Arnaud Bardary,MS: What Sort of Wine Goes With Forearm?

The proud addition of ‘MS’ after one’s name is the professional pinnacle, the authoritarian apex, the superstar summit to which everyone in the industry aspires.

After years of tastings, countless tomes devoured, endless sessions with those of similar consuming interests, imagine the thrill that Arnaud Bardary must have felt when he finally earned the right to have business cards made referring to him as Marquis de Sade.

Count your fingers after every date

Count your fingers after every date

In the end, all it took was a single gavel drop in the Westminster Magistrates’ Courtroom after the almost-famous Master Somm—one one of Gordon Ramsay’s protégés —accepted a plea bargain allowing him to cop to one count of assault by beating after he was accused of repeatedly biting his paramour in the arm during a sex romp that went a little haywire.

The misdemeanor was reduced from the original felony charge, ‘Attempting To Consume a Human Being in a Setting Other Than a Plane Crash in the Andes.’

At the time, Bardary was (and according to his LinkedIn profile, still is) Head Sommelier at Gordon Ramsay’s London restaurant ‘Maze’, which prides itself on ‘eclectic and innovative food.

To which those of us still shaking our noggins over Bardary’s choice of anatomical amuse-bouches, can only respond, “No shit.”

Arm in Mouth Disease

First a word on restaurant titles, then on Ramsay, and lastly, on Captain Choppers himself, all wrapped in a prix-fixe of biting sarcasm.  It may be presumed that some of what follows is facetious, but that the story at the core of it—Bardary’s culinary predilection to bite the hand that feeds him—is absolutely accurate.

Clipboard hannibalBefore becoming Head Sommelier at Maze, Master Sommelier Bardary was Assistant Head Sommelier at Maze. Before that he was Assistant Head Sommelier at Hotel du Vin.  These are semantically interesting staff positions since ‘Head’ (like ‘Master’) indicates a top level job and ‘Assistant’ indicates ‘not a top level job’.  We have Vice Presidents because ‘Assistant President’ is as ludicrous-sounding a title as ‘Assistant CEO’ or ‘Assistant Emperor’ or ‘Assistant Master Sommelier’.  I can only assume that in the Gordon Ramsay Corporate Manual, the designation ‘Assistant Head Sommelier’ is accompanied by a job description that reads, ‘You have all the technical qualifications to be Head Sommelier, but we already have one, so if you could just hang on until our current Head Sommelier attempts to eat his date, that would be nice.”

Clipboard gordonOn to Gorgon Ramsay, who really looks like a piece of food—namely, one of those apples we used to carve into an old lady face and leave on the counter until it got all shriveled up and became a witch face. His persona matches quid pro quo —he is the Wicked Witch of the West without the cool monkeys or the sense of humor.  Sitting through ten excruciating minutes of his awful show is the sensory equivalent of removing your own appendix without anesthesia, and I can certainly understand the onset of psychopathy in those under his employment. I swear to God, if I worked for this desiccated namby-pamby cock-smooch, I would flip out at the very first obscenity-drenched tongue-lashing I was forced to endure and start taking great, bloody mouthfuls of flesh from the nearest human being, and I assure you, I wouldn’t require consensual sex beforehand.

lord_phillipsNot that this is a legitimate legal excuse for Bardary’s beastly behavior, especially in Great Britain, where they take crime so seriously that they make their judges dress up in silly powdered wigs like it’s still the eighteenth fucking century. I can see getting disbarred in England for breaking out into uncontrollable giggles while defending a jizz-stain like Arnaud Bardary:

“I know cannibalism is no laughing matter, your honor, but what is up with that Ben Franklin ‘do??”

A Case For Providing Employee Meals

If it please the court, the particulars of Bardary vs. Rational Humanity indicate that the kinky, dinky winky sommelier met the lovely victim (unnamed in some reports, ‘Anais Lopes’ in others) at a party at the City of Quebec in Marble Arch, London. According to Bardary’s attorney, Anne McCarthy, at the party the young morsel “…came on very strong to him. She was bearing her breasts at him and using language that she would destroy him.”

If that’s not asking for a masticated medial intermuscular septa, I don’t know what is.

Ramsay vs. Ramses Wrinkle Contest

Ramsay vs. Ramses Wrinkle Contest

To the arresting bobbies (not to be confused with Ramsay’s douche-buddy Bobby Flay), Bardary said, “It wasn’t romantic. It was rough sex.”

Prosecutor Edward Aydin agreed: “This amorous liaison ended up not as an amorous liaison but a rough and tumble, as if the victim there went into a tumble dryer.”

Now, this is a family wine column, so to put it as delicately as possible, let’s say that upon hearing the barrister’s suggestive imagery of biting a woman while she was trapped inside a clothes dryer, the defendant’s nether region was seen to become visibly turgid.

The penalty phase of the trial occurred on June 29, 2016, during which the magistrates fined Bardary £250 and ordered him to pay £150 compensation to the victim.  Since he confessed to biting Ms. Lopes five times in the left arm, this equates to a net worth of £50 per bite, per limb.  Placing an equal value on each of the breasts she bared, and a compensatory amount of £250 for her lady parts, it can be surmised that had he eaten Anais Lopes in her entirety, damages would have amounted to approximately £1000, or, roughly the amount he paid to be certified as a Master Sommelier in July of 2015.

The Donner PartyBardary was asked by this reporter if he agrees with Hannibal Lecter’s recommendation of Chianti as an appropriate accompaniment to human liver, but by press time, those emails remain unanswered.

In conclusion, my droogies, the moral of the story is:

‘Be careful who you meet and eat at any party that isn’t called ‘The Donner…’

Onward and supward.

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Good Seed Makes Good Crop: The Franciscan Focus

Caine_and_Master_PoHere’s a life lesson, Grasshopper—and especially if you are a grasshopper:  Never turn down an opportunity to interview a man named Turnipseed.

If he happens to be socially engaging, well-versed in the art of enology and willing to pick up the tab at a Birmingham bistro while pouring exclusive, big-shouldered Mt. Vedeer reds, well then, Grasshopper, a plague of locusts shouldn’t keep you away.

Charming as the name ‘Turnipseed’ is, it’s also well-respected in California, albeit under a slightly different spelling: ‘Turnupseed Electric’ appears on many a motor in the automotive, agriculture and food industriesAnd odd as the name ‘Turnipseed’ is,  Jay Turnipseed—the Franciscan Estate winemaker who breezed into town to pour his wares—is not the first one I’ve interviewed.  I tracked down a relative of the late Donald Turnupseed when I was writing a book on Paso Robles. Although Donald Turnupseed was the man who put Turnupseed Electric on the map, that’s not why I wanted to interview his nephew.  Beside owning the electric motor company, Uncle Don Turnupseed was also the guy who broadsided James Dean in the latter’s fatal car crash outside Paso.

Whether or not there is any family ties between the Turnupseeds and the Turnipseeds, I didn’t ask. I did, however, ask a lot about Napa wines.

another jay

Jay Turnipseed

Jay didn’t just fall off the turnip truck—he has been with Franciscan since 2004; before that he was an enologist with E&J Gallo.  He rocks a sort of Walter White look, with the chrome dome and goatee, and like White, he’s adept at the chemistry behind controlled substance production. He entered that profession along a circuitous route that began as a stint as a back waiter in a Sand Diego restaurant, where he picked up extra cash by helping the wine captain do inventories. Though that experience, he learned so much about the organization of the cellar that when the sommelier moved on, he was tapped for the job.  During his stewardship, he had a chance to taste a 1953 Chateau Margaux, and it proved to be a transcendental experience.  No longer content with selling wine, Turnipseed enrolled in the Viticulture and Enology program at UC Davis and learned how to make it.

“I couldn’t have landed at a better winery for the kind of wines I wanted to make,” he says. “Old school, invested in success.  Oak Knoll produces some of the most nuanced wine in California; Mt. Vedeer, some of the most intense and age-worthy.”

Intensity and nuance are words that get tossed around with frequency in conversations with Jay Turnipseed, and so is ‘Justin’.  In fact, ‘Justin’ is uttered with a sort of deep-seeded reverence that reminds you of that old Warner Brothers cartoon when the big-haired conductor entered the symphony hall and everyone began a gutteral, whispered chorus, ‘Leopold… Leopold…’

Justin Meyer

Justin Meyer

In this case, ‘Justin… Justin…’ refers to Justin Meyer, a former monk who left the Christian Brothers in 1972, about the same time I joined them—at least, by attending a Christian Brothers parochial school.  Like me, Meyer had a better time ex-Christian Brothers. He partnered with Colorado entrepreneur Ray Duncan on a 750 acre plot of land in the Napa Valley, formerly the Oakville Dairy farm, and put the skills he’d learned as a winemaker at Greystone Cellars, a church-owned winery from 1945 to 1989 and today home to The Culinary Institute of America at Greystone, to work.  The goal was to focus entirely on Cabernet Sauvignon and produce the finest incarnation of that varietal in the world.  This singular fixation was explain by Meyer at the time:  “It was kind of a reaction to my days at Christian Brothers, where we made so many wines it was hard to do them all right, and it was kind of in keeping with what I thought—that Cabernets were what Napa and Sonoma did best, so why not devote our attention to that? This is a pretty common concept in France.”

What wasn’t a common concept in France was the use of American oak in barrels, a decision Meyer made because he believed that the classic barriques of Burgundy and Bordeaux imparted too much wood tannin in a wine.  In one of the most brilliant analogies to emerge from the early wave of California vintners, Meyer likened tannic wine to tough steak.

Nothing tough about his tradition; the wines that Jay Turnipseed poured were supple and firm, and those with tannins showed none of the bitter qualities that Justin Meyer deplored, but ripe grape tannins that strutted beautifully with the fruit.  Even the wines meant to age, the Reserves and the small production lots, show well today; indeed, to Brother Mr. Meyer’s point, many young Bordeaux from top châteaux are virtually undrinkable in their infancy.

Although Justin Meyer died in 2003, the legacy he built at Franciscan remains at the forefront of the mission statement (no pun).

sb labelWith one noteable exception:  Meyer’s Cabernet complex is shattered, with a wide range of varietals now in the portfolio.  Take the Sauvignon Blanc, the first of the line-up poured, vintage 2014 ($17).  Grown in the heavy clay soils of Oakville, the grapes were picked early (August 7) because of low-rain condiditons, but the  methoxypyrazines—the chemical compound responsible for the overtly grassy quality of many New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs—are evident, but not overpowering.  The wine finds itself in a delightful limbo between Marlborough and the Loire, with a balance of stone fruits and herbal freshness. The wine might have been named ‘Equilibrium’, except that they already had one.

Equilibrium 2014 (2014) is a blend of 72% Sauvignon Blanc, 17% Chardonnay and 11% Muscat, left slightly sweet and jazzed up by a percentage of barrel fermentation. Like all Franscican wines, despite a foreward, friendly feel, it’s meticulously produced, with precisely monitored skin contact during fermentation and careful vineyard management during the growing season.  “I’m in the vineyard constantly,” says Turnipseed.  “The trigger on these grapes has to be pulled at the right second.”

Both wines are bottled beneath Stelvin ‘Lux’ stoppers, a neat twist on the twist-off—more elegant looking and perfectly suited to this style of wine.

vineyardsWe shifted attention to a trio of Chardonnays: Entry level Napa Valley Chardonnay 2013 ($23) is grown in the Larsen Vineyard in Carneros, the coolest region in Napa. The vintage was warm and dry, so the fruit developed optimally, and the wine is luscious with lemon curd and ripe pineapple notes and a nice buttery finish. Malolactic is a given with these high Carneros acids, and lees stirring helps build the richness. That’s redoubled in the upper-end Larsen-designated Chardonnay, made from select blocks in the same vineyard.  Retailing for $35, Larsen offers lush tropical aromas, toasted almond, and syrupy pear notes.

Particularly intriguing, and the best of the white lot, is Cuvée Sauvage 2013 ($45), produced using purely native yeasts.  According to Jay, “We put the juice in the barrel and let the native vineyard yeasts start a wild and unpredictable fermentation. It begins slowly. And when it finally takes off, it moves at a leisurely pace and at cooler temperatures. As one strain of wild yeast slows, another comes forward, adding even more complexity and body to the wine. Each successive fermentation adds a new dimension, and each barrel develops its own personality with unique flavors and nuances.”

In fact, the wine feels both restrained and foreward, a dichotomy explained by the many layers of complexity, running the full spectrum of citrus and apple with a restrained perfume and an explosive texture underscored by a silky, oaken sheen.

DSC_0002Then Jay raised the red flag, and as much as his whites displayed the multifaced terroir of Napa, the original Franciscan raison e’tre, and Bordeux blends especially, display the foundational organoleptics. Not sure if Brother Jeremy stirred a little Merlot or Petite Verdot into his Estate Cab, but the 2012 ($29) is 83% Cabernet Sauvignon, 10% Merlot, 3% Malbec, 3% Petit Verdot and 1% Syrah and is filled with brambly, dusty summer black fruits, berries, currants and plums and opens opulently into cocoa and coffee.

Napa Merlot 2012 ($23) which blends in a touch of Malbec, is filled with juicy red cherries and cinnamon, surprisingly chewy with supple tannins and a good, broad finish.  Later, Jay poured a limited edition Reserve Merlot—less than a thousand cases produced—of which he is justly proud; it showed ambition and fruition, a California Merlot with breeding born of the varietal’s spiritual home in Saint-Émilion on Bordeaux’s Right Bank while offering the lush forwardness of Napa’s fertile warmth.

mt vedeer reserveThen the pick of the litter: The  Mt. Vedeer label, made in the Fransciscan winery, relies on top fruit from that most rugged of Napa sub-appelations. Located in the southwest corner of Napa, ranging in elevation from 600 to 2500 feet, Mt Vedeer has the longest growing season in Napa, and also the lowest yields—according to Jay, the grapes are often the size of frozen peas.  But the wine is magnificant.  Mt. Vedeer pushes viticulture to the limits, but when the wines are successful, they are outstandingly so; it’s a combination of perseverance and patience are required to wait out the risks of the growing season, but Mt Vedeer Reserve Cabernet 2013 demonstrates stature in the struggle:  Both brooding an ebullient, the wine shows cassis, black licorice, eucalyptus and deep, serious fruit.  Tannins are beautifully integrated, vibrant and gripping, and the wine in clearly crafted to settle in for the long haul.

In 1999, Fransican Estate Winery was purchased by the great global wine firehydrant, Constellation, and I recall, at the time, being skepical.  Shored up by workhorse brands like Woodbridge and Vendange, I assumed that corporate directives would take Fransciscan away from the tight, hand-crafted intensity of small production lots and wedge the winery into the mass-production fold based on reputation.  Well, now I’m willing to toss Constellation a bone, here: Jay Turnipseed poured a harvest of prizewinners and there’s wasn’t a dog in the bunch.

“Constellation allows us to produce the quality of wine we always have, the best of what the appellation allows, “he say. “But we have deeper pockets now, and can take advantage of economies of scale when it comes to purchases—tractors, barrels, stuff like that.  So, we keep prices reasonable.”

I can see it.

What I can’t see is the hallowed patriarch Frère Justin being particularly enamored of the move; after all, he made his mark in the world by leaving the tribe, not by joining it.  Still, the seeds were sown nearly two decades ago, and as far as I can tell, from those seeds, Fransciscan’s quality and  stature has grown.



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Burgundy, 2014: Terroir vs. Tempests

When I asked a prominent Burgundian vigneron at what point during a growing season a winemaker knows for sure that the vintage will be great, she replied:  “On the day of harvest.”

To me, that single upchuck of cold, hard truth says more about the difficulties of being a winemaker in Burgundy than the dozens of books written on the subject.  Everything about the occupation is beholden to the tides of fate—weather, pests, mildew, even the fluctuation in market pricing.  When I asked her if, on the Sunday prior to the day of harvests the churches in Burgundy were busier than usual, she laughed, “We’re Catholic. Our churches are always packed.”

Churches and hail in Burgundy

Churches and hail in Burgundy

That said, vintage 2014 in many ways typified the best and the worst the region has to throw at long suffering loyalists, especially in Beaune. Following three consecutive low-yield vintages, everybody in Burgundy was praying for a copious crop.  With the introduction of modern improvements like pre-crush sorting and all-organic viticulture, few vintages are complete busts, but when yields are low, certain disadvantages unrelated to fruit quality set in.  As any home winemaker knows, small batches of wine often begin to ferment at uncontrollable speeds, because fermentation is an exothermic process, which means that heat is produced as the yeast are doing their work and this raises the temperature of the must.  A sufficiently cool environment for primary fermentation is not always possible.  Plus, in smaller batches, the heat doesn’t dissipate as readily, so it is easy to exceed the maximum optimum fermentation temperature, which for white wines is around 55°F and for reds, around 80°F.  Runaway heat plays hell with volatile aromatics and can produce funky flavors of its own.  The lessened time for skin contact in quicker, hotter fermentation is another negative that results in substandard must.

In short, when yields are kept intentionally low, concentrated, complex wines may result, but below a certain level, the law of diminishing returns sets in.

Hot fermentation

Hot fermentation

In Côte de Beaune, the southern part of the Côte d’Or, 2014 pushed some limits to that critical mass after violent hail storms in the end of June, wreaking havoc outside the villages of Volnay, Pommard, Meursault and Beaune. The plague of hail is a double whammy in vineyards, because not only is fruit destroyed, but damaged wood goes into repair mode, producing the botanical equivalent of scar tissue.  This can impart off-flavors, so destemming becomes a labor-intensive priority. In Beaune, in some of the vineyards hardest hit, sorting and destemming resulted in ratios of four bad grapes to every one that was salvageable.

The July that followed was less than ideal, with damp weather and chilly temperatures leading to slow ripening.  And the first half of August was even worse.  Said Gevrey-Chambertin’s Pierre Damoy: “Given that this was supposed to be an early vintage, the awful weather in August slowed everything  down and caused us great anxiety.”

800px-Pernand-VergelessesThen, voilà!  Skies cleared, the sun warmed things up, and steady ripening through mid-September seized victory from the jaws of defeat.  In all, whites fared better than reds, as thicker skinned Chardonnay was better able to withstand the fruit fly infestation that descended on the Côte de Beaune in the final weeks of August and some Pinot Noir growers, fearful that the flies would destroy their remaining crop, picked too early. Early-picked Pinot Noir leads to wine with unripe anthocyanins and tannins, both vital for color stability and textural quality.  Growers who resisted the temptation to jump the gun were rewarded with wines both voluptuous and age-worth.

The beautiful safety net in the French AOC system is that Burgundies can be declassified by the producer if the fruit in a given harvest is deemed of insufficient quality to warrant using a previously, fully earned classification like Grand Cru. In other words, in off years, Grand Cru wines can be called Premier Cru, Premier Cru can be downgraded to Villages and Villages can become a basic Bourgogne.  Of course, even in exceptional years that practice cannot work in reverse—unless your designation changes, there are no labeling upgrades.

The line-up of newly-released 2014 from Côte de Beaune I sampled featured producers Domaine Rapet,  Domaine Bart, Domaine Françoise & Denis Clair and Domaine  Claudie Jobard.

As far as Burgundy producers go, these are all rationally-priced selections fully capable of expressing the subtle majesty of the Burgundy, 2014.


Under the auspices of Vincent Rapet, Domaine Rapet sits on fifty prime acres in Pernand-Vergelesses, Savigny-lès-Beaune, Aloxe-Corton and Beaune.


Pernand-Vergelesses “Sous Frétille” rapetPernand-Vergelesses “Sous Frétille” Premier Cru, $50

Creamy apple strudel scents on the nose, crisp and ripe and stylish on the palate .  The climat sits within a protected valley that lies between the fabled Grand Crus of Corton and Corton Charlemagne.  The terrain funnels the wind, drying the grapes and concentrating the juice, producing a wine with a lovely mouthfeel and a long finish.


Beaune “Clos du Roi” Premier Cru, $46

Sandy soils in the northern end of Beaune make for a floral bouquet; the wine is rich with black fruits, ripe and ample with friendly cinnamon notes; sweet oak and austere minerality reins it in.

Pernand-Vergelesses “Ile de Vergelesses” Premier Cru, $56

The sheer vividness of the nose is outstanding; macerating black cherries mingle with rose-petals, lychee and spices with an almost chocolatey accent.  The structure is powerful and rounded and the finish satisfyingly long.

36Domain Bart

¡Ay, caramba! Pierre Bart is the sixth generation Bart to manage the family holdings in Bonnes-Mares and Chambertin-Clos de Bèze, as well as Santenay.


Marsannay “La Montagne”, $26

Slightly smoky with aromatic hints of blueberry, cherry and cassis; fresh-tasting in the mouth, although the wine dies fairly quickly after mid-palate.  The tannins feel a little raw still and need some time to integrate.

Claudie Jobard

Claudie Jobard

Domaine Claudie Jobard

Claudie Jobard manages 23 acres of old vines in Côte Chalonnaise and Côte de Beaune, including prime parcels in Pommard from family ties with Domaine Gabriel Billard.  She’s the daughter of Laurence Jobard, Joseph Drouhin’s winemaker/enologist for 30 years.


Rully “Montagne la Folie”, $22

Beautiful aromas of apple peel, damp pavement, citrus and butterscotch. Extended skin contact without bâtonnage imparts a delightful richness to the wine, which at this price, is a genuine steal.


Bourgogne “Cuvée Milliane Vieilles Vigne”, $21

Fruits tends to the red side of the spectrum, with tart cherry and wild raspberry along with a soil-driven earthiness.  Generally simple and short-lived, this is an ideal accompaniment to a light meal served outdoors.

Floral, peach, golden delicious, mineral

Rully “Le Chaume”, $22

Black currants and light red cherries, this is an entry level, Village wine from a single vineyard.  Nice, not too complex, but balanced and well-rounded.

Pommard “Les Vaumuriens” Billard, $41

More clay in the soils of Pommard produce a lush, full-bodied wine of great repute.  This one has some linseed oil on the nose behind rose and violet perfumes; the tannins are young and parching and the acids linger in the mouth.

Domaine Françoise & Denis Clair

Domaine Françoise & Denis Clair was created in 1986 with 12 acres of Pinot Noir in Santenay; since then it has expanded into the best terroirs in Saint-Aubin.


Bourgogne Hautes-Côtes de Beaune, $20

Basic almond and citrus scented Burgundy, light and crisp in the mouth, not too heavy on any single element, but refreshing and easy to enjoy.

domaine-francoise-et-denis-clair-saint-aubin-1er-cru-1er-cru-les-murgers-des-dents-de-chien-vin-blanc-2014Saint-Aubin, $27

Restrained nose; a summery wine with butter and Golden Delicious apples  through mid-palate; meant for drinking  young. buttery fresh. Village wine, rocky vineyards.  No lees stir bâtonnage, co2 evident when shake.

Saint-Aubin “Les Murgers des Dents de Chien”, $41

The oddly-named ‘Walls of dog teeth’ vineyard probably gets its name from the jagged hillsides, so steep that they have to be plowed from bottom too top.  Sustainable agriculture encourages deep root growth, so the wine has gobs of complex and pure fruit layers behind smoke and an underlying mineral austerity echoed in a firm acidic grip.

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Ten Things You Never Thought Could Be Turned into Alcohol: #11 Will Blow Your Mind!

Every once in a while, I take a breather from my professional schedule to make fun of Drink Me magazine, which continues to show up in my inbox despite me not subscribing to it and never doing anything but make fun of it, but which I do not mark as spam because I clearly revel in making fun of it.

drinkme logoIf you are not familiar with Drink Me, good. If you are familiar with it, but are not familiar with me, it’s probably because you are a serious wine person who cannot take wine writers seriously if they regularly stray from pedagogic, stultifying, big-word wine columns in order to take cheap shots at the columns of other wine writers.

So be it—you’re probably mean to your mother too and have nasty, prurient thoughts involving your friends’ children.

We Doubted it Too, So We Fact-Checked it (Twice)!

Deposed multimillionaire finance minister of Nigeria

Deposed finance minister of Nigeria

But for Christ’s sake, if you do know Drink Me, you know how often they rely on the ol’ clickbait headline to drag you in—the journalistic equivalent of an email from the deposed multimillionaire finance minister of Nigeria—and it may be part of my 2016 weltschmerz, but when I see such cheap attention grabs from a site that sells advertising based on hit count, I’m hardwired to expect total disappointment.  So, when I was baited into clicking ‘Five Things You Never Thought Could Be Turned Into Alcohol’ I wasn’t totally disappointed by my subsequent total disappointment.

You Gotta See What Happens Next…!

For the record, though, before I launch my crapulous critique: As far as clickbait goes, the Drink Me headline was pretty bush league. Good clickbait headlines pick up any curiosity stragglers with one of the most effective tools at yellow journalism’s disposal:  The sub-headline. The sub-headline is meant to imply to you, the reader, that if you or do not read the entire story from start to finish you will be deprived of something critical to your future happiness or at least, will be left fluttering a handkerchief on the mental platform when the Smart Train leaves the station.

clickbaitBut Drink Me does not employ the sub-headline, and—I suggest—to their peril. I will guarantee you that any curiosity gap not bridged by ‘Five Things You Never Thought Could Be Turned Into Alcohol’ could have been given short shrift had they added the sub-headline, ‘#3 = Gag Me With a Spoon!’ or ‘You’ve Been Flushing #4 Down the Toilet!’

I mean, if you are going to be an annoying, hyperbolic, extortionist, overpromise/underdeliver rag, at least do it right.

Like I do.

Big Wine Publications Hate Him, And You’ll Never Guess Why! you will.  Because I out-absurd the absurdist, out-bullshit the bullshitter and out-bait the baiter. In fact, you might say I’m a master baiter. The Drink Me piece listed the following five alcohol-ready items: Dandelions, oranges, potatoes, spruce and maple sap.  Big deal, huh? I would assume most people capable of reading a fourth grade book on how to make Pruno out of cafeteria canned peaches know that alcohol is merely the conversion of sugar, either natural or stirred in with a big spatula, to C2H5OH. Thus, anything with sugar in it, and nothing to inhibit the action of ambient yeast cells, will ferment.  This, of course, includes sugar water.  Anything added to fermented sugar water (like dandelions, oranges, potatoes, spruce and maple sap) is meant as a ‘flavoring’ agent, so if you have never heard of, say, dandelion wine, it’s because you don’t read Ray Bradbury, and if you haven’t heard of orange, potato, spruce or maple sap wine, it is likely because in a world of Romanée-Conti, Montrachet and Egon Müller Scharzhofberg Trockenbeerenauslese, there really is no need to make wine out of Aunt Jemima or pinecones.

Simply because something can be done does not mean that it should be done, right?

As such, here are five more things that, although they can be made into wine, nobody not incarcerated in a maximum-security third-world prison actually has.

Peruvian Stink Badger#6: Peruvian Stink Badger Bile:  Obtaining the main ingredient may be more difficult than making the sugar water, but anonymous sources tell me that super-adorbz black market Peruvian Stink Badger babies can be purchased from Global Exotics out of Arlington, Texas. The bile, of course, can be found in the creature’s gallbladder, and if you don’t know which one the fucking gallbladder is, buy one of those machines that has a Google inside it, Dr. Moreau.

fuku#7: Fukushima Runoff Water: It’s recommended that you wear a hazmat suit while fermenting this electric elixir, which has the additional clickbait potential of not only increasing your penis size by three inches, but actually growing you additional penises.

#8: Light Sweet Crude Oil:  Recipe courtesy the ex-captain of the ex-buoyant Exxon Valdez.

leper#9: Saliva from Heroin-Addicted, AIDS-Infected Lepers:  I didn’t believe it myself, so I fact checked it.  Twice. Turns out that among the most amendable substance on earth to fermentation, based the ideal balance of enzymes, sugars, tannins and acidity, is ripe organic grape juice.  I know this has nothing to do with junkie lepers, but why in the world would anybody ferment their spit?  That would be as gross as fermenting maple sap.

corleoneAnd I know there is no #10.  That’s how clickbait works, suckers.  Like the Mafia.  Just when you think you’re out, we pull you back in.  We are on a divine mission from God to see how many cheap emotional ploys, empty promises and worthless listicles you people can endure.

And we suspect that the number is legion.

That said, if you really need to know (and you do) what the number one substance that you didn’t know could be turned into alcohol is, click the hyperlink and receive your super-cute reward.


Onward and upward, droogies.


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The Cult of Brumont: Alchemy in a Glass

I met Alain Brumont at The Stand, over a nice dinner arranged by local wine merchant Elie Boudt, and when I gripped the knotted, platter-sized hand of Brumont in greeting, I was struck with an overwhelming moment of déjà vu.

Brumont's hands

Brumont’s hands

It was briefly unsettling, because I couldn’t pinpoint the feeling. Brumont’s hand is thick and gnarled as a hundred-year-old Gros Manseng vine, so when I embraced it, I anticipated sandpaper and calluses. But Brumont’s palms are like velvet; gentle and warm and the grasp sincere, and…

Then it struck me. I remembered who else had hands like that, years ago, when I was a kid: Grandpère, my paternal grandfather.

I only met the old guy a few times—he lived four thousand miles away, and as far as I know, he never once set foot outside the small Swiss village where he was born. But we’d visit him over summer break, and I remember being eight or nine and how his hand felt in mine when I clutched it and it felt exactly like Brumont’s. The husk was tanned and rough, the knuckles gnarled and the fingernails stained, but the underside was soft as a baby’s rump, like Grandpère had been soaking in Madge’s Palmolive overnight.

Alain Brumont

Alain Brumont

Once I worked through the memory, the rest of the evening with Brumont was incandescent; the lilting flow of Brumont’s voice—who, like Grandpère, spoke no English yet seemed to measure and choose his French words carefully, as if that might help a monolingual American understand them. I understood what I needed to, and learned the rest via a translator.

Feudal France was divvied up into duchies, and the duché de Gascogne, where Brumont’s Château Montus nestles, was once under the rule of Eleanor of Aquitaine, among the wealthiest women in Europe and instrumental in launching the Second Crusade. These days, Alain Brumont wears the crown in Gascony; he is, in the best sense of the word, a cult leader, and his crusade has primarily involved the Madiran appellation’s pet varietal, Tannat.  Before Brumont came on the scene, Tannat was producing bitter, clumsy wines that required years to mellow and often did not have sufficient background fruit to survive the process. Much as the popularity of the local fat-rich comfort casserole Cassoulet fell out of general favor in the 1980s with the rise of leaner, cleaner nouvelle cuisine, so did the the lumbering Tannats of Madiran begin to seem dated and dumb.



The key to the Brumont’s unparalleled success is found within the Tannat’s labor-intensive rehabilitation; the wines of Château Montus are often listed among the icons of Southern France and mentioned in the same breath as Haut-Brion, Rothschild, Yquem. Brumont’s first Montus vintage, 1982, won accolades and according to him, Cuvée Prestige in 1985 ‘unseated 300 years of dominance by Bordeaux and Burgundy’.

“I rank Tannat among the world’s great red varieties, no question,” Brumont says. “But it a grape that requires constant management. To bring out the best, the winemaker needs to prune carefully, six or seven times a year, restrict yields and only pick at maximum ripeness. Our vine rows are perfectly orientated so that the grapes get 15 hours of sunlight each day and each grape receives individual attention.”

Mr. Digger

Mr. Digger

Early on, Brumont’s obsessive approach to lieux-dits earned him the nickname ‘Mr. Digger’—his neighbors discovered that he was fond of digging up the ground at various locations throughout the appellation to assess soil structures—and he is unabashed about admitting it: “I dreamed of terroirs every night; it got to a totally unreasonable level. I got to know every square meter of the region. I went terroir-mad, stone-mad.”

The method to the madness was his subsequent purchasing strategy: He began to buy up Madiran hectares, but forwent the pricier, fertile land where corn and wheat are predominant cash crops in favor of steep, rocky plots where vines show best. There’s some intrigue throughout Brumont’s rise to stardom, some cloak and dagger, and part of it involves him forming shill companies to buy land when jealous peers pulled strings in the local land agency, which oversees sales of rural agricultural property and can easily quash any deal.

He also confesses to having used grapes from vines that had not yet reached the legally prescribed age of three year, although he has never acidified nor chaptalized, believing implicitly in the power of the ‘Brumont Discipline’, a philosophy primarily governed by ‘a series of uncompromising choices’.  In the vineyard, for example, eschewing the use of insecticides, he separates vines from each other by wooden partitions to prevent ‘contamination’. He adds: “I only use water from our springs, which come out of our unpolluted hills. Our vines have grass growing around them, the land is rich in ancestral plant life…”

“These soils are six million years old,” he adds, sniffing at Châteauneuf-du-Pape’s 400,000-year-old infrastructure as the new kid  on the block. “The enzymes and positive bacteria have had that much more time to evolve.”

abcdHe discovered the site for his iconic, ten-hectare vineyard ‘La Tyre’ in 1990; the French wine guide Bettane et Desseauve refers to it as The Pétrus of the Southwest, and puts it on the quality level as Vega Sicilia-Pingus. Situated on an ideal southerly slope on the highest hill in the Madiran appellation, the site is scattered with stones and the subsoil is layered with strata of red and variegated clay. As part of the Brumont Discipline, vines are restricted to five or six bunches and wine made from a rigorous selection of grapes involving six different passes through the vineyards during harvest. Wines from La Tyre grapes are full-bore, rich with acid and filled with fierce black fruit, spicy mocha and tobacco—comparable to wines from the Haut-Médoc in Bordeaux.

This may be contrasted to the silkier, less bombastic wines of Brumont’s other estate, Château Bouscassé, which he inherited from his father in 1979. Covering three hundred acres of marbled clay and limestone outcrops, the wines are a blend of Tannat and Cabernet Sauvignon the wines show the tarry elegance of Montus, but in a slightly more restrained and pretty package with cherry and currant in the forefront. Less age is needed to bring the fruit and tannins into stasis, and the wine sells for considerable less—Brumont wines, of course, are across-the-board bargains when stacked against the Bordeaux Premier Cru vineyard with which they’re compared.

Château Bouscassé

Château Bouscassé

Now nearly seventy, Alain Brumont’s eyes still sparkle with ferocious intensity: He simmers beneath a sort of gentle impatience as his words are translated; he seems constrained by his native language, as if the subtle flavors in his words will be misunderstood, perhaps like Tannat and the Uruguayans. “They grow for quantity,” he shrugs and nods, “and there’s too much rain.  They get two liters of rain annually; Tannat thrives in half that. They make nice Tannat, but not great Tannat. It is dilute and lacks complexity and purity; it does best when blended with Merlot.”

Before Brumont, blending Tannat was actually a legal requirement in Madiran; he fought the law when it came to the wines of La Tyre, and the law lost. It is, however, the only wine he produces that is pure Tannat—the rest of his reds are blended with Cabernet Sauvignon, up to 25%, and lesser levels of Cab Franc.  This can be viewed as Xanax for the more aggressive side of Tannat’s nature, and when all the viticultural stars have not aligned quite as perfectly as they do at La Tyre, are needed to avoid a slide back into the literal black hole of pre-Brumont Madirans.

The white counterparts to Tannat are the Manseng twins, Gros and Petite; these wines are bottled under the separate appellations Pacherenc du Vic-Bilh and Pacherenc du Vic-Bilh Sec, the former sweet, the latter dry, although in tandem they cover the identical area as the Madiran AOC.

Brumont produces both.  In his dry Brumont Blanc 2014 ($10) Gros Manseng is blended with Sauvignon Blanc and produces a wine of almost perplexing complexity for the price—notes of ginger and marmalade play against a spice box of applesauce and buttery toast; the wine is clean and precise, but with the unctuous mouthfeel of a Hermitage Blanc.

montus-blanc-sec-162011 Château Montus Blanc ($26), which The Stand’s ever-clever Chef Paul Grosz pairs with Tuna Tartare on Risotto Cake, showcases a lighter, more floral nose and a grassy palate with citrus and honey and a backbone of minerality.  It’s a blend of Petit Courbu and Petit Manseng; unique grapes grown few places outside the region.

Château Bouscassé and Château Montus ‘La Tyre’, both from the 2009 vintage and priced respectively $20 and $100, are described above, and served as perfect foils to Grilled Quail with Red Wine Braised Blueberries and Beef Sirloin with Celery Root Puree and Shiitake Mushroom.  Chef Grosz displays the same fleet manipulation of cuisine subtleties as Brumont does with varietals; the two engaged in a lovely pas de deux of gastronomy.

…Which was demonstrated conclusively in the final course; Pear Tart with Pear/Bourbon Sorbet dovetailing Château Bouscassé Brumaire Doux ($38), a botrytis-heavy late-harvest blend (again) of Courbu and Manseng.  It’s rich with candied fruits, but reaches into the tropical panoply, with dried pineapple and concentrated notes of papaya mingling with toasted hazelnut and toffee apples. As a beverage, it is the essence of Indian Summer in a glass—an image that stirs up as many fond memories as does Brumont’s soft, but firm handshake.

Terroir can take a wine only so far; it is the intensity of the winemaker that pushes it across the finish line.  In 2011, according to Decanter correspondent Andrew Jefford, Brumont did an informal poll among sommeliers and importers to gauge the name-recognition factor in his universe, Madiran, Brumont, Montus and Bouscassé, and found that his name was recognized over Madiran’s by a factor of eight to one.

Génération Madiran

Génération Madiran

Plenty of good growers in Madiran, including Didier Barre of Domaine Berthoumieu, the Laplace family of Chateau Aydie and the twenty members of Génération Madiran—a coterie of younger growers experimenting with nouvelle technologies and techniques, including micro-oxygenation. All of them recognize Alain Brumont for what he has done for the reputation of the AOC in general and Tannat in particular.

To them, without question, Brumont is the father of New Madiran, although to me, and indelibly now, he better fits the role of Grandpère.


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Ktima Gerovassiliou: Grecian Formula Number One

The Greeks have been at it for six thousand years, and the presumption is that they’ve learned a trick or two.  Something that has eluded them, however, by intention or intractability, is making wine names that un-Greeks can pronounce.

Of course, having invented everything from democracy to the screw, the notion that some uppity wine drinker from, say, Kankakee is going to have trouble with Aghiorghitiko or Xinomavro has not been high on the marketing roadmap.

Perhaps, borrowing a strategy from stadium building, which they also invented, winemaking folks in Greece are operating under the ‘Ferment it and they will come’ presumption.

Vangelis Gerovassiliou

Vangelis Gerovassiliou

Vangelis Gerovassiliou, who redoubles the concept in his thirteen-letter name, is among them.  And his products, unlike major league baseball, are always worth the price of admission.

Take his bush-league-prospects white, Ktima Gerovassiliou, a blend of Malagousia and Assyrtiko: It’s like finding Hank Aaron playing for the Toledo Mud Hens.  Multi-syllabic tongue-twisters be damned; this wine, at $20 a bottle, offers a fiercely floral profile typical of white grapes grown in sandy soils; it’s bolstered by tropical fruit notes—mango and pineapple—and a sprinkle of fresh herb, thyme and ginger.



Malagousia ($23) was nearly extinct as a varietal until Vangelis Gerovassiliou, a young winemaker from Epanomi in the northeast part of Thessaloniki (the second oldest establishment in Macedonia), began experimenting with it in the 1980s.  Distinct perfume of jasmine and pear, with a unstoppably unctuous mouthfeel; slightly buttery and filled with candied citrus, honey and nicely balanced fruit sugars and natural acidity; miles long on the palate.  But don’t necessarily take my word for it:  The 2013 vintage took a trophy at the Decanter World Wine Awards in London and nailed 92 points in Wine & Spirits.

‘Avaton’ is loaded with fresh summer berries you can’t quite identify but suspect exist—maybe on some Macedonian hillside. A triumvirate of Limnio, Mavroudi and Mavrotragano, the explosively fruit sweet, parching with ripe tannins, bitter as black tea with slight leafy tobacco tang, like tobacco, and a full-bore red that’s hung between rustic and elegant. The pedigree is intact, however: Limnio is mentioned by Aristophanes in the 5th century BC, making it the oldest attested Greek grape variety.

Ktima Gerovassiliou

Ktima Gerovassiliou

These wines are as ready for supper as they are for the cellar; they’re splendid now, but display the sort of fruit, acid and tannic backbone associated with wines you could expect to improve with age.  Proof may be in Ktima Gerovassiliou’s Evangelo, the window-dresser of the portfolio, pushing $70 a bottle on wine-searcher.  For his top end red, Gerovassiliou co-ferments Syrah and Viognier—choosing a Northern Rhône varietal that is hard to pronounce just to rub our noses in it. But it’s a good nose rub; Viognier blended with Syrah is a trick that originated in the Côte-Rôtie.  The floral and stone fruit notes in Viognier add distinct sparks of brightness to brooding Syrah, but more than that: Due to a strange chemical phenomenon, colorless compounds called ‘cofactors’ that exist in Viognier bind and stack between colorful anthocyanins in Syrah, so that rather than diluting the color, the blend actually increases the intensity of the purple/red in the final product.

A certain, odd tasting descriptor that sometimes appears in warm climate red wines is some variation on the concept of ‘barnyard’.  In  large doses, this flavor is off-putting and is likely caused by a bacteria called Brettanomyces. In judicious (read: miniscule) doses, it adds a note of intrigue; a contrivance of complexity.  At these PPM, I love it in a Mediterranean red, and it is here in the 2008 Evangelo in the precise portion to be provocative.

muHigh doses of Brettanomyces claussenii is not only a flaw in wine, the word itself—despite having a lot of letters, is Latin in derivation, not Greek, so any suggestion therein would be a double smack in the kisser of winemaker Gerovassiliou.

I’ll opt instead for a brief word, one which succinctly and completely describes the Ktima Gerovassiliou portfolio.  And although it is only comprised of a single letter, it can be repeated ad infinitum, and I am pleased to note that said letter is derived from the Phoenician ‘Mem’ and… wait for it… the Greek letter Mu:





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Calçada Vinho Verde: Perfectly Imperfect

André Estácio Pinto poured a glass of miniscule-production Vinho Verde from Calçada, made from some of the oldest vines in the Minho, and loosed a disclaimer: “It’s not a perfect wine.”

“No problem,” I answered. “I’m not a perfect wine writer.”

W. Gillett Johnson

W. Gillett Johnson

Whereupon, André and I reveled in our combined humility over a plate of Indian Brook Rainbow Trout at Café ML on Maple and Lahser, hosted by W. Gillett Johnson, the large, self-confident and buff importer of Calçada.

Turns out there was far more flavor than flaws in Pinto’s spectacular Vinho Verde—a concentrated, rich wine with a strong mineral and citrus tang—and I suspect that what he meant by ‘not perfect’ had more to do with it being a purely natural wine, made from some of the oldest vines in Vinho Verde, the largest DOP (Protected Designation of Origin) region in Portugal. It expresses only what the land wants it to express, not some contrived set of ‘improvements’ a winemaker might be going for.

Perfection, in these circumstances, is not necessarily a consummation to be wished.

André Pinto

André Pinto

Not that anything was lost in André Estácio Pinto’s translation; he’s an intense, focused Portuguese gentleman, whose English (like his old-vine VV ) does not strive for perfection, only expression.  I’m not sure the same holds true for Bartholomew Broadbent, Esq., the Virginia-based wine importer who suggests that this wine—or at least, wines of its ilk—should not be called ‘Vinho Verde’ at all.  A pusher of fizzy, inexpensive, meh Vinhos, Broadbent declares, “These are Portuguese table wines from Vinho Verde. They’re serious wines, but they are not Vinho Verde.”

Interesting point, except that it’s wrong.  The only criterion set for the legal use of the label-brightener ‘Vinho Verde’ is geographic, and Calçada qualifies. Style and price point are irrelevant, much as Broadbent—former head of Christie’s wine department and importer of non-serious, eight dollar Vinhos—might prefer it otherwise.

A better quote about the subject came from André Pinto when Café ML’s sommelier fell in love with the wine and asked about the price.

“I have no idea,” he responded. “We make so little of it, we’ve never sold a bottle.”

Beautiful shot, which I totally stole

Beautiful shot, which I totally stole

This exclusive sip is not the only Vinho Verde produced by Calçada, obviously; Detroit was a whistle stop on a multi-city promotional tour for the rest of the stock—the presentation of bottle was a special favor done for me (and the sommelier) by W. Gillett Johnson and company, and it was well appreciated.  Among Johnson’s talents (and passions) is finding rare but representative wines from regions whose reputations (in the United States, anyway) are often forged from available imports.  The better wines from these appellations may never even make it to our shores, and this was an example. W. Gillett Johnson loves nothing more than turning on wine writers to some unexpected nonpareil from a familiar region, and turning preconceptions upside down.

He and I had a similar conversation about Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. Those available to most Americans are overtly grass-gorged, grapefruit-glutted blockbusters that miss the subtle majesty of the best versions, which are as complex and pure of Sauvignon Blanc articulation as any top Sancerre.

The focus of our confabulation this evening remained on the Minho, however; the damp, delightfully dramatic province that surrounds the Vinho Verde demarcation. In fact, so wet is Minho that it’s greener than Ireland, and that’s said to be the origin of the ‘verde’, the green.

Certainly the wine isn’t; it can be white, pink or red.

abThe Calçada label is owned by Adega do Salvador in association with the Agrimota-Sociedade Agrícola e Florestal; Adega is owned by the Mota Family; Pinto is the chief executive, but only in the way that an Iberian CEO could be: Food and drink occupy the central role in his conversations, not business. The society has the capacity to produce  a million liters of wine a year, but Pinto would rather tarry over the intricacies of preparing Rojões à Moda do Minho, a local specialty made with boneless pork marinated in Vinho Verde, lightly seared and stewed with potatoes and chestnuts and—a key ingredient for the signature taste—pig’s blood.

Had Rojões appeared on the the Café ML menu, Pinto might have paired with Lago Cerqueira, also produced by  Adega do Salvador in Vinho Verde—it’s a blend of regional varietals, Tinta Roriz, Touriga Nacional, Touriga Franca and Tinta Barroca, and offers a forward, peppery, smoky profile, juicy and grapey, made in the simple, acidic style of Minho reds.

Bartholomew approves

Bartholomew approves

Pinto also poured his mainstream white Vinho Verde, lemony and bright with a slight tongue-prickle and an undertone of peach—the kind of VV that apparently floats Broadbent’s boat.  At around $10 a bottle, it is Portal da Calçada’s entry-level Vinho Verde; clean, fragrant, acidic and unabashedly friendly.

Incidentally, the list of allowable grapes in Vinho Verde white may be better left to the theory section of the Master Sommelier exam, but for the record they are legion, with Alvarinho, Arinto, Avesso, Azal, Batoca, Loureiro, and Trajadura the leaders in a much larger legal pack.

Queijo Serra da Estrela

Queijo Serra da Estrela

Calçada white’s partner in pink is sheer delight; a rosé with all the verve and moxie of a top Tavel, a premiere Provençal, the best of Bandol.  Luscious with honey, sweet with strawberry and watermelon and bubblegum pink, the wine is make from a single varietal, Vinhão.  One of the favored Port varietals (often known as Souzão), Vinhão is a deeply colored, acidic grape that can produce as sensational a natural blush as it can a fortified blockbuster.

Both of these wines make excellent foils to the local mountain cheese called Queijo Serra da Estrela; originating in the highest point in continental Portugal, the cheese is flavored with the cardoon flowers found only at this altitude.

Cafe ML

Cafe ML

André Estácio Pinto speaks with eloquence and authority about Portuguese cuisine in general, and regional specialties of the northwest in particular, so it’s no wonder the restaurant at Casa da Calçada, Largo do Paço restaurant, boasts a coveted Michelin star—an honor bestowed so rarely that Chef Paul Bocuse—who, arguably, created the concept of nouvelle cuisine—said, “Michelin is the only guide that counts.”

Alas, we must report that thus far, a Michelin star has eluded Café ML, but by virtue of their pouring Calçada, a strikingly delicious taste of rural Portugal in urban Birmingham, I suppose we could award them an honorary galaxy and not be far off the mark, at least in an imperfectly perfect universe.



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