Wine Giques

Stocking the Apothecary

 
It all started a few weeks ago, the night my teenage daughter got grounded for the first time ever.  I'll spare you the details over the transgression (needless to say, it involved boys), and tell you instead that it led me on a trip straight to Ralph's -- which was the only joint open at the time -- to refill my medicine cabinet wine rack.

Now, I know parenting is best performed in a sober state, but sometimes, just sometimes (especially when you're raising a child on your own, as I am), you just need to take the edge off.  Especially when your grounded offspring spends the entire day begging you if she can go to a party that night.  I'm serious.  Every 15 minutes, all day long.  Now, I've raised my kid to have a mind of her own, and to be relentless in pursuing what she wants, but Rhonda, I'm tellin' you, on that Saturday, I regretted it. 

So I did what any sane mother would do.   I locked myself in the garage-cum-guesthouse with a baguette, some Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk, and a container of tiny Niçoise olives.  Then I dragged out the Shakespeare in Love DVD, and proceeded to self-medicate, ignoring the pleading looks periodically cast through the French doors.   By periodically, I mean every 15 minutes, all day long.  

My catholicon of choice?  2007 Apothic Red, apparently named for some mythical place in 13th century Europe where they blended and stored wine.  An appropriately mysterious moniker for a California blend of uncertain provenance.  Pretty soon, I was wrapped up in the deliciousness of the wine and Joseph Fiennes:  both somewhat forward and a bit fruity (well, the clothes they wore then were kind of foppish, weren't they?), with a smooth touch on the lips and decidedly elegant finish.  

By that time, the sun had gone down, and the teenager had realized that I wasn't giving in, no matter how hard she tried.  She buckled and I invited her in, and we finished off the cheese with a celebratory viewing of Jurassic Park.  (I know just how that T-Rex felt, believe me.  Very, very irritated.)

The cost for my mental poultice, by the way?  $8.99, on special, $11.99 when not.  Such a bargain that it's now a mainstay in the pharmacy, where it's been busy curing the neighbors of their own teenager-related afflictions, one lovely sip at a time. 

Smoke and Wine

Summer is not letting go gracefully here in Southern California.  The end of August has given birth to dog days of uncommon ferocity, with temperatures near 100°F even on the coast, and raging wildfires that threaten to reduce both our Twitter accounts and our stargazing abilities to dust.  Outside activities are curtailed, houses are sealed up tight, and the constant pillar of smoke on the horizon has created a lurking apocalyptic anxiety even among the most cheery of Angelenos. 

Under the circumstances, we all could use a stiff drink. 

Ever the public servant, I set about cataloging my favorite fire-themed wines, to recommend them to you, dear readers, as a more social alternative to Xanax and uncontrollable sobbing.  Fires are an undeniable and unwelcome fact of life in California; winemakers are just as prone as anyone else to enjoying a bit of irony in their lives.

2003 Shafer Firebreak "Last Chance" Sangiovese:   2003 was the last vintage of this wine, and like all lost classics, we mourn its passing.   Firebreak originally earned its moniker in 1981 when winery owner John Shafer planted a vineyard near his house to serve as a firebreak after one conflagration too many.  Redolent of cherries, red currents and a bit of tobacco, it has always reminded me of my favorite Cal-Italian lover (no, I never kiss and tell):  sweet on the lips, smooth going down.  If you know someone who has a bottle, cultivate a friendship with him/her, and insist on an invitation to dinner.  $40, if you can find it. 

2006 Fire Station Red Cabernet Sauvignon:  This label was actually created by John Drady, owner of Sonoma Coast Winery.  A firefighter himself, Drady accurately assessed that making available a kick-ass wine just might help fundraising efforts for fire departments everywhere.  He was correct.  I prefer mine served by the smokin' hot gents from Engine Company 29.  Cherry, raspberry, chocolate-coffee, not overly tannic, and a bargain at $12.

2006 Sea Smoke TEN Pinot Noir:  Yes, it's less about fire and more about fog, but I thought it deserved a place on the list.  As I slurped it down at a wine-tasting event, I made these notes in my WineSnob iPhone app:  "Deserves its name.  Tastes of salt air."  Yes, I write that kind of crap at wine-tastings.  The wine is a classic, and at $125 bucks a bottle, it better be.   Be sensible, go buy it, and run away to Washington State coastline with your favorite sailor, where you'll be able to enjoy it in the aforementioned cool salt air.

And, just for fun, here's the song in the title from Hank Williams III.  Please don't forget to donate to your local Red Cross. If you're in the LA area, donations of money and pet food are welcome, as well.  Photo provided to the New York Times by a reader.

Channeling Julia

Uff-da!  (That's for my friends the Jensen girls, Sally and Jen.  They say stuff like that where they hail from.)  It's been a busy few weeks.  A heady, inspiring, titillating few weeks, filled with great friends, great food, and great guzzling of luscious wine.  (See previous post for just a sample.)   I've had a stream of beloved foodie friends down from the Bay Area, which has refired (pun intended!) my passion for all things culinary, and stirred my soul to its core, like a good martini. 

Actually, I think it might be in the air.  My tribe seems to have burst onto the pop culture scene, with a vehemence that far outstrips anything that's been going on on the Food Channel.  It's all about Julia, you see.  Julie and Julia has awakened interest in She Who Rocked Our World (as she's generally regarded among restaurateurs and foodies) in a way that seemed impossible even in the midst of the general chef-worship that has permeated our national airwaves.  Julia's 40-year-old magnum opus is back on the best-seller list. Card retailers can't keep a "What Would Julia Do?" greeting card in stock.  And to top it all off, last Saturday was Julia's birthday, which precipitated a frenzy of French cooking in kitchens across the country.

So, what does this have to do with Wine Giques?  Well, it means I refuse to indulge in the worst of my weekday habits:  ordering out.  I'm determined to cook every meal I eat at home, at least until the euphoria wears off.  And believe me, thanks to my ex-husband the chef and my finely-honed sense of revenge, I have the cookbook collection to do it.  (Although I am lacking Mastering the Art of French Cooking, owning instead the more-definitively titled The Way to Cook.  I prefer to sidestep all the cultural nuances and go straight to the ...uh, meat, of things.)

Tonight was "what do we have in the fridge?" night.  You know the scene.  You saw it in The Big Chill:  the one where you stand in front of the refrigerator and stare.  Luckily, I usually have a treasure-trove of basics stashed in there:  Plugra butter, shaved Reggiano, fresh greens, stock, cream, olives.  And a few interesting things, like green peppercorns and dry vermouth (hey, I already mentioned the martinis).  Just to mix it up a little, I also opened the freezer and stared.  A bag of tiny frozen peas caught my eye, and we were off to the races.  I pulled out my trusty copy of Pasta Classica, and there it was:  Tagliatelle con Piselli, Salame e Prosciutto.   I made a few substitutions here and there, nearly swooned over the aroma of onions browning in butter, held back the salame for my batch of pasta to appease my vegetarian teenager, et voilà, dinner.  (The dish uses both the green peppercorns and the dry vermouth, BTW.)  I even barked out a cheery "Bon Appétit!" to the teenager when she came in to fill her bowl declaring "Ewww. I don't like peas ... but this tastes good."  

Lucky for me, the other thing I had stashed in the fridge was a bottle of 2005 Podere Il Caio Grechetto dell'Umbria, picked up from one of those shiny stacks at the front of Larchmont Wine & Spirits.  The buttery browned onions and the hint of vermouth brought out the nuances in the wine, lifting it from mere dryness to fruit-and-fennel-infused goodness.  I downed a couple of glasses and thought "time to write!" and here I am, imagining that I'm Julia, in the middle of an 8-year labor of love, looking forward to tomorrow night's dinner ... when there will be more friends in town to cook for, and new wines to uncork.  I've had a Julia quote on my Facebook page for months, which sums it all up nicely, as was her wont:  "Life itself is the proper binge."  Oh yes, indeed, Mme. Child, it surely is.

Noshing with the Native Napkin.

Da Wine Giques were in da house!  

Yes, Suenarita and her Own Personal Captain von Trapp™ came for a visit, and it was stupendously fun -- but the aforementioned Captain wrote about it much better than I ever could.  Since he also cooked the dinner, I'm going to give him his due props and just link right to his blog post:  

http://sorrynotmytable.com/2009/08/16/we-could-learn-to-love-la/comment-page-1/#comment-70

Suenarita and I were actually planning to do a joint videoblog that evening, but after reading this post, you'll understand that it was all we could do to drag ourselves to bed, while my Isaac Hayes channel on Pandora wailed away under the stars. 

The Bottle of Wine

My buddy Steve is the CFO at the Inn at Little Washington. The Inn is a tiny, spectacular hotel with a consistently amazing restaurant located in the hill country of Virginia. It also happens to be the location of my first romantic getaway with my now-ex-husband, back when we were young, bright-eyed and naive (but no less lusty!). This was years before I met Steve, of course, who was a cherished co-worker with an acerbic wit at Four Seasons It's only fitting that he has relocated his particular brand of sarcasm to the starting point of one of my greatest misadventures (believe me, I cherish them all, adventures & misadventures alike). Steve reminds us how much we miss him by sending us silly emails, and today's was just too good to pass up:

THE BOTTLE OF WINE
For all of us who are married, were married, wish you were married,
or wish you weren't married, this is something to smile about the next time you see a bottle of wine:

Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Northern Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking on the side of the road.

As the trip was a long and quiet one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a ride.

With a silent nod of thanks, the woman got into the car.

Resuming the journey, Sally tried in vain to make a bit of small talk with the Navajo woman. The old woman just sat silently, looking intently at everything she saw, studying every detail, until she noticed a brown bag on the seat next to Sally.

'What's in the bag?' asked the old woman.

Sally looked down at the brown bag and said, 'It's a bottle of wine. I got it for my husband.'

The Navajo woman was silent for another moment or two. Then speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder, she said:

'Good trade . . . . . '

Thank you folks, I'm here all week.

How To Get Crabs

It was late in the day on Wednesday, about 5:45, as I recall.  My eyes were crossed from researching statistics and my ears were ringing from batting away rumors about Peter Jackson ("No, I'm sorry, I don't know what movie he's making next.  Yes, he is much taller than a hobbit.").  My reserves were low and that bottle of Orvieto Classico at home in the fridge was calling my name, as was the 90-lb. yellow lab who thinks he's a lap dog (hey, take it where you can get it).

And then the phone rang.  It was my friend Shannon, who said six magic words:  "We're going to the hungry cat." 

She had barely gotten the word "cat" out of her mouth, when I said "I'm in," tossed the laptop in the sparkly first-dot-com-boom backpack, and headed out the back door.

My companions, Shannon and Johanna, met me at the house.  Three moms, no kids, cocktails and chatter on our minds.  (Johanna, the most stylish of the three, sported flowers in her hair.)

"There's a thing at the hungry cat tonight," said Shannon, "They said something about crabs. I'm not sure we should go."

The "thing about crabs" turned about to be a repeat performance of the hungry cat's annual, extremely-coveted  Crabfest -- a celebration of those exalted creatures I grew up cracking: delicious, delightful blue crabs.    Desperate not to miss a singular opportunity, I convinced the lovely Shannon and the stylish Johanna that we should go.  The rest, as they say, is history.

First good sign:  We were seated next to Jennifer Coolidge.  Now I love me some Jennifer Coolidge.  She's one of the finest comic actresses working today -- she even rocks the occasional Hilary Duff movie, and that's saying something.

Second good sign:  Our waiter was a committed flirt, and he had a thing for Johanna, with her dual Austin and hair-flower accents.  (This posse, BTW, was populated by Southern girls.  Chicks who can't tell their apple fritters from their frakkin' Fendi's:  not permitted.)   A wink, a nod, a layer of newspaper coating the table, a quick cocktail order, and we were off to the, uh, races.  The I-can't-wait-to-crack-me-some-crab races.

Market salad.  Watermelon salad.  Fresh shucked oysters.  Ahi tuna.  And the piece de resistance:  six freshly-boiled, seasoning-coated, deliciously fragrant blue crabs.  Although I hadn't cracked one in years, I was surprised how quickly the technique came back to me.  In no time at all, I had my crabs picked clean, doing right by all my ancestors whose bones litter the shoreline of the mighty Chesapeake Bay (probably picked clean by crabs, BTW.  It's a circle of life thing).

I don't know what it was that called to me:  maybe it was the memory of the warm East Coast waters, helping my grandfather pull in the crab pots.  Maybe it was thinking about sitting in my buddy Jen's garage, floor lined with newspaper, where the Old Bay crab boil and the Mickey's Big Mouths ran free.  Maybe it was just the fact that it would be delicious to see all those so-called sophisticated Angeleno's trying to figure out how to pick apart a crab without splashing stinky sea-juice on their Prada's (not possible, BTW).  Whatever it was, it turned out to be a blast.

Beverages?  Well, we were seduced by the hungry cat's spectacular, inventive cocktails.  My favorite, the Echo Park, was on hiatus (like all good Hollywood stars), so we ventured into something called "Sweet & Vicious" -- Luksusowa vodka, heirloom melon juice, roasted jalapeño and lime -- and a Maryland-themed classic called the "Pimlico" -- Early Times Whiskey, lime and orange juice, with fresh mint.  Their deliciously potent hold was so strong that we each had more than one, foregoing the usual glass of wine (and reserving the right to call Giovanni the house boy to drive us home, if necessary).  Never fear:  I visited Simon, our local hot wine guy, to ask for wine reco a couple of days later.  His pick:  Mje're 2007 Alezio Rosato.  It comes from a third-generation family-owned winery, the first winery in Italy to be devoted to the production of rosé wines.  I doubt many people hailing from the Chesapeake could pronounce the names of its two grapes (Negroamaro and Malvasia Nera), but they sure would agree that it'd be damn tasty with a bucket full of freshly-steamed blue crabs and a garage floor packed with friends.

The Potions Master

Despite my advancing age, I still have a very hard time believing that we live in world where there is no magic.  There's not a morning when I don't wake up and think "today's the day!" and expect some miraculous occurrence.  It could be anything: a magical levitation (good for dealing with LA traffic); a cure for unrequited love (something I've been seeking desperately for nearly a year); a spell that repairs the Riedel wine glass I dropped in the sink (and possibly creates extra ones for the next dinner party); a magic mirror that lets me see the ones I have loved and lost (including that Blue Cult denim jacket that disappeared without a trace).

And that, in a nutshell, is why I love Harry Potter.  I've read each book in the series many times.  I pretend they actually belong to my kid, but those who know me know the truth:  if you can't reach me, I'm hiding out at Hogwarts, where the magic flows like fine wine, and there's a potion for everything that ails you.

Given my enormous hunger for the the extra-sensory and the extraordinary, you can imagine my delight when I discovered a bona fide Potions Master living right in my own neighborhood.  Picture a neighborly chat, two women sitting down in a kitchen to shoot the breeze and perhaps talk a little business, when things take a more, well, mystical turn.  Now, please understand, we were clearly sitting in a magic kitchen, because there were shiny glass jars of delicious elixirs standing everywhere, including two I'd never seen before:  Gabriel Boudier Saffron-Infused Gin, and Da Vinci Natural Peach Syrup. 

Now, the magic wrought by Mr. Da Vinci is well known, but before I could inquire about Mr. Boudier's wizardly prominence, my own personal Potions Master leaped to her feet.  "I'm going to concoct something new!" she cried, before dashing over to her martini-shaker-shaped cauldron and getting busy.  Her ingredients:  1 part gin to 3 parts syrup, a bit of muddled basil, a twist of lemon.  Shaken, not stirred, and poured into a glass with a lump of Kori Sato sugar.   The touchstone that transformed it all?   She rimmed the glass with a secret ingredient she called "Honey and Hot."  (For a moment, I thought she was referring to us, but it turned out that it's a brand of hot pepper-infused acacia honey.)

The delicious result transported us.  It loosened our tongues, set us dancing, and inspired her husband to shoot a home video that we're not quite sure should ever be publicly viewed. 

Turns out the Potions Master is creating her own website, which means that soon we'll all have access to a little magic.  In the meantime, if you come across the Half Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion Making, give me a ring, will you?  The number's 366-2442. 

The Cruelest Month

They say that April is the cruelest month, but I find that for me, it's July.  It's July because that's when I start fantasizing about chucking everything and running off to Italy or the south of France (with a detour through Paris, of course).  Yeah, I'm probably a little spoiled, a little too princess-y, if this is the stuff of my fantasies, rather than, say, pondering where my kid is going to college, or making the world a better place: but hey, we all have to dream, don't we?

I blame it on my friend Jo, who's such a connoisseur of sites like Italianvillas.com (it's real, check it out), and frenchvillas.com, that most summers, we find ourselves piled into a big old house in some bucolic spot, laden with wine,food and song, all for relatively little money.  That was in the days when we all had some money, of course.  

I'm not helping myself by reading books that take place in Provence (the lastest is a Grail thriller, called Labyrinth), which brings on spasmodic cravings for baguettes, unpasteurized cheese and figs, all washed down with a glass of Grenache. Or by marching over to the neighborhood farmers market armed with the stiped linen bag I bought in Siena, "Per il Pane" intricately embroidered on its front.  (I filled it with figs, cherries, tomatoes and corn today ... I already had the bread).  

So I try to cure it by cooking.  Given that I'm lucky enough to live in LA's delicious Mediterranean climate, it makes it easy for me to stand around in my kitchen and pretend that the knobs on the stove say chaud et trés chaud, and that I've got latte and grana stashed in the fridge.  Now, if I could just locate Marcello the pool boy ...

And the dish that always transports me?  Panzanella.  My friend and former partner in crime, Michael Chiarello, always described Italian food as "the cuisine of preservation," and nothing brings that to mind better than a salad made from old bread.  Ah, but such old bread!  When you combine it with the freshest of summer tomatoes, juicy, crunchy cucumbers, good olive oil and vinegar, and that most controversial of ingredients -- anchovies -- you have the essence of Italian summers, tossed in a bowl, right in front of you. 

So, today is a day for panzanella.  My favorite recipe comes from Savoring Italy by Robert Freson. which is one of those cookbooks that you drown in, it's so beautifully written and photographed.  Unfortunately, it's out of print, so you'll have to find it at a used bookstore, or drop by my place to look at my well-worn copy. (Say you're a Wine Gique and I'll let you in.)  Sara Moulton has a lovely recipe, as well.  

Wine pairing?  Well, given the weather, I'm always tempted to run down the street and grab a bottle of my favorite Luna Pinot Grigio, but for this dish, I feel compelled to be a little more authentic and drink something we'd really tote to the villa in Italy: 2007 Rocca di Montegrossi Chianti Classico.  And at $20 a bottle, it's a pretty cheap trip to Tuscany.

Buon appetito, i miei amici. Ci vediamo di fronte al Duomo, sarò quello con il vino.

Sip and Save and Videoblogging

Wine Giques first videoblog!

(Please note that I had some uploading issues.  This is a low-res Flash version -- for a high-res Quicktime version, go to our page on Blip.tv.)

This video was originally shared on blip.tv by awgyetvan with a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 license.

Drowning in the Ludo Love

Ahhh, Ludo -- I simply know, that if we lived in a different place in the time-space continuum, you would be the love of my life.  You're simply the picture of talented chef perfection: hotness and mean technique with a knife.  How can a girl resist?   And now you're facing off tonight on "Top Chef Masters" against one of my other chefly-crushes, Rick Bayless (his margaritas are a revelation), and a long-time friend, Cindy Pawlcyn (whose Thai-Gin-Tini is equally revelatory).  [Note:  I haven't had the pleasure of hanging out with Wilo Benet.]

And, wouldn't you know it, my damn TV is not working.  There's a giant tree in the front yard that, encouraged by our unseasonably cool summer, has enthusiastically outgrown its last haircut.  That's right, no satellite.  (Well, we still get the Sleuth channel.)  So I'm going to sleuth a spot to watch Ludo where no one will notice if I hyperventilate.  I telephoned Barney's Beanery across from my office, and while they definitely favor the sports (anyone catch today's US-España soccer final?), they can give me a table where I can tune my own telly.  I don't know if they charge corkage at Barney's, but here's what I'll try to bring to take the edge off the unbearable tension of watching a Top Chef cookoff:  2006 Chateauneuf du Pape Chante Cigale.  Wine Spectator describes it as "muscular but forward ... with a tight grip on the finish."  (!!!)  It also has flavors of tobacco and lavender, much like my favorite French men.  And, when it comes to favorite French men, you're very high on my list, M. Lefebvre.  Bonne chance, and thanks for representin' for your posse in LA.  Now, where are my smelling salts?