We’ve done a lot of talking over the years, in this blog and throughout the social media sphere, on the topic of careers. The main question–given the rapid influx of wine bloggers–has been how to monetize those blogs. We’ve heard from “experts” of every stripe about SEO and ROI and all that, but the issue never really was resolved. I mean, nobody yet knows how to “monetize” a blog, do they?
And yet it seems to me that, with the benefit of hindsight, we now can see that this question wasn’t the right one to be asking. The right, and bigger, one was, how are the careers of wine critics evolving in the second decade of the third millennium?
To answer it, we need to understand a little history. To have “a career as a wine critic” made no sense at all until sometime in the 1970s and 1980s, when America finally became enough of a wine-drinking country to warrant the emergence of a cognoscenti who had the time and intellectual curiosity to study wine and then present themselves as arbiters of taste to the multitude of consumers who suddenly found themselves overwhelmed by excessive choice.
(I’m talking about here in America. In Britain, you could always go to work for an auction house, the way Michael Broadbent and Harry Waugh did.)
There may have been a handful of critics who actually made a living writing about wine before the late 1970s, but it was primarily limited to reporters in big cities, like New York and Los Angeles. And even then, these reporters weren’t allowed to write exclusively about wine. When Frank Prial was given the “Wine Talk” column at the New York Times, in 1972, he was still expected to–and did–cover the news. There simply wasn’t enough demand for a full-time wine reporter back in those days.
The Golden Age, as it were, of wine writing as a career really began in the mid-1980s, when Wine Spectator was picking up steam and Parker had launched The Wine Advocate. Tens of thousands of newby wine lovers, overwhelmingly Baby Boomers, subscribed, making Parker and Mr. Shanken wealthy men. Other entrepreneurial types, including my former employer at Wine Enthusiast, took note, and launched their own publications; meanwhile, more and more big city newspapers started up wine columns. With all those pages to fill up with content, a hiring spree began, and more and more people, including me, found themselves paid (albeit not much) to write about wine.
This Golden Age probably reached its peak some time ago. Early-warning signs were the Los Angeles Times’ cessation of having a full-time wine writer, the recent decision of the San Francisco Chronicle to scale back its wine and food section, and the tendency at wine magazines to hire independent freelancers to write for them, instead of full-time writers (thus, without healthcare and pension benefits). Making a decent living writing about wine became harder and harder as the 21st century dawned.
We come now to two recent developments that may shed added light on the situation. First has been my own transition, which most of you are aware of. Then came yesterday’s stunning announcement that Wilfred Wong, the longtime Cellarmaster at Bevmo!, has left that company to be “Chief Storyteller” for wine.com.
I’m told that, when the press release announcing my own job switch went out, lots of jaws dropped. Mine didn’t, of course–but it certainly did when I read the news about Wilfred. It immediately started me thinking, what does this mean?
That meaning is inherent in cultural phenomena, no matter how obscure, has been observed by semioticians, including Umberto Eco. Marshall McLuhan and Roland Barthes. For example, we can see, in the movies about invasions by space aliens that thrilled American kids in the 1950s (think “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and “The Day the Earth Stood Still”), direct reflections of the paranoia and xenophobia Americans felt at that early stage of the frightening Cold War between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, both armed to the teeth with thermonuclear weapons. The interpretation of such films on a meta-level actually reached the point where some observers perceived analogies between “The Day the Earth Stood Still” and the New Testament.
I similarly see meaning in what has happened with Wilfred and me in the last two weeks, although since we have not yet had the benefit of hindsight, it’s more difficult to parse out its precise parameters. But this much is clear: the wine industry, for the first time ever, seems to be expanding into newer areas in which wine writers are seen, by employers, to possess skills far in excess of “mere” wine writing and reviewing. Over the course of decades of work, a wine writer necessarily is plunged into the complexities of marketing, public relations, brand building, tier construction, image making, understanding consumer behavior, social media, labels, closures, and analyzing such things as why certain new brands soar to stardom while others don’t, why some star brands become eclipsed over time, how an eclipsed brand can re-establish itself (or not), and how a brand that’s doing well can remain relevant in the face of increasing competition, both domestically and from abroad.
These are broad and sophisticated skills. It’s not that a wine writer sets out to study them; it’s that he or she necessarily absorbs them during the course of performing one’s job.
Both Wilfred and I have been doing this for many, many years. In fact, during a conversation I had the other day with a friend, I found myself telling him (to my own surprise) that I feel like I’ve acquired the equivalent of a pH.D. or three, in all the areas I described above. It seems clear that my acquisition by Jackson Family Wines, and Wilfred’s by wine.com, both occurred, at least in part but to a great degree, because those companies appreciated that we have become generalists with a wide degree of knowledge of how this industry works–whereas an employee hired out of business school with an MBA or a degree in marketing or communications lives in a sort of bubble, where the horizon is limited by the contours of her own speciality.
What is the take-home lesson now that writers are being respected for having hard-to-define, but unmistakable, talents, beyond writing and good palates? To me, it’s that the wine industry has entered a new era of sophistication, more akin to industries like high tech and entertainment than to old-fashioned ones, like the wine industry used to be. The 1980s and 1990s may have been a Golden Age for wine writers, but it was (we can see on reflection) a time of some stagnation for the industry at large, which sat by as other industries understood the importance of global communications in the global village. The wine industry, by contrast, was content to depend on an older model that was dissolving right before its uncomprehending eyes.
I don’t know exactly what Wilfred’s duties will be–chances are his new job, like mine, will evolve. But what his title, Chief Storyteller, implies is that wine.com sees him as a generalist-expert, with a solid understanding of the industry in all its aspects, and the ability to connect with people through the written and spoken word. I don’t have a complete handle on what this means, but it surely means something.
It is altogether fitting and proper (as Abraham Lincoln said in another context, in the Gettysburg Address) that the last wine review I shall ever write for Wine Enthusiast should have been for a Williams Selyem wine.
It was the 2012 Papera Zinfandel, which I reviewed on Monday. I did not deliberately hold it for the very last. But I did have a thought somewhere in the back of my mind that the culmination of more than twenty years of reviewing should be a special wine.
Had I had an unreviewed sparkling wine of quality, I certainly might have considered it; but I didn’t. Nor was there a proper Cabernet Sauvignon or Pinot Noir. That left the Wiliams Selyem Zin, and what a wine it was. Bob Cabral has had a particularly successful series of vintages with that Russian River Valley bottling; the 2012 was one of his best.
But it wasn’t merely the quality of that Zin that made it a fitting toast to a celebrated departure. It was my admiration for Williams Selyem itself, and for Bob. I don’t have the longest experience of him among wine writers: others knew him, and enjoyed tasting the wines of Williams Selyem, long before I. We met around 2001, if I recall correctly, when I was writing A Wine Journey along the Russian River, in which he looms large. I remember with particular fondness sitting with him, in his cluttered little office at the old winery, on Westside Road, as he assembled the first-ever vintage of Neighbors, the blend of vineyards the winery sources from the Middle Reach of the Russian River. I felt privileged then to be asked for my opinion. I doubt that Bob seriously took anything I said into account for the actual blend, but it was terribly kind, and flattering for him to go through the motions.
A few of us tried the other day to estimate how many wines I’ve reviewed over the years. I honestly don’t know. Probably in excess of 60,000, possibly far greater than that. I don’t think Wine Enthusiast’s database, in its current incarnation, goes back that far. Of course, if you throw in all the wines I’ve tasted unofficially, the number has got to be around 100,000. And yet here I am, still standing, in good health, not alcoholic. Perhaps all that reseveratrol will yet come in handy.
People ask me how I feel, leaving the magazine for my new gig. The thoughts and emotions, as you might expect, are complex, but two stand out: one, that after 25 years as a wine writer (and always a freelancer; I was never a real employee), it was time for a change. And two, that my new job, at Jackson Family Wines, is a big one that requires a lot from me, and I take it all with a sober sense of responsibility. Aren’t you excited? people want to know. I tell them that excitement isn’t the word I’d use. I’m excited when I get to go to a Giants game, with great seats and Lincecum pitching. I’m excited when, after some time on the road, I come home to see Gus again. (And Gus is always excited to see me!) But “excited” doesn’t seem to have the proper gravitas for this occasion.
What will I remember most about being a wine critic? For sure, the kindness, respect and friendliness people in all walks of the industry have shown me over the years. I always felt the need to keep a kind of reserve; while I’m by nature affectionate, I thought that my position mandated a certain distance. I did not want to get too close to people whose wines I might have to give bad scores to. This business of how close to get to winemakers whose wines you’re reviewing must be on the mind of every critic. But it is no longer something I need worry about.
I think also of the wonderful opportunities I’ve had to explore every nook and cranny of our beautiful state of California and its wine regions. I’ve written before that I never saw a wine region I didn’t fall in love with, from the austere Santa Maria Valley to the bucolic glories of West Dry Creek Road, from the sheer drama of Highway 29, with its parade of famous wineries, to the curvaceous hills of Happy Canyon and the insanely wild mountains of Fort Ross-Seaview. To have experienced all this, often under the tutelage of local winemakers who taught me about the terroir (occasionally from a helicoper), has been undiluted joy.
And then there were the wines themselves. Not too many 100 pointers. Wine Enthusiast took a position, with which I largely agreed, not to be too profligate in handing out the ultimate accolade. Certainly, we can debate whether or not a 98 point wine might “really” have been worth 100 points (or vice versa), but that would be a waste of time, the point being that I’ve had more great wines than anyone can reasonably expect to have in a lifetime. Yet, somehow, that never spoiled me. Before I was a wine critic I drank Bob Red and White, or Gallo Sauvignon Blanc in 1.5s, or inexpensive Chianti, Médoc, Côtes du Rhône or anything else I could afford: and I was a happy man. The splendor of wine, it seems to me, lies in the beverage itself, its profoundly tongue-loosening and restorative qualities and affinities for food, and not in the web of fantasy we weave around it, in our imaginations.
Anyhow, I called this posting an “epitaph.” It is that, for my wine reviewing career, but it’s also a birth, for my new one. L’chaim!
At a blind tasting of all of Bill Harlan’s 2005 wines, held in 2008, I once rated The Matriarch higher than Harlan Estate itself.
The tasting was held, at my request, at Harlan’s lovely stone estate winery, in the hills above the Oakville bench. Seven wines–Harlan Estate, The Maiden, The Matriarch, and and 4 BONDs–were wrapped in tin foil and arranged on the big wooden table. After the tasting, which I did alone, Bill came back and we discussed my results. Needless to say, he was, shall we say, bemused by my favoring Matriarch, which was the least expensive of all the wines. (I’m told he still has a copy of my reviews on the wall of his office.)
Segue to Winston Lord. In the early 1970s, he was special assistant to Henry Kissinger, then President Nixon’s National Security Advisor, and as such, played a key role in planning Nixon’s historic trip to China and meeting with Mao Tse-tung. Lord reflects, in the book “Nixon: An Oral History of His Presidency,” on the psychodrama of Nixon being ushered into The Presence of Mao. “With a great historical figure [like Mao], there is the danger that you will be impressed by personal charisma and presence because you feel you ought to be,” he said. Even the President of the United States of America, Lord suggests, became a different person before the world figure of Mao.
The parallels between meeting Mao and tasting Harlan wines should be obvious. You can rejigger Lord’s quote this way: “With a great, historical wine [like Harlan], there is the danger that you will be impressed by its renown and presence because you feel you ought to be.” And then, of course, in most cases, you are, despite taking any psychological precautions you think will even things out. Every wine critic knows this. If you’re tasting Mouton-Rothschild at the chateau in Pauillac, your perceptions are altered in ways you might not even recognize. You can try to shift back to neutral ground by telling yourself, “Although I know where I am and what I’m tasting, I can be objective,” and perhaps you actually believe that; but it’s very, very difficult, and it may ultimately not even be possible.
Why should Harlan Estate be better than The Matriarch anyway? The former, in case you don’t know, is exclusively from the Oakville vineyard around the winery. The Matriarch is a “second wine” of BOND, which is the label for a series of single-vineyard bottlings from around Napa Valley which Bill Harlan contracts with but does not own. All of the BONDs are very great wines, farmed meticulously to Harlan’s standards, and made in a similar style to Harlan Estate. Even allowing that The Matriarch’s lots have been ajudged (by Harlan’s blending team) to be not up to snuff for the main BOND wines, keep in mind that this is just the team’s opinion; and we know, from experience and common sense, that a single-vineyard Cabernet may have divots, or slight defects (not faults) here and there, which wines from other vineyards may compensate for.
Keep in mind, too, that at the level of a Harlan Estate, price is almost solely determined by the market. It has little or nothing to do with the costs of production (admittedly high); at some point, consumer demand takes over. Consumer demand for all of Harlan’s wines is high, but it is highest for the Estate, hence its superior price. But the last time I checked, consumer demand does not necessarily correlate with quality. So we’re really dealing with some very subjective, personal issues here.
Which gets us back to Winston Lord’s observation about meeting Mao. The key phrase in his quote, I think, is “because you feel you ought to be.” Tasting Mouton, or Romanée-Conti, or Harlan Estate, or anything of that ilk, even the most famous taster in the world can be forgiven for feeling that he “ought to be” impressed. The question consumers should ask (at least, those who care about wine critics) is, To what extent is this “ought to be-ness” reflected in the critic’s reviews? If you have a critic who reviews all of Harlan’s wines every vintage, and consistently gives his highest scores to them in order of price (Harlan Estate highest, the Maiden and the BONDSs slightly lower, The Matriarch the lowest), then you might well have reason to arch an eyebrow and wonder what’s going on. It could be that Harlan Estate always is the “best” (again, whatever that means), but it also could be that the critic, tasting openly, either is (a) impressed by the wine’s charisma (for which we should deduct 2 or 3 points from the score) or (b) merely trying to be consistent with his past reviews. The consumer really has no way of knowing which it is.
What is a “profound” wine?
Lettie Teague indirectly raised this question in her recent Wall Street Journal profile of Joe Salamone, the wine buyer at Crush Wine & Spirits, which is in midtown Manhattan. Teague’s column was, in part, about the language people use to describe wine; Salamone, referring to a particular Savoie red, liked it “for its freshness and structure, although,” he added, “it’s not a profound wine by any means.”
Whatever does that mean?
The word “profound” pops up time and again in formal descriptions of certain (usually well-known) wines. Someone on Wine Beserkers, writes that “you can sum up [Romanée-St.-Vivant] in just a few words (fruit, five-spice, and satin–there, done)–but it is still a profound wine because its form is beautiful even though it’s not complicated.” K&L Wine, down the freeway from me in Redwood City, uses the p-word in its newsletter with almost profligate frequency: a 2003 Ausone is “profoundly concentrated,” a Branaire-Ducru of the same vintage “profound,” while, on the other hand, quoting Parker, the ’83 Suduiraut is “not as profound as the other 1983s…”. Our friend Matt Kramer has described the Pinot Noirs of the [far] Sonoma Coast as being among “the most profound Pinot Noirs grown in America…” while even a modest Sherry, an Amontillado from Tio Diego, is anointed with profundity in the British financial magazine, Money Week, where it’s described as “iconic and profound.”
These different writers seem to be describing the same thing, but from the consumer’s point of view, it’s hard to know what it is they’re talking about. How can a wine be “not complicated” and yet “profound”? Can a Sherry be “profound” in the same way as Ausone? Are there degrees of profundity? And what is the monetary value of “profundity” in a wine compared to one that’s merely very good without being profound?
No wonder wine shoppers get a little crazy.
I myself am no stranger to the p-word. I called the aroma of a B Cellars 2008 Beckstoffer To Kalon Cabernet “profound in black currants and cassis,” and also described as “profound” the tannins on a 2008 Cabernet, the PerryMore (also from Beckstoffer ToKalon). Clearly we writers are trying to communicate something important when we use this word to describe a wine or some aspect of it. I italicize this phrase deliberately, for it raises another question: Can individual parts of a wine be profound, while others aren’t? If, in fact, a single part (structure, aromatics, tannins) is profound, does that then raise the entire wine (which is the sum of all its parts) to profundity?
You can say that these are just angels-dancing-on-pinheads debates, fit pastime for indolent Jesuits, and in part, that’s right. But it matters, at least to those of us who take the art of wine writing seriously.
We know certain things: to call a wine “profound” is probably the highest accolade you can give it. Writers do not and should not use the word promiscuously. We know, too (or at least we hope), that when a writer calls a wine “profound”, it’s because that writer has experienced a great many great wines over a long period of time, and therefore knows what he’s talking about. If Joe Blow, who’s been writing about wine for a year or two, says a wine is profound, one is entitled to doubts. Perhaps he read an established writer use that word, was impressed, and is trying it out for himself. (By the way, it’s no criticism of young wine writers to say they’re still trying to find a style.) If on the other hand a seasoned professional who’s experienced great wine for decades calls a wine profound, our ears prick up. Mine do, if it’s a writer I respect.
I associate profundity in California wines chiefly with Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir. I don’t particularly want to rehash the debate over what constitutes a “noble” wine, because then we’d have two words–noble and profound–to define, rather than only one, thus muddying the waters even more. But a great Pinot Noir or Cabernet is where I typically (if rarely) find profundity. I have had white wines that were profound, but they weren’t from California. As much a fan as I am of great California Chardonnay, I wouldn’t call it profound. (I hope someone doesn’t plow through Wine Enthusiast’s database in search of one or two times I might have. If you do that, you have way too much time on your hands!) California Chardonnay can be sexy, opulent, dazzling, amazingly rich–but profound, it ain’t.
Last question, re: Salamone’s quote about that Savoie. If you like a wine, a lot, and it goes really good with the food you like, and it satisfies you in every way, but it’s “not a profound wine by any means,” should that bother you? Of course not. I’m reaching for an analogy, but the experience of a profound wine is like going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and seeing all those Rembrandts and El Grecos. That’s not an everyday experience. That’s an experience to heighten your senses and delight you with great art. But you can’t live in a museum, nor would you want to, I should think.
Some blind tastings confirm what you know. Others do just the opposite, bringing a wrecking ball to your presuppositions. The best blind tastings are a little of both.
That was the case at yesterday’s “Altitude Matters” tasting, in San Francisco’s Financial District, where Stonestreet winemaker Graham Weerts and Gillian Handelman, Jackson Family Farms’ Director of Wine Education, presided over a blind tasting of six wines–four reds, two whites–about which we knew nothing, except that they could have come from anywhere in the world, but from elevations of at least 1,000 feet–and, presumably, that at least one of them was a Stonestreet wine, although not even that was assured.
The objective, Graham explained, was not necessarily to identify what variety or varieties the grapes were, or even where they came from, as this: To discern if we could “tie together” some themes common to the wines, which then might provide a better context for understanding all high altitude wines.
High altitude grapegrowing is itself marked by certain conditions, based on the nature of the terrain. Soils tend to be depleted; water is scarce; the roots of the vines find easy proximity to minerals in the soil, but, on the other hand, the grapes’ exposure to sunlight, and particularly ultraviolet light, is greatened. In the case of Stonestreet, whose vineyards are on Alexander Mountain above the Alexander Valley, the grapes often are above the fogs that swathe the valley and lower elevations, making daytime temperatures warmer, especially in the mornings. But due to the famous effects of temperature inversion, nighttime lows are higher than on the valley floor, making for more consistent overall conditions. Because the grapes struggle, they develop thick skins, hence bigger (often much bigger) tannins than valley floor grapes, but they also, oddly, develop higher acidity. These are all major factors in determining the flavors, textures and longevity of mountain wines; yet, as Graham took pains to state, “We’re not saying mountain wines are better, just different.”
Here are the six wines and some comments about them:
Picher Achleiten 2012 Gruner Veltliner. I didn’t know it was Gruner but neither did anyone else, to judge by the comments (the attendees, numbering about 50, seemed mostly to be somms). I liked the wine’s dryness, grace and power, its amazing minerality and acidity, as well as a touch of green pyrazine.
Finca Dofi 2011 Priorat. This was a massive wine, rich in iron and black currants, with grippy tannins and big acidity. I didn’t even try to guess what it was, but just marveled at its power.
Telle Nere 2011 Etna Rosso. Made from variations of the Nerello grape, this might have been a Northern Rhône Syrah, for all the grilled meat and black pepper notes. But, nope, it’s from Sicily.
Stonestreet 2010 Rockfall Cabernet Sauvignon. I knew it was a distinguished, young wine, probably Cabernet. But with all that graphite and conifer going on, I missed its California origins.
Chave 2008 Hermitage. This was the tightest, most reserved wine of the tasting. I could barely get anything out of it for the first 30 minutes it sat in the glass. Then crushed blackberries and black licorice emerged. One or two of the somms got this right.
Stonestreet 2011 Upper Barn Chardonnay. I knew this instantly: that bright acidity, the pellucid mouthfeel, as pure as mountain stream water, the lemon verbena, peach and honey flavors that finish so dry. Surely it was a Stonestreet Chardonnay from a recent vintage.
But wait. This shows how psychology factors in. We already knew that Wine D was a Stonestreet. Would Graham have included two Stonestreets in a six-wine tasting? Thus I began to doubt myself. When Gillian asked for comments, I raised my hand and said I thought it was a Stonestreet Chardonnay, but, given Wine D, I was prepared for it to be something else.
Well, of course, Graham did include two Stonestreet wines, so it was gratifying to have gotten at least one of the lineup correct. It needs also to be said that I was impressed by how much the somms knew of such a wide range of world wines. I, by contrast, probably was more familiar with the world’s wines before I became a specialist in California wine. There’s only so much time in the day, and my emphasis, bordering on obsession, on tasting California wine leaves me few days in the year to taste much else. Afterwards, I was with my wonderful colleague at Wine Enthusiast, Virginie Boone, and I told her how much I admired the somms’ knowledge.
“Yes,” Virginie replied, “but they probably wouldn’t recognize a Lodi Zinfandel.” Touché.
What linked all six mountain wines?
-Not entirely fruit-driven, but herbs and minerals
-Great structure, including acidity (none of the wines was adjusted)
Working on an article on Napa white wines for Wine Enthusiast, I realized I’d never blogged on Pinot Gris/Grigio. So I did a little crawling around my reviews over the years (helpfully stored in the magazine’s terrific database) and here’s what I came up with.
If you’d asked me ten years ago what I thought of PG, I’d have said the same thing I’d say today: workhorse white, much as it is in Italy, in places like the Alto Adige. A simple wine to wash food down. I’ve reviewed about 825 PGs since my very first, a Hogue 1998, from the Columbia Valley, which I gave 86 points. I liked its delicacy, fruitiness and acidity, all qualities I still admire in a PG.
My highest score ever was to Chamisal’s 2011, from the Edna Valley, which I awarded an Editor’s Choice even though it wasn’t exactly cheap, $24 to be exact. I thought it deserved the special designation, being the highest-scored of that variety ever for me. Chamisal called it Pinot Gris rather than Grigio. It’s not an ironclad rule, but in general wnemakers call the wine Gris if it had some oak and was stirred on the lees, while they reserve Grigio for steel-fermented ones (which also can be sur lie). But I’ve had oaky PGs that were called Grigio so you can’t really go by this rule.
Certainly the best PGs must come from cool areas. If the wine doesn’t have acidity, it’s flat, and there’s nothing worse than a flabby white wine, especially if it also has residual sugar. The best areas for PG in California are Edna Valley, Sta. Rita Hills (where Carr and Babcock excel), Carneros (Etude is always a standout), Anderson Valley (Navarro defines the crisp, elegant style), and the Santa Lucia Highlands, where Morgan specializes in it. Rick Longoria makes a consistently good PG which he labels with a Santa Barbara County appellation. I don’t know where in the county the grapes are from. Maybe the Los Alamos area? Anyway, Rick’s PG’s go beyond mere lemons and limes into exotic tropical fruits, apricots and honey.
The funny thing is, I don’t think I ever ordered a PG in a restaurant. I don’t know why. I suppose it’s because the variety doesn’t make a really compelling case for any particular type of food. I think a rich, barrel-fermented one would be great with something like the albacore tuna tostada, with crisped leeks, chipotle mayo and avocado, they serve at Tacolicious, in the Mission. But so would their La Sirena cocktail (Ketel One, lime, ginger, cassis), a Corona Familiar, or for that matter an Albariño from Rias Baixas.
That’s the problem with a wine with Pinot Gris/Grigio. They can be good, but they don’t demand to be paired with anything in particular. If you’re having boiled lobster and butter, or Dungeness crab with buttered sourdough bread, there’s really only one wine: Chardonnay, the richer the better. If you’re having a rack of lamb with roasted potatoes, you can’t go wrong with a great Pinot Noir. But what food screams out for PG?
On the other hand, good California PG isn’t very expensive, averaging $15-$24 for a 90-point bottle. I wonder if there are any sommeliers out there who will read this and make some suggestions for individual PGs and what foods to pair them with.