Wine Giques

Don't toss that wine! Maurice Carrie Muscat

I would never tell you that it's okay to drink a bottle of wine that has been sitting in your refrigerator for a week - unless it was bubbly that had a really tight stopper in it. And even that is dicey.
But today, I had a glass of week-old Muscat from... GASP...  Temecula! Maurice Carrie (they spell it a bit differently than that), 2007 vintage. It was really all there - the nose had a fresh, green, lively quality to it, not unlike Sauvignon blanc. It was a tiny bit spritzy and very fresh (I said it) and fruit cocktail fruity.

I can see the 2007 Maurice Car'rie Muscat being a great foil to some spicy prawns or a really good Kung Pao.

And it won't break the bank.

Pink Elephants, or What Would Sarah Palin Drink?

Yes, it's convention season, and here at Wine Giques Headquarters, that produces a frothy, heady, combination of our favorite things:  wine and politics.  (I left out boys, but hey, they're always around.  And we like them when they're frothy and heady, as well.)

Given that we spent a few nights watching the Dem's do their show, and that we long ago selected wine picks for various candidates, we decided that it was time to give the Repub's their due.  So we sat down in front of the telly to watch the elephant dance. 

First up was Fred Thompson, whom this Wine Gique firmly believes is an animatronic Disney creation, possibly made up of remnants from the Hall of Presidents.  After the fourth or fifth corn-pone-slathered platitude about McCain, I discovered I needed a drink -- preferably strong bourbon.  We didn't have any, but I did locate a bottle of 2007 Chateau Guiot Rosé, perfect for the hot evening and all the hot air streaming from the teevee (not to mention the delicious Greek salad whipped up by one of those aforementioned boys). 

My, my, that Rosé was a revelation.  Lots of fruit (we noted that they hide those in the back in the Log Cabin section at the Republican Convention -- that joint is definitely not "fruit-forward"), honey overtones, and a crisp, slightly acidic finish that leaves you feeling refreshed:  the perfect antidote for all that political blather.  And a lovely dark rose color, to boot.

"Why," I thought, "This is what Sarah Palin was supposed to be!  A rosy-colored refresher for the Repubs, someone who brings a clean slate, a new point of view, who wakes you and makes you feel like you just had a cool bath!" 

Alas, I fear that it is not to be.  As much as we at Wine Giques support our distaff political contenders, I fear that Sarah is more of the same, if not worse:  a politician picked for her gender, and a single sound bite, and not for her real value to the country.

So, I'm headed out for more of that Chateau Guiot.  I can get it just down the street.  At $10 a pop, I might actually buy a couple of bottles, and enjoy one during Sarah's speech tonight.  I'm saving the second for after November 4th, when I'll invite Sarah over for a sit-down, where we'll talk about parenting teenagers and trussing moose, and I'll say "Girl, this wine is awesome.  So much better than your candidacy.  Next time you get a phone call asking you to be Veep, go tell those crazy boys to jump in a lake, kick back and pop open a bottle of this, then laugh at them on the teevee.  It will be much more fulfilling." 

Then we'll chuckle, talk about shoes, and make prank phone calls to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. 

The Madrigal Feast

I have often complained that I miss the Moveable Feast-style of life I lived with my friends up in the Napa Valley.   That afternoon phone call that said "who's hosting dinner tonight and what are we drinking?"  Where we'd let the babies tumble on the floor while the moms whipped up fresh salads from the garden, tossed some pasta, and hauled out a couple of bottles that had been stuffed in someone's closet, sometimes unlabeled, because they'd just been pulled from a barrel somewhere. 

Well, the babies are half-grown, and I now live in the big, bad metropolis of El-Lay, but sometimes, when I'm lucky, I find that the moveable feast has followed me.  Sometimes to the back deck of my house, sometimes to my friend Linda's kitchen, and, sometimes, like last night, to a porch on the Westside, where we staged our own Moveable Madrigal Feast, only without Christmas and the Renaissance costumes.

The feast arrived this time with a phone call, and a friend who was more than willing to share his Leon Chopped Salad from La Scala Presto.  Believe me, friends like that are precious and rare.   Arrival at Casa Waldo produced some commotion in the armoire and the tops of kitchen cabinets, a hunt for the right bottle of wine.  (What, you don't keep your wine in the armoire?  Thought everyone did that.)  The first part of the Madrigal came in the form of that bottle of wine, 2004 Madrigal Zinfandel, from a small, half-remembered winery on the St. Helena Highway. (Apparently, I've stuffed my memories of Napa into an armoire, as well.  I'm presently excavating them, one transparent bottle at a time.)  We settled into chairs on the porch, and the second part of the madrigal arrived, wafting through the windows, a modern pastiche of voices as varied as Robert Plant , Neil Finn, and Frank Sinatra.  We added our own voices to the mix, marveling at the cynical choices of politicians, the magic of good writing, the mysteries of family behavior, the decibel level at Cut.  The Madrigal (the wine) was flavored with spice, and smoke, and hints of chocolate, and the taste of the north valley terroir, making that Leon Chopped Salad almost as satisfying as the company and the conversation.  Dessert was tiny delicious truffles from the freezer, dusted with dark chocolate, in a cellophane bag that seduced us into inhaling its sweet, heady fragrance before devouring the goodness within. 

I drove home in the late hours, clutching a book for reading and a moody Graham Lindsey CD for listening, gifts from my feast-mate.   And I marveled, once again, at how life hands us its own jewel-like gifts:  musical, magical rewards that come just from answering a phone call from a friend.

Hillary and the Blood-Red Bubbly

So, there we were, the Hillary fans, lined up in front of the television, steaming hot homemade pizzas on the the table (the "grownup" pizza -- sauteed mushrooms, onions, garlic and anchovies -- was particularly divine), waiting.   We were preparing for the bloodletting, the ritual resignation of Hillary from her campaign, her handover of the holdout delegates to the Chosen One, Obama.

What sort of libation would be appropriate for the occasion?  Not an everyday event, watching a strong woman in a persimmon pantsuit -- who has come closer than any woman to being President of these United States-- hand over her ambition, while her husband cries in the stands.  Certainly no wimpy old Chardonnay is gonna do it.  It wouldn't be good with the anchovies, anyway.

I fished around in my wine cabinet and came up with a winner:  2007 Lini 1910 "Lambrusca" sparkling Lambrusco Rosso ($16).  Yes, it's a sparkling red wine, produced since 1910 by four generations of la famiglia Lini -- the latest Lini winemaker is a woman, by the way -- in Correggio.  It even comes capped with a champagne cork in a wire cage.  We chilled it, served it, watched as Hillary delivered her speech in a series of powerful, gracious knock-out punches, and drank a silent toast to her:   oddly sad, oddly celebratory, just like the blood-red bubbly in our glasses.  Which was delicious with that grownup pizza. 

As for her weepy hubby, we'll be toasting his speech tonight with a margarita, and perhaps a glass of this.  Hillary, you go girl, and we can't wait to see what Cabinet post you get. 

Shatner's Revenge, The Sequel

Sometimes, life delivers perfection, wrapped up in a tiny red bow.  On Wednesday, I was watching Bottle Shock.  On Saturday, I was standing next to Bo Barrett at a wine-tasting event. 

"Hey Bo," I said. 
"Hey," he replied. 
"I just saw Bottle Shock. What was up with Chris Pine's wig?"
"I don't know," he said.  "They saw the pics.  I had an afro, not that straight stuff.  And besides, we got no creative input on the movie, beyond making sure the actors weren't holding the pruning shears upside down.  Heidi [Bo's wife] got to supervise the tasting scenes." 
"You know," I said, "I thought the glassware in those scenes looked kind of modern." 
"Yeah," he replied, "But they got the jelly jars right.  Plenty of folks used those, back then."

We both paused, and swirled the wine in our glasses. 

The wine, by the way, was made by Bo's wife, legendary winemaker Heidi Peterson Barrett, who, after years of hard labor in the service of others, finally has her own winery, dubbed La Sirena.  Run, don't walk, for a bottle of her 2005 Cabernet.  The wine is spectacular.  Tipped with dense fruit, earthy, full-bodied, with just a hint of tobacco.   A wine made with a woman's touch, with all the right ingredients for the perfect seduction.  Watch out boys, La Sirena is in the house.  It will set you back one-hundred-and-fifty smackers, but any good woman is worth that much trouble.  Sometimes, you just gotta put your cards on the table, if you know what I mean. 

"Okay," I said to Bo, "I'm sending you the link to my blog post about Chris Pine's wig."
"Cool," he said.  "Have a little more wine before you go.  And by the way, that movie wasn't for you, it was for the folks in Kansas." 

And that, my friends, was the beginning -- not the end!-- of a perfect Saturday night in La-la Land.  More to come--oh yes--there is more to come. 

Obama's Veep Choice - Joe Biden

I woke up this morning to find out that Joe Biden (D-DE) is Obama's running mate. It makes sense to me that someone who speaks so slowly and deliberately would chose someone who has a direct line between their brain and mouth. So, in that same vein (and the fact that Joe is another old white man) it makes sense that we should get Joe some wine that will go straight to his head - something big, alcoholic, and mature  like Renwood Grandpere. Like most other Amador County Zinfandels, Grandpere is massive and almost port-like with an intensity of fruit. Hopefully it's give his utterances a nice gloss without loosening his tongue too much.

Shatner's Revenge

Now, when I was a very, very young girl, I was in love with William Shatner.  Not the T.J. Hooker kind of Shatner, but the James Tiberius Kirk Shatner.  I watched Star Trek (which by that point was airing on local television stations --remember those?-- in the afternoons, after school) every chance I could get, drooling over the delicious man-flesh that was Captain Kirk.  Even as a six-year-old, I loved nice Jewish boys.

Now, I don't remember them doing a lot of wine-drinking on that original Star Trek.  I do remember that there was a lot of disappearing, reappearing and shape-shifting that may have been the result of massive cannabis consumption in the writers' room, but no vino.  So, why am I writing about this?

Well, you see, it's all about the hair.

Like any good Team USA cheerleader and oenephile, I went to see Bottle Shock last night.  The movie celebrates the "Judgment of Paris" when the 1973 vintage of Jim and Bo Barrett's Chateau Montelena Chardonnay outscored all the French wines.   (Stag's Leap Cabernet also won in the reds competition, but strangely, is not in the film.)  It's the event that's credited with drop-kicking the California wine business onto the world stage.  But none of that matters.  Because Chris Pine plays Bo Barrett in the movie, and his wig is so god-awful that you can't pay attention to anything else. 

Now, Chris Pine is also notably playing --wait for it-- James Tiberius Kirk in the upcoming new Star Trek prequel movie from geek hero JJ Abrams.   He's taking on Shatner's role.  And Shatner, starting with those aforementioned TJ Hooker years, has been wearing a rug for a very, very long time. 

I tried to reach out to Bill to find out how he feels about this callow youth attempting to assume the mantle of Kirkness, but he's not talking.  So, one can only assume that Bill is miffed.  And that, given his intimacy with LA's wig-making community, he ensured that Pine got the worst headpiece possible for this film, so it would be all anyone would talk about during the run-up to the Star Trek release.  (Pine has already gone on record saying that Bottle Shock would be his "last wig movie.") 

If so, Bill, I salute you.  I'd like to send you a bottle of 2006 Palmina Mattia, a delightful red blend from California's Central Coast region, which is also the wine we consumed over dinner at the lovely Anisette Brasserie after watching Chris Pine's wig for nearly two hours.   Thanks for keeping American wine-making in the news, and for showing the young upstarts how it's done.  Team Shatner, all the way. 

Family Business

In many ways, getting older is a drag -- for me it means that milk and ice cream are no longer on the dining menu, second helpings go straight to my midriff no matter how much I run, and staying up until 3 am in Vegas now buys me two ensuing days of naps.  On the plus side, Mark Spitz looks much hotter to me now than he did when I was seven -- and my kid is also getting older, and taking a much greater interest in the family business:  being obsessed with all things food and wine. 

For many years, I have wondered how the offspring of a dilettante cookbook editor and a professional chef could be so prosaic in her food choices.  We're talking about a kid who'd been to at least seven foreign countries by the time she was eight -- and consequently, knows how to say "can I have fries with that?" in seven languages. 

But lately, things seem to be changing.  "We should cook more, Mom," she says yesterday, "Let's go to the store and see what interesting things they have."  Music to my ears!

Instead of the grocery store, however, we headed for one of the wonders of Los Angeles:  Farmers Market.  A very dangerous place to go if, as I did, you've neglected to eat lunch:  the aromas from all the food counters can drive you insane, one country at a time.  (Singapore noodles?  Oyster po'boy?  Brazilian barbecue?)  But the kid (who had eaten lunch) dragged me past them, destination firmly in mind:  Mr Marcel. 

Once inside, we wandered among the shelves, examining tiny jars of tasty sauces, smelling the baguettes, lingering over the cheese counter.  Our choices:  Gnocchi in a clever vacuum-sealed package decorated with emphatic Italian cooking instructions; ripe, rich Gorgonzola; Point Reyes blue cheese (for sentimental snacking when I'm thinking about west Marin); one of those baguettes; a box of tiny biscotti.  Back out to one of Farmers Market's produce counters for arugula and figs (we tried to buy a roasting chicken, too, but the chicken boys were busy), then home for dinner. 

I set the Point Reyes on the counter with the baguette and the figs (just a few bites were enough), whipped up a Gorgonzola sauce with just a dash of red pepper for the gnocchi (see Julia Child's The Way to Cook for the difference between béchamel and mornay), tossed the arugula with a little homemade dressing, and we were on our way.  Dessert was sliced strawberries and peaches, with the biscotti.

Libations?  Well, for me, the grownup kind:  San Felipe 2007 Roble Malbec, spicy and tannic enough to cut through the richness of the Gorgonzola sauce and leave a little tingle on my tongue, an adventure ride for only $10 a bottle.  For the kid:  Strawberry Ramuné, a favorite that she discovered, not while visiting Tokyo--want to see a picture of her there, eating fries?--but here in cosmopolitan LA. 

We're now researching how to say "Can I have some Gorgonzola with that?" in Japanese.  Welcome to the family business, kid. 

Tits and Totes

Got your attention, didn't I?   Well, I did it on purpose, because I wanted to ask the age-old question:  Do you have any wine in that purse?

Here's the thing.  I was lucky enough to attend Sunday Supper at Lucques two Sundays in a row.  (No, I have no idea how I generated so much good karma in the space of a week -- usually takes me at least a couple of months. Years, even.)  The second Sunday was even their fabled RibFest, for which you have to achieve reservations weeks in advance.  Let me tell you, the chow was good.  The ribs -- beef, pork and lamb -- were perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked, the sauce perfectly spicy.  But it was the side dishes that stole the show.  Corn on the cob, cole slaw, Wonderbread (yes, Wonderbread -- have you ever made a rib sandwich with Wonderbread? awesome), cornbread.  And collard greens.  Now, I'm from the South, and even though I ate collards at least once a week while I was growing up, these were still the best collard greens I've ever tasted.  Please don't tell my grandmother. 

But here's the other thing:  the joint was packed, and most people brought their own wine.  Now, as I've alluded previously, Lucques has a fantastic wine list.  But it's also a bit spendy.  And though Sunday Suppers are a relative bargain at $45 a head, a bottle of wine can quickly bust your budget. 

Lesley, one of my dining companions, is a bit of a tastemaker in the food world here in LA.  And she has a great collection of wine.  "I got out some really good stuff," she said "I've been saving it for the right occasion."  "What for?" I asked, jokingly, "Didn't you see Sideways?"  "I meant to bring it," she said, "But there was so much going on, I forgot."

So, back to my question, or the second half of the question:  Why are the guys so much better at the BYO thing when it comes to restaurants?   Is it because they like to collect, and show off what they collect?  (See Hefner, Hugh).  It certainly isn't because they've got the bags -- we chicks have got a lock on those things.  And lately, the bigger they are, and the bigger the locks they sport, the better they seem to be.  (See Chloe, Overpriced Purses by). 

So, I'm challenging the fashion world to come up with a bag that's suitable for those of us sporting tits to tote some wine.  I've found a few chic Italian-looking items on various websites:  the Cluster (yes!) Wine Tote, the cute but unfortunately-named Murge Horizontal Pink, the Laguiole Wine Valise, which actually sounds like a disease (yes, I know Laguiole makes fantastic knives.  I've used a few, sometimes on things I won't mention).  But I'm talking haute couture here.  I want a bag with a big old Hermès label on it, from which I can produce a fierce bottle of 2005 Clos du Papes Châteauneuf du Pape and reduce the room to silence.  ("Look at that bag!"  "Look at that wine!")

Tom Ford, are you listening?  Get busy, boy.  You might want one of these babies yourself, tits or no tits.

The wine, you ask?  Oh, we had a bottle of 2006 Lang & Reed Cabernet Franc.  Serviceable, but not quite up to the power of the ribs, although we certainly could have given it a very dramatic entrance if we had yanked it out of a big, red, lock-encrusted handbag.   

The Zinful Life

So, it's obviously summertime, and here in Southern California, that can cause a girl to feel a little steamy.  I usually try to cure that feeling with a glass of Prosecco or Rosé, but I've been venturing a tad more frequently into the land of reds.  Not the usual suspects, but something a little more spicy --that trickster of the wine world, that rogue grape, the Zinfandel. 

Now, for a long time, I was tempted to put Zinfandel into a box (well, not literally, although maybe I'll write a post on box wine sometime later, if I actually drink some), thinking that it was good for one thing:  drinking with food.  And once upon a time, that may have been true.  But more adventurous winemakers have been experimenting with the grape, and the result is a luscious collection of styles that are more versatile than a lissome wine groupie has the right to expect. 

I've already written about the deliciousness of wine associated with Black Chickens, but I had a few selections this past week that are also worth mentioning:  2006 Peachy Canyon "Incredible Red,"  2004 Brown Estate Chiles Valley, and 2005 Quivira Dry Creek Valley.  (Yes, it's only Wednesday, but I'm on a mission here.)

The Peachy Canyon was my libation of choice after a long day spent on airplanes and in meetings.  I chose it partially because it was there, waiting in my wine rack, but also because I needed something with a little personality to go along with my daily dose of the Daily Show.   Just the right touch of sweet fruit, followed by a bit of acid -- could it and Jon Stewart be a better match?  And at $12, it's a great cheap date.

I was lucky enough to have the Brown Estate over Sunday Supper at Lucques.  I highly recommend indulging in both, if you have the chance.  Simple and yet decadent (kind of like the food), the Brown was luscious with jammy blueberry and a hit of caramel, with that spicy Zin finish.  It retails for about $40, when you can find it -- Brown Estate makes great wine and has a charming backstory that has given it a bit of a following.

The Quivira was consumed at a wine bar in Los Feliz, accompanied by some totally unhealthful but spectacularly delicious Italian/Brazilian stuffed pizza thing dubbed a piadina.  Great with the piadina, but also very nice on its own, the Quivira actually sports little bit of Petite Sirah in the blend that gives a little extra punch to the finish.  It generally retails for about $20. 

Sometimes, a little extra heat can be liberating.  Zinful, even.  Enjoy it.

(As always, you can use the Snooth search box in the sidebar to find these wines in your area.  Helps fund the Wine Giques wine habit, you know?)