Chris Coad
Chris Coad
Landed Squire Jeff Connell of the Great White North swooped into town recently for a quick appointment with the Vienna Philharmonic. Your humble narrator accidently found this out while wandering the streets on the upper east side searching for a nicotine fix when he unexpectedly crossed paths with Greg dal Piaz.
"You're going the wrong way!" shouts Greg.
"I am?" I puzzle. "Oh, okay, lead the way, then." And he does, in his merry fashion. "So, it's only the six of us?" he asks.
"Um, guess so," is all I can think to reply. I wonder what I'm getting myself into.
And so it is that I end up crashing with the geeks at Il Corso. When dal Piaz and I arrive there's the man himself, Jeff Connell, chatting with legendary wine historian Don Rice. Soon the irrepressible Bradley Kane arrives, strangely unburdened by photographic equipment. He unpacks his bottles and stares at yet another electronic toy of some kind, frowning. "Someone's left me a message saying they're not coming, but I don't know who it is," he mutters.
"Who's not here?" I ask. He stares at me briefly, grunts something unintelligible, and goes back to his electronic toy.
Here's a white to start, a Pierre Gonon St. Joseph les Oliviers 2007. Warm bergamot-chalk-paraffin aromatics, if I didn't know better I'd think this was chenin blanc. Some air brings out a honeyed hint. A sip, and it's broad and rounded in the piehole, with a hint of oiliness. A slight ashy note mingles with a flash of spiritous heat on the finish, but it's very pleasing.
Jayson Cohen and Laura are here! So the mystery canceller must have been Sharon after all. Jayson takes one look at our end of the table and says, "Oh, let's not sit here, let's sit at the other end."
I catch Jay Miller's eye, "Well, I believe we have been judged and found wanting." He gives me a 'whaddaya gonna do?' shrug.
Laura protests at this overt snubbing, and sends Jayson off to sit with the cool kids while she plunks herself down with us wallflowers. "You just can't take him out in public," she explains, shaking her head sadly.
Here come a Domaine Chantemerle Chablis Fourchaume 1997. Pale gold color. Light spiced-apple smellies, touch of honey and golden delicious apple mingled with a funky sour-milk/sweat-sockiness. Tastes a little lactic too, creamy at the edges, nervy at the core. Bright, slightly spiky acidity, but it's standing apart from the pressed-flower yellowfruit, and the midpalate feels flattened and a bit lifeless. I appreciate the ballsiness it takes to try and age a humble grape like chardonnay this long, but this one seems to be coming unglued. A somewhat problematic match with my gorgonzola/poached pear salad.
The Vienna Philharmonic has apparently broken with tradition and added a few female musicians to its ranks. Much tut-tutting around the table. "The sound," Jeff complains, "the throbbing, masculine sound..." he trails off, lost in despair at the shocking new order.
Jay's passing around a Huet Vouvray Clos du Bourg Demisec 1983, and I can't wait, because I've never had a Huet '83 before, it's a neglected vintage. I take a pour, smells nummychalk and bergamot jam, lemonzest and a dusty earthiness; the aromatics are calm and on the shy side, but slide right up into my happy zone. A sip, and WAAAAAAGH, slicing XActo-knife acidity flays my unwary tongue, screeching and wailing up and down, echoing like a car alarm after midnight. I gasp, recover slightly, regain my bearings. Wow. There's no perceptible sweetness to take the edge off, it's a shrieky-shrill little bastard, deceptively gentle-smelling but hiding a stiletto behind its back.
Ooh, ooh, this should be good. I watch as the bottle moves down the table, eagerly awaiting Kane's reaction. He takes a big pour and sets it down, continuing to chat with Jayson. "Taste it, already," I yell down the table. He frowns at me and sniffs lightly at it. He's teasing me! Finally, he takes a sip, and his eyes snap open wide.
"Hah!" I snort.
"Wow, that's bracing," gasps Kane. "Like a dip in a glacial stream."
"Like a dip in a glacial stream, yes," I add. "While holding a plugged-in toaster."
Here's a Caves de Chevrette Bourgueil 1955. Medium muddy ruby color. The aromatics are like those surrounding a warm fire in a well lived in mountain cabingentle, spicy, smoky and dusty, steeped with the subtle flavor of the passage of years. There's hints of your grandfather's pipe tobacco, and the spines of old leatherbound books, the mud from boots scraped at the door, the spiciness of the taxidermied heads on the wall, the minerality of the rock walls, hints of wood burnished by many years of wear, all bound up with muted crushed-brick preserved-cherry redfruit. Medium-lightbodied, there's some feathering out to brown-herbiness at the edges but the core is bright and red and youthful. Quite lovely, a contemplative wine, relaxed and languid. No reason to hold further, drinking wonderfully tonight.
All I can think to say is *lipsmack*.
"That's perfect. That should be your whole note," says Greg. "Just *lipsmack*.
"If only I could figure out how to spell *lipsmack*," I moan.
An Eric Texier Cte du Rhne Brzme Pergault 2006 is so unlike the bottle we had two week ago as to seem a completely different wine. Closed, yes, but normal closed, taut and hard, but full of potential. That last bottle must've been marginally corked or something, because this one's a whole different ballgame, gentle taut violet-tinged blackberry-raspberry smellies, tight but flashing hints of what it might become. Obsidian-hard at the core, racy and a little bit of a dominatrix, but the judiciously administered discipline goes well with my pasta with lamb ragout. I pour myself a second glass, and it turns out that air has improved it even more.
Greg has a Mystery dal Piaz Wine, and hmm, boy, this is weird. Muddy brownish color well in from the rim, with rubine glints at the core. Smells beef-brothy, like a bouillon cube mixed with leather, shoyu, cedar, plum, and a shy rosy florality. A sip, and it's bay-leafy and earthy, medium bodied and roughish-tasting, muted red at the heart, with a sense of being frozen in time, faded but still pulsing quietly. My first thought is "Really old nebbiolo!" probably because it's Greg pouring it and it smells... unusual and rosy. But after some further examination, I posit my theory as to what it is: Inglenook Petite Sirah 1919. I stand by this, as the guesses from other folks roll in. Connell ventures "It's California. It's old." He pauses, looks down, thinks some more, looks up: "Yes." (El Gavilan Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 'Casa de Sonoma' 1941 (bottled 1947)).
Now Kane takes his turn with the Mystery Kane Wine, and it's not meeting with much approval as it moves down the table towards me. Jay Miller actually turns pale and gags slightly, in a very genteel way, then puts his head in his hands and moans "Horrible... horrible... oh, the humanity." I take a pour and sniff warily. Okay, blowsily ripe black cherry-raspberry jam notes, dark smoky hints underneath that. A sip, and it's a ripe mouthful, rich and jammy with medium-low acidity. Right now it seems like a wall of pillowy red-black fruit, all juice and froot with smoky-tarry underpinnings waiting in the wings. (Brad Kane Winery/Seghesio Zinfandel (88%)/Petite Sirah (12%) Alexander Valley 'El Armadillo' 2007)
Kane seems to be counting on me to stand up for his mystery wine, and I see why. "Dude, you just think I'll like this because it tastes just like a Turley zin!" He gives me a 'whaddaya gonna do?' shrug.
A Fontalloro 1986 is badly corked. Feh.
An Edmunds St. John Syrah Parmalee-Hill 2005 splits the table right down the middle. On the far end Kane and Cohen are inexplicably complaining about fizziness and a huge amount of residual sugar. I taste the wine again, and yes, they're demonstrably insane. I ask Jay, just to make sure, and he calmly agrees that yes, those guys are batshit crazy. I am mollified. Greg pipes up that he got a little prickle on first taste, but that it vanished soon after, so maybe there's a seed of sanity, but only just a seed. Anyhoo, it's spicy-ripe smelling, black raspberry limned with African violet hints, touch of menthol. There's a nice youthful plumpness, puppyfat that clothes the structure but doesn't suffocate it.
A Rinaldi Nebbiolo Langhe 1999 is vivid, bright, charming and lively, quite a complete little package. Nervy sour-cherry fruit laced with dark tarriness, focused down to a bright laserlike pinpoint, tense and vivid and cheerful, with some sandy tannins happily roughing up the slightly too-slick finish. I think I need more of this, it's so happymaking, borderline irresistible.
A Clos Rougeard Saumur-Champigny 1997 is coming along nicely, smells gently herbaceous, pine needles and tobacco mix with a warm pool of cran-cherry redness. Tastes rather loose and easygoing, medium acidity, rather broad in the beam and relaxed. Maybe not one for the ages, but it's still well away from peak performance.
I take a slug of Moulin Touchais Coteaux du Layon 1971, smells caramelly, honey and quince and apricot, flattened out and lifeless in the middle, maybe a bit cooked. Tastes quite sweet, wide and rich and a little squishy, but I can't help thinking this isn't a pristine bottle. Because, well, I've had better recently.
More interesting is a Francois Pinon Vouvray Goutte d'Or 1990, which is similarly advanced, but more naturally so. Caramel, quince, bergamot, orange rind, just a hint of botrytis. Very sweet and rich, but crisp and preternaturally light of foot for such a big sweet wine. Not one to hold for much longer, in fact it seems like it may well be past its best days, but it's still quite yummy and rich, a packed mouthful of goodness.
Kane presses the bottle of El Armadillo into my hands: "Take it home, it's much better on day two!" he pleads. And I have to say, he's got a point, it is indeed calmer and less jammy on day two.
Wait, where did Connell go?
"You're going the wrong way!" shouts Greg.
"I am?" I puzzle. "Oh, okay, lead the way, then." And he does, in his merry fashion. "So, it's only the six of us?" he asks.
"Um, guess so," is all I can think to reply. I wonder what I'm getting myself into.
And so it is that I end up crashing with the geeks at Il Corso. When dal Piaz and I arrive there's the man himself, Jeff Connell, chatting with legendary wine historian Don Rice. Soon the irrepressible Bradley Kane arrives, strangely unburdened by photographic equipment. He unpacks his bottles and stares at yet another electronic toy of some kind, frowning. "Someone's left me a message saying they're not coming, but I don't know who it is," he mutters.
"Who's not here?" I ask. He stares at me briefly, grunts something unintelligible, and goes back to his electronic toy.
Here's a white to start, a Pierre Gonon St. Joseph les Oliviers 2007. Warm bergamot-chalk-paraffin aromatics, if I didn't know better I'd think this was chenin blanc. Some air brings out a honeyed hint. A sip, and it's broad and rounded in the piehole, with a hint of oiliness. A slight ashy note mingles with a flash of spiritous heat on the finish, but it's very pleasing.
Jayson Cohen and Laura are here! So the mystery canceller must have been Sharon after all. Jayson takes one look at our end of the table and says, "Oh, let's not sit here, let's sit at the other end."
I catch Jay Miller's eye, "Well, I believe we have been judged and found wanting." He gives me a 'whaddaya gonna do?' shrug.
Laura protests at this overt snubbing, and sends Jayson off to sit with the cool kids while she plunks herself down with us wallflowers. "You just can't take him out in public," she explains, shaking her head sadly.
Here come a Domaine Chantemerle Chablis Fourchaume 1997. Pale gold color. Light spiced-apple smellies, touch of honey and golden delicious apple mingled with a funky sour-milk/sweat-sockiness. Tastes a little lactic too, creamy at the edges, nervy at the core. Bright, slightly spiky acidity, but it's standing apart from the pressed-flower yellowfruit, and the midpalate feels flattened and a bit lifeless. I appreciate the ballsiness it takes to try and age a humble grape like chardonnay this long, but this one seems to be coming unglued. A somewhat problematic match with my gorgonzola/poached pear salad.
The Vienna Philharmonic has apparently broken with tradition and added a few female musicians to its ranks. Much tut-tutting around the table. "The sound," Jeff complains, "the throbbing, masculine sound..." he trails off, lost in despair at the shocking new order.
Jay's passing around a Huet Vouvray Clos du Bourg Demisec 1983, and I can't wait, because I've never had a Huet '83 before, it's a neglected vintage. I take a pour, smells nummychalk and bergamot jam, lemonzest and a dusty earthiness; the aromatics are calm and on the shy side, but slide right up into my happy zone. A sip, and WAAAAAAGH, slicing XActo-knife acidity flays my unwary tongue, screeching and wailing up and down, echoing like a car alarm after midnight. I gasp, recover slightly, regain my bearings. Wow. There's no perceptible sweetness to take the edge off, it's a shrieky-shrill little bastard, deceptively gentle-smelling but hiding a stiletto behind its back.
Ooh, ooh, this should be good. I watch as the bottle moves down the table, eagerly awaiting Kane's reaction. He takes a big pour and sets it down, continuing to chat with Jayson. "Taste it, already," I yell down the table. He frowns at me and sniffs lightly at it. He's teasing me! Finally, he takes a sip, and his eyes snap open wide.
"Hah!" I snort.
"Wow, that's bracing," gasps Kane. "Like a dip in a glacial stream."
"Like a dip in a glacial stream, yes," I add. "While holding a plugged-in toaster."
Here's a Caves de Chevrette Bourgueil 1955. Medium muddy ruby color. The aromatics are like those surrounding a warm fire in a well lived in mountain cabingentle, spicy, smoky and dusty, steeped with the subtle flavor of the passage of years. There's hints of your grandfather's pipe tobacco, and the spines of old leatherbound books, the mud from boots scraped at the door, the spiciness of the taxidermied heads on the wall, the minerality of the rock walls, hints of wood burnished by many years of wear, all bound up with muted crushed-brick preserved-cherry redfruit. Medium-lightbodied, there's some feathering out to brown-herbiness at the edges but the core is bright and red and youthful. Quite lovely, a contemplative wine, relaxed and languid. No reason to hold further, drinking wonderfully tonight.
All I can think to say is *lipsmack*.
"That's perfect. That should be your whole note," says Greg. "Just *lipsmack*.
"If only I could figure out how to spell *lipsmack*," I moan.
An Eric Texier Cte du Rhne Brzme Pergault 2006 is so unlike the bottle we had two week ago as to seem a completely different wine. Closed, yes, but normal closed, taut and hard, but full of potential. That last bottle must've been marginally corked or something, because this one's a whole different ballgame, gentle taut violet-tinged blackberry-raspberry smellies, tight but flashing hints of what it might become. Obsidian-hard at the core, racy and a little bit of a dominatrix, but the judiciously administered discipline goes well with my pasta with lamb ragout. I pour myself a second glass, and it turns out that air has improved it even more.
Greg has a Mystery dal Piaz Wine, and hmm, boy, this is weird. Muddy brownish color well in from the rim, with rubine glints at the core. Smells beef-brothy, like a bouillon cube mixed with leather, shoyu, cedar, plum, and a shy rosy florality. A sip, and it's bay-leafy and earthy, medium bodied and roughish-tasting, muted red at the heart, with a sense of being frozen in time, faded but still pulsing quietly. My first thought is "Really old nebbiolo!" probably because it's Greg pouring it and it smells... unusual and rosy. But after some further examination, I posit my theory as to what it is: Inglenook Petite Sirah 1919. I stand by this, as the guesses from other folks roll in. Connell ventures "It's California. It's old." He pauses, looks down, thinks some more, looks up: "Yes." (El Gavilan Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 'Casa de Sonoma' 1941 (bottled 1947)).
Now Kane takes his turn with the Mystery Kane Wine, and it's not meeting with much approval as it moves down the table towards me. Jay Miller actually turns pale and gags slightly, in a very genteel way, then puts his head in his hands and moans "Horrible... horrible... oh, the humanity." I take a pour and sniff warily. Okay, blowsily ripe black cherry-raspberry jam notes, dark smoky hints underneath that. A sip, and it's a ripe mouthful, rich and jammy with medium-low acidity. Right now it seems like a wall of pillowy red-black fruit, all juice and froot with smoky-tarry underpinnings waiting in the wings. (Brad Kane Winery/Seghesio Zinfandel (88%)/Petite Sirah (12%) Alexander Valley 'El Armadillo' 2007)
Kane seems to be counting on me to stand up for his mystery wine, and I see why. "Dude, you just think I'll like this because it tastes just like a Turley zin!" He gives me a 'whaddaya gonna do?' shrug.
A Fontalloro 1986 is badly corked. Feh.
An Edmunds St. John Syrah Parmalee-Hill 2005 splits the table right down the middle. On the far end Kane and Cohen are inexplicably complaining about fizziness and a huge amount of residual sugar. I taste the wine again, and yes, they're demonstrably insane. I ask Jay, just to make sure, and he calmly agrees that yes, those guys are batshit crazy. I am mollified. Greg pipes up that he got a little prickle on first taste, but that it vanished soon after, so maybe there's a seed of sanity, but only just a seed. Anyhoo, it's spicy-ripe smelling, black raspberry limned with African violet hints, touch of menthol. There's a nice youthful plumpness, puppyfat that clothes the structure but doesn't suffocate it.
A Rinaldi Nebbiolo Langhe 1999 is vivid, bright, charming and lively, quite a complete little package. Nervy sour-cherry fruit laced with dark tarriness, focused down to a bright laserlike pinpoint, tense and vivid and cheerful, with some sandy tannins happily roughing up the slightly too-slick finish. I think I need more of this, it's so happymaking, borderline irresistible.
A Clos Rougeard Saumur-Champigny 1997 is coming along nicely, smells gently herbaceous, pine needles and tobacco mix with a warm pool of cran-cherry redness. Tastes rather loose and easygoing, medium acidity, rather broad in the beam and relaxed. Maybe not one for the ages, but it's still well away from peak performance.
I take a slug of Moulin Touchais Coteaux du Layon 1971, smells caramelly, honey and quince and apricot, flattened out and lifeless in the middle, maybe a bit cooked. Tastes quite sweet, wide and rich and a little squishy, but I can't help thinking this isn't a pristine bottle. Because, well, I've had better recently.
More interesting is a Francois Pinon Vouvray Goutte d'Or 1990, which is similarly advanced, but more naturally so. Caramel, quince, bergamot, orange rind, just a hint of botrytis. Very sweet and rich, but crisp and preternaturally light of foot for such a big sweet wine. Not one to hold for much longer, in fact it seems like it may well be past its best days, but it's still quite yummy and rich, a packed mouthful of goodness.
Kane presses the bottle of El Armadillo into my hands: "Take it home, it's much better on day two!" he pleads. And I have to say, he's got a point, it is indeed calmer and less jammy on day two.
Wait, where did Connell go?
