How is it possible that this 1981 Château Latour was better than the last bottle of 1982 I had?  For anyone who knows me, the answer is predictably simple: provenance.  Without even jumping into the sticky dilemma that is counterfeit wine (the slippery slope that quickly leads to the vast over-simplification of a much larger problem), after nearly three decades in a bottle, simple storage and exposure to the elements is more than enough.  Entrust a stranger in a van with a pristine bottle that has been stored under ideal circumstances for thirty years and see what happens.  What mine eyes have seen, behind-the-scenes over decades past, is ample fodder for a Cellar Confidential book franchise.

The ’81 vintage, while elegant and sophisticated today, was entirely overshadowed by her little sister—and Parker’s first darling ‘vintage of the century’—’82, and then once again by her even younger slightly more sinister sister, ’83, the naughtiest of the three.  As Matthew Wilson suggested, ’81 is more about Latour; ’82 is about the vintage.  And, yes—in the interest of full disclosure—I have had better ‘82s and ‘83s than I have ‘81s.  But it so happens that the last bottle of ’82 Latour I had—which was purchased from a venerated auction house, in ‘original wooden case’—was cooked.  The proud new owner didn’t know the difference, and I was decidedly conflicted about telling him, but it was my duty.  Fear overtook his eyes as they instantly darted back toward his cellar, the door obstructed by overflowing boxes from his latest purchases.  Conversely, this recent bottle of ’81 had been stored under ideal cellaring circumstances since its release.  Hence, my mantra: provenance.

Parker, along with a willing and conscious consortium of retailers and producers used this very ’82 vintage to simplify wine purchasing decisions and shift the consumers’ attention to individual wine scores and vintage charts—both of which lived conveniently under his dominion.  Oh yes, and he sold a bunch of magazines, building one of the most formidable, lasting brands in the history of the wine industry.  Well, countless ‘vintages of the century’ later and after innumerable revisions to the ubiquitous vintage chart, the American consumers’ co-dependency is finally dwindling.  But, it’s always astounding to me that, even today, intelligent humans who spend millions of dollars on wine are reliant upon one man’s anointment.  Grown men—many of them captains of industry, who are fiercely opinionated and confident in most matters—are reluctant to buy certain vintages because Parker said not to.

When one concentrates on consistent producers and wines that have been stored flawlessly with an unbroken chain of custody, vintage becomes a lot less relevant.  Of course, certain years are abysmal—many of which should be avoided—but one shouldn’t damn a vintage because he’s trying to sell the next.  As an example, I have had the great fortune of tasting consistently from the Mähler-Besse cellar—the most important collection of Bordeaux in the world, which dates back to 1892.  I can assure you that you won’t find a better expression of any given vintage on earth; and their ‘off-vintages’ taste better than most ‘blockbusters,’ so you can image what an ‘82 might taste like from their cellar.  But the trick, of course, is what happens to the bottle after it leaves the safety of a cellar like this.  Three decades in a bottle, under pristine storage conditions, can be ruined in twenty minutes in the trunk of someone’s car.

I had the pleasure of opening this bottle of ’81 Latour with a friend whose collection is vast and very intelligently built—he knows what he likes and buys a lot of it.  But, given the vintage, he was convinced that this bottle, from one of the most hallowed houses in all of France, was going to be ‘less than stellar’ in his words.  I had the advantage of having tasted another bottle from the very same original wooden case (a sibling, if you will), and I already assumed it to be great.  Bottle variation does occur, but I was very confident.  Upon opening the bottle, I knew that we were safe and as I poured his glass, releasing the bouquet, his eyes lit-up.

The Château Latour 1981 posed elegant aromas of mature black fruit, wet leaves, dank earth, tobacco and distinct mint, with an underbelly of intense ripe fruit; in time, more herbaceous notes and spiced nuances developed.  The palate, while advanced, delivered layers of smoky earth, elegant black fruit, ripe figs, dried figs and a distinct nuttiness.  The finish could have been longer and fuller, but this was truly a lovely wine.  Not to be paired with big flavored foods and meant to be drunk sooner than later; moreover, had this particular bottle sat on a liquor store shelf, for the last decade or two, it would have been an entirely different experience.  Yet another reminder that a great wine is only as good as its history.

Signet is anything but traditional—in fact, no one else is doing anything like it.  Given the package—more Cognac than Scotch—and what I had already heard about this offering, I was not sure what to expect.  I do like wood, by the way; everything has its place.  The Sherry cask has taken whisky to unrivaled heights—I recently had the Bowmore ‘64 Oloroso Sherry Cask, which was truly sublime—and what Glenmorangie has already done with Sauternes is admirable, to say the least.  But, this was a whole different animal.  Just as Glenmorangie’s Dr. Bill Lumsden was seeking out the best of Jerez a quarter-century ago, he is trail-blazing once again.

Mr. Skipworth—a man of unbending eloquence—speaks with a controlled passion about his whisky, and the rare, storied history of Glenmorangie. I haste to attempt replicating his myriad tales of, but they date back to 297 AD when the indigenous people—whom the Romans called Picts, or Painted People—cultivated their very barley fields.  In fact, The Cadboll Stone—an 8th century carving of the Picts—was unearthed on the Glenmorangie grounds.  If you get the chance to meet this man, make sure to allow for ample time; he is a wealth of knowledge.

When Lucas inquired about the ideal tasting methodology for Signet, Mr. Skipworth began speaking of ice spheres, like those found in Tokyo.  Lucas excused himself and returned moments later with stem-less Riedel Montrachet glasses, each containing perfect spheres.  The nose was immediately singular, revealing distinctive aromas of caramel, chocolate, orange peel and mocha; with time, additional aromas of honey, spice, Sherry and subtle brine develop.  The palate is as dark and brooding as its color, with unctuous layers of chocolate, tobacco, spice and a racy underbelly of Sherry and rum-like quality.  The finish is long and intriguing, with a sweet nuttiness, great structure and impeccable balance.

The vast complexities partially result from the portions of decades-old whisky going back to the ‘71 and ’72 vintages, among others, which have been in cask since.  But the majority of its uniqueness comes from higher temperature process; their selection of barley; a blend of chocolate malt and malted barley varieties most commonly used in brewing beer; their trademark stills, which are relatively taller; and new oak barrels made from hand chosen north-facing trees in the Ozarks, which are discarded after their second use.  This is definitely something that every whisky lover should try; and a product that might help nurture new-comers to the category.  A fine gateway, indeed.



WhistlePig Rye
Last Thursday night, I had the pleasure of tasting one of the most exciting (new-release) whiskeys that I’ve had in the past several years.  And, I have the great fortune of tasting a lot of whiskey above and beyond the pre-Prohibition treasures.  Founded earlier this year, WhistlePig Whiskey is the brainchild of Master Distiller Dave Pickerell—a fourteen-year Maker’s Mark veteran, whom I hadn’t seen in many years—and proprietor, Raj Peter Bhakta.

Located on a former dairy farm in Shoreham, Vermont, WhistlePig Farm Distillery’s first release is a Straight Rye Whiskey—a 100 proof, 100 percent rye—which is aged for no less than ten years.  Pickerell, of course, has additional plans; but we won’t be hearing about them for a while.  What they are talking about is their mission to produce organic rye on the WhistlePig Farm, in Vermont’s Champlain Valley, and distill their whiskey onsite.

Pickerell, who knows a thing or two about whiskey, worked incessantly to achieve the perfect balance between proof, percent, and age.  Frankly, that balance is like nothing I’ve seen in such a young whiskey.  Being a lover of proof—Stagg is about perfect for breakfast, in my world—I would like to see what happens when he bumps it up a few notches, in order to release some additional innate congeners. But if there is a man who can find the sweet-spot to express proof, percent and age—along with my additional observation of terroir, it would be Pickerell.

The first tranche of 1,000 cases will have a very limited release in New York, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles—which brings us to an interesting side-story.  Mr. Pickerell, who had arrived hours before, confessed that he was practically dragged to LA, kicking and screaming, by Alex Stuempfig of Domaine Select.  After visiting the market for nearly fifteen years with Maker’s, he thought that he’d seen all that he needed to.  [This, coupled with the fact that the New York-based booze media goes so far out of its way to not mention LA (see post-Tales coverage, in which they mention cities like Pittsburg and Austin while, with conspicuous flagrancy, fail to mention LA or its players.  Forget about guys like Eric Alperin, Lucas Paya and Julian Cox—who’s never lost a competition, having bested everyone in his path from every city in the US (including New York and San Francisco), or bars like La Descarga (which sells more premium rum than anyone in the US) and Las Perlas (the first Mezcal bar in the US)].

‘But Stuempfig was relentless like some kind of rabid animal’ explained Pickerell in a gentile drawl that thinly veils an underlying danger.  And, it’s a good thing he was—Dave was completely floored by what he had seen in a handful of hours, in which he visited the Varnish, Seven Grand, the Edison, Rivera and alike.  I had the pleasure of tasting it first at Rivera with Julian and his crew.  Then, we went on to Seven Grand, which boasts three-hundred whiskies—the largest collection west of the Mississippi—and the biggest rye selection in the United States, where Alex had summoned an impressive selection of LA’s finest barmen.  It was there where I tasted what I had been dreaming about since tasting the raw distillate—an Old Fashioned—and it was worth the wait.  Glorious.  Simply, the perfect cocktail.

This rye whiskey offers perfect continuity, from nose to palate and start to finish.  It is uncomplicated while perplexingly complex, with anise, clove, balanced caramel and elegant barrel nuances.  After spending about fifteen minutes enraptured in the raw spirit, Dave had us put in a few drops of water at which point the distillate immediately exploded with rye, honey, flowers, nuttiness, faint brine and subtle Sherry character.  I cannot wait to get my first bottle; Forrest, you’d better put some aside for me.  There’s only one problem that I can see: the first batch is a mere 1,000 cases.  This is going to go fast; get it while you can.

]]> http://bonsavant.com/2010/08/426/feed/ 2 http://bonsavant.com/2010/07/la-verdad-ron-cooper/ http://bonsavant.com/2010/07/la-verdad-ron-cooper/#comments Sun, 25 Jul 2010 05:14:17 +0000 Wyatt Peabody http://bonsavant.com/?p=420
With all the depraved Tales madness erupting, as evidenced by erratic, incomprehensible text messages streaming in from New Orleans, around the clock—I wanted to address something.  As has been the case for the past few years, now—particularly at events like these—the word of the day is, Mezcal.  For those who have been following this spirits category—in terms of explosive growth, from an industry standpoint—or dedicating themselves to the preservation of indigenous culture, one man stands in the middle of both labyrinths.  He is the eight-hundred-pound guerilla—this is his wilderness.  To ignore him is perilous, to affront him is absurd.  He has truth on his side.

Decades ago, Ron Cooper single-handedly architected Mezcal’s revival.  His unbending integrity and authenticity drew great people around him, organically; and those people continue to empower him.  His supporters—many of them among the most influential in matters of gastronomy—have never been driven by marketing budgets, nor multi-national corporate might but, rather, by the purity of Cooper’s quest.  Conversely, he has paid his partners in Oaxaca premium dollars, far above market demand, since the inception of Del Maguey, long before ‘fair-trade’ was a trend.  He was pre-green, pre-organic and he has built micro-economies in multiple villages throughout Oaxaca for more than fifteen years.  He is the embodiment of truth, la verdad.

As recently as a few months ago, the Bricia-Effect was born—a grassroots movement, resulting from one barman’s love for Del Maguey’s Mezcal Vida.  It was widely known that this product, in spite of being the most important addition to the Mezcal category in several years, would have no marketing dollars, ambassadors, nor payola to burn.  Thus, a new cocktail revolution was christened in honor of Bricia Lopez, a staunch proponent of Oaxacan culture and an integral figure in the gastronomic culture of Los Angeles.  “Bricia” cocktails began popping up all over the country—some are even rumored to have surfaced in London—and its original author was never compensated a dime.  When asked, he humbly responded: ‘it was the least that he could do for two people so great.’  How often does that happen?

For some of us, what Del Maguey represents transcends the booze business, entirely—it’s about protecting an ancient ritual that pre-dates the Spanish conquest.  Though you’ll hear a distinctly different, and inaccurate, tune up in Jalisco (unless you ask any of the remaining great makers).  Mezcal is the sacred physical incarnation of a fragile culture’s soul.  A spirit that has yet to be desecrated—in the name of progress and bottom line—as we’ve seen all over the world.  Each of Del Maguey’s villages—Chichicapa, San Luis del Rio, Santo Domingo Albarradas, Santa Catarina Minas, and a few others—are making their distillates exactly as they have for generations.  In the case of Santa Catarina Minas, it’s with a bamboo and ceramic still that was likely brought over decades before Columbus stomped American soil.

The second word of the day, of late, seems to be pueblo—used interchangeably with ‘village.’  If you have the great fortune of visiting the palenques of Del Maguey, you will experience true Single Village Mezcal production.  Santiago Matatlán and Tlacolula are not pueblos, nor villages.  Tlacolula is actually the county seat and home to the largest market in the region.  ‘Village’ means dirt floors, clean air and the absence of asphalt.  Frankly, it is glorious that all of these new brands have flooded the category—some of them well-made distillates—and it’s a sign that our culture is finally evolving.  But, it needs to be said here (because you won’t hear it elsewhere) that there is only one product commercially available in the United States which is a genuine, small-village, artisanal, farmer-produced Mezcal.  And, it is Del Maguey–and, by extension, Sombra.  These distillates are completely organic and unblended—the only yeasts present are those of airborne microbes, there has never been a single additive in any of the villages.  Del Maguey represents the mother of all agave-based distillates.  Same as it ever was.

Don’t take it from me—do a blind tasting of every artisanal, village Mezcal (and those purporting to be) commercially available in the US.  Not only will each Del Maguey Single Village Mezcal distinctly reflect its place of origin—its very dirt, soul and hand of the maker but it will reveal all others to be cheap imitations.  The Mezcals of Del Maguey are among the purest, most beautiful distillates on earth and, as of yet, they are entirely incomparable.

Del Maguey is truth.  Esto es la verdad.

An amazing evening of Del Maguey Single Village Mezcal at Pancha’s in Yountville, CA.

After a few decades of making Margaritas myself, the recipe is fairly simple and fool-proof.  Start with a great base-spirit—I use el Tesoro, Siete Leguas and, over the past few years, Tequila Ocho.  Sadly, Herradura and Gran Centenario no longer have a place in my bar (with the exception of a few rogue cases left over from the 70s and 80s, smuggled into the country over the years.  The second prerequisite, of course, is fresh squeezed juice (no exceptions).

Margarita

2 oz.       Tequila Blanco

½ oz.      Cointreau (Controy is also great), Grand-Marnier is chingón-deluxe

½ oz.      Agave nectar

1 oz.       Fresh-squeezed lime juice

Dash      Fresh-squeezed orange juice

Dash      Fresh-squeezed lemon juice

Pour first eight ingredients in a tin-on-tin mixing glass with ice, shake and strain into a rocks glass with fresh ice.  Garnish with a thin-sliced lime wheel.  If you must salt the cocktail, gently roll one side of the lime-juiced glass in salt (make sure none gets in the drink).

]]> http://bonsavant.com/2010/05/381/feed/ 0 http://bonsavant.com/2010/05/qa-with-ted-haigh-origins-of-the-margarita/ http://bonsavant.com/2010/05/qa-with-ted-haigh-origins-of-the-margarita/#comments Tue, 25 May 2010 20:53:11 +0000 Wyatt Peabody http://bonsavant.com/?p=328

I had the great pleasure of sitting down with LA’s own Ted Haigh–one of the world’s leading cocktail historians.  Our topic for the day: the Margarita–one of the most popular cocktails on earth.

Q&A with Ted Haigh
Origins: the Margarita

WP: as we know—the Margarita has more colorful purported originators than perhaps any other cocktail in history?  What’s your favorite story as to the true origins of the Margarita?

TH: my favorite story and the one I believe to be true are two entirely different things.  My favorite version is probably that of Santos Cruz, the head bartender at the historic Balinese Room in Galveston, Texas—who created the drink for Peggy (Margaret) Lee in 1948.  But that’s only because I actually met him—in his nineties at the time—he was very soft-spoken and a perfect gentlemen.  I know that a lot of people met Margarita Sames, as well.

WP: Margaret (Margarita) Sames, being the woman who supposedly created the drink at her home in Acapulco, Mexico, 1948.

TH: yes—during a Christmas party for guests, Nick Hilton (founder of the Hilton Hotel chain), Joseph Drown (owner of the Hotel Bel-Air), Shelton McHenry (owner of the Tail O’The Cock, in LA).  And, friends who included Lana Turner and John Wayne who, of course went on to help evangelize the drink.

WP: how did the recipes of Cruz and Sames compare?

TH: Cruz called for equal portions tequila blanco, Cointreau and lime juice (modeled after the Sidecar).   Sames was one part Cointreau, two parts tequila, one part lime (with a salt rim).

WP: so what do you believe to be true?

TH: that the original drink which would become the Margarita—the Picador—was invented in England around 1936, more than a decade earlier.  The book which featured it—WJ Tarling’s the Café Royal Cocktail Book—was actually published in 1937. The Picador calls for ¼ fresh lime (or lemon) juice, ¼ Cointreau, ½ tequila—shaken.   This is the basic Margarita recipe.

WP: in other words, the most famous agave-based cocktail in history was actually created in the UK—how were they even getting tequila?

TH: tequila seemed to get a bigger foothold in the UK than it did in the US—faster and earlier, that is.  You began seeing tequila cocktails there long before they took hold in America.  Hell, there were more than a dozen in Tarling’s 1937 book, alone.

WP: is it any surprise then that the serious bartenders in England, Scotland and Ireland are all going mad over mezcal—and have been for many years?

TH: No—they’re smart.  Just as they were in the 1930s.

WP: I’ve heard conflicting stories—does cocktail historian David Wondrich have a different opinion about this?

TD: He wants to trace it back through its whole family line—and I do too.  I’m just saying that the Picador is the first appearance of this Mexican drink; and that it’s really the first Margarita.  Now, we can mention the Sidecar as being the daddy of the Margarita and, as Wondrich would say, the Brandy Daisy as its granddad, or (as I say) the Brandy Crusta as its granddad.  We might actually even be able to come together on the matter if we presume that the Brandy Daisy came out before the Brandy Crusta—then maybe the Brandy Crusta was a variation of the Brandy Daisy. To me, the lineage to the Daisy is a little bit more tenuous; but to the Crusta it’s easy—I mean, you can draw a graph.

WP: is it possible that there was a Margarita zeitgeist?  I mean, it’s hard to imagine that people weren’t mixing tequila, lime and Curaçao before and certainly during Prohibition in Tijuana, for example.

TH: ah, here we are in Caesar salad territory.  That’s my point exactly—Tarling is among the people who could have afforded to actually fly on airplanes, as were the jet-setters of the day who bounced from LA to TJ to the UK.  For all we know, it was an American bartender (living in England) who created the drink.  What I find suspect is the people who claim to have invented it; but that might not be accurate either because things tend to happen when they’re ready to happen—technologically, sociologically.

WP: but given tequila (the national spirit of Mexico), lime (their traditional fruit) and the addition of a simple sweetening agent, can’t we assume that said recipe was concocted in or near Mexico?

TH: it’s at the sweetening agent where your argument starts to fall apart.  Take, for example, the Daiquiri—every single ingredient was intrinsically Cuban.  In the case of the Margarita, rationalizing begins at the Cointreau—sure, there were stars and jet-setters that could’ve brought it, but there is an absence of hard logic.

WP: So, all doubt begins with Cointreau?

TH: well, some used triple sec.  It should be noted that Cointreau originally was a triple sec and that all subsequent triple secs were imitations of Cointreau.  That is certain.  Mexico then created a product called Controy—which tastes less like Cointreau and more like a good orange Curaçao, ironically.  But either way, this concoction was sort of a celebration of an American’s nicely filtered version of that culture.  Thereafter, the Margarita was a very Anglo drink—hardly indigenous—whether English or southern Californian.

WP: so, who really invented the Margarita?

TH: nobody will ever know.

WP: how do you like yours?

TH: think Santos Cruz: equal parts blanco tequila, Cointreau and fresh lime juice.

*For a similar piece, as featured in an online exclusive for Los Angeles  Times Magazine, click here.

How many times have we had Pisco Sours–and how many poor executions have we endured?  Properly made, this cocktail should transport you to a strange and fantastic place, familiar and entirely unknown.  I have worked hard to duplicate the best Pisco Sour I’ve had, with the luxury of lessons from its maker, Lucas Paya, at the Bazaar in the SLS Hotel, Beverly Hills.  I have consistently failed to achieve his level of execution; but guest tend to spend the night after I begin making them.

Pisco Sour
-In a pint glass
-2 oz Pisco 100
-3/8 oz lemon juice
-3/8 oz lime juice
-¾ oz simple syrup
-1 fresh egg white
dry shake to emulsify whites
add ice and cold shake
strain into cocktail glass
top quick line of Angostura bitters (3 drops) and create zig-zag or star pattern

For great video content of Lucas making his famed Pisco Sour, from Los Angeles Times Magazine, click here.

Last night, I saw the best thing ever aired on the Food Network—something I’ve lost nearly all taste for.

It was from Season 7, Episode 01 – “Sturgeon” was the secret ingredient.
Iron Chef Michael Symon Vs. Chef David Adjey
Judges: Andrew Knowlton, John Curtas, Steve Olson.

John Curtas was as consummately negative and damning, as Olson was complimentary and empowering toward the cooks.  It was a reverse doppelganger, of sorts; Olson, of course, has dedicated his life to the noble preservation of gastronomic culture and expertise.  The other guy is apparently ‘eating Las Vegas’—the very thought of which inspires anxiety and nausea deep within me.  After Curtas heavily critiqued one of Symon’s dishes, Olson respectfully (while completely) disagreed with him—calling upon his professional ethos.  To which Symon responded something to the effect of: “I’m going to trust the guy with the world famous palate” (Olson).  I laughed so hard that my eyes hurt.

While deeply entertaining—it was also a victory. What Symon really meant was—I’m going to trust the guy who has turned a room three times on a Saturday night, opened some of the most celebrated restaurants in the country and educated the very stewards of our collective culture (who happens to have a supernatural, Zarathustra-like palate).  Respectfully, we should leave it to the experts.

p.s. If you haven’t seen Ron Cooper on Anthony Bourdain yet—it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen on the Travel Chanel.