Gonzo Gastronomy

It’s a metaphor that only women will understand, but this review can be equated to losing your virginity. For so long you anticipate the moment, prepare for it, hunt down the “right guy”—the one that gave every indication by his looks and his discourse that he’d be amazing to experience—and take him home with giddy delight. You’ve envisioned this several dozen times and played the scene out in your head several dozen more. Then he stands before you, youthful, marble-chiseled beauty that he is, and lays his lips on yours. And at that precise moment, your entire bubble of expectation is burst by a serpentine tongue swimming in an ocean of saliva, a sudden dull and unexpected pain, and a sexual interlude that lasts about as long as it takes to floss—maybe. You’re inevitably left laying there, panting male above you, saying to yourself, “This is IT? THIS is what I waited for?” What a rip off.

By now, most ladies are nodding and most men are rethinking just how studdly and satisfying they were at the starting gate, but my point is made. This feeling found me again this weekend with a long-awaited encounter with a bottle of Belgian ale. When I first read about DeuS, I was intrigued and anxious to try it and discuss it here, with you. It is first brewed in Belgium in the traditional style, with summer barley. They then ship it to Champagne where it undergoes another fermentation (in bottle, with several months on yeasts) done in the methode champenoise. It looked beautiful and sounded delicious, so I hunted down the US importer/distributor and got some help in finding a retailer near me that carried it…I never even thought to ask the price. Two weeks and multiple emails later, I was standing in the Belgian Ales section of a wine shop with the equivalent of the holy grail in my hands, all for the asking price of about 30 bucks. Yeah, 30 bucks. I gotta admit that I hesitated at that point…I could get a nice bottle of Champagne for that money. But I bit the bullet and bought the bottle—the bottle that contained all my hopes and anticipations of grandeur inside its glass walls.

I put it in the fridge as soon as I got home, before I even bothered unpacking the groceries. The brewery recommends drinking it “ice cold” so I knew I’d have to wait several hours before uncorking the elixir. I went about my day, cooking, cleaning, and waiting. Then, shortly before my dinner guests were due to arrive, I decided it was time—time to give myself to the DeuS—and I wanted it to be all mine…fuck the guests, they could drink the Sierra! So with a beautiful champagne stem in hand I unleashed the bubbles. It poured out the color of honey and created an enormous beautiful head in the glass. I wasn’t expecting that, and had to wait impatiently for it to subside a little so it wouldn’t go up my nose! It was a longer wait than I expected, because these bubbles just kept regenerating…it was pretty damned cool. And that, my friends, is where the infatuation and intrigue ended. It had the pleasant nose of a typical Belgian ale, with lots of funky yeasty notes and hints of maple syrup and gingerbread. It was lightly sweet and fruity, really smooth and had great body. But in the end, it was just a well-crafted beer.

Was all the hoopla really necessary? Did the champenoise fermentation really impart anything that amazing, or was it gimmick to justify the price tag? I don’t know that I can really answer that fairly, because the entire experience left me as satisfied as the deflowered young woman I described. I sat there and said, “That’s IT? Thirty friggin’ dollars and THIS is what I have to show for it?” It was OK, but it wasn’t all THAT. Much like losing my virginity, I owe the experience to something with a big head that had a great body and was really smooth, but never capable of satisfying…and part of me wonders if it’s not perhaps my fault for setting my expectations too high to be met. Nahh, couldn’t be my fault.

I’ve been having a sort of spiritual wrestling match with myself the last couple of days as to whether or not I should write this post, and if I do, from what angle do I approach it. Is all publicity good publicity? Should good secrets stay secrets? But in the middle of the throwdown, Kenny Shopsin’s persona took over, gave my conscience a clothesline, and told it to shut the fuck up.

For over 20 years, Kenny Shopsin despised publicity, which is more than a little off the wall given that he owns a café in New York City. Kenny was the kind of guy that would get a phone call from a restaurant guidebook that wanted to include Shopsin’s General Store, and tell them that the place was no longer in operation. Those that have written the place up usually describe Kenny as a “foul-mouthed middle-aged chef” as if it were something unique—they’ve obviously never stepped foot inside the heat-riddled kitchens of New York. But Kenny doesn’t want complimentary reviews. He feels they bring in the “review-trotters” that eat at restaurants because someone else tells them they should…the kind of people that might feel uncomfortable with a stranger next to them contributing to their conversation or be taken aback by hearing Kenny use language normally reserved for merchant marines. But after 26 years of maintaining a policy of silence, Kenny Shopsin was convinced to write a book…part memoir, part food philosophy, part cookbook, part confessional.

In Eat Me, Kenny talks about his non-traditional approach to being a restaurant owner and chef. His view, for starters, is quite the opposite of “the customer is always right.” In fact, until he gets to know you and is convinced that you are worth cultivating as a customer, he’s not even sure he wants your patronage. Why? Because Kenny interacts with each of his customers—he develops a relationship with each of them and invests a little of himself in them. At Shopsin’s there is no “us” and “them” and the menu he puts outside (with hundreds of items on it) is actually to dissuade the wrong people from coming in. Kenny also has no recipes. Most of his customers are regulars and know that if they order the same thing on two separate occasions, they may get something completely different both times. This he equates to having sex—you try to do the best you possibly can each time, as if it were the only time. “You don’t think about what you’re doing because you are 100% in the moment.”

Then there are the rules at Shopsin’s that have gotten bent over the years, much to Kenny’s dismay. Rule 1: No copycat ordering. Yes, the menu can be daunting, but if you can’t think for yourself, Kenny doesn’t want you there and has no problem telling you to fuck off. He has since relented on this rule, but he ain’t happy about it! Rule 2: Limit of four people per group. Kenny originally claimed that it was because it was too difficult to get that many dishes out at once, but he now admits that it’s more because large parties are no fun. They’re an entity unto themselves and don’t interact with other customers that are part of “what’s going on.” Rule 3: No cell phone use—he doesn’t care who you interact with at the restaurant, as long as it isn’t with an electronic device, so take it outside. Rule 4: One entrée per person minimum. If you sit, you eat.

The book includes his philosophy about soup making (he usually has over 100 of them on the menu), his admission about using Aunt Jemima’s frozen pancake batter, and tons of his recipes including macaroni and cheese pancakes. But more importantly, it’s a window into a chef who’s often discussed and seldom understood. Eat Me took a lot of nerve to write because it’s completely honest, and as many of us know, most chefs, to a certain degree, are full of shit. Kenny stripped himself bare—scars, warts, gray hairs and all—and I think he did it in the hopes that the shock value would either draw you in or push you away. Either way, you’ll probably learn as much about yourself as you will about him.

Don’t lie, you know exactly who they are…the wine geek or the foodie that completely gets your goat. It’s a tough one to admit because on some level, we are all wine geeks and/or foodies. We get giddy whenever we’re able to secure those last couple of bottles of some boutique wine that completely turned us on. We tote our own glassware with us to BYOs. We may even equate certain meals we’ve had with the likes of a sexual encounter. But then there are those who step off the deep end and force the rest of us to shake our heads in shame…or in laughter. I’m sure there are many more than I can name here (feel free to chime in) but here are a few of those that give geekdom a bad name.

The Name Dropper – It happens in many circles, not just the wine world, but it doesn’t make it any less entertaining. Instead of dropping the name of all the celebrities they’ve met or such, they spend an evening at the dinner table recounting their last trip to _____ (insert famous wine region) and how they were miraculously able to secure a private vertical tasting with ______ (insert famous winemaker). And you feign interest, enthusiasm and envy as they drone on, all the time silently wishing you hadn’t bothered to ask how their vacation went.

The Walking Encyclopedia – You see the name meritage for the first time and unknowingly pronounce it “me-ri-tahj”…a common mistake given that you’ve already heard of hermitage and pinotage. You also happen to do it in front of others and amidst those “others” is the walking encyclopedia that feels compelled to correct you right then and there. “Oh, you must mean ‘me-ri-tij’. It actually got its name from combining the words ‘merit’ and ‘heritage’…yadda, yadda, yadda.” And not only are you really pissed off that they felt the need to show off in a crowd, but you’re also wondering why the hell a group of folks would purposely choose to give a wine a name so incredibly similar to other, long-existing wine names and yet giggle under their breath when you pronounce it like those other, long-existing wine names. Tell ya what, you say “me-ri-tij” I say “me-ri-tahj”…let’s call the whole thing off.

The Cult Collector – The conversation almost always begins with “Oh, come here, you’ve gotta see what I picked up at the auction last week.” And you unavoidably get dragged down to the cellar where they dance over to a case of Cult Wine ABC, pull out a bottle and present it to you as if you were laying eyes on the Holy Grail for the first time. “Awesome! When will that be peaking?” you ask. “Peaking? I don’t know man, I’m never going to drink this! This is the find of finds…you know how much I paid for this?!? I want this to be around for my grandkids to inherit one day.” And you think, once they’re six feet under, you know damned well that one of those unknowing grandkids is going to stuff their “inheritance” in the trunk of their car on a hot July day and forget to bring it into the house for two weeks.

The Import Lover – Ever tasted an Asian pear, a Haitian mango, or a Malaysian papaya? They’re delicious…they really are…if you happen to be standing in a farmer’s market in Japan, Haiti or Malaysia. But the import lover wants that hard-to-find produce and doesn’t understand that the papaya has been genetically modified so that it doesn’t ripen too rapidly and spoil on its trip here from Malaysia. Mmmmmmm, genetically modified papaya (insert a Homer Simpson drool). Nor do they know that those mangoes are getting picked green (like tomatoes), and being sprayed with ethylene gas while in transit in order to “ripen.” Sure it produces a ripe-LOOKING fruit, but I prefer my tomato sun-ripened, with ethylene gas on the SIDE please. I had an import lover slice up a mango for me once that they raved was the best to be had, and after biting into it I had to smile gratefully and nod in agreement that it was, indeed, a great mango. And the whole time I’m thinking…I’ve climbed mango trees with my cousins in Florida, and then sat in the mangrove tearing one open as its juices ran down my arms…and somehow a bland, chemically treated (albeit “imported”) mango ain’t holding up to that memory.

c. Evan Sung

Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar. 120 credits at Pace University, masochistic electives like Introduction to Forensic Sciences and The History of Psychology despite the fact that I was aiming for a career in marketing, and THAT is what I came away with nearly 2 decades ago, in my 2nd year of college. But sometimes, a cocktail is apparently not just a cocktail. Question: If there is absolutely no sipping involved, is it still a cocktail? Answer quick—gut instinct. Forget all the sordid Jell-O shots you did during that blurry haze you call youth. If you are chewing—if it leaves you…ummmm…thirsty—can it technically still be considered a cocktail?!? Some mixoligists in New York seem to think so, but I guess they never bothered to button up on their Freud.

“Solids” aren’t exactly new on the cocktail scene. For the last couple of years several alchemists have been experimenting with ways of engaging you in a drink that you don’t drink. I believe they’ve even got t-shirts with the motto “fuck the straw” on them, but don’t quote me on that. Tailor (a restaurant in SoHo), for instance, has a trio of solids that include a gelatinized Cuba Libre, a Gin Fizz marshmallow, and a White Russian-flavored Rice Krispies treat. The Benoit Bar, in Midtown, serves a concoction called La Fondue, which involves nestling a ceramic bowl in crushed ice, filling it with a Piña Colada-style reduction, and serving it with dunkable marshmallows and pineapple chunks. Me, personally, I’d just wanna yell “seco y volteado*” and down the entire bowl in one shot—fruit is for sissies. They’ve also got one called the French Toast (pictured above). Basically, strawberry-flavored vodka and Chambord are cooked and reduced into a jam which gets spread on a warm baguette slice. This may be delicious, but it is emphatically NOT a cocktail. It’s a snack that’ll just happen to kick your ass. Oh, and not to be outdone by these kooks, er I mean geniuses, Dave Arnold of the French Culinary Institute in Manhattan created (with the aid of a vacuum machine) a martini in the form of a pickle. There are so many wiseass Freudian remarks that could be made here I don’t even know where to begin. I do, however, wonder if it’s Kosher.

Is this fun? Yeah. Whimsical? Definitely. Worth a try? Probably. A cocktail? Gimme a break.

*Don’t know what that means? Tough—that’s what Google is for.

If I had a dollar for every time I served a riesling at a wine tasting and watched someone wince at the mere mention of the name, saying “Oh, no, I don’t like riesling—too sweet for me” I’d be…well, I’d be not so broke. I’m good enough at what I do to be able to maintain composure and explain that it’s a commonly held misconception about rieslings, but what I really wanna do is give them a wedgie. In the end, though, it’s really not their fault because there are, in fact, a lot of rieslings out there that would give Welsh’s white grape juice a run for its money…and a lot of that is readily found stateside.

The Finger Lakes region of New York has been a go-to spot for riesling ever since Dr. Konstantin Frank decided nearly 50 years ago that European varietals could thrive there. Nowadays, rieslings from that region run the gamut from simple, unoffensive quenchers (usually “semi-dry”) to focused, balanced wines capable of aging (usually “dry”). Problem is, sometimes those you think of as dry are labeled semi-dry and those that are labeled dry seem like they’re semi-dry. What the hell did I just say? Basically, that choosing a NY riesling can be a tightrope walk. It’s impossible to tell from the label what style of riesling you’re gonna get. Dry rieslings can sometimes be overly tart and green, and semi-dry can sometimes be inspiring, with little or no perceptible sweetness because it’s balanced. It’s hit or miss—something we actually kinda like when we’re playing angels vs. demons!

Please welcome to the ring, in the “demon” corner and wearing the red trunks, Bully Hill Riesling. What you gotta love about Bully Hill is that it doesn’t offer wine tastings, it offers a wine show. Tie-dye-wearing hosts pour wines for their audience while they tell jokes, sing and all but pull you up on the counters to dance. Its founder, Walter Taylor, was the black sheep of the Taylor wine family in the Finger Lakes, and wasn’t even allowed to use his own name on his Bully Hill wines (making him even more of a cult figure for college-going tourists). That’s really cool and all, but the wine? It doesn’t say “dry” or “semi-dry” on the label, which shows just how much they want to help out an unknowing consumer. And for as often as I praise a winery that steps outside the box with their packaging and marketing, I always add that they have to back it up with great juice. Bully Hill? Baby got no back.

In the opposing corner, our “angel” for this battle is Hermann J. Wiemer Dry Riesling. Hermann Wiemer, funny enough, was once the winemaker at Bully Hill. His own winery, though, is a sort of sacred temple for serious riesling. No stand-up comedy, no song and dance, just great wine. His dry riesling (he makes a semi-dry as well) is NY’s finest, and among this entire country’s finest. If you want to dance on tables, there are always the city’s strip joints, but it ain’t gonna happen in Wiemer’s tasting room.

Hermann J. Wiemer Dry Riesling ($16) – Pretty tropical and stone fruit, but dry and crisp with a touch of honey. Really well balanced.

Bully Hill NV Riesling ($9) – Fruity, nutty, and flacid with an unpleasantly odd sweetness (think Jerry Lewis).

So, I found myself in the unique position of being confused a few days ago. That, in and of itself, is not unique—plenty of things in this screwed up world can easily confound me, despite my IQ. What was unique was that I was standing in a wine shop when the glazed look came over my eyes. It’s a store I don’t frequent because I’m not usually in the neighborhood, so I wasn’t familiar with their “strengths.” But after about 5 minutes of glancing at the shelves I was able to surmise that their strengths were two: 1. Lack of service and 2. Piss-poor diversification. But I was determined to find SOMETHING to take home with me, and as you already know, that’s seldom a problem for me in any other wine shop in this galaxy. I eventually walked out with two bottles, but vowing never to return. One was a bottle of Gruet Blanc de Noir which is a nice domestic bubbly that I’ve had many times, and the other’s name has been relegated to the deep recesses of my memory, where it now resides with other forgotten details like my age and weight. But what I do remember about the bottle is its IMPORTER because that’s what got me to pick it up in the first place.

I’m always ranting about the wine industry’s reliance on the 100-pt system, primarily because it causes this catch-22 between retailers and consumers. Consumers who are intimidated by wine choice often use points as a crutch…something they can “rely” on if they have no idea what to buy. Retailers, in turn, feel the pressure to dangle numbers in front of the consumers simply because if they don’t, a customer may not be inclined to buy. What truly pissed me off that day is that the jackass behind the register, who was diligently digging for gold up his nose, didn’t offer to help me. It’s HIS store. No one will know what he’s got better than HIM. And this is coming from a wine geek. I want the dialog…I welcome the dialog…I appreciate the dialog. Because it tells me they give a shit about me, and the money in my pocket.

So what I decided to do was look at the importer on some of the bottles that I was torn between. It’s something I use as MY crutch on occasion, and I think it shows a hell of a lot better judgement than playing the numbers…that is, IF you know something about the importers. In my case, the hands-down crutch is Kermit Lynch. There are definitely others, but when I’m in doubt, if I see his name on a bottle, it wins out every time. Why? Because I TRUST him. Because his tastes and mine are very similar. Because I’ve learned that I like his choices.

My two cents on becoming a better wine drinker this week is this: Next time you’re surfing the web, distract yourself from the porn sites for 10 minutes and do a little research on some of the big wine importers. See what they have to say, and what their wine philosophies are. Then, next time you’re in a wine shop, take a chance on a bottle by a particular importer. See if you like it. When you’re done, go back to the top of this paragraph and repeat.

This, for all intents and purposes, can be classified as the obligatory, pre-Thanksgiving post. But if you’ve come here looking for a recommendation on what wines to serve with this year’s feast, bugger off, because you won’t find it here. There are a billion other blogs that will tell you that: A) pinot noir is the most versatile red; B) sparkling wine is a great choice  that’s often overlooked; C) a good dry riesling can also pair well with most dishes. Others will tout drinking a US wine since it’s an American holiday, and push zinfandel on you as the “American grape,” but unless you want a high-octane beverage that makes your turkey taste as flavorful as a slice of tofu, I’d pass on that if I were you.

Thanksgiving is a time when Atkin’s and South Beach dieters throw caution to the wind and pile their plates high with every carb imaginable to man. It’s a day where someone is bound to bring you a bottle of white zin that you pair with….what….arsenic, maybe? It’s an evening where, inevitably, one of your cousins will wind up in the guest room, making out with his girlfriend on top of the coat pile, and at least 2 relatives will pass out on the couch from a tryptophan overdose and wake up in time for the caffeine rebound. But lastly, Thanksgiving is, in no small way, a pile of horseshit we bought into a long time ago. Suffice it to say that, to Native Americans, it is known as The National Day of Mourning. And as for what wine they paired with their first successful harvest…they were PURITANS, folks…the only ones with wine were the Catholic missionaries on the other coast! Nonetheless, I enjoy Thanksgiving immensely, because it’s a chance to break bread with people I love. That being said, there are several things I simply don’t get:

1. Antipasto – Those who aren’t Italian or married into an Italian family won’t understand this one, but seriously, what the HELL are they thinking? Well, we have this enormous meal planned for the later part of the evening, but we best give folks a little something to nibble on so they don’t wither away. How about some prosciutto, cappicola, mortadella, provolone, mozzarella, roasted peppers, anchovies, olive salad and bread sticks? Will that hold them over? Are you NUTS? That’s a light, pre-meal snack? Not to mention that, even though I’m not a historian, I’m pretty damn sure there was absolutely NO mortadella served at the first harvest feast. My beverage pairing for this? A stiff castor oil & Alka-Seltzer cocktail.

2. Green Bean Casserole – I know I’m gonna get flack from a certain family member for this one, but seriously, do people out there really enjoy this? For those not in the know, it’s made with COOKED green beans (so they can become complete mush when you then BAKE them), canned, condensed (i.e. gelatinated) mushroom soup, milk, soy sauce, and then topped off with sodium-laden french-fried onions. The only way that would have been part of the first feast is if the pilgrims had been smoking some of the “good stuff” in the Wampanoags’ pipes. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—would pair well with this gray/green dish. In fact, the ONLY thing that would make it palatable is a fifth of Sneaky Pete moonshine.

3.  Sweet Potato Casserole – Marshmallows have as much right to be at the dinner table as Woody Allen has to be at an adoption agency. Although sweet potatoes were nowhere to be found in 1621 (they were only found in Europe, and served as an aphrodisiac for the ultra wealthy), I’ll let that one go, because it’s become such a standard Autumn dish. But MARSHMALLOWS? No doubt that recipe was concocted by the marketing team of the Jet-Puffed company during a really shitty year: OK here are the options, convince consumers that these would taste great on either a green bean casserole or a sweet potato one, but it looks like Campbell’s already got dibs on the former, so waddaya say? Pair wine with that? Get bent! Tell you what…let it go cold, slice it and serve it as dessert. It’ll probably pair just fine with that bottle of white zin your aunt brought over, anyway.

I love the show Mythbusters, where all sorts of myths and urban legends get their moment in the sun to either be proven or disproven. As an homage to the show, I thought I’d put together a bunch of food/beverage myths that science shakes its head at. Keep these in a little corner of your mind (evacuate memorized lyrics to one-hit wonders if you’re running out of room up there) and pass on the knowledge next time someone recites these as natural law.

Jack Me Up – Many people think a single serving of espresso is much stronger than a standard-size cup of regular coffee, but a demi tasse of espresso actually contains less (half to two-thirds) caffeine than the average morning cup o’ joe. Caffeine content is determined by the length of time that the beans are in contact with the water. An ideal extraction of espresso takes approximately 25 seconds. Regular coffee is in contact with the water for way longer. The roast of the beans also factors into caffeine content. The darker roast in espresso coffee beans diminishes the concentration of the stimulant.

The Mayo Clinic – Everybody’s always telling you not to leave that macaroni salad out on the picnic table, right? But commercially prepared mayonnaise will NOT cause salmonella to grow, as the popular old wives tale goes. In fact, the bacteria cannot survive in the highly acid environment. The origin of the poisoning tale goes to preparing fresh mayonnaise, which typically does not have enough acid in the form of vinegar or lemon to ward of the growth of salmonella. Commercial mayo, because of its relatively low pH (in other words, it is acidic), will actually help prevent spoilage. When chicken salad, or something similar, spoils it is the other ingredients spoiling, not the mayo. When going on a picnic or setting out a buffet it is important to keep foods cold, but there’s no reason to avoid mayo.

Pandora’s Box – Putting a box of baking soda in your fridge is probably the most clever and successful marketing ploy ever, but the fact is that baking soda is very poor at absorbing odors. It seems to make sense, however, so lots of people have spent untold billions of dollars to put boxes of baking soda in their fridge or freezer to no effect. Activated charcoal would work much better but it’s pretty expensive in comparison. Tell ya what…just wrap your food well and clean the fridge once in a while, ok?

Some Like It Hot – The hottest part of a chili pepper is NOT the seeds, despite what people tell you, it is the white spongy rib…that’s where the greatest concentration of capsaicin exists. The seeds are the next most potent part, mostly because they cling to these ribs.

If You Can’t Stand the Heat – You can’t put hot food into the refrigerator, right? The food will spoil if you do that, won’t it? The food will spoil if it is NOT quickly cooled! The leading cause of foodborne illness in the US is improper cooling, such as leaving cooked foods at room temperature. Foods need to be quickly cooled past the “danger zone” (140° to 45° F or less) in order to help minimize the growth of bacteria.

One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor – Bottles of tequila (true tequila is only distilled in the township of Tequila in Jalisco, Mexico, just like sparkling wine is only Champagne if it comes from the Champagne region) DO NOT contain a worm…the Mexican Standards Authority (NOM) prohibits adding insects or larvae to tequila. It’s in mescal, a spirit beverage distilled from the agave plant, but which comes from areas other than Tequila. And technically speaking, it’s not actually a worm, but the larvae of one of two kinds of insects. The most common is the larvae of the agave snout weevil, and the other is a moth caterpillar which is actually considered a delicacy in Mexico and can be found on some restaurant menus, in case you’re ever hungry and south of the border.

A Wine By Any Other Name – Sake is widely referred to in English as “rice wine,” but this definition isn’t really accurate because the production of alcoholic beverages by multiple fermentation of GRAIN as opposed to FRUIT has more in common with beer than wine. The process of making sake is more akin to brewing beer than making wine, because grapes contain natural glucose that ferments easily. In beer and sake, though, the starch in the grain/barley/rice must first be turned into glucose before fermentation can take place. So even though it isn’t carbonated, and its body more closely resembles that of wine, it is nonetheless a bretheren of the beer family tree.

Tasting white wine is a two-part ritual for me because I decided a long time ago that most times we drink our white wines way too cold. In fact, no one has ever been able to give me a valid reason for chilling white wine at all other than to make it more refreshing. But, you know what? If I’m drinking a glass of Alsace reisling in December, in New Jersey, during a blizzard, I don’t want it to be refreshing…I want it to taste good. Truth is, when you serve white wine at room temperature, it reveals much more of its personality to you…you don’t have to dig as hard to unearth its aromas and nuances because they’ll pretty much slap you upside the head. So now when I taste a white wine, I first serve it at room temperature (between 65° and 70°) and take some notes. Then I chill it a bit, taste it a second time and take some more notes. And as it turns out, most of the note taking occurs BEFORE the wine is chilled…there just ain’t too much more to discover once the wine has cooled down. It’s kinda like the wine is naked at first, boldly and unabashedly revealing itself to you, and then, once chilled, it has put on its flannel PJs…you gotta do a whole lot more searching at that point, to get to the good stuff.

The move that always makes me cringe, though, is the ice cubes. There have been times when I’ve gone to someone’s house, been offered something to drink, and asked for a glass of white wine. At that point the host or hostess will apologize for forgetting to chill the white wine, and ask if I would like some ice in it. Now listen, I understand putting ice in a glass of scotch…sometimes people actually WANT it to get watered down; they WANT to dilute it. But why in hell would you want to dilute your wine? Most white wine is delicate enough as it is. Bathing it in slowly melting ice cubes that have the subtle taste of 2-year-old frozen venison, bagged peas and tater tots will just about kill it. So I inevitably wrestle the glass out of their hand before they plop those funky ice cubes in.

The colder a wine, the less aromatic it will appear. If this is something we want to experience in a white wine, then it begs the question…why chill it? If I buy a bottle of wine for its flavor, why would I numb those very flavors? Now, of course, we’ve all been handed the occasional plonk at parties, in which case you WANT it damn near iced over…the aroma of red plastic cups and bad chardonnay is forever etched in all of our minds, I’m sure. But nonetheless, I’ll take my steaks rare, my broccoli steamed, and my white wine at room temperature, please. Why? BECAUSE I WANT TO TASTE IT, NOT KILL IT. I’ll leave the well-done leather, the boiled green mush and the arctic whites to those who like things “the old-fashioned way”—better to forge your own rules than be bound by someone else’s.

Here I thought America had the reigning title for irresponsible, fear-mongering journalism, but apparently the Brits can hold their own, too. A new study from Kingston University in London claims that wines sourced from several different parts of the world may contain potentially hazardous levels of heavy metal ions, which could contribute to diseases like Parkinson’s when consumed regularly over a lifetime. According to the dolts, 13 out of 16 wines (not exactly an in-depth study, huh?) that were tested for potentially high levels of heavy metals, like iron, copper, lead, mercury, etc., had levels above recommended safe limits.

Where did this story originate, you might ask? Well, at the pinnacle of respectable online journalism known as WebMD, of course (where hot topics include penis enlargement and male sex hormones that get your lady “in the mood”). Did I mention that the researchers didn’t conduct the tests themselves?!? Nah! They pulled from a bunch of different texts, and apparently “no standards were used to judge the accuracy of the measurements from the numerous sources.” Let me repeat, They tested NO wine on their own.

Now that we understand how sound, irrefutable and bullet-hole free the research is, let’s talk about the specifics:

1. A typical 18-year-old would have to drink 8.5 ounces (1-2 glasses) of the tested wines for more than 17,000 days before reaching a level of concern. That’s 46½ years, people! AND, AND, AND Professor Naughton said they actually underestimated the risk to older or infirm drinkers who were more vulnerable to contaminants. Hey, gotta die of something, don’t we?

2. The levels of heavy metals they found are actually lower than what’s allowable in tested water reservoirs across the western world. So let’s do the math: If our drinking water is sometimes higher in metals than these wines, and people will drink two glasses of wine a night, but eight glasses of water per day (and if they take a multi-vitamin they get 2mg of manganese on top of that), how is the metal obtained from wine going to kill anyone? Beats the shit out of me, and I never even liked math!

3. They found that wines from Hungary and Slovakia had the highest heavy metal levels. Wines from Austria, France, Germany, Portugal and Spain showed the next highest. The wines from the Czech Republic, Greece, Jordan, Macedonia and Serbia were the next best, and wines from Argentina, Brazil and Italy were the only ones that supposedly contained “acceptable” levels of heavy metal ions. Does the fact that this “contamination” is apparently consistent throughout an ENTIRE country irk the crap out of anyone else but me? Is there some rampant soil problem in an entire fucking country no one is talking about? As wine geeks, we often wax eloquent about the vast differences in soils between two vineyards whose owners can watch each other doing the horizontal mambo from their windows at night. Now it’s all the same sad dirt?

I call bullshit.