Sharon Bowman
Sharon Bowman
I remember as a child, home sick with a stomach virus, turning on the television and what very targeted fare there was on analog TV. A peculiar sense of unease met the bouffant hairdo'd, heavily eyelinered 1980s ladies on soap operas, one of which was called "As the World Turns." Alas, I didn't indulge, rebel child that I was. It was as the channel turns for me.
However, I use this title as a subject line here, not because I have an evil twin who died in a skiing accident in Aspen, but because I indulged in a world-revolving series of apros a couple-few days ago.
A wine-curious friend was in town. We lived on different sides of the river. It was hot out, in the 80s. (Today, it's hit 72F, tops.) We decided on an al fresco apro before whatever stumbling dinner we would stumble upon (more on those later).
Paris has two islands in the middle. On day 1, we met at the Square du Vert-Galant, which has the coolest name anywhere, ever. Green gallantry? It is located on the pointy tip of the Ile de la Cit, amid the River Seine.
I brought a bag with a bottle of wine in a chilling sleeve, along with two Spiegelau glasses printed on their foot: "Nul n'est cens ignorer la Loire"* which I had acquired (and stolen from a fellow taster) at the Chteau de Brz in February.
We settled down on the grass near a couple discussing Baudrillard in bare feet.
We opened my weirdo bottle:
2003 Kistler Dutton Ranch Chardonnay - OK, dolls. What's Sharon doing with a 7-year-old California chardonnay in her chalky Montmartre cellar? Who on earth knows?** Where in the world is Carmen Santiago and her consort, Waldo? The truth is, I brought this as a curio and intending to stump my friend. As it happens, it was good! Youthful, balanced, with good acidity (though in my CA ignorance, perhaps added upon? dunno) despite its 14.2% alcohol, which I suspect informs many a Meursault in our day and age. I hear this concern uses native yeasts, for those in the bleachers throwing Big Gulp-sized cups of beer at present.
A backup Chidaine remained in the arsenal as we meandered over the Seine to the restaurant Fish and ate stuff. Smoked eel, dorade with baked tomatoes, braised rabbit with fried polenta.
Two days later, it was even hotter. Butter-melting-on-movie-theater-popcorn hot. Flies-too-lazy-to-buzz-about hot. We went for the smaller island, the Ile Saint-Louis. This is where Julio Cortzar's short story "Las Babas del Diablo" (translated as "Blow-Up" and also inspiration for the Antonioni film of the same name) takes place.
We sat in the shade of 7pm on the cobblestoned quai, but the cobblestones were still so hot we immediately relocated to a patch of dirt around a tree nearby.
2004 Jean-Marc Brignot Savagnin "Frimaire". Ho l l. Why's it six years old and still has bubbles? After our first glass apiece and we were sipping, and I was looking at the dirt and making friends with a somewhat agitated ant, I let my friend continue his story, leaned over, put my palm over the bottle nozzle and shook vigorously. Pop! went my hand, and some wine went spewing. But some of the carbonation was gone, after.
Sadly, I didn't like this wine so well. It had some savagnin character, but it was messy and wrong. And refermenting.
And cost me 27.
At least it was the store's last bottle. Phew, it would appear I've saved the world at large from future expense.
To note: people on Bateau-Mouche tourist boats love waving at you.
More soon.
*The slogan, which means "No one shall remain ignorant of the Loire" is a pun on the juridical "No one shall remain ignorant of the law."
**Actually, finger a certain M. Trip Johnson, of Atlanta, GA.
However, I use this title as a subject line here, not because I have an evil twin who died in a skiing accident in Aspen, but because I indulged in a world-revolving series of apros a couple-few days ago.
A wine-curious friend was in town. We lived on different sides of the river. It was hot out, in the 80s. (Today, it's hit 72F, tops.) We decided on an al fresco apro before whatever stumbling dinner we would stumble upon (more on those later).
Paris has two islands in the middle. On day 1, we met at the Square du Vert-Galant, which has the coolest name anywhere, ever. Green gallantry? It is located on the pointy tip of the Ile de la Cit, amid the River Seine.
I brought a bag with a bottle of wine in a chilling sleeve, along with two Spiegelau glasses printed on their foot: "Nul n'est cens ignorer la Loire"* which I had acquired (and stolen from a fellow taster) at the Chteau de Brz in February.
We settled down on the grass near a couple discussing Baudrillard in bare feet.
We opened my weirdo bottle:
2003 Kistler Dutton Ranch Chardonnay - OK, dolls. What's Sharon doing with a 7-year-old California chardonnay in her chalky Montmartre cellar? Who on earth knows?** Where in the world is Carmen Santiago and her consort, Waldo? The truth is, I brought this as a curio and intending to stump my friend. As it happens, it was good! Youthful, balanced, with good acidity (though in my CA ignorance, perhaps added upon? dunno) despite its 14.2% alcohol, which I suspect informs many a Meursault in our day and age. I hear this concern uses native yeasts, for those in the bleachers throwing Big Gulp-sized cups of beer at present.
A backup Chidaine remained in the arsenal as we meandered over the Seine to the restaurant Fish and ate stuff. Smoked eel, dorade with baked tomatoes, braised rabbit with fried polenta.
Two days later, it was even hotter. Butter-melting-on-movie-theater-popcorn hot. Flies-too-lazy-to-buzz-about hot. We went for the smaller island, the Ile Saint-Louis. This is where Julio Cortzar's short story "Las Babas del Diablo" (translated as "Blow-Up" and also inspiration for the Antonioni film of the same name) takes place.
We sat in the shade of 7pm on the cobblestoned quai, but the cobblestones were still so hot we immediately relocated to a patch of dirt around a tree nearby.
2004 Jean-Marc Brignot Savagnin "Frimaire". Ho l l. Why's it six years old and still has bubbles? After our first glass apiece and we were sipping, and I was looking at the dirt and making friends with a somewhat agitated ant, I let my friend continue his story, leaned over, put my palm over the bottle nozzle and shook vigorously. Pop! went my hand, and some wine went spewing. But some of the carbonation was gone, after.
Sadly, I didn't like this wine so well. It had some savagnin character, but it was messy and wrong. And refermenting.
And cost me 27.
At least it was the store's last bottle. Phew, it would appear I've saved the world at large from future expense.
To note: people on Bateau-Mouche tourist boats love waving at you.
More soon.
*The slogan, which means "No one shall remain ignorant of the Loire" is a pun on the juridical "No one shall remain ignorant of the law."
**Actually, finger a certain M. Trip Johnson, of Atlanta, GA.