When you’re forced into capitulating to blind faith in the absence of any logical, scientific proof for what you would swear on your tits is true, there is a second struggle—admitting that blind faith to others. It’s not easy to say, “Don’t ask me why, it just is what it is” when you’re supposed to maintain some sort of journalistic integrity, or at the very least offer up something more than the equivalent of a 3 year old telling you it’s magic. I don’t have blind faith—never did. So when I find myself in a position of not only believing in something I can’t prove, but of having to convince someone else of it, I panic. If it looks like horseshit and smells like horseshit, well, it usually is. Or, at the very least, you perceive it to be. That’s my caveat out of this…perception.

Wine aerators are a funny business. Most wine geeks know which wines need decanting and which don’t, so if they pull something to drink that they know needs to do a bit of a tango with oxygen, they open it ahead of time, decant it, and wait. But sometimes you pop a bottle last minute, taste it, and realize it really needs time to open up—time you don’t have because dinner is served and getting cold. Well, either that or you’re just an impatient sot who knows a wine needs time to decant but you want to experience it, in all it’s defrocked glory…now. Hell, I’ve worked at wine tastings where we were pouring a Bordeaux that needed at least an hour to open up (an hour we didn’t have to spare), so we would pour the wine back and forth between two water pitchers, frothing the ever-loving shit out of it, so it would be ready for those thirsty dweebs who refused to taste the wines in any sort of logical order and instead went straight for the Bordeaux at the end of the line.

So I went on a hunt, in search of aerators that claimed to do everything from miraculously “opening up” a wine in a matter of seconds rather than hours, to making Yellow Tail taste like Petrus. I also got samples of 2 wine glasses that are in direct competition with these contraptions. The final list of lab rats…err, I mean experiment samples…included:

• Vinturi Essential Wine Aerator – They have two, one for white and one for red. Apparently the difference is that the white aerator has “different internal dimensions and flow rate”. I’m assuming the flow rate is slower given that white wines are more delicate and fragile than reds, but we all know what assuming does. It’s the biggest pain in the ass of all the aerators because you have to hold it over the glass with one hand while pouring into it with the other (all the other aerators attached to the open bottle). You can tackle this problem by purchasing the tower, but that will run you an additional $39.95. The package includes a small stand for the aerator and a travel pouch. SRP: $39.95

• Soirée Wine Decanter – Unlike Vinturi, this one fits into the neck of an open bottle, which helps if you’re ambidextrously challenged. Also unlike Vinturi, which creates a vacuum that draws in air, Soirée simply gives the wine a dimpled area to bump and spin like a 70s disco queen before hitting your glass. The package includes an extra gasket. SRP: $25.00

• Rabbit Aerating Pourer – This is made by Metrokane, who also makes the famous Rabbit corkscrew. Like Soirée, it fits into the neck of your open bottle so you can pour through it easily. Unfortunately, they didn’t offer much in the way of information for this puppy…I mean rabbit. The wine cascades down the sides of the pourer and into your glass. Not exactly rocket science. SRP: $30.00

• Vino₂ – This wine glass is made by Taste of Purple, and has a large indentation on the side of the bowl. That dimple acts like an “agitating obstruction” to the wine as you swirl it, essentially bruising the wine thus aerating it. The bowl is generously large, giving you plenty of breathing room, so to speak.  SRP: $40.00

• Eisch’s Breathable Glass – Put simply, it’s a wine glass. No bumps, dimples, vacuums, bells or whistles. What it claims, however, is that after being manufactured, the glass undergoes an “oxygenizing treatment” which somehow aerates the wine as it sits in the glass. A wine poured into a Breathable Glass is supposed to show signs of aeration (after 2 to 4 minutes) equivalent to the same wine that has been decanted and aerated for 1 to 2 hours. SRP: $34.99

To test the products, I chose a bottle of Viña La Rosa “La Capitana” 2006 Carmenere. I don’t think I’ve ever come across a carmenere that didn’t benefit from a bit of decanting, so I thought it to be a good choice. I was right—that thing was tighter than an alter boy’s ass. I tackled each one separately, pouring some wine directly from the bottle into a glass first, and then some through the aerator into another glass. While I tasted, the bottle was recorked (not that a whole lot of breathing would go on through the slender neck of a bottle, but one can’t be too scientific about all this crap). As far as the two glasses go, for the Eisch I poured some wine in it and some in a regular wine glass and let both sit for 2 minutes before tasting and comparing. For the Vino₂ I poured out the same way but this time gave the wine a few really good swirls in order to “bruise” it and compared that to wine swirled in a regular wine glass.

Here’s the thing…of all the products, I thought Eisch’s whole “oxygenizing treatment” was the aforementioned load of horseshit. The only way I figured a glass could be breathable was to not be solid (duh) in which case you’d have a leaky glass, wouldn’t you? I thought I was dealing with a snake oil sales pitch—but the damned thing works. Don’t ask me how or why because I’ve decided it’s a simple case of blind faith. I was dying to debunk this, I really was. I wanted to strip these guys naked, tie them to a whipping post and call the lynching mob in, but I couldn’t because somehow, someway, the wine really opened up in this thing. Of all the products tested, it made the most marked difference in both aroma and taste. The wine was brighter, fruitier and pepperier.

That being said, though, the Vino₂ is my favorite as long as the wine doesn’t require serious decanting. I loved swirling the wine in the large bowl, watching it lash back and forth against the dent, and the aromas were INCREDIBLE when I got my nose even near the glass. Of the aerators, the Vinturi (which was the most awkward to use) seemed to do the most. The wine was a bit more aromatic and flavorful than the control pour, perhaps because the vacuum creates a sort of “gurgle” and gets more oxygen through it. The other two made the wine a little more aromatic, but I can’t honestly say that I noticed a big change in taste. Given that there wasn’t a huge price range here, Eisch’s glass is easily the best value, followed closely by the other glass. But they don’t exactly make for travel pieces so if you really want an aerator you can take anywhere, go with the Vinturi.

I’ve always believed that both Thanksgiving and Christmas are a lot like orgasms. There’s usually a lot of planning, build-up and anticipation, a moment of climax and elation so grand that it leaves you in a state of catatonic bliss (with a shit-eating grin permanently fixed on your face), and then inevitably you’re left with a mess to clean up while they wind up falling asleep. You sit there and think, now what?

In much the same vein, holiday leftovers are like long-term relationship sex. You find a comfort zone and dish out the same stuff year after year, because it’s what you are good at, and hell, nobody seems to be complaining. Turkey sandwiches with the trimmings are probably the most universal—like missionary sex. Then there is turkey tetrazzini or maybe turkey soup, which only focuses on one ingredient—like oral sex. You might even try handing out some of your stuff to others—like pity sex. But here’s a recipe unlike any other, called Bubble & Squeak. I didn’t name the damned thing but the sexual innuendo did not go unnoticed.

Apparently, the Bubble & Squeak is very popular in the UK. In fact long-time reader, Linsey, was the one who turned me on to it and all its glorious open-endedness. Painted in broad strokes, the Bubble & Squeak is a patty made of any combination of leftovers you’ve got, and then fried to a golden crisp—like a much more sinful version of a crab cake. In this case, I took leftover dark meat and chopped it, then added mashed potatoes and stuffing as my binders. Once I had formed a nice patty out of the combo, I put it in the fridge for a few minutes to set. In the meantime, I set up my breading station…a beaten egg and a combo of breadcrumbs and panko for extra crunchiness.

I then coated the patty first in breadcrumbs, then in egg, and then in breadcrumbs again. I fried it in plenty of canola oil, drained it a bit and then served it with a generous spoonful of cranberry sauce, though I could just as easily have used gravy. The result? A super crunchy exterior holding together a warm, soft mess of an interior. The combinations are endless. Use sweet potatoes instead of mashed potatoes.  Add corn or other veggies. Whatever. But I promise you that dishing this one up at the leftovers dinner table will be as welcome a change as bringing Angelina Jolie home for a threesome.

It’s been a standing tradition in my family for as long as I can remember, that each person at the Thanksgiving table take a turn in letting everyone know what they are most thankful for. This year, I plan on saving all the good shit like, “The health of my family, still having a job in this market, a bounty of food to share with loved ones” for the dinner table, but you guys have become a family of sorts to me (one in need of therapy, but one nonetheless) so I thought I’d share the rest of my list with you. Feel free to add your own as well:

I’m thankful for:

• Balloon Boy (obviously a student of classic literature) who in a moment of sheer panic asked himself, “What would Anne Frank do?”

• Kanye West, for the only interesting 30 seconds of television on the VMAs

• Rachel Ray, because she’s a constant reminder that the American Dream must still be alive and breathing if a glorified salesgirl can become the face of a FOOD channel while actual chefs are getting their pink slips

• Toy Story I and II in 3-D…seriously.

• Rush Limbaugh, for quitting ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown after getting flack for comments about black quarterback Donovan McNabb. I’ve heard rumors that Al Sharpton will be filling in as “temporary racist.”

• Japan’s All Nippon Airways, for trying to lower carbon emissions and keep our planet green by asking passengers to take a shit before boarding so that they’ll weigh less. I’m sure airport sanitation workers are thankful as well.

• Tofurkey, because I can serve one to the needy vegans and, by doing so, continue to rub my turkey down with herb-flecked duck fat.

• Lastly, Sarah Palin, for making George W. Bush seem like a well-thought-out, articulate politician.

Happy Holiday, all!

A Thanksgiving meal is something I’ve appreciated much more often in theory than in execution. Coming from a Cuban family was more than a little weird because commonplace dishes always seemed to be replaced by those my relatives were more comfortable serving. The turkey had suddenly morphed into roasted pig, the stuffing looked a lot like rice and beans, the yams tasted more like sweet fried plantains and the gravy boat warmed the bench while the mojo got passed around to top everyone’s plate off.

Marrying into an Italian family, I soon learned, only helped the situation along moderately. (see last year’s post) Sure there was a Norman Rockwell-worthy turkey, accompanied by all the typical side dishes, but it was expected that the gigundous meal be prefaced with an equally gigundous antipasto. My understanding of Thanksgiving went further awry at that point (from mojo to mortadella) but it was all good because the celebration was about bounty—and about gratitude for that bounty.

Here’s the thing, though. At least when I was served a slice of mozzarella, I could be pretty damned sure the wet white stuff was, in fact, mozzarella. Or, if my aunt passed me the plate of plantains, there really wasn’t any telling me that they were anything other than actual plantains.

Lines get a little blurred, though, when you take a look at some of the ingredients that grace your average, American-as-apple-pie table. I kinda dig sitting at that table, acting as a sort of wiseass know it all, dispensing little-known bits of food facts, because it serves as a nice counterpoint to the usual mindless “how early are you getting up for Black Friday” conversation. Case in point: You know that cinnamon you use to flavor your pumpkin pie? Well it ain’t cinnamon—it’s called cassia. Real “Alba” cinnamon comes mostly from Sri Lanka (formerly called Ceylon) and it’s a far cry from the hard brittle sticks you throw into your mulled cider. Its aromas are much more delicate, with hints of orange blossoms and vanilla. Mexicans call it “canela”. I call it “not what you’re using.”

Then there’s the sweet potato/yam debacle. Lots of cooks use the two words interchangeably, while others know there’s a big difference. But what most people don’t know is that the sweet potatoes and yams we find here in the US are really all sweet potatoes. What we recognize as yams, aren’t. The Africans who were dragged here as slaves identified sweet potatoes as “nyami.” The name stuck and we’ve been eating a misnomer ever since. And just to fuck with you a little more, sweet potatoes aren’t really potatoes at all. They’re tubers, and not even distantly related to yams. There are about 200 varieties of true yams, none of which grow in the US.

No. I’m not done yet. This last one is a naturally occurring, misunderstood ingredient—tryptophan. Does turkey contain it? Yup. Is that what makes you sleepy after the Thanksgiving meal? Nope. Tryptophan is definitely a natural sedative, but truth is, it doesn’t act on the brain unless it’s taken on an empty stomach with no protein present. Not to mention that your average serving of chicken or ground beef contains about as much of the stuff as turkey does. So if tryptophan were truly the harbinger of sleep you’d just as likely doze off behind the wheel after peeling out of a KFC or Burger King parking lot. Let’s stop blaming the poor overcooked bird and put the sleepy blame squarely where it belongs—on the 4 filled-to-the-brim glasses of wine you tossed back, and the biscuit/mashed potato/stuffing carb overload you double-dosed on while your relatives were busy babbling about Uncle Mo’s new hybrid Toyota.

It’s hard to be taken seriously by winemakers when fellow bloggers are drowning you out, requesting marital statuses, ages and favorite sexual positions. OK, the last one wasn’t exactly accurate, but 5 wines into the online Wines of Chile tasting, I was seriously doubting whether anyone was spitting instead of swallowing—yes, I’m still talking about wine.

You tend to get stoked about an opportunity like this. 8 Chilean Carmeneres, the chance to discuss the wines with the people who made them, and the ability to simultaneously discuss those wines with other bloggers who are tasting them as well—that’s called stepping in shit, friends. And given the power struggle between traditional media and emerging media you’d think bloggers would relish the opportunity to be taken seriously…to learn…to interact…to (god forbid) behave. It’s a rather unusual request on my end, I know, because I’m nothing if not seldom well behaved, but I’ve got an “off” button and I know when to smack it. I don’t care if I come across as being unpolished and unapologetic in my writing, but I do care about coming across as knowledgeable, interested and respectful to people who have just sent me the result of their toil and sweat and asked me to join them in discussing it. Bloggers busy asking these great people what their daily fucking breakfast regimen is need to stay in the playground…or the locker room…or wherever the hell it is they go to giggle and discuss boners. Just stay out of my way.

Anyhow, the long and short of it is that if you haven’t explored the world of Carmeneres, you need to. Period. Don’t think about it, just do it. They are some of the greatest values out there today, and sooner or later prices will start climbing when the US catches on to what amazing wines are being put out by that little skinny country in the southwest pocket of South America. They are aptly described as “cabernet in silk pajamas” because of their softer tannins and usually have a telltale nose of green bell pepper. It’s also interesting to note that just about every carmenere benefits from some decanting time. Here are the eight wines I tasted, in order of preference:

Viña La Rosa “La Capitana” Carmenere 2008, Cachapoal Valley – Tied for my favorite of the night, it was smoky and meaty with hints of cocoa. This was the only one with nearly no green bell pepper aspect at all. SRP: $18

Terra Andina Altos Carmenere/Carignan 2007, Central Valley – Also tied for my “favorite” slot. It had more floral/herbal notes to it than your average carmenere because of the carignan addition. The two grapes, according to the winemaker, acted as yin and yang in balancing this wine with opposite characteristics. SRP: $19

Carmen Wine Maker’s Reserve Red 2004, Maipo Valley – This was a blend of 50% cab, 25% carmenere and 25% petit syrah. It was extremely balanced, with a nice backbone of acidity (most straight carmeneres are acidified during the winemaking process because they lack having enough of it naturally), and had some floral and tobacco notes. SRP: $44

Odfjell Armador Carmenere 2007, Colchagua/Maipo Valleys – Very, very dark color—the cork was stained almost black—which is also commonplace for carmeneres. Flavors of dark berries, plums, tobacco and a bit spicy. Softens up with some oxygen, and was nicely balanced, just lacking any complexity. SRP: $13

Viu Manent Carmenere Reserva 2007, Colchagua Valley – This one had bright red berries as opposed to dark ones and obvious notes of green pepper. It was earthier than the others (which I like) and had nice acidity on the finish, but I did feel it was a little to soft on the palate. It also clocked in at 14.5% ABV but it was not noticeable. SRP: $14

Cono Sur Visión Carmenere 2007, Colchagua Valley – This seemed to be one of the “greenest” tasting wines, though not in a bad way. Lots of green pepper, but it didn’t taste unripe. That greenness was balanced by hints of berries and chocolate. This was also the only organic wine in the bunch. SRP: $15

Ventisquero Grey Carmenere 2007, Maipo Valley – The winemaker sometimes adds some syrah to this bottling, but this vintage was 100% carmenere. I really wanted to like this one because it had a big vibrant nose with hints of funk, but after tasting it, the funk wasn’t a funk I enjoyed—perhaps sulfur? Not sure, but I would try this again next year as I felt it had potential. SRP $25

Santa Carolina Reserva Carmenere 2008, Rapel Valley – This was the least complex of the bunch. It had some nice notes of coffee and oak/bramble, but it lacked acidity in my opinion, and had a very green finish. SRP: $10

Saturday morning, approx. 3:30am. I had a dream that officially certified me as both a wine and music geek. As you read this you will either nod your head in sympathy or shake your head in disbelief. Either way, it’s my job to let you delve a little further into the recesses of my warped head. Let me also preempt the details of the dream by saying that I’m a neurotic whack job that has repeated dreams about being late for something or being unable to complete something “in time.” Here we go:

I’m taking a small test for a wine class I’m in, which involves tasting 2 reds and 1 sweet white: #1 is The Prisoner, #2 I can’t recall the name of and #3 is a Trimbach Riesling Spätlese (which I’m nearly positive doesn’t even exist). We must take copious tasting notes on the wines and answer questions about them, which I do with wines #1 and #2, but when I reach for glass #3 I realize that the idiot pourer has left my glass of Spätlese empty. I get up and go over to where the teacher has all 3 bottles of wine propped up so that I can pour some out myself, but when I get there I notice that the wine he has displayed as #2 is completely different from the #2 I tasted. So I say, “Yo, what the fuck happened to #2?” This is not usual classroom-appropriate lingo, but step off—it’s my dream. He proceeds to tell me that #2 got changed at the last minute and my pourer must not have realized it (make mental note to flog pourer). I grab the open bottle of #2 so I can taste the right wine and go to grab #3 as well, but I realize it’s missing. “Who the hell took the Spätlese?” To which the professor answers (lest it be anyone else) “Keith Richards.”

I run off to hunt down Keith and the Spätlese, when I notice an extra unopened bottle of The Prisoner (#1) off to the side so I filch it, tuck it under my arm and continue my mad dash toward the door. But as I do, the open bottle of wine #2 slips out of my hand and falls to the ground. Luckily Michel Rolland is there to retrieve it for me! He hands it to me, I thank him and he mumbles something like, “That wine should have undergone micro-oxygenation” and laughs. I giggle, of course, and think dickhead. I hurry past him, ditch the extra bottle of #1 under my desk, leave #2 on my desk and run out the door.

As I get out into the hallway I spot an old bandmate of mine who just happens to be opening for Keith Richards in one hour, despite the fact that all that kid ever wanted to play was Zeppelin. I say, “Mike, dude, have you seen Keith?” He responds, “Yeah, I saw him headed towards the stage for sound check.” “Did he happen to have a bottle of Trimbach Spätlese Riesling in his hand?” I ask. He nods. Perfect, so long as the bloody bastard hadn’t finished it all…but I knew I was running out of time to finish the test, and I had to retaste #2 as it was! I start freaking out because by now many other students had finished the test and were heading over to the concert.

I head outside and there are rows and rows of bleachers set up for the concert, and they’re already filling with people, making it much harder to maneuver my way down the blasted things, in order to get to the stage. I stumble past people, doing that awkward climb-down-the-metal-bleachers-without-landing-on-someone’s-head thing, and work my way towards the stage in a sure-to-fail panic. The stage lights are already flashing reds, blues and greens—damn that Keith for taking my Spätlese!!! But as I stumble by the front row I notice an empty seat to what is obviously a free concert (obvious to me only, I guess) and ask the woman sitting next to it if it’s taken. “Well, maybe” she says, and proceeds to pick up her cell phone to see if her girlfriend is or isn’t going to make it to the show. Bloody hell, woman! Hurry up with the phone call, I have a wine to find! She’s chatting, I’m sweating. Fuckity fucknuts, what do I do?!? Priorities?!? Test…front-row seat. Test…front-row seat.

BAM! I wake up.

That, friends, is the hell that is my dream life.

The cold that surrounded me as they hoisted me onto the trawler in the darkness of early morning, was a cold that stabbed at your head like shards of glass from a shattered beer bottle. It pierced its way through every crevice and permeated every pore of my skin as they tied me down to a mast and left me in order to attend to my soon-to-be shipmates. Fucking bastards that they were, they dropped one of them in that frigid North Atlantic ocean water and left him there to perish—no one bothered to pluck him out and spare him from an icy death. And then we were seven.

For two months they kept me bound there, as the trawler battled the wrath of the ocean that it dared to sail upon, beaten by storms and pummeled by 60-foot waves, surviving only because the beautiful songs of the killer whales were a source of lingering hope. There would be no surrender, oh no. Eight weeks later, I was no longer what I was when they first bound me to that pole—I was changed, reshaped, and yet somehow I was the better for it. The horror, the torture, the abuse, all served to make me the salty Scottish dog I am today.

I first tasted BrewDog on the recommendation of a store clerk who saw me staring at a bottle of Chaos Theory in the beer section. I was sucked in, I’ll readily admit, by the name because I’ve studied chaos theory. The clerk assured me it was worth the money, and even more worth the money was the smaller bottle of Paradox stout sitting next to it. “You’ll never want a Guinness again—I promise.” After eventually finishing both bottles, I was so enamored with both brews that I felt compelled to reach out to BrewDog to let them know just how much I admired their work, and that I planned on writing about their microbrewery. That email was met with warm-hearted thanks as well as, “please wait until we can send you a sample of our limited-release Atlantic IPA!” It’s the story of that glorious Atlantic IPA that you just read above—the first commercially available, genuine sea-aged IPA in over 200 years.

Atlantic IPA is not your average, hops-on-steroids IPA. It’s a wiry, dark, salty dog that only 2 months at sea can mold. It’s woody, spicy and earthy (I love those qualities in wine, so big surprise that I love this ale), and it’s got a bitter salty finish (not unlike peanut butter) that keeps you on your toes. It’s only available in limited quantities in the US and sells for $25.99 per 330ml bottle, which isn’t cheap by any means, but then it sure as hell isn’t your daddy’s Budweiser, is it?

BrewDog’s Chaos Theory, “a predictably random IPA,” is probably my favorite of the line. It’s a gorgeous dark amber brew that is, in fact, rather random. I’ve bought it 3 separate times and had 3 different experiences, each better than the next. The nose gave away the obvious IPA bitter, pithy orange notes but they were balanced out by a great sweet finish. Like many of their beers, it doesn’t give you much head, but then I’m sure a lot of you guys are used to that, aren’t you?

My second favorite brew is their Paradox stout, followed closely behind by their Tokyo stout. Paradox is a whisky cask-aged imperial stout that is easily the smoothest and most complex that has ever passed my lips. Cheap? No. Worth it? Hell yes. Its equally worthy brother, Tokyo, is a chocolaty treat that seems deceptively light for a stout that is ironically their strongest! It’s brewed with jasmine and cranberries added in the kettle, and then aged for 4 weeks on toasted vanilla French oak chips. The nose has incredible depth, with great hints of sassafras, and yet it’s not overly filling.

The rest of their line includes Punk IPA, Trashy Blonde, Zeitgeist, Hardcore IPA (which I’ve tried, and are all fantastic) as well as several others I’m still trying to get my hands on. While many of these aren’t readily available in US stores, they do have an online shop. I’ve been able to find a few of their brews at Stew Leonard’s and Gary’s Wine (both in NJ) not that it will help you much if you live in, oh say, Tampa. But it’s all about the hunt, ain’t it, folks? It is the fruit highest on the tree, furthest out of reach, that is often the one most worth plucking.