Gonzo Gastronomy

Anyone who has a kid…aww, hell, anyone who even knows a kid…has heard, at one point or another, the “but everyone else is allowed to” defense. We roll our eyes, shake our heads and fall back on the well-seasoned retort about jumping off a building or bridge, as if it were the most sound piece of logic ever bestowed upon us when we turned 25 and became adults—yes, I do mean 25. My son, for instance, is always bugging me to let him to bring his iTouch with him to school. That’s answered with an immediate “no” which is then supported by, “someone might steal it because they want one, or it might fall out of you bag and get lost.” He’s already waiting with the “yeah, but so-and-so’s mom lets him bring his to school” bit, but I cut him off at the pass and respond with something to the effect of, “well then so-and-so’s mom must have money coming out her asshole if she doesn’t mind that a gadget with a $230 price tag gets scooped up by some conniving juvie!” or something to that effect—I’m hazy on dialog details.

Something similar is now happening in Europe. No, no, no…I don’t mean between European mothers and their kids. France’s winemakers (a.k.a the kids) are having tantrums and the EU government (a.k.a. the moms) is caught between a rock and a fucking concrete boulder. Why? Because of how rosé wines are traditionally made and the proposed legislation that would toss that winemaking method to the lions. A couple of years ago, many European winemakers started whining that their “value brands” couldn’t compete with similar wines coming from the New World (mainly the southern hemisphere) because European laws forbid cost-saving (a.k.a. corner-cutting) techniques like using oak chips instead of aging in oak barrels. They complained that, in order to successfully compete with the competition, they needed to be able to use similar techniques—the old, “but everyone else is allowed to” defense, in action. So, in 2007, the EU’s Agriculture and Rural Development Commission developed amendments to existing winemaking laws, essentially loosening the regulations, and the 27 member states of the EU, including France, gave their initial nods of approval.

But here’s the rub…now, many traditional rosé-making wine regions are protesting the proposed amendments. Historically, French rosé has always been made by crushing red grapes, allowing the juice to extract a little color and flavor from the skins, and then straining the juice into another tank for fermentation. The amendments now on the table would allow winemakers to take already-fermented white wine and add some red wine to create the rosy-colored wine. Problem is, this stuff tastes as much like traditional rosé as grape soda tastes like grapes. Not to say that it tastes bad…it just doesn’t taste like a true rosé. When the rosé-making regions of France flipped out, the EU proposed a compromise that, true to government, pleased no one: Rosés must be labeled either “traditional” or “blended.” The retort? True to tradition-entrenched Frenchness, France’s Agriculture Minister flipped them the bird and said France would simply outlaw blended rosés if the EU proceeded with the changes. Unsurprisingly, the EU has now announced delays—my guess is, in order to decide whether to use the “don’t cause a scene or I swear I’ll…” threat, or capitulate like an exhausted mother that winds up handing her kid the blasted iTouch and wishing him “bon chance.”

Meson Madrid. Villa of Spain. Casa Sevilla. El Cid. It doesn’t really matter what the hell the name is, does it? I sit at the bar with my best friend, waiting for the others to arrive. The room that wraps us is dressed in thick burgundy velvet with framed nostalgia of valiant matadors, sultry flamenco dancers and plated paellas. Music is being piped through small inconspicuous speakers in the corners, I think maybe it’s “Viva España” or no, maybe it’s some Placido Domingo aria. Whatever. Patrons’ lively chatter floats over the bar while I peruse the wine list. She signals the waiter with a slight nod and says, “A glass of sangria, please,” then proceeds to tell me that this joint is known for their amazing sangria. She loves it. I should order it. The bartender is, I think, winking at me—or he has something in his eye. He turns his back to us, pulls a wine glass from the racks that line the bar’s ceiling, and proceeds to pour her a glass of their famous sangria…from a jug of (I’m now biting my bottom lip so hard I think it’s going to bleed) commercially made “sangria.” He returns to take my order as he hands her that glass of prized juice, and in my infinite wisdom I decide to ask for something safe, something he can’t possibly screw up—a beer. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and tells me I don’t know what I’m missing. I humor her, take a sip of hers, tell her it’s yummy, and go back to my cerveza.

A couple of years go by, and some random celebration finds her at my house, dipping into a big-ass bowl of my homemade sangria. “My god, Katie,” she exclaims, “this is the best sangria I’ve ever had!” I’m not much flattered by her compliment given what she’s deemed “amazing” in the past, but graciously thank her anyway. Sangria, is not something you pour out of a jug and add sliced fruit to. It’s not made—it’s prepared. There are a million variations, but none of them should ever include dumping something called “sangria” out of a bottle. That Chateau de Factory concoction is to sangria what Beefaroni is to Italian cuisine. Honestly, the most time-consuming part of the project is slicing the damned fruit anyway…what the hell are another 3 minutes gonna keep you from? Watching Paula Deen for christ’s sake? Red wine, juice, carbonation and fortifier (brandy, triple sec, etc). Throw in some fruit, let it sit, and you have yourself a serious beverage. Not exactly rocket science, and yet seldom done properly, much less done well. My go-to recipe always includes mediocre-quality wine (fruity Beaujolais, spicy shiraz, whatever) but good-quality spirits (Grand Marnier, brandy, etc). To that I add fruit juices (oj, citrus, mango, you name it) and last-minute carbonation (i.e. Sprite, 7-Up, fruit-flavored seltzers, etc.). Sangria was designed to be a “use up whatever you have in the fruit basket that’s about to go bad” device, so there’s no right or wrong, but I’m thinking that using mango juice and apple slices may not be the best combo. Other than that, some sugar, some cinammon/cloves…go to town. I even make a white sangria with chunks of watermelon, slices of lime and fresh chopped mint and basil—not classic, but certainly REAL. That’s something the stuff in a jug can never lay claim to.

WINE BLOGGING WEDNESDAY – JUNE 10, 2009

It’s obvious to most who know me that I’m as passionate about music as I am about wine. I can barely remember all my in-laws’ birthdays, but I have no problem recalling the various lead singers for Rainbow or which Beatles album Lady Madonna is on. But what most people don’t realize is that wine and music share a symbiotic relationship much more intertwined than ever imagined. I had written a post a while back about how music influences how a wine tastes to us. I was dubious when I first heard the theory, but after taking part in a tasting experiment, I had no doubt in my mind (and my palate) that Billie Holliday could simultaneously make a flabby, over-oaked, buttery California chardonnay actually potable, and a beautiful crisp Chablis appear a bit flaccid.

Since that day, I’ve been very careful when drinking wine to take notice of the music I’ve got on in the background (because I always do). If at first I don’t like a wine much, I try changing the genre of music just in case that’s the culprit. On the flip side, if I’m nuts about a wine, I’ll often stop the music altogether and taste again, to make sure I’m enjoying it because of its own merits, and not because the tunes are swaying me. What’s more likely to pair well with a spicy syrah—Led Zeppelin, Miles Davis, Barry Manilow or Shakira? You tell me.

The challenge I put forth to the wine bloggers out there for this month’s Wine Blogging Wednesday (#58) will involve a little more than just finding a nice wine, a lesser-known varietal or an emerging region to write about—it will involve sitting with a wine or two, tasting them, playing different types of music, and taking note of how your experiences change. This is NOT about sipping and spitting. It is NOT about a few scribbled tasting notes. And it is most definitely NOT about objectivity. And please, for the love of all that is holy, if all you have in your music collection is Michael Buble, go borrow some CDs from your head-banging neighbor, your hip-hop-loving relative, and your stuck-in-80s-alternative college buddy.

It’s been WAY too long since we’ve done an Angel vs. Demon face off, so let’s get to bustin’ heads and takin’ names. I recently had a bottle of wine from the Languedoc region of France that I ordered from one of my favorite wine hunters— Garagiste. Because the wines that I buy from them are wines I’ve never actually tasted, I usually only buy 2 bottles. That way, if I hate it, I’m not stuck with a case of it. On the other hand, if I love it, I know to order plenty more next year. In this case, the wine had such an effect on me that I didn’t have the patience to wait another year for the next vintage to be released…I wanted more, and I wanted it now. But let’s get down and dirty about the Languedoc region first, and the ongoing battle there between the angels and the demons of winemaking.

The Languedoc-Roussillon has long been the largest wine-producing region in the world, not that you could tell by your average wine consumer’s purchases. It’s responsible for more than one third of France’s total wine production (more than the entire US) and yet talking about the area to the guy standing next to you in a wine shop will usually meet you with a shrug, a shaking head and a glazed look. Unfortunately, most people were introduced to the region in the worst way possible: mass-produced, crap-quality Vin de Pays d’Oc. Though there may be a lot of great juice carrying the Vin de Pays regional designation now, much of what is promoted and widely available in the U.S. comes from huge co-ops, where quantity, not quality, is king. The rabbit-like mass production has contributed to several decades of surplus wine in France, and to what they not-so-lovingly call the European “wine lake.” Now, a lot of folks there are focusing on making quality wine and the Languedoc is stuck between the old and new worlds of wine production—kinda like the Luke Skywalker of wine regions. It’s been around forever, but is only recently starting to make its mark with serious wine, so bargains are o’plenty, much like in Portugal, Argentina, Chile and South Africa. Problem is, that guy standing next to you in the wine shop is way more likely to have a $12 bottle of Argentinian Malbec in his basket than he is a $14 Minervois—and it’ll be his loss.

Welcome to the ring, the “angel” wine that had me begging Garagiste for the rest of their inventory, emailing the wine maker in search of US importers, and hunting down local distribution at 11:30PM—2005 Mas des Dames Coteaux du Languedoc. Coming from an all-women winery, this red blend is my equivalent of truly soulful wine. If you dig Chateaneuf du Pape, Priorat or any of the old-vine Grenache, Carignan and Syrah wines, this will no doubt turn you on. It’s elegantly restrained instead of throwing an over-oaked mess in your face (there’s no oak), and it’s deep and meaty and earthy. With alcohol levels at about 13%, it’s also what the CdPs used to be a couple of decades ago—food friendly. To quote Garagiste, “The wine is an obvious expression of feminine winemaking and a tender hand—it stands out among so many rustic examples that almost achieve their goal but never quite get there. This wine races past the finish line with much in reserve for a rainy day and keeps getting better every time I try it (scary, considering I was so enamored with it last year).”

In the other corner is the “plonk in a bottle” demon of the round—2005 Fat Bastard Merlot. This is one of those times when I reiterate just how much I must love you people for purposely drinking a wine like this, just so I can tell you how bad it is. Fat Bastard is one of those French attempts to make the obscure more plebian. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a valiant worthwhile effort, but it certainly ain’t helping the Languedoc get out of it’s plonk funk. I thought of a long litany of descriptors for this loosely-termed wine, but the one that kept coming to mind (and was probably the least sophisticated but most accurate) was “ewww.” That was closely followed by “gross,” “yuck”…oh…and “I want my money back.” OK, fine, if you want winespeak, I think it was bitter, bland, had no finish at all, and to call it simple is to be generous. This is not about snobbery, folks, it’s basics. The two wines have maybe a $5 – $8 difference, but the two are worlds apart not only in value but also in personality.

When your day begins with a glass (oh, OK, a couple of glasses) of a sparkling rosé from Alsace, there’s not a whole lot to complain about. See that baby right there on the right? That was my Mother’s Day gift. Appropriately enough, I set the smoker up next to the grill that was also a Mother’s Day gift about 5 years back. Subtlety is not exactly one of my stronger virtues, so whenever I start talking about something I’d really love to have, I usually do one of those “That would make a really nice gift…” comments with eyebrows raised and head exaggeratedly nodding. A turntable is still somewhere on that list, but the smoker seemed to have overtaken the lead since everyone around me would benefit from that gift, and the only thing they’d get from buying me a turntable would be several hours’ worth of me singing loudly and passionately to the likes of the Sex Pistols, Etta James and Frank Zappa.

They were generous enough with their gift giving to make sure that I would have the whole thing set up in anticipation of Mother’s Day. That way I could have everyone up to my house for the festivities…how thoughtful. I decided on ribs and chicken, and had everyone else contribute a side dish—that way, I wouldn’t have to do much other than tend to the smoker and…well…drink my wine. But why tend to the smoker on your special day, Katie? Why not let the men handle it? Are you nucking futs?!? NOBODY goes near my grilling and smoking other than to make themselves a hamburger or hotdog at 9pm, long after I’ve declared that I’m done cooking for the day. And as for the peekers—you know, the ones who wanna open the doors just to see how everything’s coming along—well, they were flogged.

Prep for both the chicken and ribs began the night before. The ribs got a nice dose of my homemade rub after I removed the membranes on them, and the chicken went into my jerk marinade. Mother’s Day morning found me at the smoker at about 9:30am, getting it to temperature and putting the ribs in, all while sipping away at my first glass of the lovely sparkling rosé. I realize there are purists out there who don’t think any bbq sauce belongs on ribs at all, but I usually brush them with some towards the end of their cooking time. Since this was my first go at the smoker and the ribs were sitting sideways in a rack, basting would’ve been not only messy but nearly impossible, so I waited ‘til they had about an hour left and moved them to the high warming rack of my grill where I could lay them flat and baste them a couple of times. As you can see by the 2 little lonely ribs that were left, I don’t think anyone was complaining about the sauce.

The chicken, however, wasn’t such a smashing success. The flavor that the smoke infused left the jerk flavors in the dust. All I got was smoke. I was pissed. I was disappointed. I was deflated. But I was also somewhere between 1 and 2 sheets to the wind, so I raised a glass to everyone seated at my table, thanked them for being my guinea pigs, apologized for the smoky/unjerkified chicken, and simply told them to eat more of the beans. The leftover chicken, methinks, will make a MEAN chicken salad.

PS – Recipes for the rub, bbq sauce and jerk marinade will be posted to the “Recipes” section tomorrow!

I was asked not long ago, to write a piece about how good food & wine are important to experience in bridging cultural differences. Given that I’m the type of person that begins to scope out potential restaurants and wineries the moment travel plans are even considered, the two obviously rank high on my priority list. Other than through their music, I truly believe that a country’s people most clearly express themselves through what they eat and drink. The meals that you find being served at someone’s dinner table are as important to understanding their culture as the conversations carried over that table—it’s a silent and yet very profound way of experiencing life as they do. To visit another country, or even another state, and spend your money eating meals pumped out by chain restaurants, is a squandered opportunity to taste your way through that region’s history.

While it would be great to knock on a random door when your stomach starts to growl, and invite yourself to someone else’s meal, I’m thinking you’d wind up in a foreign jail—they aren’t usually very fond of outsiders (think Mexico). Being fed local cuisine is important, but certainly not worth doing hard time for. On the other hand, sifting though guides like Zagat and Michelin isn’t usually your best bet, either. Not that they won’t direct you to a nice restaurant with great food, but it won’t necessarily be great regional/local food. If you want to eat like a resident, dine where they dine. Ask your hotel’s maitre d’ where he goes for his favorite meal, or better yet, go into a local wine shop and ask there—because chances are, if they care about wine, they care about food. In fact, I remember doing this in Rome years ago and ending up eating at a communal table with the restaurant’s owners and staff because we had shown up for dinner on “American time” which, for Europeans, is too early to open restaurant doors! The food and wine that we shared and passed from hand to hand, spoke volumes about the people seated next to us. The language of gastronomy is, like music, universally understood.

It’s also crucial, when we travel, to try the native wine varietals if we are going to gain an understanding of that culture. I can’t imagine going to Greece and ordering a glass of chardonnay instead of a local savatiano, asyrtico, moschofilero or roditis. We tend to spend so much time imbibing what we find familiar and comforting that we seldom take the time to discover what is familiar to others. All the mementos and snapshots you take home with you can’t ever fill the space that memories and experiences do. If you want to eat hamburgers and drink chardonnay, by all means, stay the hell home and give me your plane ticket to Turkey…or Japan…or India. Because at the end of it all, when you unpack your suitcase, go through your stack of junk mail and collapse on the sofa, you want to know you’ve been somewhere. And how better to carry the memories of a country’s people than to know the food and wine that is native to them, and understand what their definition of “home” is.

How damned cool is that, huh? How long have you wished that someone would slap your name on a wine bottle? Gonzo Gastronomy FTW!!! I’m farting around on Twitter a few weeks ago and someone makes the following offer (more or less, folks…my memory is as good as my skiing): Hey bloggers, want to see your logo etched in a wine bottle? Send us your artwork and we’ll create one for you…at no cost! In return we only expect your car, the deed to your house, your dog and your first born. Oh, OK, I made up the last part, and that was certainly more than the blasted 140 characters, but I was on that offer like white on rice.

Etching Expressions is certainly not unique. There are a number of companies out there that will either custom etch wine bottles for your next wedding, divorce, corporate celebration, corporate downsizing, briss or successful liposuction procedure. But these guys are the only one I’ve seen putting social media and blogging to good use…and thank Bacchus they did cuz their thick, glossy amateurish brochure sucks! But what better way to get your name out there than to gift a blogger a bottle of wine with his/her logo on it? Seriously? Who the hell isn’t gonna show that off? And I’ve gotta say…the work is beautiful. All etchings are hand painted, and if you have no artwork and don’t like any of their stock stuff, they can design something for you. My only wish is that they were more specific about the wine that fills those bottles—something more than “chardonnay, cabernet sauvignon, merlot, pinot noir and sparkling wine” would have been nice.  What’s also very cool is that you can send them your own wine if you have a specific one you want etched, as long as it only has a paper label. Got a bottle of your father’s favorite Burgundy but wanna put a special message on it for his 60th birthday? These are the folks to do it…that is, as long as you’re insane enough to ship a bottle of rare Burgundy around!

So I hope you’ll forgive me for wanting to show off the handiwork, but I couldn’t resist. In fact, everyone at last Sunday’s barbecue was inevitably pulled inside at some point so I could hand the bottle to them and say, “Look! How cool is that?” They forgave me, not because they love me and share my joys, but because I fed them and gave them plenty of libation. I’m hoping you’ll just humor me for having pissed away the last 5 minutes of your life with boastful babble.

It became abundantly clear that I had no business being in a kitchen the moment that I realized I had put the Cornish hens in the oven upside-fucking-down— and yes, that is a technical culinary term in case you were wondering. By the time I realized my error, their asses had already turned a beautifully golden crisp brown. But that was only the beginning of it. I put the disoriented birds back in the oven to continue roasting and went to the stove to finish up the mashed potatoes…gravity, however, had other plans. My mise en place (the cream, chives, garlic, etc.) had all been sitting on the counter, right next to the pot of now-mashed potatoes, waiting to make themselves useful. I reached beyond them all to get my pepper mill, but as I pulled it forward, I knocked into the stainless steel canister that holds my cooking utensils. I blame the fish spatula predominantly. It weighs more than all the others, after all. My clumsy bump sent the tower of tongs, ladles, spatulas and wooden spoons slamming down onto the bowl of cream, which, because the laws of physics are in full force in my home, splashed all across my stove top, deftly avoiding the actual pot that it should have gone in.

By now I had run through approximately half of both the English and Spanish cursing dictionaries, and not in any alphabetical, logical or grammatical order. I also said something to the effect of, “What’s wrong with me tonight?” knowing full well that it was the forced-upon civic duty known as jury duty that had me frazzled…6 hours in a room as cold as a meat locker, listening to the two most mundane attorneys ever spit out of law school speak, will do that to a person. Yet somehow, I knew dinner had to make it onto the table that night, and waiting for Chinese take out was an option that would’ve left us dining at approximately…err…dawn. So I put on my big-girl panties and cleaned the mess up before going to the fridge for the milk (because I was now fresh out of cream) and the butter.

I put the gallon of milk on the table, but as I pulled the butter from its semi-domed home in my fridge door, it slipped from my hand and the entire stick fell to the floor—splat. I just stood there and stared at it, as if it had somehow failed me and I was painfully disappointed in it. “Holy mother of…” but the kid was there doing his homework so I refrained. The cat had, by then, come to help with clean-up duty by licking the stick of butter to a glossy shine. Bless her cute little eight lives for trying to help mommy clean her mess. The kid leered up from his math textbook cautiously, not wanting to make eye contact just in case mom was about to go postal…at 11, he now knows the signs. “I don’t really like mashed potatoes anyway, Mom, so don’t worry about it. Want me to get you a glass of wine?” There is a special place in heaven reserved for that boy.

2 glasses of Anjou later, we sat down to some lovely garlic & basil-infused Cornish hens, (served upside down so as to preserve the illusion of normalcy), some mashed potatoes that had been hand-whipped to within an inch of their lives, and a salad because I was not about to attempt a third hot dish no matter how much wine I had imbibed. And that kid…that amazing, thoughtful, intuitive kid…looked up at me while enthusiastically putting a crispy piece of chicken skin in his mouth and said, “Mmm, Mom, this is actually really good. I mean it, really, don’t worry. I’m gonna go get some water, you want another glass of wine?” I welled up with the tears of a proud mother whom, you would’ve thought, had just watched her son get a Pulitzer Prize, said thank you, and suggested we go out for pizza the following night.