Chris Coad
Chris Coad
"You CAN'T WRITE THAT!"
"That is NOT for internet consumption!"
"Needless to say, this is OFF THE RECORD."
"If this shows up on the internet, I will Bobbitize you with a rusty kitchen knife. For real. Slowly. Remember: I. Know. Where. You. Live."
This is the kind of thing I heard all night long. All my best material was retroactively censored or declared off limits. Thus, I take no responsibility for the dearth of juicy gossip or entertaining personal tidbits. I had to make do with chatter about plane crashes and Battlestar Galactica, for the gods' sake, and there's just so many stitches one can put into that sow's ear before the skin is all frayed and torn and unusable. So, whatever, I wash my figurative hands of the matter.
But I should start at the beginning, shouldn't I? It's only fair, to both me and myvictims subjects.
So Lisa and I arrive at the upper east side aeyrie of Mr. Bradley Kane, gentleman, only to find that Ms. Sharon Bowman, she of the nimble cauliflower knife, has preceded us. I lean in for the cheek-kissy thing, and, thinking she's going to do the Euro-double, am left kissing at empty air when she opts for the American single version. I purse up my lips in a nonchalant whistle ("You know, we're just hanging out here whistling a jaunty tune"), and write it off to cross-cultural translation problems.
Sharon corrals Brad and asks him to present me with a gift, a notebook, its cover emblazoned with a challenge: "FACING THE BLANK PAGE." Delightful! I take up the thrown gauntlet, bravely assailing the blank page with my scribbled wine notes. Also, occasionally spilling wine on the blank page. Is that how Steinbeck did it?
Kane, after a good deal of complaining from thirsty guests with empty glasses, passes around a mostly-empty bottle of Domaine Albert Boxler Riesling Sommerberg 2001. "It's been open a week!" he enthuses. Okay, huh. Plenty of sweetly rich aromaticswhite honey and vinyl laced with plumeria and guava notes, very nice. A sip, and it's a broad, mouth-punchy wine, rich and glyceriney and impressively flavorful, taking no prisoners as it shoves my tongue aside and shoulders its way past my uvula to its final consummation.
Michel Abood arrives, greetings all around. He comes at me with a head feint, then changes his mind and sticks out his hand. "I almost kissed you!" he cries.
"We're having trouble with kissing choreography tonight, but really, I'd have been honored," I shrug.
"Knowing I was going to Brad's, I brought his favorites, Champagne and off-vintage Burgundy!" he announces.
"Hey, and I brought Loire cabernet franc! It's a hat trick!" I cry.
"I hate you guys," says Kane.
Michel and I high-five, then tuck into a Charles Heidsieck Champagne Blanc de Blancs 'Blanc des Millenaires' 1995. Yeasty-smells are all I get at first, then with air it relaxes a bit and there's some lemon-cream and light gingery hints. Tastes tight and taut, almost severe at first, but the pieholefeel relaxes along with the smellies, and eventually it starts to show the glimmers of some lean friendly character. A little reserved, probably needs time.
The recent release of the cockpit tapes from the USAir 'water landing' prompts some amazement. "That guy says 'We're going to be in the Hudson' in about the same tone of voice I might use to say 'I'm going to be in the laundry room,'" I marvel. From there we move into a lengthy conversation about plane crashes. Michel describes a play he saw called Charlie Victor Romeo, where actors re-enact the cockpit tapes from noted commercial airline crashes. "And I had to fly the next day," he says ruefully.
Lisa brings up the "differential throttle" crash of United flight 232 in Sioux City, the failure of the triple-redundant hydraulics, the amazing coincidence of having a flying instructor who had studied the technique on board as a passenger, the cool black humor of professionals under stress ("Sioux City Tower: United Two Thirty-Two, you're cleared to land on any runway. UA232: [laughter] Roger. [laughter] You want to be particular and make it a runway, huh?")
Sharon seems bemused by all this crash talk. "I guess I'm a little surprised that you all seem to remember these tiny details about plane crashes."
"We're fetishists, cut us some slack," I point out. She nods uncomprehendingly while I pour a Meyer-Fonn Pinot Blanc Alsace "Vieilles Vignes" 2006. Fruity-floral aromatics, gardenia and lilikoi. Tastes cheerful and uncomplicated, a middleweight pinot blanc that has a pleasant freshness about it. It won't win any awards for complexity, but it's a fun, happy little wine.
Brad's all bubbly about this one. "It's the biggest, richest pinot blanc I've ever had!" he burbles.
I try to keep my eyes from rolling. "Dude, open some Schoffit sometime, makes this seem like a wallflower."
Kane then launches into a puzzling story about getting an IM from someone who asks him, "Don't you remember me, we had sex just the other night," and assuming he's talking to Sharon, until it becomes apparent later in the conversation that he's not talking to Sharon. Sharon, for her part, is aghast: "Why in the world would you think that was me?" she yelps.
"Oh, something about the screenname reminded me of you," says Kane.
"Brad has an unusually active fantasy life," I point out to Sharon. "BradWorld is, for the most part, a fantasy/reality fugue state. It's something we adjust to."
We talk cooking TV. Lisa goes on about her Gordon Ramsey crush, I throw in mine on Tony Bourdain. Michel mentions that Eric Ripert is getting a show. "Ooh! He's HOT!" I squeal, to near-universal agreement (Kane doesn't comment). So Eric, you blue-eyed devil, you've got a positive sample from this focus group.
Speaking of focus groups, Lisa brings up her experience with FreshDirect, where she sat for hours while being drilled for info on her opinions about delivery practices. "I love them," she explains, "but they had some weird packaging issues."
"That was one of my big problems with them," says Michel. "You'd order an avocado, and it would come in a suitcase-sized box all packed with folded-cardboard origami."
"Oh, but they've gotten much better lately," Lisa points out. "They must've listened to us."
Here's an old friend, a Francois Cazin Cour-Cheverny Cuve Renaissance 1996. Yeah, it's just delightful, as always. The wine has filled out in the middle and gained a bit of heft; it's not quite as light of foot as it was a few years ago, but the slight sense of relaxation doesn't detract. Sharon voices her usual objection to the demisec-level of residual sugar, but that's her shtick and she's welcome to it. To me, it's a wonderfully complete thoroughbred in the prime of life, muscles straining with the joy of motion. It kind of takes my breath away, actually, even having had the wine dozens of times over a good many years. So really, it's the Lisa Allen of wines; just when you think you've reached a level of comfortable familiarity, it surprises you with its force and subtlety.
Speaking of persnickety quirks, Sharon mentions being slightly freaked out by being greeted by the proprietor at Huet with a hearty, "So this is the famous Sharon Bowman who doesn't like chenin blanc!" She looks mystified. "I mean, what's going on here? How did he know that?"
Kane laughs. "He must read Coad's stuff."
I snort. "Don't look at me, kids. My iconoclastic 'Sharon' character is a recent invention, I've barely fleshed her out at all. There are other, more sinister forces at work here, and I don't mean the Masons."
Then more talk, long juicy stretches of conversation that cut across the universalities of interpersonal dynamics and the difficulties of forging lasting bonds in today's linked-in world. All of which I'm told I can't use. So, um, sorry. Instead, I am allowed to report that Lisa and Michel are both huge Battlestar Galactica fans, and can discuss it in great detail for at least thirty-six minutes without drawing a breath.
Kane then launches into a long, tangled description of his latest misadventures in the world of electronic dating. I ask him to repeat an especially creative screen name he encountered (something like "besttitsinjersey"), he balks and says "You can't use this. This is off the record."
Christ on a cracker. "This is terrible," I moan. "You have to say that FIRST, otherwise I'm wasting my time scribbling away for nothing. Man, y'all are taking away all my material. What's left for me to rag on? Can I still make fun of Kane's cooking? Because I don't want to live in a world where Kane's cooking is off the record!" My voice breaks, and I have to stop and collect myself. The others gather round, murmuring vague assurances that yes, it's always sweet and fitting to make fun of Kane's cooking. It works, I am calmed enough to take a trembling glass of Prince Florent de Merode Corton les Bressandes 1998. Nice beet-cherry aromas, laced with truffle and sod. A sip, and it's a bit wan, but does the trick for me. Pleasant, slightly dilute wine. I don't mind it; it's no stunner but it's pleasant enough.
"It's very nice," says Michel. "But it's not a grand cru."
"Oh no," I perk up. "I'm afraid I must correct you. It IS a grand cru," I explain patiently. "You see, lookit says so right here on the label." I hold up the bottle and show him the right place to look. His understandable error pointed out so diplomatically, Michel is mollified.
Kane, knowing my oft-stated dislike of truffle oil, serves up a truffle-oil-infused lobster risotto. I pick all the lobster out of it and await the inevitable blowup when the plates are cleared. He does not disappoint: "Oh my GOD, you didn't eat any of it!" he wails, shaking his finger in my general direction. "What's the matter now, do I have to add more things to the long list of stuff Coad won't eat?! No bitter vegetables, no risotto, you're the most finicky eater in the world!"
"I ate all the good bits," I say stoically. I turn to the others to explain. "Brad's still nursing wounded feelings from a time several years ago when he served me undercooked bitter greens and I couldn't bring myself to choke them down."
"Bradley, didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to berate your guests about what they did or didn't eat?" asks Lisa.
There's a bottle going around with a good bit of frowniness and head-scratching. I take a look, it's an Eric Texier Ctes du Rhne Brzme Pergault 2006. Ripe smoky black cherry aromatics, tastes watery and hollow, with a candied edge. Nothing interesting here, which is kind of annoying because I used to love these wines, back in the late '90s/early aughties. Perhaps just a bad showing, who knows.
I take a moment to object to the trend of wine/cheese geeks to eschew my beloved cheddar. "What, because it's popular, it's no good?!" I yelp. "What kind of insane reverse-snobbery is this?! When was the last time you went to a cheese geek tasting and someone put out a nice locally-raised cheddar? NEVER. Bloody snobs."
More frowning and head-scratching as another bottle moves down the table, and here's a Domaine Leon Barral Faugres 2003 that smells like raspberry jam mixed with acetone and mucilage. I'm seriously VA-tolerant, but this is ridiculous. I've liked some of this house's wines in the past, but this is a hot mess.
"So Brad," says Sharon. "Where's your camera tonight?"
[REDACTED]
"You[REDACTED]" he [REDACTED] right THERE [REDACTED] time."
[REDACTED]and the [REDACTED] foot[REDACTED]
[REDACTED]plaster[REDACTED]all the time," he squeals.
"Brad, do you have any raw eggs?" she[REDACTED], [REDACTED], utterly deadpan.
[REDACTED], which omission leads me to disengage entirely from this madness and pour myself a generous glass of Russian Hill Pinot Noir Sonoma Coast Meredith Vineyard 2004. Plum-cherry-clove aromas, hint of mushroomy funkiness. Big and medium-rich, a broadbeamed pinot noir with a good deal of heft and not much finesse. Pleasant enough, it you can lay back, think of England, and enjoy being steamrolled. We play "guess the alcohol" and Sharon comes in first with her guess of 14.9%. It's 14.7%.
Lisa is feeling a little queasy and goes to sit on the couch. Kane: "Is it me, or my cooking?" We're not sure; does it really have to be one or the other?
Sharon doesn't serve herself a large enough portion of chicken and once again Brad gets back up on his harangue-pony. "My GOD, what's the matter? You're not eating anything I cooked for you, do you have an eating disorder or something?"
I chime in: "I too must have this disorder; it seems to be strangely site-specific, though."
"Look, I just ate an entire soupbowl full of risotto," Sharon objects plaintively.
"You can't win around here, you just have to learn that," I explain. "I go easy on the risotto and save myself for the chicken and get berated and called finicky; you hit the risotto and don't have room for the chicken, you get harangued and accused of having an eating disorder. This is like when we used to eat at Lisa's grandmother's house: you have to know the rules are stacked against you and you can't win, whether or not you eat the gefilte fish. So just do what you want: there's a certain freedom in that knowledge."
"Oh great, it's a good thing I made TWO chickens," Kane moans, and grumps back into the kitchen.
"Is at least one of them cooked all the way through?" I sing out to his retreating back.
"Oh, like HALF of ONE was a little underdone," he yells back.
"I seem to have gotten that half." I point out. "But look! I'm eating the chicken carpaccio! It's yummy! Mmmm... sallllmonelllllaaaaaliciousss. See me eat! Eat, Chris, eat!"
And I do, and it goes very nicely with an Olga Raffault Chinon les Picasses 1989. This bottle seems a little more noticeably tobacco-leafy than past samples, the dark cran-cherry redfruit receding slightly into the background, leaving a gravelly minerality and a hint of pine as a counterbalance. Supple, smooth, really easy to drink. Not the most concentrated or focused of Picasses, but the ripeness, the languor, more than makes up for it. Still very young, the acidity is there, but hidden under a gently fleshy plushness. I just keep going back to the bottle and pouring myself a little more, and then again a little more. Chinon for non-Chinon lovers, very accessible, but probably more interesting ten years down the line.
The conversation turns towards [REDACTED]. Why in the name of [REDACTED] seems to be [REDACTED].
[REDACTED]
[REDACTED], fair enough," Lisa points out. "Story of my life."
"Absolutely," agrees Sharon. "In fact, I'm writing a novel about twelve unconnected couples who each end up in bed together."
"You're writing La Ronde?" I ask, all ears.
"Well, you know, there are no new ideas," she shrugs.
"Oh, absolutely. Shakespeare stole all his plots except maybe the kinda lame Merry Wives and the totally lame Henry VIII. And more recently, we classicists are all familiar with the mournful refrain: Simpsons did it.
Here's a Huet Vouvray Clos du Bourg Molleux 1ere Trie 1990. Medium amber-orange color. Smells marmaladey, apricottish, pomander-spicy, with pronounced flickery hay-botrytis notes. Tastes advanced and quite sweet, big and round in that Bourgish way. There's a slight baked-fruit quality to the middle, finishes with a wave of orange-apricot flavor. Me, I'd drink up these '90s while waiting for the '89s and '97s to come around. They don't seem like wines that need a whole lot more time.
And then we talked more about things I am enjoined from mentioning. And then we all went home. Except Kane, who was already home. And then, I think it's safe to say, he got down to some serious [REDACTED].
"That is NOT for internet consumption!"
"Needless to say, this is OFF THE RECORD."
"If this shows up on the internet, I will Bobbitize you with a rusty kitchen knife. For real. Slowly. Remember: I. Know. Where. You. Live."
This is the kind of thing I heard all night long. All my best material was retroactively censored or declared off limits. Thus, I take no responsibility for the dearth of juicy gossip or entertaining personal tidbits. I had to make do with chatter about plane crashes and Battlestar Galactica, for the gods' sake, and there's just so many stitches one can put into that sow's ear before the skin is all frayed and torn and unusable. So, whatever, I wash my figurative hands of the matter.
But I should start at the beginning, shouldn't I? It's only fair, to both me and my
So Lisa and I arrive at the upper east side aeyrie of Mr. Bradley Kane, gentleman, only to find that Ms. Sharon Bowman, she of the nimble cauliflower knife, has preceded us. I lean in for the cheek-kissy thing, and, thinking she's going to do the Euro-double, am left kissing at empty air when she opts for the American single version. I purse up my lips in a nonchalant whistle ("You know, we're just hanging out here whistling a jaunty tune"), and write it off to cross-cultural translation problems.
Sharon corrals Brad and asks him to present me with a gift, a notebook, its cover emblazoned with a challenge: "FACING THE BLANK PAGE." Delightful! I take up the thrown gauntlet, bravely assailing the blank page with my scribbled wine notes. Also, occasionally spilling wine on the blank page. Is that how Steinbeck did it?
Kane, after a good deal of complaining from thirsty guests with empty glasses, passes around a mostly-empty bottle of Domaine Albert Boxler Riesling Sommerberg 2001. "It's been open a week!" he enthuses. Okay, huh. Plenty of sweetly rich aromaticswhite honey and vinyl laced with plumeria and guava notes, very nice. A sip, and it's a broad, mouth-punchy wine, rich and glyceriney and impressively flavorful, taking no prisoners as it shoves my tongue aside and shoulders its way past my uvula to its final consummation.
Michel Abood arrives, greetings all around. He comes at me with a head feint, then changes his mind and sticks out his hand. "I almost kissed you!" he cries.
"We're having trouble with kissing choreography tonight, but really, I'd have been honored," I shrug.
"Knowing I was going to Brad's, I brought his favorites, Champagne and off-vintage Burgundy!" he announces.
"Hey, and I brought Loire cabernet franc! It's a hat trick!" I cry.
"I hate you guys," says Kane.
Michel and I high-five, then tuck into a Charles Heidsieck Champagne Blanc de Blancs 'Blanc des Millenaires' 1995. Yeasty-smells are all I get at first, then with air it relaxes a bit and there's some lemon-cream and light gingery hints. Tastes tight and taut, almost severe at first, but the pieholefeel relaxes along with the smellies, and eventually it starts to show the glimmers of some lean friendly character. A little reserved, probably needs time.
The recent release of the cockpit tapes from the USAir 'water landing' prompts some amazement. "That guy says 'We're going to be in the Hudson' in about the same tone of voice I might use to say 'I'm going to be in the laundry room,'" I marvel. From there we move into a lengthy conversation about plane crashes. Michel describes a play he saw called Charlie Victor Romeo, where actors re-enact the cockpit tapes from noted commercial airline crashes. "And I had to fly the next day," he says ruefully.
Lisa brings up the "differential throttle" crash of United flight 232 in Sioux City, the failure of the triple-redundant hydraulics, the amazing coincidence of having a flying instructor who had studied the technique on board as a passenger, the cool black humor of professionals under stress ("Sioux City Tower: United Two Thirty-Two, you're cleared to land on any runway. UA232: [laughter] Roger. [laughter] You want to be particular and make it a runway, huh?")
Sharon seems bemused by all this crash talk. "I guess I'm a little surprised that you all seem to remember these tiny details about plane crashes."
"We're fetishists, cut us some slack," I point out. She nods uncomprehendingly while I pour a Meyer-Fonn Pinot Blanc Alsace "Vieilles Vignes" 2006. Fruity-floral aromatics, gardenia and lilikoi. Tastes cheerful and uncomplicated, a middleweight pinot blanc that has a pleasant freshness about it. It won't win any awards for complexity, but it's a fun, happy little wine.
Brad's all bubbly about this one. "It's the biggest, richest pinot blanc I've ever had!" he burbles.
I try to keep my eyes from rolling. "Dude, open some Schoffit sometime, makes this seem like a wallflower."
Kane then launches into a puzzling story about getting an IM from someone who asks him, "Don't you remember me, we had sex just the other night," and assuming he's talking to Sharon, until it becomes apparent later in the conversation that he's not talking to Sharon. Sharon, for her part, is aghast: "Why in the world would you think that was me?" she yelps.
"Oh, something about the screenname reminded me of you," says Kane.
"Brad has an unusually active fantasy life," I point out to Sharon. "BradWorld is, for the most part, a fantasy/reality fugue state. It's something we adjust to."
We talk cooking TV. Lisa goes on about her Gordon Ramsey crush, I throw in mine on Tony Bourdain. Michel mentions that Eric Ripert is getting a show. "Ooh! He's HOT!" I squeal, to near-universal agreement (Kane doesn't comment). So Eric, you blue-eyed devil, you've got a positive sample from this focus group.
Speaking of focus groups, Lisa brings up her experience with FreshDirect, where she sat for hours while being drilled for info on her opinions about delivery practices. "I love them," she explains, "but they had some weird packaging issues."
"That was one of my big problems with them," says Michel. "You'd order an avocado, and it would come in a suitcase-sized box all packed with folded-cardboard origami."
"Oh, but they've gotten much better lately," Lisa points out. "They must've listened to us."
Here's an old friend, a Francois Cazin Cour-Cheverny Cuve Renaissance 1996. Yeah, it's just delightful, as always. The wine has filled out in the middle and gained a bit of heft; it's not quite as light of foot as it was a few years ago, but the slight sense of relaxation doesn't detract. Sharon voices her usual objection to the demisec-level of residual sugar, but that's her shtick and she's welcome to it. To me, it's a wonderfully complete thoroughbred in the prime of life, muscles straining with the joy of motion. It kind of takes my breath away, actually, even having had the wine dozens of times over a good many years. So really, it's the Lisa Allen of wines; just when you think you've reached a level of comfortable familiarity, it surprises you with its force and subtlety.
Speaking of persnickety quirks, Sharon mentions being slightly freaked out by being greeted by the proprietor at Huet with a hearty, "So this is the famous Sharon Bowman who doesn't like chenin blanc!" She looks mystified. "I mean, what's going on here? How did he know that?"
Kane laughs. "He must read Coad's stuff."
I snort. "Don't look at me, kids. My iconoclastic 'Sharon' character is a recent invention, I've barely fleshed her out at all. There are other, more sinister forces at work here, and I don't mean the Masons."
Then more talk, long juicy stretches of conversation that cut across the universalities of interpersonal dynamics and the difficulties of forging lasting bonds in today's linked-in world. All of which I'm told I can't use. So, um, sorry. Instead, I am allowed to report that Lisa and Michel are both huge Battlestar Galactica fans, and can discuss it in great detail for at least thirty-six minutes without drawing a breath.
Kane then launches into a long, tangled description of his latest misadventures in the world of electronic dating. I ask him to repeat an especially creative screen name he encountered (something like "besttitsinjersey"), he balks and says "You can't use this. This is off the record."
Christ on a cracker. "This is terrible," I moan. "You have to say that FIRST, otherwise I'm wasting my time scribbling away for nothing. Man, y'all are taking away all my material. What's left for me to rag on? Can I still make fun of Kane's cooking? Because I don't want to live in a world where Kane's cooking is off the record!" My voice breaks, and I have to stop and collect myself. The others gather round, murmuring vague assurances that yes, it's always sweet and fitting to make fun of Kane's cooking. It works, I am calmed enough to take a trembling glass of Prince Florent de Merode Corton les Bressandes 1998. Nice beet-cherry aromas, laced with truffle and sod. A sip, and it's a bit wan, but does the trick for me. Pleasant, slightly dilute wine. I don't mind it; it's no stunner but it's pleasant enough.
"It's very nice," says Michel. "But it's not a grand cru."
"Oh no," I perk up. "I'm afraid I must correct you. It IS a grand cru," I explain patiently. "You see, lookit says so right here on the label." I hold up the bottle and show him the right place to look. His understandable error pointed out so diplomatically, Michel is mollified.
Kane, knowing my oft-stated dislike of truffle oil, serves up a truffle-oil-infused lobster risotto. I pick all the lobster out of it and await the inevitable blowup when the plates are cleared. He does not disappoint: "Oh my GOD, you didn't eat any of it!" he wails, shaking his finger in my general direction. "What's the matter now, do I have to add more things to the long list of stuff Coad won't eat?! No bitter vegetables, no risotto, you're the most finicky eater in the world!"
"I ate all the good bits," I say stoically. I turn to the others to explain. "Brad's still nursing wounded feelings from a time several years ago when he served me undercooked bitter greens and I couldn't bring myself to choke them down."
"Bradley, didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to berate your guests about what they did or didn't eat?" asks Lisa.
There's a bottle going around with a good bit of frowniness and head-scratching. I take a look, it's an Eric Texier Ctes du Rhne Brzme Pergault 2006. Ripe smoky black cherry aromatics, tastes watery and hollow, with a candied edge. Nothing interesting here, which is kind of annoying because I used to love these wines, back in the late '90s/early aughties. Perhaps just a bad showing, who knows.
I take a moment to object to the trend of wine/cheese geeks to eschew my beloved cheddar. "What, because it's popular, it's no good?!" I yelp. "What kind of insane reverse-snobbery is this?! When was the last time you went to a cheese geek tasting and someone put out a nice locally-raised cheddar? NEVER. Bloody snobs."
More frowning and head-scratching as another bottle moves down the table, and here's a Domaine Leon Barral Faugres 2003 that smells like raspberry jam mixed with acetone and mucilage. I'm seriously VA-tolerant, but this is ridiculous. I've liked some of this house's wines in the past, but this is a hot mess.
"So Brad," says Sharon. "Where's your camera tonight?"
[REDACTED]
"You[REDACTED]" he [REDACTED] right THERE [REDACTED] time."
[REDACTED]and the [REDACTED] foot[REDACTED]
[REDACTED]plaster[REDACTED]all the time," he squeals.
"Brad, do you have any raw eggs?" she[REDACTED], [REDACTED], utterly deadpan.
[REDACTED], which omission leads me to disengage entirely from this madness and pour myself a generous glass of Russian Hill Pinot Noir Sonoma Coast Meredith Vineyard 2004. Plum-cherry-clove aromas, hint of mushroomy funkiness. Big and medium-rich, a broadbeamed pinot noir with a good deal of heft and not much finesse. Pleasant enough, it you can lay back, think of England, and enjoy being steamrolled. We play "guess the alcohol" and Sharon comes in first with her guess of 14.9%. It's 14.7%.
Lisa is feeling a little queasy and goes to sit on the couch. Kane: "Is it me, or my cooking?" We're not sure; does it really have to be one or the other?
Sharon doesn't serve herself a large enough portion of chicken and once again Brad gets back up on his harangue-pony. "My GOD, what's the matter? You're not eating anything I cooked for you, do you have an eating disorder or something?"
I chime in: "I too must have this disorder; it seems to be strangely site-specific, though."
"Look, I just ate an entire soupbowl full of risotto," Sharon objects plaintively.
"You can't win around here, you just have to learn that," I explain. "I go easy on the risotto and save myself for the chicken and get berated and called finicky; you hit the risotto and don't have room for the chicken, you get harangued and accused of having an eating disorder. This is like when we used to eat at Lisa's grandmother's house: you have to know the rules are stacked against you and you can't win, whether or not you eat the gefilte fish. So just do what you want: there's a certain freedom in that knowledge."
"Oh great, it's a good thing I made TWO chickens," Kane moans, and grumps back into the kitchen.
"Is at least one of them cooked all the way through?" I sing out to his retreating back.
"Oh, like HALF of ONE was a little underdone," he yells back.
"I seem to have gotten that half." I point out. "But look! I'm eating the chicken carpaccio! It's yummy! Mmmm... sallllmonelllllaaaaaliciousss. See me eat! Eat, Chris, eat!"
And I do, and it goes very nicely with an Olga Raffault Chinon les Picasses 1989. This bottle seems a little more noticeably tobacco-leafy than past samples, the dark cran-cherry redfruit receding slightly into the background, leaving a gravelly minerality and a hint of pine as a counterbalance. Supple, smooth, really easy to drink. Not the most concentrated or focused of Picasses, but the ripeness, the languor, more than makes up for it. Still very young, the acidity is there, but hidden under a gently fleshy plushness. I just keep going back to the bottle and pouring myself a little more, and then again a little more. Chinon for non-Chinon lovers, very accessible, but probably more interesting ten years down the line.
The conversation turns towards [REDACTED]. Why in the name of [REDACTED] seems to be [REDACTED].
[REDACTED]
[REDACTED], fair enough," Lisa points out. "Story of my life."
"Absolutely," agrees Sharon. "In fact, I'm writing a novel about twelve unconnected couples who each end up in bed together."
"You're writing La Ronde?" I ask, all ears.
"Well, you know, there are no new ideas," she shrugs.
"Oh, absolutely. Shakespeare stole all his plots except maybe the kinda lame Merry Wives and the totally lame Henry VIII. And more recently, we classicists are all familiar with the mournful refrain: Simpsons did it.
Here's a Huet Vouvray Clos du Bourg Molleux 1ere Trie 1990. Medium amber-orange color. Smells marmaladey, apricottish, pomander-spicy, with pronounced flickery hay-botrytis notes. Tastes advanced and quite sweet, big and round in that Bourgish way. There's a slight baked-fruit quality to the middle, finishes with a wave of orange-apricot flavor. Me, I'd drink up these '90s while waiting for the '89s and '97s to come around. They don't seem like wines that need a whole lot more time.
And then we talked more about things I am enjoined from mentioning. And then we all went home. Except Kane, who was already home. And then, I think it's safe to say, he got down to some serious [REDACTED].