouth watering, I digress. Erbaluce. Something about Vino makes my wallet swell and my limits go to hell, and the $15 tag struck me as reasonable, jaunty even. Barely able to restrain myself until I got a little chill on it -- I'm so impatient with new wines once I've finished my shopping agonies and bought them! -- I found the expected citrus on the nose, but something more. My brain, impossibly, is calling it roasted meat. Lamb even. There's a certain sweetish greasiness, true, but I am managing to convince myself it's meat-affiliated herbs. Mint, rosemary. Brains are weird. In the mouth it's more full-bodied than a cortese, but still crisp, tart up front and leeching into a long, fruity finish that recalls the sweet and lightly oily smells. Nice, and serious, enough. I thought I loved the first bottle but today with a second am missing the pure acidity of my usual choices. A good mature cheddar alongside would probably help, especially if some chutneys sneaked on to the plate, too.

Greek Gaia

2006-01-11T18:02:00.000-08:00

We once had the great good luck to have to wait for a table at the West Village's lovely Greek restaurant, Snack Taverna. We sat for a drink at the six-stool bar, and, since the wine list was all Greek, started asking for advice from the very passionate wine steward. Who is Austrian. In any case, that night we discovered one of the house's favourite white wines, Domaine Tselepos' moschifilero, a varietal we'd never encountered before. But, restaurant prices being what they are, we soon had to switch to a cheaper glass (the Tselepos was $8/glass). O Senhor having moved on to red by this point, my second choice was what we are tasting tonight, Gaia's Notios, a super snappy white made from 50% moschifilero grapes and 50% rioditis grape, another Greek varietal. Although fruity on the nose -- we detected pear and pineapple -- in the mouth it's got a strong and lasting brininess, the sort that goes up your nose and demands a fresh but earthy goat cheese, some soft bread and maybe mushy white beans to cut all that intensity. I'd also serve this with cold water oysters, as a challenge to muscadet. There's an almost resiny body to it that coats the mouth although it's a light wine really. Just assertive. At Snack Taverna, last I was there they were charging $6/glass and I was pretty happy to find the bottle this week at Brooklyn's new Sip for $11.99.

Cali Pinot Noir Mythbuster

2006-01-09T13:52:00.000-08:00

Here's a red that flies in the face of two wine truisms: Heron Pinot Noir. The cliches it defies are (1) Sideways spiked the market for California pinot noir and (2) wines with animal names are overpriced.

In fact, Heron Pinot Noir affordably provides a hint of what Sideways' protagonist rhapsodized about in the movie. Its notes of summer fruit play lightly on the tongue. A vanilla trace of oak whispers as if telling a secret. That's plenty romantic for $13.

Also, the winery is named named not for the bird, but for the winemaker, Laely Heron.

Elisabeth and I picked up our first bottle of Heron Pinot Noir during a trip to San Francisco. We bought it at the impressive Mission District grocery store Bi-Rite Market and enjoyed it during a tasteful (if illicit) little picnic in nearby Mission Dolores Park. I realized later that by brown-bagging the bottle we paid unwitting tribute to the Bordeaux-and-burger scene in Sideways.

Back home in New York, we found Heron Pinot Noir at Morell. Heron's official site has a state-by-state "where to find our wines" list here, and they're e-tailing the 2002 Pinot Noir direct (for only $11.99) here.

House White

2006-01-06T17:34:00.000-08:00

While the house red has been consistent for some time now, the house white changes. After a long cohabitation with Ferrande's Nicolas-necked sauvingon blanc, a breakup occurred over a brief but intense flirtation with Tariquet' s sauvignon blanc (I told you in my profile that I'm not really a chardonnay sort of girl), and having determined the best course was to leave both behind, the house settled on a new love, Weingut's 2004 Gruner Veltliner (yeah, I'm missing some umlauts, sorry). It's organic. It's Austrian. It comes in a one-litre bottle, as opposed to the usual 750ml. It costs $8.99 at our beloved-but-occasionally-infuriating Astor Wine, and $10 at the twee little wine shop around the corner, The Greene Grape, which makes it by far the best value to be had there. It's one of those wines that makes you pucker delightfully, obviously invoking citrus. Heck, we could call it grapefruit in a bottle and leave it at that. I could suggest foods to serve it with, but in my house we drink it with everything, and best of all, on its own, nicely chilled. Alas our photo doesn't show the best part: no cork controversy here, friends, just a bottlecap.

House Red

2006-01-04T19:44:00.000-08:00

This is the wine that got me started. Previously, when I bought a bottle, I tried to pay about $10 and hoped it didn't taste too bad. Then I stumbled on this stuff. Squarely within my favorite price range, it offers character, elegance, flavor and balance. Later I learned that E. Guigal is one of the three great wineries of the Rhone Valley, and that its Cotes du Rhone is very widely acclaimed. Almost everyone I introduce to Guigal's Cotes du Rhone realizes that they, too, can recognize, enjoy and afford good wine.

The grapes are Syrah, Grenache and Mourvedre. The primary notes are cherry and black pepper. It's tough to find a less expensive illustration of how acidity and fruit are properly balanced in a red wine.

But it's not hard to find Guigal's Cotes du Rhone. In New York, Astor Wines never runs out (the 2003 was on sale there in December for $8.99 - gotta love Astor). Online, The Wine Buyer has the 2003 for the same awesome sale price. The standard price has been $11.99 lately. The 2002 was a little better and is worth a couple bucks more.

Quaffology's Birthday

2006-01-04T14:25:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Quaffology.