Posts made by Tim Moriarty:

When Jerry Seinfeld created his classic comedy series, he vowed that there would be “no learning, no hugging.” I thought about that when I foolishly volunteered to blog about my summer travels and what I “learned” on the road. I think of travel as a process of discovery; learning is absorbed gradually; connections and insights revealed well after the fact. The best way for that to happen (I’ve discovered) is not to overplan, and not slavishly pursue other travelers’ itineraries of excellence.

Read up, sure. Plan some, but really, just dive in. Learning about wine and exploring wine country have that in common.

In Newport, Rhode Island, I discovered that it’s not always wise to dine where the locals dine. I waited an hour on line at the restaurant every Newport local recommended for what turned out to be the blandest lobster roll and clam chowder I’ve ever had; next day I was forced by circumstances to sit down at what I thought would be a waterfront tourist trap, but The Black Pearl turned out to have fine food and a very good wine list.

In Washington D.C., I attended a winemaker dinner with the personable Jed Steele (Steele Wines, Lake County, CA) at the Blue Duck Tavern in the Park Hyatt. Fine wines by Jed and great food by Chef Brian McBride were served. But two discoveries: You enter the restaurant through the kitchen—one of the coolest kitchens I’ve ever seen—elbow to elbow with some of the chefs. And though Steele is known for his Pinots, a standout wine was his tart yet creamy and apricotty 2010 Shooting Star Aligoté. Aligoté is considered the the “other,” lesser white wine grape of Burgundy, and is a serious rarity in California. Adventurous winemaking on the part of Mr. Steele.

On my trek to Napa and Sonoma (we’ll ping-pong from one AVA to another in this account), I visited a few wineries for professional or goal-oriented reasons. They included Dutton-Goldfield (favorites: the ’09 Dutton Ranch Pinot Noir, 2010 Gewürztraminer and ’09 Stoetz Ridge Vineyard Zinfandel), Merry Edwards (’08 Flax Vineyard Pinot Noir and 2010 Sauvignon Blanc; really, everything) and Corison, a relatively small Napa producer of powerfully elegant Cabs, Cab Francs and more by Cathy Corison. This was a no-fuss visit—a barrel served as our tasting table. Unexpected delight: her 2008 Corazon, a Cabernet Sauvignon-based rosé.

But for the most part, I didn’t want to pursue goals or chase excellence for its own sake. I was traveling with my wife, Geri, and drinking-age son, Ryan, and it was more important to follow our group instincts rather than an itinerary. So, yes, we pulled into Darioush because of the architecture, but we stayed for some surprisingly sturdy Cabernets (our favorite, the 2006 Signature). We lingered forever at Silverado Vineyards because our host, Tom Kalbrener, was so charming and knowledgeable (2000 Stags Leap Cabernet). We wandered around Calistoga and Healdsburg and gaped at giant redwoods, just because.

We made some reservations and strict plans, but left plenty of time for serendipity. Which seems wise, until you learn—no, discover that you forgot something important.

We did make reservations at Hess Collection to enjoy a guided wine-and-food pairing flight followed by a tour of the art collection, a highlight of the trip. I made reservations at Mustard’s Grill, Cindy Pawlcyn’s outstanding restaurant, because instinct (and everyone who’s been to Napa) told me it would be great, and it was. I was fortunate to have arranged (thank you, Michele and Sally) a deluxe, very gracious tour of the new Francis Coppola Winery in Sonoma, where Coppola’s movie memorabilia is now on display and where his passionate love of wine (’07 Reserve Knights Valley Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Sofia Riesling were favorites), food, Italy and hospitality is on full display. It’s all filtered through his renowned, uncanny showmanship—the a tavola dinner at Rustic, the winery’s restaurant, was maybe too showbizzy for me (attack of the acting waitrons!), but the food was grand.

Impulse led us to St. Supéry, where the ’06 Napa Valley Estate Cab (Rutherford? Dollarhide? The dog ate my notes.) turned out to be one of the best wines of the trip. My son coerced us into visiting Russian River Brewery for a beer flight; we were blown away by Supplication, a sour brown ale aged in Pinot Noir barrels.

On our final day I gazed at people serenely canoeing the Russian River, and wished I’d planned the trip more carefully to allow for that, while still feeling grateful for every unplanned moment. Remind me to do it exactly the same way next time.

“This is an interesting wine,” said the wine steward as he poured the bruised-looking white into our glasses. “I think you’ll find it….meaty,” he said, a wobbly sales pitch at best.

Everyone at the table looked at each other with sly, faintly amused alarm. That word: interesting. When someone describes a book, a movie, a lecture as merely interesting, it usually indicates a colorless, banal experience. With wine or food, though, the word can signal something ghastly or wonderful or both; a love it or hate it experience; a discovery at least.

I was about to have it all.

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Have you ever wondered how our primitive ancestors discovered wine? Meaning, how they discovered fermentation (and the giddy delights that follow) and learned to control it? We did. Back in 2002, we commissioned an article on the subject from Dr. Lee Rogers Berger,  currently Leader of the Palaeothropology Research Group at the University of the Witwatersand in South Africa.

I re-read the article after seeing a story in The New York Times last week about an archeological dig in Armenia; among its many discoveries were artifacts of what was claimed to be the oldest winemaking operation yet unearthed.

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At the dawn of the age of nouvelle cuisine, call it the early ’80s, servers at American restaurants took to boring the pants off us poor diners, reciting the chef’s every dish, every method, every ingredient down to its elementary particles in a such a precious, self-congratulatory tone that the only menu choices became: a) kill him; or b) kill self.

Don’t let this happen to you, bartenders (er, mixologists) of the world.

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The spirit that hovers over the absinthe drinker in the posters of the 19th century is portrayed as either a slavering demon or an ethereal green fairy, but in all cases the absinthe drinker is a broken-down, miserable soul. It’s the outlaw image that is partially responsible for absinthe’s resurgence today.

It may not be a demon, but there’s nothing fairy-light or shy about absinthe either: drink it straight and it’s a rugged ride; put it in a cocktail and it dominates. It’s a trickster. A demon in fairy disguise.

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I recently had a serious flirtation with Argentinian Torrontés. The first few of these whites I tried (from Colomé, Lurton and Tomero) were rich on the palate, like Viognier, but cut with precise acidity; they exhibited floral and fresh citrus flavors—sometimes lemony, sometimes orangey or melony—and a nutty undertone. I enjoyed (though did not necessarily admire) every bottling I tried. Michael Schachner, who reviews the wines of Spain and South America for WE, warned me that I was heading for a fall, but I didn’t listen. And yes, Torrontés broke my heart.

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“Rum is my enemy.” I have a friend who claims that as his motto. And if you were to hear his stories of waking up in strange places, heaving all over a friend’s bed, insulting his host, punching a nun….you, too, would consider rum your enemy.

I think a lot of us have forms of alcohol that we really can’t even think about, let alone drink, so horrendous was an early experience. For me, it’s martinis. For a lot of people it’s Tequila. But I would encourage all of us to face our fears.

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What is complexity in wine? I always thought that was a pretty straightforward proposition until a recent conversation with Joe Czerwinski, Wine Enthusiast’s tasting director and my YodaVino.

We were tasting a Torres Mas la Plana ’97, a Cabernet Sauvignon from Spain. Joe admired it very much, while I had a “meh” reaction to it. We sparred for a few rounds, neither giving ground, until Joe got me to entertain this possibility: that what I took to be a relatively simple wine actually exhibited what he called integrated complexity.

A complex wine exhibits different facets in terms of aroma, flavor and mouthfeel. Some of these may even change as the aerates or warms, which can be vexing to the reviewer who wants to nail it down but a great pleasure to the private citizen who finds a new evolution every few minutes. Eventually, it will offer a character with different nuances of spice, wood or caramel-vanilla from the oak; the tannins and acidity will be present—not intrusive, but rather coaxing a galaxy of potential flavors from the fruit.

My assumption has always been that in a complex wine, those elements can be isolated and identified, pleasurably.

What Joe was suggesting is that in certain wines, many of those elements are present, but the wine itself is so well structured, so very much itself, that it’s hard to discern the component parts. And you wouldn’t necessarily want to, because what all such wines do is: they knock you out. You love them, and may not necessarily know why.

This relatively simple revelation had me rethinking some stellar wine experiences, where I was in so much thrall enjoying the wines that I was at a loss (or couldn’t be bothered) to analyze them. Heidi Barrett’s Amuse Bouche; Riccardo Cotarella’s Falesco Montiano; any wine from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti in Burgundy; a Columbia Winery Red Willow Syrah from the late David Lake.

It’s similar to the reaction you get to a work of art that moves you in a way that you can’t quite describe, moves you far beyond how you would evaluate its component parts.

Have you had a similar experience, and which wines moved the earth for you?

I once went to a dinner where the hosts were promoting the idea of Mezcal as a quirky-posh accompaniment to fine food. Not even close, I’m afraid. The spirit was far too rustic to bring out the nuances of what was served. So I did a Loony Toons double take when I heard about Sushi-Teq, one of several restaurants in Boston’s InterContinental Hotel. It’s a sushi restaurant and Tequila bar.

Tequila being fiery and assertive; sushi being delicate, refined and steeped in tradition; and sushi chefs being vigilant guardians of tradition and also quite skilled with knives, I wondered how this happened, let alone whether it worked.

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He was the Indiana Jones of his day: As Davy Crockett, he was the star of our favorite adventure films of the 1950s. He was a hero to an entire generation of goofy kids. He was the calm center of a media and merch blitz. Very few people have worn that mantle with such grace.

Fess Parker died on March 18th at his home in the Santa Ynez Valley, California. He was 85. In his story on our Web site, Steve Heimoff did a fine job in sketching the biographical details. Steve noted that the man who played Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett was also a pioneer in Santa Barbara County wine country; he and his son Eli purchased 700 acres there in 1987.

If you want to toast Parker’s memory properly, Heimoff has plenty of suggestions.

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