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Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc

13 Oct

Time is a whirligig, says Feste in Twelfth Night. I think it’s a bit more complicated than that. An orrery, more like – with each mechanical planet spinning in its unique orbit around a brazen sun, now distant, now aligned. Sometimes thing coincide, apparently serendipitously, quite probably in an entirely random way, unless you happen to believe in Fate or God or other supernatures. This week was like that. First (and I wish I could tiptoe around this tragedy), France defeated England at the Rugby World Cup. BLOW WINDS AND CRACK YOUR CHEEKS, SPOUT , SPOUT YOU HURRICANOES… !! I know… I know. Hush, my love… There is no more to be said. Calma… Calma… It happened in New Zealand. So perhaps you can appreciate my surprise when a bottle of the new vintage of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc appeared before me.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that this is THE wine that started the whole New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc thing, back in the late 1980s. I was brought up to appreciate Sauvignon Blanc as one of the two grapes in the holy partnership of dry white Bordeaux and sweet Sauternes and also as the tart, tight-lipped spinster responsible for Sancerre. Then, circa 1988, we uncorked a SB from New Zealand’s South Island – from Marlborough – and WOW! It was like bright green light streaming up from the glass, filling the room with the aroma of gooseberries and passion fruit, the very definition of the word “tangy.” We looked at the label – that vaguely Chinese depiction of tiered mountain ranges – Cloudy Bay. It had the romance – New Zealand was a very long way away – the opposite side of the world if you gazed into the brightly lit well at the Commonwealth Institute in Kensington (always a destination for birthday parties when I was about seven years old). It was also a really well-made wine, perfectly balanced, intense, gliding into a long vibrant finish. The French have drifted slyly towards the style, without admitting it, and a bunch of Sancerres are now much more fruit-forward and generous than they ever were before New Zealand made its mark on the world. Meanwhile, other NZ SBs have lured us, priced at about a quarter of the dollars demanded by Cloudy Bay. But there’s something to be said for the original.

I was lucky enough to spend a couple of days at Cloudy Bay back in 1997, when Kevin Judd was still the winemaker. They put me up in the “Shack,” an extremely comfortable bungalow surrounded by lush gardens (only the English are more conscientious gardeners than the New Zealanders) on the edge of the vineyards. England’s cricket team had stayed there just before me – so that was extremely exciting.

There had been no vines planted in the South Island before 1973 – the experts had declared it was too cold (which may ring a bell amongst winemakers in Niagara and Prince Edward County). Montana took the chance, up in Marlborough, the very northernmost part of the island, and lo, the vines took root and multiplied. Cloudy Bay was established in 1985 by Cape Mentelle, the Western Australian company which was a partnership between Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin and David Hohnen, the immensely courageous pioneer of the Margaret River region. Presumably Veuve Clicquot had their eyes on making bubbly in these cold but gifted hills – and they weren’t wrong. Cloudy Bay’s Pelorus is a lovely sparkler made from Pinot Noir and Chardonnay with pin-prick mousse and a classic yeasty nose. I tasted the 1993 when I was in Marlborough and loved it. But the 1991 was already showing its age – a tad jammy and oxidized. I have no doubt that the team has figured out the solution by now.

The Cloudy Bay, however, was simply dazzling – lean and svelt but sophisticated, powerful but elegant – I’m trying to think of an analogous movie star but no one springs to mind – wines are more perfect than actors. Kevin Judd poured three for me. The young 1997, just months old, was smashing – all gooseberries and passion fruit and the scent of green grass, full-bodied yet creamy, rich… There’s a dash of Semillon in there, à la Bordelaise, and some very discreet oak ageing – maybe 10 percent – just enough to add a little enriching cadmium yellow to the singing green of the Sauvignon Blanc.

We also tasted the 1994 which was going through some kind of in-vitro mid-life crisis, the fruit vanished from the nose, replaced by the scent of canned white asparagus. Then we opened a 1991 and the asparagus had completely disappeared, giving way to mature petrolly notes, a toastiness, as different from its own youth as a mature gasoline-citrus Mosel is from its steep, slate-clenched, lime-washed, minerally childhood. I asked if the 1991 had had more oak but Judd said no, it was just the maturity of the wine.

It was interesting to glimpse the future of the young, vibrant Cloudy Bay I had just tasted – to see what would become of the world-class athlete’s physical perfection when the whirligig of time had brought in his revenges.

And today I drank the latest vintage, now on sale at the LCBO. Still all youth and vigour and brilliance and creamy skin. The Apollonian God of Sauvignon Blanc. I tasted it alongside another treat, the cheddar and black pepper butter-based shortbread savoury figure-destroyers that are one of President’s Choice new Black Label products. Little drum-shaped temptations. Really really good. Right up there with Harbord Bakery’s spicy, anchovy-laced cheese straws – and that is praise indeed. The combo worked for me. But it was the Cloudy Bay that had the true cachet of genius.

 
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Berry Brothers Number Three

09 Oct

Thanksgiving Day and treats galore – so many things for which to give thanks…

The first is No.3 London Dry Gin. It came to me wrapped in tissue paper printed faintly with a map of St. James’s Street in apple green ink. This is a part of London which is indelibly familiar to me. It lies between the place where I grew up – Chelsea – and the area where my parents worked, the theatres of the West End.  No. 3 St James’s was an address that rang a particularly happy little bell in memory’s carillon: Berry Bros. & Rudd, the world’s oldest wine merchant, in business since 1698. My mum sometimes ordered a case of wine from Berry Bros. The company specialized in making things easy for English customers. I remember bottles labelled simply “Hock” (totally delicious Riesling from the Rhine) or “Good Ordinary Claret” (no need to confuse matters by naming the deuxième-tier Château that had created the wine – and besides it was always excellent). Inside the ancient premises is a room called The Parlour – one of the oldest rooms in the shop – where Lord Byron once dined. So did Napoleon III, who was French. So did Prime Minister William Pitt (though I don’t know if that was Pitt the Elder or Pitt the Younger – probably the Younger, since he drank his weight in Port while running the country).

Berry Bros. is now in the business of providing the heirs and successors of the Pitts and Byrons with the wherewithal to continue conquering worlds politick and literary – namely gin. Byron chugged gin and water while writing Don Juan (there are few poems I enjoy more) and the No.3 would have been right up his allée. It’s a real gin. By which I mean it doesn’t taste of exotic flowers, or cucumber and roses, or citrus fruit. It tastes roundly of juniper (okay, cardamom, grapefruit peel, orange, earthy angelica and coriander seed mitigate the whack) but mostly it’s perfumed, pine-forest-bitter, antique-Christmassy, venison-gamey,  juniper – dry as a bone, clean as the London style should always be, and spectacular in a Martini with a twist of lemon. If you need olives, have them on the side. The LCBO has it on its shelves (look for the bottle with the key pressed into its gizzard) – and so should we all.

 
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Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder

14 Sep

 

‘Je me tiens toujours fidèle à la sorcière glauque.’ Thus speaks Enoch Soames, eponymous anti-hero of Max Beerbohm’s marvelous short story, the first one in Seven Men. Soames is a dim, talentless, fiercely pretentious poet who clings desperately to the very edge of the Edwardian arts scene. He is from Preston in Lancashire but he slips into French whenever possible. The “glaucous witch” he refers to is absinthe, the drink of Bohemian Paris at the time, the tipple of choice of Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine, Oscar Wilde, etcetera, etcetera. The craze for la fée verte was never quite so strong in England but in France it bewitched everyone, regardless of their wealth or status. It was supposed to have hallucinogenic properties (Oscar Wilde said it made him feel as if he had tulips growing on his legs) caused by the compound thujone found in Grande Wormwood (artemisia absinthium), its principal ingredient, and some physicians diagnosed a unique disease they called absinthism as a more virulent and demented form of alcoholism. The Bohemians rather cultivated this wicked legend and there are many contemporary paintings showing an absinthe drinker contemplating a transparent, naked green nymph who winds herself about the table – the green fairy herself.

Absinthe ended up being banned in many countries including France and Switzerland (it was first distilled in Switzerland by a Dr. Pierre Ordinaire) and the U.S. (it had quite a cult following in New Orleans). Now it’s back – and not just in the form of the faux, dyed, Eastern European infusions of the last decade. There are several versions that faithfully recreate the traditional French methods using real herbs including Grande Wormwood, anise, hyssop and the dozen or so other plants that tinted and flavoured the stuff. Analysis of surviving bottles from the Belle Epoque reveals astonishing news: the amount of thujone was tiny – so small that it would pass current U.S. and Canadian laws without any problem. So what was all the fuss about back in the day? Why, in the story, did the artist Will Rothenstein say to Enoch Soames: “It is bad for you.”?

Current supporters of the new absinthe propose that the reason was a lot of cheap, fake absinthe pushed in those days, coloured green not by herbs but by copper or other toxic chemicals that induced the astonishing visions and tremors.

Hmmm… My personal jury is still out on that one (the counter-evidence from the day is rather overwhelming; then again, modern scientific analysis is sometimes accurate). Meanwhile, however, I have been enjoying my bottle of Lucid Absinthe Supérieure. It is the creation of a remarkable man from New Orleans – Ted Breaux – who has spent much of this century on a mission, first to recreate, precisely, traditional, high-quality French absinthe, and then to plead its innocence to the wider world. He makes it in France using the original stills designed by Gustav Eiffel in the 1830s. The U.S. admitted it as legal in 2007 – the first absinthe allowed in America in 95 years… And now it’s available at the LCBO in a dramatic black bottle adorned with cat’s eyes.

la sorciere glauque - or not so glauque since I don't do the sugar-cube thing.

And there are other absinthes now, but Lucid is the bottle on my personal back rail. Like all the best old absinthes, it’s pretty alcoholic – 62% alc by vol, as opposed to, say, vodka, which is usually 40%… That’s because it’s not meant to be swigged from the bottle but served in a much more elegant way (that has always reminded me of the preparation of a ball of opium – but that was before Mr. Breaux persuaded me that absinthe was entirely innocent). You need a reservoir glass shaped like a thistle with a bulbous base that can hold about an ounce of la fée verte. You pour her in. You put an ornate slotted silver spoon across the rim of the glass and set a sugar cube on the spoon. Then you dribble ice-cold (very very important, that it’s very very cold) water over the cube, dissolving it down into the spirit. As with ouzo or Pernod, the spirit clouds – the French call the effect the “louche” – a beautiful word to describe a beautiful thing. It’s like gazing into an opal or into the swirling clouds in a witch’s crystal ball but the clouds don’t part to show an anxious Auntie Em; the liquid just stays cloudy – a pale nacreous green – while giving off suddenly powerful herbal aromas. My favoured ratio is three parts water to one part absinthe, but some fans prefer five parts water… Then you sip. If you like ouzo or Pernod or pastis or raki or some forms of arak – or sambucca, come to that – you will love Lucid absinthe. It’s like the sophisticated but sexy older sister of those tongue-tingling fennely herbal types. The name refers to the legendary state of “lucid intoxication” that absinthe was supposed to inspire, a condition brought about by the rare balance of stimulants and depressants in the herbal recipe of the drink. I cannot speak to that, of course. Lucidity was never my strongest suit.

As for sweetness – I don’t feel I need the sugar cube. I like the startling bitterness of the wormwood without the toothpaste-mitigation that sugar brings. Needless to say, the old Czech student prank of igniting the absinthe before drinking it should be avoided. Unless you want an elaborate pattern of scar-tissue around your lips.

If you aren’t so taken by the flavour of anise, try mixing it up as part of a cocktail Ernest Hemingway invented called Death in the Afternoon. He left precise instructions: “Pour one jigger absinthe into a Champagne glass. Add iced Champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly…”

Lots more to discover at www.drinklucid.com .

 

 

 

 

 
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Champagne Charlie Burger

31 Jul

Charlie Burger has crossed the line. I don’t know if you saw a story I wrote in the Globe and Mail last weekend, breaking Charlie Burger’s cover. With his blessing, I revealed his true identity – Franco Stalteri, the sophisticated young bon viveur whose day job is Director of Experiential Marketing for a company called Your Brand IMC. He puts together high-end events for banks or luxury motor car companies or other prestigious clients such as Dom Perignon Champagne.

Charlie’s Burgers was his dazzling notion a couple of years ago – guerilla dinners that allow deeply talented chefs to do their own thing for 50 or so lucky souls in a mysterious venue. Guests have to find their way to the place by following a trail. It’s all great fun, slightly tongue-in-cheek but elegantly contrived and has a serious gastronomical pay-off of great food and wine. But now, as I say, Charlie has crossed the line. The consummate host has become the artisanal entrepreneur. Charlie Burger has his own Champagne.

Let me start by saying there isn’t very much of it. Champagne Charlie Burger is a true “grower’s Champagne,” estate-produced by a small but much revered house that has been in the business since 1732. The marque in question, Henry de Vaugency, can be found just outside Oger. Their Chardonnay vineyard is right next door to Krug’s prestigious Clos de Mesnil – and I’d have to say it shares the quality as well as the classified Grand Cru location, which makes Champagne Charlie Burger a pure Oger Grand Cru Classé Blanc de Blancs Champagne. Very special stuff. Very suave and very delicious.

So, how did Franco Stalteri get his hands (and his moniker) on this ethereal nectar? Through a mutual friend – the sommelier of the world-famous Tour d’Argent restaurant in Paris who persuaded Henry de Vaugency that Charlie Burger was a worthy customer. Stalteri liked the idea of presenting his own Champers at CB events – and anyone who falls in love with the bubbly can buy a case, I am told, provided they go through the proper channels. I can see why they would. This is a blend of wines from 2000, 2001 and 2002, cellar-aged for five years. It has a fresh golden colour – the beauty of youth – and a subtle fresh aroma of yellow fruit with a hint of lemon peel. Not really “citrus” as in lemon juice or lemon marmalade – more the very precise but delicate smell you experience when you sniff a ripe but uncut lemon. The mousse is very fine to the eye and sparkling on the tongue. That first sip reveals the ethereal body you would expect from a Blanc de Blancs – liquid dancing – so refreshing – a discreet flavour of yellow plums, a suggestion of yeasty biscuit. It’s all so vibrant and beautiful and yet there is a maturity there that stops it being remotely tart or sharp. Great balance and then… a long, long finish – always the sign of very good wine, Champagne included.

Stalteri presented the first bottle of CB Champagne to the sommelier at the Tour d’Argent. He opened the second with his fiancée. I’m so honoured that I received bouteille #3, so inscribed and therefore to be kept and treasured even now that it is empty. Regrettably, I shall miss the Charlie’s Burgers event on August 7th when the Champagne will be the evening’s debutante, turning everyone’s head, breaking everyone’s heart. If you’re going to be there, I’d love to hear what you think of the Champagne.

 
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Collingwood whisky

30 Jul

 

Collingwood, the latest Canadian whisky

Vice Admiral Lord Collingwood (Cuthbert to his family) is a top-ranking hero in my personal Justice League. He was Nelson’s second-in-command, subsequently C-in-C of the Mediterranean station, a career sailor who served the Royal Navy for 50 years, almost all of them at sea, and a wise and well-intentioned man. Collingwood Canadian whisky is not named after him directly (or one would drink it all the time) but there is a connection. The whisky is called after the Ontario town of Collingwood, the place where it’s made, which was named to honour the great naval hero, some 48 years after his death.

To be honest, I never realized there was a distillery in Collingwood but it turns out this is the home of a blended whisky called Canadian Mist. The operation is owned by the firm of Brown-Forman, based in Louisville, Kentucky, which also owns Jack Daniel’s and Woodford bourbon. Collingwood is a new product, proudly bannered as “the first new major Canadian whisky to hit the market in almost a decade.” It’s as smooth as a Perry Como ballad and has a full-bodied weight as if it were designed to be poured over ice – and indeed the press release accompanying its launch makes a specific recommendation that it “can be enjoyed on the rocks or mixed in a cocktail.” In other words, this is not sippin’ whisky.

What makes it so smooth? It’s triple distilled for one thing and it also undergoes a “toasted maplewood” mellowing process. Brown-Forman are shy about giving any more details than that but my guess is Collingwood is filtered through maplewood charcoal – or at least exposed to it – the process the company uses to smooth out Jack Daniel’s. An alternative theory is that the whisky may also go into maplewood barrels, like the Masters Collection of Woodford Reserve bourbon, though that would be a pricey thing to do for a whisky that sells for $29.95. Besides, Collingwood makes a big deal about maturation in white oak barrels.

Admiral Lord Collingwood

The press release is also a little vague about the grains used to make the whisky. Ontario corn is mentioned (the town of Collingwood is a centre for the corn-into-ethanol industry) but perhaps there is malted barley too, as there is in Canadian Mist. I don’t taste the tang of rye at all, just the rich, placid sweetness of corn whisky and a pleasant blur of oaky vanilla and caramel. Such is the power of word association that I’m quite sure I can taste maple as well, after reading about the toasted maplewood process.

I don’t usually like to put ice into whisky but in this case it works, leavening the weight of the spirit a little and loosening up the clustered flavours. In those conditions it comes across as a friendly, tasty, not very complicated Canadian whisky at a very reasonable price. And if smoothness is what you seek above all other qualities, this is the baby for you. LCBO #244186, 750 mL, $29.95.

 
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A light lunch with Dom Pérignon

23 Jun

A very rare treat - the Oenotheque 1996

How well I remember my long-ago visit to Möet & Chandon in Épernay. There was the obligatory photograph at the statue of Dom Pérignon in the courtyard of the Möet Maison, a rather forbidding brick building on the Avenue de Champagne, a night at the Chateau de Saran, where the company entertains its guests, then a delightful lunch in the Trianon – two elegant white palaces and an orangerie framing a charming garden. Built by Jean-Remy Möet in 1804 they were a favourite watering-hole for Napoleon and are now used for public relations exercises. It was the same Jean-Remy who had the foresight (and the cash) to purchase the Abbey and vineyards of Hautvillers in 1823, including the tiny room where Dom Pérignon himself made his contribution to civilisation in the late 1600s. These days it is kept up as a shrine – and a most satisfactory one. A lovingly tended garden lies at its heart, circled by lichen-covered grey stone walls that draw colour from the afternoon sun. Woodpigeons coo in the trees behind the rose beds; vineyards slope steeply down the hillside, merging into meadows that reach to the placid waters of the Marne.

            Pierre Pérignon was 29 when he joined the Benedictine community at Hautvillers in 1658. His duties were those of a procurator, collecting taxes from the Abbey’s tenant farmers, some of whom paid with grapes. Dom Pérignon used these tithes in his experiments, carefully vinifying wines from different vineyards and villages and then comparing and blending them. His first great discovery was that an assemblage of various wines could be far more delicious and interesting than its separate components.

            At that time, casks of the tart, still white wine from Champagne’s cold, chalky hills were shipped to England in the winter, where innkeepers drew it off into bottles which were then sealed with corks. The warmth of the inns rekindled the incomplete fermentation and when the bottles were opened, sparkling Champagne frothed out. Dom Pérignon figured out what was going on and learned to control the process, pioneering the use of corks and strong glass bottles in France. He also developed a shallow-based press that allowed him to produce clear white juice from black Pinot Noir grapes and discovered that sheep manure was the best fertilizer for vineyards. By the time he died, in 1715, he had done enough to earn an undying reputation as the father of sparkling Champagne.

Axelle Araud, oenologue for Dom Perignon, our guide through the vintages

            Centuries later, in 1936, Jean-Remy Möet’s successor, Robert-Jean, Comte de Vogüé, was looking for a good name for Möet & Chandon’s Vintage 1921 Cuvée de Prestige, a wine created initially for the American market. Dom Pérignon was the ideal moniker. Since then it has been made only in exceptional years – 37 vintages to be precise – its personality and unique style cherished and protected by a series of winemakers who see themselves more as custodians of a tradition than creators. Any chance to taste it must always be seized, so when Franco Stalteri invited me to a small gathering in the magnificent wine cellar beneath Barberian’s steak house, and mentioned that various Dom Pérignons would be tasted and introduced by Axelle Araud, an oenologue on the team of Richard Geoffroy, Dom Pérignon’s winemaker and chef de cave, I was down there faster than a gopher with mustard on its tail.

It was a lovely way to spend a Wednesday lunchtime. I suppose there were nine or ten of us, along with our host Arron Barberian and Axelle Araud. Her commentary was lucid and fascinating. We started with the 2002, one of the great vintages in the region when all the grapes in all 17 of Champagne’s grands crus reached perfect maturity. That, in fact, was the challenge for Dom Pérignon. The wines from that year were so intense and rich that the great Champagne’s ethereal character was threatened. You can have too much of a good thing! Dom Pérignon is always around 50-50 Chardonnay and Pinot Noir and is the only Champagne to use grapes from all 17 grands crus. It’s different every time and yet it’s always the same – weightless, gossamer but round and richly flavoured with amazing length. The texture is the giveaway – “seamless and tactile,” said Axelle, “like a caress on your tongue. Never too dry or astringent.” And it’s pristine. During the winemaking and during the obligatory minimum of seven years’ aging on the yeasty lees trapped in the bottle, it is never exposed to oxygen. Other Champagnes are. Krug, for example, ages its base wines in oak. So Dom Pérignon is virginal, hinting at toast or almonds or citrus but in a subtle way – as if you walked into a room on a spring morning and the window was wide open and there was a bowl of lemons on the table – no more citrus than that.

            After the 2002, we tasted the 2000 Dom Pérignon Rosé, my first encounter with this wine. In all the years, Möet has only made 21 D.P. Rosés. The first one was created in 1959 in honour of the Shah of Iran’s wedding. This too is roughly 50-50 Chardonnay and Pinot Noir but the blend includes red wines for the colour and for a subtle astringency. It’s more intense and vinous and there are red and black berries on the nose. “It’s amazing with meat,” said Arron Barberian. “Lamb tartare in particular.”

Arron Barberian, generous host and master of the revels

            Our third wine was a Dom Pérignon Oenotheque 1996. These are fabulously rare beasts, “ a confrontation with time” wherein the wine is left undisturbed in the bottle for a further plenitude of five years or even for another 20. The extra time doesn’t seem to age the wine at all – the yeast contact keeps it young. The 1996 was disgorged in 2008 and as we tasted it on Wednesday it was miraculously vibrant, more intense and biscuitty than the Vintage 2002 with hints of honey and dried citrus peel on the nose – a curiosity for the true collector, priced around $1500 a bottle.

            Barberian’s provided a magnificent buffet for us at that point – big fat PEI oysters (awesome with the Oenotheque), massive juicy shrimp and lobster meat, smoked salmon and charcuterie (fabulous with the Rosé), an array of Quebec’s finest cheeses, teaspoonfuls of caviar and barely seared scallops topped with a dab of house-made bacon jam. “You know what we should do?” asked Arron Barberian. “Just in the spirit of intellectual enquiry…” He disappeared into his other (even larger) wine cellar and came back with a Dom Pérignon 1978. “Who here is younger than this wine?” he asked. A number of hands were raised. He opened it and we tasted… Sure, it was showing a little age, which suited me no end – I’m English, I love older Champagnes. The colour was darker but it was still awesome, still showing pizazz with buttery notes and the scent of dried fruits. The length was formidable and that telltale texture, like the feeling of silk on bare skin, was unmistakable.

            Sharing the love, Vintages will be including the Oenotheque 1996 and the 2000 Rosé in its October Classics Catalogue. The 2002 is on sale now. For the 1978, you’d best be high-tailing it over to Barberian’s.

 
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A little bit more Yorkshire

09 Jun

There's a welcome in the Dales...

This sign was spotted in the front window of the Green Dragon pub in the Yorkshire Dales. I imagine it’s a joke as I can’t believe anyone in that idyllic part of the world would harbour such a grudge against the flower people. Then again…

As predicted, dinner at the Wensleydale Heifer proved spectacular. My roast hake was especially good, a perfectly timed slab of the soft white fish, its texture somewhere between that of plaice and haddock, its flesh juicy beneath a crisp skin. The chef had set it above a ragout of chopped chorizo sausage, white beans, red pepper and brown shrimp – a merry-go-round of flavours that still allowed the fish its due – so simple but very delectable. Gastronomically this meal was the highlight of the week, an opinion with which our guide, Mark Reid, concurred. He ordered fish and chips and pronounced them to be some of the best he had ever had. From a Yorkshireman that is high praise indeed.

On the following evening I encountered another unique treat at a restaurant called Chaste, in Hawes in Wensleydale. This was a liquid treasure, a “gin” made from cider apples by a gentleman called William Chase, creator of the famous Chase vodka. His tale is an interesting one. A potato farmer, Mr. Chase provided the raw material for Tyrrell’s crisps, a popular brand of potato chip. Alas, there was a row with the supermarkets that sold the crisps and Chase found himself with a great many potatoes on his hands. He turned them into a vodka that went on to win the prize as Britain’s best vodka. The apple gin is his latest venture, a clear spirit with some of the sweetness of Calvados but unaged and laid over with juniper and other traditional gin botanicals. It’s rich, fruity, nicely spiced and rather powerful at 48% alcohol by volume. Brilliant with tonic.

Bolton Castle, glimpsed from the maze

Forgive the dashing about in this posting, the lack of linear narrative, but now I will whisk you miles up Wensleydale to Bolton castle, towering above the village of Castle Bolton. It’s open to the public but our Gold Medal Plates group was fortunate enough to have a private tour from Tom Orde-Powlett, whose family has owned the castle since it was built in 1399. Parts of it, including the rooms where Mary Queen of Scots stayed, are in remarkably good nick and there is a handsome little garden and falconry demonstrations involving a number of different owls and raptors. To the delight of our party, lunch had been laid on in the Great Hall – a feast of smoked salmon followed by a fabulous selection of local pies and cheeses including the creamy, subtle, Jervaulx Blue, a local cheese that tasted like the suave younger brother of a Stilton. One eats so much when everything is within reach and I had no room left for the finale – a goblet of strawberry Eton Mess. I ate it anyway.

venison, duck breast, ox tongue, scrumptious pies and Wensleydale cheese - all part of lunch at Bolton Castle

The last event of our week was a demonstration out on the sunny terrace of Simonstone Hall in which I attempted to explain the reasons why it matters what goes into a Pimm’s. I tried to paint a vivid picture of the origins of the drink, how young James Pimm, a tenant farmer’s son from Newnham in Kent came to London to seek his fortune not long after the battle of Waterloo. He set himself up with a barrow from which he sold oysters in the streets of the City but by 1823 he had parlayed that into an oyster bar that became a popular lunch spot for London’s businessmen and financiers. Seeking a gimmick that would set him apart from his rivals he began to mess about with signature cocktails and finally ended up, circa 1840, with Pimm’s No. 1 Cup, a tankard of chopped fruit, lemonade and the unique elixir he had created from gin infused with spices and fruits.

Life was good for Pimm. His drink caught on, sold door-to-door by boys on bicycles and new “numbers” were introduced – No. 2 Cup (based on Scotch) and No. 3 (based on brandy and still made today as a spicier version called Pimm’s Winter Cup). Eventually Pimm retired, selling the oyster bars and the secret recipe for Pimm’s to a fellow called Frederick Sawyer who sold it on to Horatio Davies, the future Lord Mayor of London. His dreams were bigger than Pimm’s and soon the stuff was available all across the Empire, wherever Englishman lifted a tennis racquet or an oar. Other “Numbers” followed in the 20th century, based on rum, rye and vodka, but the 70s and 80s were a time of hardship for the drink. Just as I was discovering its glories, most of England was turning away. The oyster bars disappeared and so did most of the Numbers. Even at places like the Henley Regatta, the drink was poorly made – something warm and flat and sticky by the end of the afternoon, attractive to wasps but otherwise useful only as a crude tool of seduction.

A mighty drum of Jervaulx Blue

Today all is once again happiness and light! A good Pimm’s remains a super drink on a hot day. Some people have their own ways of making one, using ginger ale or Champagne instead of fizzy lemonade and that’s fine, as is the normal (rather puny) ratio of 3 parts pop to 1 part Pimm’s. But this is the recipe I favour: Slice up one cored green apple, one orange, 12 strawberries and a four-inch piece of unpeeled cucumber (slippery seeds removed) and tip them all into a jug. Pour on one 750-mL bottle of Pimm’s and a fistful of mint leaves. Add 1.5 L of ice-cold fizzy lemonade such as Sprite or Seven up. Give it a quick stir (but not enough to lose the fizz) and pour over ice cubes in half-pint tankards, letting lots of the fruit slip in with the liquid. Garnish with tiny blue borage flowers. Drink swiftly and have another one right away.

 
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Posted in Drink, England, Events, Gold Medal Plates, Life in General, Spirits and Beers, Travel, Treats

 

Down into Wensleydale

06 Jun

A fine day in Arkengarthdale, Yorkshire

Today we hiked over Shunner Fell, third highest fell in all the Yorkshire Dales. The hot sunshine that was the glory of our first few days of exercise had given way to drizzle which turned to cold rain and wind as we trudged up the Pennine Way. By the time we reached the gently rounded summit, walking through miles of peat hags, we were in the cloud and visibility was poor – but what a brilliant walk! There’s a stone windbreak at the highest point and there we paused for lunch – a very welcome ham roll and a Twix bar, an apple and a bottle of water. The rain diminished as we marched on towards Wensleydale. A skylark rode the wind above us, singing for all his worth, and there were curlews and plovers, grouse and lapwings all around. As the path began to descend, the moor became meadow and we returned to the world of rabbits and sheep and strutting cock pheasants. Two miles later we were safe in the Green Dragon, warming up in front of an open fire and enjoying the first pint of the day – a bitter local cask-conditioned ale called Castle Bolton.

Fountains - a day out

This has been an excellent adventure, as all Gold Medal Plates trips tend to be. We’re a large group of 41, including Olympic skeleton gold medallist Jon Montgomery and comedian Ron James, who put on a show for us all last night at the CB Inn in Langthwaite. He worked some hilarious material about certain members of the group into his dazzlingly energetic set and finished to a standing ovation. A great many sturdy souls from Western Canada stayed up after that to catch the hockey game, strengthened by ale and still valiantly alert when the Canucks finished off Boston in overtime at around 5 a.m.. By then the sky was bright with morning and there were stirrings in the kitchen of the inn as the breakfast chefs began working.

We have seen wonders already. The ruins of Fountains abbey and the magnificent 18th century gardens of Studley Royal. Bluebell woods and shady hillsides where the ransom is in bloom, filling the air with its garlicky aroma. The renowned Black Sheep Brewery in Masham where they still use the now-very-rare Yorkshire Square fermenting vessels that add to the creamy texture and delectable flavour of Riggwelter and their other mighty brews. Busy little rivers and meadows of wildflowers – 115 species according to some though red clover and buttercups dominate this week. The Bridge Inn in Grinton, where Jon Montgomery opened his throat and drained a yard of ale (2½ pints) in 20 seconds – an astonishing time that broke the record of 33 seconds set last year by a huge margin. He kept it down for almost a minute then returned the beer to the world. Luckily he had taken off his shirt and was out of doors by the roadside when that occurred. Even the two old Yorkshire gaffers sitting inside at the bar were impressed. “’E did all right, your lad,” one remarked with a nod in Jon’s direction.

Geoff Catherwood gallantly downs his yard of ale - and keeps it down! But no one comes close to Jon Montgomery's new 20-second record

Other treats have included pigeon breast in Scotch broth at the CB Inn, a fine stew of lamb and apricots at the Bridge Inn, Raspberry Eton Mess and Sticky Toffee Pudding at the Punch Bowl near Low Row. Tonight we head for the Wensleydale Heifer, a gastropub specializing in the local seafood that comes in daily from Hartlepool or Redcar, always a highlight of a visit to the Dales. I am anticipating roast hake, pungent little brown shrimps and dressed crab.

Ron James gives us a dazzling set at the CB Inn

 
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Posted in Canada, Life in General, Spirits and Beers, Travel

 

Canada’s Innocent Gun

17 May

The Canadian brew

A beautiful coincidence… I have just been writing about Innis & Gunn Original, the Scottish oak-aged beer, for the upcoming Holiday issue of the LCBO magazine Food & Drink, when what should appear on my doorstep but the new, brief star from the brewery produced in honour of Canada Day. Innis & Gunn is an accidental work of art. The story goes that a whisky distillery decided to temper some bourbon casks they were intending to use for their whisky by filling them with ale. The ale remained in the casks for 37 days and was then poured out. The experiment worked and the distillers (Wm. Grant & Sons) ordered more. Meanwhile the brewers tasted the no-longer-wanted ale and found that it was amazing! Oak-aged! Complex and profound and full of oaky-whisky aromatics. (Full disclosure: it was the Caledonian Brewery in Edinburgh; the brothers who made the discovery and went on to develop the notion of oak-aged beer are Neil Innis Sharp and Douglas Gunn Sharp – hence the name Innis & Gunn, also known as Innocent Gun in the UK…)

Canada embraced the original and the blonde versions of this remarkable beer so whole-heartedly thatfor the last three years Innis & Gunn have produced a special Canada Day beer as an acknowledgement and thankyou to their loyal fans across the ocean. The latest iteration will be in LCBO stores and widely available across Canada while stocks last. It’s extremely delicious – robust, oaky, with a rich, resinous nose of Fuggles hops and oaky vanilla flavours among the malty sweetness. I had thought they might have slapped in some maple syrup or something to Canadianize the brew but they are wiser and more subtle than that. To quote from the smart gift box, “Alongside ale malt we have added Munich malt to give a beautiful biscuit backbone as well as golden oats which have added a wonderful creamy smooth finish. We have used one single variety of Fuggles hops grown in East Kent, England. These have added their signature earthy, rich and resinous hop aromas and character.”

I don’t usually quote from back labels because they are usually a tissue of lies but in this case the I&G team is spot on.

And to properly Canadianize the product they have boxed it with artwork by Ontario artist Deborah Colvin, a whimsical image of wild hockey against a map of Canada. Such a lot of trouble for a Scottish brewery to go to just to flatter their Canadian clientele!

This is a strong beer at 8.3% alcohol by volume – kind of a barley wine, which takes me back to my university days and a barley wine served in the Turf Tavern pub off Holywell Street (of blessed memory) and the night when a rugby-playing Goliath threatened me with violence unless I changed my tipple to a Real Ale (CAMRA had just been invented). But I digress. A week ago I would have rejected this oak-aged brew as unseasonal, but then the sun was shining and I was in a T-shirt digging the garden. Now we have chilly Vancouver drizzle and the rich, hearty, malty ale seems entirely à propos.

 
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The Shackleton whisky

08 Apr

Shackleton's hut at Cape Royds on a fine Antarctic day

I love this story. I’ve been following it for months on that excellent blog, thewhiskyexchange.com, the source of these handsome pictures. It all began in January 2006, when some archaeologists from The New Zealand Antarctic Heritage Trust checked the ice beneath the hut abandoned by English explorer Ernest Shackleton during his historic 1907-1909 quest to reach the South Pole and found four wooden cases of booze. Two were marked as containing an Australian brandy; the other two were splendidly emblazoned with the logo of Mackinlay’s Rare Old Highland Malt Whisky. Here was a treasure trove indeed! Scotch over 100 years old – with an heroic pedigree to boot. Most people’s reaction would obviously have been “Quick! Drink it!” but the New Zealand scientists showed admirable respect and patience. A more exacting analysis was required…

But first, the back story. Every schoolboy knows of the exploits of Shackleton, gallant hero. His attempt on the Pole predated Amundsen and Scott by several years. He and his team set up camp on Cape Royds, Antarctica, building a wooden hut to serve as HQ before setting off for the Pole. They got to within 100 miles of their goal before Shackleton made the decision to turn back, saving his men’s lives (no one died) but leaving the ultimate prize for Amundsen. The men made it back to their hut but found that sea ice was forming so quickly they had to make a very fast exit. They left many artifacts and supplies behind, including the whisky, buried under the floorboards, entombed in ice.

Inside the hut

Mackinlay’s? That’s Chas Mackinlay & Co, to give the brand its full name, a blended Scotch that ended up as part of Invergordon Distillers, which in turn was purchased by Whyte & Mackay in 1995. They did next to nothing with the brand and it would probably have faded into oblivion if it weren’t for Shackleton. Whyte & Mackay’s billionaire owner, Vijay Mallya, was presented with a completely unexpected public-relations plum when the story broke. The New Zealand team were carefully thawing out a case of the 100-year-old Scotch in their lab. Mallya, most respectfully and carefully, sent his private jet to bring three bottles back to Scotland for analysis.

What did it taste like? Whisky expert David Broom was the lucky noser who was invited to describe it. “The Shackleton whisky is not what I expected at all,” he reported, “and not what anyone would have expected. It’s so light, so fresh, so delicate and still in one piece – it’s a gorgeous whisky. It proves that even way back then so much care, attention and thought went into whisky-making.”

Whyte and Mackay’s master blender, Richard Paterson, was then invited to analyse and replicate the whisky, a task that took him six weeks. “It was a real privilege getting to handle, nose and taste such a rare and beautiful bottle of whisky,” he writes. “The quality, purity and taste of this 100-year-old spirit was amazing. The biggest surprise was the light flavour and the clear, almost vibrant colour of the liquid. I hope I have done our forefathers and Ernest Shackleton proud with the replica.”

David Broom believes he has. “I think the replication is absolutely bang on,” he declares. “Richard has done a great job as it’s a very tricky whisky to replicate, because you have this delicacy, subtlety and the smoke just coming through. The sweetness, fragrance and spice, and the subtle smoke, are all there in the replica. I’m blown away.”

Paterson worked with a range of highland malts, including Glen Mhor, which was a principal component of Mackinlay’s before the distillery closed in 1983. The original whisky was bottled at 47.3%, possibly to prevent the spirit freezing in Antarctic temperatures, so Paterson copied that too. Official tasting notes conclude that the replica “has a light honey and straw gold colour with shimmering highlights. The nose is soft, elegant and refined with delicate aromas of crushed apple, pear and fresh pineapple. It has a whisper of marmalade, cinnamon and a tease of smoke, ginger and muscovado sugar. The generous strength of the 47.3% whisky gives plenty of impact, but in a mild and warming way. It has whispers of gentle bonfire smoke slowly giving way to spicy rich toffee, treacle and pecan nuts.”

Fifty thousand bottles of the replica have been made. Each one will cost £100, with 5% from every sale being donated back to the Antarctic Heritage Trust, the New Zealand charity responsible for finding and uncovering the original whisky. If all 50,000 bottles are sold the Trust will receive £250,000.

Meanwhile, the three bottles have been flown back to New Zealand, and when all is said and done they will be returned to their case and buried again in the ice beneath Shackleton’s hut. Who knows whether Mackinlay’s will also be re-interred after this charming revival? We shall see.

One of the cases, disinterred from the ice

 
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Posted in Drink, Life in General, Spirits and Beers

 
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