Collin is a little nervous. He paces back and forth in front of the room, playing with his glass of Amarone. He sips it. Swishes it. Puts the glass down. Picks the glass up. Takes another sip. Pours a little more into glass. He makes a point to look at the other two groups, but I'm sure Kelly's laser focus and scrutiny make him keep his eyes from glancing our way. My heart goes out to him. As sweet as he can be, Kelly tends to correct every misspoken word and incorrect fact in a nervous habit that could be intimidating to those that haven't gotten used to him--or are performing for a room full of people.
Collin goes over the history of the wine we'll be sampling. Having selected various producers and versions of a singular wine, it is the first one I have been to where I am not trying to figure out which is the grape, which is the region, and which is the man pouring it for me.
Amarone is a drier red that typically comes from the Valpolicella region of Italy. The grapes (primarily Corvina [think 5/6] with various percentages of Rodinella or Molinara) are dried on mats to intensify the flavor. The wines are set up in a neat row of two with a larger glass at the end. The colors are saturated in shades of freshly spilled blood, throwing red halos onto the paper tablecloths under the overhead lights. The waiters provide a list of the night's vintages.
2008 Villa Erbice ca'Panvino, DOC Valpolicella
A peppery red, the wine has a lot of the classic notes that I would expect: figs, black pepper, plums, a little tobacco.
2007 Michele Castellani "San Michele," DOC Ripasso Valpolicella Classico Superiore
Collin explains that they save the pomice from the Amarone and add it to a batch of other Valpolicella wine. The extra food for the yeast boosts the body and the alcohol content (the other Amarones are already at least 14% alcohol...)
2003 Nicoli, DOC Amarone della Velpolicella Classico
I clearly taste twizzlers and mention it to Kel. I'm excited by my finding, however, he doesn't seem to notice "That's because..." he starts, speaking quickly in his teacher voice. "Rubber...black and red fruit..." He catches himself, smiles, and nods. "Yes dear. It does taste like twizzlers."
2005 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
The younger brother of the 2001, the 2005 drinks much smoother and is generally the better-liked among the people tasting.
2001 Villa Erbice "Tremenel," DOC Amarone della Valpolicella Classico
Despite Collin decanting the bottle hours before, the tannins are extra sharp and the wine doesn't have the smoothness of the 2005. He explains the complications of the weather, the growing season in the region, and the factors that could account for the unintended taste, but too many of us are novices to understand the full implications.
The tasting ends a little faster than I expected, but it is all timed with precision. The chef arrives with a cart, ready to show us how to make gnocchi. Collin steps aside, pouring a glass of the 2005 for him. Relaxing now that he is out of the spotlight, he grabs a chair near us and becomes part of the crowd.
Showing posts with label wine tasting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wine tasting. Show all posts
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Guess who!
Everyone is milling about the very warm room. In a hurried precision, the glasses are laid out (water, four white, four red) and the table split down the middle. Everyone's divided eight to eight. The grids are passed out. People check their contributions to the tasting, making sure that nothing is corked. I step back, crossing the leopard-print carpet, and let myself fall into a wing back chair near the fireplace. This is my second Boston Sommelier Society tasting and I know my place. Kelly's invited me to taste before, but I prefer the Dian Fossey approach. I wouldn't be able to answer half of the grid.
The mood is very similar to the art history classes I took in college. Sitting in the Multi-media Room, we would file in to find our preferred seats and watch as the professor showed slide after slide. We would stare at the brushstrokes, the medium, the style, and yell things out like "Expressionist!" "16th Century Italian!" "Monet!" "No you idiot, it's Manet!" As a class, we would agonize over the country of origin and artist, the time it was made, the medium, and name of the piece knowing each one was needed to get the answer right.
Here, tucked away in the function room of an upscale restaurant, the BSS plays a hectic game of musical chairs--filling each of the four white glasses with a different bottle. "Number one is on the left!" Steve calls out, trying to keep some resemblance of order in the confined chaos. He offers a friendly smile, quick to notice the notes I'm scribbling "Be kind," he asks. The BSS return to their original seats. They swirl and sniff the glasses, talking quickly about their preliminary findings before the actual test starts. The leaders of each group try to give instructions over the cacophony. "I just need to remember two fruits." "Some of us will be tasting and others will keep notes." "Where are all the sheets?" There is a soft lull and then the tasting starts, bringing back the passion I remember from Western Europe and New World Art History 101/102. "Primary color is golden with platinum highlights." "...Peach, Asian pear...there's some earth, white flowers, and orange blossom." "...Lightly spiced like cinnamon, ginger, maybe a little tarragon..." "Low tannins." "Acidity...pretty acidic, I guess." "Pears...yes, definitely pears." "I would say Old World Wine." "Could be a Riesling...Germany, Alsace..." "It's about 30 years old." "Alcohol and acidity is high, we can all agree on that." "I disagree. I think it's more New World--maybe the Orient."
I finish scribbling my notes and turn to other writing projects, trying to figure out the plot line for my current story. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm still siting in the Multi-media Room trying to decide if the Expressionist painting in front of me is French or Italian.
The mood is very similar to the art history classes I took in college. Sitting in the Multi-media Room, we would file in to find our preferred seats and watch as the professor showed slide after slide. We would stare at the brushstrokes, the medium, the style, and yell things out like "Expressionist!" "16th Century Italian!" "Monet!" "No you idiot, it's Manet!" As a class, we would agonize over the country of origin and artist, the time it was made, the medium, and name of the piece knowing each one was needed to get the answer right.
Here, tucked away in the function room of an upscale restaurant, the BSS plays a hectic game of musical chairs--filling each of the four white glasses with a different bottle. "Number one is on the left!" Steve calls out, trying to keep some resemblance of order in the confined chaos. He offers a friendly smile, quick to notice the notes I'm scribbling "Be kind," he asks. The BSS return to their original seats. They swirl and sniff the glasses, talking quickly about their preliminary findings before the actual test starts. The leaders of each group try to give instructions over the cacophony. "I just need to remember two fruits." "Some of us will be tasting and others will keep notes." "Where are all the sheets?" There is a soft lull and then the tasting starts, bringing back the passion I remember from Western Europe and New World Art History 101/102. "Primary color is golden with platinum highlights." "...Peach, Asian pear...there's some earth, white flowers, and orange blossom." "...Lightly spiced like cinnamon, ginger, maybe a little tarragon..." "Low tannins." "Acidity...pretty acidic, I guess." "Pears...yes, definitely pears." "I would say Old World Wine." "Could be a Riesling...Germany, Alsace..." "It's about 30 years old." "Alcohol and acidity is high, we can all agree on that." "I disagree. I think it's more New World--maybe the Orient."
I finish scribbling my notes and turn to other writing projects, trying to figure out the plot line for my current story. And yet, in the back of my head, I'm still siting in the Multi-media Room trying to decide if the Expressionist painting in front of me is French or Italian.
Monday, January 31, 2011
How I learned to love the red wattle
There is a white paper bag bleeding out along my counter top, a thin red trickle blushing the corner. The pig meat it was once holding is safely squirreled away in the fridge. I sweat white wine and a thinner, richer musk of bacon fat as I look through my fridge for a vegetarian option for lunch. My legs are tense and I feel like I've been salted, brined, and fried. But it is all worth it (as many days when I wake up to find my head in pieces on the floor) to have experienced the night before and the event...Cochon555 at the Fairmont.
On our first date, on our way to get a few sushi rolls, Kelly told me that he had double-booked in case the night went sour and he needed a pick-me-up. Ever since, all I have heard about for the past ten months has been Cochon, Cochon, Cochon. When it came back to Boston, I made sure to go if only to see how I stacked up against this pork phenomenon. Their mission statement from their web page sort of says it all: "Cochon 555 is a one-of-a-kind traveling culinary competition and tasting event--five chefs, five pigs, five wine makers--to promote sustainable farming of heritage breed pigs." Well, I may not have five chefs, wine makers, or pigs, but I can bend myself in half and talk dirty in Spanish (What you got now, Cochon?!)...
For weeks before the event, I visited their website. I studied the breeds of heritage pigs, which in itself is a little creepy and fascinating when you realize that you're reading about how something has been breed purely for flavor or the marbling of the muscle. I memorized a few names and tried to remember a few facts of each pig so that I would at least sound somewhat intelligent when asked which was better, the Large Black or Duroc. But once I stepped inside the hotel, it was forced out by the smell of bacon and the overwhelming stimulus from baroque architecture.
At the VIP event beforehand, we bonded with a representative from Yelp! and the sister of a caviar producer and her husband. (These would be the people I spent the evening with while Kelly was sequestered as a judge.) We took turns guarding the tiny, tall table and our wine glasses as one or two people went off for cheese, wine, or St. Germaine cocktails. Our holding pattern worked so well that after they showed a promotional video and opened the doors, we continued to work together to guard the limited space set aside.
As is, I only managed to get to three chefs' tables and the Elk Cove Vineyard table as the deluge of people flooded the function hall of the Fairmont. Although two hours seems like plenty of time to get to every chef, wine maker, and pig, no one seemed to take into consideration that people really like their pig...Regardless, the few people I got to were well worth the wait.
Duroc/Yorkshire
There is little information on this cross-breed of pig. All I could learn was that the Duroc is a large, aggressive red boar; the Yorkshire is a pale white and known for its lean meat; and both are a perfect pig to cross-breed.
The first table I spotted had a small line already started, so I threw myself in knowing that I'd get the long table out of the way (so much for that). The plate is arranged like a clock face, with a small snack at 12, 2, 4, 8, and 10:
On our first date, on our way to get a few sushi rolls, Kelly told me that he had double-booked in case the night went sour and he needed a pick-me-up. Ever since, all I have heard about for the past ten months has been Cochon, Cochon, Cochon. When it came back to Boston, I made sure to go if only to see how I stacked up against this pork phenomenon. Their mission statement from their web page sort of says it all: "Cochon 555 is a one-of-a-kind traveling culinary competition and tasting event--five chefs, five pigs, five wine makers--to promote sustainable farming of heritage breed pigs." Well, I may not have five chefs, wine makers, or pigs, but I can bend myself in half and talk dirty in Spanish (What you got now, Cochon?!)...
For weeks before the event, I visited their website. I studied the breeds of heritage pigs, which in itself is a little creepy and fascinating when you realize that you're reading about how something has been breed purely for flavor or the marbling of the muscle. I memorized a few names and tried to remember a few facts of each pig so that I would at least sound somewhat intelligent when asked which was better, the Large Black or Duroc. But once I stepped inside the hotel, it was forced out by the smell of bacon and the overwhelming stimulus from baroque architecture.
At the VIP event beforehand, we bonded with a representative from Yelp! and the sister of a caviar producer and her husband. (These would be the people I spent the evening with while Kelly was sequestered as a judge.) We took turns guarding the tiny, tall table and our wine glasses as one or two people went off for cheese, wine, or St. Germaine cocktails. Our holding pattern worked so well that after they showed a promotional video and opened the doors, we continued to work together to guard the limited space set aside.
As is, I only managed to get to three chefs' tables and the Elk Cove Vineyard table as the deluge of people flooded the function hall of the Fairmont. Although two hours seems like plenty of time to get to every chef, wine maker, and pig, no one seemed to take into consideration that people really like their pig...Regardless, the few people I got to were well worth the wait.
Duroc/Yorkshire
There is little information on this cross-breed of pig. All I could learn was that the Duroc is a large, aggressive red boar; the Yorkshire is a pale white and known for its lean meat; and both are a perfect pig to cross-breed.
The first table I spotted had a small line already started, so I threw myself in knowing that I'd get the long table out of the way (so much for that). The plate is arranged like a clock face, with a small snack at 12, 2, 4, 8, and 10:
- The croquette had a nice crunch and a good bite from a spicy red sauce.
- The caviar-maker's sister all but swallowed her waffle whole and purred that I had to try it next. Slathered with a thin sauce and a slab of pork, the waffle added a nice bit of substance as the pork all but melted with each bite.
- Next came a pig's ear (at least I thought it was) with pop rocks. Although a strange combo, it was far from the strangest and added a nice, lighter dimension.
- The least favorite dish was the blood sausage on a bed of beans. Although the white beans were creamy and added a nice contrast, the blood sausage was too dense and its spice was too much of a contrast to the beans.
- The dessert, however, made up for the poorer sausage. A rich chocolate cookie, the filling was made from bacon fat. Decadent and filling, it went very well with the reds being served. The caviar-maker's sister made sure to go back and pocket several more in her purse for later.
Large Black
Originally a Chinese breed, the Large Black is a rarer breed known for its taste and hardiness. The smaller marbling and shorter fibers of the meat make this breed the perfect choice for bacon. The team (headed by a chef named Mary) also wore "Mary had a Large Black" t-shirts that I coveted greatly...
I got the table for the Large Black after sampling the wines at Elk Cove. Mulling over my glass, I watched as the sous chefs platted two dishes. The pulled pork rillette (Lunch) was served in mason jars topped with pickles and coarse-grain mustard, and served with hard crostini. I ate as much of the jar as possible, treating the dish almost like a high-brow pork dip and fishing the pink bits out with the edges of the bread. The slow-cooked pork loin and kimchi pickles on a grilled pita (Dinner) was almost like a White-people pork bun. But, as the first table, the best dish was the dessert. Ethereal and surprising, the cotton candy looked innocent until I bit into it. Acting as the basis, a thick strip of bacon added a needed salty taste to the sweeter spun sugar that my co-workers still will not believe in (despite my photographic evidence...it's not Bigfoot people!)
Red Wattle
Named for its red color and unfortunate jowls (think octogenarian chicken), this breed has lean and juicy meat that has a beef-like taste and texture.
This was the table that ate up all my time. Waiting in line (for half-an-hour), I sucked down the last of my wine and gratefully took a slice of the pork hock and drunken pineapple pizza. Familiar and close to the one that Kelly and I order all the time (pineapples, bacon, and jalapenos), the drunken fruit is almost flammable and hurts to eat. At the table, I find that most of the seven dishes are already gone. I take a ladel of the chestnut flour pappardelle with pig's head and celery heart ragu, while the chef carves. She plates the porchetta with dried peach and pistachio and cuts a wedge of lard and lemon pastry to go with it. I spot her doughnuts in their warmers and fish one out with my fork. At this point, I have eaten at least one entire pig by myself. I fork as much of the ragu as I can, but it's not as appetizing as it would have been hours ago. Likewise, I can't bring myself to eat more than half of the porchetta and lard/lemon pastry. The doughnut, however, is airy and delicious. It tastes like summer and doesn't sit as heavy as the other pastry. It's only later that I find out it is a pig's feet and Mexican spiced margarita doughnut with salt and lime juice.
Kelly finds me leaning against the table, trying to find room for the chicharron and dark chocolate dip that is making it's way around the floor. He smiles wide and puts down a plate of porcelet de lait (milk-fed piggy veal). At this point, I am drunk, filled with so much pig I have grown hooves, and exhausted for being on them for hours. I nibble half-heartedly at the porcelet and watch as they name the winning chef (the Duroc/Yorkshire). We all clap and I am grateful when the waiter comes to take our mostly empty plate away, saving me from myself.
Following the river of people out of the hotel, we join up with more of Kelly's friends and brave the winter towards the after party (where I don't even think of eating anything ever again). Flushed with the cold, we order a few more drinks and try to digest. Kelly sits across from me and everyone is drunk on pig and alcohol. I sink further into my chair, fully aware now what I am worth in pork.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
"Hello, my name is Mark and I am a wine snob..."
Or, The harmful effects of the Boston Wine Expo
I have come to a dangerous conclusion of my character. After yet another stressful day at work, I shrugged off my coat, left my shoes at the door still clinging onto one sock in desperation, and pour a glass of Merlot. I take a sip, swallow, and stare at the bottle in despair. The last of my stash from the holidays, it was a gift from my boss and has a crow on the label. And my praise stops there. I take another sip in hopes that it was a fluke--a bad sip--but the second one tastes the same. I used to be able to drink anything short of vinegar as long as it was made from grapes. I pour the glass out into the sink and look at my corked bottle as the realization sets in. I have finally become a wine snob.
Clearly the blame can be placed at Kelly's feet. The day of the Boston Wine Expo, he wakes me up extra early so that we can shower, dress, and grab a quick bite to eat before the unwashed masses take over the convention center. The massive blue room is broken down into grids, squares of tables arranged by country, wine produced, items sold, food. I snap my plastic badge onto by belt loop. "GUEST OF Kelly..." it screams above a bright orange bar proudly announcing "TRADE VIP" with its chest puffed out and fists on hips. "Oh great, now people are going to want to talk to me," Kelly says as he looks at his own badge with his restaurant under his name. His face says he's miffed, but I don't believe it. The man behind us mentions that we shouldn't miss the Barefoot table, and Kelly snorts. "Don't worry, we will," he says.
We grab our glasses and Kelly darts off as if he is trying to lose me. He pauses at the tables to see what's there, but darts as soon as it's clear he won't drink anything. We start with Prosecco and a sweeter white before dashing off to try some hearty reds. Cards are exchanged at every table we stop at for more than two glasses. Kelly cherry-picks vintages and varietals and shakes hands. I swallow a few of the whites, but spend the rest of the morning trying to master the spit bucket. Leaning over, I feel as if I just finished brushing my teeth and it looks like I cut a gum. Holding the bucket up closer has the dangerous risk of splash-back if the bucket is full, with one attempt ending in frantic scrubbing of my face with water and a napkin from the cheese table. It's only after our 20th table that I find the perfect height to hold the bucket (chest level) and the velocity to spit (just enough force to jet the wine like I'm a drunken fountain loose from my pedestal).
Running to the back, Kelly gasps at the square of tables tucked away forgotten before the seminar rooms. "Ooh, Greek wine," he says. The woman behind the table gets Kel's card and spends our time at her booth chasing him from bottle to bottle. "We would love to interview you for local carriers that feature our wines," she says with a whisper of desperation behind her earnest smile. Kelly promises to take her call and we sip the first, a Santorini. Sharp and clear, it tastes like nothing I have ever had before. I swallow it wishing I could get a second glass without seeming greedy. The people behind the table present each wine with a story--grape vines grown into basket shapes to protect the delicate fruit, clay slopes the color of brick that must be snacked on by the people visiting for the first time. Each wine from the first to the ending samples of Samos are perfect and make everything else seem lesser in comparison. Oh sure, the Georgia [the country, not the state] table was very good, but nothing else felt on par with the Greek wine. "You should blog about this and call it 'It's all Greek to me'!" Kelly says.
We pause for a seminar featuring most of Kelly's friends. But after an intelligent discussion (with one yahoo dominating a small part of it), I feel the morning catching up with me. My mouth gets dry from the many tastings and spittings. My gums are woolly and my teeth feel a little filmy. I grab a glass of water to rinse and continue on to the Grand Cru lounge, which has fewer wines at a higher price that don't speak to me at all (the best item there was the wine cookies that were designed to cleanse the pallet between tastings). By the end, I am tired, drained, and educated.
I plug the bottle of red in my kitchen and hope that it can be saved to cook with, but I have a feeling it won't. As they always say, you should cook with what you like to drink...and I apparently like to drink something of substance.
I have come to a dangerous conclusion of my character. After yet another stressful day at work, I shrugged off my coat, left my shoes at the door still clinging onto one sock in desperation, and pour a glass of Merlot. I take a sip, swallow, and stare at the bottle in despair. The last of my stash from the holidays, it was a gift from my boss and has a crow on the label. And my praise stops there. I take another sip in hopes that it was a fluke--a bad sip--but the second one tastes the same. I used to be able to drink anything short of vinegar as long as it was made from grapes. I pour the glass out into the sink and look at my corked bottle as the realization sets in. I have finally become a wine snob.
Clearly the blame can be placed at Kelly's feet. The day of the Boston Wine Expo, he wakes me up extra early so that we can shower, dress, and grab a quick bite to eat before the unwashed masses take over the convention center. The massive blue room is broken down into grids, squares of tables arranged by country, wine produced, items sold, food. I snap my plastic badge onto by belt loop. "GUEST OF Kelly..." it screams above a bright orange bar proudly announcing "TRADE VIP" with its chest puffed out and fists on hips. "Oh great, now people are going to want to talk to me," Kelly says as he looks at his own badge with his restaurant under his name. His face says he's miffed, but I don't believe it. The man behind us mentions that we shouldn't miss the Barefoot table, and Kelly snorts. "Don't worry, we will," he says.
We grab our glasses and Kelly darts off as if he is trying to lose me. He pauses at the tables to see what's there, but darts as soon as it's clear he won't drink anything. We start with Prosecco and a sweeter white before dashing off to try some hearty reds. Cards are exchanged at every table we stop at for more than two glasses. Kelly cherry-picks vintages and varietals and shakes hands. I swallow a few of the whites, but spend the rest of the morning trying to master the spit bucket. Leaning over, I feel as if I just finished brushing my teeth and it looks like I cut a gum. Holding the bucket up closer has the dangerous risk of splash-back if the bucket is full, with one attempt ending in frantic scrubbing of my face with water and a napkin from the cheese table. It's only after our 20th table that I find the perfect height to hold the bucket (chest level) and the velocity to spit (just enough force to jet the wine like I'm a drunken fountain loose from my pedestal).
Running to the back, Kelly gasps at the square of tables tucked away forgotten before the seminar rooms. "Ooh, Greek wine," he says. The woman behind the table gets Kel's card and spends our time at her booth chasing him from bottle to bottle. "We would love to interview you for local carriers that feature our wines," she says with a whisper of desperation behind her earnest smile. Kelly promises to take her call and we sip the first, a Santorini. Sharp and clear, it tastes like nothing I have ever had before. I swallow it wishing I could get a second glass without seeming greedy. The people behind the table present each wine with a story--grape vines grown into basket shapes to protect the delicate fruit, clay slopes the color of brick that must be snacked on by the people visiting for the first time. Each wine from the first to the ending samples of Samos are perfect and make everything else seem lesser in comparison. Oh sure, the Georgia [the country, not the state] table was very good, but nothing else felt on par with the Greek wine. "You should blog about this and call it 'It's all Greek to me'!" Kelly says.
We pause for a seminar featuring most of Kelly's friends. But after an intelligent discussion (with one yahoo dominating a small part of it), I feel the morning catching up with me. My mouth gets dry from the many tastings and spittings. My gums are woolly and my teeth feel a little filmy. I grab a glass of water to rinse and continue on to the Grand Cru lounge, which has fewer wines at a higher price that don't speak to me at all (the best item there was the wine cookies that were designed to cleanse the pallet between tastings). By the end, I am tired, drained, and educated.
I plug the bottle of red in my kitchen and hope that it can be saved to cook with, but I have a feeling it won't. As they always say, you should cook with what you like to drink...and I apparently like to drink something of substance.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Homeless fishman Christmas
I slump over onto my desk. My computer stares back with judgment across its screen, knowing full well what I did last night. "Well, your shoes are at least different," Virginia says with a giggle. "So you only look a little homeless." I mumble something unintelligible and reach for my water. I feel twisted and rung out like a used sponge, but it was worth it for the Feast of the Seven Fishes.
The name itself evokes some sort of ancient ritual. It's other name is the Vigil [La Vigilia], which only enhances this feel. It has also been a tradition for Kelly's Bottega friends. Since we have been seriously dating, I have heard of the magical night from Kelly at odd times. It's always said with the glitter and awe that most see in five year olds when listening to them talk about Santa.
The day of, we gather/pre-game at Karen and Michael's apartment. Karen's mother coos at the baby as Michael pours champagne for a toast. A second toast is done when Cordelia arrives, and yet a third as we get to the restaurant and meet up with Evie. The waitress seats us at a gorgeous table in the back and Kelly makes the first choice of wine for the night. Nestled between Kelly and Cordelia, I keep shooting goofy looks to Karen (the only other non-wine geek) and prepare myself for the long haul.
Fish #1 - Cherrystone clams & pemaquid oysters with prosecco mignonette and lemon
Fish #2 - Duet of Tuna (yellowfin tartare, Spanish mojama, and artichoke)
The first two dishes come out almost in tandem. The salty shellfish barely sucked down before the waiter returns with the tuna. He refills our glasses [pouring a sliver more for me because, according to Kel, I am "the hot one"] and someone initiates "the Ugly Shell Game." As the clams and oysters are sucked down, we flip the shells over and stare at the coarse, raw sides blasted with years of saltwater. I have the contender for most of the game until Karen flips her knotted and pitted oyster.
Fish #3 - North End whipped baccala with olive oil, grilled bread, and wild mushrooms
Fish #4 - Neptune Waldorf salad with smoked salmon, grapes, walnuts, and apples
Evie picks the next bottle as Kelly chases the chef (a friend of the group's) back into the kitchen to make sure he knows about Karen's nut allergy. "Kelly! He knows!" she shouts as he disappears behind a corner. The baccala is airy and savory. I dollop more of what I can only assume is a fine mousse of mushroom and olive oil onto it and force myself to start pacing. I haven't really eaten all day and I binge on the fish and wine as if it were my last meal. The salad is just as delicious--Karen's well-being saved by her own plate with some hot pepper to replace the effect of the missing nuts.
Fish #5 - George's Bank diver scallops with celery root, golden raisins, and petite mache
Fish #6 - Grilled Main lobster tail with buttery leeks, shaved black truffle, and chanterelles
Michael's turn for another white that pairs as perfectly with the fish as the previous choices. The scallops are plated like delicate sculptures, looking very much like the netsuke display at the MFA. Caramelized on top, they melt away from the fork in a way I have never seen in seafood and I swallow mine with as much gusto as the baccala. "This is my favorite holiday tradition!" Kelly beams and Michael smiles wide. "That's eight," he says and the rest of the wine geeks applaud Cordelia for her guess. "We had a pool going to see how many times he would say that," Karen explains to me as Kelly faux-fumes.
Fish #7 - Roasted monkfish with shellfish brodetto, roasted tomato, and olives
Kelly's indignation is cut off by the last fish. At this point, I am a human aquarium with the devoured fish swimming in the perfect whites. Cordelia makes the last wine choice and I look down at my monkfish. The last serving on the plate, it's heaped with vegetables and looks nothing like the monster it came from. Drinking a generous helping of the new wine, I plow through the fish before foisting my shellfish brodetto onto Kelly. The other people at the table, however, are in a similar state...nursing their wine glasses and looking down at the ruins of their plates.
After the "Merry Christmases" and drunken hugs, Kelly and I load up into a cab back to Cambridge. Content and lit like a Christmas tree, I drunkenly hug his arm the whole ride back. "And just think," Kelly says with an evil smile, "You get to do the meat feast tomorrow..."
To be continued.
The name itself evokes some sort of ancient ritual. It's other name is the Vigil [La Vigilia], which only enhances this feel. It has also been a tradition for Kelly's Bottega friends. Since we have been seriously dating, I have heard of the magical night from Kelly at odd times. It's always said with the glitter and awe that most see in five year olds when listening to them talk about Santa.
The day of, we gather/pre-game at Karen and Michael's apartment. Karen's mother coos at the baby as Michael pours champagne for a toast. A second toast is done when Cordelia arrives, and yet a third as we get to the restaurant and meet up with Evie. The waitress seats us at a gorgeous table in the back and Kelly makes the first choice of wine for the night. Nestled between Kelly and Cordelia, I keep shooting goofy looks to Karen (the only other non-wine geek) and prepare myself for the long haul.
Fish #1 - Cherrystone clams & pemaquid oysters with prosecco mignonette and lemon
Fish #2 - Duet of Tuna (yellowfin tartare, Spanish mojama, and artichoke)
The first two dishes come out almost in tandem. The salty shellfish barely sucked down before the waiter returns with the tuna. He refills our glasses [pouring a sliver more for me because, according to Kel, I am "the hot one"] and someone initiates "the Ugly Shell Game." As the clams and oysters are sucked down, we flip the shells over and stare at the coarse, raw sides blasted with years of saltwater. I have the contender for most of the game until Karen flips her knotted and pitted oyster.
Fish #3 - North End whipped baccala with olive oil, grilled bread, and wild mushrooms
Fish #4 - Neptune Waldorf salad with smoked salmon, grapes, walnuts, and apples
Evie picks the next bottle as Kelly chases the chef (a friend of the group's) back into the kitchen to make sure he knows about Karen's nut allergy. "Kelly! He knows!" she shouts as he disappears behind a corner. The baccala is airy and savory. I dollop more of what I can only assume is a fine mousse of mushroom and olive oil onto it and force myself to start pacing. I haven't really eaten all day and I binge on the fish and wine as if it were my last meal. The salad is just as delicious--Karen's well-being saved by her own plate with some hot pepper to replace the effect of the missing nuts.
Fish #5 - George's Bank diver scallops with celery root, golden raisins, and petite mache
Fish #6 - Grilled Main lobster tail with buttery leeks, shaved black truffle, and chanterelles
Michael's turn for another white that pairs as perfectly with the fish as the previous choices. The scallops are plated like delicate sculptures, looking very much like the netsuke display at the MFA. Caramelized on top, they melt away from the fork in a way I have never seen in seafood and I swallow mine with as much gusto as the baccala. "This is my favorite holiday tradition!" Kelly beams and Michael smiles wide. "That's eight," he says and the rest of the wine geeks applaud Cordelia for her guess. "We had a pool going to see how many times he would say that," Karen explains to me as Kelly faux-fumes.
Fish #7 - Roasted monkfish with shellfish brodetto, roasted tomato, and olives
Kelly's indignation is cut off by the last fish. At this point, I am a human aquarium with the devoured fish swimming in the perfect whites. Cordelia makes the last wine choice and I look down at my monkfish. The last serving on the plate, it's heaped with vegetables and looks nothing like the monster it came from. Drinking a generous helping of the new wine, I plow through the fish before foisting my shellfish brodetto onto Kelly. The other people at the table, however, are in a similar state...nursing their wine glasses and looking down at the ruins of their plates.
After the "Merry Christmases" and drunken hugs, Kelly and I load up into a cab back to Cambridge. Content and lit like a Christmas tree, I drunkenly hug his arm the whole ride back. "And just think," Kelly says with an evil smile, "You get to do the meat feast tomorrow..."
To be continued.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
One of these things is not like the other
I can feel the sweat trickling down my spine. I would love to take my vest off, but I'm afraid of any dark spots that might be showing underneath. A part of it is from the heat, but another part is the spotlight my boyfriend, Kelly, keeps shining on me. He tells another story to the crowd in front of him, waits for the polite laughs to fade out before using me as another example in his wine talk.
I usually wouldn't mind, but the people around me are in a whole other social scene. Food writers, editors, critics, and the like all turn to me each time Kelly says "my boyfriend". They're wearing designer dresses and suits. Their jewelry shines in the overhead lighting and reflects against the sterling silver merchandise of the boutique we're borrowing. I am doing all I can not to sweat through my clearance rack dress shirt, pinstripe slacks, and vest (which is too damn hot for the summer, but is cooler than a blazer). Their conversations all surround the latest food trends and whether or not it was a good soft-shell crab season. Do I know if kumquats are a making a comeback? I would be hard-pressed to tell you what a kumquat tastes like...
The food editor running the tasting with Kel asks about pairing. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiles, and tells the crowd that you don't have to match reds with red meat and whites with white meat (it's apparently an outdated trend from the '60s...who knew?). Someone else asks why the sparkling wasn't served in a champagne flute. "It's all about finding what you like. It doesn't matter what the vintage is or what glasses you use...Your job when you go to the restaurant is to remember the last wine that you liked. Mine is to find something else like it you'll enjoy."
I mingle with the crowd while Kelly pours. By "mingle", I mean I hide along the wall and make small talk while wedged between a sterling silver table display and a decorative column. I pick at the delicious cheese platters and the skewers of olive, prosciutto, and pickle. I answer the same questions from all the industry people. "Yes, he is great. Four months. No, we don't. No, I'm a technical editor." I spare them the details of my work, but punctuate my ignorance of wine with the same joke. "Sometimes, when he gets really geeky, all I hear is muh-na-mo-na." I sing like a Muppet to the food editor of a prestigious magazine.
Out of nowhere, a woman approaches me. She's dressed up like the others, but she's a little tipsy and has a rougher edge to her voice. "So I hear you're the boyfriend? That's great. I get dragged to all of my girlfriend's office events, too." She slurs a quick history of being at the event with a few friends (one her ex-girlfriend) and says it's great that the gays are getting more visible. I swallow the rest of my white and nod innocuously. The ex is a WASP with wounded doe eyes, watching carefully for the tipsy lesbian to make the transition to drunk and scene-causing. She gives me a hug and disappears with her friends to another event, only to be replaced by a man in a polo, khaki shorts, and same slippery speech. He tells me what a wonderful time he's having, mistaken that I either had a hand in planning the tasting or that Kelly and I could pass praise to each other through osmosis.
As he left to find his buddies (he'd return for a handshake and an odd hug), I began to feel more comfortable. I had the same number of glasses as they did, but I was vertical, clear-headed, and the redness in my face could have easily been from the heat and sunshine. For all their gusto and vocabulary (One day, I'll ask Kelly to explain the importance of the cru to me), they were really there for the same reason I was...to get a little slippery and meet some interesting people. In the last 15-20 minutes of the tasting, I was told the same story twice by the woman I Muppeted, hugged again by the man in the polo, and invited to New York by one of the boutique's Manhattan representatives.
(Usually, the tastings provide you with a list of all the featured wines, but Kelly said that it was too formal for this particular event...and since I don't speak French and couldn't discern what was the vineyard and what was the grape, I have my assessment of the night's wines in a numbered list. I'll bother Kel for their names later...).
French #1 - Sparkling (not champagne); sharp and dry with a clean taste
French #2 - White; sharp and sweet with a hint of peaches in the background
French #3 - Rose; softer and almost savory with a mineral aftertaste
French #4 - Red (Beaujolais); earthy and peppery with a basil-like taste
French #5 - Red (Beaujolais); sweeter with a slightly floral taste (but only in the sense that you hear "oh it has floral undertones" and think "well, I guess that's what that is...")
Note: #4 and #5 were chosen specifically by Kelly because they were in the same region and only two years apart to show the variety of Beaujolais.
I usually wouldn't mind, but the people around me are in a whole other social scene. Food writers, editors, critics, and the like all turn to me each time Kelly says "my boyfriend". They're wearing designer dresses and suits. Their jewelry shines in the overhead lighting and reflects against the sterling silver merchandise of the boutique we're borrowing. I am doing all I can not to sweat through my clearance rack dress shirt, pinstripe slacks, and vest (which is too damn hot for the summer, but is cooler than a blazer). Their conversations all surround the latest food trends and whether or not it was a good soft-shell crab season. Do I know if kumquats are a making a comeback? I would be hard-pressed to tell you what a kumquat tastes like...
The food editor running the tasting with Kel asks about pairing. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiles, and tells the crowd that you don't have to match reds with red meat and whites with white meat (it's apparently an outdated trend from the '60s...who knew?). Someone else asks why the sparkling wasn't served in a champagne flute. "It's all about finding what you like. It doesn't matter what the vintage is or what glasses you use...Your job when you go to the restaurant is to remember the last wine that you liked. Mine is to find something else like it you'll enjoy."
I mingle with the crowd while Kelly pours. By "mingle", I mean I hide along the wall and make small talk while wedged between a sterling silver table display and a decorative column. I pick at the delicious cheese platters and the skewers of olive, prosciutto, and pickle. I answer the same questions from all the industry people. "Yes, he is great. Four months. No, we don't. No, I'm a technical editor." I spare them the details of my work, but punctuate my ignorance of wine with the same joke. "Sometimes, when he gets really geeky, all I hear is muh-na-mo-na." I sing like a Muppet to the food editor of a prestigious magazine.
Out of nowhere, a woman approaches me. She's dressed up like the others, but she's a little tipsy and has a rougher edge to her voice. "So I hear you're the boyfriend? That's great. I get dragged to all of my girlfriend's office events, too." She slurs a quick history of being at the event with a few friends (one her ex-girlfriend) and says it's great that the gays are getting more visible. I swallow the rest of my white and nod innocuously. The ex is a WASP with wounded doe eyes, watching carefully for the tipsy lesbian to make the transition to drunk and scene-causing. She gives me a hug and disappears with her friends to another event, only to be replaced by a man in a polo, khaki shorts, and same slippery speech. He tells me what a wonderful time he's having, mistaken that I either had a hand in planning the tasting or that Kelly and I could pass praise to each other through osmosis.
As he left to find his buddies (he'd return for a handshake and an odd hug), I began to feel more comfortable. I had the same number of glasses as they did, but I was vertical, clear-headed, and the redness in my face could have easily been from the heat and sunshine. For all their gusto and vocabulary (One day, I'll ask Kelly to explain the importance of the cru to me), they were really there for the same reason I was...to get a little slippery and meet some interesting people. In the last 15-20 minutes of the tasting, I was told the same story twice by the woman I Muppeted, hugged again by the man in the polo, and invited to New York by one of the boutique's Manhattan representatives.
(Usually, the tastings provide you with a list of all the featured wines, but Kelly said that it was too formal for this particular event...and since I don't speak French and couldn't discern what was the vineyard and what was the grape, I have my assessment of the night's wines in a numbered list. I'll bother Kel for their names later...).
French #1 - Sparkling (not champagne); sharp and dry with a clean taste
French #2 - White; sharp and sweet with a hint of peaches in the background
French #3 - Rose; softer and almost savory with a mineral aftertaste
French #4 - Red (Beaujolais); earthy and peppery with a basil-like taste
French #5 - Red (Beaujolais); sweeter with a slightly floral taste (but only in the sense that you hear "oh it has floral undertones" and think "well, I guess that's what that is...")
Note: #4 and #5 were chosen specifically by Kelly because they were in the same region and only two years apart to show the variety of Beaujolais.
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