Wine Columns for Week of May 16
Wine Columns for Week of May 9
After April's provocations and prevarications, wine writers this week settled down to the sanguine task of wine writing. Mostly, they looked at bargain reds: southern Rhone varietals in the Seattle Times, Merlot in the Detroit News, Tempranillo in the SF Chronicle, and cheap Bordeaux in the WSJ. In the Miami Herald, Fred Tasker found an unexpected angle for his column by considering the merits of wines from Brazil. There's a similarly offbeat story in the Washington Post, where the Page/Dornendorf duo wax lyrical about Virginian wines "fit for a queen."
The most evocative piece of the week belongs to Jancis Robinson, whose SF Chronicle guide to Burgundy wine tasting paints an evocative picture of a noirish world - all backstreets, murky passageways and clandestine trapdoors.
The Corn Dog
Last Monday, the CCA team went to the ball park. The baseball was fun, but I will always remember it as the evening I had my very first taste of corn dog. My only previous encounter with a corn dog was one late night many years ago when my freshman year dormmate Eliah experienced the first of what were to be many lapses in judgement at our local 7-Eleven. After extracting the corn dog from its silver-and-red foil sheath, he dangled it in front of my queasy face. It was hard to believe that this was something people actually ingested. Indeed, the subsequent sight of it entering my friend's maw was so unmentionable and disturbing that I stopped eating for several days. It took a great deal of coaxing and a large scoop of hazelnut gelato before I could put anything in my mouth again.
Kayu dipping corn dog in ketchup
My tastes have since broadened. I have come to love Whoppers, BBQ-flavored Lays, and many other dishes native to this country. I have digested malted vanilla milkshakes and cheeseburgers stacked high. The one thing I could never face was another corn dog. But time heals most wounds, and the corn dog seemed like such a quintessential part of the ball-game experience that I felt it my duty to give it an open-minded try.
The concession stand offered two choices: the traditional corn dog, or its spicy variant. Taking a purist's stance, I picked the first option. Much as I feared, it came in a familiar-looking foil package. I tried not to think about it too much.
Kayu with a corn dog
As with so many gastronomic disasters, the first few bites were actually not too bad. The skin of the soggy battered exterior was faintly reminiscent of baba au rhum (the kind I associate with modest Parisian patisseries). The sausage boasted an inoffensive, if somewhat anemic, savor, with a texture not unlike well-stewed tripe. The pleasurable convenience and novelty of eating something on a stick mollified the vestiges of my revulsion.
But as I slowly worked my way down the corn dog (and it approached its microwave-addled half-life), my contentment bypassed disgust, giving way to a strange, hollow feeling. The taste of the batter and sausage had curdled on my palate into a clot of blandness.
Seeing my dispirited expression, Rachel gestured to the mustard on her hot dog. Try some of this, she suggested. I tentatively dipped what was left of the corn dog into the fluorescent yellow paste and tried a bite.
It turns out that condiments are indispensable to the corn dog. Much like a delicate dab of wasabi can balance and enhance the sweetness of toro, the corn dog greatly benefits from several generous squirts of mustard. Or maybe the deadly fugu is a more apt example, perhaps we could class it among those foods needing a deft human hand to render it palatable for consumption.
Whatever the case, I think it will be some time before I give it another try.
Wine Columns for Week of May 2
Yesterday's NYT Style Magazine featured a provocative joint disposition against terroir by Harold McGee and Daniel Patterson (of Coi and the infamous "To the Moon, Alice?" piece). It begins somewhat reductively -- taking as its starting point that the notion of terroir means very literally tasting rocks in a glass of wine -- but it comes to an admirably poised conclusion that manages to balance a humanistic compassion for local growing with a rejection of terroir's suspicion of human intervention:
Scientists and historians continue to illuminate what Peynaud described as the 'dual communion' represented by wine: "on the one hand with nature and the soil, through the mystery of plant growth and the miracle of fermentation, and on the other with man, who wanted wine and who was able to make it by means of knowledge, hard work, patience, care and love. 'Somewhereness' is given its meaning by 'someoneness' in our time, by the terroirists who are working hard to discover and capture in a bottle the difference that place can make.
For some interesting parallels and tangents, take a look also at Tim Teichgraeber's article about wine consultants in the SF Chronicle. And for a more lighthearted read, try Eric Asimov and his 80 (gin) martinis. I hope they were using spit buckets...
Joel Robuchon at the Mansion (Las Vegas)
Fancy dinners are always a risk. After making reservations months in advance, reading numerous reviews, and spending the afternoon deciding what I'm going to wear, it is impossible for me not to get excited about the dinner. And all that excitement can easily lead to disappointment if the restaurant does not live up to my high expectations. Luckily, during my trip to Las Vegas last weekend, neither Guy Savoy nor Joel Robuchon at the Mansion let me down. While both dinners were quite good (and not dumbed-down for the Las Vegas crowd at all), my meal at Joel Robuchon completely blew me away.
Joel Robuchon managed a perfect balance between trendy art-deco decor, seriously good food, and a special occasion atmosphere without being stuffy at all. The meal actually started on a low note with an amuse bouché of lackluster sangria granita served over smoking dry ice. Thankfully, I was not able to lament the pointless theatrics of the dish for very long before the bread cart arrived and I was distracted by the numerous options. From the first bite of my gruyere mini baguette on, my meal was almost flawless.
My favorite course of the night was the lobster 'ravioli' which were served as small piles of lobster with thinly sliced turnips draped over them so that they looked like little raviolis. The dish was bright, fresh, and allowed the seasonal ingredients to shine. The dishes that followed were all incredibly impressive as well a pea soup poured over a savory flan with pancetta, perfectly cooked halibut with zesty lemongrass flavoring, and slices of tender pan-fried veal. My meal ended with a dessert of chocolate ice cream topped in a large puff of lime cotton candy and of course the obligatory petit four cart (with plenty of smooth, dark chocolates).
Joel Robuchon may come very close to the line of overdoing the presentation of their dishes, but they almost never cross it. More importantly, the dishes not only looked pretty, but there was substance, complex flavors, and high quality ingredients in each one. As a parting gift we were given a loaf of lemon pound cake that I am still enjoying toasted with ice cream five days later. I don't think I'll be going back to Las Vegas anytime soon, but I know for sure where I'll be eating next month in London!