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Waste Not, Want Not

I have wanted to write about this wonderful recipe book since this summer, when I found it in the much-loved Scottish cottage spouse and I usually spend our holidays: Farmhouse Fare. Recipes from Country Housewives by Farmhouse Weekly, originally published in 1935, reprinted in 1976.

Before typing these lines, I wondered if, and as I supposed the answer would be yes, how in our difficult economic times housewives (male and female) are trying to make ends meet. But then my computer screen started to scream: ASK JAMIE, STUPID!

Yes, the row has reached the Dutch shores all right. For those not in the know: Jamie Oliver, famous British chef, has made some less sensible remarks about poor people, big tellies and bad eating habits while promoting his new book and TV series Save with Jamie. Shop smart. Cook clever. Waste Less. He has apologized and said that, though he doesn’t always say the right thing, he has the best intentions. Let’s believe him, even if it’s a pity the book is well above the means of those for whom it is intended (£26). (When is the last time you have done something for the poor? Or I, for that matter?)

In the 1930s country housewives made ends meet without much of a fuss. Everything was used: berries, drippings, the pulp left in a jelly bag, a sheep’s head, rooks (breast and legs only, the other parts being way too bitter). Farmhouse Fare provides numerous recipes for meat dishes (see, e.g., the chapter on Pig Curing and By-Products), preserves, cakes and other sweet bits, but no luxury here and no fancy ingredients. Sultanas, nutmeg, and ginger are the main flavourings. Maybe you consider cream a luxury. They sure didn’t. They almost drowned in dairy products. Puddings are always said to be ‘delicious with hot milk poured over it.’ Mind you, they even put milk in their tea.

Before revealing their drinks business, let me share with you one recipe by Miss H. Stuart of Wigtownshire, Scotland: Hatted Kit. Do not despair if you don’t happen to have a cow at hand.

Warm slightly over the fire two pints of buttermilk. Pour it into a dish and carry it to the side of a cow. Milk into it about 1 pint of milk, having previously put into the dish sufficient rennet for the whole.

After allowing it to stand for a while, lift the curd, place it on a sieve, and press the whey through until the curd is quite stiff. Season with sugar and nutmeg before serving. Whip some thick cream, season it also with a little grated nutmeg and sugar, and mix gently with the curd. This dish can quite well be made without milking the cow into it, although direct milking puts a better ‘hat’ on the Kit.

I rest my case. Let’s focus instead on some non-lactose drinks that are more in line with the theme of this blog. As nearby off licences were rare, the country housewives brew the booze themselves. Not from grapes but from, well, what not: agrimony, red clover, crab apple, elderflower, parsnip (‘an excellent imitation of champagne’) and the outside pieces of celery:

There is always a waste of the outside pieces of celery: here is a recipe which makes from them an excellent wine, and is also good for those who suffer from rheumatism. (…) leave for a year and bottle off when it will be ready for use.

For some reason I didn’t pen down Mrs. Scarlett’s instructions but you need not worry. ‘Celery wine’ gives almost 6,000 hits. The tradition is still thriving, so it seems, though I bet whole celery stalks are used nowadays, not just the outside pieces.

Farmhouse Fare is for sale via Amazon, for £2.81 (that is inclusive of £2.80 UK delivery).

A Dance to the Music of Wine

If you think tasting wine is fun, read the following instructions (from Wijnproeven voor beginner en gevorderde [Wine Tasting for Beginners and Advanced] by Robert Leenaers and Albert Holtzappel (2000)—silly title, by the way, it’s either or):

‘One tastes better with an empty stomach (…) a serious tasting should preferably start in the morning, before lunch. (…) Coffee before the tasting is not recommended. (…) Eating during the session is out of the question. (…) Bread is less dangerous due to its lighter taste, but remains undesirable.’

And on they go about the right place (kitchen), light (daylight), colours (white, walls too), odour (none whatsoever) and sound (talking is allowed during ‘designated moments’ only, no music, no other noises). Needless to say swallowing is prohibited and the spittoon should not contain sawdust (odour!).

Not an event to invite one’s friends to.

Some of these prohibitions are quite understandable. One cannot taste next to someone smoking a cigar or exuding whiffs of Chanel No. 5. Not to swallow the wine is good advice and not only because of that empty stomach. And people talking can be a nuisance (‘Have you tasted that red one, nr. 7, no, nr. 8, yet? Oh, you’re still doing the whites? Well, I thought this one to have way more tannins than the last one and that’s odd, as…’). One needs to concentrate.

Music not only undermines your ability to concentrate but also interferes with other sensory perceptions. It may even cause irritation and lead to a negative judgement, Leenaers and Holtzappel argue.

Prof. Adrian C. North goes one step further. In his ‘The Effect of Background Music on the Taste of Wine’ (2011, on which I stumbled via an article in the WSJ) he shows that students rated a wine more Zingy/Fresh while listening to Zingy/Fresh music and more Mellow/Soft if listening to Mellow/Soft music.

So a glass of Beaujolais Nouveau with Nirvana in my ears would taste like an oak-barrelled Australian monster, I guess. But would it to everyone? You may want to be careful if you think you have just found a way to upgrade your lesser-quality wines. According to North ‘music can only be an effective influence on perception to the extent that its communicative intent is understood by participants’. That means that an average, OK wine tasted to the sound of Byrd’s ‘Mass for Five Voices’ would be rated ‘rather dull’ by someone who is more into symphonic music and ‘subtle, refined’ by an admirer of so-called early music.

But then it is not just music that influences one’s appreciation of a wine. In March this year I was offered a Pinot Grigio with a Vitello Tonato (see my A Perfect Wine List). Though it paired all right with the Vitello, I thought not much of it. Last month I was poured the same wine. Same restaurant, same company, same ‘after a day of hard work’, but this time it was a gorgeous summer evening and we were sitting outside. The Pinot Grigio turned out to be an almost frivolous, zesty wine with a fresh-fruity nose.

Leenaers and Holtzappel do have a point—for the professional taster, that is.

The Colour Purple

This is the sort of posting one should write three weeks before Passover, to help those who don’t give kashrut a second thought but find themselves confronted with beloved friends who do. At least on Passover. Compared to cleaning the house and getting hold of kosher-for-Pesach dishware, finding dry, affordable and religiously as well as politically kosher-for-Pesach wine may seem peanuts. But the Netherlands aren’t Israel or the States, so one does need to spend some time searching the Internet.

This year I was in charge of the Passover preparations and all went well except for the pork sausage that I somehow left hanging on the wall. (Did I mention this was a vegetarian happening?) At WijnBox.nl I found a choice of kosher Israeli wines, from which I selected a white blend of Sauvignon Blanc, Colombard and Muscat and a red blend of Merlot and Argaman.

Argaman (Hebrew: ארגמן‎), as in the purple yarn God wants to be endowed with (Exod. 25:4), as in the fine purple linen tied with silver rings to pillars of marble of Ahasuerus’ palace in Shushan (Esther 1:6) and the hair of the beloved, in which kings get entangled (Songs 7:6). The name of this royal grape may be old, the variety itself is not. Grown in Israel since the 1970s it is a crossing of Carignan and, well, here the Wikipedia’s differ and I am sorry to admit I do not yet possess Jancis Robinson’s grape bible. Would she have given this grape a favourable review? I doubt it, as I read somewhere that her Oxford Companion to Wine states that the Argaman is used primarily for low quality jug wines.

Some of my Passover guests would agree. They thought the blend of Merlot and Argaman green (!) and poor. They even demanded a different (if need be non-kosher) wine instead of this plonk. Which of course I provided. No problem at all. The strange thing was, I happened to like the Merlot Argaman. How come they didn’t? Could it be that they are used to full-bodied, fruity, easy-to-drink new-world wines? Compared to such ‘family friends’, the Merlot Argaman indeed is a bit of an acquired taste.

 

Barkan Merlot Argaman 2011, Galil, Israel (12%vol, € 8,45)

A light-bodied wine (60% Merlot/40% Argaman) with soft tannins and a hint of dried plums. Its animal bouquet reminded me of a Swiss Dôle (I know, different grapes, but that same dustiness). Not really a bargain. Pairs well with charcuterie.

 

Barkan Segal White 2011, Hulda, Israel (11,5%vol, € 6,30)

Blend of Sauvignon Blanc, Colombard and Muscat. ‘Dry white wine’, the bottle screams. Still, the Muscat in this blend does give it a sweet tone. Nothing wrong with that, except that the wine lacks acidity, which does not inspire one to pour another glass.

 

By the way, did you know argaman is also a handy word to memorize the names of the archangels? ARGaMaN: Uriel (OK, that one works better in Hebrew), Raphael, Gabriel, Michael and Nuriel. Now you know a little Zohar too.

Wine&Dine: To Soothe the Frazzled

Nigel Slater, of whom we speak in my house only with due respect, as he is a genius according to two (!) blurbs on his book Appetite, is none too fond of cauliflower. Though he admits one can do more than boil it and serve it with a cheese sauce, he continues by saying: ‘Resist the temptation to undercook. The raison d’être of a cauli is to end its days as a soft and gentle supper to soothe the frazzled and overworked’ (p. 103). He gives no recipe.

Are you frazzled in any way, or a bit overworked? Let me help you out with a soothing and reviving supper. Let’s even resist the temptation to cook the cauli at all.

Dine: cauliflower couscous with fish
Wash and drain the cauliflower, cut it in not too big chunks. Put the chunks into a food processor and chop them till they have the size of couscous (that will take a few seconds only). Put the ‘couscous’ in a bowl (yes, the smell is not pleasant right now, but that will change). Add generous amounts of olive oil and lemon juice and a bit of salt. This is the basis. We need a few more ingredients to turn this into a tasty salad. For example some herbs: chives, parsley, mint, all chopped. A small red (or less sharp green) chilli pepper cut into rings to give it a bit of pungency. Or fennel leaves and a few (black) olives (be careful with the salt in that case). Or…, well you probably got the picture by now. Let the couscous rest for a while so that all flavours blend. In the meantime you can fry or (char)grill the fish (monkfish, sardines or red mullet would be great). It might be a good idea to add some garlic to the fish (the salad has none).

If you’re in desperate need of carbs, do take a break between preparing the couscous and cooking the fish and settle yourself on the couch with a piece of bread and olive oil. If both are of good quality, that’s a real treat.

 
Wine: Verdicchio
Azienda Santa Barbara, Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi DOC, 2011, 12,5%vol, by Stefano Antonucci, € 7,25, for sale here.
This Italian white from the Marche region presents itself as going well ‘per cibi poco grassi’, i.e., with low fat courses, and of course with fish. And it paired really well with the couscous. Its mellowed acidity could more than cope with the lemony freshness and the velvety saltiness of the cauliflower couscous with herbs and olives. It did not much for the tilapia I served it with, but I wouldn’t recommend that fish anyway.
Stefano Antonucci has more choice in Verdicchio’s. This one is his cheapest.

Making Moor of History

The relevance of history can hardly be underestimated. Still, in wine education, be it in my SWEN 2 text book or various digital or print media, I often wonder why authors bother at all. They usually come up with sentences like ‘The Romans brought the vine grape to [fill in almost any area in France, Spain, Germany, Switzerland, Austria]. After the collapse of the Roman empire the church took over. Nothing much changed till in the nineteenth century the Phyloxera blah blah blah blah.’ No real harm is done, but one can do without.

In the case of Spain it’s often even worse. Let me cite my textbook: ‘After the Roman era the Islamic Moors invaded the country. The Moors didn’t forbid winegrowing but they did discourage it. After the last Moors in 1492 had left (…).’ (Michel van Tuil, De wijnwereld, 2011, p. 117 [my translation])

And Wijnbloggers says (in my translation): ‘After the fall of Rome, Spain is occupied by the Moors. Under Moorish rule alcohol is forbidden, but may be used in other products (perfume, cosmetics) and winegrowing comes to a halt, until it starts flourishing again in the Middle Ages with the return of Christian culture in Spain.’

This hurts. After the Roman era/fall of Rome? Islamic? Moors? Left? Forbidden? Halt? Middle Ages? Return of Christian culture?

Let me start by saying that in world history there is only one Moor. His name is Othello and he lived and died in Venice. Furthermore, there are a few centuries between not so much the fall as the crumbling down of the Roman empire and the invasion of the Umayyads in 711. In these seemingly chaotic times (Migration Period) Vandals, Suevi and Visigoths settled in Spain. In time the latter two established kingdoms of which the Visigothic kingdom ruled Spain from 507-711. After 711 all of Spain comes under Umayyad control, except for some smaller kingdoms of indomitable Christians that hold out against the Umayyads. This is more or less the status quo for about 300 years. Then the Berber Almoravids are called in to help the Umayyads against Alfonso VII of Castile. After another hundred years, we’re somewhere around 1170 now, the Almohads, a Berber coalition, take over Andalusia. The Reconquista, the Christian ‘recapture’ of Spain that started in the eleventh century, is said to have come to an end in 1260. Still, Granada remained a flourishing Arabic state until 1492.

So much for ‘After the Roman era the Islamic Moors invaded the country’. Let’s now focus on ‘Islamic’.

The Umayyads were Muslims alright, but above all they were Arabs, more interested in Arabic culture than in Islamic religion. In the famous lush gardens of their palaces, far away from pious Mecca, Arab courtiers (and some Jews as well) assembled, passing time with politics, gossip, poetry contests and, yes indeed, wine parties. The Almoravids, Berbers, not Arabs, were less worldly. They, for example, made Abū Hārūn Mūsā, a Jewish poet at the court of Granada, flee the city to northern Spain (there lamenting the loss of his cultural home). The Berber Almohads, who were quite puristic, instituted religious persecutions once they occupied Andalusia.

So was Muslim rule bad for business? Not so much in Umayyad times, but wine parties were surely out of fashion from the mid-eleventh century onwards.

I could go on correcting the two cited texts, but I’m not sure you can bear with me that long. Let me instead finish with a poem by Abū Hārūn Mūsā, also known as Mozes ibn Ezra, when he was still at Granada’s court. The translation is Raymond P. Scheindlin’s (in his Wine, Women, & Death. Medieval Hebrew Poems of the Good Life. Philadelphia 1986, p. 65).

 

Drink up, my friend, and pour for me, that I

May to the cup surrender all my pain.

And if you see me dying, tell the boy,

‘Revive him! Quick! Take up your lute again.’

 

Anyone for pudding?

In Perswijn 2, 2013 Lars Daniëls wrote on Grenache, a grape with a bright future. Not only because it loves high temperatures and isn’t bothered by fierce winds but also because it comes in three varieties (Noir, Gris and Blanc) and makes different styles of wines. To name but a few: the red one is the first grape in Châteauneuf-du-Pape (along with many others), loves to share a bottle with Syrah and Mourvèdre (the so-called GSM-blends), goes rosé in Provence, plays a prominent part in Rioja, has a solo in Sardinia’s Cannonau and has crossed the oceans to California and Australia. It’s white brother is a popular grape in Spain and the South of France, is allowed in a Châteauneuf-du-Pape too and blends well with Rousanne and Marsanne. Their natural high sugar levels and lack of tannins have led to extensive use in fortified wines, for example the Vins Doux Naturels (VDN, see also my previous posting). Daniëls admits he hardly ever drunk a VDN before, but that has changed.

He doesn’t tell if he always keeps a bottle of VDN in the fridge, as Carlos Badia of Arnaud deVilleneuve does. “You never know what happens,” he says, suggesting that beautiful brunettes knock on his door on a regular basis.

I know, Badia works for Arnaud de Villeneuve and had he worked for Veuve Clicquot his fridge would have been filled with yellow labelled Champagne bottles, as you never know what happens. Still, I think it’s a sound advice as these VDN are truly incredible. For pudding, definitively, but also as an aperitif.

These are fortified sweet wines, yes, but they are not sticky and as fortified wines go, not very alcoholic (16%). Think ripeness, nuttiness, dried fruit (dates, figs, raisins), orange peel. They go well with chocolate, old yellow cheeses and dried fruit. The older they are (and they should be), the softer the tones.

The 1969 (bottled three years ago) is the oldest one I tasted, and the most expensive (ca. € 70; the 80s are around € 20). Matureness is its middle name. This one doesn’t need any accompaniment. Just some attention.

 

Rivesaltes Ambré 1969

Made of Grenache Gris, Macabeu, Grenache Blanc and Muscat. Pardon my (i.e., Arnaud de Villeneuve’s) French: Vinification traditionnelle des blancs mais seul les jus de gouttes sont sélectionnés. Longue maturation en cuve, puis élevage en barriques et petits foudres. Mis en bouteille en 2010.

 

You can keep it open in the fridge for a few months. But you won’t.

 

The wines of Caves Arnaud de Villeneuve are for sale here.

 

Pink for Grown-Ups

I don’t know about other countries, but here in the Netherlands little girls wear pink dresses, have pink toys and ride pink bicycles. Till they are 10 years old. A few years later they (boys too now) start drinking pink breezers. The wine trade has realized that from breezer to Bordeaux is too big a step for this generation. They need an in between, affordable wine-like sweet and pink drink. Different wine regions come up with different answers. Pink port, served chilled, preferably with ice or as a cocktail or long drink, is one I have heard of. Another, one that I have actually tasted, comes from the Rivesaltes.

Last March Carlos Badia of Caves Arnaud de Villeneuve, a big cooperation of 350 farmers in Rivesaltes, hopped over from Düsseldorf (ProWein fair) to present his wines to a small group of Dutch connoisseurs. The Caves’ problem is not so much ‘from breezer to Bordeaux’ as ‘anyone for pudding?’, as their traditional sweet wines (Vins Doux Naturels, VDN) are less asked for nowadays. Dry whites and reds (Chardonnay, Grenache) have become more important but they have not forgotten to ‘Think pink’ either, judging by their Rivesaltes Rosé Instant Plaisir 2011. This step-in Vin Doux Naturel of 100% Grenache Noir tastes of strawberry and raspberry sweets. It’s not my style (nothing pink is, really), but I can imagine drinking a small glass on a hot day with a piece of strawberry cake. You could also pour a little over a bowl of red berry fruits and let it chill for a few hours. Some icing sugar to taste and lashings of whipped cream to top it off (not my style either, but that shouldn’t stop you).

Pink is in the air, it seems. Enjoying a delicious dinner lately at Vandemarkt’s, we were poured a sparkling Muscador rosé (Muscat grapes grown in the South of France, made into wine in Alsace at Cave de Wissembourg) with our starter of pâté de foie gras. The sommelier called it a little joke, but it’s a nice one: the soft sweetness (roses) of the wine paired quite well with the pâté, pieces of beetroot, streaks of (farmed!) eel and apple compote.

I’m almost convinced now.

 

(The wines of Caves Arnaud de Villeneuve are for sale here.)

Wine&Dine: Loire Cabernet Franc & Bavette

I love red Loire wines, be they made of Gamay, Pinot Noir or Cabernet Franc. They often combine a pleasant fruitiness with soft earthy tones, representing a certain light-heartedness, without being unserious. Of these three the Cabernet Franc is the more full-bodied and a bit sterner.

Though Cabernet Franc can be harsh and green, certainly if harvested too early (it’s a difficult grape), Jean-Noëlle Millon’s La Source du Ruault 2007 offers softness and ripeness. This unfiltered and un-fined Saumur Champigny has a fruity and herbal scent, a fruity palate and ripe tannins. It contains some depot (as an unfiltered and un-fined wine should), so you better leave the last sip in the bottle.

The website tells me Jean-Noëlle shifted to biodynamic wine making in 2007 (some years after taking over the business from Millon père) and has been certified since 2010. Grapes are hand-picked, fermentation takes place in concrete vats with natural yeasts, maturation in ‘barriques’.

 

Wine

La Source du Ruault 2007, Saumur Champigny (AOC), 12,5% alc. I was able to buy it at a discount (€ 7,60 instead of € 10,80) as the distributor needed space for new vintages.

 

Dine

We paired the Cabernet Franc with bavette, zucchini fritters, slow-cooked tomatoes from the oven and unmucked-about-with rocket. Having enough tannins for the bavette, fruitiness for the tomatoes and lightness to never overshadow the zucchini fritters, the La Source du Ruault proved to be a good choice.

Bavette? Yes, one of the cheaper and tastier steaks (popular nowadays in restaurants—crisis?). Maybe not to be found in the supermarket, but on offer at any decent butcher’s. Cut into small slices (0,5-1 cm) across the grain (otherwise the meat will fall apart), heat a frying (or even better: grill) pan till it’s very hot, fry a minute or so (no need to cook them through) on each side, sprinkle with sea salt and black pepper (and if you like a few drops of lemon juice).

Maar: attention

Ik was eigenlijk op zoek naar een boek van wijnschrijver Harold Hamersma, maar de lokale bibliotheek had niet hem, maar wel Ilja Gort grijpklaar liggen. En ach, waarom ook niet. Een Nederlandse wijnboer in Frankrijk (Bordeaux) kan vast een interessante blik achter de schermen geven. Zo kan ik meteen zien wat hij de geïnteresseerde leek op wijngebied te bieden heeft.

U kent Ilja Gort vast wel: een karakteristieke verschijning met alpinopet en peijes langs zijn kin. Zijn wijn ligt in de schappen van Albert Heijn, zijn boeken liggen in de (internet)winkel en zijn kop was afgelopen jaar op tv. In de anderhalve aflevering die ik van zijn programma Wijn aan Gort heb gezien, heb ik hem leren waarderen als iemand die met verstand, nieuwsgierigheid en ironische distantie het wijnbedrijf bekijkt.

Zijn Wijnsurvivalboek is wat lolliger en gek genoeg oppervlakkiger dan zijn tv-programma. Om van beginnende wijnliefhebbers echte ‘wijntijgers’ te maken, geeft Gort de lezer een inleiding in het kiezen, proeven, kopen en praten over wijn. En onder ‘praten over’ moet zeker ook ‘een goed weerwoord hebben tegen’ worden verstaan. Tegen hautaine obers bijvoorbeeld, die tegenstribbelen als je zegt dat de wijn kurk heeft.

Aardig zijn de verhalen over het leven tussen de wijnboeren in Frankrijk. Soms nogal gewild lollig zijn de leesadviezen bij elke paragraaf (‘lezen en onthouden’, ‘overslaan’, ‘lezen en vergeten’) en zijn voorbeelden van over-the-top wijnvocabulaire. Onbedoeld (?) grappig is hij dan weer als hij in het stukje over wijnetiketten zegt dat ‘Grand vin’ als kwaliteitsaanduiding ‘dus drie keer niks’ zegt, getuige de tekst op zijn eigen etiketten.

Raad ik u aan dit boek te lezen? Alleen als u nog niets van wijn weet en een uurtje of twee kunt missen. U hebt het zo uit en steekt er ongetwijfeld iets van op. Maar: attention, om het op zijn Gorts te zeggen, de wijnwereld is vele malen groter en veelzijdiger dan hij u laat zien. Voor hem komt wijn uit Frankrijk, dat wil zeggen: uit een beperkt aantal delen van Frankrijk. De Beaujolais vindt hij niet interessant, uit de Corbières komt volgens hem niets goeds en de Elzas noemt hij slechts in het voorbijgaan. Hij gaat af op zijn eigen smaak. Daar is niets mis mee. Sterker nog: doet u dat vooral ook. Maar wees iets avontuurlijker.

 

Ilja Gort, Het wijnsurvivalboek. Een handleiding tegen foute wijn, katers en ander wijnverdriet, Baarn: Tirion 2005

S’mores, Gorp and Nova Scotian Wine

Having dinner with perfect strangers in a Scottish B&B, what do you talk about after having discussed the weather conditions? The stomach content of a certain snail variety that is to be found only on Skye is a subject that has come up in quite some detail, as is faith. “Do you believe in the resurrection of the Christ?” I was once asked over a delicious pan-fried halibut. I am always grateful if we can stick to non-gastric food issues.

Being Dutch, the most popular question in this kind of situation, “What would you say is your national dish?,” is easier asked than answered, though I am more confident since I’ve learned the Canadian answer: s’mores and gorp. There is not much wrong with gorp (Good Old Raisins and Peanuts), but to call it a dish is slightly exaggerated. S’mores (some more) are probably something one must have grown up with to appreciate. This girl-scouting bonfire treat is made of roasted (or microwaved if you’re not outdoors) marshmallows dipped in milk chocolate and mashed between sweet biscuits.

So when I read about wine from Nova Scotia I had to get rid of (a) bias and (b) blatant geographical ignorance. Can a country that considers s’mores as their gift to world cuisine be trusted when it comes to wine making? Bias was quickly put aside as I remembered I had tasted a few Canadian wines from Pelee Island Winery at a small distributors’ wine fair in April last year. The island in Lake Erie itself I had seen before from air on my way to Cleveland via Detroit, not knowing what kind of agriculture the green fields represented. Some of the grape varieties (Riesling, Zweigelt) and the owner’s diction give away its Austrian background. I tasted a fresh blend of Chardonnay and Gewurztraminer with tones of exotic fruit and spices (2010) and a Pinot Noir of the same year that could compete with some of its Burgundian nephews.

Now, Lake Erie is on the same latitude as Rome and has a microclimate similar to Burgundy, though with more heat units. But Nova Scotia is arctic. It’s the nearly uninhabitable place where poor Scots—driven by circumstances or their landlords—were shipped in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, only to find themselves in even worse climatological and economic conditions. ‘Cool climate’ is a euphemism. Here I must admit I thought Nova Scotia to be in the same league as Newfoundland. And indeed the first settlers had a hard time, as winters over there are quite cold. But Nova Scotia is a few miles south of Newfoundland. The summers must have been a revelation to the Scottish settlers. The climate is ‘continental’, the temperature extremes moderated by the Atlantic Ocean. Still, the winter is a force to be reckoned with. As a result wine making is heavily dependent on non-vinifera vines: hybrids as New York Muscat, Vidal and Nova Scotia’s own L’Acadie Blanc. But there is some real vitis vinifera too. The wines of the only appellation, Tidal Bay, are low in alcohol, but not so low in price. They are said to be crisp and pair well with the local sea food. If those first settlers just had known.

 

For Dutch readers: The wines of Pelee Island Winery are for sale here. For the wines of Nova Scotia one has to go to, well, Nova Scotia.

A Perfect Wine List

If you were in a restaurant and the wine list contained some fine Champagnes, South-African, New Zealand and Loire Sauvingnon Blancs from renowned wine makers, an astonishing choice of German, Austrian and Alsatian Rieslings, several Grüner Veltliners, Chardonnays from all over the world, Gewurztraminer from Alsace and New Zealand, dry and sweet Bordeaux wines—and that would only be the white wine section—what would you do?

I’d ask for the menu, just to check if it contains anything but Leviathan, as I would probably be dead.

A wine list of this sort only exists in heaven, and in the mind of Jamie Goode. It’s a fun list, and as with any personal list, it may lead to animated discussion. Though maybe less animated in Burgundy (“I could just about live without Burgundy [Pinot Noir]”), Bordeaux (“I’m not sure where [red] Bordeaux would figure”), and some Spanish regions (“I can’t see Rioja or Ribero del Duero getting a look in”). Unfortunately Jamie Goode doesn’t reveal what kind of restaurant he was thinking of, let alone what dishes would accompany his wines of choice. On the other hand, with such an extended list, what dish would not find a pairing wine?

Now it is one thing to have a wine list in your mind’s eye, but (at least for me) quite another to be honoured with a try-out of candidates for a new real life wine list. My favourite local restaurant may be just that: a restaurant cherished and favoured within a 10 mile zone, their wine list covering the entire world: France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Austria, Morocco, Israel, Lebanon, Argentina, New Zealand, South Africa, United States and Chili. It needed a small refurbishment, as menu’s do every now and then. Spouse and I had just sat down for a quick dinner, rather tired after a hard day’s work and looking forward to an early night. Before we could order the boss brought out his best glass ware, poured a Menetou-Salon and asked us if we would like to taste a few wines with our dinner that he felt might have a place on the new wine list. It wasn’t a question really and we were happy to oblige. So we spent the evening sniffing, chewing, tasting, discussing. No early night, but revived all the same.

 

Menetou-Salon, Domaine de Loury, Belles Roches 2011, 12,5% alc

Great wine for an aperitif that will also go well with not too heavy fish dishes. This Loire Sauvignon Blanc has a vivid nose without the cat’s pee of its neighbours. Tastes of gooseberry, yellow apples, pear and something grassy. Zesty with an agreeable roundness.

 

Picpoul de Pinet (of which I forgot to pen down the details)

I thought it smelled of acetone and didn’t taste it. Spouse called it ‘medicinal’ and said the wine was unremarkable on its own, but suited the sesame madeleines and Thai basil that accompanied her tartare of tuna, less the tartare itself.

 

Pinot Grigio, Tiefenbrunner 2011 (Alto Adige)

I am always surprised how different a Pinot Grigio is from a Pinot Gris. One probably shouldn’t compare the two. This Pinot Grigio, made by a well-known North-Italian winemaker, has an, I quote Mr Tiefenbrunner, ‘unobtrusive bouquet.’ Though it had the difficult task to make me forget the Menetou-Salon—it failed—I must admit it paired better with the vitello tonato, due to its freshness and acidity.

 

Sequillo 2011, Swartland, South Africa, 14,5% alc

This blend of, hold on, Chenin Blanc, Palomino, Semillon Blanc, Grenache Blanc, Semillon Gris, Viognier, and Clairette was served with a grilled white fish on a puree of chickpeas. It could have passed for a Southern Rhône if the Chenin Blanc wouldn’t have given it away. Neither fined nor filtered, the bottle warns you in bold type. I like that. Exciting wine. Tropical fruit with a certain freshness, full-bodied but not fatty. A pity that it contains so much alcohol. And mind you, they reduced the alcohol level in this vintage.

 

Domaine de Piaugier, Gigondas 2010, Marc Autan et Fils, Sablet, 14,5% alc

This young Gigondas desperately needed the proteins of Spouse’s rib-eye to soften its tannins, even with the bottle open for two hours. A fruity yet full-bodied wine. Quite some alcohol, but balanced. Hope we’ll see it on the list in two years.

It Ain’t Half Hot II

“Thinking of movies and comedy series set in British colonial environments, I don’t think I have ever seen someone drinking wine. Sweaty men gulping whisky (…), yes, that I can remember (…),” I wrote in my last posting. I just found out they were quite avant-garde. See this post by Fiona Beckett.

It Ain’t Half Hot

Thinking of movies and comedy series set in British colonial environments, I don’t think I have ever seen someone drinking wine. Sweaty men gulping whisky, elegantly dressed women sipping tea on well-mowed lawns, yes, that I can remember (though the mind is a source to be distrusted). Yet I just read that the British have stimulated India’s already century-old wine industry during colonization. In India’s hot climate, where in some regions one can harvest two crops a year (one shouldn’t), there must have been enough wine to wash away their curries. At least till Phylloxera took its toll, followed by shifting public opinion, and, in the 40s, shifting powers.

The end? Certainly not. There are even new beginnings, as shows Sula Vineyards (Nashik, 180 km northeast of Mumbai). This relatively new player in the Indian wine industry (1997) has gained some fame already, their wines for sale in several European and New World countries. Nashik having similar climatological and soil conditions as California, Rajeev Suresh Samant, CEO of Sula Vineyards, brought a Sonoma County winemaker and some New World grape varieties (the result being a sort of Neo-Mock Cabernet?).

His Sula style is herbal (whites) and spicy (reds) with a sweet touch, the reds and some whites rather high in alcohol. More often than not a I smelled and tasted something chemical. As different as these wines may be, they have one thing in common: both whites and reds matched perfectly with the hot and spicy Indian snacks that were served with them by the Dutch distributor.

Sula Sauvignon Blanc 2011: lots of flavour, dry, greenish, mineral. Not bad. € 7,95. (With spicy cod.)

Sula Chenin Blanc 2010: withdrawn, Lysol?

Sula Dindori Reserve Viognier 2012: I wouldn’t have recognized it as a Viognier. Herbal, fruity (apple, a little peach). Adequate, but at € 10,95. (Good with cardamom.)

Sula Zinfandel Rose 2012: if you’re fond of Danone style strawberry yoghurt, this is your wine. € 7,50.

Sula Cabernet Shiraz 2010: I smelled dried watercolour; taste a bit sweet. Not my favourite but our most experienced taster detected wet leather and said this wine was too young but would mature well. If we take his word for it: a great wine in a few years’ time at € 7,95. (With Indian ‘kroepoek’.)

Sula Red Zinfandel 2011: a bit hazy, mildly chemical strong dark fruit, a bit alcoholic. Not bad, but I’m unfamiliar with Zinfandel. € 8,50.

Sula Dindori Reserve Shiraz 2011: now we’re slowly getting there; a bit hazy, spicy, dark fruit, vanilla, pepper; a full bodied New Worldish shiraz. € 11,95. (With Chicken Tikka Massala.)

Sula Rasa Shiraz 2011: now we’re really getting there; no whiff of industrial candy here but real dark fruit; spicy, balanced; Old Worldish Shiraz. Great wine. You pay for it though: € 18.

Sula Sparkling Wine 2012: not very sparkling (but not the right glassware) and an unfavourable nose; yoghurt. Something went wrong?

So which one would I pick in my favourite Indian restaurant? Well, I’ll stick to tea, but that’s because—for reasons that are of no interest—I always go there by car.

Bordeaux Tasting

Bordeaux tastings have magic around them. And why shouldn’t they? The ‘fine fleur’ of wine journalism and wine trade from around the world gather in this château-studded area to taste and judge new vintages. Being the world’s most famous wine region, its blends imitated by many a New World wine maker, where the best wines are only affordable to the (nowadays increasingly Chinese) rich and famous, pension funds, and insurance companies—a bit of magic comes natural. Even more so as the wines are tasted (and sold—this is not a charity event) ‘en primeur,’ as cask samples, i.e., as unfinished wines. A true surprise party.

I am not easily scared off, so I boldly accepted an invitation for a Bordeaux tasting last November. Of course it did help that the tasting didn’t take place in Bordeaux, that it wasn’t ‘en primeur’ and that the invitation came from Gommers, a trusted, sympathetic wine retailer. No Pétrus here, nor a Haut Brion, but then the wines didn’t cost one a month’s income (per bottle, that is).

 

Magic was there all the same: 42 red Bordeaux wines of sometimes lesser, sometimes better known châteaux, elegantly presented in a renovated coach house. That was more Bordeaux than I had ever seen in my life. What to choose, where to start, especially if one is fairly unfamiliar with Bordeaux wines? Spouse and I had done some homework, thought it better to skip the wines under € 8 and kicked-off. We tasted lots of blackcurrant, leather, vanilla, remnants of cigar box, a dash of stable, harsh and soft tannins. Each wine, each vintage different from the other (with 2009 acknowledgedly sticking out as pretty near-perfect).

Here are a few of our favourites.

2009 Château Croix de Rambeau, Lussac Saint-Emilion, a 90/10% Merlot/Cabernet Franc blend. Though I noted a floral nose, lots of fruit and soft tannins, the tasting comments of the French cellar master—and who am I to think differently—tells me that, I quote, ‘the mouth is very pleasant from the attack.’ For sale at € 15,50, and well worth it’s price.

2009 Château Saransot-Dupré, Listrac Cru Bourgois, a classic Bordeaux blend of Merlot (56%), Cabernet Sauvignon (24%), Cabernet Franc (15%), Petit Verdot (3%), and Carmenere (2%). Dark fruit, cigar box, leather, laurel. Friendlier and fresher than the 2006. At € 16,25.

The 2009 Château de Pez, Saint-Estèphe Cru Bourgeois Exceptionnel was the most expensive, selling for € 45 a bottle, and to my taste also the finest. Blackcurrant, vanilla and leather in the nose; soft, full-bodied, fresh; balanced. Yummy indeed, but three times as yummy as the Croix de Rambeau or the Saransot-Dupré? I didn’t think so.

Brain damaged

After I finished correcting a rather sloppily written book (not on wine) that for reasons unknown to me hadn’t been edited, I dreamed that the hostess of a lavish dinner party announced she was going to pour us a Champignon-Musigny. In the rest of the dream I kept looking for a way to tell her without making her feel a fool it’s Chambolle-Musigny.

Red

Picture an artist’s work place. Some paintings hanging, some standing against the walls. There is one right in front, the artist sitting next to it. A young man comes in and almost fearfully approaches the huge painting.

‘What do you see? Wait. Stand closer. You’ve got to get close. Let it pulsate. Let it work on you. Closer. Too close. There. Let it spread out. Let it wrap its arms around you; let it embrace you, filling even your peripheral vision so nothing else exists or has ever existed or will ever exist. Let the picture do its work – But work with it. Meet it halfway for God’s sake! Lean forward, lean into it. Engage with it! … Now, what do you see?’

This is the opening scene of Red, a play by John Logan about Mark Rothko. A marvellous play that I saw in Berlin, November 2011, performed by two brilliant actors who completely knocked me out in one and a half hours of verbal combat.

Now, what did the young man see? He, who wants to become a painter, an artist, who is at the threshold of a new phase in his career, who has made it so far that he will be assisting one of the famous painters of his days – challenged to give it his utmost he says: ‘Red.’

I do sympathize. I often feel the same way when tasting wine. I look at the colours in my glass, swirl the wine, sniff at it several times (deep breaths, short breaths), what do I smell?, take a sip, let some air in, chew on the wine, what do I taste? Red wine. Positively: red wine. And in my mind’s eye I see my teacher despair, in a similar way as Rothko did in Logan’s words:

‘I don’t even know what that means! What does “red” mean to me? You mean scarlet? You mean crimson? You mean plum-mulberry-magenta-burgundy-salmon-carmine-carnelian-coral? Anything but “red!” What is “RED?!”’

Good question. What is ‘red’? Or, more in line with this blog, what is ‘red wine’? Well, that’s a bit much for a first posting. Let’s rephrase it Fish-called-Wanda style. What would Plato think? What would Plato think of if he thought of red wine (ignoring the fact that in his days wine tasted differently)? My answer would be: Domaine de la Roche Bussière’s Petit Jo, a Vin de Table from the Southern Rhone. An authentic wine. Grenache and a little Syrah. No sulphites (only a minimum when bottling). Fruity, farmy, herby. A wine that made me sigh: This is how red wine is meant.