They say that any day brewing is a good day. I couldn’t agree more (well, except for all that pesky sanitizing—that can be a real bitch). However, a good day brewing can go sour. And for us this weekend, it did.
Dead yeast? Nope. A broken carboy smashed all over our apartment? Nope. A boil-over volcano that dumped hot, syrupy mess all over our stove top? God, I wish. No, my friends, we were bested by a biological enemy.
Watch our video to see the thrilling conclusion…let’s just say its best to use fresh ingredients. Oh, and refrigeration. Refrigeration is important. Especially when your NYC apartment is hotter than Havana on an August afternoon.
All in all, its thought that 18 million bottles of fake Pinot hit the market, mostly in the US. The profits were huge for the swindlers, who are estimated to have reaped a combined profit of 7 million euros (approx. $9.5 million). The odd thing? Not a single US consumer complained.
Who's in the stocks? Gallo or the fakers?
But those in the Languedoc are angry; especially the judge, who declared, “the scale of the fraud caused severe damage for the wines of Languedoc for which the United States is an important outlet.”
Fines range from approximately $2,000 to $250,000 and some will spend one month to six months in jail. The damage to the Red Bicyclette brand is pretty catastrophic and I’m curious to see Gallo’s next move. According the their website, they are “deeply disappointed.” Yeah. That’s the understatement of the year.
I’m still eager to know: How did this go unnoticed by Gallo? And for so damn long? And what exactly was in those bottles of Red Bicyclette Pinot? We may never know…
I say we do the prison guards in France a favor and save them some money by replacing the convict’s afternoon foie gras snacks with some good old American Spam pucks. I wonder if they’d notice the difference?
In what may be a massive raping and pillaging of the great Gallo’s wallet and operations in France, the French are investigating whether E&J Gallo was sold fake Pinot Noir. And incredible amounts of it: 3.57 million gallons, to be precise.
Fueled by greed and the ever-flowing dollar that Gallo provides, some Languedoc vignerons may have packaged their cheap swill with a ‘Pinot’ label and slipped it off on Gallo, who then slipped it off on the world as Red Bicyclette Pinot Noir 2007.
Now I gotta be honest, when I first read this, I chuckled a bit. Oh, silly Gallo, looks like you bit off more than you can chew on your French field trip when you were led into a dark alley and sold a trunk full of fake Rolexes. But really, millions of gallons? How is that possible?
Languedoc-Roussillon
The Languedoc-Roussillon region of France is immense, and holds the title as the largest wine-producing region in the world. A third of the volume of all of France’s wine flows from here, most of it being of the Vin de Pays (“country wine”) designation.
Between 2006 and 2008, Languedoc exported 160 million bottles of Pinot Noir which is odd, considering the entire region produced only 67 million bottles of Pinot Noir. You do the math, but that is a boatload, no, an aircraft carrier-load of fake wine. How could this happen? Greed, my friends, and a mega-producer like Gallo and their flagship Languedoc wine, Red Bicyclette, to support it.
The whole idea of Red Bicyclette kind of nauseates me. The French, in their unwillingness to label their top AOC wines by grape varietal (instead using regional designation) have missed out on a huge share of the US wine market and they know this but remain stubborn.
Mr and Mrs Johnson will buy a “Pinot Noir” because they saw the movie Sideways, but wouldn’t know whether to drink a Gevrey-Chambertin or pour it over their pancakes. And they know French wines are supposedly superior, but damn confusing, so in comes Gallo to bridge this gap. An American wine producer moves into the French countryside, discards the AOC system, buys massive amounts of juice and sells varietal-labeled wine off France’s doorstep. Brilliant, really. A bottle of French Pinot Noir? For under $10? Perfect! And a cute man on a bike carrying baguettes? Even more perfect. Oo la la!
But I have a heart, don’t get me wrong. I stand for the authenticity of wine, and granted the average Joe wouldn’t know the difference between 100% Pinot and a methanol-infused blend of Grape Kool-Aid, the whole thing stinks of the Wizard of Oz and the man behind the curtain.
You mean this isn't Pinot?!
And once that man is revealed, you kind of feel sorry for him. His whole kingdom was based on a charade and now he’s exposed as a small, wimpering, lonely man. Now this piece is not meant to persecute Gallo; sure, they’ve found a way to make millions of dollars by taking advantage of market forces, but the fact remains they may have been wronged on such a grand scale it’s staggering. The sheer level of fraud stinks of thousands of barrels of sardines rotting in the Meditteranean sun. And someone needs to face the stench.
As of now, after a year of investigations, 13 people have been arrested, including executives from two wineries, five co-operatives, négociant Ducasse and the conglomerate Sieur d’Arques. French authorities are scheduled to reveal their final conclusions on February 17th and with millions of dollars at stake, its anybody’s guess how this will all shake down. And questions remain: what wines were passed off as Pinot? And how did Gallo not notice?
In the meantime, keep sipping your Pinot but be careful where you purchase your Rolex.
You gotta love it when your friends prepare to move and unload their stuff on you. Especially when its their booze.
A good friend of mine, Tamara, has just moved to London to begin a new adventure overseas. The fortunate thing for me is that she had amassed quite a wine and beer collection here in the old NYC and obviously couldn’t tote all those feckin bottles across the Atlantic. Poor thing. So, like the jolly good friend I am, I offered to take it off her hands and met her at the wineshop where she was working to pick up my booty.
The stash was a score. Some sparkling from Dr Konstantin Frank in the Finger Lakes, a bottle of my prized Pliny the Elder (double score), a bottle of Han Soju (Asian vokda), a few random tidbits and a couple of Franziskaner Dunkelweizens. The monk was calling. And you can’t deny a monk, can you? So I poured me a glass…
The word “dunkel” means “dark” and is most often used for two main categories of beer: dark wheat beers and dark lagers. They get their color from darker roasted malts and take on a distinctive taste. In fact, all lagers were dark until the 1840’s when the golden lagers emerged from Pilsen (in what is now the Czech Republic). The word “weizen” means “wheat” and the main difference between the two styles is that lagers are bottom-fermenting while wheat beers are top-fermenting (ales).
But back to the Franziskaner Dunkelweizen…its a dark wheat beer from a brewery dating back to 1363, making it the oldest privately-owned brewery in Bavaria. 1363!? I know. Ridiculous. My mind can’t even wrap my thoughts around the sheer amount of delicious suds that have spawned from that spot on the planet. Not to mention how many happy cows and pigs have fed off their used grain. Munich spare ribs, anyone?
Located across the street from a Franciscan monastery, the brewery took on their name to pay the monks homage. An omen of good luck? A blessing from God? Or just a reason to have some rowdy monks over for parcheesi parties? Whatever the reason, its damn delicious stuff. And the more beer I drink, the more I want the monk’s seal of approval.
With great head retention, the Franziskaner Dunkelweizen has a medium brown color with aromas of concord grape, raisins and graham crackers. A smooth, silky mouthfeel overtakes your mouth like a tastebud blessing and unfolds flavors of grapes rolled in milk chocolate powder and graham crackers. Hmm…a childhood snack? Nice acidity and a palate cleansing finish.
What do you say, Tamara? You join a monastery in England yet? Well, get to it. Shave your head, throw on a frock and start brewing. You’ve got a friend in NYC who misses you and needs some more beer.
Many beers we know and love are actually brewed by “contract brewers”, who can be hundreds of miles or even entire states away.
“What?! What?!”, you say, “but that’s my hometown beer!”
Now, I hear you and I was surprised to learn this too, but its actually quite common.
A brewery that hires another is called a “contract brewing company”, while the one hired to do the brewing is called the “producer-brewery”. There are a number of reasons to hire a contract brewer, but its mostly because of the large production demands that cannot be met by small craft breweries.
In New York, the FX Matt Brewing Company (Saranac) brews a number of beer brands we’re familiar with. Based in the Adirondack Mountains of Utica, NY, they are the fourth oldest family-owned brewery in the country.
Some of the beers they’ve brewed over the years include the following:
“So, I know this underground Sake bar nearby…wanna go?”
“Hmm…I never really got into the stuff. The process is interesting but the taste is pretty rough,” I said. ”But an underground Sake bar, you say?”
My fearless guide was my friend, Taylor, an actor turned doctor who somehow manages to know more cool restaurants and bars than I do. Somewhere between suturing stab wounds and pulling 90 hour weeks, he manages to slip in a Bo Ssam at Momofuku or a specialty cocktail at Angel’s Share. Maybe he’s just been lying to me about the whole doctor thing? (Oh, nope, that story about inserting a catheter was way too vivid to be a fib). So bring it, Dr T.
Photo: Malcolm Brown (nycgo.com)
We made our way to 9th street in the East Village, where a wooden, non-descript archway stood over a staircase leading below the street to Decibel. Was I being led into Jack the Rippers lair? Was this some strange sex club from Eyes Wide Shut? What that basement held, I really had no idea. We opened the door and entered a new world (you gotta love that about NYC; you never know what world lies behind a closed door).
In a moment, we were transported to Tokyo or Kyoto. The sounds of Japanese filled the air, as did the smells of noodles and pork. A quick glance revealed a cramped space, with one row of about six seats running the length of a small bar with paper lamps and sagging ropes hanging above. Behind the bar was a chef with a tiny kitchen…Barbie’s Noodle Station, was it? And a wall of Sake bottles that dominated the landscape.
Photo: Malcolm Brown (nycgo.com)
We were led past the cramped bar into a second room that was about twice the size and packed to the gills with passionate imbibers. It had a low ceiling and graffiti-covered walls made up of mostly Japanese characters, random drawings and Sake labels that had been affixed to the walls with concealed glue guns. We saddled up to the bar where for the next hour, a drunken couple bumped into me repeatedly in a fit of passionate face-sucking. My Sake lesson was about to begin.
There are two main kinds of Sake: those made purely from rice, Junmai, and those with brewer’s alcohol added to extract more flavors from the mash, Honjozo. Within the Junmai realm, there are three levels of designation (Junmai, Ginjo and Daiginjo) which refer to how much the rice is polished down to remove the proteins and oils from the grains, leaving behind the starches. The more polished, the higher quality the Sake.
With the help of koji, the mold used to convert the starch into fermentable sugars, it is fermented and then passed through a mesh to yield a clear liquid. For a more thorough breakdown on the process, check out this great siteon sake making.
We would embark on two Junmai’s: Harushika Junmai and the Mu DaiGinjo.
Harushika Junmai
Notes of blueberry and malt on the nose. Almost smells like an Austrian Gruner Veltliner. Hint of butterscotch on the palate with an oily mouthfeel and a taste of artificial banana exactly like in a bag of Runts candy.
Mu Daiginjo
Non-aromatic and hard to pull anything off the nose, except for a slight hint of apple cider vinegar. More delicate and focused in its flavors with an almost sweat-like scent and an oxidized, Sherry flavor. Hard to pinpoint exactly, but definite notes of Honeydew melon and a rounder mouthfeel than the Junmai.
Now, I can’t say I’m gonna run for President of the Sake of the Month Club, but I can say I’ve got new respect for the beverage. The diversity of flavor and the rituals of serving of it are completely unique. And if you’re ever in the East Village looking for a bar that will transport you far from the confines of Gotham, you gotta check out Decibel.
Just make sure the person you go with doesn’t go into details about feet boils and bed sores while you’re sipping your Ginjo…
Principio (100% Ciliegiolo), Antonio Camillo, 2008, Tuscany
(13.5% Alc)
“Hey, after you go in search of God, can you bring me back some vines?”
And so it was that an obscure grape varietal named Ciliegiolo left its home in Spain and came to rest in Tuscany. Or so its rumored…and only God knows the truth.
Walking the pilgrimage from Italy to Spain is hot. Brutally hot. Your feet are covered in blisters. All along the rocky path, you see people in various states of prayer, some half-conscious, others chanting quietly (sort of akin to a Grateful Dead show’s whirling denizens in various states of transcendence). And then, out of nowhere, a mad hermit, with a look of possessed reverance bordering on the maniacal, hands you a vine with the instructions, “spread the love”. And with that, he is gone.
You look down to see a scraggly grapevine in your palm, seemingly just ripped from the earth. You have no choice. It is now your mission. You carefully pack it in your knapsack and continue the long pilgrimage. A couple of weeks later, your body many pounds lighter, you pull the vine from your bag. Barely alive and in need of some serious prayer, you plant it in the earth outside your home. And thus, Ciliegiolo finds a new home in a new country.
The Cathedral at the end of the line
For thousands of years, Christians and adventurous souls alike have been trekking a route called the Way of St James to reach the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain where legend has it that St James’ remains were carried here by boat from Jerusalem. And its on this same path that some blessed soul is believed to have brought the Ciliegiolo vine from Spain to Italy.
Ciliegiolo (“cherry” in Italian) is one of those rare grapes that you’ll rarely find, and rarely find in its purest form. Often blended with Sangiovese (and thought to be possibly be a parent of Sangiovese), Ciliegiolo is rarely found outside of the regions of Umbria and Tuscany where it is a minor blending grape in the wines of Chianti. But not always…
In the hills of Maremma (home of the Buttari, the famed cattle ranchers), near the southwestern border of Tuscany, you’ll find winemaker Antonio Camillo. His is a beautiful land near the Tyrrheanian Sea where modern tourists mingle with ancient traditions. Owning a mere five hectares of vineyards, Antonio lets the earth do the talking and gets out of the way of his grapes’ song. It is a song of the land and a song of the spiritual.
His Principio is made from 100% Ciliegiolo grapes from 40-year-old vines. Medium bodied, the Principio is dry on the palate with notes of cooking spice and cherry that hit your mouth with such vibrancy that your tongue lights up with the sensation of life. In fact, my entire tongue seemed to be possessed by some higher power. What a sensation, I thought. Is it the spirit of St James? Perhaps…but only God knows the truth.
“The Mondavi Chardonnay? Yes, its on Aisle 312 next to the Weber Twin-Propane Tank, Stainless Steel, Mega Wild-Game Grill.”
All across New York State, legislators and the wineries and wine shop owners they represent are in a heated debate. Should New York grocery stores be allowed to sell wine or should it remain the sole domain of specialty wine shops?
It’s frankly a bit of a morass where no one quite knows what effects will follow should the gates fly open and the Costcos and the Gristedes be free to set the juice loose next to the WonderBread and Cap’n Crunch.
The essential debate:
–Will selling wines in grocery stores bring New York state wines to a broader audience or will they be lost in the flood of mass-produced wines guaranteed to make a buck for the stores?
–Will the state really make money on this, or will it simply be a one-time shot in the arm that later leaves the state scrounging for more without a mere monetary crack rock in sight to satiate its coffers?
–And what about the local wineshop? Throughout the last decade, we all stood by in awe as the juggernaut bohemoth of Wal Mart popped up in every town. We watched as the small “mom and pop” stores shriveled on the vine and turned to dust before our very eyes.
Just think about the discount Yellow Tail would grant if you bought on such a scale that a fleet of Kangaroo-laden trucks dropped off 100 palates of the swill in one go? And us as consumers, we’re culpable too, because where you gonna go for your fix? The Shiraz at CostCo for $4.45 or the Shiraz at John’s Vino Hut for $7.oo?
We’ve seen it with Starbuck’s. We’ve seen it with Barnes & Noble too. Many of our favorite coffee shops and bookstores disappeared overnight, unable to compete with the price and convenience the big box stores provided. The fresh blood of the little guys hadn’t even dried on their corporate frocks before opening yet another outlet across the street.
But it’s not all doom and gloom, because something interesting has happened (at least in NYC). Artisan beer shops, like Bierkraft in Brooklyn, are still gaining popularity while micro-brewed beer is sold in grocery stores (including the massive Whole Foods). Focusing on rare finds, quality products, hospitality and providing a level of goods the big boys would never find profitable, they’ve found footing in the business landscape.
Could this happen to our wine shops? Sure they may have to mark down their bottles of Ferrari-Carano Fume Blanc, but maybe by finally focusing on the wines of the North Fork that lie at our doorstep, they’ll bring in more consumers who appreciate that level of specialization.
I recently read a great article written by Amy Zavatto in the latest issue of Edible Manhattan which served to only harden my confusion as many players in the wine industry took heated positions on both sides of the debate. But ultimately, it’s anyone’s guess what the passing of the law could mean…
Just before Christmas Eve dinner, the guests of the Royal Family retire to the Saloon to enjoy gin and tonics with the Queen (who drinks a dry Martini). Afterwards, the guests are seated at 8:30 pm for a splendid, candlelit meal that unfolds in rehearsed waves of grandeur. White wine is served with the hors d’oeuvres, Claret with the entrees and Champagne with dessert.
For the Brits, structure, tradition and ritual are all intertwined with the food and drink. In fact, this is the way most of Europe dines and a way we Americans have often neglected. And that’s a shame, because great food is often incomplete without great drink.
Fit for the Queen
What the hell am I rambling about, you ask? Well, for me, it was a very British Christmas. A British Christmas in Rochester, that is. For four days, I was inducted into my in-laws ways and made an honorary Englishman (although I still prefer my turkey sannies warmed up in the microwave and WITHOUT the Branston Pickle).
The food and drink were superb, and the rituals and traditions unfolded around me like clockwork. I left satiated and, despite the onslaught of tasty delights, hungry for more. Well, that is except for one dish. A dish that is still wrecking havoc on my tempermental Irish bowels…but more on that later…
More scrapies?
My friends, it was a swirl of unfamiliar dishes and unfamiliar customs. A whirl of plates and serving bowls and Sherry glasses and Pilsner steins. It was a world of food names ending in “y” or “ies” that served to make everything sound so cute and dainty (like the Queen herself) that I felt like I’d been whisked away to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
With the Shepard’s Pie for Christmas Eve, I found myself fighting for the blackened, caked-on potato bits known as “Scrapies”. We rationed out the final “Roasties” like they were the last roasted potatoes in Ireland. For dessert, it wasn’t Fig Pudding but, you guessed it, “Figgy Pudding”. Before retiring for bed, we drank “Milky” coffee (warm milk and instant decaf coffee). It’s kind of akin to translating everything into Pig Latin…except you simply add a “y” or an “ie” and you’re good to go and fly the Union Jack on your porchy).
Ah, but it was grand. Christmas Eve dinner began casually in the living room with sips of Cream Sherry, followed by a bottle of Rose Champagne that whisked us into the dining room where a splendid meal ensued. For days, our chalaces were full of fine drink and our hearts with laughter--all was right in the world. Until I met my culinary nemesis.
The Champagne of Rochester
Yes, my friends, a horrid beast lurked on the horizon. One night, as I went in search of the true Rochester, and after a few hours of bowling and some pitchers of Labatt Blue, I was whisked into the car, told to not speak nor protest, and taken into the heart of Rochester to a small, non-descript diner.
It was unfair, really. Because after a few days of great dishes and delicious Tawny Ports and Saranac microbrews, I was defenseless and unsuspecting. Brutally, I was yanked into a dark world of grease and shady characters, where a styrofoam box filled with an unidentifiable steaming mass of food was shoved in my face. And did I have a chilled, Finger Lakes Riesling to sip with it? Nope. An ice cold Pilsner to force it down with? Nope. Merely a sugar-laden, lukewarm soda and the cries of “mama” in my head.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my first “Garbage Plate” (or is it the Trashy Mashy? Or the Filthy Stinky?)
And so it was that I received this text message from my friend who’s currently gallivanting through Europe on a journey to see the wines and vineyards of the world (rough, I know). Apparently, as my ass was slaving away in the mines of the East Village, he was “sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in Gratallops (central Priorat), drinking a bottle of PRIORAT!”
And, yet, as I sat there on the floor of our subterraneous wine room in the bowels of NYC, I felt oddly close to my fair, traveling friend. Because a quick glance revealed that only a few feet away sat numerous bottles of Priorat’s finest juice. And in some, strange cosmic way, we were connected across the oceans.
So…Priorat…just what the f and where the f is that?, you ask. Well, my curious friends, its time you got on board because Priorat (“Pree-oh-rot”), Spain is perhaps the most innovative, exciting wine region to come out of the Spanish food and wine juggernaut of the past couple of decades.
Located in the province of Tarragona in the Catalonian region in Northeast Spain, Priorat is tucked away in a remote, rocky, hilly region out of the public eye. A mere backwater of incredibly steep valleys and terraced vineyards, Priorat smashed its way onto the international stage in the 1990’s thanks to an influx of young, innovative winemakers like Alvaro Palacios, Rene Barbier, Carles Pastrana and Jose Lluis Perez.
Like the cultivation of many of our great beverages (Belgian beer, anyone?), the vines were first planted by monks in the 12th century and were tended for centuries until 1835 when they were taken over by the state. Ain’t that a bitch? You and your God-fearing brothers spend hundreds of years building up your vineyards to a level of greatness rarely experienced, only to then have the government come in and take it all away. (If you’re thinking about confiscating my homebrew supplies for your own pleasure, Mayor Bloomberg, think again).
Alvaro Palacios
But the whole region’s wine production came to a screeching halt with the arrival of Philloxera at the end of the 19th century and the vineyards fell into disrepair and sat fallow until finally being replanted in the 1950’s. True greatness became possible, however, when superstars like Barbier and Palacios brought their exceptional talent, bold vision and rich wine making pedigrees to the region in the 1980’s.
Rene Barbier
The wines mostly center around the red Garnacha grape (“Granache” in other countries) and are rich, concentrated and intensely alive with minerality from the slate-rich soils. Oak is used judicially and is not the centerpoint as it is in Rioja. Terroir-driven and true labors of love for those who work the rocky hills, Priorat wines are worth the finding and worth the price.
And, to my freewheeling, travelling friend: thanks for rubbing it in that you’re drinking your way through Europe. But know this: with each passing day, i grow closer to my own fateful meeting with the hills of Priorat…
And until then, fair explorer, keep drinking the good juice and don’t forget to change your socks. You have incredibly aromatic feet. And not in a good way.
