The Very Thought

“A couple of people from my wine group didn’t want to sign up for your event because of that one time when you paired a beer with one of the cheeses” a fairly regular customer talking to me as she perused the reservation book for my upcoming class, scribbling the initials of her group next to the names of its members. She didn’t say it in a snide tone, just matter of fact, there were a few people, “wine people” so offended by the fact that I would pour a….GASP, beer for a pairing event that they were going to take a pass on the whole event this time. Say what?! I flipped the pages of the reservation book and was instantly made to feel better when I hit the last page, the full waiting list. Name upon name of people, couples and friends that were hoping to get a seat on the off chance that someone cancelled, “Well I guess they showed me” I said with a smirk. 

This is where wine people, or I should say, “wine people” piss me right the hell off. Piss me off and actually show me how not into wine they really are. There are all kinds of wine lovers and while I do my best to respect and value them all, this snooty sub set of wine idealist, well they are the actual wine snobs and I have very little respect for that. These are the folks that look down their nose at everyone waving or sipping a cocktail or a beer at a sports bar while they raise their glasses of Truck Stop Red, or whatever craptastic house wine is being served by the glass, bottle probably open for over a week, doesn’t matter, needs to be wine and almost always needs to be red, you know to prove how sophisticated and classy they are. Asswads. As someone that has been in this business for a very long time, and is fiercely passionate about wine I’m not about to drink a shitty glass of anything just to prove I’m a “wine person”. If the options are, “Red, White or Blush” I’m getting a damn Gin & Tonic, period. Wine isn’t a thing to me, not a drink or symbol, it’s about flavors, both on their own and how they pair with food and as a true wine lover, I know that wine has limitations and I would never disrespect a wine, or worse decimate it, but shoving into a place it doesn’t belong. If you want to, go for it, but don’t act as if you are a “wine person” and don’t get your nose out of joint when a specialist tells you that wine might not be the best choice. It is our job as wine specialists to teach and sell wine, giving crappy pairing advice does neither. 

Tonight I am giving a seminar on wine and cheese pairing, we do two a year, one an informal stand up tasting on a Saturday afternoon which is often slammed and rather chaotic and then one on a Friday evening, seated and with much more one on one interaction. These Friday night events sell out nearly as fast as my fried chicken and Champagne ones so I know we will be fielding “Did any seats free up?” phone calls all afternoon. Phone calls from people that are actually into wine and how it pairs with food, not people that would shudder at and toss their nose in the air at the very thought of tasting a beer in that setting. So real wine people that are there to learn, I couldn’t be more thrilled to have them. Only wish I had more space!

These events are always a ton of work, both physically, as we need to slice, scoop, cube and prepare the cheese plates/platters, but they also kick my ass in that brain drain kind of way. Really taxes my skills and stretches me professionally and I must confess, I fucking love that part. Sure I could just throw ten cheeses out there and grab a few bottles of this or that and people might still be happy…ten wines and ten cheeses, what’s not to love right? But the thing is, if I’m going to put my name on this seminar I want it to be as perfect as humanly possible. I have one coworker that breaks my balls every time I do these wine & cheese pairing deals, kind of laughs at me as I scurry about, popping corks and breaking off pieces of cheese, stress over the lineup, “Now if I put the Roaring 40s Blue Cheese before the Reblochon, the wines are going to be out of order” and change the order eight times, “You know Sam, it really doesn’t matter” his chide. May not matter to him and he can do his events as he wishes but I take this stuff pretty seriously and feel I have an obligation to those in attendance to show that there really is a science to these things, a chemistry to why things will and will not work with certain wines, to teach and share what years of being both a wine and cheese buyer have taught me. Not to mention I believe it really does matter and when you have a successful pairing, you not only sell more wine, you know, because it tastes good, but you can also help people “Get it” and that right there, well it can inspire more real wine lovers and there is something so very gratifying in that for me. 

None of us are in this business for the big dollars, hell many of us pour a huge percentage of our paychecks right back into the pot as it were, and for me it’s all about my love of wine, cheese, food pairings and the very real pleasure I get from helping others get their happy palate on….even when I have to say, “You know, wine just isn’t appropriate here”. Not going to let myself be too upset by the snobby set that uses wine as a symbol, a class marker of sorts and am instead going to keep doing as I have been, keep focusing on pairing and a wine's place….won’t beat up a wine by trying to smash it into some status hole where it doesn’t belong and keep teaching those that wish to listen. I’ll trade a “I’m too fancy to drink craft beer” person for the, “You know I always liked wine but learned to love it after coming here” one at my pairing events….any day. 

As I wrestled with one of my all-time favorite cheeses yesterday afternoon, groaned over how deliciously rich and intoxicatingly luscious it was and then took sips with this wine and that only to have my beloved cheese go starkly metallic, fiercely ugly and unappealing, making me want to do a Tom Hanks move from the movie Big and grab a napkin to wipe the gross from my tongue, wondering where all the beautiful caramel and toffee notes in the cheese went, I knew what needed to be done. I thought of those folks that were annoyed with the last event because I opted to pair a beer with a particular cheese, flinched a little and felt a pang of, “I don’t want to upset anyone but” took another bite of that powerful and mouth coating cheese, let it spread across my palate, “Sweet, deep caramel and toffee, crunchy little crystalline bits, wicked intensity. This needs a porter or a stout”. Beer, it had to be a beer. I played around a little longer, tried a few other things but it was a smoked porter with vanilla bean that was by far the better match. Bit of a quandary considering the last time I featured a beer it left a bad taste in someone’s mouth. Mulled it over, kicked it about but in the end I had to go with the better pairing seeing as it is a seminar about pairings and all.

 I like to think that I’ll never be too old or too snooty to learn something myself, I did take a lesson from those beer protesters. I am going to offer two things with that cheese flight, a wine and that smoked porter, a lesson for the group as to why there are times when wine just isn’t the right choice when it comes to food pairing, no matter how much you love the stuff. 

Fearing the backlash but believing in and standing behind that pairing….wish me luck!

Worshiping At The Altar Of Soulful Expression

My son and I were watching the movie Cotton Club the other night, sweating our asses off at 11:00 PM, the weather had been just brutal here, glass of Rose silently puddling at my side as I cringed and flinched at the horrible dialog and cheesed up mobster costumes but then came what I was waiting for, why I’d seen that movie more than I would ever care to admit, the dance scenes. Little beads of sweat slipping past my shoulder blades, running the length of my spine and soaking the waistband of my jeans, my weary head bobbing as I watched bodies move about to music, lost in the watching of soulful expression. 

“My God, look at him” my mother in awe watching Mikhail Baryshnikov jump, twirl and suspend his body as we were watching White Nights. I had to agree, it was magical to watch, so perfect and polished, beautiful in the way classic sculpture is but I just sat, waited for the one point in the movie that had me scooting to the front of the couch, my toes digging into our thick and dusty carpet, eyes wide as my body responded the only way it knew how to, vibrate with want. Gregory Hines alone in a studio, hard floors and a wall of mirrors, his ultra-thin and slouchy frame in a tank top and baggy slacks. The energy at first coming from his feet, his tap shoes pounding out music of their own, almost dueling with whatever sound was coming from the boom box, the tap-tap-tap, gravely sounding drags and heart-thumping “bang” as he lifted both metal enhanced feet and once again slammed them against the ground. Toes, heels, ankles, knees and finally his whole body was adding motion, sound and expression as he danced. Shoulders, one just slightly before the other, dipping and shaking, making the eyes follow the beat all the way down his frame as he danced out his pain. Compared to ballet it may have seemed rudimentary….but for me, so soulful and way fucking sexy. While I could always see and appreciate Baryshnikov, it was Hines, that scratching and pounding that spoke to me, “My God, look at him”…

Been in a wicked funk lately. Not pissy, not angry, although my last two posts, upon rereading do make me sound a little bitchy, I don’t have the tell-tale signs of bitchdom…just blah. Might be the heat, could be the sluggish traffic at the shop or the fact that I practically had to beg to get ten people to sign up for my last class. Probably some witch’s brew of all the above and as someone that loathes unexplained mood swings or the blaming of hormones, (but I’m guessing as I get older I will be much more compassionate about that business) and prefers a more practical, “Okay, why is this happening?” approach, well my “Blah” has been nibbling at me. Like the picking at a scab and the, “Ouch, quit it” that comes with it. 

Haven’t wanted to read, write, talk, be talked to, be ignored, sit silent, go outside and be active, be touched or find my inner seductress as I sit next to someone that isn’t touching me…inspiring them to want nothing more but to. Not angry, not sad, not lonely, not annoyed, not sexy….just not. Sucks, like hard and not in that tummy flipping and tongue flicking kind of way. Feels like some self-inflicted form of lock down where even my palate isn’t allowed conjugal visits. But…

Saturday night I was whisked off in a limo full of friends/ customers, was doused in grower Champagne and seduced with historic Los Angeles beef dip sandwiches. Rendered drunk on laughter, runny cheeses, potato chips and ladies in high heels and short shorts. Felt myself holding back, knowing I was in charge of taking at least one of the drunken revelers home, feeling in charge of the opening of the Champagnes that I had introduced that group to, making sure everyone had salty snacks to hold in their fist pumping Tom Petty sing along paws. Control, too much control, not of others mind you, nothing I love more than watching people get their “loss of” on, hell I’m the one opening the bottles! No, too much control of me….and I’m beginning to discover, the more I close myself off, the more I lose. The more I become like those sad ladies that raised me….no more, enough, I’m jumping back in the deep end and my skin is way beyond ready to be covered in bumps.

Came home after bubbles and viewing the soulful expression of a dear friend that used her art to work through her divorce. Splashed blues and blacks on draped pieces of glossy material, hung them from the ceiling, her shoulders dipping and shaking as she challenged us to watch her music move down her body, the reason we were piled in that Champagne and cheese soaked limo, to find what I know I have been aching for….inspiration. The new Dave Matthews Band, (goddamn it Google alert, I’m aging here! How am I to start my affair with that man if you don’t alert him?!)  CD sitting on the dining room table, right where I sit and try to create, inspire and share my boozy lusting and findings.  

“Oh My Love, if I had my way all your dreams, would come true”

“Spread yourself across my lips and I’ll spoon you in”

“Make your belly full and all your dreams come true”

“You are like a secret garden as I shuffle through this broken town”

“If you are tired I’ll bare your burden, if you’re dreaming I will not disturb you”

“Come winter I’ll build you a fire from the bones of who I used to be, before you came and washed the weary away, before you came here for me”

The slow, almost mournful twang of a banjo and callused fingertips strumming at tight strings in the absolute perfect pitch, soulful growl flicking away at parts of me that have been resting beneath my dormant flesh just aching, begging to tear through. Shifting of my thick hips, moving and sinking my toes into thick carpet once again, my heart thumping and mouth watering as my shoulders dip with each saturated mouthful of “Just what I need” spills across my needing soul, stealing my breath and lapping at my heels. 

Fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle, cold air finally moving through with enough strength to lift my thin white t-shirt as I slip out my apartment, the rush of “What are you doing?” and “Why not?” covering my still skin, pulling it tight and making my ache visible….toes poorly pained and also in need of attention plunging into the cool water of the spring that trickles harmlessly through the hushed complex. A woman, a girl, in need of refreshment finding it with Dave Matthews, (Really Google? C’mon now) the sweet burn of indulgence filling my mouth as the cold water bites at my ankles. Feeling that shell crack against the pan and your soul spill out upon a surface that makes you jump….sizzle and gives “over easy” a whole new meaning. Fuck. Maybe I needed that lull to feel this high but, high I am...... Dave mixed with Armagnac, maybe not as elegant or regal, as polished as Cognac but much like Hines and his pounding, sexy as hell and has me worshiping at the altar of  soulful expression. Dave’s voice and prose, raw passion and brilliance coaxing me into a state of utter….openness, the Armagnac filing my mouth with richness, profundity and a sting of seriousness that keeps me from teetering too far over the edge but raises my brow and begs for….just one more. 

Much needed….

Now about that touching me business….

So ready.

No Substitute For Touch….

“Yes, you can help. Grab that step stool and crush the garlic in the bowl with the cheese” my tiny head looking for this mysterious stool thing as my heart raced at the very idea that my grandmother might let me not only help with something pertaining to dinner but would let me be alone with her in her kitchen. My big green eyes spotting an odd tiny ladder, two steps, just the right height to lift me high enough to reach the large off white bowl with the blue trim that held the smashed bits of Roquefort. I sucked my breath deep into my chest, wrapped my arms around the midget ladder, metal and rubber digging into the tender bits of flesh on my arms as I wrestled the lifting furniture that I’d hoped might bring me just a little closer to her level, making sure not to scrape the kitchen tiles or make too much noise…sure that any tiny bit of me being a kid, my mother’s kid, my mother’s daughter, might make her think twice about allowing me this access. 

“Okay grandma, what do I do now?” my whisper of a voice pushing through deep swallows of fear and demanded intimidation. Her perfectly quaffed head spun around and again my eyes were wide and breath dove deep in my chest. She rested her vegetable peeler on the towel beside the sink that was deep enough for me to bathe in, wiped her hands on the stark white apron that protected her breathtakingly beautiful and agelessly hip one of a kind pantsuit. Her long stride slow and deliberate, coming at me and making my entire body vibrate with anxiety as my neck stretched and craned looking through the dining room, trying to find my mother just in case I needed to run. Her knees pushing the stool closer to the counter, her perfume flavoring the air I was desperately sucking in, her thin frame pressing against my back causing me to jump and stand soldier like as I felt her arms fold around me. “You take one of these, drop it in here and squeeze. Just like that. See?” as she placed the press in my hands, flipped it open and dropped the firm cloves of garlic in the small cave, pulled the lever down and with her hands as my guide gave the press a firm squeeze, her chest and shoulders resting across my back, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I fought back tears. “That stuff smells strong” the words I was able to come up with to explain why my chest was heaving and eyes were watering as that cold woman laid warm against my little back, held my hands and taught me how to make blue cheese dressing. 

Not sure she ever looked my way again but I stood on that tower of a stool, mixing and mashing blue cheese with my pressed garlic, grin from ear to ear and to this day I can still remember that dressing. The cool and crunchy hunks of iceberg lettuce, shaved carrots, black olives, thinly sliced cucumber and my “tall as her” dressing. The only time I can remember my mother’s mother holding me, not out of want, but that sink hug and lesson, they are alive and thriving each time my teeth sink into greens bathed in blue cheese dressing, our blue cheese dressing that I have now made for years and shown my son how to make. 

Been reading some blog posts lately that at first twisted my crunders into a knot but eventually had me wishing I could stand the writer upon a stool, push them closer to the sink and show them the way it actually works. Images as a tool to sell wine…sigh. Nothing drives this wine slinger more batshit than reading and listening to some blogger or critic pontificate about what they think will sell wine. Here’s an idea, how about you try selling the stuff before you tell the rest of us, that are in the trenches and dealing with the honest to god consumers, with their impossible menus, needs for a gift for, “She’s an Asian heart surgeon that doesn’t eat meat…” and “I want something that tastes like Caymus Cabernet but is white and costs $9.00.”  what will and will not move the public. Now I know a picture is worth a thousand words and all, am well aware that we are quickly becoming a nation of skimmers, 140 character tweets that pretend we are actually friends with those 300 plus people on Facebook but…where are you going when your heart is broken, you need real advice and are truly looking for actual recommendations? If your answer is Twitter or Facebook, my guess is you aren’t drinking as richly and suited to your palate as you could or should  be and your depth perception might be a tad off…

The use of images along with content, a back story, well that does in fact move people but I can tell you, as someone that has shared both pictures and stories, it’s never the picture that those consumers remember, it’s the story. I’ve taught I don’t know how many classes in which I pour a wine from Didier Dagueneau, held up a picture of him…his wild mane of hair, bandana and overalls before telling one of the handful of precious memories I have of my time spent with him. His image unforgettable and maybe a bit shocking to people that think winemakers are like fancy and junk but not once have I had a customer return and ask, “Where is that wine from that guy in the overalls”. Not once. Always some tidbit of the story, “That guy from the Loire that loved margaritas” or more heart sinking, “The one that made those amazing wines from the Loire that died in a plane crash”…sketches and photos, shots of plump grapes and dusty boots…they can be, are parts of the story but without words, without connection to the people in those pictures, the wines made from those ancient presses or some sliver of human behind them, they’re worthless. Might not need a thousand of them but words, they matter and far more than some bloggers and marketers might have you believe. 

How many images do we see each day? A woman in high heels, stockings stretched against her amazingly perfect thighs…what was she selling again? Dunno. The guy in a ripped up pair of jeans, rippled and tight tummy with some kind of slogan scrawled across the bottom of the page, a family sitting around the table laughing, a can of some junk on the table…flip, flip and flip again. If you think skimmers are more inclined to remember a picture than a story, well you might be either retarded or so steeped in your marketing degree that you’ve forgotten how powerful actual touch is. If I weren't so irked I would feel sorry for you, but seeing as I am in fact dealing with those connection seekers, like first-hand, I'm going to ignore your shallow advice and keep....talking. On the eve of one of the most horrifically shaking moments in American history we will be seeing image after image of pain, sadness and destruction…just ask yourself, is it the picture or the story that brings those tears to your eyes? The remembering of where you were, who you knew, waiting for the call as those towers crumbled.

“When did we get these?!” my voice raised and nearly cracking as I grabbed the heavy metal tool and looked around the room. “I need one of these” as I pushed the garlic press across the counter with my weekend purchase of wine. Seen hundreds of pictures of them in my cooking and cookware magazines but to hold one in my hand, find one there in the store where I work, feel its weight and remember that stool and moment, smell her perfume and see the slight crack of a smile on a face that wore a lifetime of disappointment…worth a thousand words.

Not The Same. Period

"What is that?!"

"Oh that’s Prosciutto I think. Whenever I see that in a recipe I just use some Oscar Mayer ham, it’s the same thing”

A conversation from years ago but one that has stuck with me for well over a decade now. Same thing? Um, not even close. I mean aside from being made from pig they have nothing, absolutely nothing in common. Now before anyone goes and tries to label me a pig parts snob, notice that I didn’t say one was better, hell I can get my grub on with a simple ham sandwich as much as the next lover of the swine but the same? Nope, won’t concede to that foolishness. They can both be wonderful, some days one might even appeal more than the other, both have their place but they are not, I repeat, are not the same. Period.  

Saturday afternoon we hosted a sparkling wine event at The Wine Country. This is always kind of a fun event for me as I get to pour, talk about, re-taste and share with people some of the fun little sparklers we sell but don’t pour for our Champagne events…know why? Yeah, they aren’t Champagne. So like I said, these events can be a lot of fun for me and for the most part I have a blast, there is however one thing that always gives my crunders a bit of a crunch, and likely makes uncomfortable some of the others that come to just learn and have fun, the, “Oh stop with the not calling it Champagne, they’re the same” comments from a somewhat hardheaded set of folks that seem to find some weird little sense of fun in poking…almost mocking this wine slinger for my refusal to agree with or actually call those wines something they are not, Champagne. Grrrrrr

A couple years ago I cured one such gentleman, (um, term used quite loosely) that was breaking my bawls left and right about not calling a domestic sparkling wine “Champagne”. We went round and round, I explained that Champagne was not a thing, nor was it a style of wine, it was a place where they make sparkling wine. This dude wasn’t having it, just kept laughing, (and just so you know, you ever want to see this normally mild mannered woman go buck wild, just try laughing at me when I’m being serious. I’ve got an ex-boyfriend that can attest to the hells furry when you pull that shit) and chiding me, telling me I was being silly and just then I remembered he had come in with his brother, who was steering clear of this whole spectacle by the way, when I first offered to help then he had introduced both he and his brother, by name….my tactic now, to call this gentleman by name before starting any sentence, except I kept calling him by his brother’s name. “Well Eric, I can see why you feel that way but the truth of the matter is” and “Eric, while you are correct in that they both have bubbles, they aren’t the same thing” and finally he spoke, “Oh, just so you know, Eric is my brother’s name” to which I responded, “Well…it’s the same thing right?” breakthrough. We laughed a little, my smirk a tad sharper as we discussed that even though he and his brother looked alike, grew up the same way, were basically made from the same “material” they were in fact different people and their names were actually kind of important in differentiating them, “So you see, Tom, it matters.”

Saturday afternoon I poured to a group of happy tasters while dodging the fiercely annoying, “Champagne is Champagne, no matter where it comes from” set, a phrase that makes my head implode by the way, trying my best to be light hearted and educate without being dogmatic. I don’t care who likes which and why, I’m honestly just thrilled you found something that moves you but try and get me to call a heart a spade, won’t happen. No matter how bitchy or stuffy it might make me seem. There is no such thing as Italian Champagne, no Anderson Valley Champagne and they sure as shit don’t have Champagne in Spain. Sparkling wines, hell yes, and some damn fine ones, but Champagne? No. Period. 

So the part that made it so freaking hard to keep the lid on this powder keg of fielding asshat “Oh C’mon it’s still Champagne” comments dome of mine, the fact that when each and every single one of those poking me with a stick folks hit number eight on the table, the one and only actual Champagne we were pouring, “This sparkling wine comes from Champagne”….getting a tiny charge out of watching the little hamster spin around on the wheel in those heads, is that they all stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide, chins dropped and mouth agape before asking me, “Why is this one so much better?!”….argh, because it is freaking grower Champagne! Dammit…

There are times for Oscar Mayer ham, times for Prosciutto and each of us might love one above the other, for whatever reason but the fact of the matter is, they aren’t the same. Just as hot dogs and sausage aren’t the same, Tom and Eric aren’t the same, Brie and Maytag Blue Cheese, while both cow’s milk cheeses have their own flavors, texture, nuances and personality, all sparkling wines are not the same…calling all of them by one name, as if it were a style is not only wrong, it’s unfair. Those willing to see each wine as individual, unique and pleasurable in its own way, well they are less likely to drive me batshit and way more likely to find enjoyment in each glass….for what it is, not what you assume it’s trying to be. 

Ugh…that feels better.