Chris Coad
Chris Coad
Prologue: So Lisa calls in from work. We exchange pleasantries and the usual endearments, as is our wont.
Me: "Oh, and one more thing. SFJoe emailed me about--
Lisa: "Yes."
Me: "Um, Sunday Ni--"
Lisa: "Yes."
Me: "Yes?"
Lisa: "Just say yes, whatever he says. Say yes."
Me: "I shall say yes, then. This is a standing order?"
Lisa: "Yes."
So it is that we find ourselves arriving at Chateauneuf-du-Joe, SFJoe's downtown den of iniquity. Holy cats, there are more shoes piled outside his door than at a graduation party in Palolo. This could be trouble. The crowd noise coming from inside is many decibels above the usual. What have I gotten myself into? And indeed, once through the burnished titanium doorway it's a madhouse in there, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds jostling and gesticulating, maybe two or three familiar faces.
There's Kane, of course, and Sharon Bowman, née Winegirl. There's someone named Steve, who looks vaguely familiar. Who is this guy? All in black, salt-and-pepper beard, Beat poet? I wave cheerily, but am immediately distracted by the ever-punctual Jay Miller with a bottle of something fizzy, a Vilmart & Cie Champagne 'Cour de Cuvée' 2002. Mmm, smells airy, light, mineral-apple smellies with a light vanilla-bean streak. Nervy, bright, cheerful and delicate, a charmingly graceful middleweight wine that makes me smile mysteriously to myself. I'm not the biggest fizz fan around, but this is really pure and refined stuff that has no arrogance, just confidence.
I angle away from the crowds, towards the kitchen island, but make the mistake of cutting across our host's terra inviolata, the range area. "Shoo! SHOO!" he suggests briskly. I scurry off to the relative safety of the non-stove end of the island, a safe harbor.
David Lillie wanders past, pours me a hit of Éric Texier Côtes du Rhône-Brézème Vieille Roussette 2010. Roussette? Like altesse? I thought he said roussane at first, but then decided I'd heard wrong. Confusing. If only there was someone here who I could ask about this. Guess have to I'll google it later on. Anyhoo, it's lightly gingery, hints of tangerine and quartz doorstop, light vanilla bean and carambola, aromatically beguiling but a bit shut down in the piehole. Robust little wine, broad-beamed and coiled, not giving much in the taste regions. "Pretty, too young, lots of potential" is my overall impression.
Jay's dragged along Arnold, his current flame, who seems quite game. I feel for the guy, a non-winegeek thrown into this black hole of single-issue folks, so I try and reassure him not to be afraid and just smile and nod a lot, as we're mostly harmless. He takes it all in stride and actually seems to be enjoying himself. He's a nurse, so we have Lisa at hand in case hospital shop talk can prove a lifeline, but frankly he's swimming pretty well in the wine-dark sea.
But wait, here's our host, announcing "Off-vintage Vouvray, get your off-vintage Vouvray!" And by cracky, he's right, it's a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Sec 1946. Sniff, sniff, some light paraffin-apricot-chalk hints, shy and reserved and somewhat inert. A sip, and ARGH, tongue-stabbing acidity stabs at my poor mucous membranes. Shrill, thin, angry wine. I keep swirling and swirling, wanting to find something that's not there, but it's in vain.
Quick on the heels of that comes its marginally sweeter cousin, a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Demisec 1946. Similarly aromatically inert, light chalk and marmalade, maybe a little more demonstrative than the sec. Maybe. Tastes lean, taut, hard, but not painful. Quite tart, but there's a little cushion around the steely acidity. No perceptible sweetness, just a sense of tamed severity. Pleasant, but not terribly lovable.
Brad makes the mistake of putting his phone down on the kitchen counter, and while he's occupied with cutting bread I swipe and pocket it. I take every opportunity for revenge at his continued flashy-flashy in my eyes all night long and posting awful pictures of me. It's the Irish in me; don't get mad, get even. Operation Chaos commences.
SFJoe swans past, bottle held aloft triumphantly. "I have an even LESS interesting vintage of Vouvray!" he crows. Bring it, man, bring it.
Crikey dick, it's the Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Sec "Vin de Glace" 1980. I remember this odd little wine. Joe tells the story again about how that year was the worst in ages and they waited and waited for the grapes to get ripe, but eventually they just froze on the vines, so they made icewine sec. Tonight there's an odd cheesy-lactic hint in there with the gently firecrackery white honey notes. Bright, aggressive acidity, small-framed, turns lightly apricotty on the finish. Always an odd wine, tonight is no exception, but an interesting one. Not as severe as the last bottle I had a few years ago, can this be mellowing?
Here's Josh Raynolds, the Meat Fairy, and this time he's got something new for us: MEAT MUFFINS! Seems he shredded up a bunch of smoked ribs and baked the meat into kind of a corn-muffiny format. Spicy and delish. Sharon turns to me, "Do you know the meat muffin man?"
"Raynolds, of Drury Lane."
Here's a Clos de la Coulée de Serrant (Joly) Savennièrres-Coulée de Serrant 1987, and I get a nice whiff of firecracker-paper sulfurosity and dank potato-field swampiness right up front. Under that there's light hints of lemon-creaminess and a more interesting kind of earthiness, but kind of nasty, frankly. Good heft, broad-beamed and well structured, but blah. It does blow off a bit with air, and the last mini-sip is far better than the first, but this wine ain't right.
I pass Kane's phone to Lisa under the table. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she asks.
"I don't know. It was purely a crime of opportunity."
"What if someone calls it?"
"Answer it? Say you're Mrs. Brad Kane?"
She doesn't seem entirely content with this notion.
Jay tugs at my elbow, "Have you tried this yet?" I have not. "You need to," he opines, and soon I have a nice pour of Prager Riesling Weissenkirchen Ried Klaus Auslese 1993. A gentle flintiness runs underneath a boisterously lemon-pineappley smellset, touch of beanbag chair. Tastes wonderfully balanced, light sweetness waltzes nimbly with firm acidity in pure white dress clothes. Wonderfully focused, not a big wine, but a solid, composed one. My pour is gone too soon, just really poised, wonderful stuff.
"Thanks for hooking me up, Jay."
"I take care of you," he smiles.
A bit later on Kane swings by and, noting that the bottle is effectively empty, donates most of his pour of Prager Riesling Weissenkirchen Ried Klaus Auslese 1990 to me. Almost makes me feel guilty about that phone thing. Almost. But he'll never find out, so no harm done. This wine is almost exactly the same as the '93, except it goes to eleven. It's lovely as well, a bit more oversized, but happily so, with a hint of a puppyish quality absent in the younger wine. I prefer the slightly smaller frame and understatement of the '93, but they're both pretty great.
There's François Pinon, kind and soft-spoken as always. We discuss his new distributors on the left coast, make him promise that he won't give short shrift to his eastern pals, and let him know how much we enjoyed the recent retrospective and how we can't seem to keep our hands off his wines.
Trimbach Riesling Alsace Cuvée Frederic Emile 1989 (magnum). Holy cats, this smells Fredtastic. Gone is the youthful reticence, it's just rich and vivid to sniff at, all kinds of fun stuff going on—light beanbag chair with kerosene undertones, gardenia, lemon rind, woof. A sip, and it's tangily citric ZING right up front, then commences a frontal assault on my mouthparts; broad, muscular, a bigass hootie of a wine just getting into a fine place. With a bit of air the citric-floral highlights recede and the profile turns toward stony-earthiness, with that consistent petroleum hum in the background. Just very impressive, a ChrisC WOW.
A scrum has developed in the center of the ***********; apparently there's some kind of fancy wild mushroom appetizer being handed out at absolutely no cost. Lisa fights her way back out of it and over to the kitchen counter. "No, you can't have any of mine" she snaps at me, sinking her teeth into her prize. Fine. I bet they're moldy, anyway. Or poisonous. Either way, I'm not braving that writhing mob, with their gnashing teeth and grabby hands. A boy's virtue could be at risk.
Trimbach Riesling Alsace Cuvée Frederic Emile 1990 (magnum). Well, this is a different animal than its older brother. Rather shy-smelling at first—firecrackery, crushed rocks with a light vinyl coating and a light hint of honeysuckle. Tastes leaner, more loosely-knit, not giving much away. There are some rumblings that this is a bit corked, but I'm not getting TCA at all, and Lisa takes a good long whiff and gives it the okay. Good enough for me. I come back to it after a few hours, and it's perked up a bit, taking a step or two towards prettiness, laying a card or two on the table.
Here's Marc Ollivier, who is cheerful and distracted. I say hi, Monsieur Ollivier, he waves his hands, "Everyone knows who I am, but so many faces, names, I can't keep them all straight." I sympathize aloud, thinking silently to myself, Good, then you won't remember that the last time I was introduced to you it was as Dressner's friend, the pedophile.
I don't know why, but I always get a little overly-formal with visiting French winemakers, Monsieur this and Madame that. I guess it goes back to Madame Hamster in seventh-grade French constantly drilling into our heads the importance of propriety in French culture, and how Frenchfolk would be gravely insulted by the overfamiliarity that Americans seem to love. I think Madame Hamster had issues. She would also, on class picture day, show up in this bouffant blonde wig and have her picture taken in it. One day a year. I mean, not that I begrudge anyone wanting to look good in pictures, but one day a year wearing a poofy blonde wig for official photos? It was hard to understand.
But I digress. Back to the action.
Our host is making another pass through the room. "Oversulfured chenin, anyone?" he sings out. Why sure! So here's a Clos de la Coulée de Serrant (Joly) Savennièrres-Coulée de Serrant 1993. Actually, this doesn't live up to its billing. No overt sulfurosity here, just pure, clear stony honey-lemon-celery seed accented smells, kinda nice, really. Tastes firm and coiled, athletic but not overmuscled, just well composed and a nice package. I wave agitatedly at Joe "I LIKE THIS" I mouth. He shrugs back "I KNOW, WHAT'S GOING ON?"
Go figure.
.sasha is pacing and muttering to himself, usually a sign of something interesting. I inquire, and he points at a magnum of Domaine Savoye Morgon Cuvée Special Vieilles Vignes 2005. "I I young. Young. Is it? I don't know. Is it TOO young?" he explains. I have no answer, but I take a belt of the stuff. Sniff, sniff, okay, yeah. Young. Strawberries and fresh-turned sod, light porcini streak. Tastes quite muted, not terribly expressive. Firm, rather hard acidity, lean and racy, seems like it's shut down tonight.
David Lillie has an old bottle of something, and needs a hand with the cork. I direct him to Lisa, who rejects the Ah-So in favor of the waiter's friend. She's balancing the bottle on her knee and slowly screwing in the worm when Kane feels an obligation to object: "EASY, EASY, balance it on something!" he bleats.
She cocks a weather eye in his direction without pausing in what she's doing. "Calm down, Brad. I've done this once or twice before." The cork comes out smoothly, in one piece.
SFJoe gives me the fisheye when I bring out a Chateau Pavie St. Emilion 1982. "Lisa likes Bordeaux," I explain. "Well," he shrugs, "she has many other good qualities." Yeah, I know. These guys have gone spooftastic. But I'm hoping this predates that. And actually, first whiffage is pretty encouraging: velvety-smelling tomatoskin, spaded sod and muted cherry-cassis redfruit with a touch of oregano herbaceousness. Nice earthy-leafy tones, gentle pleasant development. Tastes medium-sized, rather relaxed, plush but not flabby, more of a gently fleshy feel in the piehole, there's a nice core of semi-firm acidity. Nicely metaphorically sweet finish with some very fine tannins hanging out and saying howdy. Really a pretty nice little mouthful.
Julien Pinon is a charming young fella who flatters me with the notion that my little account of our afternoon with the Traction-Avant has passed into family folklore. "Built to last," he says, smiling. He's a city planner by trade, and we're soon involved in a discussion of water management. It's water in the desert after all the wine yammering.
Robert Michel Cornas 'la Geynale' 1989: Hey now, here's some nice stuff, smells shy but pleasantly muted bricky-cherry and meaty, with light eucalytpus and leather hints. Quiet, whispery little wine, delicate, shy, with medium-lowish acidity, small-framed and puzzling enough to keep my attention. Seems pleasantly faded into a kind of friendly insubstantiality, an abandoned house full of whispering ghosts. I kinda like it, and listen when it whispers.
Kane is wandering around carrying on at great volume about something to whoever will listen. Turns out to be a Frog's Leap Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley 1987. He's convinced this is the zenith of the winemakers' art. Sniff, sniff, nice rich blackcurranty smellies, like smoky crème de cassis laced with pipe tobacco and oregano, BOOM go the flavors in my mouth, then kind of dwindle away lazily. Softish-tasting, fleshy and with a soft plush feel that amiable enough. Very decent. Broad, simple wine with pleasant two-tone flavors, but holding up pretty well.
Another rarity from California, a Mysterious Unlabeled Herb-Infused Syrah Sonoma County 2009. I'm assured this is an experimental project from one of California's most interesting up-and-coming winemakers. Apparently a kind of California Chinato, infused with herbs. Smells, well, herbaceous. Almost skunkily so. It's a translucent pale salmon color, fairly lightbodied, I'd have thought it a light pinot noir, but no, it's apparently syrah. There's a chamomile-verbena kind of streak here, maybe a bit more green-edged than that. Light, lean and a bit rough-tasting, it finishes with more herbaceous flavors. Frickin' weird, but pretty decent.
This California Chinato is making me a little glassy-eyed, and I've only had about three sips. What in the world kind of herbs are in here? Alice Feiring is here, she waves, asks how often I get to New York. "Pretty often," I explain, "living here and all." She's puzzled. "Wait, why does it seem like I never see you?"
"I dunno, but you're right. Parallel winegeek circles? Not sure." We discuss the concentric and not-always-overlapping firmament of winegeeks in the city, but the oddest craving for Nacho Cheese Doritos is stealing over me.
Sharon's been sucking the Chinato down, she turns to me. "I miss..."
"Yes?"
"I miss... all the precursors."
I nod sadly. "The elephant is the only mammal that can't jump," I remind her. She accepts this with a sigh.
Hey, I know this wine! It's a Ridge Vineyards Monte Bello 1999 (magnum), and I haven't had any since release cause it definitely seemed like one for the long haul. What's been going on with you in the last ten years, big fella? Big, ripe smoky-cherry-cassis smellies, bit o' fennel seed. Sippage proves rewarding, it's not the IN YOUR FACE wine that it was ten year ago; it's still broad-beamed and assertive, the acidity is still tart, the fruit still ripe, but it's mellowed a lot since its baby days, there's a sense of calmness and satisfied repose now that's quite interesting. It's still quite oak-marked and ripe, so I'm surprised it's as popular as it is with this crowd, but it's hella good wine. I could drink this all fucking night.
Josh Raynolds, hearing the mention of Nacho Cheese Doritos, perks up. "OH MAH GOD," he moans, "Have you seen the new taco from Taco Bell where THE SHELL IS A NACHO CHEESE DORITO?"
I am stunned at this notion. "Is there a Taco Bell within walking distance?? I MUST HAVE THIS." Sadly, there is none, and we must settle for some non-nacho-cheese veal stew in white wine. It's not the same, but sometimes you have to make do.
Okay, here's a Domaine de Bovila Cahors 1979 (magnum). Smells like blackberry-infused river mud, with a nice whack of acetone. Medium-bodied, flattened-out and kinda baked-bricky in the middle nether regions. Tastes decayed, kind of shot, but I have a weakness for decayed, shot Cahors, and I kinda like it. It doesn't make me a bad person, does it?
I reach for a pour of a Dunn Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley 1984, but Jay shakes his head. "Don't bother." This of course, piques my curiosity, but when I take a splash I see what he means: it's madeirized. Not foully so, but enough to make it neither representative nor terribly pleasant.
Here's some new faces. Josefa and Mark? Nice ta meetcha. Josefa and I discuss our shared fear of mandolines: those fuckers are SHARP, they'll take a fingertip off, easy. This topic is close to Josefa's heart, "Hang on!" she says, whips out her phone, and says "Look! My friend lost her fingertip and they put a toe back on!" And indeed, there it is, in all its gory glory.
"Holy crap! So now she's missing a toe?!"
"No, they put piece of her butt where her toe was."
"My god. Modern medicine. A toe for a finger and a butt for a toe. We live in a time of miracles."
Hey, what's this? A Chateau-Chalon Jura 1961? Medium amber color. Wow, lots of smelltastic stuff going on, leather, marmalade, caramel, walnut. Tastes taut, racy, lean, entirely fruitless but for a trace of marmalade, but superbly balanced and long and flickery-tasting. The oximadatory style is not usually something that endears me to a wine, but this is an exception. Pure, fine, singing its song on key and with preternatural breath control, I admire this wine more than love it. It's kind of an edifice of its kind, like Tuvan throat singing, hard to put into context.
Mark is slicing bread. I compliment him on his knife skills. Lisa wanders by, does the same. We appreciate an evenly-sliced loaf, we do.
Ooh, ooh, Kane has finally noticed his phone is missing and is starting to panic. Okay, Operation Chaos still going according to plan. He circles the kitchen a few times, goes to the back room to check his coat, okay, cool, maybe I can let this fish run out a little more line.
Here's a counterfeit bottle of Domaine de la Pousse d'Or Volnay Clos de la Bousse d'Or 1988 (magnum). Charming leafy-earthy aromatics, lots going on here. Hints of cinnamon-laced muted cherry-bricky fruit, afternoon in a bamboo forest, that peaty-mossy thing that happens as things cool off, trace of orange rind. A sip, and it's quiet and composed, faded all around the edges but quite vibrant at the core, layered and medium-lightbodied. Softish, but not dull; my impression is one of gentle suppleness. This is very, very easy to drink, and it seems to invite contemplation and close attention. A slightly faded beauty, aging gracefully.
Kane's ever-more-insistent phone perambulations have gotten distracting and have attracted the attention of our host. "I'll call it, okay, Brad?" SFJoe sighs, pulling out his phone.
Oh, shit. I fumble at my pocket, slip the thing underneath the counter on the kitchen-island, under the giant loaf of bread. Soon the bread starts buzzing.
"Wait! It's here! I can feel it!" shouts Josh. Bread is tossed hither and yon, phone is discovered, no one is the wiser. The perfect crime. Kane will never know.
Hm, here's a Willi Schaefer Riesling Graacher Domprobst Spätlese 2004. Supple, rather shy smellies, happy and simple-smelling, lemon and vinyl. This is odd. There's some lipsmacking lemon-drop acidity, but my overall impression of the wine is one of loose-knitness. Gently fleshy tasting, but there's that lemony streak hanging out in the background. Kind of perplexing.
Kane, safely rephoned, approaches. "Hey, did you try the '90 Pinon Sec?" I wheel around, spot SFJoe making his way across the ***********, and make a beeline for him.
"Please sir, may I have some Sec?" He obliges. Mmmm, François Pinon Vouvray Sec 1990. Good heavens. Pale lemon-straw color, smells happily juicy-fruity: pineapple, chalk, quinine, oddly boisterous. A sip, and there's a raciness and calm that belies the exotic smellies but adds a note of seriousness. What an interesting, contradictory package. I can't quite reconcile it, but it's really fun to drink.
Another sec, a Huet Vouvray le Mont Sec 1996 is charmingly beeswaxy and lemoncreamy to sniff at, a friendly-smelling wine. Tastes tangy and vivid, with a long, chalky finish couched in a bit of puppyfat. "Sec when Sec was Sec," proclaims Kane, playing at being a pundit. It's kind of cute.
The evening is beginning to wind down, the crowd is finally starting to thin out. Lisa has to work in the morning, so she beats an early retreat. Vaguely-familiar Steve comes to say good night. I bid him a cheerful adieu, then think a minute, and turn to Sharon. "Steve? Steve who?"
"Edmunds," she hisses at me.
Gaah. I didn't peg him, damnit. "No shit, really? Goddamnit, I'd never met him before and I've been chit-chatting idly all night when I could've been burbling inanely over his wines!"
Sharon grabs my elbow, says "Well, let's correct this," and we catch him before he gets out the door and I get to gush fanboyishly for a minute or two before he can make his escape.
François Pinon Vouvray "Cuvée Botrytis" 1997. A bit more advanced-seeming than the bottle a few weeks ago at the Pinon retrospective, a bit more towards the amber spectrum than the yellow, but all the ingredients are there and sing happily at me. Impressively crisp, very sweet, honeyed botrytis-accented, just yummers.
I'm distracted listening to Eric Texier holding forth on the differences between the wine cultures of Cornas and Côte-Rôtie while declaring his desire to expand into Bonnes Mares and pick up grapes in his car by himself, and take a one-handed pour of Eric Texier Côte-Rôtie Vielles Vignes 1999. I'm trying to juggle the dregs of the veal stew with the other, and somehow manage to spill the lardons in the bottom of my bowl into my glass. Hm, yes, very bacony. Lots of bacon. I actually have to pick the bacon out of my teeth as I'm drinking it. Whoever thought of the notion of bacon wine is a genius. Bacon makes everything better.
The crowd has dwindled down to about eight. I keep stuffing my notebook into my pocket, to make sure I don't forget it and in preparation of departure. But the noteworthy wines keep appearing, and interesting snatches of conversation keep drifting my way.
"There is a winemaker in Burgundy who says 'I see it as my job to kill the fruit. Fruit is vulgar.'"
"I know that vigneron: Buffy the Fruit-Slayer!"
"What this apartment really needs is a HARPSICHORD."
So now in the wee hours the good stuff comes out, in the form of a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Rosé 1999, medium-pale salmon-pink color, ohhhh, smells lightly strawberried, lots of dirt and pink grapefruit pith here, touch of cinnamon. It's a big wine, wide and friendly, very cheerful in the late night hour. There is some speculation that this is a counterfeit bottle, but it seems like the real thing to me. But I've been fooled before, most notably in the great counterfeit pineau d'aunis scandale of 2006, so let the buyer beware.
I've always liked the Nikolaihof Riesling 'Vinothek' 1990, but this bottle is especially pure and expressive. It's so good that I'm not going to tell you about it. Because wasted.
Okay, that's all she wrote. I flee back out into the night and cast myself at the harsh mercy of the MTA. Trains, they don't run all that often at 3 a.m. on Sunday night.
Man, I need a drink.
Me: "Oh, and one more thing. SFJoe emailed me about--
Lisa: "Yes."
Me: "Um, Sunday Ni--"
Lisa: "Yes."
Me: "Yes?"
Lisa: "Just say yes, whatever he says. Say yes."
Me: "I shall say yes, then. This is a standing order?"
Lisa: "Yes."
So it is that we find ourselves arriving at Chateauneuf-du-Joe, SFJoe's downtown den of iniquity. Holy cats, there are more shoes piled outside his door than at a graduation party in Palolo. This could be trouble. The crowd noise coming from inside is many decibels above the usual. What have I gotten myself into? And indeed, once through the burnished titanium doorway it's a madhouse in there, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds jostling and gesticulating, maybe two or three familiar faces.
There's Kane, of course, and Sharon Bowman, née Winegirl. There's someone named Steve, who looks vaguely familiar. Who is this guy? All in black, salt-and-pepper beard, Beat poet? I wave cheerily, but am immediately distracted by the ever-punctual Jay Miller with a bottle of something fizzy, a Vilmart & Cie Champagne 'Cour de Cuvée' 2002. Mmm, smells airy, light, mineral-apple smellies with a light vanilla-bean streak. Nervy, bright, cheerful and delicate, a charmingly graceful middleweight wine that makes me smile mysteriously to myself. I'm not the biggest fizz fan around, but this is really pure and refined stuff that has no arrogance, just confidence.
I angle away from the crowds, towards the kitchen island, but make the mistake of cutting across our host's terra inviolata, the range area. "Shoo! SHOO!" he suggests briskly. I scurry off to the relative safety of the non-stove end of the island, a safe harbor.
David Lillie wanders past, pours me a hit of Éric Texier Côtes du Rhône-Brézème Vieille Roussette 2010. Roussette? Like altesse? I thought he said roussane at first, but then decided I'd heard wrong. Confusing. If only there was someone here who I could ask about this. Guess have to I'll google it later on. Anyhoo, it's lightly gingery, hints of tangerine and quartz doorstop, light vanilla bean and carambola, aromatically beguiling but a bit shut down in the piehole. Robust little wine, broad-beamed and coiled, not giving much in the taste regions. "Pretty, too young, lots of potential" is my overall impression.
Jay's dragged along Arnold, his current flame, who seems quite game. I feel for the guy, a non-winegeek thrown into this black hole of single-issue folks, so I try and reassure him not to be afraid and just smile and nod a lot, as we're mostly harmless. He takes it all in stride and actually seems to be enjoying himself. He's a nurse, so we have Lisa at hand in case hospital shop talk can prove a lifeline, but frankly he's swimming pretty well in the wine-dark sea.
But wait, here's our host, announcing "Off-vintage Vouvray, get your off-vintage Vouvray!" And by cracky, he's right, it's a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Sec 1946. Sniff, sniff, some light paraffin-apricot-chalk hints, shy and reserved and somewhat inert. A sip, and ARGH, tongue-stabbing acidity stabs at my poor mucous membranes. Shrill, thin, angry wine. I keep swirling and swirling, wanting to find something that's not there, but it's in vain.
Quick on the heels of that comes its marginally sweeter cousin, a Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Demisec 1946. Similarly aromatically inert, light chalk and marmalade, maybe a little more demonstrative than the sec. Maybe. Tastes lean, taut, hard, but not painful. Quite tart, but there's a little cushion around the steely acidity. No perceptible sweetness, just a sense of tamed severity. Pleasant, but not terribly lovable.
Brad makes the mistake of putting his phone down on the kitchen counter, and while he's occupied with cutting bread I swipe and pocket it. I take every opportunity for revenge at his continued flashy-flashy in my eyes all night long and posting awful pictures of me. It's the Irish in me; don't get mad, get even. Operation Chaos commences.
SFJoe swans past, bottle held aloft triumphantly. "I have an even LESS interesting vintage of Vouvray!" he crows. Bring it, man, bring it.
Crikey dick, it's the Huet Vouvray le Haut-Lieu Sec "Vin de Glace" 1980. I remember this odd little wine. Joe tells the story again about how that year was the worst in ages and they waited and waited for the grapes to get ripe, but eventually they just froze on the vines, so they made icewine sec. Tonight there's an odd cheesy-lactic hint in there with the gently firecrackery white honey notes. Bright, aggressive acidity, small-framed, turns lightly apricotty on the finish. Always an odd wine, tonight is no exception, but an interesting one. Not as severe as the last bottle I had a few years ago, can this be mellowing?
Here's Josh Raynolds, the Meat Fairy, and this time he's got something new for us: MEAT MUFFINS! Seems he shredded up a bunch of smoked ribs and baked the meat into kind of a corn-muffiny format. Spicy and delish. Sharon turns to me, "Do you know the meat muffin man?"
"Raynolds, of Drury Lane."
Here's a Clos de la Coulée de Serrant (Joly) Savennièrres-Coulée de Serrant 1987, and I get a nice whiff of firecracker-paper sulfurosity and dank potato-field swampiness right up front. Under that there's light hints of lemon-creaminess and a more interesting kind of earthiness, but kind of nasty, frankly. Good heft, broad-beamed and well structured, but blah. It does blow off a bit with air, and the last mini-sip is far better than the first, but this wine ain't right.
I pass Kane's phone to Lisa under the table. "What am I supposed to do with this?" she asks.
"I don't know. It was purely a crime of opportunity."
"What if someone calls it?"
"Answer it? Say you're Mrs. Brad Kane?"
She doesn't seem entirely content with this notion.
Jay tugs at my elbow, "Have you tried this yet?" I have not. "You need to," he opines, and soon I have a nice pour of Prager Riesling Weissenkirchen Ried Klaus Auslese 1993. A gentle flintiness runs underneath a boisterously lemon-pineappley smellset, touch of beanbag chair. Tastes wonderfully balanced, light sweetness waltzes nimbly with firm acidity in pure white dress clothes. Wonderfully focused, not a big wine, but a solid, composed one. My pour is gone too soon, just really poised, wonderful stuff.
"Thanks for hooking me up, Jay."
"I take care of you," he smiles.
A bit later on Kane swings by and, noting that the bottle is effectively empty, donates most of his pour of Prager Riesling Weissenkirchen Ried Klaus Auslese 1990 to me. Almost makes me feel guilty about that phone thing. Almost. But he'll never find out, so no harm done. This wine is almost exactly the same as the '93, except it goes to eleven. It's lovely as well, a bit more oversized, but happily so, with a hint of a puppyish quality absent in the younger wine. I prefer the slightly smaller frame and understatement of the '93, but they're both pretty great.
There's François Pinon, kind and soft-spoken as always. We discuss his new distributors on the left coast, make him promise that he won't give short shrift to his eastern pals, and let him know how much we enjoyed the recent retrospective and how we can't seem to keep our hands off his wines.
Trimbach Riesling Alsace Cuvée Frederic Emile 1989 (magnum). Holy cats, this smells Fredtastic. Gone is the youthful reticence, it's just rich and vivid to sniff at, all kinds of fun stuff going on—light beanbag chair with kerosene undertones, gardenia, lemon rind, woof. A sip, and it's tangily citric ZING right up front, then commences a frontal assault on my mouthparts; broad, muscular, a bigass hootie of a wine just getting into a fine place. With a bit of air the citric-floral highlights recede and the profile turns toward stony-earthiness, with that consistent petroleum hum in the background. Just very impressive, a ChrisC WOW.
A scrum has developed in the center of the ***********; apparently there's some kind of fancy wild mushroom appetizer being handed out at absolutely no cost. Lisa fights her way back out of it and over to the kitchen counter. "No, you can't have any of mine" she snaps at me, sinking her teeth into her prize. Fine. I bet they're moldy, anyway. Or poisonous. Either way, I'm not braving that writhing mob, with their gnashing teeth and grabby hands. A boy's virtue could be at risk.
Trimbach Riesling Alsace Cuvée Frederic Emile 1990 (magnum). Well, this is a different animal than its older brother. Rather shy-smelling at first—firecrackery, crushed rocks with a light vinyl coating and a light hint of honeysuckle. Tastes leaner, more loosely-knit, not giving much away. There are some rumblings that this is a bit corked, but I'm not getting TCA at all, and Lisa takes a good long whiff and gives it the okay. Good enough for me. I come back to it after a few hours, and it's perked up a bit, taking a step or two towards prettiness, laying a card or two on the table.
Here's Marc Ollivier, who is cheerful and distracted. I say hi, Monsieur Ollivier, he waves his hands, "Everyone knows who I am, but so many faces, names, I can't keep them all straight." I sympathize aloud, thinking silently to myself, Good, then you won't remember that the last time I was introduced to you it was as Dressner's friend, the pedophile.
I don't know why, but I always get a little overly-formal with visiting French winemakers, Monsieur this and Madame that. I guess it goes back to Madame Hamster in seventh-grade French constantly drilling into our heads the importance of propriety in French culture, and how Frenchfolk would be gravely insulted by the overfamiliarity that Americans seem to love. I think Madame Hamster had issues. She would also, on class picture day, show up in this bouffant blonde wig and have her picture taken in it. One day a year. I mean, not that I begrudge anyone wanting to look good in pictures, but one day a year wearing a poofy blonde wig for official photos? It was hard to understand.
But I digress. Back to the action.
Our host is making another pass through the room. "Oversulfured chenin, anyone?" he sings out. Why sure! So here's a Clos de la Coulée de Serrant (Joly) Savennièrres-Coulée de Serrant 1993. Actually, this doesn't live up to its billing. No overt sulfurosity here, just pure, clear stony honey-lemon-celery seed accented smells, kinda nice, really. Tastes firm and coiled, athletic but not overmuscled, just well composed and a nice package. I wave agitatedly at Joe "I LIKE THIS" I mouth. He shrugs back "I KNOW, WHAT'S GOING ON?"
Go figure.
.sasha is pacing and muttering to himself, usually a sign of something interesting. I inquire, and he points at a magnum of Domaine Savoye Morgon Cuvée Special Vieilles Vignes 2005. "I I young. Young. Is it? I don't know. Is it TOO young?" he explains. I have no answer, but I take a belt of the stuff. Sniff, sniff, okay, yeah. Young. Strawberries and fresh-turned sod, light porcini streak. Tastes quite muted, not terribly expressive. Firm, rather hard acidity, lean and racy, seems like it's shut down tonight.
David Lillie has an old bottle of something, and needs a hand with the cork. I direct him to Lisa, who rejects the Ah-So in favor of the waiter's friend. She's balancing the bottle on her knee and slowly screwing in the worm when Kane feels an obligation to object: "EASY, EASY, balance it on something!" he bleats.
She cocks a weather eye in his direction without pausing in what she's doing. "Calm down, Brad. I've done this once or twice before." The cork comes out smoothly, in one piece.
SFJoe gives me the fisheye when I bring out a Chateau Pavie St. Emilion 1982. "Lisa likes Bordeaux," I explain. "Well," he shrugs, "she has many other good qualities." Yeah, I know. These guys have gone spooftastic. But I'm hoping this predates that. And actually, first whiffage is pretty encouraging: velvety-smelling tomatoskin, spaded sod and muted cherry-cassis redfruit with a touch of oregano herbaceousness. Nice earthy-leafy tones, gentle pleasant development. Tastes medium-sized, rather relaxed, plush but not flabby, more of a gently fleshy feel in the piehole, there's a nice core of semi-firm acidity. Nicely metaphorically sweet finish with some very fine tannins hanging out and saying howdy. Really a pretty nice little mouthful.
Julien Pinon is a charming young fella who flatters me with the notion that my little account of our afternoon with the Traction-Avant has passed into family folklore. "Built to last," he says, smiling. He's a city planner by trade, and we're soon involved in a discussion of water management. It's water in the desert after all the wine yammering.
Robert Michel Cornas 'la Geynale' 1989: Hey now, here's some nice stuff, smells shy but pleasantly muted bricky-cherry and meaty, with light eucalytpus and leather hints. Quiet, whispery little wine, delicate, shy, with medium-lowish acidity, small-framed and puzzling enough to keep my attention. Seems pleasantly faded into a kind of friendly insubstantiality, an abandoned house full of whispering ghosts. I kinda like it, and listen when it whispers.
Kane is wandering around carrying on at great volume about something to whoever will listen. Turns out to be a Frog's Leap Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley 1987. He's convinced this is the zenith of the winemakers' art. Sniff, sniff, nice rich blackcurranty smellies, like smoky crème de cassis laced with pipe tobacco and oregano, BOOM go the flavors in my mouth, then kind of dwindle away lazily. Softish-tasting, fleshy and with a soft plush feel that amiable enough. Very decent. Broad, simple wine with pleasant two-tone flavors, but holding up pretty well.
Another rarity from California, a Mysterious Unlabeled Herb-Infused Syrah Sonoma County 2009. I'm assured this is an experimental project from one of California's most interesting up-and-coming winemakers. Apparently a kind of California Chinato, infused with herbs. Smells, well, herbaceous. Almost skunkily so. It's a translucent pale salmon color, fairly lightbodied, I'd have thought it a light pinot noir, but no, it's apparently syrah. There's a chamomile-verbena kind of streak here, maybe a bit more green-edged than that. Light, lean and a bit rough-tasting, it finishes with more herbaceous flavors. Frickin' weird, but pretty decent.
This California Chinato is making me a little glassy-eyed, and I've only had about three sips. What in the world kind of herbs are in here? Alice Feiring is here, she waves, asks how often I get to New York. "Pretty often," I explain, "living here and all." She's puzzled. "Wait, why does it seem like I never see you?"
"I dunno, but you're right. Parallel winegeek circles? Not sure." We discuss the concentric and not-always-overlapping firmament of winegeeks in the city, but the oddest craving for Nacho Cheese Doritos is stealing over me.
Sharon's been sucking the Chinato down, she turns to me. "I miss..."
"Yes?"
"I miss... all the precursors."
I nod sadly. "The elephant is the only mammal that can't jump," I remind her. She accepts this with a sigh.
Hey, I know this wine! It's a Ridge Vineyards Monte Bello 1999 (magnum), and I haven't had any since release cause it definitely seemed like one for the long haul. What's been going on with you in the last ten years, big fella? Big, ripe smoky-cherry-cassis smellies, bit o' fennel seed. Sippage proves rewarding, it's not the IN YOUR FACE wine that it was ten year ago; it's still broad-beamed and assertive, the acidity is still tart, the fruit still ripe, but it's mellowed a lot since its baby days, there's a sense of calmness and satisfied repose now that's quite interesting. It's still quite oak-marked and ripe, so I'm surprised it's as popular as it is with this crowd, but it's hella good wine. I could drink this all fucking night.
Josh Raynolds, hearing the mention of Nacho Cheese Doritos, perks up. "OH MAH GOD," he moans, "Have you seen the new taco from Taco Bell where THE SHELL IS A NACHO CHEESE DORITO?"
I am stunned at this notion. "Is there a Taco Bell within walking distance?? I MUST HAVE THIS." Sadly, there is none, and we must settle for some non-nacho-cheese veal stew in white wine. It's not the same, but sometimes you have to make do.
Okay, here's a Domaine de Bovila Cahors 1979 (magnum). Smells like blackberry-infused river mud, with a nice whack of acetone. Medium-bodied, flattened-out and kinda baked-bricky in the middle nether regions. Tastes decayed, kind of shot, but I have a weakness for decayed, shot Cahors, and I kinda like it. It doesn't make me a bad person, does it?
I reach for a pour of a Dunn Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon Napa Valley 1984, but Jay shakes his head. "Don't bother." This of course, piques my curiosity, but when I take a splash I see what he means: it's madeirized. Not foully so, but enough to make it neither representative nor terribly pleasant.
Here's some new faces. Josefa and Mark? Nice ta meetcha. Josefa and I discuss our shared fear of mandolines: those fuckers are SHARP, they'll take a fingertip off, easy. This topic is close to Josefa's heart, "Hang on!" she says, whips out her phone, and says "Look! My friend lost her fingertip and they put a toe back on!" And indeed, there it is, in all its gory glory.
"Holy crap! So now she's missing a toe?!"
"No, they put piece of her butt where her toe was."
"My god. Modern medicine. A toe for a finger and a butt for a toe. We live in a time of miracles."
Hey, what's this? A Chateau-Chalon Jura 1961? Medium amber color. Wow, lots of smelltastic stuff going on, leather, marmalade, caramel, walnut. Tastes taut, racy, lean, entirely fruitless but for a trace of marmalade, but superbly balanced and long and flickery-tasting. The oximadatory style is not usually something that endears me to a wine, but this is an exception. Pure, fine, singing its song on key and with preternatural breath control, I admire this wine more than love it. It's kind of an edifice of its kind, like Tuvan throat singing, hard to put into context.
Mark is slicing bread. I compliment him on his knife skills. Lisa wanders by, does the same. We appreciate an evenly-sliced loaf, we do.
Ooh, ooh, Kane has finally noticed his phone is missing and is starting to panic. Okay, Operation Chaos still going according to plan. He circles the kitchen a few times, goes to the back room to check his coat, okay, cool, maybe I can let this fish run out a little more line.
Here's a counterfeit bottle of Domaine de la Pousse d'Or Volnay Clos de la Bousse d'Or 1988 (magnum). Charming leafy-earthy aromatics, lots going on here. Hints of cinnamon-laced muted cherry-bricky fruit, afternoon in a bamboo forest, that peaty-mossy thing that happens as things cool off, trace of orange rind. A sip, and it's quiet and composed, faded all around the edges but quite vibrant at the core, layered and medium-lightbodied. Softish, but not dull; my impression is one of gentle suppleness. This is very, very easy to drink, and it seems to invite contemplation and close attention. A slightly faded beauty, aging gracefully.
Kane's ever-more-insistent phone perambulations have gotten distracting and have attracted the attention of our host. "I'll call it, okay, Brad?" SFJoe sighs, pulling out his phone.
Oh, shit. I fumble at my pocket, slip the thing underneath the counter on the kitchen-island, under the giant loaf of bread. Soon the bread starts buzzing.
"Wait! It's here! I can feel it!" shouts Josh. Bread is tossed hither and yon, phone is discovered, no one is the wiser. The perfect crime. Kane will never know.
Hm, here's a Willi Schaefer Riesling Graacher Domprobst Spätlese 2004. Supple, rather shy smellies, happy and simple-smelling, lemon and vinyl. This is odd. There's some lipsmacking lemon-drop acidity, but my overall impression of the wine is one of loose-knitness. Gently fleshy tasting, but there's that lemony streak hanging out in the background. Kind of perplexing.
Kane, safely rephoned, approaches. "Hey, did you try the '90 Pinon Sec?" I wheel around, spot SFJoe making his way across the ***********, and make a beeline for him.
"Please sir, may I have some Sec?" He obliges. Mmmm, François Pinon Vouvray Sec 1990. Good heavens. Pale lemon-straw color, smells happily juicy-fruity: pineapple, chalk, quinine, oddly boisterous. A sip, and there's a raciness and calm that belies the exotic smellies but adds a note of seriousness. What an interesting, contradictory package. I can't quite reconcile it, but it's really fun to drink.
Another sec, a Huet Vouvray le Mont Sec 1996 is charmingly beeswaxy and lemoncreamy to sniff at, a friendly-smelling wine. Tastes tangy and vivid, with a long, chalky finish couched in a bit of puppyfat. "Sec when Sec was Sec," proclaims Kane, playing at being a pundit. It's kind of cute.
The evening is beginning to wind down, the crowd is finally starting to thin out. Lisa has to work in the morning, so she beats an early retreat. Vaguely-familiar Steve comes to say good night. I bid him a cheerful adieu, then think a minute, and turn to Sharon. "Steve? Steve who?"
"Edmunds," she hisses at me.
Gaah. I didn't peg him, damnit. "No shit, really? Goddamnit, I'd never met him before and I've been chit-chatting idly all night when I could've been burbling inanely over his wines!"
Sharon grabs my elbow, says "Well, let's correct this," and we catch him before he gets out the door and I get to gush fanboyishly for a minute or two before he can make his escape.
François Pinon Vouvray "Cuvée Botrytis" 1997. A bit more advanced-seeming than the bottle a few weeks ago at the Pinon retrospective, a bit more towards the amber spectrum than the yellow, but all the ingredients are there and sing happily at me. Impressively crisp, very sweet, honeyed botrytis-accented, just yummers.
I'm distracted listening to Eric Texier holding forth on the differences between the wine cultures of Cornas and Côte-Rôtie while declaring his desire to expand into Bonnes Mares and pick up grapes in his car by himself, and take a one-handed pour of Eric Texier Côte-Rôtie Vielles Vignes 1999. I'm trying to juggle the dregs of the veal stew with the other, and somehow manage to spill the lardons in the bottom of my bowl into my glass. Hm, yes, very bacony. Lots of bacon. I actually have to pick the bacon out of my teeth as I'm drinking it. Whoever thought of the notion of bacon wine is a genius. Bacon makes everything better.
The crowd has dwindled down to about eight. I keep stuffing my notebook into my pocket, to make sure I don't forget it and in preparation of departure. But the noteworthy wines keep appearing, and interesting snatches of conversation keep drifting my way.
"There is a winemaker in Burgundy who says 'I see it as my job to kill the fruit. Fruit is vulgar.'"
"I know that vigneron: Buffy the Fruit-Slayer!"
"What this apartment really needs is a HARPSICHORD."
So now in the wee hours the good stuff comes out, in the form of a Pascal Cotat Sancerre Chavignol Rosé 1999, medium-pale salmon-pink color, ohhhh, smells lightly strawberried, lots of dirt and pink grapefruit pith here, touch of cinnamon. It's a big wine, wide and friendly, very cheerful in the late night hour. There is some speculation that this is a counterfeit bottle, but it seems like the real thing to me. But I've been fooled before, most notably in the great counterfeit pineau d'aunis scandale of 2006, so let the buyer beware.
I've always liked the Nikolaihof Riesling 'Vinothek' 1990, but this bottle is especially pure and expressive. It's so good that I'm not going to tell you about it. Because wasted.
Okay, that's all she wrote. I flee back out into the night and cast myself at the harsh mercy of the MTA. Trains, they don't run all that often at 3 a.m. on Sunday night.
Man, I need a drink.
