Chris Coad
Chris Coad
So the New York/New Jersey gang is all meeting at Soul Flavors in trendy downtown Jersey City for a night of soul food festivization. It's a frosty East Coast night, and Lisa's a little cranky because the wind is doing a number on her contact lenses. But now we're here, and here's the usual crowd of ne'er-do-wells: stately Jay Miller off in the far corner across from brooding literary lass Sharon Bowman, still nursing a split lip after last night's unfortunate incident at our place. I take a look; the damage is barely noticeable, although she's convinced she looks like Rocky in the tenth round. There's Eden and Scott, travellers from the vasty wilds of the Garden State, and tonight's special guest star SFJoe.
Here's a nice fizz to start things off, a Weingut Willi Brndlmayer Brut 1995. Smells yeasty, bakery hints and a touch of butterscotch and orange zest, then a gentle mushroominess. Lightly fizzy, tangy and tart and nimble, with a wiry core. I haven't had this in a few years; it's gotten more interesting.
Next up is an F.X. Pichler Grner Veltliner Smaragd 'M' 2001. Ook, it's a big 'un, rich poached pear and pineapple-juicy yellowfruit dusted with snap pea and celery seed hints, and, yes, a touch of white pepper. A sip, and here's a brute, a broadbeamed man o'war, rich and glyceriney and concentrated, with central acidity like Trajan's Column. Maybe a hint of sugar? It's hard to tell, could just be the plush ripeness or the alcohol, but the effect is of a touch of sweetness. Really rich and muscular, with a long flowery-fruity finish. Very impressive wine. Monumental massive monolithic menhir.
I assay the soulful menu, order up some spicy cod cakes and a lamb pot pie. Scott seems to think we're big musical theater fans, which might have kinda sorta been true in a limited sense about ten years ago, but we're trying to puzzle out with him why exactly he has this impression now, and I end up trying to explain the cheerful plot of Hedda Gabler, which I've just seen in a disappointing production with my secret love, Mary-Louise Parker.
A Gulfi Sicilia Bianco 'Carjcanti' 2005 comes around. Hints of lemon-cream dusted with cinnamon, gentle yellow-apple fruit. Medium acidity, creamy pieholefeel, a languid, fleshy wine that's a little vague in the middle. A lot more balanced than the '03, the last vintage I tasted, more lemon-appley and less tropical, but also kind of shiny-creamy, slickly wooded and generically, um, "Burgundian." Camblor used to call this "Sicilian Muscadet," but it's always struck me as closer to Sicilian Montrachet. So, um, yawn. Maybe they could take a hint from Camblor, blend in some nice racy melon de bourgogne and ease off the oak?
I'm basking in the warm glow of the Pichler when the nightmare begins: Kane whips out his favorite new toy camera, starts waving it around, and my stomach sinks.
Oh for the fuck of shit. This is like the third dinner in a row he's done his best to ruin by shooting off flashes in peoples' faces all night long, taking pictures of every plate of food, every bottle of wine, every person in attendance in every combination with every other person, the salt shakers, the pepper mills, the napkin rings, each piece of cutlery both before and after use, stemware, water glasses, centerpieces, small bits of food that have fallen on the floor, dust bunnies, the wide variety of papers and writing implements that people use to take notes, discarded corks arranged in piles, torn-off labels, all studiously photographed *FLASH* *FLASH*, all night long. I had blind spots burned into my retinas after the last two that lingered for days; I'm not eager for a repeat performance, to say the least. I've asked politely, I've begged, I've pleaded, I've threatened violence. Nothing seems to work, he just doesn't give a shit. I have to at least try again. I lean in towards him and say steadily, "I'm going to say what I said last time: if you flash that thing in my face again ONE MORE TIME, I swear I'll smash it."
"Oh, yeah, yeah," says Kane. I glower at him, in case he thinks I'm joking. He pays no attention whatsoever. I take a pour of a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Demisec 1989, which seems, like me at the moment, to be a bit off. Eden calls it as corked right away (as does Sharon, on the other end of the table), Lisa after another five minutes, everyone else takes a little longer but, as always, the chicks are right and the conclusion is inevitable as the dank-cardboard note grows steadily stronger. Yet another in a very long line of corked Huet '89s.
Sigh. I try again, with a Philippe Faury Condrieu 2002. This smells like the fruity-floral bathroom soaps that my mother used to leave out when guests came over, with maybe just a hint of tinned fruit cocktail mixed in. Glossy-textured and limp, fake-fruity tasting and way understructured, nothing much good here.
Hey, it's Dr. Jayson Cohen, Esq.! Nice to see*FLASH* *FLASH* Goddamnit, the fuckwit's at it again, and yes, I'm starting to channel Camblor now. I have to hold my notebook in front of my face in order to try and stop the blasts of light from searing my eyes. Where's Camblor when you need him? Seriously, since he left town Kane has done nothing but grow progressively less and less civilized.
SFJoe is playing along, posing happily for our cub reporter *FLASH* *FLASH*. I wince, eyes stinging, and lean in to him to whisper, "Stop encouraging him, you're only making it worse."
He shrugs amiably, "Oh, I don't mind."
"You say that now, but mark my words, you'll be sorry later. You can take that to the bank." He eyes me uncertainly.
Something is going on at the far end of the table. Kane is pointing at Sharon's yellow tights and now she's worried because Kane is calling her fat? What? I lean down the table and point at Brad. "HE is calling YOU fat?" I ask Sharon incredulously (for the reader's sake, allow me to explain that Sharon is a little slip of a thing, and Bradley, like many of us these days, bears very little physical resemblance to Manute Bol).
So, I turn to Jayson and*FLASH* *FLASH* Aargh, I have to put my head in my hands because my eyes are burning, tears seeping. *FLASH* *FLASH* "Ha! I got a picture of your bald spot!" shouts Kane. Sweet crispy Jesus on a stick. Give me a hit of Dnnhoff Riesling Nahe Felsentrmchen Sptlese 2006. Oh, sweet sweet Donnhoff, takes away the Kane pain. Light gardenia-floral smellies, touch of ripe peachiness, hint of vinyl. Were I to quibble, I might think it just a tiny bit oversweet, the sugar tends to blunt the precision, but that's really being picky, as it's a lovely, oh-so-easy-to-drink wine that I find myself going back to again and again.
"Have they ever made a bad wine?" sighs Jayson.
"Not in my book," I start to respond, then flinch reflexively at the next round of *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH*. Some of the other customers in the restaurant are turning around to look. One sixtyish guy calls the waitress over and starts gesticulating towards our table.
Even SFJoe is starting to look uncomfortable at this point. "Look, cool it with the camera already, Brad," he says uneasily. "I don't mind it so much, but there are other people in this restaurant, you know."
Kane grins goofily. "I'm not hurting anyone. We're all here in the same room. I'm just enjoying myself, tough luck for them, they'll just have to deal."
SFJoe just stares, nonplussed. Well, I think, there's a rather telling sentence: 'tough shit, I guess everyone else will just have to deal.' Very nice.
It's hard to hear anyone at the other end of the table. I look back at Lisa, catch her eye, she smiles at me, I lean in close, and *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* Goddamnit, can't I even FUCKING KISS MY OWN WIFE WITHOUT THIS SHIT?!
Apparently not. Stay calm, just ignore him, push the bile down until it's a small, festering knot in your stomach. Ah, yes, that's good. Okay, here's a Philippe Pacalet Pommard 2001. Translucent medium-light garnet color. Gentle beety-berry aromatics, hint of cinnamon, hint of truffliiness and forest floor. Gentle, smooth pinot noir, lightly perfumed and expressive. A sip, and there's middling structure, it's a little shy, could do with a bit more mouthgrab, but it's very distinctive and amiable, so I kind of dig it. It's no showstopper, but a smallish, pretty little wine, at least to me. Others aren't digging it at all.
"It's not the wine," says SFJoe, slowly shaking his head.
"I like that, it sounds like something someone cool would say. I'm writing that down," I say. "And I'll probably say it sometime soon, when you're not around."
I'm starting to pour myself some Lopez de Heredia Via Bosconia Reserva 1998, when I get hit again *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH*, and this time, dear readers, I'm sorry to say that I lose my shit.
"Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!!!" I shriek, lunging across the table in a vain attempt to grab and smash the thing, scattering my silverware and what's left of my lamb pie in the process. I feel my face flushing hot and red, now more people behind us are turning and staring, slack-jawed. I settle back in my chair, unwilling to provide further spectacle, but seething inside. I'm generally an extremely placid person, so once-in-a-decade electric rage tends to short-circuit my brain circuits and make my head throb. Must calm down, even I know I'm getting a little crazed. I look down at my hands, they're shaking. Okay, take a deep breath, just count down from a hundred, slowly. I look frantically around for something to drink; the Lopez de Heredia is gone, but here's a Chteau la Dominique St. Emilion 1998. Smells tobacco-leafy and blackcurrantish, light cedar and graphite minerality with a light herbaceous streak. Tastes compact and a bit hard, with aggressive tannins. It's a little awkward, young and disjointed, but there seems to be good material for future development.
Okay, blood pressure subsiding, semblance of calm returning. Snatches of conversation are drifting downtable. Kane: "We had a great time in Paris. You were like 'Winegirl Gone Wild,' just completely out of control." Sharon: "What?!"
I call a timeout, just to clarify that that last bit was okay for general usage, and am given the go-ahead.
So, um, what next? My eyes are beginning to recover, here's another merlot, a Mayacamas Merlot Napa Valley 1995. Gently ripe earth-brick-berry smellies, some stewed tomato hints down below, hint of mint up high. Tastes flat and redfruity, with a strong note of Band-Aid brand bandage strips that strangely wasn't apparent in the aromas. Tastes medium bodied and compact, decent, but flat and decidedly lacking in vim.
*FLASH* *FLASH* Holy fuck, he's at it again. I wasn't prepared. I'm blind. What.The.Fuck. I keep my notebook held up in the air to block out the flashes and try to eat the remains of my dinner one-handed, left arm in the air. It's not easy. Kane bobs and weaves, trying to get around the notebook and blind me some more. *FLASH* *FLASH* Ow. Ow. Why? Why is he doing this? I don't understand, it's just so insane. God, more wine please. Here's a Verset Cornas 1990. Layered, earthy aromas, yamskin and smoke and a slightly roasty-redfruit undertone. A sip, and it's fleshy and matte-textured, medium bodied and feathering out languidly from the core. A flurry of aggressive tannins chokes off the finish, but all in all a nicely developed, ripe, roasty syrah.
Another syrah in a similar mold, a Jim Barry Shiraz Clare Valley 'The Armagh' 1995. The overweening purplosity of youth is gone, replaced with a pomegranate-limned blackfruity matte texture, smoky plum and a light menthol streak. Medium-low acidity, there's a smooth portlike quality that helps mitigate the broadness and softness of the midpalate. It's a good showing for this wine, it seems relaxed and restrained, the overt wooding of youth faded into a background toastiness, the jamminess much more muted than in past years. It's bigger and riper than the Verset, but purpler, not as roasty. I'm rather pleasantly surprised, really, as my expectations were not terribly high.
A couple of dessert wines, first a Kiralyudvar Tokaji Furmint 'Lapis' 1999. Amber-gold color, smells burnt-sugary, hints of caramel, dried apricot and orange rind. Tastes kind of baked, flattened-out and limp in the middle, brightens up a little on the finish, but there's something awry here. Heat damage?
"It's not the wine," says SFJoe, slowly shaking his head.
"Ha!" I laugh, "You've got a new"*FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* Aaaugh! My eyes hurt, my brain hurts. If I had any cash I'd just fling a fistful of money onto the table and walk out now. Sadly, I've only got plastic, so I'm stuck here until the final reckoning. I turn my chair so I face away from the table, it's the only defense at this point.
Then a Mller-Catoir Rieslaner Mussbacher Eselshaut Auslese 1998. Brightly aromatic, lilikoi-tropical smellies, smells slightly plasticized. Tastes quite sweet, crisp and friendly and simple, with a crayonbox mixed-fruity-floral sense to it. Nice enough, straightforward and two-dimensional.
Over my shoulder I see Kane wrestling with Eden, trying to get her to pose with him for more photographs.*FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* She has a look on her face that would curdle milk. Then it's over, thank god. The white spots swimming in my eyes don't fade on the two train rides back to the city.
When I get home I ask Lisa to lend me a lancet, and there, in the presence of my wife and the gods of my people, I stab my finger and swear a blood oath that I will never again suffer myself to be in the same room with Brad Kane and his camera, so long as I shall draw breath.
And readers, I never again was.
Here's a nice fizz to start things off, a Weingut Willi Brndlmayer Brut 1995. Smells yeasty, bakery hints and a touch of butterscotch and orange zest, then a gentle mushroominess. Lightly fizzy, tangy and tart and nimble, with a wiry core. I haven't had this in a few years; it's gotten more interesting.
Next up is an F.X. Pichler Grner Veltliner Smaragd 'M' 2001. Ook, it's a big 'un, rich poached pear and pineapple-juicy yellowfruit dusted with snap pea and celery seed hints, and, yes, a touch of white pepper. A sip, and here's a brute, a broadbeamed man o'war, rich and glyceriney and concentrated, with central acidity like Trajan's Column. Maybe a hint of sugar? It's hard to tell, could just be the plush ripeness or the alcohol, but the effect is of a touch of sweetness. Really rich and muscular, with a long flowery-fruity finish. Very impressive wine. Monumental massive monolithic menhir.
I assay the soulful menu, order up some spicy cod cakes and a lamb pot pie. Scott seems to think we're big musical theater fans, which might have kinda sorta been true in a limited sense about ten years ago, but we're trying to puzzle out with him why exactly he has this impression now, and I end up trying to explain the cheerful plot of Hedda Gabler, which I've just seen in a disappointing production with my secret love, Mary-Louise Parker.
A Gulfi Sicilia Bianco 'Carjcanti' 2005 comes around. Hints of lemon-cream dusted with cinnamon, gentle yellow-apple fruit. Medium acidity, creamy pieholefeel, a languid, fleshy wine that's a little vague in the middle. A lot more balanced than the '03, the last vintage I tasted, more lemon-appley and less tropical, but also kind of shiny-creamy, slickly wooded and generically, um, "Burgundian." Camblor used to call this "Sicilian Muscadet," but it's always struck me as closer to Sicilian Montrachet. So, um, yawn. Maybe they could take a hint from Camblor, blend in some nice racy melon de bourgogne and ease off the oak?
I'm basking in the warm glow of the Pichler when the nightmare begins: Kane whips out his favorite new toy camera, starts waving it around, and my stomach sinks.
Oh for the fuck of shit. This is like the third dinner in a row he's done his best to ruin by shooting off flashes in peoples' faces all night long, taking pictures of every plate of food, every bottle of wine, every person in attendance in every combination with every other person, the salt shakers, the pepper mills, the napkin rings, each piece of cutlery both before and after use, stemware, water glasses, centerpieces, small bits of food that have fallen on the floor, dust bunnies, the wide variety of papers and writing implements that people use to take notes, discarded corks arranged in piles, torn-off labels, all studiously photographed *FLASH* *FLASH*, all night long. I had blind spots burned into my retinas after the last two that lingered for days; I'm not eager for a repeat performance, to say the least. I've asked politely, I've begged, I've pleaded, I've threatened violence. Nothing seems to work, he just doesn't give a shit. I have to at least try again. I lean in towards him and say steadily, "I'm going to say what I said last time: if you flash that thing in my face again ONE MORE TIME, I swear I'll smash it."
"Oh, yeah, yeah," says Kane. I glower at him, in case he thinks I'm joking. He pays no attention whatsoever. I take a pour of a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Demisec 1989, which seems, like me at the moment, to be a bit off. Eden calls it as corked right away (as does Sharon, on the other end of the table), Lisa after another five minutes, everyone else takes a little longer but, as always, the chicks are right and the conclusion is inevitable as the dank-cardboard note grows steadily stronger. Yet another in a very long line of corked Huet '89s.
Sigh. I try again, with a Philippe Faury Condrieu 2002. This smells like the fruity-floral bathroom soaps that my mother used to leave out when guests came over, with maybe just a hint of tinned fruit cocktail mixed in. Glossy-textured and limp, fake-fruity tasting and way understructured, nothing much good here.
Hey, it's Dr. Jayson Cohen, Esq.! Nice to see*FLASH* *FLASH* Goddamnit, the fuckwit's at it again, and yes, I'm starting to channel Camblor now. I have to hold my notebook in front of my face in order to try and stop the blasts of light from searing my eyes. Where's Camblor when you need him? Seriously, since he left town Kane has done nothing but grow progressively less and less civilized.
SFJoe is playing along, posing happily for our cub reporter *FLASH* *FLASH*. I wince, eyes stinging, and lean in to him to whisper, "Stop encouraging him, you're only making it worse."
He shrugs amiably, "Oh, I don't mind."
"You say that now, but mark my words, you'll be sorry later. You can take that to the bank." He eyes me uncertainly.
Something is going on at the far end of the table. Kane is pointing at Sharon's yellow tights and now she's worried because Kane is calling her fat? What? I lean down the table and point at Brad. "HE is calling YOU fat?" I ask Sharon incredulously (for the reader's sake, allow me to explain that Sharon is a little slip of a thing, and Bradley, like many of us these days, bears very little physical resemblance to Manute Bol).
So, I turn to Jayson and*FLASH* *FLASH* Aargh, I have to put my head in my hands because my eyes are burning, tears seeping. *FLASH* *FLASH* "Ha! I got a picture of your bald spot!" shouts Kane. Sweet crispy Jesus on a stick. Give me a hit of Dnnhoff Riesling Nahe Felsentrmchen Sptlese 2006. Oh, sweet sweet Donnhoff, takes away the Kane pain. Light gardenia-floral smellies, touch of ripe peachiness, hint of vinyl. Were I to quibble, I might think it just a tiny bit oversweet, the sugar tends to blunt the precision, but that's really being picky, as it's a lovely, oh-so-easy-to-drink wine that I find myself going back to again and again.
"Have they ever made a bad wine?" sighs Jayson.
"Not in my book," I start to respond, then flinch reflexively at the next round of *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH*. Some of the other customers in the restaurant are turning around to look. One sixtyish guy calls the waitress over and starts gesticulating towards our table.
Even SFJoe is starting to look uncomfortable at this point. "Look, cool it with the camera already, Brad," he says uneasily. "I don't mind it so much, but there are other people in this restaurant, you know."
Kane grins goofily. "I'm not hurting anyone. We're all here in the same room. I'm just enjoying myself, tough luck for them, they'll just have to deal."
SFJoe just stares, nonplussed. Well, I think, there's a rather telling sentence: 'tough shit, I guess everyone else will just have to deal.' Very nice.
It's hard to hear anyone at the other end of the table. I look back at Lisa, catch her eye, she smiles at me, I lean in close, and *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* Goddamnit, can't I even FUCKING KISS MY OWN WIFE WITHOUT THIS SHIT?!
Apparently not. Stay calm, just ignore him, push the bile down until it's a small, festering knot in your stomach. Ah, yes, that's good. Okay, here's a Philippe Pacalet Pommard 2001. Translucent medium-light garnet color. Gentle beety-berry aromatics, hint of cinnamon, hint of truffliiness and forest floor. Gentle, smooth pinot noir, lightly perfumed and expressive. A sip, and there's middling structure, it's a little shy, could do with a bit more mouthgrab, but it's very distinctive and amiable, so I kind of dig it. It's no showstopper, but a smallish, pretty little wine, at least to me. Others aren't digging it at all.
"It's not the wine," says SFJoe, slowly shaking his head.
"I like that, it sounds like something someone cool would say. I'm writing that down," I say. "And I'll probably say it sometime soon, when you're not around."
I'm starting to pour myself some Lopez de Heredia Via Bosconia Reserva 1998, when I get hit again *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH*, and this time, dear readers, I'm sorry to say that I lose my shit.
"Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!!!" I shriek, lunging across the table in a vain attempt to grab and smash the thing, scattering my silverware and what's left of my lamb pie in the process. I feel my face flushing hot and red, now more people behind us are turning and staring, slack-jawed. I settle back in my chair, unwilling to provide further spectacle, but seething inside. I'm generally an extremely placid person, so once-in-a-decade electric rage tends to short-circuit my brain circuits and make my head throb. Must calm down, even I know I'm getting a little crazed. I look down at my hands, they're shaking. Okay, take a deep breath, just count down from a hundred, slowly. I look frantically around for something to drink; the Lopez de Heredia is gone, but here's a Chteau la Dominique St. Emilion 1998. Smells tobacco-leafy and blackcurrantish, light cedar and graphite minerality with a light herbaceous streak. Tastes compact and a bit hard, with aggressive tannins. It's a little awkward, young and disjointed, but there seems to be good material for future development.
Okay, blood pressure subsiding, semblance of calm returning. Snatches of conversation are drifting downtable. Kane: "We had a great time in Paris. You were like 'Winegirl Gone Wild,' just completely out of control." Sharon: "What?!"
I call a timeout, just to clarify that that last bit was okay for general usage, and am given the go-ahead.
So, um, what next? My eyes are beginning to recover, here's another merlot, a Mayacamas Merlot Napa Valley 1995. Gently ripe earth-brick-berry smellies, some stewed tomato hints down below, hint of mint up high. Tastes flat and redfruity, with a strong note of Band-Aid brand bandage strips that strangely wasn't apparent in the aromas. Tastes medium bodied and compact, decent, but flat and decidedly lacking in vim.
*FLASH* *FLASH* Holy fuck, he's at it again. I wasn't prepared. I'm blind. What.The.Fuck. I keep my notebook held up in the air to block out the flashes and try to eat the remains of my dinner one-handed, left arm in the air. It's not easy. Kane bobs and weaves, trying to get around the notebook and blind me some more. *FLASH* *FLASH* Ow. Ow. Why? Why is he doing this? I don't understand, it's just so insane. God, more wine please. Here's a Verset Cornas 1990. Layered, earthy aromas, yamskin and smoke and a slightly roasty-redfruit undertone. A sip, and it's fleshy and matte-textured, medium bodied and feathering out languidly from the core. A flurry of aggressive tannins chokes off the finish, but all in all a nicely developed, ripe, roasty syrah.
Another syrah in a similar mold, a Jim Barry Shiraz Clare Valley 'The Armagh' 1995. The overweening purplosity of youth is gone, replaced with a pomegranate-limned blackfruity matte texture, smoky plum and a light menthol streak. Medium-low acidity, there's a smooth portlike quality that helps mitigate the broadness and softness of the midpalate. It's a good showing for this wine, it seems relaxed and restrained, the overt wooding of youth faded into a background toastiness, the jamminess much more muted than in past years. It's bigger and riper than the Verset, but purpler, not as roasty. I'm rather pleasantly surprised, really, as my expectations were not terribly high.
A couple of dessert wines, first a Kiralyudvar Tokaji Furmint 'Lapis' 1999. Amber-gold color, smells burnt-sugary, hints of caramel, dried apricot and orange rind. Tastes kind of baked, flattened-out and limp in the middle, brightens up a little on the finish, but there's something awry here. Heat damage?
"It's not the wine," says SFJoe, slowly shaking his head.
"Ha!" I laugh, "You've got a new"*FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* Aaaugh! My eyes hurt, my brain hurts. If I had any cash I'd just fling a fistful of money onto the table and walk out now. Sadly, I've only got plastic, so I'm stuck here until the final reckoning. I turn my chair so I face away from the table, it's the only defense at this point.
Then a Mller-Catoir Rieslaner Mussbacher Eselshaut Auslese 1998. Brightly aromatic, lilikoi-tropical smellies, smells slightly plasticized. Tastes quite sweet, crisp and friendly and simple, with a crayonbox mixed-fruity-floral sense to it. Nice enough, straightforward and two-dimensional.
Over my shoulder I see Kane wrestling with Eden, trying to get her to pose with him for more photographs.*FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH* She has a look on her face that would curdle milk. Then it's over, thank god. The white spots swimming in my eyes don't fade on the two train rides back to the city.
When I get home I ask Lisa to lend me a lancet, and there, in the presence of my wife and the gods of my people, I stab my finger and swear a blood oath that I will never again suffer myself to be in the same room with Brad Kane and his camera, so long as I shall draw breath.
And readers, I never again was.
