American Beauty

Is it me or is there a distinct chill as the days draw to a close? There is a distinct change of smells, with leaves changing colours, and gusts bringing mini-whirlwinds of russets and gold. Autumn is definitely in the air and getting out warming gilets and scarves come to mind.

And so, with the exception of Dad’s gardener, visiting early this morning (very early), and Ben’s call to say that having partied hard he is now trying to remember when his wallet, amongst other things, was pinched, I managed to make the most of the solitude and the seasonal mood, choosing to cook a hearty supper and to pick some of the last apples from the tree for a pudding.

My take on a seasonal meal is Mutton with flageolet (an Elizabeth David recipe that I have altered to suit myself). The gamey richness of the meat and the muted colour of the beans, lifted slightly by the tomato, create the tone. A light Tarte Tatin to follow, and to go with this? A definite bargain from Waitrose: Hess Syrah 2005, Methode Traditionelle, Monterey County, USA (from £9.99 to £6.49), 14.5% (yes 14.5%! Remember, this is Schwarzenegger country!) I should really have considered Steak au Poivre to complement this punchy wine. However, I had mutton on my mind.

The Hess Collection has several hectares of vineyards (as well as art galleries) in California, mainly in Mendoza. But, sandwiched between other heady names such as Kendall Jackson and the more stellar Robert Mondavi, Donald Hess grows this Syrah in Monterey County. The longer growing time (sometimes a whole month longer than the average grape) and careful irrigation, due to the low average rainfall, influence the slow maturation of the grapes. On top of that, the variety of soils, a mix of loam, clay and sand (in layman’s terms: the baking clay can act as a thermostat, whilst the sand and loam the drainage), help create an excellent microclimate in which to produce this heady wine. Not forgetting that 1985, was considered a particularly good year for Monterey.

So, having said all that; I can return to the bottle and pour the wine into the waiting glass. And what richness of colour! What a bluey-red. What a plumy-ruby-red red. Coloured legs, which hint at the strength of the wine run down the glass. Joyous ‘Lacrima’ (Oh you can’t take the catholic out of the boy!).

On the nose this wine is rich. Rich, rich, RICH! Dark fruits and liquorice hit the senses, the strength of these aromas making the pupils dilate (I told you this was strong!) Spices of anise mixed with the sweetness of the raisins lead to thoughts of the exotic. Woods, especially a cedar-like sweetness, pencil and pencil lead reach out from behind the strong vanilla and cream (this caused in part by the French oak that this wine is aged in).

I am already heady, in part because of putting my nose into the glass enough times to give me a high, but also because this wine is just a pure temptation. As my tongue plays with the liquid fruit, I am seemingly rolling in dark fruit, any dark berry: mulberry, loganberry, that sort of thing. A velvety wrap, a rich compote of dark fruits made more intense by honey, vanilla and cream (think American Beauty, but with me and grapes! Better not, thinking about it, I need to go to the gym). Woodiness and tannins find their way through the smoothness, making the teeth dry and a high acidity leaves the mouth watering intensely. And then it comes: BAM! The syrah punch. Rich pepper, peppery-pepper, peppery spice, almost chilli pepper (did I mention the pepper?), and a really long ticklingly prickly finish on the tongue.

Letting the glass air a bit more, and in the spirit of California, I need to SHARE. Normally, I am not a great fan of many New World Wines. There, I have said it! I feel better now. To me, they are often too big in fruit and too heavy with alcohol; ‘confectionary wine’, sweet and filling, leaving room for little else. Quality is potentially sacrificed for commercial advantage and big flavours; the bigger the better (South Eastern Australian wines being particularly guilty in my mind, with their addition of flavoured staves or essences to increase the oak and smoke flavours).

With the Hess Collection (and many boutique producers), this is not the case; care and traditional methods of wine making mean that they are serious producers offering pleasurable, not ‘party’ wines. And this wine, even though at the cheaper end of their collection, whilst strong, is nevertheless delicious. I am exhausted by that sharing; that openness. Have another drink Lou!

Taking another mouthful; the creamier elements come to the fore with hints of apple (almost dried). A sharper citric tone rather like red apple or raspberry
(but sweeter than cassis which has a sharp acid lemony note to it) makes the mouth water; a top-note flavour that rises out of the deeper darker fruits (think of that top C in Allegri’s Miserere). Some powder on the tongue adds to the rich velvetiness, and the wood and liquorice, give added layers to this jammy wine. It is like having a pudding it is so rich (but I already have my Tarte Tatin in the Aga).

Carefree swinging to the oven to get my pudding, and even more carefree swaying back to the computer (helped by the mellow and soothing voice of Sarah Vaughn on the CD player) I feel as if I have been massaged, wrapped in a duvet and kissed goodnight. I can now slump in an armchair to slumber and digest. For a low end of the range, boutique (and not forgetting New World) wine, I am truly delighted. But for value, I got a real bargain and am gigglingly happy. Goodnight.

Death, the 80's and me

Slightly aside from my normal wine tasting tales, I have been away in Paris, so, I have been too distracted to do my usual tasting blog.

Instead I have been 'checking out' some unruly tenants, sympathising with my concierge (I have learnt a lot from Muriel Barbary) and generally trying to find IKEA from the Paris Circular, or Périphérique as it is known, painting, dusting, cleaning, scrubbing, checking in new tenants and finally, returning to the calm and tranquillity of Bath.

The family home makes me feel melancholy, with echoes of footsteps on the hall floor and only a buzz of traffic and people; maybe it is because of returning to Paris, which brings back memories of Dominique and our lost promises; maybe because it is still haunted by laughter and voices of yesteryear when we were a whole family and life was seen through the youthful tints of rose and sepia; maybe it is because I miss my father, who has extended his travels in the Southern Hemisphere for another couple of months (I like his style, but I would like a retirement fund like his much more); or, maybe it is just the weather and the news that Patrick Swayze and Keith Floyd have died.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not, nor ever was a Patrick Swayze fan. No! He sparked up quite a few jealous flares when I was dating the girlfriends of the time. Constant chatter on double dates (take it from me, double dating is a bad move) of how ‘gorgeous’ he was, whilst we, the boys would sit and grumble in the corner of the bar listening to the trills, the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and wondering when we would get a ‘look in’ (I think that was when I made the decision to take my dates to scarier films so that I could get the girl in my arms at the crucial moments). I was too young, thankfully, for Dirty Dancing but not for Ghost, so never had to consider my dance moves, only my artistic side.

However, I was a Keith Floyd fan. I loved the way he cooked, chaos with a flare, going from failure to failure with enthusiasm, to paraphrase Churchill. I loved the fact that he was a Somerset boy like myself, which in my youth was a factor more so than today. Presentation was not as important as the sensations that came from flavours, something I am mostly in agreement with now, though debates on 'feasts for the eyes' can run and run.

His love of all things French was a healthy part of my decision to go to France to learn about food and wine, as he did, and with that, life and love. I ended up in Paris rather than the south, firstly poor and hungry, but later, with plenty of friends and eventually the love of my life. Story book stuff really, and it is partially thanks to him.

Inspired to learn, my first wine lesson was over a ropey Beaujolais, light in colour with cherries and a chewing gum flavour that I later learnt came from the carbonic maceration for which Beaujolais is famous. From there I progressed to other grape varieties, and then other wine producing countries. I did a wine course before working in a Parisian café bar (serving beer and more ropey wine, notably Morgan, and learning very quickly and from scratch how to cook as the owner demanded more from me).

It was through his inspiration that I read Elizabeth David, then Jane Grigson and the wider food writing community (I should say Julia Child given the film of the moment but I haven’t seen it and do not own her books), getting inspired by them too. Setting higher, and more chaotic standards for myself (I still love the chicken with leeks and cream recipe), and once, though thankfully only once, setting the kitchen of the café on fire.

It is thanks to Floyd that I understood why there is genuine and real pleasure to be found in food and wine, and I honestly felt that I was following in his footsteps (not forgetting his liking for The Stranglers, his theme tune). Sadly, seeing it all crumble around him, the drink, the illness, the bankruptcies, all that too is a lesson learnt. But it is not the latter that we should remember him by but the fact that he was a gourmand, a gourmet, a bon viveur. Full of fun, energy and passion about what he did.

So raise a glass to his memory as I will, and to Swayze (despite the arguments he caused), and to the fun times, the bad hair and turned up jacket sleeves; of the period that is becoming, more and more, just another decade in history.

Sunshine in a glass...

I have decided to go for a short visit to London (en route to the Paris to deal with some rather unruly tenants). Dad’s house in Bath was becoming too big and airy without his being there, being on a ‘Who do you think you are?’ ancestry finding mission in Australia, and I needed some company. So, by way of a 'thank you’ to my older brother, Ben, in who’s rented accommodation south of the river I am staying, I have taken the spare keys and gone out to the shops, producing pasta, varied ingredients, and of course a bottle of wine; Italian, naturally, to go with the pasta.

Oddbins pointed me in the direction of a light white Soave (Azienda Agricola Strele, Costeggiola, Soave DOC 2008 (12.5%) £11), which seemed temptingly Summery, and fresh enough to raise the mood on a barely sunny day. As a wine, Soave was once barely considered worth discussing seriously not too long ago. They specialised in big output and low quality, expanding and expanding further the DOC area to meet demand, diluting the Garganega with Trebbiano di Soave and sometimes Chardonnay making the DOC regulations, frankly, a bit of a joke.

In recent years, however, smaller producers have been trying to rein in the branding boom and provide wines worthy of Soave’s history. The Strele Estate is one of these. Its 9 hectare pocket lies in the hills overlooking Soave, north of the Adige River and east of the famous city of Verona, producing a Soave DOC wine with 100% Garganega grapes. The name Soave means suave, or smooth, so opening the bottle and preparing for supper, I am keen to see if there is any truth in this name.

Looking at the colour in the glass (in a room where there are no white walls) it is a rich, golden yellow, a Summer sun colour to banish clouds; a comforting golden glow. Mellowing even! Yes! A real mellow yellow (there is a song about that).

Dipping my nose into the glass, there are wonderful rich lemon and pith. But interestingly, more pith than lemon. Ultimately this has that refreshing aroma that brings nostalgic, sepia tinted memories of Grannie's farm in Somerset; hot sunny days, cattle grazing and, after some rounding up at feeding time, the reward of that home made pithy puckering lemonade. Behind this lies the secret of the quality and, therefore, cost. Hints of white fruit come forth, but then these fade and give way to stronger aromas of tropical fruits: melon and mango; papaya, pineapple and pears. (I have to pause and look for another room. Cooking, candles and other fragrances coming from the flat are putting me off). I will tell you what image is going through my mind that will help me clear up the combined aroma sensation coming from this glass. Imagine ice-cream, emphasis on the cream not the vanilla, topped with dried apricots and drizzled with honey (... pistachios for decoration. Ok, I am gilding the lily. Forget the pistachios). THAT is what I am getting from the glass in the initial few minutes. Warming up a little, the sweeter fragrances mellow and behind them lie the herbaceous and young green elements that a younger wine gives; basil and fresh peas.

On the palate? Again, mellow, mellow, mellow yellow on the lips. Lemon and pith, pith and lemon. The flintiness comes through when it is chilled. A long, strong acidity finish making the mouth water (even more than when I was just sniffing it. Or is it the thought of that apricot ice-cream desert that I now want to make?). The coldness also gives a light prickle to the tongue, pushing you on to move beyond that prickle and its associated mineral flint, emphasising the calcareous soil that the Garganega is grown on.

Letting it settle for a bit, the prickle goes and allows the true flavours come to the fore; and, in bringing it to the temperature of the room, out come the smoother, richer and more exotic fruits, honeyed off by an almondy smoothness, that balances the acidity and keeps you wanting more.

What impresses me is that it is a 2008. In other words, this is a young wine, and even now it offers great flavour and develops nicely in the glass. Worth the money? I think so, though I am not so sure Ben, the accountant, will see it my way. Best keep it to myself.

Liberation...

In this infernally hot weather, making deliberate reference to Dante’s circles of Hell, isn’t it nice to have a bit of space from everything? What the Americans would call ‘me’ space. I am having a very liberating evening to myself. My brother, Ben, is going to his first liberating ‘event’ in London with a friend, and Dad had gone to Australia for four weeks to see other members of the extended family. (The name Woodbine comes from our nineteenth century prisoner ancestors who acquired the name when they either became liberated, and did not want to be associated with their misdeeds, or because they did not want to be caught after ‘liberating’ themselves). You get the theme so far.

At last, alone in the house in Bath; keeping cool with all the windows of the building open at the back, overlooking our small terrace and herb garden. Jazz music playing ever so slightly too loud whilst preparing supper – a basement kitchen helps muffle noises for the neighbours, or at least that is what I am convincing myself as I really can’t face their complaints in what I am currently wearing. Yes, keeping cool wearing just my boxers, an apron, and a glass of something I found in the fridge to hand. Quite the naked chef. All being a picture that reflects the heat and need for space.

So this is it. Salad chopped, vinaigrette prepared, and salmon oiled and in a skillet waiting to go (my top tip is that I like to cook my fish and shellfish in bacon fat. But I digress). I pour out the Terra Viva, Bianche Terre di Chieti, organic 2007, white wine that my Dad had obviously bought from Waitrose for a carefree evening. The grapes being classified as typical of the geographic region, Abruzzo, with its humid landscape and sometimes excessive heat; in other words, Trebbiano d’Abruzzo table wine (Science bit: Trebbiano d’Abruzzo is a subvarietal of the standard Trebbiano. It is known in France as Ugni Blanc, used predominantly in brandy making, especially in Armagnac. Well, that is comforting).

Pale yellow with hints of green, the smells emanating from the glass (over the smell of cooking) are citrus. Grapefruit and lemon pith with an almost ‘sweet’ element to it. The label states that there are aromas of peach and melon and this could explain the ‘sweetness’ that I am getting, but it is very subtle and a little more floral than that.

On the palate this wine has a fairly obvious citrus bite, but behind lies the link to convince me that this will go well with my food. Elements of basil and liquorice herbs are drawn out as the flavours linger in the mouth. And, yes, as the label suggests, the sweet fruits are there; subtle but evident. High acidity versus a slightly unctuous almond cream; a flinty minerality added to the lemon finish. This is a definite Martini lemon rind moment with that almost nutty oily element (normally coming from the gin in a Martini, but bear with me, I am on a roll) contrasting against the sharp flinty citrus notes. That same mineral note also complimenting the herbal liquorice basil link, which I mentioned before.

The contrasts in the glass reflect the contrasting and dischorded jazz tunes coming from the CD player; acidity against unctuousness; lemon against almond cream; modern music against the Georgian surroundings. I dismissed this as a humble table wine, but I have to be honest, the mood, the food, both are being lifted by this enjoyable quaffing wine.

COUNT THEOTOKY AND OTHER GREEKS…

It was because of a Greek wine tasting, with Richard Congreve, the head of Heartfelt Communications, who kindly allowed me to gatecrash his ‘Wines of Northern Greece’ event during Lent (when I was teetotal and drank not a drop. I swear!) that my brother, Ben, and I decided to spend a week on a Greek island. To be fair, he needed a break more than me, given his work, and it was at his expense, so how could I resist?

Gentle splashes from the pool. Views that go on for ever. Burning sun on the skin cooled down by crystal clear seas. Water that tastes all the sweeter because of the heat. Our island was full of nothing but land and seascapes. Good walking, wonderful swimming and places to muse. I think you get the picture. In the meantime, I enjoyed a mild flirtation in a café with an attractive waitress called Elena and Ben got the careful attention of a waiter at the restaurant we visited a couple of times. Nice to be liked.

Strangely, it was at this harbour side restaurant I went to, that I drank a wine from the same vineyard as one of the exhibitors of the Heartfelt event, in London a few weeks earlier. Ktima Alpha (2006, Amyndeo, Greece) which tasted as good the second time round, if not more so given the context of drinking Greek wine in Greece. Ignore the fact I was slightly ‘heady’ at this stage and cannot read my notes back very well, this excellent plum coloured wine had the nose of cherries and creaminess on the nose coming from the blend of syrah, with merlot and xinomavro grapes. The same cherry creaminess was mixed with a hint of the oak ageing, twelve months, to bring out a spiciness, complimenting the fruitiness of the merlot and the rich mix of acidity and tannins. I hope to see Richard again for another instalment.

A couple of days later we returned (now why did we go back to that restaurant Ben? Oh yes, the waiter) and enjoyed another wine, Ktima Theotoky, Theotoky, Ropa Valley (Corfu) 2007, a white wine blend of 90% Robola and 10% Kakotrigis both of which are local varieties.

Robola is linked to varieties in the Friuli area of Northern Italy (bearing in mind that the island was part of the Venetian Empire for several generations and Count Theotoky one of the oldest producers in Corfu).

In the glass, the colour was light lemon green and as beautifully clear as the water surrounding us. On the nose we got flavours of lemon, lemon pith, flint and cream with a mild hint of melon and pear.

Diving in (to keep with the swimming analogy), the flavours that came with the initial mouthful were of ultra creamy lemons, some flint and minerality and thankfully no metallic elements, which might have cheapened it. As the sunlight dimmed and our senses heightened, interruptions from the arrival of the food, red mullet on a bed of sliced, slightly spiced, potatoes, enabled the flavours of the wine to develop in the glass bringing out its character further. The citrus’s obviousness was overtaken by an altogether smoother cream and melon. A definite melon moment; almost melon sorbet.

A well balanced acid and unctuous finish with a long flavour that gently watered out in the mouth. Even Ben couldn’t fault this, but then again, maybe he was distracted by other company, or maybe just the sheer wonderfulness of the island.

The little difficult return

I spent a very enjoyable evening in London the other week, heading to a favourite stomping ground, Marylebone, to meet one of my more glamorous City friends who had been waiting for me to finish my Lenten purging. We decided to meet for a drink to lubricate our jaws for the gossip ahead and I suggested Providores, a brilliant restaurant and tapas bar for the local chic that has a fantastically sourced wine list. Providores is owned by the New Zealand chef Peter Gordon who is a leading light in the fusion food stakes and is certainly highly admired in ‘foodie’ circles.

Seated at one of the busy long ‘posing’ tables that are in the centre of the room I decided out of curiosity on a glass of Little Rascal Arneis 2007, from Cooper’s Green, Gisbourne. I say ‘curiosity’ because, although I am qualified in wine (and got the badge, the t-shirt, and drank all the bottles), I have never heard of it before. The wine waiter suggested I give it a go describing the glowing and unctuous glass of golden wine as a zesty version of Pinot Gris.

So trying hard not to be put off by the wonderfully tempting smells coming from the plates being served around me (Hey! Is that Laksa!?) I started to take in the new aromas and tastes being offered in this glass.

As we dipped our noses in, there was an amazing sense of lemon and zest with hints of mint. Swirling the glass, aromas mixed with flint merged to produce an exciting fresh smell. Even leaving this to sit for a while (a very short time – we had a table booked at eight), the richness of aromas remained distinct and strong. All perfectly suited to the rich mix of Peter Gordon’s cuisine.

Arneis di roero, (translated from the local dialect, means the little difficult one) has its origins in the Piedmonte region of Northern Italy, from where the grape was ‘pilfered’ by a New Zealand vintner to plant in Gisbourne, on the east coast of the North Island. There the soil is rich alluvial loam (a mixture of sand, clay and decomposing organic matter, but you probably knew that already) producing high yields (the area was previously famous for big commercial production, wine boxes, that sort of thing, rather than boutique wineries. Now the situation is changing rapidly) and fine rich whites including Chardonnay and Gewürztraminers, and now arneis. The warmer climate develops the grape’s flavours and the soils, the richness.

So now you have had the science bit, back to the wine. On the tongue there was a creamy sherbet dip prickliness; lemon pith combined with spice and mint. Did I say mint? It’s minty lemon fresh! Given its spice, it is a creamier version of Gewürztraminer but with an Italian fanfare. More Enrico Caruso than Max Lorenz (although, the latter may have been more frivolous, if you know what I mean). The unctuous element, similar to pinot gris, was wonderfully balanced, bringing the two contrasting elements of cream and citrus together in a well rounded and wholesome flavour. Resting it for a short time, there was also a hint of minerality which was followed by the aftertaste of basils and sweet liquorice. The long finish provided a crisp mineral note with metallic edges and good acidity.

Mouth-wateringly good and a great recommendation from the waiter. Soft and fragrant but with a nice kick to it. Kiri te Kanawa meets Russell Crowe. I have to find this on the web as I want more of it!

A note to the boys on St Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is looming and in the spirit of romance and adoration of the feminine I always turn to Champagne. It is the perfect and essential part of any romantic evening, and to me, is the essence of woman in a glass. Pink? Actually, I don’t do pink. Not because I am not in touch with my feminine side (I have read Cosmopolitan) and feel that the colour reflects the rosy cheeks, full lips or beating heart of the woman into who’s eyes I am staring on this day of romance. No, I just don’t really like it as much as the pure, straw coloured nectar, so why over do things?

Champagne is special, there is no denying it. A once weak and probably flabby wine is transformed through a heady, complex, time consuming, and in some cases, personal process of production – including the remouillage (the bottle turning, in some houses, by hand) and dégorgement (the removing of the dead lees from the neck) and all the tricks that make it special - into a sparkling golden drink that lends biscuits and cream, almonds, lemons (sometimes grapefruit) and pith, and floral notes to the palate. No wonder that our hero monk Dom Perignon thought the drink with the stars in was a miracle, it really is.

There is something delightfully youthful and feminine about a glass of non-vintage that has the frivolous sparkle, the light lemon zing and the creamy yeastiness. Bubbles tickle the tongue and lift spirits in a way that other wines cannot reach (apologies to Carlsberg). There is a carefree lack of formality that comes with the NV. The pop of the cork (that is meant to sound like a lady sighing in anticipation) and the whoosh of the froth as it races to the rim of the glass, the fun before the taste. Sparkles reflect bejewelled necks; the tickle on the tongue that brings a smile to the face and crinkles to the nose. Young love, hungry need or flirtation, all the anticipation of what might be, all reflected in a glass. This is what the NV is all about.

At the same time, the vintage brings with it a whole new dimension. A lighter sparkle in the glass, a stronger scent of biscuits and nuts from longer development, a more mellow flavour, all give the impression of a more mature woman, sensual and experienced, but with a glint in her eye. Less is definitely more with a vintage (proving there is still so much life in the old girl yet!) No whoosh and no need for giggles. This is serious lovers stuff, where senses, smells and tastes are heightened. Nuances with every glance, every word on the lips, every taste in the mouth. Whereas the NV is the ‘bling’, the party girl, this is the seductress. No need to impress, no anticipation of what might be but a knowledge of what will be, or already is.

Non vintage or vintage love? Diamonds? Stars? Sparkles? Either way, chuck out the chocolates, hold back the flowers, just bring out the Queen of drinks and relax. Happy Valentine’s Day.