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Tag: wine (Page 5 of 6)

Wine Talk: From Cleveland to Houston, With No Nonsense

March 21, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Back in December 2016, I accepted an invitation to taste some wines at Rosinka Wine & Tea House, a little place in Houston to which I had never been. I’d driven by the wine bar (yes, tea is also sold there) several times, but never had the time to stop, so was happy to accept. On the evening of the tasting, Angela and I arrived and encountered Nicholas Cain, the man behind the bar at Rosinka. He poured and we talked and I grew to like Cain more as we spoke. He was — and is — straightforward, friendly, devoid of pretension, and passionate about food and wine and making sure people enjoy them.

I knew he would be the perfect subject for Wine Talk, so here it is. Give it a read, then pay a visit to Cain at Rosinka. You’ll enjoy the wines and the conversation.

Want more Wine Talk? Check out these stories:

The Paris Wine Goddess Tells All
Terry Theise Talks Riesling and Champagne
The Wine Daughter
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

My Long and Winding Journey With Riesling Continues

November 26, 2016 / / 0 Comments
Terry Theise: A man of wine.

Terry Theise: A man of wine.

So many bottles, so little time. Still, you recall hundreds of moments when the cork slid from the green vessel, the friends near you, the setting (a winery in Rheinland-Pfalz, a castle in Bavaria, Holger and Gudrun’s house, a Houston restaurant, a patch of grass in Brooklyn), the food, the laughter and conversation. It’s a journey that began for you during a magical time, and you’ve learned much in the days and nights since. And through it all, Riesling.

Several years ago I initiated an email conversation with Terry Theise. (Many of you will be familiar with him, and to those of you who aren’t, if you are in the slightest interested in wine, I recommend you get to know him; Reading Between the Vines is a good place to start.) Theise agreed to answer a few questions for me recently, and he’s the star of my latest Wine Talk. Give it a read here, then open a bottle and make some memories.

Guy Stout’s Wine Classes Are Back: Four Nights, Lots of Bottles and Learning

November 6, 2016 / / 2 Comments

I am a fortunate man, for many reasons. Being able to call Guy Stout a friend is one of them. He’s a true character, a larger-than-life, Texas-born-and-bred original. I’ve learned a lot from him, and look forward to learning more. We’ve shared a table on numerous occasions, and opened a good number of bottles. It’s like a moveable feast, one always full of great stories and food.

A man of wine. (Photo by Alfonso Cevola)

A man of wine. (Photo by Alfonso Cevola)

If you like wine, and want to know more about it, your chance is now, because Stout’s Wine School is back. Beginning on Nov. 7, he’ll introduce you to the world of oenology, delving into the New World and the Old World, the basic and the esoteric. Don’t miss these four evenings. Click here for all the details, and get ready to be schooled.

(Read this for Stout’s Wine Talk.)

Ribs Take Time, and a Snowy Evening Has Plenty of That

May 23, 2015 / / 0 Comments

 

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When I think of cooking beef short ribs my mind wanders back to New York, and cold nights spent indoors behind windows frosted with ice and snow. We would open a few bottles of wine – one for our glasses and one for the ribs – and chop some onions and carrots and celery while the ribs (usually eight of them) came to room temperature on a platter. After sprinkling them with generous amounts of salt and pepper I would brown the ribs in canola oil, a process I enjoy. I attempt to bring the same shade of color to each piece, to every side side of every rib. The scent that rises from the pan stimulates the senses, and the oil and fat left behind is the perfect medium for the vegetables. We removed the ribs from the pan, into which went the vegetables for five minutes or so, until the onions began to brown. If there was a can of tomato paste in the pantry I stirred a tablespoon or so of it into the vegetables, then added some flour (not much, perhaps two or three tablespoons).

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Next came the wine, the entire bottle – I normally had a case of Protocolo Tinto (Dominio de Eguren) on hand, which when poured into the vegetables caused the kitchen to change. It became a warmer, more comforting place. The ribs then joined the mix, and we made sure that all of the juices that had accumulated on the platter also made it into the pan. The heat was raised to a boil, then we simmered everything until the wine was reduced by half, at which time two bay leaves and some sprigs of  oregano, rosemary, and thyme took part, plus a head of garlic that had been cut in half. Hot beef stock, which surrounded the ribs, was the final touch.The oven, at 350°F, was where all of the magic took place. Into it went the covered pan – I used, and still use, a large French Dutch Oven – and we picked up our glasses and drank and let the heat and time do their work.

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Back in the kitchen the meat is falling off the bones, the sauce is rich and flavors infused. Do I strain the stock? Yes. The polenta is being stirred, and I take pieces of the meat from the bones. The favas are in a skillet, with garlic and butter and a bit of olive oil. The snow is falling on Henry Street and the night stretches before us still.

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The stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger Takes a Seat at the Bar

February 13, 2015 / / 0 Comments
The stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger is no foodie.

The Stranger enters the crowded restaurant on a recent evening, his goal being to spend a bit of time at the bar and enjoy a glass of wine and some food. At the corner of the bar sit a man and woman, the man wearing a cap of some sort, the woman knockoff Missoni. The barstool to the man’s right is empty save a blue purse; The Stranger politely inquires whether the purse belongs to the man with the cap, who replies, “No, I am saving this seat for a friend who might be coming.” Glancing to his left, The Stranger sees that the stool on the other side of faux-Missoni woman is empty. “That’s OK, I’ll take this seat,” The Stranger says, walking to the empty perch. The man and woman, almost in unison, state: “We are saving that spot, too.” The Stranger looks at the trendy-looking pair, wondering if they are joking, and occupies the barstool.

Cap-wearing man offers this concession to The Stranger: “Well, we were saving the stools in case our friends came, but go ahead and sit.” “Oh, that is so kind of you,” The Stranger replies. “Are you two being serious? This is a bar, not a table. You’re telling me that your friends ‘might’ show up, so you are going to prevent other guests from taking a seat and enjoying the evening? In what city were you thusly educated?”

The Stranger orders a glass of Mencía, while the Missoni-Wannabe calls her absent friends and finds that they are, after all, not coming. Seems there was a trendier place at which they wanted to make an appearance. Stranger wonders if at that trendier place that pair was attempting to save two stools for Missoni and Cap.

While deciding what to order for his meal, The Stranger hears the woman say that she is a wine rep; the cap-wearer proudly replies to her that he is in the “industry” and has been a mixologist for more than five years. The Stranger thinks: They are even more idiotic than I thought; they work in the “industry” and think it proper to save barstools for friends who may or may not appear? Then, In what seemed an effort to make herself look even dafter, Missoni Girl orders a “Boo-shulay,” pronouncing it in exactly that manner.

A city is nothing without human beings, and the citizens of a city give it its unique identity. Subsets of a population, say, “foodies”, further define a community. Houston’s dining and culinary scene has come a long way, indeed, but, as The Stranger thought to himself on that evening, it still has a long way to go, and will have for a long while if Missoni and Cap have anything to say about it.

These two are foodies. Stranger hopes you never encounter them in a restaurant.

These two are foodies. The Stranger hopes you never encounter them in a restaurant.

Smoked pork belly, radish, egg

Nantucket Eats: Pork Belly, Duck, and Lamb at Oran Mor Bistro

October 17, 2014 / / 0 Comments

The wedding is over, the guests have all left the island. Angela and I remain, enjoying the warm breezes blowing on Nantucket from the Atlantic (the temperature reached 69 Fahrenheit yesterday). Abundant sun, cool evenings, walks on cobblestone streets. The season is over, many shops are in the process of closing, and quiet calmness is everywhere.

We have devoted a portion of our evenings to restaurants, with mixed results. Several nights ago we went to Oran Mor Bistro & Bar, a small place on the second floor of a building a short walk from the house in which we are staying. I’d read a review of Oran Mar in The New York Times, and a few people who had dined there told me they had enjoyed the food. (I phoned the restaurant during the day to ask about its corkage policy. A woman’s voice on the other end of the line replied: “We do not have a corkage fee because we have a wine list. I hope you will be able to find something you like on our extensive list.”)

We did find something on the list, a 2012 Laetitia Estate Pinot Noir, which we ordered after being led past a small bar to our table in the corner of restaurant’s front dining room. The interior space is warm, earth tones on the wall, low ceiling. (I could imagine Thomas Jefferson sitting at the table next to us, wine glass at the ready.)

A wine we drank with pork belly, duck, mushroom ravioli, and lamb.

A wine we drank with pork belly, duck, mushroom ravioli, and lamb.

Our waitress, whose voice I recognized as belonging to the woman who informed me of Oran Mor’s (non)-corkage policy on the phone earlier that day, displayed a perfunctory manner throughout the evening, smiling in what seemed a forced manner whenever she approached our table and declining to reply “You are welcome” when I thanked her for pouring the wine. All of which would have been fine if we had ended the meal after our very good first courses.

Shiitake mushroom ravioli, with squash and parmesan broth

Shiitake mushroom ravioli, with squash and parmesan broth

Smoked pork belly, radish, egg

Smoked pork belly, radish, egg

The smoked pork belly was some of the best I have had, at least since moving to Houston in 2013. The meat was cooked well, and retained a moistness that is often lacking in pork belly. The fatty parts were excellent, as well: they melted in my mouth with a pleasing flavor. The broth was a touch too sweet for me, but the radishes were crisp and a welcome addition to the plate. The ravioli was easily the best thing of the evening. Fresh, strong-tasting mushrooms, rich parmesan broth, and delicate fennel. The pasta was thin yet firm, and each flavor component of the dish melded agreeably.

We were in no hurry on that evening – unless it is absolutely necessary I firmly believe that one should never rush while dining – and several times had to tell a server that, no, we were not finished “working on” our plates. Oran Mor is not an inexpensive place – our bill before tip was $182 – and the service should better represent the niche the restaurant occupies.

While we waited for our main courses we talked about the wedding and the weather on Nantucket and the utilitarian beauty of the Cape Cod architectural style. Our experience at Oran Mor soon took an unfortunate turn.

Hard potatoes, passable duck (save the lackluster confit).

Hard potatoes, passable duck (save the lackluster confit).

I ordered the Pekin duck – breast and confit, sweet potato purée, Brussels sprouts, huckleberry compote – and Angela decided on the lamb. (She was attracted to the Kalamata olives and tomatoes, but, we later discovered, there was perhaps all of one olive in the dish, minced.) Again, if our meal had ended after the first course we would have been incredibly happy. Instead, I was served hard potatoes, bland Brussels sprouts, and dry confit. Yes, dry confit. Angela’s lamb was satisfactory, medium-rare, lacking salt. And those olives were nowhere to be found. I must state that my duck breast was good, but it was not enough to salvage the overall lack of attention to technique and flavor.

Dessert was Elvis’ Doughnuts, and if they had all been at least warm, we would have loved them. Banana cream, chocolate, and fried dough, but two of the doughnuts were warm.

Oran Mor is attractive, and, judging by our ravioli and pork belly, can put out good food. I will reserve a final verdict until after my next visit.

Alison and Constance enter a new phase. (Photo courtesy Oliver Quillia)

The Brockhaus Does a Wedding on Nantucket

October 15, 2014 / / 4 Comments

The menu was set, the venue ready, the brides were prepared. A wedding would soon take place on Nantucket, and The Brockhaus was in charge of the food. The beautiful couple had given me their directives for the weekend – five hors d’oeuvres immediately following the ceremony on Saturday afternoon, four side dishes to accompany the barbecue from Salt Lick that would be shipped in and served for dinner on Saturday evening, and the festivities would close with brunch on Sunday. The house, which overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, would be full of smiles and music and warmth and activity for the next three days.

Alison and Constance enter a new phase. (Photo courtesy Oliver Quillia)

Alison and Constance enter a new phase. (Photo courtesy Oliver Quillia)

I consulted with Constance and Alison about the food, and came up with an hors d’oeuvre menu that was, by turns, classic, unfussy, and, elegant. Blinis with crème fraîche and caviar; chicken liver mousse on baguette slices; butternut squash shooters; pimento cheese sandwiches; and fried curried oysters on the half shell with a cucumber-sesame oil sauce and salmon roe.

Wolfgang Puck had it on the menu at Spago, and we did it on Nantucket.

Wolfgang Puck had it on the menu at Spago, and we did it on Nantucket.

Several weeks before the wedding took place, as the number of attendees increased, I decided to hire someone to help with the prepping and cooking, and lucked out with Lucas Maylott, who lives on the island and works as a private chef. He and I worked seamlessly in the kitchen, without a hitch. Angela did her part as well, assisting with the hors d’oeuvres and keeping things running smoothly.

The brides were married, the hors d’oeuvres were passed among the guests by several servers, and we completed the side dishes for the barbecue: cole slaw, German potato salad, a mixed green salad, and crab macaroni and cheese, the latter of which – along with the pimento cheese sandwiches and the oysters – was the star of the weekend, culinarily speaking.

The barbecue from Salt Lick had traveled well, and Lucas made sure it was plated properly on the buffet table; we had brisket, and smoked turkey breast, and beef ribs. By 8 p.m. everything was gone, save the Champagne and wine and laughter.

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A Perfect Day For a Tamalada, and Friends and Wine and Food

October 5, 2014 / / 0 Comments

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There are days that not only seem perfect, but are perfect. Yesterday was one of them. Sun was out, air was cool(er), light angled just so, slicing through the air with a briskness that spoke quietly of ease. On those type of days all I require is to be near good people and good food and wine. Simple, and honest. Nourishment for soul and body.

You don’t know how good homemade tamales are? Never made any? Angela and I did yesterday. She did. I watched and observed. We joined in a tamalada at Sylvia’s. Sylvia Casares, AKA Enchilada Queen, shared her method with us, told us stories of her days spent working in a lab for the Mars corporation, how a stranger on a plane gave her the final push she needed to follow her dreams and how she opened her first restaurant and how it feels to now operate three and what she felt like when the bullet entered her abdomen and she knew she would not die in that way. Not that way.

A woman of taste and substance.

Sylvia Casares, a woman of taste and substance.

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A pork butt and a guisado were cooking, their aromas filling the room. Masa was being mixed, husks were steaming. You know those scents? They have the ability to make one happy. The masa was delivered to our table and Angela and Jack and Sally set to making tamales. It was a tamalada, and Sylvia told us about her father and the recipes her grandmother passed down.

Angela makes a mean tamale.

Angela makes a mean tamale.

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Masa is putty in their hands.

Masa is putty in their hands.

The day continued and Angela and I sat in the sun and drank some rosé and talked and watched people live their lives and go back and forth toward their happiness and desires.

Judy smiles at Brockhaus.

Judy smiles at Brockhaus.

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Jack mesmerizes the Brockhaus table.

We had been invited to a dinner that evening by Russ and Judy, two people with whom Angela and I share a passion for food, wine, and travel. I was not aware that it was a 10-course meal with wine pairings, for 10, but I certainly did not mind when I discovered it was so. We had scallops and duck and foie gras mousse and some Catena and Hunt Cellars (a 2000 Cabernet Sauvignon that Russ had given Angela for her birthday). We spoke of empanadas and Brockhaus and heard a tale about a tasting of some 1945s. We toasted Russ and Judy and left the table happy and sated.

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Duck sofrito …

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A scallop is never a bad thing.

One final venue made the evening complete. Russ and Judy had never been to Camerata, so we took them there and shared a bottle of my favorite wine (favorite now and for about the past year). You can see a photo of the bottle at the beginning of the tale of a perfect day.

What I’m Drinking Now (And It Takes Me Back to Paris)

August 30, 2014 / / 0 Comments
Made in California, but it took me to France. (Brockhaus Photo)

Made in California, but it took me to France. (Brockhaus Photo)

Every now and then I come across a wine that transports me, that at first taste takes me to a place I want to be. It happened a few evenings ago, and I have Vanessa Treviño-Boyd to thank for the brief excursion of the mind and spirit. I was sitting at the bar at 60 Degrees Mastercrafted, where Treviño-Boyd is the beverage director and sommelier, and she brought me a bottle of Lieu Dit, a 2013 Melon. The producer describes it this way:

From old vines planted in the early 70’s, this block grows on sandy soils in an exceptionally breezy part of Santa Maria Valley out at Bien Nacido vineyard. The fruit is pressed, fermented, and aged all in tank to ensure the minerality, freshness, and tension we look for when enjoying this variety.

It was crisp, balanced, and drinking it took me back to a little restaurant in the Fifth Arrondissement, at the top of Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, the street on which I lived. Several mornings each week a man would bring oysters he harvested to the restaurant, and I would go there and eat them as I stood on the sidewalk. If he was extremely busy, which he often was, I would shuck the oysters from Brittany at a small table outside the door of the restaurant, gathering a dozen or so on a plate before I ventured to begin my breakfast. With the briny wonders I drank, always, a wine that was from the Loire. I thought often of Hemingway, who had many times walked on that same sidewalk. Those mornings were beautiful. It was late fall, winter was coming on, and all was good with the world, at least on that small stretch of land in Paris.

I will be buying the Lieu Dit melon, a Brockhaus-approved wine, by the case, if I can find that much.

My Love For Riesling (and Olivia Newton-John) Knows No Bounds

August 20, 2014 / / 0 Comments
Magic in a bottle.

Magic in a bottle.

Anyone who knows me well knows I am all about Riesling. I love the grape, I love the wines. I study them, I collect them, I drink them, I dream about them. I “grew up” in the Rheinland-Pfalz, a beautiful area out of which comes some great wines, and I still recall the first time I tasted a Riesling: It was 1980, and it was a Bassermann-Jordan, and it was delicious. My life changed then and there. I saw that magic could be bottled and opened later for one’s enjoyment. (Angela and I visited Weingut Geheimer Rat Dr. von Bassermann-Jordan in 2012, along with a number of other wineries in the area. And we’ll be back.)

God's country, and home to some outstanding Rieslings. (Photo courtesy Germany.travel.com)

God’s country, and home to some outstanding Rieslings. (Photo courtesy Germany.travel.com)

The next day I went to the bookstore near my American high school and bought a copy of Frank J. Prial’s “Wine Talk” and began reading it immediately. I read anything about wine I could get my hands on, which was mostly in the International Herald Tribune (I was an editor on the staff of my school’s newspaper, and Ms. Thompson subscribed to the IHT for her journalism students).

My first wine book.

My first wine book.

Not long after that first taste my parents returned to the U.S. for a brief visit and I was left alone for a week or so. I don’t remember exactly where I bought my first collection of wines, but I clearly recall coming up with the plan to open a bottle each evening – I was at the time reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books in the order they were published, and the Rieslings surely added quality to that experience.

A friend who was around my age who lived upstairs from my family also liked wine, so he and I decided to start traveling to a village or town each week to enjoy a lunch or dinner and some wines. We went to Trier, and Mannheim, and many places in between. We ate bockwurst and schnitzel and escargot and saumagen. We drank mostly Rieslings, with some great beers thrown in for good measure. One meal I will always remember was one of trout caught from the waters below our table. It was at Seehaus Forelle, and it was more than 30 years ago, but it will be in my mind forever. The fish and the potatoes and the cucumber salad. And the wine. Riesling, of course.

Hopelessly devoted to you.

Hopelessly devoted to you.

Venus in fur.

Venus in fur.

That is how my passion for Riesling was born. But where, you ask, does Olivia Newton-John come in? Well, like any red-blooded male at that time I had a monumental crush on the Grease star. I loved the film, liked her songs, (though I was soon to discover the joys of Elvis Costello and U2 and the Police and BAP and leave her type of music behind), and admit to fantasizing about her from time to time. Or more often.

Yesterday I saw a video made by the Camerata crew, which transported me back to those days in Germany and made me think of Olivia and my first taste of Riesling. Watch this short, one of the best things I have ever seen made about my beloved grape, and perhaps you will understand what I am talking about. And whatever you do, drink more Riesling. It’s better than greased lightning.

 

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