The Wine's the Thing
Mitch Kornfeld
1/5

More Food, More Wine, And if They're Spanish, That's Fine


Last month, before Christmas and New Years intervened, I went to a tasting of Spanish food and wines. Actually it was more cocktail party than anything else, but that was O.K. They were offering all you could eat and all you could drink for $45, so I couldn't resist. Dinner for two for $90 in this town is not bad; of course Alex Rodriguez could do this about 555,000 times a year so it's all relative.

The tasting was held by the James Beard Society, a worthy organization, at La Pipa restaurant, 38 E.19th St., between Broadway and Park Avenue South, conveniently in the Union Square area. The theme was tapas and Spanish wines. One could say that tapas are Spanish hors d'oeuvres and not be far off. Usually I've seen tapas described as finger food that Spaniards eat as they go bar hopping in the evening. A drink or two and some tapas in this place, a drink and some tapas in that place, and maybe some more places, and you never have to order a meal. Not a bad way to go.

The hours advertised for the tasting were from 7:15 to 9:30, only two hours and fifteen minutes. I have noticed an annoying trend where wine and beer tastings have been getting shorter and shorter. The average these days is two and a half-hours. It wasn't very long ago when it was three hours. Way back when, when the Australians were first trying to break into the U.S. market in a big way the Aussies held a six-hour tasting. (I stayed for five hours, which was a big mistake. Four hours would have been just about right. The next time I am presented with a five-hour tasting I am leaving after four hours no matter what. I have learned my lesson, unlike some people who, after being convicted of DWI at age 30, said they learned their lesson so they went ahead and swore off the stuff at age 40.)

Back at La Pipa I was happy to see a warm and comforting room in what used to be a factory. I think a new restaurant is an excellent use of old factory space. The place won't win any awards for interior decor but I liked the unpretentiousness of the myriad unmatched candelabra, the throw pillows on the couches, and the exposed original weight-bearing walls. There are seashell collages in the nooks and crannies hinting of seafood on the menu. 

My lady friend, The Reluctant Connoisseur, and I (she really knows good wine when she tastes it but just doesn't have the academic interest in it that I do) arrived exactly at 7:15 only to find that the James Beard Society members were in the middle of a late running directed Sherry tasting. The presenter went on at distracting length but I admired his erudition, enthusiasm, and fondness for the subject. I sat on a pillow and took it all in, all at no extra charge. Summing up what he said and what you quickly need to know about Sherries is this: there are two basic types of Sherry, fino and oloroso. They start out being made the same way but develop differently.

Unlike other wines Sherry casks are not filled to the top. That means that oxygen gets into the casks, normally a no-no, but not for Sherry. The oxygen mellows them, giving them smoothness, a nutty flavor, and a brown color. Add some sweetness and there's your basic definition of an oloroso. What happens when a fino is made is that the winemaking yeast "flowers" on the surface of the wine and forms a skin keeping oxygen out. The resulting wine is only a little browner than a normal white wine. It is more delicate than an oloroso and is best consumed when it is young and fresh. That "flowering" yeast is called "Flor" yeast. One is supposed to see that it's the same word as flower, but I always think of the other flour because the resulting finos are so intensely yeasty. I find them almost salty too. Another phrase you often see is "iodine-like." If you get the idea I'm not crazy about finos you guessed right, but I thought I would try one with the tapas, figuring "When in Spain do like the Spanish."

Tapas and Sherries are supposed to be great together. I was hoping a fino with the right kind of tapas might yield that magical "third flavor," a taste sensation distinct from the taste of the wine and the taste of the food, that can be such a serendipitous joy. It is something that only happens with food and wine and with no other beverage as near as I can tell. There are certainly good food and beverage matches out there, but I haven't found anything else that can make a completely new flavor. Alas it was not to be.

The fino tasted just as yeasty washing down fried oysters, and it was only a little better with what we called "Spanish Pizzas." I asked their name, and it sounded something like "cocoa." The music was a little loud (it really was like a cocktail party), and I never did get the actual name. They were very good, and I'm sure you'll be able to figure out how to order one. After finishing the fino I tried a type of Sherry called "palo cortado." The rare palo cortado.

In style a palo cortado is exactly in between a fino and an oloroso. This particular bottle was called Peninsula Palo Cortado, and it was from the firm of Emilio Lustau, one of the finest wineries in the Sherry region. (In Spain they call wineries bodegas.) It was completely dry, light brown with some richness and nuttiness. The Flor yeastiness was definitely present but it was much more subdued than in the fino. In fact it added a nice element of complexity to the wine. It wasn't doing much with the oysters or the pizzas, but it was a very interesting glass of wine indeed. The enthusiastic young lecturer offered that it was great with turkey and stuffing. I'm adventurous when it comes to tastes, but I don't know if I'm that adventurous. When it comes to turkey I'll prefer to try an Oregon Pinot Noir, thank you.

Leaving the dry Sherries, and the folk music, behind, we came across what made the best wine and food match of the evening, white wine and oysters. The wine was an Albarino. Albarino is the name of the grape and of the wine and in recent years has been Spain's "great white hope." I've tasted a few in the past and although I found them to be good wines I never saw what all the fuss was about until now. This was the best Albarino I've ever tasted. It tasted like a Pinot Blanc, and I am fond of Pinot Blanc. What does Pinot Blanc taste like you ask? The usual description is that it tastes something like a Chardonnay, and Pinot Blanc (Pinot Bianco in Italian) has been called a poor man's Chardonnay. These taste descriptions are tricky but I'll try saying Pinot Blanc has the taste of a peachy-apricoty kind of Chardonnay, as opposed to the apple-pear side of chard. All things being equal it has less richness and body than Chardonnay. Its traditional home is Alsace and all the usual suspects make one. (Trimbach, Hugel, Sparr, Adam, etc.) Do try one.

This Albarino, called San Campio, is a 1999 made by an outfit called Abadia. Look for a white label with blue lettering. It tasted like a Pinot Blanc with a touch of spiciness at the end. It has good body and is one nice wine. I don't know its price but I'm guessing around $18. So far all Albarinos I have seen have been between $10 and $20. I'd be happy to pay $15 for the San Campio. If you find it for $12 get two, and if it's $10 make it your house white.

Albarinos are from the extreme northwestern part of Spain, from the part of the country that overhangs Portugal. The region is called Rias Baixas. It is part of Basque country. I knew that there are a lot of funky spellings and pronunciations in that neck of the woods so I asked the woman serving the wine if she knew how to properly pronounce the name of the region. She replied that it was pronounced "Ree-ahs Bah-schuss," so naturally I replied, "So if someone didn't care for the wines of the region they might say, 'We don't need no stinking bah-schuss.'?" The silence that ensued was even more stunning than the wine. She had absolutely no idea how to take that. I didn't think that was an obscure reference. Even the audience in "Blazing Saddles" got it. I hate when that happens.

Anyway, after the Albarino, we moved over to the bar to do a little wine tasting. There was a case of assorted Spanish wines that ran out too quickly, but I managed to taste five of them. The first was a nothing-special white Rioja, but the second was an interesting Rioja Rosado, that being the Spanish name for rose. In other words it was a pink wine, something that these days American producers label as "blush," or "white," as in White Zinfandel, which was appropriate enough because the wine, a 1999 Rosado from the bodega of Marques de Caceras tasted remarkably like a bone dry White Zin. It had that same watermelon-strawberry taste I get from White Zin but the dryness makes it infinitely better with food. (I'm satisfied with the succinctness of that description. I wouldn't want to be accused of describing a ramble on rose.)

Now to settle down easy and describe the reds. The first was a 1997 from a winery called El Coto. It was their entry level red from a category known as Crianza. There are three categories, or levels of quality, in Rioja: Crianza, Reserva, and Gran Reserva. Crianza means "aged," but Crianzas aren't aged very much. Legally only one year in barrel is required for a Crianza. The El Coto Crianza tasted something like a young Zinfandel but without the distinctive berry zippiness of good Zinfandel. It showed no signs of oak aging and my notes say "International Style," which is to say modern, which is to say fresh and fruity.

Rioja has always been Spain's best wine producing region but the wines were never noted for being fresh and fruity. The Spanish have always preferred their wines to be ready to drink upon release, which means the wines have been more "winey" than fruity. As a wine ages it loses the fruitiness of youth but turns into something softer with more complexity. The scent of the wine (the "nose," in winespeak) gains in complexity too. When young a wine exhibits the aroma of the grapes but with aging the grapiness changes into the bouquet of a mature wine.

So the traditional Spanish style is to make and release mature wines. The modern international style is to release a fruity wine, often called "a fruit-driven wine." Right now there are winds of change in Spanish wine making, and the modern and the traditional exist side by side. Although there is much to admire in both the old and the new, I'm a little apprehensive about too much modernity. Don't get me wrong, knowledge is good and technology is good, but there's a danger that if everyone uses the same knowledge, the same technology, and the same techniques, the wines are going to all taste the same. The only variables left would be the soil and the weather. Wine could become like a commodity with wine from one place tasting pretty much like wine from another place. That would be a real shame because then we would experience a real loss of variety, uniqueness, and discovery, and we'd all be the worse off for it. Diversity is good. It's just like with people.

Getting back to tasting wine, I don't want you to get me wrong, the El Coto Crianza isn't a bad wine, and truth to tell there aren't that many of its type out there yet, but the key word is yet. I liked its taste, and in retrospect I realized that I was tasting the Tempranillo grape, Spain's finest native variety. And I am fond of Tempranillo.

The next wine was a Reserva, a 1996, also from El Coto, called Coto de Imaz. At first the nose reminded me of a California Cabernet Sauvignon. The taste was vaguely reminiscent of a cabernet but I could tell that it wasn't. Then it hit me. Varietal Tempranillo. Both of the El Coto wines had a high percentage of Tempranillo. Maybe they were even 100% Tempranillos. One-hundred-percent Tempranillo wines are a very recent thing in Rioja; I've tasted only two or three in the past year, and it took me a while to realize what these wines were. Traditionally Rioja reds are blends. Tempranillo dominates but they usually contain a good amount of Grenache (Garnacha in Spanish) and small amounts of two other native varieties, Mazuelo and Graciano.

I like the new 100% Tempranillo wines, but I hope they don't supplant the traditional blends. There should be enough room in this world for them to exist side by side. The Coto de Imaz was reminiscent of a mid-priced California Cabernet Sauvignon, though it doesn't have as much going on as cabernet. It's a good wine and it lists for $18. A similar wine that I've tasted recently was the 1995 Reserva from Sierra Cantabria. I think it's 100% Tempranillo, and I recall that it has a little more depth than the El Coto offering, though it could use a little more time in a bottle. It's worth a try at $16.

There was a Gran Reserva at the tasting but they ran out while I was doing my tasting and taking my notes. These are the sacrifices I have to make for my readers (as if having good wine with good food was difficult). All three of the Rioja types: Crianza, Reserva, and Gran Reserva are made from the same grape varieties but the difference is mainly the time spent aging in cask and in the bottle. Legally a Reserva has to age at least three years including one year in barrel. Gran Reservas must age at least five years, including at least two in barrel and three in the bottle. These legal minimums are actually often exceeded. There are plenty of 1991's on the market to look for right now. This would also be a good time to start looking for 1994 Gran Reservas. They are supposed to be especially good.

If a wine is aged in new oak casks it draws out flavor from the wood, but if it is aged in used casks the wood draws flavor out of the wine. This is what happens with Gran Reservas, and is one reason, along with additional time in the bottle before release, that they are ready to drink when you buy them. The danger of course is that it is possible to draw too much flavor out of them, and backlash to that is probably one reason we are seeing the fruit driven wines. If done right, however, Gran Reservas are stylish and elegant wines, and they give very good value for your money.

As 9:30 approached we headed over to the Sherry table and finished up the evening with two desert wines, two olorosos. The first was by far the finest wine of the evening. Its name is Williams & Humbert 15 Year Solera Especial Finest Oloroso. "Solera" refers to the aging system used for Sherries. The wine is a big one that explodes upward into your mouth and rattles around in your sinuses. It's truly a heady experience, yet it's balanced and elegant too. It's sweet with mouth-filling toffee flavors. And it's a little "hot" from the 20.5% alcohol, but you knew that going in. All in all a terrific wine. It lists for $30, but a little goes a long way. It would make a nice finishing touch for any serious dinner party.

The last wine of the evening was made from the Muscat grape. It was the Emilio Lustau "Emlin" Muscatel Superior Solera Reserva. (Where did they get the name? Maybe they named it for Emeril Lagasse's toddler? Maybe not.) It was dense, dark, and concentrated. The Reluctant Connoisseur described it as tasting like liquid raisins. It's very sweet, exotic, and different. It should stand up to even the sweetest of deserts, and a little goes a long way. You could probably serve 20 people at a big dinner party with one bottle. That's only a dollar a person.

That's it for this week's column friends. Like Mike Hampton who felt it was time for his boot heels to be wanderin', it's time for me to ramble on.

© Mitch Kornfeld 2001 All rights reserved


Previously by Mitch Kornfeld...

Hello Carbon Dioxide (12/29/00)

Wines for Christmas (12/22/00)

Nouveau Beaujolais, Etc. (11/24/00)

Going to a Tasting 101 (12/01/00)