May 26, 2005: Bergamot and Nettles
- By Dan Clarke
- Published 05/26/2005
- Opinion
Dan Clarke
California Wine Press publishes two internet magazines.
www.californiawineandfood.com (CWF) addresses the interests of restaurant and hospitality professionals.
Your kind comments have been much appreciated. Thank you. You may contact us at info@californiawineandfood.com
Regards,
Dan Clarke, Publisher
The sensory analysis of wine is more complex than you might think. Or maybe it’s just more fatuous.
In the last two weeks, press materials accompanying wines shipped for review have described one wine as having the aroma of bergamot and another is said to taste like nettles.
Our readers are a savvy lot, for the most part. No doubt some of you know about bergamot and nettles and know how they smell and what they taste like. I do not, however.
Bergamot sounded vaguely familiar, but the truth is, I don’t really know Bergamot from Burgermeister.* So I went to my desk copy of The Oxford Dictionary of Current English. Two entries were found as follows:
“bergamot n. 1. Perfume from the fruit of a dwarf orange tree. 2. Aromatic herb (Bergamo in Italy)”
and
“bergamot, n. variety of fine pear. (Turkish, = prince’s pear)”
As it happens, we just planted a couple of dwarf orange trees in pots at either side of the front door. While there are a lot of little dark green oranges-to-be on the plants, I stuck my head right into the midst of them and did not smell a thing. We do have a full-size orange tree in the back yard and I know that when it’s blossoming it gives off a lovely perfume. Maybe bergamot is something like this, I thought.
My jars of herbs and spices do not include any bergamot labels and I don’t remember any bergamot references on my trips to Italy. Perhaps I did experience Bergamo (the herb) and just didn’t realize it, which would be a pity.
In another context, bergamot may indeed be a variety of fine pear. However, I can tell you that if it’s a variety grown in California it’s exceedingly obscure. I speak as someone who includes the job of pear inspector in his checkered resume (this is not a joke. I was licensed by the government to do this work). Maybe you have to hang out with princes in Turkey to experience such bergamots (I’ve not visited Turkey and my license, undoubtedly expired by now, would likely have no standing in that country anyway).
From the same dictionary:
“nettle, n. 1. Plant with jagged leaves covered with stinging hairs. 2. Plant resembling this. –v. (-ling) irritate, provoke. (Old English)”
While I’ve heard somewhere about how nettles can be included in a salad, I certainly haven’t done so. The dictionary definition above plays to my, admittedly limited, knowledge of the subject. I recall a reference to “stinging nettles” in the Boy Scout Handbook. I think it was in that section that included information on first-aid for snake bites.
Yet, some winery tells wine writers that one of their products tastes like nettles (to be fair, that was only one of the descriptors used and maybe there’s another kind of nettle that neither I, nor Oxford knows about).
My colleagues must be much more worldly than I and have more highly-developed palates if they can identify wine qualities like these.
*Burgermeister was a West Coast beer available in my youth and in my father’s, too.
--Dan Clarke
May 5, 2005: British Magazine Picks 50 Top Restaurants in World
Restaurant, a London-based magazine, recently announced its list of the world’s 50 best restaurants. The French Laundry in Yountville, California was rated third, following the magazine’s ultimate pick, the Fat Duck (U.K.) and its choice for second place, El Bulli (Spain). Thomas Keller, chef/proprietor of the French Laundry, also received honors for his New York City restaurant, Per Se (7th). Two more California restaurants were honored; Chez Panisse of Berkeley (13th), and Manresa of Los Gatos (38th). Other American restaurants nominated included Charlie Trotter of Chicago (14th) and two from New York City; Gramercy Tavern (15th) and WD50 (34th). Of the list of 50, 14 were English.
The establishments were selected by a panel of over 600 restaurateurs, critics, chefs and industry experts from around the world. I was not invited to participate, which is just as well, because I know most of those anointed only by reputation, rather than first-hand experience.
A visit to the website for The Fat Duck in Bray (in the Berkshire countryside outside London) reveals a sample degustation menu at $£97.50 ($183.). A selection of wines to accompany the meal was offered at additional £67.50 ($127.) or a variety of Taittinger Champagnes, also poured by the glass, could be had at £90. ($169.). O.K., it’s pricey, but wouldn’t that be expected of the best restaurant in the world?
And the sommelier will be pouring those glasses with what sort of food? Of the many tasting courses, the Poached Breast of Anjou Pigeon Pancetta sounded good and my first thought was maybe a red Burgundy (Pinot Noir) would work. Other offerings posed challenges. Snail Porridge? Well, I don’t really know what Chef Heston Blumenthal had in mind, but if his porridge included some cream, maybe a white Burgundy or Chardonnay could tie those two elements together with the escargot. Much more difficult would be such courses as Sardines on Toast Sorbet, Mango and Douglas Fir Puree and the Smoked Bacon and Egg Ice Cream.
Someone who writes about wine and food in California should have some familiarity with the avant garde, but I’m clueless. As weird as the food at The Fat Duck sounds, it probably really does taste good. After all, it has three Michelin stars. I am curious about the wine list, but didn’t find it listed on their website. Next time I’m in London and want something more exotic than curry, maybe I’ll give the place a try.
The complete list of Restaurant’s to 50 choices can be seen at http://www.50bestrestaurants.co.uk/
January 6, 2005: Three Years
Thursday January 6, 2005 marks the distribution of our 156th newsletter. It highlights—and provides links to--new articles at our two internet-based magazines. The first of these, California Wine and Food, has been published online for four years and now specializes in news and features aimed at food service and hospitality professionals. Its sister publication, Taste California Travel, debuted a little over a year ago and addresses the interest of consumers. Their several predecessors date back to the Foothill Wine Press, a black and white tabloid whose first edition appeared this month in the year 1985.
Since we publish the newsletter weekly, dividing by 52 leads me to conclude that we’ve put it out for three full years. Somewhere in the first couple of months we encountered a computer glitch that delayed us one day. Other than that one tardy issue, we’ve been delivered electronically every Thursday morning around 9:30 or 10 a.m. Pacific Time. I don’t know who keeps statistics on such performance, but I’m told that kind of consistency is rare. This regular publishing of our weekly newsletter insures that not only do keep faith with our subscribers, but that the much larger audiences who visit our website magazines without the reminders included in these updates will have access to anywhere from four to a dozen new features every week.
All this would not happen without the extraordinary dedication of our Webmaster, Beth Bridges and the very talented writers whose work you see in these electronic pages. We hope that our efforts are finding favor with our readers and always welcome your comments and suggestions on how we can serve you better.
If you’re not a subscriber and are reading these words directly from the website, we invite you to sign up for our free weekly newsletter.
December 16, 2004: Ah, The Funny Papers
It’s a good thing I read just two papers each morning. Any more and I wouldn’t get anything done. This longtime habit precedes my digging into work each day. For all the hours spent poring over newspapers I suppose I do know a bit more about the world in which I live. That’s not why I read them though. The entertainment value is paramount and sometimes it’s almost surreal.
In today’s San Francisco Chronicle, most of page A13 (main news section) is devoted to a color ad from Macy’s in which Donald Trump, the New York real estate magnate, appears with a very attractive woman in a sexy gown who is draped all over him. Is she his wife? His girlfriend? Just a model? Not keeping track of this guy too closely, I wouldn’t know. He’s a pleasant enough looking man, I suppose, and about my age. He seems to dress well and I imagine he could be attractive to glamorous women younger than he is. After checking out the picture for a moment I wondered what he was selling.
Above the photograph I saw printed in Christmas red . . . DONALD TRUMP, THE FRAGRANCE.
Who the hell would want to smell like Donald Trump, I wondered? For that matter, who would want to smell like any other man—or woman? The ad copy calls the product “The uncompromising men’s fragrance.” Hmm. What fragrance, men’s or otherwise, would I consider compromising? It was getting weird. Reading further I saw, “Persuasive. Commanding. Determined. Inspired by the man who demands the best—and achieves it. Eau de Toilette Spray, 3.4oz. $60.”
This may be another one of those times when the literal and the subjective get confused. I’m pretty sure that Macy’s expects me to believe that if I spray this stuff on myself, I’ll have gorgeous young women hanging onto me. That would be a subjective and perhaps unreasonable assumption. I’ve just looked at the ad again and I can’t help but think “Smell like a rich guy for sixty bucks” is a really, really odd thing to want to do.
December 9, 2004: Post Season Football in California
Sports used to be more important to me. Now vulgar fans pay vulgar ticket prices and try to get into the act by baiting the players. Grossly overpaid professional athletes respond by yelling obscenities back at them, throwing chairs at them and going into the stands to beat up audience. Guys chasing records and record contracts take steroids to cheat in their assaults on those records. Witless owners, administrators and politicians profess they are shocked—just shocked—at such developments. Inflated egos, inflated contracts, inflated ticket prices, inflated bodies. I’m beyond indignation. I just don’t care much anymore.
An uplifting story in sports is rare these days. But it can happen and you’re more likely to find it on the collegiate level. One such situation is that of The University of California Golden Bears football team, coached by Jeff Tedford. In October they came an eyelash away from beating USC when Aaron Rogers’ last second pass fell incomplete in the Trojan’s end zone. But for that moment, they would have had an undefeated season. As it stands USC is undefeated and is ranked the number one team in the country.
Holiday Bowl
Cal (and we are talking Cal Berkeley here) will be playing Texas Tech in San Diego on December 30th in the Holiday Bowl. We wish the Bears and Coach Tedford well. They shown excellence on the field and have comported themselves with dignity off the field. They might have been playing in the more prestigious Rose Bowl game on January 1. But the day after the California team beat Southern Mississippi by an apparently insufficient margin in their last game of the season, the unfathomable Bowl Championship System (BCS), which ranks the teams for selection in the major bowls, inexplicably jumped the Texas Longhorns ahead of Cal. Tedford had said before the game that he would not seek to run up the score if Cal were on the way to victory. Ahead 26-16 and driving toward the So. Mississippi line in the waning moments, Cal “took a knee” (voluntarily gave up pursuit of another score). Coach Tedford showed respect for the opponent and took the honorable course. It’s pretty hard not to pull for a guy like that. Go Bears!
For more information about the Holiday Bowl and for tickets, see http://www.holidaybowl.com
East West Shrine Game
On January 15th the East West Shrine Game will be played at SBC Park in San Francisco. Monies raised in this charity event held annually since 1925 go to support the Shriners Hospital, which provides medical services at no charge to children with burns and orthopedic needs. Many of the best graduating seniors in the country are invited to play. Big names are there, as well as players from lesser-known programs. In recent years my own alma mater, Division I-AA Sacramento State, has sent running back Charles Roberts (now all-purpose yards leader in the Canadian Football League) and offensive tackle Marko Cavka (now with the New York Jets). This January wide receiver Fred Amey will represent us. I believe the Shrine Game slogan once was “Strong Legs Run, That Weak Legs May Walk.” It’s hard to top that, but maybe the current definition is even better, “Football’s Finest Hour.”
For more information about the East West Shrine Game and for tickets, see http://www.shrinegame.com
December 3, 2004: An Icon Passes
This morning I heard of the passing of Brother Timothy Diener. He was 94.
He was the winemaker at Christian Brothers from the mid-1930s until the teaching order sold their operation to Heublein in 1989. I had met him, but didn’t know him well enough that we’d be considered friends. Others were fortunate to have had that privilege, however. Many of them attended a celebration of his 75th year as a member of the Christian Brothers order last year. In his Napa Register article of Wednesday morning Pierce Carson quotes Robert Mondavi as saying, “When he was at Greystone and I was at (Charles) Krug, we were neighbors. Together with Louis Martini, Andre Tchelistcheff and the Solaris, we served as industry pioneers. He was a legend, he was the heart of the industry.”
Brother Tim seemed like a solid guy to me and I never heard anyone say a negative word about him. Some 15 years have passed since he had an active role in the wine world. Much has changed about the business and there may be people in the Napa Valley who’ve never heard of him. That’s unfortunate.
A funeral mass will begin at 10 a.m. at St. Apollinaris Catholic Church, 3700 Lassen St. in the city of Napa. Burial will follow in the Brothers Cemetery at Mont LaSalle.
November 24, 2004: A Holiday Reschedule
Those of you who’re still at work the day before Thanksgiving—or are otherwise near your computers--may notice that this newsletter—something like the 150th consecutive weekly edition—is arriving a day early. We were one day late in publishing one of the early issues, but for over two years we’ve been spot on, delivering our newsletter around 10 am Pacific Time each Thursday. To my recollection, those that would have fallen on the two Thanksgiving Thursdays prior were also published on Wednesday. This still counts as “on time” in my book and it’s a record of which I’m proud. That we have been able to do so has been due to the cooperation of our editorial “staff”--mostly freelancers whose professionalism exceeds any compensations they could receive from our modest operation. Most of all, the unsung hero has been Beth Bridges, our Webmaster, who has been essential to our cranking out a newsletter and updates for our two websites every week from the beginning.
1621
For most of my life I assumed that my heritage was half Irish (Fitzpatrick and Clarke), one-quarter French (Vallier, or maybe at one time, Valliere) and one-quarter Swedish (Carlson). There were rumors of another Irish name appearing on the maternal side of the history, but I hadn’t paid much attention.
Recently, my Aunt Earlene visited and presented me with documentation of much of the background in my Mother’s line. Earlene is a devout Catholic, but as a serious amateur historian she knows that the Mormons are a good source on genealogical matters. She and a graduate student spent a good deal of time researching things through traditional and Mormon channels. It would seem that the Swedish Carlsons merged with folks named Copeland about a century ago or maybe longer.
Now the Copeland clan goes way back in American history and are descended from a couple of people I actually remember reading about in school. John Alden was a young fellow of 20 or 21—a carpenter or a cooper, apparently--when he boarded the Mayflower, bound for Plymouth. Also on board was a young woman named Priscilla Mullins. Smitten with her, according to such modest reading I’ve done on the subject, Alden declined his planned return trip to mother England and the two became second couple wed in the Plymouth colony. This was in the latter part of 1621, the date generally acknowledged as that of that first Thanksgiving. So I have to believe that kinfolk were at that original turkey dinner. Until this revelation my frame of reference for the Mayflower was a pub by that name in San Rafael where Rugby-playing expatriates drank beer with their American teammates. This was some tie to written history, however obscure.
Further reading reveals that young Alden was in charge of the kegs of water and beer on his Mayflower. All right. My kinda man.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
November 18, 2004: More Turkey Heritage
Turkeys are everywhere these days. The food sections of today’s papers had recipes for preparation, side dishes to serve with the bird, wines that might pair well next Thursday. And, of course, there were the ads for Turkeys and the “all the trimmings.”
We even had a committee of turkeys visit our neighborhood the other day. Returning from a morning walk, we noticed a car stopped in the slow lane out front. Nobody stops on the roadway. Even pulling over to the side can be dangerous. Was somebody in trouble? Flat tire? Out of gas? Heart attack?
We live on a four-lane road, which can be busy, especially at commute times. As we approached from the intersecting street it became apparent that other cars were stopping, both behind this driver and in the adjacent lane, too. Looking to the right we saw that traffic from the other direction was stopping. The birds were back. Eleven wild turkeys had crossed the boulevard and were either wandering around at our side of the road or were moving that way from the slow lane. The speed limit is 40 mph and, unless congestion precludes, drivers typically exceed that by 10 to 15 mph. Yet here was traffic at a standstill. The lines of stopped cars, particularly going west toward downtown, were growing longer. Just one impatient person honked—and only once. At this point a couple of the stragglers decided to return to the south side of the road whence they came. Others followed. Eventually all 11 were meandering down the access road that parallels the other side, out of harm’s way for the moment at least. Traffic resumed its flow.
These were wild turkeys, presumably denizens of the American River Parkway, a nature area that follows the American River about half a mile away. While not the big and supposedly dumb, overfed and undersexed commercial turkeys of the sort discussed last week, these guys certainly didn’t seem to be as wily as those hunting shows on cable tv would have us believe wild turkeys are.
While Wild Turkey didn’t play a role in Thanksgiving dinner at my brother’s place some years ago, Jack Daniel’s did. I had flown up to visit with him and the family in eastern Washington where he’d relocated due to a job transfer. Arriving a day or two before the holiday, I noticed that their weather was a good deal brisker ours than Sacramento. Good, I thought. It really will put me in a holiday mood.
My brother had bought a nice piece of property overlooking a lake and with room for horses. Eventually, he built a new house there, but at this time he was still living in the original place, which was small and not in great repair. He was having trouble with the oven, in particular, but that would be no problem, he told me, as we’d cook the Thanksgiving turkey in the Weber out on the deck. He’d roasted turkeys in this kettle-style barbecue several times and it was a snap.
Our bird was well over 20 pounds, but when we put it on the grill the lid fit over it comfortably and snugly. Kevin’s method was to build a substantial charcoal fire, then move it into two pockets on either side. This would cook the turkey by “the indirect heat method.” His formula called for adding two or three—I can’t remember exactly—briquettes every 20 minutes to sustain the proper oven temperature. It was foolproof. He’d learned the technique from a cookbook and it always worked. Over morning coffee we double-checked the plan, multiplying the number of pounds the turkey weighed times the number of minutes it took per pound. Right. If all went according to plan, he’d be carving at 3.30 or 4 at the latest.
So we went out to the deck around 8:30 and built our fire. I had been sitting at the kitchen table next to the Franklin stove and had been pretty comfortable in just sweat pants and a T-shirt. I noticed it was nippy out there on the deck, but didn’t come in to put on slippers of a jacket. How long could it take to start the fire anyway? Returning to the kitchen we heard the tv weatherman tell us that it was 16 degrees. No wonder I was cold. Kevin proposed a remedy to my discomfort. He had just the thing—a very large bottle of Jack Daniel’s bought just the other day in anticipation of my arrival. Rarely do I drink spirits at any time of the day and never in the morning. However, it was very cold out there as the weatherman had confirmed. We each had a small shot. It was 9 am.
To maintain the heat inside the Weber kettle, it would be necessary to add a few coals every 20 minutes, once the proper oven temperature had been achieved. No thermometers were available, but we’d know by the grey color of the coals when that was. After an hour or so, we began adding the few charcoal briquettes three times each hour, following the plan to the letter. The T-shirt and sweat pants seemed so comfortable and appropriate for watching the endless parade of televised football games. I’d decided that I’d shower and change into something nicer before dinner went on the table.
We noticed that the bird didn’t seem to be browning as quickly as usual, but we knew were we following the can’t-miss formula—every 20 minutes adding a specific number of the briquettes. If the day did warm up, it wasn’t by much, because that Thursday the temperature never reached 20 degrees. So it was really cold each time we went out on the deck to add those coals. But the cold remedy, also scrupulously adhered to, was working well. We’d both continue having shots, though just little ones, each time we tended the turkey. We could tell that we were behind schedule. It was beginning to dawn on us that stoking a fire inside a Weber that was surrounded by sub-freezing temperature, might not be the conditions for which the can’t-fail couple-of- briquettes -every-20-minutes-method was calculated. But we weren’t unduly worried. Actually, Kevin and I felt pretty good.
We put the turkey on the table about eight that evening. It had mostly good color by then, except for the scars where we’d hacked off pieces to check for doneness beginning around 5.
The children had gotten in foul humor as they got hungrier, we were told the next morning. I think they had been fed something and put to bed before dinner was served. I don’t recall the mood of my brother’s wife, but I know I told him that I thought Mom was mad at us. Apparently, he recognized this, but neither of us was too worried about it.
I can’t remember what wines we had that night. It might have been suggested that we didn’t open any more bottles.
November 11, 2004: Turkey Heritages
Last week the butcher asked if I had ordered my Thanksgiving turkey yet. It was not the kind of store where just taking home a frozen bird a few days before the holiday was an option.
There was the house brand, the Corti Brothers bird, well known for its broad breast and lots of white meat, he said. A free range turkey and priced accordingly. Alternatively there would be “the Heritage Turkey.”
Of course I had to ask. This Heritage Turkey, it was explained, would more resemble a turkey from an earlier time—an era before the industry had selectively bred turkeys to produce birds with ever-larger breasts. A better dark-to-white meat-ratio and maybe more even more flavor seemed a powerful endorsement of this Heritage Turkey. Such a retro concept was not the most efficient method of farming poultry, I was informed, and such nostalgia came at a price. Now $3.99 a pound isn’t a lot to pay for meat these days, but when another market in town is advertising turkeys (admittedly, frozen) at 25 cents a pound when tied to a grocery purchase of $25, you need to think about these things.
While pondering this whole Heritage situation I recalled a story told me by someone who’d actually worked on a turkey farm. My friend Jon has recently retired from managing a vineyard in the Napa Valley, but in high school he worked weekends at such a place. Much of his work involved using a shovel, which Jon found unpleasant but not as bad as when he was assigned to help the veterinarian.
Even 40 years ago, turkeys were being bred to produce more of the supposedly more desirable white meat. This meant bigger breasts. Or chests, if you will. The birds were getting huge. If the turkeys went to a gym, these Toms would be benching 400 pounds. In the eyes of the hens they might have been quite studly, but their heroic avian physiques came at a price. The male birds had achieved such girth that they could no longer assume the position to accomplish their traditional procreative role. As I recall the story, artificial insemination was the answer. Jon’s duties included assisting the vet in this process.
No doubt the work was distasteful and I don’t really envy Jon for that experience. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to include that job title and description of duties on a resume.
October 28, 2004: A Curse Lifted
I’m a lapsed baseball fan. Actually, for an even longer time I’ve been a lapsed Boston Red Sox fan.
There was a time when I did follow baseball in Boston. That was before major league baseball came to the West Coast. My George Kell bat was preferred to the Jackie Robinson model (I wasn’t a Dodger fan.). Johnny Pesky and Ellis Kinder baseball cards were in my collection. Their pictures and those of other Red Sox players would be deployed in front of me when Boston was featured on radio’s Game of the Day. Jackie Jensen was in the outfield. There was a Northern California connection as he’d starred as a running back on Cal’s football team before a brief sojourn with the Yankees on the way to Massachussets. Dom Dimaggio (Joe’s brother) was a San Franciscan who’d contributed to the Red Sox good fortune over the years, as my father informed me. In the final days of the Pacific Coast League’s significance, before the move west of the Dodgers and Giants, the San Francisco Seals were the Triple-A farm club of the Red Sox. Favorites like catcher Haywood Sullivan and outfielder Albie Pearson were on the way up—or down—from the majors and playing in Edmonds Field against our Sacramento Solons. Ted Williams was perhaps the greatest pure hitter the game had seen before or since. He was from San Diego. There were many reasons to care about the Red Sox.
The “Curse” is the alleged legacy of cash-strapped Red Sox owner Harry Frazee, who won a World Series in 1918 and sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees the following year. Until Wednesday evening, 27 October in 2004, the Red Sox hadn’t won another one. I dropped into a spot on J Street and watched the first inning of tonight’s finale of the four-game sweep. My friend Jimmie Gould, who catches a game at Fenway when he returns to his East Longmeadow famiily each year, was intense--focused. We spoke during the ads, but not otherwise. I am pleased for Jim and all the Boston fans.
The saloon doesn’t have a big beer selection. It’s a place where I order a Bud if I’m not having something stronger. Tonight my St. Louis’ Budweiser would have been a Sam Adams if the joint had made that available. I wanted to make some belated amends to the baseball gods for my long hiatus from Red Sox fandom. In a belated attempt to find their favor I bought a large can of baked beans on the way home to accompany a very large pork chop I was to prepare. (I didn’t have the time or energy to make a chowder or some more creative paean to Boston). The beans tasted great. Turns out they were from Knoxville, Tennessee, which is hardly New England. No matter. They tasted fine. And Boston completed a four game sweep of the Cardinals in this World Series of 2004.
October 14, 2004: New-Mown Hay?
Writing wine reviews isn’t as easy as you might imagine. This is not to say it’s unpleasant work—certainly not when compared to other things I’ve done to put groceries on the table. I can assure you that it beats working 10 or 12-hour shifts in a hot tin can factory or inspecting almond samples for tiny flaws all day long.
Envious friends assume that analyzing wine samples for publication is like drinking wine, except that you get paid for it. It’s not quite that simple. Enjoying a good glass of wine is one of life’s great pleasures. If the wine is paired with good food, the experience is that much better. And if you’re in the company of good friends . . . well, that’s the best. In that context, wine is a wonderful part of life. Put too much emphasis on any one item in the equation and the sublime overall experience is lost.
Judging wine can be like that. It takes an unnatural concentration that minimizes, if not destroys, the relaxing harmony of things. Assigning numerical scores to wines is an understandable and necessary part of that process. Outside that environment, quantification is much less relevant.
But how do you communicate about wine? Our reviews are not comprehensive. They’ve verbal snapshots—moments in the time of the taster. A short sentence or two is intended to convey the nature of the wine. Does it taste like what the buyer will expect? Well, that depends. Is his experience with Chardonnay, for instance, mostly with bigger, heavily-oaked versions of that grape variety? If so, he might not enjoy a leaner style. Both wines have merit, but as yet, there’s no scale we can use to assign numbers to these two examples. Imprecise as they are, words have to suffice.
It’s a little like going to the paint store. You might want a gallon of green paint, but you’ll need to be more specific than that. The clerk could offer lighter shades--maybe some of these would be chartreuse, lime, sage and seafoam. At the other end of the spectrum he might suggest greens like hunter, bottle, kelly—maybe even British racing green. And in between the store may stock a near-infinite number of other shades of green. Fortunately, paint stores have color charts and brochures so that their consumers can get an idea what’s meant by these verbal definitions. The margin for error is reduced considerable you use these aids.
Can you imagine how chancy the proposition would be if you had to depend on just the paint clerk’s description of what one of those shades of green looked like—and whether it would pair better with sleek modern furniture or Louis XV reproductions? Alas, we don’t yet have “wine chips” that would give a hint of what a bottle is going to taste like.
Wine samples sent to writers usually are accompanied by technical data about where and how the grapes were grown and how they were vinified. Typically, these notes will include descriptions written by the winemakers themselves, or by publicists on their behalf.
In looking over some of this week’s notes I see a reference to “new-mown hay” as part of a description of a wine made from Sauvignon Blanc grapes. A third-generation San Franciscan, I have little agricultural experience beyond the world of vineyards. I have no idea what newly-mown hay smells like. It does sound like an attractive aroma and may be exactly what this wine smells like. However, these words doesn’t help me understand this wine. Another wine tasted this week has aromas of huckleberry, says the person who sent it. This may be another descriptor that’s dead-on, but I can’t include it in my notes. Once again, I’m clueless.
Another white wine sent this week—and one I like very much—is said to taste of “spice” (o.k., I understand that somewhat), “rose petals” (had edible flowers in a salad a couple of times, but I think they were nasturtiums), “lychee” ( a commonly-used descriptor, but not one that enlightens me) and “Turkish delight.”
If I hadn’t pulled the cork on this wine and tried it myself, I would have no idea what this wine would taste like. Would the description have encouraged me to buy it? Probably not, although that “Turkish delight” reference is intriguing. I’ll do a Google search for that phrase sometime, but only when nobody’s around to look over my shoulder. No telling what that would turn up.
September 30, 2004: Changing Times
It’s sometimes said that life’s only constant is change. The older I get, the more I subscribe to that theory.
Fashion comes and goes, even in wine and food.
Having lunch at a table of grape growers in Monterey 15 or 20 years ago I felt bad that they were having to tear out—or graft over—their Riesling vines. The variety had fallen out of favor. Customers were no longer buying the Rieslings and Chenin Blancs that had been mainstays of California’s white wine production. It may be that California has never produced a great Riesling—the state isn’t cold enough is the common explanation—but it has and still does make some good ones. Trefethen and Stony Hill in the Napa Valley produce very nice examples, for instance, as does Navarro in Mendocino County.
Today’s paper has an article about the resurgence of Riesling. Consumers who may be tiring of infinite variations on theme Chardonnay are looking for alternatives. Germany has produced back-to-back vintages of outstanding quality and the state of Washington is making ever-better Rieslings from the Columbia Valley. And good quality wines from these sources, as well as from California, are available at reasonable prices.
Food pairings require a little thought and I’m reviewing cookbooks for German and Alsatian recipes that would seem to be the most likely candidates. More adventurous cooks will find that dishes from several Asian cuisines lend themselves to harmonious, if untraditional, relationships with the grape.
It will be interesting watching Riesling make inroads to the lists of upscale American restaurants. Sure, it will take a little thought and study on the part of management, especially in those houses, which congratulate themselves on collections of high priced big reds. In so many cases, much of the list is totally inappropriate to the food the kitchen is turning out. But things will change. And all concerned will be better for that change.
August 19, 2004: On the Passing of Julia Child
News of Julia Child’s death came a day after our last newsletter appeared. No one had a more positive effect on America’s understanding of—and appreciation for—food and wine.
About ten years ago I had a conversation with her at Fetzer Winery, but I didn’t really know her. Most of my impressions of this woman, who was called “a national treasure” in at least one obituary, came from watching her on television. To my knowledge, she never cooked in a commercial kitchen. Maybe this disqualifies a person from being called a chef. Well, call her chef, cook, TV star or cookbook author, the woman understood food. And she cared about it. She knew a hell of a lot about the topic, but didn’t feel the need to impress her audience with how much more she knew than they did. Julia seemed like a person who’d be great to share a restaurant table with.
She knew good wine and loved foie gras and caviar. Apparently she was also crazy about the hot dogs served at Costco and hamburgers from In & Out. In recent years I heard many “Julia stories” from colleagues, each time thinking how much fun it would have been to actually be there at the occasion leading to the anecdote. Gene Burns, who does the Dining Around show on KGO radio in San Francisco, coaxed several recollections of her from Jacques Pépin on last Saturday’s show. Gene, who met Julia Child some years ago when both were living in the Boston area, added many of his own stories. The woman didn’t tell jokes, but her timing and comic delivery was impeccable in Gene’s estimation. His recalling of her describing a conversation with a man who was badgering her about her unhealthy (in his opinion) use of butter doesn’t lend itself to the re-telling in print, but it was hilarious
All that unhealthy butter. All that foie gras. All that caviar. All that wine. Julia Child passed away last Thursday in peaceful circumstances in her Santa Barbara home at age 92.
August 12, 2004: The Cat Restaurant—An Idea Whose Time Has Come?
Fortunately, I do not have to spend much time in “theme restaurants.” No T-shirts from Rock ‘n Roll Cafes are in my closet. Seldom do I hear “G’Day, Mate” at (sort-of) Australian steakhouses. That Mexican chain that used to ask all their patrons if they knew how to eat tortillas, then advised them to put butter on them “because it’s like the bread of Mexico” may or may not still be in business.
Some of these operations seem to be stretching their clever ideas perilously close to the snapping point. That’s my theory, anyway. But just about the time I’m convinced of that, the remark (of Mencken?) that no one ever went broke underestimating the public comes to mind, too.
Editors—and publisher/editors—work their way through a lot of chaff before they’re able to bring their readers the really substantial stuff. We had to read press releases on so many less-than-essential gadgets before we found the Octodog, a device that slices a hot dog into tentacled octopus, a kitchen-aid many of you may have acquired since we wrote about it. The stainless steel holder for the beer can that is shoved up a chicken’s body cavity before it goes in the Weber may be a brisk seller by now, too.
Yesterday an announcement came of “The flagship Meow Mix Cafe in New York City . . . an experimental concept slated for expansion around the country.” This whole idea of a cat café may be what the world needs now. I can’t imagine sitting down to sup with my pet while it hacks up hairballs and eats its dinner, but I’ve been behind the curve on so many trends that took off later. In case this Cat Café theme works and they proliferate, I want our readers to know that, once again, they read about them first right here in our electronic pages.
Below is the verbatim transcript of the press release:
Meow Mix to Open First-Ever Cafe for Cats in Manhattan - New Cafe Will Feature Food for Felines and Humans Alike -
SECAUCUS, N.J., Aug. 10 /PRNewswire/ -- Cats all over New York City have the date August 17th scratched in their calendars.
Just as children count the days until the release of a new Harry Potter book, and science fiction fans live for the opening of the next Star Wars movie, August 17th will be the most anticipated day of the year for felines. That's the day they'll be purring for the chance to be among the first "customers" to dine at the new Meow Mix Cafe and get their first taste of Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches.
The 3,500 square-foot Meow Mix Cafe will be located in the heart of Midtown Manhattan, at 489 5th Avenue (between 41st and 42nd Street). Beyond a unique culinary experience for cats, the Meow Mix Cafe will offer fully-interactive games for both cats and owners, themed to a host of the featured entrees.
The menu at the Meow Mix Cafe will showcase the highest-quality ingredients for patrons of both the two-and four-legged variety. Feline entrees will feature seven varieties of new Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches, including Cluck-a-Doodle-Doo, Deep Sea Delight, Fillet Meow, Gobbliscious, Hook, Line and Sinker, Upstream Dream and What's the Catch?. For each Meow Mix flavor, owners will be able to enjoy a comparable dish. For instance, while cats dine on Fillet Meow (consisting of beef in gravy), their human counterparts will enjoy tenderloin of beef on a baguette with horseradish sauce.
The mid-town cafe will feature toys and games for cats and owners alike, including scratching posts and catnip-filled toy mice for the kitties, plus special games based on new Meow Mix flavors, such as Hook, Line and Sinker, where owners -- with feline assistance --- will be able to fish for valuable prizes.
"Cats are such a key part of so many people's lives, yet there are very few public places that are cat friendly," said Richard Thompson, CEO and Top Cat of The Meow Mix Company. "With the Meow Mix Cafe, we've turned this situation on its head, with the creation of the world's first cafe that literally caters to felines and, incidentally, is owner friendly as well!"
Similar to other themed establishments, the Meow Mix Cafe will include a gift shop, where cat-sumers will be able to take home all seven new flavors of Meow Mix Wet Pouches, as well as their traditional dry favorites, such as Original Choice, Seafood Middles and Hairball Control Formula. The gift shop also will stock a selection of toys and accessories for the feline community, including ceramic kitty bowls, plush pillows, puff balls, and stuffed animals.
All proceeds from the grand opening will be donated to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA). In addition, the ASPCA will be conducting cat adoptions at the cafe on August 18th and 19th.
The flagship Meow Mix Cafe in New York City is an experimental concept slated for expansion around the country. Based on the success of the New York cafe's initial one-week opening, Meow Mix may either open a chain of cafes or create a mobile cafe on wheels for touring to other cities. Consumers with suggestions for future locations can contact The Meow Mix Company at 1-877-MEOW-MIX or info@meowmix.com.
July 29, 2004: Take a Break
As I complete the final touches for Thursday’s newsletter, I’m listening to soothing music through the computer speakers in front of me. From the radio behind me comes political debate related to the Democratic convention in Boston.
I’m not too good at triple-tasking, I guess. I’m beginning to feel frazzled. Participation in the American democratic process is a hugely important obligation for all of us. It’s also a huge privilege. I have strong feelings about the upcoming presidential election, as you likely do, too.
However, today I’ve had enough. I’m about to take a break. I’ll be joining a few of my pals soon to taste a selection of rose wines and do a little barbecuing. The group will include both Republicans and Democrats. With any luck, our debates will be about Spanish vs. Provencal wines, Kingsford briquettes compared to mesquite and the merits of putting that lid of the Weber down when looking to get the meat properly seared. Here’s to the good food and good wine that leads to good fellowship.
July 8, 2004: Localized Restaurants
Issue #130: Enjoying a couple of glasses of wine with friends this evening, we came to the subject of a restaurant we all know. It had sold recently, but rumors were that the selling owner had stayed on as manager
“Why would he want to hang around?” was our first question, but soon we were dissecting the restaurant’s business practices during his ownership reign. The departure of knowledgeable partners could have been a factor, we agreed. More likely issues were reductions in quality and increases in price, was the consensus.
Could the restaurant have lost its way, its original definition? “They put lamb chops with strawberries on the menu. What kind of Italian restaurant is that?” asked one of our group. “They’re not as Italian as I am,” he continued. “And I’m not even Italian, I’m German!”
The discussion continued to the topic of restaurants selling New York-style and Chicago-style pizzas. The writer of a recent feature article in our local paper may have described the general definitions accurately, but our group remained dubious. Did the writer, let alone the owners of restaurants of these variations, know what the differences were between these two major American cities? Did they know what other cities in America did to tailor their pizzas to satisfy local tastes? Had they ever had pizza in Italy?
Traditional ingredients should be sacrosanct, we all agreed. How about the chain pizzerias in the Mexican neighborhoods with offerings like the “El Matador” that included jalapeño peppers, among other options, I queried? “Well yes,” the group agreed. It wasn’t traditional, but everybody had to make a living and maybe the owners of such individual locations might know their clientele best.
No resolution came of the discussion. It was the sort of evening that inspired such talk, but nothing was decided. We did enjoy some great olives and cheeses and even some chips and freshly made salsa. Maybe that’s the way things go when people who run restaurants and those who care about them are jawing on a Wednesday evening.
June 3, 2004: Prime and Sub Prime
Issue #125: I’m looking at a picture of a T-bone steak on the cover of a restaurant trade magazine. The photo shows such beautiful marbling—it’s obvious that it’s a great cut of meat and probably well worth whatever is charged for it.
Prime beef still exists, though you’ll have to look hard and pay dearly for it.
It may not always have been so. I remember when a locally-based small grocery chain proudly advertised that they purveyed prime beef. My recollection is that they implied that most—if not all—of their beef was graded USDA Prime. This company deserved their reputation for quality meat, but they weren’t the only game in town. Several other butcher shops also sold high quality meat. The chain operation has grown and prospered. They’re still well regarded. But they don’t make that “Prime” claim anymore.
Some years ago I read that grading standards had been relaxed. An American public had been convinced that leaner beef was healthier for them. Beef producers knew that it was more expensive for them to produce the cattle that had the greater fat (marbling) that made their product taste better. So the standards to qualify for Prime or Choice grading by the government inspectors have been lowered and it’s even harder to find these better cuts of meat.
America has a generation that is convinced that leaner means better, yet doesn’t know much about nutrition and hasn’t a clue about what good beef tastes like. This is an unfortunate situation.
Dan Clarke
Publisher
May 27, 2004 An Editorial Change
From Issue #124: For some 124 weeks we’ve published a brief editorial. To this point, that weekly editorial has appeared only in the newsletter and not in the pages of either of our two web magazines, California Wine and Food and Taste California Travel.
That changes today. Henceforth, we’ll include it in California Wine and Food.
Summoning the invective necessary for a good, harsh editorial isn’t easy to do every week. In the past we’ve railed at the stupidity and venality of politicians (a seemingly limitless source of inspiration), rip-off wine pricing in restaurants and the cowardice of those who vandalize in the name of animal rights. We’ve also taken the opportunity to bring positive and upbeat thoughts to our newsletter subscribers. Sharing the joy of another opening day of baseball season or the blessing of the grapes as another harvest begins is much more pleasant for the writer and may be for the reader, as well.
A topic is often hard to find when deadline is looming. Often, something quirky from one of the morning papers has bailed me out. Like when the group of French chefs and food writers petitioned the Pope to exclude gluttony from the list of seven deadly sins. Or when the Chronicle reported that some San Francisco restaurants were charging a markup of eight to nine times on bottled water (must have been necessary to cover costs of cellaring those special vintages of the stuff).
In the weeks to come this feature will evolve to more of a column than an editorial in the traditional sense. We invite our readers share any thoughts these pieces trigger.
Dan Clarke,
Publisher
May 20, 2004: Five Cubic Zirconia?
Issue #123: I had called a coastal resort to inquire about their dining room. What was the nature of the menu? Was a reservation available early that evening?
Apparently at mid-afternoon no one was in the dining room to answer these questions, but the woman on the phone inspired confidence. She provided a good idea of the range of the menu, some of the house specialties and the likelihood that we could get an early reservation. She mentioned with some understandable pride that the operation was the only “five diamond” recipient in that part of the state.
Later that day we traveled a few miles down the coast and had a pretty good dinner. There was a great view of sunset over the Pacific. We’d have preferred a greater selection of fish and shellfish, but we found a couple of choices for our main course that were good—solid, if not outstanding. Our appetizers were wonderful. The crabcakes were accompanied by a tomato ginger chutney. Perfectly grilled prawns rested on a lemon beurre blanc. The moist smoked salmon was some of the best I ever had. In all, it was a good evening.
The dining room manager who seated us was friendly, smooth and seemed to be—at the very least—a competent professional. Two waiters worked the small-to-medium-sized dining room. They were young, friendly and earnest. But this is not enough to justify a reputation as a first class restaurant.
Our fellow introduced himself and asked how “you guys” were doing this evening (for the record, “we” were a man and a woman). To some incidental request, our eager-to-please server replied “you got it.” Initially we had ordered only appetizers, suggesting that we’d select our entrees afterward. It took a while for the appetizers to come out and after about 10 minutes our server returned to ask if we were “ready for that second course.” Assuming he’d had a momentary lapse in pacing, I replied, “We haven’t had the first one yet.” He went away and eventually brought our food, but thinking back I wonder if he was asking if we were ready to order the next course. His colleague seemed to be cordial, but had a habit of picking up dirty dishes (there was one busser working the floor) and then stopping to chat with diners at his other tables on the way back to the kitchen. When he visited his diners to pour more wine or just chat about how they might be enjoying their meals, he tending to learn on the back of a chair at the table. Sometimes he did this with one arm (if he still had a bottle of wine or pot of coffee in his other hand). Other times it was with both arms. Such was the angle of his familiar posture that had any of these chairs been swivel-backed, he’d have fallen to the floor before the evening was done.
These young waiters were not evil. They did seem friendly and, given their obviously limited experience, probably figured they were doing a good job. Their demeanor certainly was preferable to the snotty, haughty professional waiters—mostly of a bygone era—who tried to intimidate their customers into tipping bigger. But they were a long way from the polished professionals that waiters in class house should be.
We opted to pay by credit card, rather than cash. I just didn’t want to take a chance on hearing, “Do you want change on that?”
Dan Clarke
Publisher and Editor
May 13, 2004: Too Much Diversity?
Issue #122: The case can be made that Northern California is the most exciting place on earth for those who really care about cuisine. Much contributes to this situation. A salubrious climate allows most of the fruits and vegetables of the world to grow here successfully. More varieties of winegrapes are grown and vinified here than in another other region on the globe. Ranchers raise beef, sheep, swine and even ostriches for the table. Several hundred miles of coastline gives us access to the bounty of the Pacific.
Wonderful raw materials and a very diverse population mean we can enjoy foods of so many different ethnic traditions. Part of the excitement of being here is to enjoy the cross-pollination of those traditions. “Fusion” cuisines evolve—hybrids incorporating the best (and sometimes the worst) of our many peoples.
I hardly ever have turned down the opportunity to sup on something new or different. But there are limits.
This morning's e-mail brought word from Michael Eady, a contributor to these electronic pages. He called my attention to today's food section in the San Francisco Chronicle, which spoke to the virtues of the monkeyface prickleback. This fish is found in tidal pools and is taken by a technique called poke poling. It somewhat resembles an eel (but is not a true eel), according to the article. These creatures are “positively delicious,” according to writer Peggy Knickerbocker, who admits they are “ugly as sin,” thereby demonstrating her gift for understatement.
Mr. Eady said that no matter how delicious the thing was supposed to be, he wasn't likely to have any monkeyface prickleback grace his table. Amen to that, I say. I've risked my health trying food I couldn't begin to identify from street vendors in strange parts of the world. I've eaten a spider off the wall to impress a girl (I was five at the time) and have drunk a cocktail of fresh pig blood with Mexican friends as we began preparing the carnitas. But I'm not having any of these monkeyface pricklebacks. They're really creepy.
Dan Clarke
Publisher and Editor
In the last two weeks, press materials accompanying wines shipped for review have described one wine as having the aroma of bergamot and another is said to taste like nettles.
Our readers are a savvy lot, for the most part. No doubt some of you know about bergamot and nettles and know how they smell and what they taste like. I do not, however.
Bergamot sounded vaguely familiar, but the truth is, I don’t really know Bergamot from Burgermeister.* So I went to my desk copy of The Oxford Dictionary of Current English. Two entries were found as follows:
“bergamot n. 1. Perfume from the fruit of a dwarf orange tree. 2. Aromatic herb (Bergamo in Italy)”
and
“bergamot, n. variety of fine pear. (Turkish, = prince’s pear)”
As it happens, we just planted a couple of dwarf orange trees in pots at either side of the front door. While there are a lot of little dark green oranges-to-be on the plants, I stuck my head right into the midst of them and did not smell a thing. We do have a full-size orange tree in the back yard and I know that when it’s blossoming it gives off a lovely perfume. Maybe bergamot is something like this, I thought.
My jars of herbs and spices do not include any bergamot labels and I don’t remember any bergamot references on my trips to Italy. Perhaps I did experience Bergamo (the herb) and just didn’t realize it, which would be a pity.
In another context, bergamot may indeed be a variety of fine pear. However, I can tell you that if it’s a variety grown in California it’s exceedingly obscure. I speak as someone who includes the job of pear inspector in his checkered resume (this is not a joke. I was licensed by the government to do this work). Maybe you have to hang out with princes in Turkey to experience such bergamots (I’ve not visited Turkey and my license, undoubtedly expired by now, would likely have no standing in that country anyway).
From the same dictionary:
“nettle, n. 1. Plant with jagged leaves covered with stinging hairs. 2. Plant resembling this. –v. (-ling) irritate, provoke. (Old English)”
While I’ve heard somewhere about how nettles can be included in a salad, I certainly haven’t done so. The dictionary definition above plays to my, admittedly limited, knowledge of the subject. I recall a reference to “stinging nettles” in the Boy Scout Handbook. I think it was in that section that included information on first-aid for snake bites.
Yet, some winery tells wine writers that one of their products tastes like nettles (to be fair, that was only one of the descriptors used and maybe there’s another kind of nettle that neither I, nor Oxford knows about).
My colleagues must be much more worldly than I and have more highly-developed palates if they can identify wine qualities like these.
*Burgermeister was a West Coast beer available in my youth and in my father’s, too.
--Dan Clarke
May 5, 2005: British Magazine Picks 50 Top Restaurants in World
Restaurant, a London-based magazine, recently announced its list of the world’s 50 best restaurants. The French Laundry in Yountville, California was rated third, following the magazine’s ultimate pick, the Fat Duck (U.K.) and its choice for second place, El Bulli (Spain). Thomas Keller, chef/proprietor of the French Laundry, also received honors for his New York City restaurant, Per Se (7th). Two more California restaurants were honored; Chez Panisse of Berkeley (13th), and Manresa of Los Gatos (38th). Other American restaurants nominated included Charlie Trotter of Chicago (14th) and two from New York City; Gramercy Tavern (15th) and WD50 (34th). Of the list of 50, 14 were English.
The establishments were selected by a panel of over 600 restaurateurs, critics, chefs and industry experts from around the world. I was not invited to participate, which is just as well, because I know most of those anointed only by reputation, rather than first-hand experience.
A visit to the website for The Fat Duck in Bray (in the Berkshire countryside outside London) reveals a sample degustation menu at $£97.50 ($183.). A selection of wines to accompany the meal was offered at additional £67.50 ($127.) or a variety of Taittinger Champagnes, also poured by the glass, could be had at £90. ($169.). O.K., it’s pricey, but wouldn’t that be expected of the best restaurant in the world?
And the sommelier will be pouring those glasses with what sort of food? Of the many tasting courses, the Poached Breast of Anjou Pigeon Pancetta sounded good and my first thought was maybe a red Burgundy (Pinot Noir) would work. Other offerings posed challenges. Snail Porridge? Well, I don’t really know what Chef Heston Blumenthal had in mind, but if his porridge included some cream, maybe a white Burgundy or Chardonnay could tie those two elements together with the escargot. Much more difficult would be such courses as Sardines on Toast Sorbet, Mango and Douglas Fir Puree and the Smoked Bacon and Egg Ice Cream.
Someone who writes about wine and food in California should have some familiarity with the avant garde, but I’m clueless. As weird as the food at The Fat Duck sounds, it probably really does taste good. After all, it has three Michelin stars. I am curious about the wine list, but didn’t find it listed on their website. Next time I’m in London and want something more exotic than curry, maybe I’ll give the place a try.
The complete list of Restaurant’s to 50 choices can be seen at http://www.50bestrestaurants.co.uk/
January 6, 2005: Three Years
Thursday January 6, 2005 marks the distribution of our 156th newsletter. It highlights—and provides links to--new articles at our two internet-based magazines. The first of these, California Wine and Food, has been published online for four years and now specializes in news and features aimed at food service and hospitality professionals. Its sister publication, Taste California Travel, debuted a little over a year ago and addresses the interest of consumers. Their several predecessors date back to the Foothill Wine Press, a black and white tabloid whose first edition appeared this month in the year 1985.
Since we publish the newsletter weekly, dividing by 52 leads me to conclude that we’ve put it out for three full years. Somewhere in the first couple of months we encountered a computer glitch that delayed us one day. Other than that one tardy issue, we’ve been delivered electronically every Thursday morning around 9:30 or 10 a.m. Pacific Time. I don’t know who keeps statistics on such performance, but I’m told that kind of consistency is rare. This regular publishing of our weekly newsletter insures that not only do keep faith with our subscribers, but that the much larger audiences who visit our website magazines without the reminders included in these updates will have access to anywhere from four to a dozen new features every week.
All this would not happen without the extraordinary dedication of our Webmaster, Beth Bridges and the very talented writers whose work you see in these electronic pages. We hope that our efforts are finding favor with our readers and always welcome your comments and suggestions on how we can serve you better.
If you’re not a subscriber and are reading these words directly from the website, we invite you to sign up for our free weekly newsletter.
December 16, 2004: Ah, The Funny Papers
It’s a good thing I read just two papers each morning. Any more and I wouldn’t get anything done. This longtime habit precedes my digging into work each day. For all the hours spent poring over newspapers I suppose I do know a bit more about the world in which I live. That’s not why I read them though. The entertainment value is paramount and sometimes it’s almost surreal.
In today’s San Francisco Chronicle, most of page A13 (main news section) is devoted to a color ad from Macy’s in which Donald Trump, the New York real estate magnate, appears with a very attractive woman in a sexy gown who is draped all over him. Is she his wife? His girlfriend? Just a model? Not keeping track of this guy too closely, I wouldn’t know. He’s a pleasant enough looking man, I suppose, and about my age. He seems to dress well and I imagine he could be attractive to glamorous women younger than he is. After checking out the picture for a moment I wondered what he was selling.
Above the photograph I saw printed in Christmas red . . . DONALD TRUMP, THE FRAGRANCE.
Who the hell would want to smell like Donald Trump, I wondered? For that matter, who would want to smell like any other man—or woman? The ad copy calls the product “The uncompromising men’s fragrance.” Hmm. What fragrance, men’s or otherwise, would I consider compromising? It was getting weird. Reading further I saw, “Persuasive. Commanding. Determined. Inspired by the man who demands the best—and achieves it. Eau de Toilette Spray, 3.4oz. $60.”
This may be another one of those times when the literal and the subjective get confused. I’m pretty sure that Macy’s expects me to believe that if I spray this stuff on myself, I’ll have gorgeous young women hanging onto me. That would be a subjective and perhaps unreasonable assumption. I’ve just looked at the ad again and I can’t help but think “Smell like a rich guy for sixty bucks” is a really, really odd thing to want to do.
December 9, 2004: Post Season Football in California
Sports used to be more important to me. Now vulgar fans pay vulgar ticket prices and try to get into the act by baiting the players. Grossly overpaid professional athletes respond by yelling obscenities back at them, throwing chairs at them and going into the stands to beat up audience. Guys chasing records and record contracts take steroids to cheat in their assaults on those records. Witless owners, administrators and politicians profess they are shocked—just shocked—at such developments. Inflated egos, inflated contracts, inflated ticket prices, inflated bodies. I’m beyond indignation. I just don’t care much anymore.
An uplifting story in sports is rare these days. But it can happen and you’re more likely to find it on the collegiate level. One such situation is that of The University of California Golden Bears football team, coached by Jeff Tedford. In October they came an eyelash away from beating USC when Aaron Rogers’ last second pass fell incomplete in the Trojan’s end zone. But for that moment, they would have had an undefeated season. As it stands USC is undefeated and is ranked the number one team in the country.
Holiday Bowl
Cal (and we are talking Cal Berkeley here) will be playing Texas Tech in San Diego on December 30th in the Holiday Bowl. We wish the Bears and Coach Tedford well. They shown excellence on the field and have comported themselves with dignity off the field. They might have been playing in the more prestigious Rose Bowl game on January 1. But the day after the California team beat Southern Mississippi by an apparently insufficient margin in their last game of the season, the unfathomable Bowl Championship System (BCS), which ranks the teams for selection in the major bowls, inexplicably jumped the Texas Longhorns ahead of Cal. Tedford had said before the game that he would not seek to run up the score if Cal were on the way to victory. Ahead 26-16 and driving toward the So. Mississippi line in the waning moments, Cal “took a knee” (voluntarily gave up pursuit of another score). Coach Tedford showed respect for the opponent and took the honorable course. It’s pretty hard not to pull for a guy like that. Go Bears!
For more information about the Holiday Bowl and for tickets, see http://www.holidaybowl.com
East West Shrine Game
On January 15th the East West Shrine Game will be played at SBC Park in San Francisco. Monies raised in this charity event held annually since 1925 go to support the Shriners Hospital, which provides medical services at no charge to children with burns and orthopedic needs. Many of the best graduating seniors in the country are invited to play. Big names are there, as well as players from lesser-known programs. In recent years my own alma mater, Division I-AA Sacramento State, has sent running back Charles Roberts (now all-purpose yards leader in the Canadian Football League) and offensive tackle Marko Cavka (now with the New York Jets). This January wide receiver Fred Amey will represent us. I believe the Shrine Game slogan once was “Strong Legs Run, That Weak Legs May Walk.” It’s hard to top that, but maybe the current definition is even better, “Football’s Finest Hour.”
For more information about the East West Shrine Game and for tickets, see http://www.shrinegame.com
December 3, 2004: An Icon Passes
This morning I heard of the passing of Brother Timothy Diener. He was 94.
He was the winemaker at Christian Brothers from the mid-1930s until the teaching order sold their operation to Heublein in 1989. I had met him, but didn’t know him well enough that we’d be considered friends. Others were fortunate to have had that privilege, however. Many of them attended a celebration of his 75th year as a member of the Christian Brothers order last year. In his Napa Register article of Wednesday morning Pierce Carson quotes Robert Mondavi as saying, “When he was at Greystone and I was at (Charles) Krug, we were neighbors. Together with Louis Martini, Andre Tchelistcheff and the Solaris, we served as industry pioneers. He was a legend, he was the heart of the industry.”
Brother Tim seemed like a solid guy to me and I never heard anyone say a negative word about him. Some 15 years have passed since he had an active role in the wine world. Much has changed about the business and there may be people in the Napa Valley who’ve never heard of him. That’s unfortunate.
A funeral mass will begin at 10 a.m. at St. Apollinaris Catholic Church, 3700 Lassen St. in the city of Napa. Burial will follow in the Brothers Cemetery at Mont LaSalle.
November 24, 2004: A Holiday Reschedule
Those of you who’re still at work the day before Thanksgiving—or are otherwise near your computers--may notice that this newsletter—something like the 150th consecutive weekly edition—is arriving a day early. We were one day late in publishing one of the early issues, but for over two years we’ve been spot on, delivering our newsletter around 10 am Pacific Time each Thursday. To my recollection, those that would have fallen on the two Thanksgiving Thursdays prior were also published on Wednesday. This still counts as “on time” in my book and it’s a record of which I’m proud. That we have been able to do so has been due to the cooperation of our editorial “staff”--mostly freelancers whose professionalism exceeds any compensations they could receive from our modest operation. Most of all, the unsung hero has been Beth Bridges, our Webmaster, who has been essential to our cranking out a newsletter and updates for our two websites every week from the beginning.
1621
For most of my life I assumed that my heritage was half Irish (Fitzpatrick and Clarke), one-quarter French (Vallier, or maybe at one time, Valliere) and one-quarter Swedish (Carlson). There were rumors of another Irish name appearing on the maternal side of the history, but I hadn’t paid much attention.
Recently, my Aunt Earlene visited and presented me with documentation of much of the background in my Mother’s line. Earlene is a devout Catholic, but as a serious amateur historian she knows that the Mormons are a good source on genealogical matters. She and a graduate student spent a good deal of time researching things through traditional and Mormon channels. It would seem that the Swedish Carlsons merged with folks named Copeland about a century ago or maybe longer.
Now the Copeland clan goes way back in American history and are descended from a couple of people I actually remember reading about in school. John Alden was a young fellow of 20 or 21—a carpenter or a cooper, apparently--when he boarded the Mayflower, bound for Plymouth. Also on board was a young woman named Priscilla Mullins. Smitten with her, according to such modest reading I’ve done on the subject, Alden declined his planned return trip to mother England and the two became second couple wed in the Plymouth colony. This was in the latter part of 1621, the date generally acknowledged as that of that first Thanksgiving. So I have to believe that kinfolk were at that original turkey dinner. Until this revelation my frame of reference for the Mayflower was a pub by that name in San Rafael where Rugby-playing expatriates drank beer with their American teammates. This was some tie to written history, however obscure.
Further reading reveals that young Alden was in charge of the kegs of water and beer on his Mayflower. All right. My kinda man.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
November 18, 2004: More Turkey Heritage
Turkeys are everywhere these days. The food sections of today’s papers had recipes for preparation, side dishes to serve with the bird, wines that might pair well next Thursday. And, of course, there were the ads for Turkeys and the “all the trimmings.”
We even had a committee of turkeys visit our neighborhood the other day. Returning from a morning walk, we noticed a car stopped in the slow lane out front. Nobody stops on the roadway. Even pulling over to the side can be dangerous. Was somebody in trouble? Flat tire? Out of gas? Heart attack?
We live on a four-lane road, which can be busy, especially at commute times. As we approached from the intersecting street it became apparent that other cars were stopping, both behind this driver and in the adjacent lane, too. Looking to the right we saw that traffic from the other direction was stopping. The birds were back. Eleven wild turkeys had crossed the boulevard and were either wandering around at our side of the road or were moving that way from the slow lane. The speed limit is 40 mph and, unless congestion precludes, drivers typically exceed that by 10 to 15 mph. Yet here was traffic at a standstill. The lines of stopped cars, particularly going west toward downtown, were growing longer. Just one impatient person honked—and only once. At this point a couple of the stragglers decided to return to the south side of the road whence they came. Others followed. Eventually all 11 were meandering down the access road that parallels the other side, out of harm’s way for the moment at least. Traffic resumed its flow.
These were wild turkeys, presumably denizens of the American River Parkway, a nature area that follows the American River about half a mile away. While not the big and supposedly dumb, overfed and undersexed commercial turkeys of the sort discussed last week, these guys certainly didn’t seem to be as wily as those hunting shows on cable tv would have us believe wild turkeys are.
While Wild Turkey didn’t play a role in Thanksgiving dinner at my brother’s place some years ago, Jack Daniel’s did. I had flown up to visit with him and the family in eastern Washington where he’d relocated due to a job transfer. Arriving a day or two before the holiday, I noticed that their weather was a good deal brisker ours than Sacramento. Good, I thought. It really will put me in a holiday mood.
My brother had bought a nice piece of property overlooking a lake and with room for horses. Eventually, he built a new house there, but at this time he was still living in the original place, which was small and not in great repair. He was having trouble with the oven, in particular, but that would be no problem, he told me, as we’d cook the Thanksgiving turkey in the Weber out on the deck. He’d roasted turkeys in this kettle-style barbecue several times and it was a snap.
Our bird was well over 20 pounds, but when we put it on the grill the lid fit over it comfortably and snugly. Kevin’s method was to build a substantial charcoal fire, then move it into two pockets on either side. This would cook the turkey by “the indirect heat method.” His formula called for adding two or three—I can’t remember exactly—briquettes every 20 minutes to sustain the proper oven temperature. It was foolproof. He’d learned the technique from a cookbook and it always worked. Over morning coffee we double-checked the plan, multiplying the number of pounds the turkey weighed times the number of minutes it took per pound. Right. If all went according to plan, he’d be carving at 3.30 or 4 at the latest.
So we went out to the deck around 8:30 and built our fire. I had been sitting at the kitchen table next to the Franklin stove and had been pretty comfortable in just sweat pants and a T-shirt. I noticed it was nippy out there on the deck, but didn’t come in to put on slippers of a jacket. How long could it take to start the fire anyway? Returning to the kitchen we heard the tv weatherman tell us that it was 16 degrees. No wonder I was cold. Kevin proposed a remedy to my discomfort. He had just the thing—a very large bottle of Jack Daniel’s bought just the other day in anticipation of my arrival. Rarely do I drink spirits at any time of the day and never in the morning. However, it was very cold out there as the weatherman had confirmed. We each had a small shot. It was 9 am.
To maintain the heat inside the Weber kettle, it would be necessary to add a few coals every 20 minutes, once the proper oven temperature had been achieved. No thermometers were available, but we’d know by the grey color of the coals when that was. After an hour or so, we began adding the few charcoal briquettes three times each hour, following the plan to the letter. The T-shirt and sweat pants seemed so comfortable and appropriate for watching the endless parade of televised football games. I’d decided that I’d shower and change into something nicer before dinner went on the table.
We noticed that the bird didn’t seem to be browning as quickly as usual, but we knew were we following the can’t-miss formula—every 20 minutes adding a specific number of the briquettes. If the day did warm up, it wasn’t by much, because that Thursday the temperature never reached 20 degrees. So it was really cold each time we went out on the deck to add those coals. But the cold remedy, also scrupulously adhered to, was working well. We’d both continue having shots, though just little ones, each time we tended the turkey. We could tell that we were behind schedule. It was beginning to dawn on us that stoking a fire inside a Weber that was surrounded by sub-freezing temperature, might not be the conditions for which the can’t-fail couple-of- briquettes -every-20-minutes-method was calculated. But we weren’t unduly worried. Actually, Kevin and I felt pretty good.
We put the turkey on the table about eight that evening. It had mostly good color by then, except for the scars where we’d hacked off pieces to check for doneness beginning around 5.
The children had gotten in foul humor as they got hungrier, we were told the next morning. I think they had been fed something and put to bed before dinner was served. I don’t recall the mood of my brother’s wife, but I know I told him that I thought Mom was mad at us. Apparently, he recognized this, but neither of us was too worried about it.
I can’t remember what wines we had that night. It might have been suggested that we didn’t open any more bottles.
November 11, 2004: Turkey Heritages
Last week the butcher asked if I had ordered my Thanksgiving turkey yet. It was not the kind of store where just taking home a frozen bird a few days before the holiday was an option.
There was the house brand, the Corti Brothers bird, well known for its broad breast and lots of white meat, he said. A free range turkey and priced accordingly. Alternatively there would be “the Heritage Turkey.”
Of course I had to ask. This Heritage Turkey, it was explained, would more resemble a turkey from an earlier time—an era before the industry had selectively bred turkeys to produce birds with ever-larger breasts. A better dark-to-white meat-ratio and maybe more even more flavor seemed a powerful endorsement of this Heritage Turkey. Such a retro concept was not the most efficient method of farming poultry, I was informed, and such nostalgia came at a price. Now $3.99 a pound isn’t a lot to pay for meat these days, but when another market in town is advertising turkeys (admittedly, frozen) at 25 cents a pound when tied to a grocery purchase of $25, you need to think about these things.
While pondering this whole Heritage situation I recalled a story told me by someone who’d actually worked on a turkey farm. My friend Jon has recently retired from managing a vineyard in the Napa Valley, but in high school he worked weekends at such a place. Much of his work involved using a shovel, which Jon found unpleasant but not as bad as when he was assigned to help the veterinarian.
Even 40 years ago, turkeys were being bred to produce more of the supposedly more desirable white meat. This meant bigger breasts. Or chests, if you will. The birds were getting huge. If the turkeys went to a gym, these Toms would be benching 400 pounds. In the eyes of the hens they might have been quite studly, but their heroic avian physiques came at a price. The male birds had achieved such girth that they could no longer assume the position to accomplish their traditional procreative role. As I recall the story, artificial insemination was the answer. Jon’s duties included assisting the vet in this process.
No doubt the work was distasteful and I don’t really envy Jon for that experience. But what I wouldn’t give to be able to include that job title and description of duties on a resume.
October 28, 2004: A Curse Lifted
I’m a lapsed baseball fan. Actually, for an even longer time I’ve been a lapsed Boston Red Sox fan.
There was a time when I did follow baseball in Boston. That was before major league baseball came to the West Coast. My George Kell bat was preferred to the Jackie Robinson model (I wasn’t a Dodger fan.). Johnny Pesky and Ellis Kinder baseball cards were in my collection. Their pictures and those of other Red Sox players would be deployed in front of me when Boston was featured on radio’s Game of the Day. Jackie Jensen was in the outfield. There was a Northern California connection as he’d starred as a running back on Cal’s football team before a brief sojourn with the Yankees on the way to Massachussets. Dom Dimaggio (Joe’s brother) was a San Franciscan who’d contributed to the Red Sox good fortune over the years, as my father informed me. In the final days of the Pacific Coast League’s significance, before the move west of the Dodgers and Giants, the San Francisco Seals were the Triple-A farm club of the Red Sox. Favorites like catcher Haywood Sullivan and outfielder Albie Pearson were on the way up—or down—from the majors and playing in Edmonds Field against our Sacramento Solons. Ted Williams was perhaps the greatest pure hitter the game had seen before or since. He was from San Diego. There were many reasons to care about the Red Sox.
The “Curse” is the alleged legacy of cash-strapped Red Sox owner Harry Frazee, who won a World Series in 1918 and sold Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees the following year. Until Wednesday evening, 27 October in 2004, the Red Sox hadn’t won another one. I dropped into a spot on J Street and watched the first inning of tonight’s finale of the four-game sweep. My friend Jimmie Gould, who catches a game at Fenway when he returns to his East Longmeadow famiily each year, was intense--focused. We spoke during the ads, but not otherwise. I am pleased for Jim and all the Boston fans.
The saloon doesn’t have a big beer selection. It’s a place where I order a Bud if I’m not having something stronger. Tonight my St. Louis’ Budweiser would have been a Sam Adams if the joint had made that available. I wanted to make some belated amends to the baseball gods for my long hiatus from Red Sox fandom. In a belated attempt to find their favor I bought a large can of baked beans on the way home to accompany a very large pork chop I was to prepare. (I didn’t have the time or energy to make a chowder or some more creative paean to Boston). The beans tasted great. Turns out they were from Knoxville, Tennessee, which is hardly New England. No matter. They tasted fine. And Boston completed a four game sweep of the Cardinals in this World Series of 2004.
October 14, 2004: New-Mown Hay?
Writing wine reviews isn’t as easy as you might imagine. This is not to say it’s unpleasant work—certainly not when compared to other things I’ve done to put groceries on the table. I can assure you that it beats working 10 or 12-hour shifts in a hot tin can factory or inspecting almond samples for tiny flaws all day long.
Envious friends assume that analyzing wine samples for publication is like drinking wine, except that you get paid for it. It’s not quite that simple. Enjoying a good glass of wine is one of life’s great pleasures. If the wine is paired with good food, the experience is that much better. And if you’re in the company of good friends . . . well, that’s the best. In that context, wine is a wonderful part of life. Put too much emphasis on any one item in the equation and the sublime overall experience is lost.
Judging wine can be like that. It takes an unnatural concentration that minimizes, if not destroys, the relaxing harmony of things. Assigning numerical scores to wines is an understandable and necessary part of that process. Outside that environment, quantification is much less relevant.
But how do you communicate about wine? Our reviews are not comprehensive. They’ve verbal snapshots—moments in the time of the taster. A short sentence or two is intended to convey the nature of the wine. Does it taste like what the buyer will expect? Well, that depends. Is his experience with Chardonnay, for instance, mostly with bigger, heavily-oaked versions of that grape variety? If so, he might not enjoy a leaner style. Both wines have merit, but as yet, there’s no scale we can use to assign numbers to these two examples. Imprecise as they are, words have to suffice.
It’s a little like going to the paint store. You might want a gallon of green paint, but you’ll need to be more specific than that. The clerk could offer lighter shades--maybe some of these would be chartreuse, lime, sage and seafoam. At the other end of the spectrum he might suggest greens like hunter, bottle, kelly—maybe even British racing green. And in between the store may stock a near-infinite number of other shades of green. Fortunately, paint stores have color charts and brochures so that their consumers can get an idea what’s meant by these verbal definitions. The margin for error is reduced considerable you use these aids.
Can you imagine how chancy the proposition would be if you had to depend on just the paint clerk’s description of what one of those shades of green looked like—and whether it would pair better with sleek modern furniture or Louis XV reproductions? Alas, we don’t yet have “wine chips” that would give a hint of what a bottle is going to taste like.
Wine samples sent to writers usually are accompanied by technical data about where and how the grapes were grown and how they were vinified. Typically, these notes will include descriptions written by the winemakers themselves, or by publicists on their behalf.
In looking over some of this week’s notes I see a reference to “new-mown hay” as part of a description of a wine made from Sauvignon Blanc grapes. A third-generation San Franciscan, I have little agricultural experience beyond the world of vineyards. I have no idea what newly-mown hay smells like. It does sound like an attractive aroma and may be exactly what this wine smells like. However, these words doesn’t help me understand this wine. Another wine tasted this week has aromas of huckleberry, says the person who sent it. This may be another descriptor that’s dead-on, but I can’t include it in my notes. Once again, I’m clueless.
Another white wine sent this week—and one I like very much—is said to taste of “spice” (o.k., I understand that somewhat), “rose petals” (had edible flowers in a salad a couple of times, but I think they were nasturtiums), “lychee” ( a commonly-used descriptor, but not one that enlightens me) and “Turkish delight.”
If I hadn’t pulled the cork on this wine and tried it myself, I would have no idea what this wine would taste like. Would the description have encouraged me to buy it? Probably not, although that “Turkish delight” reference is intriguing. I’ll do a Google search for that phrase sometime, but only when nobody’s around to look over my shoulder. No telling what that would turn up.
September 30, 2004: Changing Times
It’s sometimes said that life’s only constant is change. The older I get, the more I subscribe to that theory.
Fashion comes and goes, even in wine and food.
Having lunch at a table of grape growers in Monterey 15 or 20 years ago I felt bad that they were having to tear out—or graft over—their Riesling vines. The variety had fallen out of favor. Customers were no longer buying the Rieslings and Chenin Blancs that had been mainstays of California’s white wine production. It may be that California has never produced a great Riesling—the state isn’t cold enough is the common explanation—but it has and still does make some good ones. Trefethen and Stony Hill in the Napa Valley produce very nice examples, for instance, as does Navarro in Mendocino County.
Today’s paper has an article about the resurgence of Riesling. Consumers who may be tiring of infinite variations on theme Chardonnay are looking for alternatives. Germany has produced back-to-back vintages of outstanding quality and the state of Washington is making ever-better Rieslings from the Columbia Valley. And good quality wines from these sources, as well as from California, are available at reasonable prices.
Food pairings require a little thought and I’m reviewing cookbooks for German and Alsatian recipes that would seem to be the most likely candidates. More adventurous cooks will find that dishes from several Asian cuisines lend themselves to harmonious, if untraditional, relationships with the grape.
It will be interesting watching Riesling make inroads to the lists of upscale American restaurants. Sure, it will take a little thought and study on the part of management, especially in those houses, which congratulate themselves on collections of high priced big reds. In so many cases, much of the list is totally inappropriate to the food the kitchen is turning out. But things will change. And all concerned will be better for that change.
August 19, 2004: On the Passing of Julia Child
News of Julia Child’s death came a day after our last newsletter appeared. No one had a more positive effect on America’s understanding of—and appreciation for—food and wine.
About ten years ago I had a conversation with her at Fetzer Winery, but I didn’t really know her. Most of my impressions of this woman, who was called “a national treasure” in at least one obituary, came from watching her on television. To my knowledge, she never cooked in a commercial kitchen. Maybe this disqualifies a person from being called a chef. Well, call her chef, cook, TV star or cookbook author, the woman understood food. And she cared about it. She knew a hell of a lot about the topic, but didn’t feel the need to impress her audience with how much more she knew than they did. Julia seemed like a person who’d be great to share a restaurant table with.
She knew good wine and loved foie gras and caviar. Apparently she was also crazy about the hot dogs served at Costco and hamburgers from In & Out. In recent years I heard many “Julia stories” from colleagues, each time thinking how much fun it would have been to actually be there at the occasion leading to the anecdote. Gene Burns, who does the Dining Around show on KGO radio in San Francisco, coaxed several recollections of her from Jacques Pépin on last Saturday’s show. Gene, who met Julia Child some years ago when both were living in the Boston area, added many of his own stories. The woman didn’t tell jokes, but her timing and comic delivery was impeccable in Gene’s estimation. His recalling of her describing a conversation with a man who was badgering her about her unhealthy (in his opinion) use of butter doesn’t lend itself to the re-telling in print, but it was hilarious
All that unhealthy butter. All that foie gras. All that caviar. All that wine. Julia Child passed away last Thursday in peaceful circumstances in her Santa Barbara home at age 92.
August 12, 2004: The Cat Restaurant—An Idea Whose Time Has Come?
Fortunately, I do not have to spend much time in “theme restaurants.” No T-shirts from Rock ‘n Roll Cafes are in my closet. Seldom do I hear “G’Day, Mate” at (sort-of) Australian steakhouses. That Mexican chain that used to ask all their patrons if they knew how to eat tortillas, then advised them to put butter on them “because it’s like the bread of Mexico” may or may not still be in business.
Some of these operations seem to be stretching their clever ideas perilously close to the snapping point. That’s my theory, anyway. But just about the time I’m convinced of that, the remark (of Mencken?) that no one ever went broke underestimating the public comes to mind, too.
Editors—and publisher/editors—work their way through a lot of chaff before they’re able to bring their readers the really substantial stuff. We had to read press releases on so many less-than-essential gadgets before we found the Octodog, a device that slices a hot dog into tentacled octopus, a kitchen-aid many of you may have acquired since we wrote about it. The stainless steel holder for the beer can that is shoved up a chicken’s body cavity before it goes in the Weber may be a brisk seller by now, too.
Yesterday an announcement came of “The flagship Meow Mix Cafe in New York City . . . an experimental concept slated for expansion around the country.” This whole idea of a cat café may be what the world needs now. I can’t imagine sitting down to sup with my pet while it hacks up hairballs and eats its dinner, but I’ve been behind the curve on so many trends that took off later. In case this Cat Café theme works and they proliferate, I want our readers to know that, once again, they read about them first right here in our electronic pages.
Below is the verbatim transcript of the press release:
Meow Mix to Open First-Ever Cafe for Cats in Manhattan - New Cafe Will Feature Food for Felines and Humans Alike -
SECAUCUS, N.J., Aug. 10 /PRNewswire/ -- Cats all over New York City have the date August 17th scratched in their calendars.
Just as children count the days until the release of a new Harry Potter book, and science fiction fans live for the opening of the next Star Wars movie, August 17th will be the most anticipated day of the year for felines. That's the day they'll be purring for the chance to be among the first "customers" to dine at the new Meow Mix Cafe and get their first taste of Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches.
The 3,500 square-foot Meow Mix Cafe will be located in the heart of Midtown Manhattan, at 489 5th Avenue (between 41st and 42nd Street). Beyond a unique culinary experience for cats, the Meow Mix Cafe will offer fully-interactive games for both cats and owners, themed to a host of the featured entrees.
The menu at the Meow Mix Cafe will showcase the highest-quality ingredients for patrons of both the two-and four-legged variety. Feline entrees will feature seven varieties of new Meow Mix Wet Food Pouches, including Cluck-a-Doodle-Doo, Deep Sea Delight, Fillet Meow, Gobbliscious, Hook, Line and Sinker, Upstream Dream and What's the Catch?. For each Meow Mix flavor, owners will be able to enjoy a comparable dish. For instance, while cats dine on Fillet Meow (consisting of beef in gravy), their human counterparts will enjoy tenderloin of beef on a baguette with horseradish sauce.
The mid-town cafe will feature toys and games for cats and owners alike, including scratching posts and catnip-filled toy mice for the kitties, plus special games based on new Meow Mix flavors, such as Hook, Line and Sinker, where owners -- with feline assistance --- will be able to fish for valuable prizes.
"Cats are such a key part of so many people's lives, yet there are very few public places that are cat friendly," said Richard Thompson, CEO and Top Cat of The Meow Mix Company. "With the Meow Mix Cafe, we've turned this situation on its head, with the creation of the world's first cafe that literally caters to felines and, incidentally, is owner friendly as well!"
Similar to other themed establishments, the Meow Mix Cafe will include a gift shop, where cat-sumers will be able to take home all seven new flavors of Meow Mix Wet Pouches, as well as their traditional dry favorites, such as Original Choice, Seafood Middles and Hairball Control Formula. The gift shop also will stock a selection of toys and accessories for the feline community, including ceramic kitty bowls, plush pillows, puff balls, and stuffed animals.
All proceeds from the grand opening will be donated to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA). In addition, the ASPCA will be conducting cat adoptions at the cafe on August 18th and 19th.
The flagship Meow Mix Cafe in New York City is an experimental concept slated for expansion around the country. Based on the success of the New York cafe's initial one-week opening, Meow Mix may either open a chain of cafes or create a mobile cafe on wheels for touring to other cities. Consumers with suggestions for future locations can contact The Meow Mix Company at 1-877-MEOW-MIX or info@meowmix.com.
July 29, 2004: Take a Break
As I complete the final touches for Thursday’s newsletter, I’m listening to soothing music through the computer speakers in front of me. From the radio behind me comes political debate related to the Democratic convention in Boston.
I’m not too good at triple-tasking, I guess. I’m beginning to feel frazzled. Participation in the American democratic process is a hugely important obligation for all of us. It’s also a huge privilege. I have strong feelings about the upcoming presidential election, as you likely do, too.
However, today I’ve had enough. I’m about to take a break. I’ll be joining a few of my pals soon to taste a selection of rose wines and do a little barbecuing. The group will include both Republicans and Democrats. With any luck, our debates will be about Spanish vs. Provencal wines, Kingsford briquettes compared to mesquite and the merits of putting that lid of the Weber down when looking to get the meat properly seared. Here’s to the good food and good wine that leads to good fellowship.
July 8, 2004: Localized Restaurants
Issue #130: Enjoying a couple of glasses of wine with friends this evening, we came to the subject of a restaurant we all know. It had sold recently, but rumors were that the selling owner had stayed on as manager
“Why would he want to hang around?” was our first question, but soon we were dissecting the restaurant’s business practices during his ownership reign. The departure of knowledgeable partners could have been a factor, we agreed. More likely issues were reductions in quality and increases in price, was the consensus.
Could the restaurant have lost its way, its original definition? “They put lamb chops with strawberries on the menu. What kind of Italian restaurant is that?” asked one of our group. “They’re not as Italian as I am,” he continued. “And I’m not even Italian, I’m German!”
The discussion continued to the topic of restaurants selling New York-style and Chicago-style pizzas. The writer of a recent feature article in our local paper may have described the general definitions accurately, but our group remained dubious. Did the writer, let alone the owners of restaurants of these variations, know what the differences were between these two major American cities? Did they know what other cities in America did to tailor their pizzas to satisfy local tastes? Had they ever had pizza in Italy?
Traditional ingredients should be sacrosanct, we all agreed. How about the chain pizzerias in the Mexican neighborhoods with offerings like the “El Matador” that included jalapeño peppers, among other options, I queried? “Well yes,” the group agreed. It wasn’t traditional, but everybody had to make a living and maybe the owners of such individual locations might know their clientele best.
No resolution came of the discussion. It was the sort of evening that inspired such talk, but nothing was decided. We did enjoy some great olives and cheeses and even some chips and freshly made salsa. Maybe that’s the way things go when people who run restaurants and those who care about them are jawing on a Wednesday evening.
June 3, 2004: Prime and Sub Prime
Issue #125: I’m looking at a picture of a T-bone steak on the cover of a restaurant trade magazine. The photo shows such beautiful marbling—it’s obvious that it’s a great cut of meat and probably well worth whatever is charged for it.
Prime beef still exists, though you’ll have to look hard and pay dearly for it.
It may not always have been so. I remember when a locally-based small grocery chain proudly advertised that they purveyed prime beef. My recollection is that they implied that most—if not all—of their beef was graded USDA Prime. This company deserved their reputation for quality meat, but they weren’t the only game in town. Several other butcher shops also sold high quality meat. The chain operation has grown and prospered. They’re still well regarded. But they don’t make that “Prime” claim anymore.
Some years ago I read that grading standards had been relaxed. An American public had been convinced that leaner beef was healthier for them. Beef producers knew that it was more expensive for them to produce the cattle that had the greater fat (marbling) that made their product taste better. So the standards to qualify for Prime or Choice grading by the government inspectors have been lowered and it’s even harder to find these better cuts of meat.
America has a generation that is convinced that leaner means better, yet doesn’t know much about nutrition and hasn’t a clue about what good beef tastes like. This is an unfortunate situation.
Dan Clarke
Publisher
May 27, 2004 An Editorial Change
From Issue #124: For some 124 weeks we’ve published a brief editorial. To this point, that weekly editorial has appeared only in the newsletter and not in the pages of either of our two web magazines, California Wine and Food and Taste California Travel.
That changes today. Henceforth, we’ll include it in California Wine and Food.
Summoning the invective necessary for a good, harsh editorial isn’t easy to do every week. In the past we’ve railed at the stupidity and venality of politicians (a seemingly limitless source of inspiration), rip-off wine pricing in restaurants and the cowardice of those who vandalize in the name of animal rights. We’ve also taken the opportunity to bring positive and upbeat thoughts to our newsletter subscribers. Sharing the joy of another opening day of baseball season or the blessing of the grapes as another harvest begins is much more pleasant for the writer and may be for the reader, as well.
A topic is often hard to find when deadline is looming. Often, something quirky from one of the morning papers has bailed me out. Like when the group of French chefs and food writers petitioned the Pope to exclude gluttony from the list of seven deadly sins. Or when the Chronicle reported that some San Francisco restaurants were charging a markup of eight to nine times on bottled water (must have been necessary to cover costs of cellaring those special vintages of the stuff).
In the weeks to come this feature will evolve to more of a column than an editorial in the traditional sense. We invite our readers share any thoughts these pieces trigger.
Dan Clarke,
Publisher
May 20, 2004: Five Cubic Zirconia?
Issue #123: I had called a coastal resort to inquire about their dining room. What was the nature of the menu? Was a reservation available early that evening?
Apparently at mid-afternoon no one was in the dining room to answer these questions, but the woman on the phone inspired confidence. She provided a good idea of the range of the menu, some of the house specialties and the likelihood that we could get an early reservation. She mentioned with some understandable pride that the operation was the only “five diamond” recipient in that part of the state.
Later that day we traveled a few miles down the coast and had a pretty good dinner. There was a great view of sunset over the Pacific. We’d have preferred a greater selection of fish and shellfish, but we found a couple of choices for our main course that were good—solid, if not outstanding. Our appetizers were wonderful. The crabcakes were accompanied by a tomato ginger chutney. Perfectly grilled prawns rested on a lemon beurre blanc. The moist smoked salmon was some of the best I ever had. In all, it was a good evening.
The dining room manager who seated us was friendly, smooth and seemed to be—at the very least—a competent professional. Two waiters worked the small-to-medium-sized dining room. They were young, friendly and earnest. But this is not enough to justify a reputation as a first class restaurant.
Our fellow introduced himself and asked how “you guys” were doing this evening (for the record, “we” were a man and a woman). To some incidental request, our eager-to-please server replied “you got it.” Initially we had ordered only appetizers, suggesting that we’d select our entrees afterward. It took a while for the appetizers to come out and after about 10 minutes our server returned to ask if we were “ready for that second course.” Assuming he’d had a momentary lapse in pacing, I replied, “We haven’t had the first one yet.” He went away and eventually brought our food, but thinking back I wonder if he was asking if we were ready to order the next course. His colleague seemed to be cordial, but had a habit of picking up dirty dishes (there was one busser working the floor) and then stopping to chat with diners at his other tables on the way back to the kitchen. When he visited his diners to pour more wine or just chat about how they might be enjoying their meals, he tending to learn on the back of a chair at the table. Sometimes he did this with one arm (if he still had a bottle of wine or pot of coffee in his other hand). Other times it was with both arms. Such was the angle of his familiar posture that had any of these chairs been swivel-backed, he’d have fallen to the floor before the evening was done.
These young waiters were not evil. They did seem friendly and, given their obviously limited experience, probably figured they were doing a good job. Their demeanor certainly was preferable to the snotty, haughty professional waiters—mostly of a bygone era—who tried to intimidate their customers into tipping bigger. But they were a long way from the polished professionals that waiters in class house should be.
We opted to pay by credit card, rather than cash. I just didn’t want to take a chance on hearing, “Do you want change on that?”
Dan Clarke
Publisher and Editor
May 13, 2004: Too Much Diversity?
Issue #122: The case can be made that Northern California is the most exciting place on earth for those who really care about cuisine. Much contributes to this situation. A salubrious climate allows most of the fruits and vegetables of the world to grow here successfully. More varieties of winegrapes are grown and vinified here than in another other region on the globe. Ranchers raise beef, sheep, swine and even ostriches for the table. Several hundred miles of coastline gives us access to the bounty of the Pacific.
Wonderful raw materials and a very diverse population mean we can enjoy foods of so many different ethnic traditions. Part of the excitement of being here is to enjoy the cross-pollination of those traditions. “Fusion” cuisines evolve—hybrids incorporating the best (and sometimes the worst) of our many peoples.
I hardly ever have turned down the opportunity to sup on something new or different. But there are limits.
This morning's e-mail brought word from Michael Eady, a contributor to these electronic pages. He called my attention to today's food section in the San Francisco Chronicle, which spoke to the virtues of the monkeyface prickleback. This fish is found in tidal pools and is taken by a technique called poke poling. It somewhat resembles an eel (but is not a true eel), according to the article. These creatures are “positively delicious,” according to writer Peggy Knickerbocker, who admits they are “ugly as sin,” thereby demonstrating her gift for understatement.
Mr. Eady said that no matter how delicious the thing was supposed to be, he wasn't likely to have any monkeyface prickleback grace his table. Amen to that, I say. I've risked my health trying food I couldn't begin to identify from street vendors in strange parts of the world. I've eaten a spider off the wall to impress a girl (I was five at the time) and have drunk a cocktail of fresh pig blood with Mexican friends as we began preparing the carnitas. But I'm not having any of these monkeyface pricklebacks. They're really creepy.
Dan Clarke
Publisher and Editor