LENNDEVOURS

Wine Chick Wendesday: The Return of a Native

Surely, you’ve heard the expression ‘You can take the girl out of Long Island, but you can’t take Long Island out of the girl'?

Plead ignorance on that if you must, but it is a truism if ever there was one. Along with enhancing my innate predilection for strip malls, spandex and merging ‘ing’s with the next vowel, returning home to the Mother Land (or “Muthuh”, if you’re a local) allows me to romp among the fields of plenty.

I’m actually un/fortunate enough to hail from the East End of Long Island. Fortunate because I remember being able to walk my dogs for three miles and seeing a handful of cars, unfortunate because that’s so far gone that I can’t turn out of my dad’s driveway on Main Road in Aquebogue without hitting a back-up of traffic.

Anys, I returned to the native land this weekend to visit Big Pop, who’d recently had a major surgery, and my brother, who is planning his triumphant return to Japan. Throw in a dash of ‘boyfriend-meeting-the-fams’ action into the mix and you got yourself a smoothie chock full o’ nutritious dysfunction. 

We arrived in Aquebogue during the late afternoon and my father was remarkably up and ambulatory. I prepared Paul well in advance and armed him with plenty of mental-padding: Do not be surprised if you find a bird landing on your shoulder/ goat eating your cuffs/ ferret crawling up your pant-leg. Sure, he was a bit scared, but that was part of the adventure. Things were remarkably calm when we arrived, save Ophelia, the manic Chocolate Lab who has an urgent need to makeover anyone and everyone with the exact shade of mud she’s sporting. Generous, she is.

We kicked around a bit and swapped stories from back in the day, including “Hey, remember when the cop woke dad up on the front lawn, thinking he was dead and that Seamus (our goat) was eating him?” Which naturally segues into who/what Seamus was, why we had him, and how he came to his untimely end. Which – naturally – segues into Paul looking anxiously towards the door and wondering when, dear God, he can escape…

Thankfully, there is booze growing all around us. We decided to pop out for a bit and visit some wineries. This was admittedly an evil plot to impress my underwhelmed boy, so I dragged him to Pellegrini and Paumanok, my two stand-bys when traipsing about out east.

Wine Chick Wednesday: I'm in a New York State of Disconnect

We New Yorkers are a weird bunch.

To start, we can’t even agree on what being a New Yorker means. A former NYC resident myself, I always found it beyond comical that NY1 would devote an entire 60 seconds to the “World Beyond New York” – be it Long Island, Louisiana or Lithuania, it was all the same upon exit from the five boroughs. Is that, then, the true New York?

Not likely. Despite the heavy tax-base and votership in that small speck of real estate, the rest of the state ends up feeling neglected and overlooked. For example, when I first moved to New YorkCity, I was astounded to see how few wine shops and restaurants carried Long Island wines.

Not much had changed when I found myself working in such a shop five years later; the owners swore the wines would never sell because no one knew them or trusted them. Sadly, such proclamations were more often true than not and it was only the daring customer who would take my Long Island recommendations. I found it surreal that consumers would trust wines hailing from entirely different hemispheres over those from their geographical backyard.

This question of New York viniferal loyalty was further compounded by my move to Buffalo.

Sure, I’m from Long Island, but I’ve lived in both NYC and the Hudson Valley (I skipped the Finger Lakes, but give me time...). I almost innately found myself turning my nose up at local wines without ever having tried them. “They’re from Lockport..." I'd sigh. "How good can they be?"

While I’m certainly not writing this to boast one area over another, I’ve come to find it quite curious that we don’t band together more as an entire state. We’ve got an uphill battle here, folks. California is out-fruit-bombing us, France is out-prestiging us, South American is under-pricing us, and Italy is out-experimenting us.

New York, my fellow/femellow (which, by the way, is the new moniker attached to cool chicks like myself) bloggers can testify, produces fantastic wines when the winemakers do not attempt to coerce them into being something they’re not. It damn near breaks my heart every time I taste an overly oaked NY Chardonnay. Why is this happening?!

Wine Chick Wednesday: Sour Grapes

By Jamie Gabrini, Special Columnist

I’m sick of wine.

I don’t quite know how this happened, but it’s true. At some point during the past year, I lost interest in wine and – quite frankly – don’t give a fig anymore. Or at least at the moment.

I certainly have not been in wine all that long. I think it’s been five years now since I decided that Chateauneuf-du-Pape was heaven in a glass and that I simply could not live another day unless I worked in wine.

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe my ego would not permit me to linger in the ‘wine lover’ margins; I’d grown to lament feeling like an ignorant git when I’d go into a local wine shop and not know what 80% of the wines were. French wines – despite my linguistic background – remained a complete mystery beyond knowing what ‘rouge’ and ‘blanc’ meant. Germans were thankfully not a concern as I never was a fan of riesling, even though I didn’t even know what that meant at the time. Chiantis were easy enough to know, as were Riojas, but beyond that, I didn’t even attempt to remember all of the intricacies of European wines. Like many before and since, I determined that the best and most serious wines were BIG REDS and wanted to learn more from there.

Enter my tenure at Chambers Street. I distinctly remember nearly spitting out my five-dollar-Tribeca-bought chai tea in horror when a colleague professed her love of Beaujolais. This moment should’ve been immediately followed by a healthy serving of humble pie (which, if bought in the neighborhood, would have no doubt been handcrafted with artisanal humility and set me back a ten spot) as it dawned on me that she was not alone. At Chambers Street, I was able to enter the hallowed halls of wine knowledge, and now, I’m not so sure if that’s a good thing.

Picture, if you will, a wine store. Most people have an idea of what they like in general – merlot or pinot grigio, for example – and they’re content to buy within their comfort zone, or to work with a wine-savvy worker to discover something new. I go in and I’ll know just about every wine on the racks or – in better shops – I’ll at least have a good handle on the region/grape and can take a stab at how the vintage was and how it’s holding up. I’ve even gotten to the point where I’ve tasted at a vertical at an unknown Canadian winery and plucked out the rainy vintages without hesitation. Sure, it’s a cool parlor trick, but does anyone really need to be able to do this?

I suppose the major reason I’m feeling so jaded is that the mystery has gone out of wine for me. I miss sipping one of those big reds and enjoying the rich sensuality filling my mouth and the tinges of heady intoxication setting in. Instead, I’ll scan a wine list, knowing damn well that I’ll be underwhelmed by just about anything on there, but I’ll order a glass anyway and search like hell to find anything other than toasty vanilla/cherry cola/smoky chocolate notes in there. And those notes won’t be there. And it’ll be too warm anyway. But I’ll drink it anyway since I’m paying far more than it cost and call it a night. It’s worse when I’m out with non-wine people because it’ll be assumed that I can get the best wine in the world for them. Not having created the wine list, I don’t want the responsibility of having to find that unicorn, nor do I want to pretend to really like something that is crap just so that I don’t appear to be the jaded snob that I am.

Give me a bourbon. And let’s hope this bitchy bout of bitter passes before I find myself unemployed. (But make it a Hudson Baby Bourbon… because apparently, this snobbishness is deeply engrained…)

Wine Chick Wednesday: The Happy Schnooker

By Jamie Gabrini, Special Columnist

If my car (named Nicole, by the way) could talk, she’d curse like a drunken sailor.

Poor Nic has been the victim of my schnooker lifestyle. She’s taken me across this grand state of ours many times over, often for little reward. She’s listened to enough NPR political analyses to allow her to be a pundit; she’s heard me rant and rave at uber-high speed on my cell phone; she’s put up with all the top-of-the lungs incarnations of “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and other such gems (myself and I, we got some figuring out to do…). In short, my poor Nicole has far more tolerance and physical stamina than I do, but I can’t imagine she likes me very much.

Schnookin’ for a living is tough work. It may seem all carefree and even glamorous, but trust me – it’s far from it. I’ve had countless people comment “That sounds so fun! You get to travel and drink wine!” Riiiiiiight. If by ‘travel’, you mean going to Syracuse or Brockport with disturbing regularity, then sure – it’s chock full o’ travel. And if by ‘drink wine’ you mean finishing of the dregs of a sample bottle that’s been open too long – yep, there’s that reward as well.

So let’s take a moment to follow me, Jay the Wine Chick, on a typical day as a schnook, shall we?

Imagine if you will a nameless small city in upstate New York...

Wine Chick Wednesday: Come On. Get Happy!

Happiness is a tricky thing. It’s quite the elusive noun because it’s not tangible, like a xylophone. It’s not visible, like a shadow.

You can’t even hear it, like a Carpenter’s song. (And I’ve only just begun.)

Although we certainly know when we’re unhappy, happiness can sometimes just ease in and ease back out. Sure, a big ol’ dose of it can be caused by your recent Anthropology spree/Himalayan trek/supafly booty call, but often we just coast along, somewhat dis/content and try to grasp at that greased pig we call happiness.

Thankfully, there’s Happy Hour.

I don’t know what genius first created cheap drinks immediately after work, but I for one would like to give him a big ol’ smooch. (And yes, I’m certain it was a man. A chick would’ve done… oh, I don’t know… cheap pedicures or something. I anxiously await the merging of the two. Someone, get on that.) What better way to cause a big jump in happiness than getting your tipsy on after leaving the bossman?

Shango Bistro & Wine Bar here in Buffalo is the closest thing I’ve found to nirvana. (Being an atheist, that’s a big leap of faith that I don’t have, but I digress.) Conveniently located across of the south campus of the University of Buffalo, Shango wisely serves no hard liquor, thereby sparing themselves of hiring a bouncer to cast off young’uns looking for Jell-o shots (another near-intangible noun if ever there was…) But beer and wine? Done and done.

Owners Jim Guarino and Marla Crouse are both fantastic at what they do. Jim mans the kitchen and dishes out some tasty New Orleans-inspired fare while Marla sips her way to the perfect wine list. Jim’s menu includes catfish po' boys, Creole bouillabaisse, homemade mac-n-cheese, and the infamous bananas foster. He’s also a beer enthusiast, which is confirmed by Shango’s impressive beer list. Marla has made it her modus operandi to seek out interesting wines from lesser-known areas, and I’m pleased to report that she has both Scheurebe AND a biodynamic Gamay by the glass. Swoon. That they are newly wedded to each other solidifies their status as the epicurial power couple of western New York.

Twisted Logic

By Jamie Gabrini, Special Columnist

Please note: the rather forceful opinions of Jay are in no way, shape, or form, a reflection of Lenn’s, or of any other contributor on this site. Indeed, they often wish she’d get off the damn soap-box already.

Ignorance is bliss. Truly. Aside from being cursed with stellar beauty and rapier wit, I’ve a thirst for information that won’t quit (and feel free to decide which attribute I exaggerate… ) Admittedly a conspiracy theorist, I love digging into books that pick apart social issues and highlight the erring of our American ways. And, since I work with food and wine, nothing gets me more excited than reading about the evils of Big Farming, be it viticulture, agriculture, or animal husbandry. That winning combination allows me to feed my food/wine monkey and inflate my paranoia – what’s not to love?

It has occurred to me, however, after circling the local food co-op for the umpteenth time, still-empty basket in hand, that maybe – just maybe, I take this too far. I’ve even questioned that perhaps – just perhaps – my brain has a deeply-rooted meta-hate thing going on and that it’s trying to kill me off. I’ve already gone vegetarian and try to buy local produce, but did I really need to read about how corn has been teased apart and reconstructed and added to just about everything? No, that info was neither necessary nor welcome, and I now spend far too long trying to find stuff without high fructose corn syrup or any other such nonsense in it. And just forget about going out to eat: if I can’t see it being made, I don’t know what’s in it, and I won’t touch it. Yeah, I’m a real treat on a date. All you bachelors? Call me.

Thankfully, there seem to be others just as particular (read: anal) out there in this vast world of ours. And those lil’ nuts gather at places like Shakti Yoga studio here in Buffalo for vegetarian cooking classes at which I give an organic wines-shpiel. What could be better than sipping on a biodynamic Fiefs Vendeens blanc and nibbling on tempeh with your foot wrapped around your neck?