Maker's Table

Without Reservation

I met my mother for lunch recently at a restaurant in town. We don’t eat there often, maybe once or twice a year. It was the Friday just before Christmas, and town was bustling. Mom was waiting in the foyer when I arrived at a few minutes before noon.

Have you checked in with the hostess? I asked.

No, not yet, she said. I guess we should have made a reservation. She’d been listening to the hostess chatter with arriving customers. I took matters into hand.

Hi, I said, approaching the hostess station. Can you take two for lunch?

Do you have a reservation? she asked.

No, I’m afraid we don’t, I said. Can you fit us in?

Well, she stiffened, we do have some reservations on the books. But I think we might have room for two.

Great! I said, and we followed her into the nearly empty dining room. But she stopped abruptly and placed our menus at a two-top by the entrance, a small table sandwiched up against a chimney, with a doorway just behind it.

Any chance we might sit at the window? I asked, gesturing to one of the vacant deuces across the room.

No, that table’s reserved, she said.

Okay, I understand, I said, as we took our seats. It must be especially busy over the holidays, I thought, expecting the lunchtime hordes to descend at any minute.

Our waitress greeted us, then served us our tea. We ordered, our food arrived. A few other parties trickled into main dining room, though some were guided to an adjacent dining area where the sun was streaming in. A small party was wrapping up a private celebration in a room nearby. I heard the hostess asking guests as they arrived about their reservations, and the repeated might-have-room refrain.

Twelve-thirty. By now the place was about half full, with four other parties in the main dining room and perhaps six or eight elsewhere.

Twelve-fifty. Our plates were cleared. We ordered more tea, plus dessert. We ate and talked and finished our meal. One-fifteen. We asked for our tab. The place was clearing out.

Did you see what happened here? I asked my mother, nodding toward the empty table by the window, the one I’d requested when we arrived.

No, she said. What happened?

That table stood empty throughout service.

I hadn’t noticed, she said. She genuinely hadn’t.

That table wasn’t reserved, I said. That’s not why they wouldn’t seat us there.

Her face was a question.

They did probably 20 or 25 covers for lunch, and their capacity is about 60, I said, scanning around. So even if every other person who ate here today had made a reservation, the hostess knew she wouldn’t have trouble “fitting us in.”

Mom was listening intently. This seemed to be a new way of thinking about restaurant service.

It’s actually rare in a restaurant for a specific table to be reserved at lunch, I continued. But it’s not unheard of, so it was a believable line. This place doesn’t require reservations, though they clearly prefer them. Reservations are easier on the staff, easier on the kitchen. They make it easier to plan. But walk-ins are common at lunch, and so the kitchen and staff generally know they have to stay flexible.

So, she asked hesitantly, why wouldn’t they give us that table?

Or any other, I wondered aloud. There were plenty of nice tables that stood empty all service, and yet they seated us at the worst table in the house, I said, pointing to the blank space where my plate had been. I paused, thinking it through.

Two reasons, I said finally. First, we arrived early, and they wanted to keep that table open for someone more important than us, someone they recognized, someone who dines here a lot but who showed up without a reservation. But second—and far less charitably: to punish us. By not making a reservation, we’d violated an unspoken rule—a staff rule not a customer rule—that valorizes reservations. She put us here to shame us, to teach us a lesson: call ahead.

Mom looked stricken. I tried to soften my tone. 

The food was great! I conceded. Our server was fine. I could be making something out of nothing. Most people probably wouldn’t notice such treatment, or care. It’s a tic of mine, this noticing. I’m sorry.

We paid and got up to leave, pushing in our chairs and collecting our coats in the foyer. The staff smiled and waved us Happy Holidays! as we said our thanks and goodbyes.

Goodbye, I thought to myself, stepping into the light, goodbye, and happy holidays. But don’t think I didn’t notice.

 

Brachetto, Birthday

My birthday’s on the winter solstice, and it fell on a Wednesday this year. It was a normal, if very dark, work day. I didn’t want to cook my own birthday dinner, but our restaurant options are limited. I’d been dithering. By 3:30 pm, the sun was setting and it had begun to sleet. It was time to decide.

I emailed Steve at work. Let’s try that place on Main Street—the bistro side, not fine dining. No reservations needed, not too far to drive, no fuss. I’ll meet you there at 6:30.

The last time I’d dined there was over a decade ago, on a departing date with my ex-husband. Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t been back for dinner. Also unsurprisingly, the restaurant has new owners (two times over). Steve and I had recently attended a distributor’s wine tasting there. The snacks were good.

I arrived early. The bistro was bustling, fine dining not so much. I was seated and presented a menu and wine list. I opened the wine list first.

Birthday wine, birthday wine, let’s see. Sparkling? Decent Rieslings. Lots of Pinots, from all over creation. Not in the mood for Cabernet, because I’m not in the mood for what goes with Cabernet. Italy, maybe?

It was a small but solid list, with reasonable international coverage, good by the glass options, and many interesting labels. They’d evidently put some thought into the list rather than simply handing it over to a distributor. But it was arranged by variety, which makes for strange bedfellows and engenders odd hybrid categories, like, as here, “Riesling and Alsace” and “Unusual and Esoteric.” All the red vintages seemed wildly too young.

Steve arrived. Sorry I’m late.

That’s okay, I’ve been perusing the wine list. A few have caught my eye. Let’s see which ones catch yours.

Your birthday, he said. You choose.

The waiter arrived, a young man with pleasant eyes. I noted the smooth black sheen of his hair and the pale scar stitching the full length of his right cheek. Can I get you a beverage?

Yes, please, I said. We’ll start with the 2010 Tegernseerhof Grüner Veltliner Federspiel, though we’ll be having a red with dinner. What can you tell me about this one? I asked, pointing to the evidently Unusual and Esoteric 2009 Hilberg-Pasquero Vareij “Vino Rosso” from Piemonte.

I don’t know much about it, he said. I haven’t tried it, but lots of people order it. We sell a ton. Let me send over the man who knows about wine. Meanwhile, I’ll get your Grüner, he said, and was gone.

The man who knows about wine appeared. He was older than our waiter, most likely the staff captain. You’ve a very interesting wine list, I said.

Thanks, he said. We have many guests who know a lot about wine.

Great news, I said. So, the Vareij. What is this wine?

It’s very popular, he said.  

Uh, oh, I thought reflexively.

It’s biodynamic, he continued, which means that they grow the grapes according to the cycles of the moon, the stars. They use composts in the vineyard.

We nodded encouragingly, waiting to learn something.

It’s grown outside of the DOCG, he said, which is why it’s a “vino rosso.” He paused. I’m not sure what he expected to happen next.

So, I said, groping. It’s from Piemonte. Is it a Nebbiolo, or primarily so? Or is it a field blend of some kind?

Yes, I think it has some nebbiolo, he replied. It has a little bit of that anise flavor. He pronounced it “ah-NEECE.”

We’ll try it, I told him. Sounds fun, and probably good with the duck confit.

Definitely, he said. Shall I bring it so it can get some air?

Yes, I said. If it’s a Nebbiolo, it’ll likely need some.

The younger waiter returned with our Grüner. Did you order the Hilberg? He asked.

Yes, Steve said. And when it comes you should have a taste, because you sell so much of it, and it’s new to you.

Oh, no, I couldn’t have any of your wine, he said, shaking his head, evidently embarrassed. He set two small, restaurant-grade tasting glasses before us. I looked at Steve, and then glanced obliquely at the bar, over which much better glasses were hanging, the ones we’d used during the wine tasting last fall. Steve nodded almost imperceptibly.

I’m sorry to trouble you, I said to the waiter, but would it be possible to bring over two Bordeaux glasses? We like a bigger glass, so we can swirl the wine.

He seemed a little flustered by this, but gamely whisked away the small glasses and returned promptly, proudly setting two Burgundy glasses before us.

Oh! Thank you so much, I said. That’s very kind. But—these are Burgundy glasses, and they’re probably not quite right for this wine. I don’t mean to be high-maintenance, but do you have a couple of Bordeaux glasses available?

I was hoping the bartender could help him out, hence my repeated “Bordeaux.” Now he looked genuinely flummoxed.

Um, the glasses that look like this, I said, making a shape with my hands. 

The server pulled the stemware away somewhat hesitantly.

Now I was the one who was embarrassed. Why am I pushing this? I thought to myself. I’ve waited tables. I’ve walked way more than a mile in this young man’s shoes, back and forth between kitchens and dining rooms in restaurants up and down this valley. I know what it’s like to want to please a guest but to have no clue what she really wants.

To my great relief he returned in a few minutes with the correct glasses. He looked relieved, too.

He twisted the screwcap off the Grüner, then set the cap on the table. I was grateful he didn’t call attention to it, so that, given the foregoing, we didn’t have to engage in the obligatory no-we-don’t-think-any-less-of-a-wine-under-screwcap colloquy. He tentatively waved the bottle over each of our glasses, then angled it toward Steve. Would you like to taste the wine? he offered.

Sure, Steve said smiling, glancing up at me.

I smiled at them both, a genuine smile. The waiter poured the wine, then took our order. I think he was glad to be gone.

Steve and I clinked glasses. I made sure both servers were out of earshot. Uh, can you say server training? I intoned.

Seriously, Steve said.

I mean, these guys have created a thoughtful and food-friendly wine list, they have a clientele who loves wine—

And knows a lot about it, Steve added.

—and orders some of these wines by the gallon. One of which they’ve ghettoized under “esoteric,” by the way. Why don’t they have it by the glass if it’s so popular? And they’ve got exceptionally pleasant, helpful staff. These guys are great! But they know bupkis about the wines. It’s crazy. It’s also incredibly unfair.

To the customers? Steve asked.

To the staff, I countered. Every server should know about the wines, not just the captain. And every server can, with a small list like this. They should know what they taste like, how to describe them, how to pair them, how to serve them. Server training doesn’t have to be hard, or take a lot of time. They just need to taste the wines, and to talk about what they’re tasting—preferably with the kitchen staff.

We fell quiet as our server returned with our first course. We clinked again and ate gratefully, setting aside for now our benign philippic, our naive quixotic itch to fix the wine world.

Presently the captain returned with the Hilberg and two more Bordeaux glasses. He pulled the cork and set it at my place. I looked at it and nodded. He poured me a taste.

I lifted the glass and swirled, then sniffed. It was like tumbling headfirst into a Rosa rugosa in full bloom on a hot day in July, bees scattering.

Wow, I said. Roses-exclamation-point. This is Nebbiolo? I set down my glass, and nodded again to signal him to pour the wine for us both, but he attended me.

I took a sip. It was wildly floral, with low acidity, very little tannin, and perceptible residual sugar. It didn’t just smell like roses, it tasted like roses, too, with supple berry fruits and soft spring petals. The rose note was unremitting, even a bit cloying, like an old woman’s perfume, like a linen cupboard closed up since May, like soap. The wine wasn’t flawed, just strange. Wonderfully, puzzlingly, curiously strange.

Yes, I nodded again, smiling him on. He poured it for us both, then bowed away.

Steve took a taste.

Maybe some of this will blow off, I said. And what the heck is it, anyway? This ain’t no Nebbiolo. Maybe it has a little dolcetto? It tastes like strawberries in rose syrup.

We set it aside as we finished our primi. The main course arrived. We’d both ordered the duck confit. This was excellent: beautifully textured, with meltingly tender meat that pulled cleanly off the bone under a crisped fat skin. The chef had served it atop boiled potatoes and frisée salad with a Dijon vinaigrette, which posed a tart, cleansing counterpoint to the richness of the meat.

We sipped the red. It wasn’t a great pairing. Duck on a bed of rose petals. Duck in a garden. Duck dressed for Easter Sunday. Duck à la rose.

But I was haunted. What was this wine? I have a reasonably well developed taste memory, and can readily call to mind the distinct flavors of many foods and the scents of many herbs and flowers. I also have a good taste imagination. Both help my cooking, because they let me design a dish in my head and pre-flight it against my palate to see how the flavors might work together. But my experience with wine is more limited, and so my taste memory of wines is less astute. And my blind tasting skills are mostly limited to identifying the noble grapes, and then only when they’re vinified with great typicity—not over-ripe or over-extracted, not aged in too much new oak, not made in a New World style if it’s an Old World wine. The red in my glass was driving me crazy.

The older server came back. How is everything? he asked.

The duck’s great, Steve replied, and the wine’s really interesting. By the way, our server said he’d never tried it, and since you sell so much of it, we’d like to offer him a taste. Would that be okay?

The man nodded and swept away wordlessly. He soon returned with one of the smaller tasting glasses, poured about two ounces, and spirited it off to the bar.

I took another sip, my brain reaching to pull something off the shelf. Maybe it’s Ruchè? I ventured aloud. I’d tasted a Ruchè only once, and that was made from fruit grown in California, not Italy. But I’d recalled reading something at the time about rose petals.

Now I had to know. I reached for my iPhone. This is rude in a restaurant, but no more so than scant server training. I peered into my palm.

It’s not a Ruchè, I announced, only slightly crestfallen. It’s 60% brachetto and 40% barbera. Brachetto’s usually made into a sweet, fizzy red, Brachetto d’Acqui. It’s pretty rare, and the grape’s even more rarely made into a table wine like this. I suppose with more than 2,000 grape varieties in Italy, there’s no shame in not being able to nail the component parts of Piemontese “vino rosso” blind. And by the way he’s correct—it’s not a DOCG.

It probably can’t even be an IGT, Steve observed.

Right, I added, because it’s not exactly, you know—tipica.

Thanks for the taste, our server said, returning.

What’d you think? I asked.

It’s really big, kind of earthy. Tart. It has a lot of tannin, I think.

I nodded up at him encouragingly, thinking—really?

 

 

By the end of our meal we’d drunk a little less than half of each bottle, so we capped them and ported them home through the snow, along with the last bites of my duck confit.

The next day, we finished off the white as I made flatbreads with smoked tomatoes and basil and fresh mozzarella, plus the remaining confit scattered on top. We poured the red as we sat down to the meal. Time had not muted its floral charms, but weirdly, incredibly, surprisingly, it was an absolutely perfect pairing with the smoky, tomatoey, meaty flatbread. Maybe because the two were equal in intensity, hence equal partners on the palate. Or maybe because they shared a gustatory intention, a history, a geography, an origin—if distant.

One should always try something new on one’s birthday, I thought aloud.

 

Gouda, Plus Wine

"The older the cheese, the smaller the bite."

It's an old expression, less adage than dictum. Young, fresh cheeses have high water content, soft texture, and mild flavor. We spread them thickly, mashing fresh chèvre with herbs on a crusty loaf, layering buffala mozzerella with basil and tomatoes, topping grilled halloumi with chopped cucumbers and yogurt and mint. We take big bites, without regret.

But as a cheese ages, microbes and enzymes work on its proteins and fats, and the moisture in its body slowly evaporates through the rind, concentrating its flavors and hardening its texture. The cheese acquires a piquant intensity and a sometimes grainy texture—think Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano (grana means "grain" in Italian)—and it's now a cheese best enjoyed in thin shavings, grated into a flurry of flakes, or cut into narrow wedges that melt away on the tongue, leaving behind a nutty, umami, salty-savoryness.

A friend recently asked me what wines I might pair with aged Gouda. It's one of my favorite cheeses. Made from whole cow's milk, Gouda weighs in at 48% milk fat, and so is creamier than its Dutch confederate, Edam. In the US, it's generally available in two styles. The young cheese, aged from a few weeks to six months, is pale yellow with a mild, nutty flavor and springy texture. Aged Gouda—pronounced KHOW-dah in its native Holland—is aged two or more years, which endows it with a deep, golden-orange hue, pleasant gritty texture, caramel sweetness, and distinct saltiness. Its a cheese that can pair with range of wines, carrying it from the cocktail hour through a dessert cheese course. Here's what I told my friend.

The classic pairing recommendation for aged Gouda is full-bodied red, particularly French Bordeaux or Cabernet Franc. But I find that sharp or pungent cheeses can make red wine's tannins more pronounced, producing a metallic or bitter taste. So I think softer reds are a better match here, those with medium fruit and moderate tannin, yet enough backbone to hold their own against such a flavorful cheese.

Wines based on Grenache, Gamay, Barbera, and more restrained versions of Tempranillo or Zinfandel could work well. Try 2009 Ridge Zinfandel "Pagani Ranch" ($35), 2008 Azienda Agricola Scagliola Barbera "SanSì" ($40), or Scagliola's less expensive Barbera d'Asti, "Frem" ($21). I recently had an Austrian Blaufränkisch aged in neutral oak that would be great, too: 2008 Hillinger Blaufränkisch "Leithaberg" ($34).

Venturing into whites, look for those with savory notes of lanolin or beeswax, white flowers, and tropical or stone fruits, all of which pose an excellent counterpoint to the cheese's sweet-saltiness. Chardonnay, particularly a lightly oaked style, and wines based on Roussanne or Grenache Blanc have ample texture to partner on the palate. Try the restrained (for California) 2008 Jordan Chardonnay "Russian River Valley" ($32), a wine with lively acidity and a mouth-coating creaminess, plus a distinct waxiness perfect with this cheese. The Châteauneuf-du-Pape style blend 2004 Bonny Doon Vineyard Le Cigare Blanc ($30) is a silky wine with pear and honeysuckle notes and a distinct nuttiness. Its age and complexity make it an excellent cheese-course white.

Finally, I'd recommend off-dry Riesling and Scheurebe, because their acidity and tropical notes feel cleansing and fresh, while the slight sweetness partners with the caramel flavors of the cheese. Try 2009 Müller-Catoir Haardt Scheurebe ($29) or 2009 Prinz du Salm-Dalberg'sches Riesling Schloss Wallhausen ($18). The Scheurebe in particular has a salty, slatey backbone that would grit pleasingly against minerality of this cheese, while its guava, Asian pear, and tropical flavors freshen the tongue for more. 

A little sip, a little bite; no regrets.

 

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States of Grace

It is October, and so my vegetable garden is not in a state of grace. The tomato plants are, of the assembed, the most notably derelict, their once lush foliage now withered by wilt and canker, soaking and ruined in the gray rain. But the fruits persist, and will a bit longer, at least while this autumn wetness holds back the front of frost, postponing the plants' late demise.

I cannot eat canned tomatoes, because I cannot eat citric acid, and so I preserve my own tomatoes by stewing them and freezing. It's better this way, anyway. I pick and glean and wash the fruit:

...selecting the ripest ones for blanching. This loosens their skins, which split and rip in the roiling water. After, they enjoy a brief repose, to keep my fingers from scalding:

And then I slide the flesh free of its slippery skin, adding each tomato to the pot:

Whereupon they reduce, for an hour or so...

...and become not many but one: one pot of sauce for my winter braise or ragù, my soup or gratin, passing once again through a state of grace.

 

 

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SanSì

Azienda Agricola Scagliola
Barbera d'Asti Superiore "SanSì"
2008
14.5% ABV | Price: about $40

This wine is 100% barbera, and the grapes derive from the limestone and clay soils of the SanSì vineyard in Calosso. The color is deep orange garnet with a limpid rim. Aromas of fennel, smoke, plum, spice, black tar, and wild game rise from the glass, and the wine grips the palate with smooth, smoky-earthy tannin, sweet tobacco, and black fruits. The somewhat high level of alcohol in this otherwise old-worldish wine leaves a bit of burn in the middle of my tongue, but this apologetically tapers into a savory, succulent finish.

The winery notes that SanSì is named after the knightly San Siro. But there are in fact two Saints Syrus: one of Genoa—who concocted some miracles with boats—and the other of Pavia—who was somewhat more catholic in his saintly ministrations. Genoa is in Liguria, and Pavia is in Lombardia, and so neither saint hailed from Piemonte, sandwiched betwixt, whence this Barbera hails. So we'll just have to called it—and ourselves—blessed.

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Corse

Domaine de Granajolo
Corse Porto-Vecchio
2009
13% ABV | Price: about $14

André Boucher's Domaine de Granjolo comprises 20 hectares in the southern tip of Corsica. The granitic soils are farmed organically, and Boucher's daughter Gwenaele is the winemaker. This wine is 100% vermentinu (vermentino). 

Spritely aromas of bay leaf, sage, lemon, and citrus blossom rise to meet you. The wine has a smooth texture and succulent flavors of citrus and wild herbs, with a bitter cut that renders it cleansing and brightly refreshing. Lively, shimmering, and succulent, it would be a perfect mate for seafood, herb-roasted poultry, or fresh cheeses. Highly recommended.

 

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Zing

Twisted Oak
Grenache Blanc "Calaveras County"
2010
13.2% ABV | Price: about $24*

This wine is 94% grenache blanc and 6% viognier. Only a few dozen cases were made. It's a very pale, clear yellow, just this side of colorless. In the glass it yields subtle aromas of green apple, stone fruit, tangerine, fresh straw, and sweetgrass. But its predominant characteristic is its zingyness, its bracing acidity. This is a very juicy wine. I would call it "citrusy," but that's more its effect than its flavor.

Sharp and cleansing and sunshiny, and probably perfect with oysters—which are this evening, alas, in short supply.

 

*I received this wine in an exchange with the winery; I sent Jeff Stai a bottle of Bonny Doon Vineyard's Grenache Blanc; he sent me this bottle of Twisted Oak's.

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Pink and White

M. Chapoutier
Côtes-du-Rhône "Belleruche" Blanc
2009
13.5% ABV | Price: about $13*

Côtes-du-Rhône "Belleruche" Rosé
2010
13.5% ABV | Price: about $13*

A pair of wines from reputable Northern Rhône producer Michel Chapoutier, whose winery I visited in 2002 (see my article and notes).

The white is a blend primarily of grenache blanc, with clairette and bourboulenc. It has a very faint, appley nose, but considerable body and good mouthfeel, owing likely to the preponderance of grenache blanc in the blend. It's simple and clean, with a slight chalkiness, and as it warms, a little menthol woodsyness emerges, too.

The pink is primarily grenache, with cinsault and syrah. It's a pale salmon color, somewhat typical of Rhône rosés, and the nose is a bit earthy and stinky, but in a good way. On the palate it's a little peppery, likely from the grenache, with good acidity and that same mineral chalkiness of the white. But it has a little more edge, plus a pleasant heft and earthiness, and is my favorite of this tasting.

Neither is a serious wine, but they're capably made, and their stony, minerally chalkiness makes them good with fresh goat cheese. Best enjoyed young, which can be said, alas, of many things.

 

*I received these wines as press samples.

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Austrian

The venue: the quaint cellar room of the über-Victorian Norwich Inn, in Norwich, Vermont. The host: Rafael Flores, director of Artisanal Cellars, a boutique wine importer. The featured guest: Klaus Wittauer of KW Selection, an Austrian restaurateur turned wine exporter. The inn had laid out a spread of schnitzel with braised red cabbage, house-smoked salmon with crème fraiche, and delectable puff pastries with mustard sauce to accompany the nine lean, savory Austrian wines—from sekt to Riesling to Zweigelt—we had gathered to taste.

It was my first full Austrian immersion, and I found the wines on the whole exceptionally pleasant: low-alcohol, savory, mineral-intensive, cleansing, serious, and food-friendly. My tasting notes:

 

2010 Hillinger "Small Hill White"
12.0% ABV | Price: about $14
A blend of 70% Riesling, 20% Sauvignon blanc, and 10% Muskateller, the wine is a very pale, clear yellow. Quite aromatic (predominantly of Riesling), with a palate that offers good but not overwhelming acidity and stony minerality with an over-layer of stone fruits. It has a long, savory, slightly tart finish.

2009 Tegernseerhof Riesling "Terrassen"
12.5% ABV | Price: about $20
This riesling is grown in granitic soils, and the wine is made from the first harvest picking. It offers great minerality and a nose that is not exactly petrol; more like diesel, or steel pennies. It is an exceptionally dry and serious wine, and the aromatics are a haunting riddle to one more used to German Riesling.

2009 Anton Bauer Grüner Veltliner "Rosenberg"
12.5% ABV | Price: about $18
This vineyard has loess soils, and the wine is vinified in stainless steel and aged in concrete vessels. It offers lively tropical aromas, with some pineapple and a little oiliness. Bone dry and cleansing on the palate, it also has great weight and intensity. Recommended, and tied for best of tasting.

2008 Tegernseerhof Grüner Veltliner "Loibenberg"
13.0% ABV | Price: about $33
This wine hails from the largest single cru in the Wachau. The vineyard is south-facing, with some loess and granite soils, and the wine, Klaus informs me, is built for aging. This '08 is still a child, but it has great elegance and savoryness. I would love to try this vintage again in, say, 2018.

2009 Weingut Michlits Pinot Gris "Graupert"
13.0% ABV | Price: about $20
"Graupert" translates to "ungroomed," and refers to the wild, uncultivated vineyard in which this wine is grown. The winery is fully Biodynamic, and uses no trellising or pruning in the vineyard, but the vines have adapted to this hands-off approach, voluntarily producing low yields and small berry sizes. The wine is concentrated and focused, and—perhaps I'm just suggestible—"wild" tasting.

2009 Steininger Cabernet Sauvignon Sekt Rosé 
Méthode Champenoise; disgorged February '11
13.0% ABV | Price: about $28
Cab sekt? It sounds like the start of an off-color joke. But the wine is wonderful: wildly aromatic, with bright cranberry and currant fruits, and more cranberry on the palate, plus a great texture and smooth, even mouthfeel. Pricey, but a show-stopper; a wine I'd love to serve to wine-knowledgable friends, blind. I can imagine the smiles. Recommended.

2010 Hillinger Zweigelt 
13.5% ABV | Price: about $18
This unoaked Zweigelt offered a sharp, black pepper nose that reminded me a little of Grenache. But the palate was vegetal—more green pepper than black pepper—and a bit tannic. Lean and tight, it perhaps needed some air to unwind. Or another three years.

2007 Anton Bauer "Wagram Cuvée 13" 
13.0% ABV | Price: about $20
A blend of 40% Blaufränkisch, 35% Zweigelt, 15% Cabernet sauvignon, and 10% Merlot, the wine delivers subtle pepper notes and brilliant berry flavors, but is restrained and settled overall. Lovely and a good value at $20.

2008 Hillinger Blaufränkisch "Leithaberg" 
13.5% ABV | Price: about $34
Vinified like Pinot noir, but aged only in neutral oak; only 3,000 bottles were made. A beautiful nose of wild roses, with a palate of blueberry and purple flowers, plus great acidity and a lingering finish of sweet tobacco. Highly recommended, and tied for best of tasting.

 

"In Austria, we are wine growers, not wine makers," Klaus said to me, smiling, echoing a refrain I'd heard often when talking with German wine producers. In other words, make the wine that nature gives you, and thank your stars you can. 

 

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Hunting

Margan Family Winegrowers
Sémillon "Hunter Valley"
2009
12.5% ABV | Price: about $18*

These sémillon grapes were grown on 40 year old vines in Margan's volcanic "Fordwich Sill" vineyard in the Hunter Valley. The wine is pale gold with a greenish cast. Its nose is a little funky, a little stinky, like a barn or sweaty leather (but this wine saw no oak, so this is probably not Brett). It also smells of lemon oil and thyme, and on the palate it's bright and citrusy and a tad frizzante, which is pleasing. But it has a soft, hollow place in the middle where I expect the fruit to flower open, and it gives me a bitter bite just before sliding into an edgy, tart finish.

Maybe that bite is minerality from the volcanic soils. Maybe the wine is wildly too young. But mostly the wine just feels a tad unintegrated, all elbows and knees. It's hard to write about, but—there you are.

 

*I received this wine as a press sample.

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