Category: Uncategorized (Page 8 of 19)

She Said Yes, Sixty Floors Above Liberty Street: A Snapshot of Our Never-Ending Journey

Angela and I lived around the corner from each other in Brooklyn Heights, a few years apart. We both worked at a financial publication in the Financial District, The Bond Buyer, at different times several years apart. Her apartment on Montague Street was small and cold in the winter, mine on Atlantic and Henry was small and too warm in the winter. Our paths never crossed in New York back then, but it seems they were destined to.

With hindsight, it seems only natural that Angela and I should have chosen to live in that Brooklyn neighborhood. Down the street is St. Anne’s School, and restaurants of all sorts, by the hundreds, are a short walk away.  Sahadi’s is there, and BAM is nearby. It’s a wonderful place, with fine views of Manhattan — Norman Mailer and Truman Capote, among other great writers and artists, called it home, and I sometimes think about all the adventures Angela and I would have had there if our lives had intersected earlier.

Our meeting had to wait a few more years. It was 2008, and I had been in the United Arab Emirates since February, working at an English-language daily based in Abu Dhabi. Angela arrived in December, having accepted a job on the business desk. I knew the ins and outs of what it took to get settled in the UAE (driver license, mobile-phone and bank accounts, social courtesies and etiquette, bureaucratic idiocy, etc.), so offered to help her get settled.

Early in 2009, we decided to move to Dubai. I was spending a lot of time in that emirate because my friend James lived there (it’s about an hour’s drive from Abu Dhabi straight through the desert), and our employer had dropped the ball regarding Angela’s promised Abu Dhabi lodgings. We settled on a large apartment on the 34th floor of a new high-rise complex with impressive views of the Arabian Gulf.

Here’s a photo gallery of some of the people, places, and things that mean the world to us:

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New friends (too many to mention here), old friends, dinner parties, excursions to Barracuda (a liquor emporium in the Ras al Khaimah desert) to stock up on wine and spirits, trips to Beirut and Oman and Umbria and Barcelona many other places, job changes — Angela and I departed the newspaper for which we moved to the Gulf, she to freelance for The New York Times, Time, and other publications, I to work at Al Arabiya — arguments, smiles, misunderstandings, the sadness and joy of love and life, human frailties … we experienced it all.

Then a farewell to the Emirates for both of us, after nearly five years, and adventures in Europe and India and Russia and Hong Kong and Japan and reunions with friends and an award for Angela in her parent’s ancestral homeland and work in several restaurants in Europe and so much more.

Our journey continued in 2013, back in the U.S. Angela had accepted a job as Texas editor of Xconomy; I spent February of that year in Hong Kong with my friend Dean Cox, then a week or so in Tokyo before heading to New York and a reunion with friends and visits to restaurants and places dear to me (Babbo, Palo Santo, Le Bernardin, the Met, Prospect Park, et al). I flew down to Florida to spend some time with my parents and ailing grandmother.  Angela met my parents, and she and I gathered with friends at a lake house in North Carolina, and at The Kentucky Derby (our stay in a haunted bed and breakfast overseen by an eccentric woman was full of spirit). Angela returned to Houston, and I to Florida, where we soon buried Ida, in my mother’s family cemetery next to my grandfather James.

I had begun searching for employment in Houston, and drove north and west from Florida, stopping along the way for a few days in New Orleans (a culinary sojourn, where I dined with a friend at Brigtsen’s, a friend whom I had not seen for years but whose distinctive voice had led me to him from across a crowded room in an artist’s Paris atelier a few years before our New Orleans dinner).

Angela’s parents were kind enough to put me up in their home while I looked for an apartment in Houston, and she and I renewed our adventures in Texas’ Hill Country, Dallas, Austin, Chicago, St. John, California, New Orleans, Berlin and Prague and Puglia. We started The Brockhaus, and took it to Nantucket, where I was hired by Constance and Alison to cook at their wedding  (just two of the fine people I’ve met through Angela). I got to know Angela’s family, we celebrated Indian and American holidays, and we travelled with friends (individuals full of art and spirit and soul and grace and love) and spent time with my family and adopted a cat. And we never stopped journeying.

A moment 10 years in the making.

In September of this year, Angela and I finally walked the streets of New York together, the city I love and lived in for 15 years,  where, 60 floors above Liberty Street, at the close of a long meal at Manhatta, she said yes.

Where will we venture next? I don’t know, but we can’t wait.

The platter came to the table, a communal table, and I served the gentleman to my right. I then served Angela, and placed the remainder on my plate. Ragu bianco, crisp fresh pasta sheets, greens, feta, winter squash, béchamel. It’s been at least two months since I tasted something as comforting and complex and rustic and flavorful. All of the components stand starkly alone, but linger as a symphony on the palate. William Wright, of Helen Greek Food and Wine, created this for a fundraising dinner at Poitín for Urban Harvest, and it was more than good.

A winter’s feast

James is a friend, and his wife, Heather, wore Día de Muertos makeup and a black dress. At the party last night, James, James, and James talked about art and people and music. Some guests wore costume — a pilot and his stewardess were there — and tacos and punch and vodka were there, too, as Angela engaged in conversation with an artist (who sipped on a diet soda and recounted his long-distance encounters with the fans of an NFL star who danced). Above, words floated and swirled into nothingness.

“For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons;
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”

La Lucha Was Warm and Welcoming on a Rainy Evening in Houston

The tacos are, with firm intent, meant to evoke stoner food — crispy tortilla shell, fried shrimp, American cheese, arbol chile — and succeed on that count, and more. The shrimp are toothsome and tender, the sauce clearly made with care, and the whole melds into a series of bites that would satisfy your soul no matter the time of day.

Eat these crispy shrimp tacos no matter your state. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

We’re at La Lucha, and the lighting in the main dining room is just right; one can read the menu with comfort, and the mood is slightly romantic, slightly homey. The chef de cuisine stands at the rear of the room, at the pass, handling tickets and dishes and keeping the kitchen straight.

Tables at the periphery of the dining room are set with white clothes, while those at the center, where we sit, boast uncovered studded metal tops. I like the juxtaposition; it’s as if you are in a place that can deftly handle casual and elegant at the same time, with no jarring clumsiness.

A Muscadet made with care. (Photo by the Brockhaus)

Our Muscadet (2017 Domaine Pierre Luneau-Pepin “La Grange”) costs $40, and we order it to pair with half a dozen wood-smoked jalapeño oysters from the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a good choice. Both are good choices. Large oysters from that gulf are not my preferred oysters, but I do appreciate them grilled over a fire and heat produced by burning wood. These at La Lucha are buttery and spicy and rich, and the crisp Muscadet, it is slightly effervescent and briny and cleanses the palate with grace.

The oysters, on the half shell, are plump, and they nestle in hot butter; we ask for more bread with which to sop that butter, because it is good, and warms us.

Do not waste any of the juices in this dish. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

La Crawfish bread is next, followed by those tacos. It is not late, but the room is inviting, and the bread, a pressed Po’ boy stuffed with crawfish and cheese, is crisp and moist, and when we eat some of it with the parsley salad on the plate the acidity of that salad makes the deepness of the Po’ boy soar.

Eat warm, because the acid and the crisp bread and the cheese and crawfish wow you. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

We forgo the fried chicken, but promise ourselves to return on another rainy night. La Lucha is a lot more than promising.

Tastings: A Fine California Blend, Followed By a Roero Arneis From a Vaunted Name

After a great tasting earlier this month of selections from 19 of Italy’s best wineries put on by the Instituto del Vino Italiano di Qualità – Grandi Marchi , I conducted tastings of several California wines and one from Italy, bottles that impressed me with their honest approaches and distinct characteristics.

A family of farmers who make great wine.

Among them was the 2014 Gamble Family Vineyards Paramount Proprietary Red Blend, a succulent and bold wine (32 percent Cabernet Sauvignon, 32 percent Cabernet Franc, 28 percent percent Merlot and 8 percent Petit Verdot) that will continue to improve with age. Click here for my take on it, and then look for a bottle of your own, which will be an asset to your cellar for the next decade or so, or feature at your next dinner party. I shared a meal with Tom Gamble and one of his sales reps several years ago at Tony’s in Houston, and immediately grew fond of the man and his wines; I look forward to tasting more of them.

Vietti is the name behind another wine from this week, and that name is special to me. I have drank a lot of wine emanating from the house, and I’ve never been disappointed. This time, it was the 2017 Roero Arneis, a unique grape that more people should know about. Dry, full-bodied, satisfying, and crisp: I loved it. Here’s my brief review of the vintage.

I wrote about these wines, and many more, for PaperCity magazine, and if you want to see what else I’ve been drinking, check out the links below.

A Zinfandel for Daily Drinking
A Wine Family’s Excellent Adventure
Four Brothers and Some Great Young Wines
Your Endless Crush Rosé
Enrique Varela Loves Malbec
This Geologist Knows His Italian
A Chardonnay For Your Mother (and You)
Don’t Dismiss the Peat
Distinctive Whisky Enters a New Era
A Whisky Legend Visits Houston
A Rare Cask, Indeed
Austin Whisky, Strange Name
Here’s Your Texas Rum Goddess
A ZaZa Wine Guy Loves Great Service
A Merlot That Your Snob Friend Will Love
French Couple Make a Sauvignon Blanc in California
A Perfect Afternoon Chardonnay
Terry Theise Talks Reisling
A New Wine Wonderland
Paris Wine Goddess Tells All
Rice Village Wine Bar Has a Cleveland Touch
A Texas White Blend for Your Table
A Pinot Noir Full of Flavor
This Pinot Gris From Oregon Pairs Well With Cheese
Willamette, Dammit!
A Value Rioja
Drink Pink!
Underbelly Veteran Goes for Grenache
A Man of Letters and Wine
Ms. Champagne Wants a Nebuchadnezzar
The Wine Artist Goes for Chardonnay
This American Loves Spain and Its Wines
Houston’s Wine Whisperer Has a Soft Touch
Blackberry Farm’s Somm Pours in Splendor
Mr. Pinot Noir: Donald Patz of Patz & Hall
A Cork Dork Wants to Spend More Time in Tuscany
Sommelier Turned Restaurateur Daringly Goes Greek
Texas Master Sommelier Debunks Wine Geeks
A Bottle From Gigondas Changed This Houston Man’s Life

Oil Man Falls in Love, and the Rest is Good-Taste History
Ryan Cooper of Camerata is a Riesling Man
Mixing It Up With Jeremy Parzen, an Ambassador of Italy
Sommelier at One of Houston’s Top Wine Bars Loves Underdogs

Gaja, Sassicaia, Masi, Jermann, Donnafugata, Alois Lageder … and More

The wealth of wine excellence present in the Crystal Ballroom in Houston’s Rice Hotel the other day was so profound that I, upon recounting my experience to several associates, was met with overt disbelief. “You are mad,” one said. “Are you day drinking?” asked another.

Well, I am not mad, and had not had a drop of alcohol before speaking to my two doubters. I had, however, on that day talked with Alois Clemens Lageder about Rudolf Steiner and biodynamic farming; met Priscilla Incisa della Rochetta and tasted with her; enjoyed Ben Ryé with Antonio Rallo; and discussed the pleasures found in Umbria with Chiara Lungarotti. And that merely scratches the surface of the day’s interactions.

A panel of excellence (Photo by The Brockhaus)

The occasion was a tasting organized by the Instituto del Vino Italiano di Qualità – Grandi Marchi — here’s the complete lineup, and, as I wrote, it’s an impressive one: Alois Lageder, Ambrogio e Giovanni Folonari Tenute, Antinori, Argiolas, Col d’Orcia, Ca’ del Bosco, Carpenè Malvolti, Donnafugata, Gaja, Jermann, Lungarotti, Masi, Mastroberardino, Michele Chiarlo, Pio Cesare, Rivera, Tasca d’Almerita, Tenuta San Guido, and Umani Ronchi.

Antonio Rallo and a bottle of Ben Ryé. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

Jeremy Parzen (click his name at left for the Wine Talk featuring Parzen) led the tasting and did a great job of keeping things on schedule and interesting, and the representatives of the wineries were engaging and generous with their time. I’ve had the pleasure of tasting most of the wines poured on the day, but not necessarily the same vintages, and seeing them all arrayed in one setting in front of me was a warming experience.

Priscilla Incisa della Rochetta and her family’s wines. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

The Grand Marchi  departed Houston the following day en route to Boston, then New York, for the storied New York Wine Experience. Next up for me? Putting together an itinerary that includes visits to each of these producers’ wineries.

Wines From Alto Adige and Napa’s Crusher Wine District, Plus a Lively Vermentino From Maremma

Thursday was a good evening, wine-wise. We began at Avondale Food & Wine for a tasting with Juliana A. McBride of Crosby Roamannn. She’s a vintner, and along with her husband, Sean W. McBride, makes some great wine. She poured a 2014 Sauvignon Blanc, a 2015 Chardonnay, and a 2013  Cabernet Sauvignon; they would all have a welcome place at my table.

The Sauvignon Blanc (100 Percent) is a single-vineyard selection, made from Handley Ranch grapes (situated a short drive from St. Helena). It was fermented in a combination of French barrels (once- and twice-used and neutral), and aged for eight months in oak. One hundred cases were produced. Lemon and other citrus notes are remarkable in this one, and it’s crisp and bright. The mouthfeel is full, alcohol is 14.5 percent, and I would happily serve this to my guests, paired with poached lobster.

The Chardonnay, a Carneros, is an intriguing one; floral, a slight buttery note. I want more of this one (it’s in stock from the winery at $34). The grapes were picked by hand and whole-cluster pressed. Fermentation took place in 20 percent new French oak, and the wine was aged 20 months in oak.

A Sauvignon Blanc worthy of your attention. (Photo by The Brockhaus)

The tasting ended with the Crosby Roamann 2013 Cabernet Sauvignon, a serious yet inviting wine that for $75 should appeal to Cab drinkers looking to switch up their routines of spending twice as much for a bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon. The grapes here hail from the Rutherford AVA (a small percentage of Merlot is in this vintage, from the Oak Knoll District). The grapes are sorted by hand, and fermented in stainless for 31 days.  Aging takes place in 80 percent new French barrels for 30 months. The result is a supple wine whose tannins impress. You get the beloved aroma and flavor notes here — cassis, cocoa, black plum, leather, a touch of spice — but you get all of that for less coin.

Juliana is an engaging, friendly winemaker, and she represents her craft well. Read about Crosby Roamann here. (Side note: Take some time to visit Avondale Food & Wine; it’s L’Olivier’s next chapter, and Mary Clarkson and Olivier Ciesielski have made some major changes, including a retail wine operation, that promise good things.)

Drink this now.

Next was a quick tasting at Damian’s Cucina Italiana. Castello Banfi wines were on display in the restaurant’s upstairs private dining room, and the star of the event for me was La Pettegola (2017 vintage). It’s  100 percent Vermentino, and I’ve seen it for sale for as little as $14. Crisp, wonderful, balanced acidity, and just a simply crafted everyday wine that would go well with everything from pasta primavera to grilled shrimp. Drinking it was a pleasure.

Earlier in the week, I tasted a wine from Alois Lageder, one of my favorite producers. The 2016 Fórra Bianco Dolomiti IGT is a delightful pour, 100 percent Manzoni Bianco, and it sells for around $30 a bottle. You can read my take on this wine here, and I urge you to get your own bottle (or two). It’s one of the best things I’ve had in the past several months.

Drink well, and with people you love (or at least respect).

Want more wine? Check out these stories I wrote for PaperCity magazine:

Here’s a Serious California Cab
Drink Provence!
An Irish Whiskey With a Caribbean Twist
A Syrah You’ll Love
Houston Sommelier Charms at River Oaks Restaurant
A Zinfandel for Daily Drinking
A Wine Family’s Excellent Adventure
Four Brothers and Some Great Young Wines
Your Endless Crush Rosé
Enrique Varela Loves Malbec
This Geologist Knows His Italian
A Chardonnay For Your Mother (and You)
Don’t Dismiss the Peat
Distinctive Whisky Enters a New Era
A Whisky Legend Visits Houston
A Rare Cask, Indeed
Austin Whisky, Strange Name
Here’s Your Texas Rum Goddess
A ZaZa Wine Guy Loves Great Service
A Merlot That Your Snob Friend Will Love
French Couple Make a Sauvignon Blanc in California
A Perfect Afternoon Chardonnay
Terry Theise Talks Reisling
A New Wine Wonderland
Paris Wine Goddess Tells All
Rice Village Wine Bar Has a Cleveland Touch
A Texas White Blend for Your Table
A Pinot Noir Full of Flavor
This Pinot Gris From Oregon Pairs Well With Cheese
Willamette, Dammit!
A Value Rioja
Drink Pink!
Underbelly Veteran Goes for Grenache
A Man of Letters and Wine
Ms. Champagne Wants a Nebuchadnezzar
The Wine Artist Goes for Chardonnay
This American Loves Spain and Its Wines
Houston’s Wine Whisperer Has a Soft Touch
Blackberry Farm’s Somm Pours in Splendor
Mr. Pinot Noir: Donald Patz of Patz & Hall
A Cork Dork Wants to Spend More Time in Tuscany
Sommelier Turned Restaurateur Daringly Goes Greek
Texas Master Sommelier Debunks Wine Geeks
A Bottle From Gigondas Changed This Houston Man’s Life

Oil Man Falls in Love, and the Rest is Good-Taste History
Ryan Cooper of Camerata is a Riesling Man
Mixing It Up With Jeremy Parzen, an Ambassador of Italy
Sommelier at One of Houston’s Top Wine Bars Loves Underdogs

There’s a New Master in Town: Steven McDonald Gets His Pin

I am not sure when I first met him, and I don’t get the opportunity to see him as often as I’d like, but I want to congratulate Houston’s Steven McDonald on having recently become a Master Sommelier. I mean it sincerely when I say that it could not have happened to a nicer man. (If you don’t know much about the accolade, take a bit of time to learn what goes into achieving the title. The journey can be fascinating.)

I most recently saw Steven about two months ago, at his “office” — better known as Pappas Bros. Steakhouse. I was there to meet a friend in the bar and saw Steven on the way out. We chatted briefly, and, as ever, the conversation was rewarding.

I featured the new master in my Wine Talk series back in 2015, and now’s as good a time as any to reprint it (it first appeared in PaperCity magazine). Give it a read below, and when you are next in Houston, make a reservation at Pappas Bros. and say hello to Steven McDonald. (Another great reason to go to the steakhouse: the number of German Rieslings on the list.)

There’s a new master in town (he’s on the left). (Courtesy Steven McDonald Facebook page)

The Wine Whisperer

I love to talk about wine with people who share my passion for it. We open bottles, and we trade stories about travel and winemakers and terroir and residual sugar, and we talk of taste and food pairings and cost. We recommend wines to one another, and we drink, and we learn a lot. In Wine Talk, I will introduce you to some of my friends and acquaintances — individuals who love wine as much as I do, who live to taste and learn about it. You’ll appreciate their insight, and I hope you’ll learn something from them as well. 

Steven McDonald has a great personality. He’s a kind, soft-spoken man, and when he’s pouring wine at a guest’s table, there’s no one more assured, unassuming or gracious. McDonald is the wine director at Houston’s Pappas Bros. Steakhouse, and his stewardship of the program there since 2013 has enhanced the restaurant’s reputation as a wine-lover’s paradise. He’s worked in New York for Michael White, he was a founding member of the Houston Sommelier Association, and this past Sunday evening he was named Service Person of the Year at the Houston Culinary Awards. I recently had the pleasure of speaking with him at the steakhouse on Westheimer, and the wines he chose for my meal there were superb. I recommend that you pay him a visit.

Tell me about three wines that are drinking well at the moment. What makes them worthwhile? How about a food pairing for each?
I have been raving about G.D. Vajra Albe for a couple of vintages now, and the 2010 is great. It performs far past its price point. Tart red fruits framed with roses and black truffle. It is a Burgundian wine drinker’s Barolo – my favorite kind. Pair this wine with braised meats, lamb ragu or filet mignon. We’ve got it on the list for $120 a bottle. [Editor’s note: Houston Wine Merchant sells this vintage for $45.]

Next, the 2012 Domaine Guiberteau Saumur Blanc Clos de Guichaux. This wine was an incredible surprise, and we’re so lucky to have this in Houston. This is a single-vineyard Chenin Blanc from a great Loire Valley producer. It is intensely mineral and assertive with tart citrus fruit and white flowers. For lovers of Sancerre or Chablis, this wine will hit a home run — a perfect pairing for raw seafood, crudo, oysters etc. It’s $85 a bottle on our list. [Expect to pay an average of $46 for this vintage retail.]

Finally, a Cabernet Sauvignon: Pepper Bridge Winery’s 2011 Cabernet Sauvignon. Sommeliers and wine enthusiasts have been talking about the Walla Walla Valley for a few decades, but these wineries are really hitting a stride with Cabernet, Merlot, Cabernet Franc and Syrah. This is a Cabernet-based wine, and it’s everything you want in a rich red wine: blueberry, blackberry, mint, clove, coffee and cocoa. Pair this with New York strip, ribeye and even lamb chops. We sell this for $120 at the steakhouse. [This wine, when you can find it, sells for about $60 at wine merchants.]

Let’s say that cost is no consideration. What’s the one bottle you would add to your personal collection?
It would have to be the 2004 D’Auvenay Criots-Bâtard-Montrachet. This is the personal label of Madame Lalou Bize-Leroy (of Domaine Leroy and Domaine de la Romanée-Conti), and she releases an excruciatingly small amount of wine. The complexity and depth of flavor was like nothing I’ve ever tasted. The finish seemed to last for several minutes, and it made me think about the wine for weeks afterward. 2004 was a great vintage for white Burgundy, and this is by far one of the most transformative wines of my career.

What is your favorite grape?
It’s hard to decide between Nebbiolo and Pinot Noir. They are both aromatic, complex, unique in every terroir, and both make some of the world’s greatest wines.

How about one bottle that our readers should buy now to cellar for 10 years, to celebrate a birth, anniversary or other red-letter day?
You’ll want some Bordeaux or Rhône wine that will really pay off after that much time. Consider buying 2010s or 2009s from top wineries. You’ll be paying quite a bit of money, but it will be worth it. Remember to keep these bottles stored under temperature control and on their sides.

What is the one thing you wish everyone would remember when buying and drinking wine?
Drink what you like. Always try new things. Keep an open mind when trying new wine and it will pay off big-time.

Where is your go-to place when you want to have a glass or bottle?
Camerata, 13 Celsius and Public Services. David Keck, Adele Corrigan, Mike Sammons and Justin Vann do amazing work. In Houston, we’re blessed with talented sommeliers and beverage professionals. When I get out with my wife or friends, I try to make it to all three spots.

What was your “wine eureka moment” — the incident/taste/encounter that put you and wine on an intimate plane forever?
A 1978 Bruno Giacosa Barbaresco Riserva. A guest brought it into the first fine-dining restaurant I ever worked at, Ai Fiori, in New York. It had been perfectly stored, and it was my first chance to have a great vintage Barbaresco with that much age. It was haunting and beautiful. I had read and studied so much about this wine and wine region, and I was finally tying it all together with the wine itself. It was one of those moments that you step back and say, “This is why I do this job.” It happened in 2010.

What has been the strangest moment/incident you have experienced in your career?
It was April 1, and I was taking care of a famous winemaker who was dining at the restaurant (Pappas Bros. Steakhouse). They were excited to try some older white Bordeaux and splurge on an expensive bottle of red Bordeaux. The first bottle of white was corked (a flaw that isn’t caused by the restaurant storage but the winery itself or the cork sourcing). Then, the first two bottles of red were corked as well. They decided to switch wines, and the first of the new bottles was corked as well! At this point I thought someone was playing a prank on me or that it was some terrible April Fool’s joke gone awry. I even got my colleague, Bill Elsey (who also hold an Advanced Sommelier certificate), to confirm the flaws, just to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Finally, we opened the second bottle of the second red wine choice just as the steaks arrived. The guests loved the wine and everything was perfect. It is still to this day the largest number of corked wines I have ever opened on one occasion.

Want more wine? Check out these stories:

Drink Provence!
An Irish Whiskey With a Caribbean Twist
A Syrah You’ll Love
Houston Sommelier Charms at River Oaks Restaurant
A Zinfandel for Daily Drinking
A Wine Family’s Excellent Adventure
Four Brothers and Some Great Young Wines
Your Endless Crush Rosé
Enrique Varela Loves Malbec
This Geologist Knows His Italian
A Chardonnay For Your Mother (and You)
Don’t Dismiss the Peat
Distinctive Whisky Enters a New Era
A Whisky Legend Visits Houston
A Rare Cask, Indeed
Austin Whisky, Strange Name
Here’s Your Texas Rum Goddess
A ZaZa Wine Guy Loves Great Service
A Merlot That Your Snob Friend Will Love
French Couple Make a Sauvignon Blanc in California
A Perfect Afternoon Chardonnay
Terry Theise Talks Reisling
A New Wine Wonderland
Paris Wine Goddess Tells All
Rice Village Wine Bar Has a Cleveland Touch
A Texas White Blend for Your Table
A Pinot Noir Full of Flavor
This Pinot Gris From Oregon Pairs Well With Cheese
Willamette, Dammit!
A Value Rioja
Drink Pink!
Underbelly Veteran Goes for Grenache
A Man of Letters and Wine
Ms. Champagne Wants a Nebuchadnezzar
The Wine Artist Goes for Chardonnay
This American Loves Spain and Its Wines
Houston’s Wine Whisperer Has a Soft Touch
Blackberry Farm’s Somm Pours in Splendor
Mr. Pinot Noir: Donald Patz of Patz & Hall
A Cork Dork Wants to Spend More Time in Tuscany
Sommelier Turned Restaurateur Daringly Goes Greek
Texas Master Sommelier Debunks Wine Geeks
A Bottle From Gigondas Changed This Houston Man’s Life

Oil Man Falls in Love, and the Rest is Good-Taste History
Ryan Cooper of Camerata is a Riesling Man
Mixing It Up With Jeremy Parzen, an Ambassador of Italy
Sommelier at One of Houston’s Top Wine Bars Loves Underdogs

The Purpose of Eating is To Relieve Pain, or, Farewell, Anthony

You’re on your hands and knees, naked, pawing the dingy shag carpet with your scratched and cut hands, looking for scraps of crack that might have fallen from the pipe a few hours earlier. The bright sun streams through dirty windows, the day is already hot, and you want to die. The fun is gone, over, and you don’t derive any pleasure from cooking. That’s been the case for a while now, ever since the night you looked up from the piece of meat in your hand and drew a blank. You had no idea, no thought or plan, nothing. You put down the knife, and the steak, and walk out the back door, throwing your apron on the wet ground.

It’s still early, so you run your fingers through your hair, wipe the sweat from your face, and walk through the door. Your place at the bar is unoccupied, and Mike nods at you, puzzled look on his face. Why are you here at this time of night, instead of at the restaurant? You sit, he puts the glass of whisky in front of you. The odor of sweat and onions and blood overtakes the moment, and you reach for the glass and drink, an attempt to annihilate the stench. The whisky burns, tastes good, and for a minute you relax.

But the minute passes and you want to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. But not there, not the room with no curtains and splotchy walls and unopened mail strewn on the counter that once held bowls of fruit and loaves of bread. You stand up and shake Mike’s hand, walk out of the bar and into the night headed nowhere on purpose but end up back in that room, on the couch hungry and hot and sweating, trying to remember the feeling of meaning something to someone, anyone, you, her, them. It doesn’t come back to you.

The notebooks are full, so you send a story to Paul, the friend with connections in the publishing world who thinks your stories are good. You had put down the knife and picked up the pen, an act that when it happened meant nothing to you, an act for which you had no forethought, no plan. The words and ideas and desires in your head, those things meant something, and they were jumbling up against one another in your brain and they frightened and aroused you so you probably saved yourself by committing them to paper, to reality. You wrote about what you knew, and loved and respected and detested, and Paul was right and the publisher loved your thoughts and statements and you saved yourself, because when your goal is becoming a good heroin addict, what remains after that?

Les Halles in the late afternoon, the Park Avenue weeknight crowd passing by the double doors, the bar full of men in ties and women wearing pearls and wedges. You’re feeling good, and cooking well. You like the honest food and the unpretentious place. There’s something comforting about the macaroni gratin and the meats in the glass case and the Gamay on the wine list and the people enjoying your dishes and you got a new apartment and this one has wood floors and you had them take out the carpeting in the bedrooms and the desk at which you write is overflowing with books and you sent another manuscript to the publisher and the book tour starts next week and the night is easy.

What you always tried to do, since the time in that boat in Brittany when you sucked the oysters from their shells in the warm sun and wondered about the fish under the water and how they would taste, what you wanted to capture always, was an entire existence in a mouthful, a feeling that nothing was wrong and the horizons, your horizons, were wide open and the next breath you took would lead surely to the next a step and movement and thought that meant something, that meant you meant something, mattered.

That’s how it was for a long time, and that’s how it was again. You are not in France, but you are in New York and cooking and laughing and the guys respect you — the book helps, of course — and the magazine articles and photographs  and the people coming to the restaurant hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

Your parents had taken you and your brother to France, and you became, after those oysters, what you are, the man seeking that complete, meaningful, worthy existence in a mouthful, with others you respect. The bread and cheeses and foie gras had split your brain wide open, turned you into something that was at first frightening but that after several months you gave no thought to, because it was who you were supposed to be and that felt right and good and you no longer shook your right leg nervously when you sat. You had wine, and you walked on the beach and kissed Simone and her hand was cold then warm and you wanted to stay in that place forever with her.

You are in a car in California with Eric and Michael and the sun is high and the three of you want to eat and drink and the meal ahead will be long and pleasurable; the chef, this man who gives you “vapors”, is going to cook 21 courses, and the wines are chilled and open as the car pulls up to the restaurant’s driveway. You think of Bocuse and Lyon and the stall in Hong Kong and the old woman in Mexico whose mole is the best you’ve ever tasted (that’s the very moment, when you and Eric and Michael walked through the restaurant’s door, that you had the idea of bringing all the food you love to one place, a pier on the Hudson in Manhattan) and cannot believe that the person in your body is the real you. You are not supposed to be here, you are supposed to be in a small kitchen somewhere in Manhattan, cooking for businessmen and tourists. You’ll feel this way forever, that you are a fraud, that at any minute it will all end and you’ll be Tony again and you’ll be on your hands and knees looking for that feeling again, the one you first had on that small boat on calm waters off the coast of Brittany when the briny oyster first touched your tongue.

That fear, of it all suddenly ending, never leaves you, no matter what you’re eating or whom you’re talking to, whether you’re sitting at a sushi bar in Tokyo or squatting in a hovel in Cambodia. One of the problems is that you don’t like the person you were, the one who was an asshole to people, the one who, just to shock, carried a machete around with him, the one who yelled cruelly for no reason. You can’t seem to give yourself a real chance to accept the idea that you changed, have overcome that man and was someone else, someone with a family and respect and genuine, unselfish emotions, a man whose passions for life and all of its experiences outstripped his attraction to self-denigration and dissipation. Your intelligence is, of course, more than sufficient to allow you to realize that, but what’s intelligence up against emotion and fear?

You stuck at it, the filming and the running and flying and you even quit smoking cigarettes and lost weight and took up martial arts and honed your speaking persona and your causes — who can forget the episode you filmed in Lebanon? — and your books continued to sell and a new generation of admirers came aboard (to say nothing of the acolytes, the guys who would give their left testicle to be you, a cohort you were not always comfortable with, especially after you realized that machismo and excess were not the road to great food). You were admired, and you, most of the time, admired yourself. There is no disputing that your dedication to the reality that food and respect for it, and the individuals who produced and cooked it, was honest and real. You were not a fake. James Beard Awards? Who cares. Ruth Bourdain deserves one, however, you state, so much more than those food writers with their panties in a wad, “a bunch of old hookers complaining about the new girl who kisses on the lips.” No, you are not a fraud.

Demons. They never leave, though, do they? Your parents divorced when you were young, and that, though hard for you to believe, still hurts, always hurt. You married your high school sweetheart, you two stayed together a long time, that was important to you. Your daughter came to you late, and that was a good thing for you. But would you fail, you asked yourself incessantly. How can I be a good father? I’m fucked up, I’ll fuck this up.

(Image: Instagram account of Ottavia Busia-Bourdain)

Keep moving, you say, don’t stop, there are too many people out there who need me to tell their stories. Maimed and sad people, people whose food deserves exposure, you sent that dying boy on a feast journey to Spain and made his wish come true and you made sure writers and chefs and cooks and just plain people you admired and respected got the recognition they deserved (that was the best part for you, the thing about yourself you most admired). Keep moving, through those years.

France is the key, of course. Those oysters and that girl and the mouthfuls of perfect moments leading from one to the next, no one asking anything of you, no one begging you to come to their restaurant or have lunch with them or sign their book (how many books did you sign?) or adopt their cause or make their city famous. France and Eric and Bocuse and nothing but … hunger.

Rest in Peace, You Ladies of the Kitchen and Table: Bidding Farewell to Raffetto, Council, Kafka, and Brennan

It gives me solace that they each lived a long life, these woman whose cooking and writing and spirit gave happiness and nourishment to so many. Pasta, fried chicken livers, a recipe for shrimp and asparagus with sorrel, and eggs Sardou: these things are evocative entry points to, respectively, Romana Raffetto, Mildred Council, Barbara Kafka, and Ella Brennan, four women whose legacies won’t soon fade. Losing them all within the space of a few weeks is a tough blow, but let’s try to celebrate the exuberance and love of food they displayed.

One of my favorite things to do in New York is to walk the streets of the West Village and make the rounds of my shops, including Murray’s, Faicco’s, and Ottomanelli & Sons. For pasta, when I did not want to make my own, or lacked the time to do so, I would stop at Raffetto’s on West Houston Street, pasta whose quality never disappointed. Romana Raffetto, who passed away on May 25, was behind the counter on most days, talking to customers and extolling the virtues of her family’s products, which evolved over time to include all the shapes and types that are now ubiquitous in even the most pedestrian of grocery stores (think pumpkin ravioli and squid-ink tagliatelle). The store, officially known as M. Raffetto & Bros., opened in 1906, and there’s no telling how many meals have been composed with Raffeto’s pastas and sauces since then. I enjoyed talking with Raffetto, and her pride in the store, and what her family had created, was obvious. (If you want to try a few things intriguingly delicious, order the following from Raffetto’s: pink sauce made with cognac, gorgonzola and walnut jumbo ravioli, and black squid Tagliarini all Chitarra. Those are my favorites.)

Romana Raffeto stands at the counter of her family’s store in 1978. (Photo courtesy Gino Raffeto)

Stores like Raffetto’s are national treasures, and in many cities are extinct, if they ever existed at all. As I write this, the aromas of that wondrous space in the West Village are all around me, and I know what one of my first stops will be the next time I am in New York. In the meantime, mail order will have to suffice.

Here’s a look at the place and the people behind it:

Mama Dip. What can you say about Mama Dip, otherwise known as Mildred Council? What about her Community Dinners? Or the courage and bravery she exhibited in choosing to end her marriage after 29 years, in 1976, having endured emotional and physical abuse? “The biggest turning point in my life was when I left my husband,” she told an interviewer in 1994. A cookbook that has so far sold 250,000 copies (“Mama Dip’s Kitchen”)? Fried chicken livers adored by Craig Claiborne (and thousands of other individuals)? How about the fact that she opened her first restaurant in 1976 and had but $40 to make breakfast, and at the end of that first day went home with $135? Her food was honest and filling and delicious and spoke of the lessons she learned cooking for her poor family, which she began to do at the age of 9, when her mother passed away. She was tall — 6 foot 2 — and she was loving and gracious, and Chapel Hill will never be the same.

“I’m not a chef. And I don’t like people to call me a chef because a chef is more like—I call them the artists,” Council told the Southern Foodways Alliance’s Amy C. Evans in a 2007 interview. “They have so much artist in them, artistic, ever what you call it. Artist, I guess, because they can just make things so pretty, you know. And I try to make things good.” Did she ever.

Mildred Council left countless fans and admirers, who will forever miss her cooking. (Image courtesy Mama Dip’s)

Barbara Kafka’s books sold millions of copies, and her advocacy of using a microwave to prepare food — she even used the appliance to deep-fry, alarming many and disgusting others — earned the disdain of many chefs, but the indefatigable author didn’t let the criticism bother her. She pushed on with her testing and writing and consulting, and in 2007 was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award from the James Beard Foundation.

“I do try to write in English, I don’t write ‘kitchen’ and I don’t write French,” Kafka told an interviewer in 2005. “What’s wrong with saying matchsticks instead of julienne?” Clearly, her straightforward — many would say brash — approach spoke to legions of home cooks, who devoured her writing and learned their skills from her books and articles. She supported Citymeals on Wheels early on, spent thousands of hours testing recipes, and maintained a passion for the transformative power of food and cooking. If you like cookbooks with a definitive voice and point of view, Kafka’s are for you. And you know what? Though I do not use the microwave to deep-fry my chicken livers or cook artichokes, I do start my roast chickens at 500 Fahrenheit.

New Orleans is one of my favorite destinations for food and eating. I can still recall the first time my family visited the city; I could not have been more than 10, but the flavor and sights and smells are still vivid in my senses. Strong black coffee, beignets covered in powdered sugar, shrimp and gumbo and everywhere, it seemed, the sounds of jazz.

Ella Brennan and the Crescent City were made for one another, both colorful and romantic and stubborn. “Hurricane” Ella was definitely a force of nature, and her love of restaurants and the people who made them work is worthy of much admiration. Here is all she said at the podium at the 1993 James Beard Awards (Commander’s Palace picked up the Outstanding Service award that year): “I accept this award for every damn captain and waiter in the country.” Classy lady was she.

If you want to read a lively autobiography, get a copy of “Miss Ella of Commander’s Palace: I Don’t Want a Restaurant Where a Jazz Band Can’t Come Marching Through“. Then set aside a part of your evening and watch “Ella Brennan: Commanding the Table.”

The experience will be all the more pleasurable with Miss Ella’s Old Fashioned in hand, a fine drink with which to toast the memories of these four amazing and strong women.

Miss Ella’s Old Fashioned

Ingredients
2 ounces Bourbon
2-3 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
one half-cube sugar
lemon peel for garnish

Fill a rocks glass with ice and a touch of water. In a second rocks glass, muddle the sugar cube with Peychaud’s bitters , then add Bourbon. Swirl the ice in the first glass to chill it, then discard the ice and water. Pour the drink into the now-chilled glass. Run the lemon peel around the rim of the glass, then toss the peel into to the drink for garnish.

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