Chris Coad
Chris Coad
Trains screwed us again.
Our F train decided Saturday morning that actually running into Manhattan would be too much trouble, so we ended up having to backtrack several miles into Queens and get off and come back in the same direction via another line. And so miss out intended train and are late getting to Eden and Scott’s suburban Jersey redoubt.
All the usual suspects are already in place at the vast (by city standards) dining table: Bradley Kane, Esq., garagiste celebrity wine power couple Andrew and Jennifer Munro Clark, of the Carolina Clarkses, Lego archivists Don and Melissa Rice, and the illustrious Baronet Grossman of Beaucoin.
Oh god, of course the first thing is three mystery bottles. I’ve only had one small coffee this morning, I’m not ready for this. Is there food? I need food.
There’s food. Okay, better. Deviled eggs, hushpuppies, toasty cheese bread, phyllo-wrapped spargaruses, yes yes yes yes yes.
All right, Mystery Bottle ‘A’: Sniff, sniff, smells wan and neutral, not really getting much. Looking for some kind of varietal character to hang my hat on. Chenin? Nah. Riesling? Nah. Grüner? Nah. Swirl, swirl, sniff, sniff, more nothing much. Firm acidity, thin and neutral. This is some wan Italian thing from a stark mountainside in Alto Adige, right? I got no idea. Light lemon-stoniness and acidic neutrality is all I can discern. It’s quiet and shy and ungiving. (Chateau de la Ragotière Muscadet 1999)
Mystery Bottle ‘B’: Okay, there’s more here. Lightly lemon-creamy-chalky, with a whiff of matchsticky sulfurousness, also very minerally and neutral, but more robust flavor in the middle and more flesh to the acidic spine. I still have no idea what this is, but I like it a lot better than ‘A.’ (Domaine de la Pépière (Marc Ollivier) Muscadet Clos des Briords 1999)
Mystery Bottle ‘C’: More of the same. Light lemon-cream hints, stony and compact, quiet and shy. Nice, if shy, better than ‘A’, but ‘B’ is still more friendly and my favorite. (Luneau-Papin Muscadet Clos des Allées Vieilles Vignes 1999)
I didn’t ping “Muscadet” on any of these wines. My head was off in “weird neutral Italian thing that I have no idea what it is” and my head was too foggy and lazy to even try to climb out of that box. I didn’t even really register that Andrew brought them, which might have given me a clue. After the reveal, I’m a little surprised the Briords showed so well, as I mostly remember this as the “shower-curtain” wine that Dressner always used to just cheerfully shrug and say “It’s always been fucked up” about. But hey, time tells.
Okay, homework time over. What else we got going here? I got some deviled eggs in me, Papa needs his medicine. Gimme one of those pancetta-stuffed zucchini things and pass the Champalou Vouvray Cuvée des Fondraux 1996, please. Ahhhh, okay, back in familiar territory. Medium-pale gold color, smells lightly of yellow apples, wool and quince. Just a bit of sugar plumps out the middle. It’s very friendly, puppyish almost, and cheerful, if simple. Goes down very easily. Nondescript, but quite pleasant.
When I next bother to look up from my glass I find Kane beginning to lecture us about the dangers of barracuda. How did this start? I squint and peer around, trying to comprehend. Eden mentioned something about eating barracuda at a local restaurant and now a cruel death looms? Lisa opines that barracuda isn’t actually dangerous under any reasonable danger scale, and we’re off to the races. Back and forth they go, and Lisa points out “You know you’re talking about a neuromuscular disease, right? And that I’m actually a neurologist?”
“Doctors don’t know everything,” Kane sniffs, and soldiers on for a few more lonely minutes. Brave lad, he died with his mansplaining boots on. We pause for a momentary playing of Taps, and then move on. No time to mourn long; bury the dead, life is for the living.
Here’s a Fayolle Fils & Fille Hermitage Blanc Les Dionièrres 2014. Big, rich aromatics: creamy vanilla, wax, white honey. Very young, a bit bumtious and tight. Tastes broad-beamed and rich, with a lot going on but little cohesion. Would do to put down and wait awhile on this one to come together, reads as oaky and broad and too young to me.
I need to clear my head. I head out the front door into Jersey suburbia for a nicotine break. There are piles of snow on the ground, but it’s weirdly warm. I glance at my phone and it tells me 66 degrees in Manhattan. Feels even warmer here. Fucking Al Gore, I blame him for this February madness. Where’s Manbearpig when we need him?
Back inside, and the main courses are rolling out. Are you kidding me? Bollito di vitello with salsa verde and savory meat juice? Crispy taters of some kind? A carrot?! Look at this shit, and drool, reader, drool.
First red is a Pierre Bréton Bourgeuil Grandmont 1996. Sweet Fancy Jesus on a pogostick, I’ve not had this one in years, and it’s really and truly lived up to all the potential it had as a young beast. Taut dark cran-raspberry redfruit right up front, hint of pinesap underneath, smoky and still mostly primary, but starting to let loose at the edges. The tautness and angularity of youth is starting to give way to the light feathering of early middle age, and it’s a beauty. Drink and hold, you’ll be happy either way. Fabulous wine, intense and brilliant and slightly breathtaking. Wish I had put some more away. I keep going back to it, and smiling stupidly. Frankly, it’s still rough around the edges and tannic on the finish. But man, it’s just so lovely, and you can see where it’s going to go, if you live long enough and are lucky enough to have it again in twenty years.
Now a garagiste St. Emilion with a confusing curlybouts label that defies reading once the bottle is open, lest spillage occur, a L’Esprit de Meylet St. Emilion 2010. Quite forward, juicy cassis-tobacco redfruit jumps up my nose right away. In a way it’s simple and juicy, but you sense some complicated stuff lingering underneath. I tell Jeff this kind of reminds me of a Steve Edmunds wine: does he understand? I’m not sure. But I mean it as a compliment, i.e., ripe and in the “Californian” mode, but nicely poised, with a certain élan.
Here’s a Chateau Sociando-Mallet Haut-Médoc 1983. Medium ruby color, ambering slightly at the rim. Rich, layered smellies: cassis, cedar, tobacco. On the medium-light side, but lithe and feathering out at the edges. Warm middle, long finish. Past showings of this wine have been a little taut and ungiving; this bottle breaks that trend. Silkier than previous tastings, more cohesive, smoother. A pleasant surprise.
Ronchi di Giancarlo Barbaresco 2001. Dark and tarry right up front, turns more berried in the middle, with barky-tannic notes on the finish. Decent balance, decent showing, but not doing much for me. Youngish, not a lot of character. Okay, I guess.
Now is the very desserting time of night, and OMG BAKLAVA. Nutella chocolate cake is all well and good, but baklava has my heart.
With the delightful sweets there is a procession of sweeties, first a Moulin Touchais Coteaux du Layon 1990. Medium-gold color. Hint of matchsticky sulfur under a gentle layer of lemon-marzipan and a gentle mushroomy-earthy note. Sweet, straightforward, simple, pleasant.
Next is a Domaine des Petits Quart Bonnezeaux Le Malabé 1996. Yee haw. Medium-amber color, slightly wack smelliesorange rind, metal shavings, hay, pineapple syrup, lilikoi. Tastes big and syrupy and very sweet. Kind of a bit too much of everything, but very amiable in a goofy way.
Here’s a Domaine des Gagneries Bonnezeaux 1990, and it’s similarly matchsticky. Will this plague of sulfur never end? I’m channeling Dressner at this point. Medium-straw color, suffers after coming after the more gonzo Malabé. Leaner, lighter, seems a bit wan and bland by comparison.
Last one, a Monarchia Tokaji Aszu 6 Putt-Putts 1999. Okay, here’s the stuff. Rich, vivid smellies: amber honey, butterscotch, cinnamon, orange rind. A sip, and it’s big sugar but couched in bright acidity. Really the best of the bunch, wonderful balance of flavors, complexity and ZING.
The dead soldiers are piling up now, and the sun is lowering on the Jersey horizon.
We leap at the offer of a ride to the little place where trains show up, and begin our long journey back to civilization in fine spirits, blissfully unaware of the chaos to come.
Our F train decided Saturday morning that actually running into Manhattan would be too much trouble, so we ended up having to backtrack several miles into Queens and get off and come back in the same direction via another line. And so miss out intended train and are late getting to Eden and Scott’s suburban Jersey redoubt.
All the usual suspects are already in place at the vast (by city standards) dining table: Bradley Kane, Esq., garagiste celebrity wine power couple Andrew and Jennifer Munro Clark, of the Carolina Clarkses, Lego archivists Don and Melissa Rice, and the illustrious Baronet Grossman of Beaucoin.
Oh god, of course the first thing is three mystery bottles. I’ve only had one small coffee this morning, I’m not ready for this. Is there food? I need food.
There’s food. Okay, better. Deviled eggs, hushpuppies, toasty cheese bread, phyllo-wrapped spargaruses, yes yes yes yes yes.
Mystery Bottle ‘B’: Okay, there’s more here. Lightly lemon-creamy-chalky, with a whiff of matchsticky sulfurousness, also very minerally and neutral, but more robust flavor in the middle and more flesh to the acidic spine. I still have no idea what this is, but I like it a lot better than ‘A.’ (Domaine de la Pépière (Marc Ollivier) Muscadet Clos des Briords 1999)
Mystery Bottle ‘C’: More of the same. Light lemon-cream hints, stony and compact, quiet and shy. Nice, if shy, better than ‘A’, but ‘B’ is still more friendly and my favorite. (Luneau-Papin Muscadet Clos des Allées Vieilles Vignes 1999)
I didn’t ping “Muscadet” on any of these wines. My head was off in “weird neutral Italian thing that I have no idea what it is” and my head was too foggy and lazy to even try to climb out of that box. I didn’t even really register that Andrew brought them, which might have given me a clue. After the reveal, I’m a little surprised the Briords showed so well, as I mostly remember this as the “shower-curtain” wine that Dressner always used to just cheerfully shrug and say “It’s always been fucked up” about. But hey, time tells.
Okay, homework time over. What else we got going here? I got some deviled eggs in me, Papa needs his medicine. Gimme one of those pancetta-stuffed zucchini things and pass the Champalou Vouvray Cuvée des Fondraux 1996, please. Ahhhh, okay, back in familiar territory. Medium-pale gold color, smells lightly of yellow apples, wool and quince. Just a bit of sugar plumps out the middle. It’s very friendly, puppyish almost, and cheerful, if simple. Goes down very easily. Nondescript, but quite pleasant.
When I next bother to look up from my glass I find Kane beginning to lecture us about the dangers of barracuda. How did this start? I squint and peer around, trying to comprehend. Eden mentioned something about eating barracuda at a local restaurant and now a cruel death looms? Lisa opines that barracuda isn’t actually dangerous under any reasonable danger scale, and we’re off to the races. Back and forth they go, and Lisa points out “You know you’re talking about a neuromuscular disease, right? And that I’m actually a neurologist?”
“Doctors don’t know everything,” Kane sniffs, and soldiers on for a few more lonely minutes. Brave lad, he died with his mansplaining boots on. We pause for a momentary playing of Taps, and then move on. No time to mourn long; bury the dead, life is for the living.
Here’s a Fayolle Fils & Fille Hermitage Blanc Les Dionièrres 2014. Big, rich aromatics: creamy vanilla, wax, white honey. Very young, a bit bumtious and tight. Tastes broad-beamed and rich, with a lot going on but little cohesion. Would do to put down and wait awhile on this one to come together, reads as oaky and broad and too young to me.
I need to clear my head. I head out the front door into Jersey suburbia for a nicotine break. There are piles of snow on the ground, but it’s weirdly warm. I glance at my phone and it tells me 66 degrees in Manhattan. Feels even warmer here. Fucking Al Gore, I blame him for this February madness. Where’s Manbearpig when we need him?
Back inside, and the main courses are rolling out. Are you kidding me? Bollito di vitello with salsa verde and savory meat juice? Crispy taters of some kind? A carrot?! Look at this shit, and drool, reader, drool.
Now a garagiste St. Emilion with a confusing curlybouts label that defies reading once the bottle is open, lest spillage occur, a L’Esprit de Meylet St. Emilion 2010. Quite forward, juicy cassis-tobacco redfruit jumps up my nose right away. In a way it’s simple and juicy, but you sense some complicated stuff lingering underneath. I tell Jeff this kind of reminds me of a Steve Edmunds wine: does he understand? I’m not sure. But I mean it as a compliment, i.e., ripe and in the “Californian” mode, but nicely poised, with a certain élan.
Here’s a Chateau Sociando-Mallet Haut-Médoc 1983. Medium ruby color, ambering slightly at the rim. Rich, layered smellies: cassis, cedar, tobacco. On the medium-light side, but lithe and feathering out at the edges. Warm middle, long finish. Past showings of this wine have been a little taut and ungiving; this bottle breaks that trend. Silkier than previous tastings, more cohesive, smoother. A pleasant surprise.
Ronchi di Giancarlo Barbaresco 2001. Dark and tarry right up front, turns more berried in the middle, with barky-tannic notes on the finish. Decent balance, decent showing, but not doing much for me. Youngish, not a lot of character. Okay, I guess.
Now is the very desserting time of night, and OMG BAKLAVA. Nutella chocolate cake is all well and good, but baklava has my heart.
Next is a Domaine des Petits Quart Bonnezeaux Le Malabé 1996. Yee haw. Medium-amber color, slightly wack smelliesorange rind, metal shavings, hay, pineapple syrup, lilikoi. Tastes big and syrupy and very sweet. Kind of a bit too much of everything, but very amiable in a goofy way.
Here’s a Domaine des Gagneries Bonnezeaux 1990, and it’s similarly matchsticky. Will this plague of sulfur never end? I’m channeling Dressner at this point. Medium-straw color, suffers after coming after the more gonzo Malabé. Leaner, lighter, seems a bit wan and bland by comparison.
Last one, a Monarchia Tokaji Aszu 6 Putt-Putts 1999. Okay, here’s the stuff. Rich, vivid smellies: amber honey, butterscotch, cinnamon, orange rind. A sip, and it’s big sugar but couched in bright acidity. Really the best of the bunch, wonderful balance of flavors, complexity and ZING.
The dead soldiers are piling up now, and the sun is lowering on the Jersey horizon.
