A personal value to me is to blog five days a week, a goal I’ve mostly achieved since 2008. However! Not every day is it possible, especially when I’m on the road, and my hosts keep me to a tight schedule that usually starts early in the morning and can last until nighttime. So that’s why I didn’t post yesterday. Mea culpa. But here I am, in my Manhattan Beach hotel on Wednesday by 6 p.m., which means I can get a good night’s sleep and have time for this post, which is an account of my current trip in Southern California.
On Tuesday night I went to a meeting of the Women’s Wine Alliance,
a wonderful group of gals who are professionals in the wine industry, but they also do very great charity work. We were scheduled to meet from 6:30 to 8 p.m., but at 9:30 at night we were still gleefully at it because the conversations were so wonderful. I don’t think anyone wanted to leave but eventually it was time, and besides, I was happy to collapse into bed at my hotel, to get ready for a very early morning appointment.
The next morning, my pal Cory Rowin
picked me up at my hotel in San Diego at 7 a.m. and drove me to the local Fox-TV affiliate for a live interview. If you’ve never been in a Green Room on a morning T.V. show, they were also having a fashion show, an animal show, and a segment about baby quadruplets—so you can imagine! This was the wonderful lizard, Daisy, I met,
who was really as sweet and affectionate as could be despite her Jurassic look; it took some doing to get me to hold her but I fell in love as soon as she crawled up my breast and was just a loving little baby. And this was yours truly being interviewed by the morning anchor, Raul.
I’ve been on T.V. a couple times in my career and it’s always fun. We talked about wine, which the whole staff seemed to be interested in. Of course! Wine is interesting stuff.
Then we drove up the coast to Searsucker Restaurant, where we were set up for a tasting. I loved their fish pond,
and we had interested, and interesting, guests who seemed to want to know all about being a wine critic and all that jazz. Don’t get me started!
a town I haven’t been to for years. These beach towns are very wealthy and beautiful and on this perfect summer day all of them—Laguna, Huntington and the others—were Paradise.
Then it was up through San Clemente, a beach town I’ve only known as Richard Nixon’s California home, where his idea of relaxation was to walk on the beach in his suit and formal shoes, but to take off his tie! We also went to a little restaurant, Red Table,
in Huntington Beach, where I thoroughly enjoyed the New Jersey GM, Donna, and her bar manager, Jeremiah.
A good time was had by all!
At some point we hit up Watermarc Restaurant, in Laguna Beach, which is maybe the quintessential surfer-millionaire SoCal beach town.
Our lunch, especially the lamb chops, which I seldom have because it’s really hard to get good chops, was spectacular.
I so enjoy these trips because they get me out of Oakland and my comfort zone into the real world of restaurants, bars, bartenders, floor staff and wine stores, where real people who love wine work to sell it and, hopefully, buy some Jackson Family Wines wines. Every stop is different: a different play, a new cast, a new plot, a new location. And there I am, thrown into the narrative. Like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.
I’m glad they’ve finally figured out what to do with the old COPIA building, after all these years. And what is that, you ask? The facility will become “a satellite of the Greystone campus” of the Culinary Institute of America, which itself is in St. Helena, according to Eater.
I wonder if it will work, though. The description of its planned use—“demonstration kitchens, a new restaurant, and an outdoor amphitheater [and] food and wine events…a shop with cooking equipment, books, and specialty foods…and private events such as weddings, business events, and the like,” sounds awfully like what the old COPIA did, minus the museum, which, with all due respect, was never very interesting to begin with. COPIA was a hodgepodge whose total was less than the sum of its individual parts. It never did catch on with the public.
It was said that one of the reasons COPIA never made it was due to the location, on the “wrong” side of the Napa River from downtown Napa. Well, the facility is still in the same place. Granted, more people are lured across the river these days by such attractions as the Oxbow Market. But still, you have to ask yourself if you’d make a destination of seeing a “demonstration kitchen.” I’ve been in a zillion demonstration kitchens, and unless you’re an actual student, studying the technique of a chef, it’s pretty boring. As for a new restaurant, well, Napa Valley has a lot of restaurants. This one will have to be pretty special and different if it wants to survive.
The idea of a “shop” is interesting. What will it be, a sort of Williams Sonoma? (And by the way, there will be a “Chuck Williams tribute museum” on the premises; he was the founder of Williams Sonoma. What sorts of things will they display—his original whisk? An old omelet pan?) And what’s this “books” thing? Cook books? Wine books? John Grisham? I like the idea of shopping for “specialty foods,” but between Oxbow and various markets in St. Helena and Napa (which already has a Whole Foods), that market is going to have to be pretty fantastic to lure people to the location.
Of course, the new center will probably be a very nice place to have a wedding or corporate retreat, but again, it’s going to have to compete against all the country clubs, wineries and restaurants in Napa Valley that already cater to that crowd. So I’m kind of scratching my head. I wish the new CIA center good luck, but if it was an IPO, I wouldn’t buy in.
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Just for the heck of it, I Googled “wine,” then clicked on “News,” and the number one hit was this Wall Street Journal article on New Jersey wines.
I have no opinion whatsoever on New Jersey wines, never having had any, unless you count the Manischewitz I occasionally tasted and hated when I was a little boy at my cousins’ house in Teaneck. But I do have questions about this result. Why is the WSJ article #1 on Google News/wine? How do you get to that coveted position? I feel like I should know; I’ve asked lots of people to explain it to me, and many have, in endless prose, until my eardrums revolted. But I still don’t get it: how do you end at the top of a pretty generalized Google search? Does it cost a lot of money? If so, the “hit” results should have asterisks, indicating they may have been purchased. This is called transparency, the value we all claim to worship.
There’s a less sinister explanation: The Wall Street Journal is one of the nation’s most important newspapers. Lettie Teague has earned her way into the top ranks of today’s thoughtful wine writers. These things in themselves may explain the Google rankings: sheer popularity. Still, I wish somebody could really explain it to me in a way that makes sense.
Hasn’t the day of the bloated wine list come, and gone?
How many wines do diners need to “peruse” on a list anyway? Obviously, there’s no correct answer, so I can only speak for myself. I, personally, like a list with perhaps 50 or 60 choices. It’s manageable; you actually have the time and mental energy to think about each wine, to talk about choices with your dining companions and have an intelligent conversation with your server or sommelier.
There’s another thing about a short wine list I like, and that’s that when you see a good one, you can tell it’s been curated intelligently. Somebody in the restaurant loved that wine list enough to really think carefully about what wines to include. That person truly considered chef’s food, diners’ habits and budgets, and the restaurant’s overall concept. That is so much different from a list whose creator simply threw everything on there he could, based on big names and in the hope of winning awards like the one The World of Fine Wine (WOFW) recently published.
Would you be more tempted to dine at, say, Robuchon du Dome, in Lisbon (one of WOFW’s winners) if you knew they have 12,700 wines on the list? I wouldn’t, nor would I be enamored of having to wade through all 24 pages of the list at Bobby Flay’s Atlantic City restaurant, Bobby Flay Steak—so extensive that, like an encyclopedia, it has a table of contents.
How many Bordeaux, Cabernets, Rhônes, Pinot Noirs, Barolos and Riojas do you need, just to have a decent wine to drink with steak?
Once upon a time, these massive wine lists had a purpose. They announced that the American restaurant had come of age, in terms of wine sophistication. Baby Boomers wanted more variation on lists than had been the case in the 1960s and even into the 1970s, and so restaurants gave them more variation…and more variation…and more and more and more. Then came the era of the wine list award. The result was that many wine lists became—not useful guides for diners—but trophies, in the literal sense: the restaurant could win a plaque, then hang it in their lobby.
But those days are waning. The San Francisco Chronicle’s Michael Bauer, the senior wine critic in California newspapers, recently wrote, “Wine lists have also become more compact,” an evolution paralleled by a similar shortening of menus themselves: “shorter, more focused menus.”
Coravin, the wine closure and accessories company, wrote about this recently on their blog, quoting a somm who praised “smaller, more focused wine programs that are structured and presented in an approachable fashion for the consumer to extract the most pertinent information necessary”.
These twin developments–shorter menus, shorter wine lists–aren’t merely about helping restaurants save money. They’re due also to a shift in the customers’ thinking, and it’s not just because of Twitter and the 140-character brain. We have only so much time and energy in our lives; we want to devote our consciousness to important things, not minutiae. We also recognize bloat when we see it. What is more sorry than sitting down in a nice restaurant, with nice companions, only to have to trudge through a phonebook-sized wine list? Half the people at the table don’t care all that much anyway; they just want something good. So you inevitably get the “expert” studying the list, alienated from his companions, while the others, in the back of their minds, are thinking, “OMG, just pick something and get it over with.”
Here in Oakland, which is such hotbed of restaurant activity, we’re definitely seeing a move away from bloated wine lists. Oakland is the land of the pop-up restaurant, food trucks, shared kitchens, virtual restaurants, and ethnic fare from all over the world. The hot Wood Tavern, in the Rockridge District, exemplifies this new thinking about wine lists. Theirs is a bit on the longish side (about 65 selections), but it reads short and snappy, shows bottles from all over the world, both well-known and obscure, and is priced affordably. Similar in size is Flora’s wine list, easy to take in at a glance, but so well-crafted and thoughtful. Shakewell’s list is even more curated, a mere 27 bottles (not including Sherry), but really, it is positively Mondrian-esque in its spare, one might almost say spartan elegance. This is the direction I believe restaurants are headed. It’s not only easier on the diner, it means the list is more creative, and the restaurant can save money on inventory, can order more nimbly in order to take advantage of deals, and can keep prices lower. Nothing wrong with that.
I’d like to wish everyone a happy, healthy New Year. 2015 was kind of weird for me in some respects, with lots of twists and turns—but then, life always provides the unexpected, doesn’t it? The thing I’m learning, or trying to, is that I usually land on my feet, and that, no matter what happens, it’s all good.
Well, it’s not always all good, obviously. But in looking back over what is turning into my long life, I can see how almost every time something happened to me that I thought was a disaster, it actually turned out to be good. “Every cloud has a silver lining,” they say. The challenge is to see that silvery glow when the cloud is enveloping you in darkness. Not always easy—that’s where faith comes into play. I don’t mean blind, mindless faith, but a faith based on reason: something along the lines of, “Hey, this has always worked out for me in the past, so why shouldn’t I believe it’ll work out in the future?”
I’m looking forward to more great projects in 2016 working for my wonderful employer, Jackson Family Wines. It was nearly two years ago that I quit my job as the Famous Wine Critic and went to JFW. Lots of people were shocked that I would voluntarily give up such a hard-earned, coveted position. But I was ready for something else, and I also thought it’s only fair to move aside and let a newer generation have the fun of being a Famous Wine Critic. I’m glad I made that decision.
I’d also like to thank my readers for continuing to check me out every morning. The content of this blog changed when I made my job transition, but I still try to keep it interesting and timely. To some extent, my profile has gone down, which I anticipated and totally understand. But that’s good; things have quieted down in the Comments section, and on social media like Twitter, where for some reason some people got angry enough to write stupid things about me when they should have been living their lives. It’s nice to have those head-butting days behind me.
So have a great New Year’s Eve. Party hearty, if that’s your thing, but party safely, and please, don’t drink and drive! See you in 2016!
There’s been much analytical writing lately about the mental, psychological, intellectual and emotional aspects of wine, such as this think piece in Decanter, in which Andrew Jefford ruminates on the concept of wine “as a dream.” He writes of the way wine “commands our emotions” and of its “cultural depth,” referring to historical effluvia well-known to most wine writers, such as Napoleon’s love of Chambertin. As an example of this “cultural depth,” he claims, justifiably, that one cannot drink Stag’s Leap Cabernet without thinking of the Judgment of Paris. Certainly, that is true for me.
(Interestingly, Jefford puts more emphasis on wine’s alcoholic content than I would. Surely, getting buzzed, in precisely the way that wine stimulates the brain and spirit, contributes to the human capacity to experience emotion. Yet non-alcoholic consumables, such as movies and athletic contests, also stir up our emotions, so the presence of alcohol doesn’t seem to be necessary to make us feel strongly.)
Anyhow, I agree with Jefford’s line of thinking and have written about it frequently, suggesting that wine’s emotive and associative force—and not its objective hedonistic content—is the reason why people are willing to spend so much money on certain bottles. But the fact that this topic, of wine’s subjective and cultural bases, has arisen so much in recent months and years begs the questions, Why? And why now?
It used to be that the superior price of Haut-Brion, for example, was explained as a function of its superior quality. The First Growths cost twice as much as the Seconds because they were twice as good. All the experts said so; everyone believed it, because we lived in an age of expertise that applied to everything from art and economics to religion, governance and wine. People did not question the expertise of the experts, or their right to proclaim their views with rigid certainty. You might not particularly care about those views; but you, as a non-expert, were not free to disagree with them. Or, to be precise, you could, but at the risk of sounding like an idiot.
In retrospect we can see that this Age of Expertise was a minor chord in a larger symphony of hierarchical ranking, in which what was was would be. God reigned supreme over the Universe. The Kings and Queens who ruled empires were second in order, their rule “divine” and thus unassailable. Below the Kings and Queens were the Princes of the Church, Generals of the Armies and Admirals of the Navies, and so on and on, down through the pecking orders, in which peons and slaves occupied the lowest rung. These latter had no views, or none at any rate worth considering. This mechanistic view of the world and its inhabitants was reflected supremely in Newton’s mechanics.
We know what happened next: with the advent of Einstein, relativity, the Internet and social media, the old order has more or less totally collapsed. Authority means little these days, in an age when the autonomy of the individual, coupled with that anonymity of autonomous individuals called crowd sourcing, is promoted above all else. In wine, this disintegration of authority leaves the inheritors and defenders of the new order a challenging task: to explain the hierarchies of the old order. How did some wines get to be so much more famous and expensive than others? Proponents of the new order, who generally do not have the ability to taste wine widely, tend to resort to a radical explanation: that the old order was wrong. They say that when their grandparents drank Haut-Brion or Chambertin, the wine’s “cultural depth” actually became “freighted” (Jefford’s word, and not a flattering one) with a dream-weight-anchor that utterly prevented Grandpa from experiencing Haut-Brion for what it was, as opposed to the “dream” his brain conjured it to be. In Jefford’s words, “the dream modifies our reaction to the taste of the wine.”
That’s pretty radical. We wouldn’t allow someone who was racially biased to sit on a jury. We rightfully recoil when a Supreme Court Justice seems to let religious beliefs interfere with a “justice is blind” interpretation of the law. We don’t like it when news “anchors” let their politics blatantly color their reporting. So why is it that we trust wine “authorities” who speak from a dream-world?
This, at any rate, is how proponents of the new order think; and it explains why these arguments of the subjectivity and emotive power of wine are so frequent nowadays. If this tendency towards relativism in wine—an undermining of authority, a calling-into-question of the very notion of quality—continues, the world of wine will find itself in a very peculiar place that has no precedent in recorded history, in which wine always has existed within a hierarchy more or less agreed upon by everyone.
Which is why I don’t believe this worst-case scenario will happen. Human nature doesn’t change, despite fantastic advances in science. We are still the same people our distant ancestors were. Today’s wars and preoccupations mirror yesterday’s; only the particulars have changed; not much else. In wine, the hierarchies of authority (French classification systems, Famous Critic point scores) are under assault, but I don’t believe they’ll fail. These cultural re-assemblings occur from time to time; the rise, in fact, of Bordeaux to the summit of the hierarchy in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries was precisely a reassembling of a prior order, more chaotic but for all its disorder, more real. The particulars today change; the underlying reality—that hierarchies always will emerge, official and unofficial, yet understood by all—remains the same. To resist them is to form the stuff of future hierarchies.