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]]> 2008-04-03T14:31:00-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/one-day-niagara-on-the-lake-ontario-canada/ Do not, I repeat, DO NOT say “I thought you only made icewine here” when you’re in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Why? Well, let me put it this way: The locals will smile, give a little “ha ha” chuckle, then rip your face off faster than a starving Badger. Trippin'_Out Welcome to the new Wine X interactive digital format. By using multimedia, we can deliver a deeper, more enriched travel experience for those with DSL, Broadband or faster connections. If you have dial-up or a slower connection, we’ve streamlined the images for a faster download time.

For those with DSL, Broadband or faster, please read the directions at the beginning of the article before starting. If followed, you’ll not only be rewarded with a totally new online experience, you’ll have a lot of fun participating as well.

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]]> 2008-03-12T21:04:01-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/piemonte/ Tucked in between the Italian Riviera and the Alps of France and Switzerland, Piemonte (pyeh-MOHN-teh) has aptly been called Italy’s “green treasure chest.” Trippin'_Out

Imagine a corner of Italy where rice is as commonplace as pasta. Where you can visit a university of gastronomy and a university for truffle-hunting dogs all in the same day. Windsurf a secluded lake, mountain bike old Roman trails, hot-air balloon above vineyards, or test the powder on an Olympic-quality ski run. And through it all, taste some of the flat-out finest food and wine anywhere. Welcome to Piemonte. Meaning “foot of the mountain,” and tucked in between the Italian Riviera and the Alps of France and Switzerland, Piemonte (pyeh-MOHN-teh) has aptly been called Italy’s “green treasure chest.” Home of Barolo and Barbaresco wine, wild boar and venison, butter and cheese, and the “Holy Grail of cuisine” – the white truffle – this prosperous province offers something for everyone, every month of the year. The Truffle Shuffle They may look like mutant potatoes, but white truffles rank among the priciest and most sought-after foods on the planet. Finding them – in the woods, underground, in the dead of night – involves a keen-nosed mongrel dog and arcane lore (including moon phases) passed down from father to son. Every trifolau (truffle hunter, in Piemontese dialect) guards his best spots like secret fishing holes. No wonder – the prize fungi fetch stratospheric prices (a 1.2-kilo giant recently brought more than $120K at auction, and even ordinary ones can cost hundreds). Every fall, the world celebrates Tuber magnatum pico at the Truffle Market in the historic town of Alba. You enter below a larger-than-life poster of Sophia Loren holding a monster truffle, then thread your way past booth after booth of cheeses, sausages and other local specialties. Sample the truffled wild boar salami, the testun cheese with its crust of grape pressings, the breadstick dipped in chestnut honey, the dense hazelnut cake, and follow the heady aromas to the café bar in back. For 25 euros you can taste what the fuss is all about. While you watch, one stately gentleman shaves tissue-thin truffle slices over a pair of sunny-side-up eggs; another pours you a big glass of Barolo from magnum. (This is Breakfast of Champions Piemonte style!) Around the bend, past fragrant heaps of porcini mushrooms, the trifolai themselves display their finds. If you buy a truffle to bring home, keep it dry and cool (some suggest packing it in dry rice) and use it as soon as you can. (Oh, and it will perfume everything in your suitcase.) Or avoid the hassles by getting bottles of truffle oil instead – it’s available year-round, it keeps for months, and a few drops go a long way. (Tartufi Morra, in Alba, is a great source for all things truffle.) Drinks Move over Chianti, make way for the world-class reds, whites and sparklers of Piemonte. They’re varied, versatile, and supremely food-friendly, with a history that traces back to Etruscan times (~800 B.C.). From the castle-studded Langhe and Roero regions to the Alpine foothills, here are a few of the best. Arneis: A dry, fragrant, food-friendly white with great acidity and clean flavors from stainless-steel aging. Great with freshwater perch from the lake district or trout from the mountain streams. (Cortese di) Gavi: Dry and crisp; an ancient varietal with DOCG (Italy’s highest) status. Try it with a fritto misto (“mixed fry”) of freshwater fish. Chardonnay: Piemonte’s cool hillsides make for a balanced, fruit-driven chard, usually with little or no oak. A natural with buttered tajerin (fresh, thin-sliced egg noodles) and local game birds such as quail and pheasant. Moscato (muscat): Made dry, sweet or sparkling, the highly fragrant moscato shows ripe, honeyed fruit-and-floral aromas. Great with hard-to-pair foods, and as a lower-alcohol afternoon sipper. Moscato passito, a hyper-sweet version, is made by raisining the grapes, either on the vine or in the winery. And love it or loathe it, the muscat-based Asti Spumante is hard to beat with Piemontese hazelnut cake, or with cheese and cogna’ fruit chutney. Alta Langa, a fairly new DOC (regional appellation), produces metodo classico (Champagne-styled) dry sparklers, primarily from chardonnay and pinot noir grapes. Dolcetto: Medium-bodied and dry despite its name. Soft tannins, forward fruit and reasonable price make it an easy-drinking intro to Piemontese reds. A good partner for a sampler plate of local cheeses. Barbera: Piemonte’s most popular everday red; quality has vastly improved in recent years. Bring it on a vineyard picnic or team it with Piemonte’s garlicky staple, bagna caoda (see recipe). Nebbiolo: When produced without much barrel aging, this varietal is fresh and lively, with medium body and berry-spice flavors. It’s easy-going enough for a rustic lunch of bread, aged sheep cheese and wild boar sausage; heady enough to take on braised veal or wild hare at dinner. Barolo and Barbaresco: Big and burly, both made from the nebbiolo grape, they’re aged for up to three years in oak and can develop in bottle for decades. Locals call them the “king and queen” of Piemontese reds and serve them with the region’s heartiest fare including venison, risotto with porcini, and anything with white truffles. Barolo Chinato, seasoned with botanicals such as quinine bark, juniper and rosemary, makes a potent after-dinner digestivo. Piemonte Producers Many wineries are open to the public for tours and tasting; others require an appointment. In addition, most restaurants and bottle shops feature a wide range of wines from the entire region. Here’s a sampling: Aldo Conterno Bruno Giacosa Castello Banfi Ceretto Fontanafredda Gaja Gancia Gianni Gagliardo Michele Chiarlo Pio Cesare Prunotto Renato Ratti Sandrone Vietti Eats Fonduta – Piemonte’s alpine fondue, made with fontina cheese and often stirred into risotto. For a high-ticket version, shave white truffles on top. Agnolotti del plin – Ravioli stuffed with veal, pork, spinach and nutmeg; often topped with sage butter. Riso (rice) – Many varieties (look for short-grain “Vialone Nano” or black “Venere”). Piemontese risotto recipes vary from the salami-studded Panissa of the northeast to the wine-country mainstay, Risotto al Barolo. Polenta – The best is stone-ground, from heirloom varieties of corn. Served hot and creamy with butter and/or melted cheese, or poured out, cut into squares, and baked or sautéed. Carne Cruda – Piemonte-style steak tartare; made with beef or veal and dressed with olive oil and lemon. Bollito misto – “Mixed Boil” tastes much better than it sounds. Assorted long-simmered meats (some recipes include a pig’s foot and calf head along with the veal breast, capon and cotechino sausage) and seasonal vegetables. Manzo Stufato – Braised beef, with varied seasonings such as bay leaf and nutmeg. Tartufo Bianco: The white truffle, “Jewel of Piemonte,” tastes best as a last-second topping for simple hot foods such as eggs, buttered pasta and risotto. Shave it as thin as possible (a special tool is available locally) to release its musky, earthy aromas. Learn more at a 90-minute class in the sensory analysis of the truffle’s elusive aromas, or join the fourth-generation rector of the University of Truffle Dogs, and his ace sniffer “Lady,” on a simulated truffle hunt. Cheeses Piemonte produces a huge variety of cheeses. The intense, blue-marbled Castelmagno is often stirred into fresh pasta or gnocchi. Caprino, made from goat’s milk, is tangy and creamy when young; denser and punchier as it ages. Murazzano, a sheep cheese from the Langhe region, has its own festival in August. Bettelmat, from the lake district, gets its distinctive flavor from an aromatic local grass that the cows feed on. Melt some Fontina for a classic après-ski fonduta; slice some firm Toma, creamy Taleggio, or nutty, rich Robiola over hot polenta. Families who make their own cheeses often dry-age them to various stages of hardness and pungency, and also cure them in olive oil with wild or garden herbs. Sweets Bonet: Caramel-cocoa custard, usually served cold. Giandujotti: Mini foil-wrapped chocolate-hazelnut confections, reportedly invented by Napoleon when chocolate supplies were low. Torta di Nocciole (Hazelnut cake): Made with or without cocoa powder, cinnamon and orange peel, it stars Piemonte’s famous and flavorful tonda gentile (round and friendly) variety of hazelnut. Frutta: Piemonte’s fruit ranks among Europe’s finest. Try fresh summer strawberries or peaches soaked in Moscato, with some crunchy brutti ma buoni (ugly but good) mini-biscotti. Ciliege al Barolo (wine-marinated cherries), on menus in season, are also available in jars. Madernassa pears (an ancient local variety, recently saved from extinction) are wonderful as is, stewed with spices, or distilled into grappa. (The agricultural cooperative at Cascina del Cornale sells these and more.) Bicerin: Torino’s hot coffee, chocolate and cream pick-me-up; it originated in an 18th century café’ that still features it. Caffe’ Corretto: Cuppa joe, wine-country style, served even at breakfast: splash in some red wine to “correct” the coffee’s bitter edge. Where to Eat Ristorante Elvezia, in the town of Stresa on Lago Maggiore. Try the lake fish “in cartoccio” (cooked in parchment) Gianni Gagliardo in La Morra. Restaurant features truffle menus in season; adjoining winery. Vintner Gagliardo founded and hosts the annual Barolo Auction. Piola on the town square in Alba. Cozy trattoria owned by the winemaking Ceretto family, featuring their wines. Great house-made ravioli. Belvedere, on the hilltop in La Morra, for agnolotti, wild game and a spectacular view of the Langhe wine country. La Contea, in Neive. Traditional Piemontese specialties, with home-cured meats, fresh-made egg pasta, game birds, and truffles in season. A “Buon Ricordo” restaurant: you get a hand-painted souvenir plate when you order the specialty of the house. Combal.Zero for cutting-edge food and presentation, next to the ancient Rivoli castle near Torino. Innovative chef-owner Davide Scabin puts “ingredients together in an unusual way: semi-solid soups, semi-liquid pizzas, cyber-eggs.” (These last come with white helium balloons attached, which make for unique after-dinner conversation…) He numbers each version of a dish “like a new edition of software” – Albese 2.4, for example, for his Alba-style veal recipe. Golosi di Salute in Alba. Gorgeous pastries and confections with a health-conscious twist. Just ask, and they’ll steer you toward dairy-free, yeast-free, or sugar-free options. Must-try: the butter-free croissants, enriched with extra-virgin olive oil. Baratti e Milano in Torino. Café’ and confectionery shop, dating from 1875, with ultra-luxe inlaid marble floors, carved mahogany and silk-upholstered furnishings. Caffe’ Florio, an elegant Torino landmark, since 1780. It’s said that Garibaldi planned the future of Italy here. Renowned for gelato, especially the hazelnut-chocolate gianduiotto. Where to Stay Lake district: Hotel San Rocco in Orta San Giulio – A former convent, with ancient stonework, beamed ceilings, updated rooms. Lakefront indoor-outdoor dining (chef Paolo Viviani won top prize in the ’06 “Rice Olympics” chef competition), great lake and mountain views. Hit the nearby shops for picnic supplies or foodie souvenirs: varietal rice, dried porcini mushrooms, multicolored pasta ribbons. Torino: Hotel Santo Stefano – Sleek and contemporary. Its modern brick façade, with recessed color-changing LEDs, makes a neat old-meets-new contrast with the nearby Roman arches. Wine Country: Foresteria Conti Roero in Monticello d’Alba – Up a steep, winding mountain road, this remote, country-elegant retreat started life as a hunting lodge for Piemontese nobility. Great wine list geared to regional specialties at its restaurant, Conte Roero. Albergo dell’Agenzia in Pollenzo, a four-star hotel on a Savoy country estate. Each guest room is named for a local wine, and the fitness center features a Turkish bath. The Agenzia also houses the University of Gastronomic Sciences (the first of its kind in the world) and the Wine Bank (a “bottle library” from producers throughout Italy). You can take the Wine Bank guided tour and taste several bottlings from the cellar. Or book the two-day crash course in Piemontese food and wine, which includes wine-themed dinners and tastings at nearby wineries. Torino – Museums, Shopping and More Torino, Italy’s capital of contemporary art, offers over 40 museums and outdoor exhibits. Its Egyptian Museum is ranked second in the world, after Cairo, and the Automobile Museum houses a large collection of rare and vintage cars. (If you’re staying for 48 or 72 hours, consider the Torino Card for free public transport, and free or deep-discount tickets to concerts, museums and more. Some hotels even include the Card with a two-night booking.) For movie buffs, the five-story Cinema Museum, in the Mole Antonelliana (“Italy’s Eiffel Tower”), traces Italian film history from its beginnings in Torino. Charlie Chaplin’s bowler hat is here, along with a shark head from Jaws and an archive of some 200,000 films. An interactive tour leads you through the stages of filmmaking, and spotlights typical movie themes in ten different “chapels.” (In the “love” chapel, reportedly, you lie on red, heart-shaped cushions to watch flicks; in the “humor” chapel, you sit on a toilet.) Just outside town, the Castello di Rivoli, built for the Savoy royal dynasty, now houses a knockout modern collection in the Museo di Arte Contemporaneo. Along with an extensive permanent collection of Italian and international modern masters, the museum hosts special exhibits (the current show features Claes Oldenburg) of both established and up-and-coming artists. Throughout Torino’s city center, covered walkways and glassed-in arcades make it easy to shop, snack and people-watch in any weather. The sprawling Porta Palazzo, with over 700 stalls, claims the title of Europe’s largest open-air market, and the former Fiat factory in Lingotto has morphed into a multi-story shopping galleria. (Don’t miss the test track on the roof, overlooking the ’06 Olympic Village.) For nightlife, head to the wine bars, clubs and dusk-to-dawn discos of the Murazzi del Po, Quadrilatero Romano (Roman Quarter), or Docks Dora in the old warehouse district. Craving a martini? Salute – vermouth was invented here! Recipe adapted from Seafood Pasta and Noodles, The New Classics by Rosina Tinari Wilson (Ten Speed Press) Bagna Caoda Piemontese for “hot bath,” it’s a fondue-style regional specialty featuring assorted raw and cooked vegetables and a rich garlic-anchovy dipping sauce. Add some baguette slices to round out the meal, and to mop up any extra sauce. Bagna Caoda Sauce 1 cup small whole garlic cloves, peeled 1 cup olive oil 1 cup butter 1 can (2 oz.) anchovies, drained and coarsely chopped 1/4 cup fresh parsley leaves, coarsely chopped Vegetables Arrange your choice of seasonal vegetables on a serving platter – raw, cooked or some of each. Examples: carrot and zucchini sticks, string beans, cherry tomatoes, broccoli and cauliflower florets, green onions, cabbage wedges, radishes, tiny potatoes. How To Simmer garlic in olive oil and butter over very low heat (an electric fondue pot is ideal) until garlic becomes very soft and golden, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Stir in anchovies and parsley and keep warm while everyone “bathes” their veggies. For more info http://www.regione.piemonte.it/turismo http://www.torinoturismo.org http://www.turismodoc.it http://www.langheroero.it http://www.agenziadipollenzo.com http://www.bancadelvino.it http://www.tartufimorra.com http://www.gildedfork.com

]]> 2007-03-03T15:26:00-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/the-montalcino-syndrome/ In Montalcino, there's no shortage of excruciatingly quaint hilltop towns; no problem making you feel like writing home to say, "Sell everything. Never returning." Trippin'_Out We're speeding up the narrow two-lane road to Montalcino in Yoshi's somewhat dilapidated Datsun. After a great weekend in Siena, where I experienced a mild art glut, I was anticipating a few days in a quieter setting. Luckily I had met Yoshi four years ago during language school in Italy. After I went home, he kept hanging out and never went back to Japan. Being a confessed Italophile and vinophile, he studied Italian wine and ended up as the head wine guy at Banfi Castle in Montalcino. Now Yoshi lives and "works" in an Italian castle drinking some of Italy's most celebrated wine. Tough.

Luckily I don't suffer from nausea, so the semi-suicidal 2,000-foot climb to Montalcino rewards me with stunning views of Tuscany's grandeur. "That's where I live," Yoshi mentions casually with just a hint of pride. I follow his gaze up the mountain to the rustic hamlet now barely visible behind its wall. A few church towers rise above the crowded maze of tenant buildings. A woman opens the red shutters of her rustic apartment. March in Montalcino is a long, lingering month. With that in mind, I feel the urge to kill Yoshi and steal his job and life when I'm suddenly quelled by some amalgamate image from childhood: the Italian equivalent of Julie Andrews running down a green, mountain pasture, arms aflight, Ave Maria wafting in the background. I relax and enjoy the scenery with only mild pangs of jealousy.

We're in southern Tuscany -- the place Adam and Eve had to leave after Eve bit into that ripe sangiovese grape. Here, there's no shortage of excruciatingly quaint hilltop towns; no problem making you feel like writing home to say, "Sell everything. Never returning." Southern Tuscany is wine country, is Italy, is civilization at its very best. And if southern Tuscany is all that, Montalcino (Moan-tall-chino) is the capital in my eyes -- what most Americans must envision when they think of Italy. Picture the medieval burg clinging to its pinnacle, the serpentine cobblestone streets and squat grandmothers who negotiate them. Churchbells can be heard from anywhere in the city. Good wine is a given. Here, the pace is slower, the olive oil greener, and the entire town seems to reek of the perfection of daily life.

"There's not much to do in Montalcino," Yoshi says. But he says it in such a way that leaves me thinking "nothing to do" in Montalcino is most definitely a good thing. Here, hours are stretched free of charge. Wineglasses swell with content, and like the mythic Hydra, dishes of savory pasta seem to regenerate threefold every bite you take. There are no teenybopper discotheques, no cheesy trinket venders peddling their weary wares on the streets. Not even the Let's Go and Rick Steves backpacker hordes find their way up the mountain (often), as it's a bit difficult to reach. No train braves the perilous climb up to Montalcino's summit. Without a car, you're better off taking the one-hour bus ride from Siena.

Once at Montalcino, you're greeted by a perfectly preserved medieval hamlet. Start with a walk to the far end of the city where the fortress, or Rocca, lies. Familiarize yourself with the one main street. This requires little effort and will also let you kick off your stay in Montalcino at its Rocca. Walk the grounds, take a stroll along the catwalks, or cruise inside the turrets. And though the views from just about anywhere in Montalcino are truly inspiring, those from atop the Rocca feel somehow even more regal. Plan secret attacks on neighboring villages, wax philosophic, or just suck in the mountain air.

Although constructed in the 14th century, the Rocca has been "modernized" inside with the addition of its own wine bar, or enoteca -- arguably the first Italian term you should memorize. These blessed creatures, these enoteche, curiously absent (or at least endangered in America) thrive in Montalcino. And enoteche make me very happy. This particular one allows you to sample not only some of Italy's finest wines ($1.50 to $5 a glass) but also local meats and cheeses, like the indigenous wild boar sausage and the smooth Pecorino cheese.

Someone dead and famous once said, "To truly appreciate someplace, go there poor." That sums up my travel philosophy as much in principle as out of necessity. And while northern Italy is no budget traveler's dream, we will endure. Believe me, you'll feel better spending money on a truly memorable Tuscan experience -- like a few glasses of wine in the Rocca -- than you will getting your caricature taken outside the Duomo in Florence for triple the price.

If you're looking for something a little less, well, fortress-like and expensive, check out Enoteca Franci, one of Yoshi's hangouts. You'll find it in the main piazza to the side of the clock tower on Via Mazzini. Enoteca Franci is the Cheers of the city, attracting every living inhabitant in Montalcino, young and old, hip and otherwise. During sunny days, get a bottle of great Montalcino wine, sip a cappuccino or snack on some rustic salami and Parmigiano cheese. At night, the atmosphere is right out of a Hemingway novel: red vinyl benches; mirrors; chandeliers; and a dark, cavernous back room full of wines to choose from or to ogle, or both. Sound expensive and chic? Nah. Plus you get the whole "ex-patriot, grainy black-and-white" feeling to boot.

And there's plenty of great wine to go around. First and foremost, the top wine, the black rooster of the town: Brunello di Montalcino. Actually, its reputation doesn't just apply to Montalcino, Tuscany or even Italy. In the world of wine, Brunello is a big boy. A strain of the more familiar sangiovese grape of Chianti, Brunello (so named because of its brownish hue) is responsible for Italy's finest red wine alongside Barolo. With a minimum aging of four years -- six months of which must be in bottle -- Brunello is a dark, dry, potent wine that goes with anything it wants. For that reason, it's, well, a bit expensive. A bottle will start around $20 and run as far as your credit card can. And further. And faster. Keep in mind, though, that the same wine in America -- provided you can even find it -- costs much more. From the little investigating I've done, you're looking at around a $10 to $15 price hike in America on Brunello. In addition, you have the usually insane "dock fees" or whatever American restaurants call their premiums. Translation: if you feel like doing it up in Montalcino, Brunello is the one.

But I have good news for those who don't want to mortgage their mothers for wine: Rosso di Montalcino. This wine is made from the same sangiovese strain. In many respects, it's the same wine, the only difference is the aging time and price tag. And sure, I could probably tell the difference between Brunello and Rosso. But I can also tell the difference between a Mercedes and a Honda. And which is better for the money? Rosso starts at $5 and runs to about $10 for the top producers. Don't sweat these big names, though. Every bottle I had was a lesson in how to enjoy life. And if you're not a total wine geek, Rosso, in most cases, is a much better choice than the far pricier Brunello.

The more established wineries in Montalcino excel in most all the varietals, though. Apart from the slew of red wines, you can peruse anything in white from sauvignon blanc to the syrupy sweet moscato. In short, Montalcino is a wine town. You merely need to visit Enoteca Franci or any one of the some thirty million bars or enoteche (or so it seems, as potential wine pit stops appear with blissful regularity). And when drinking wine in Montalcino remember: being snobbish with wine doesn't come naturally to Italians. Wine is their mass consumption, normal beverage which, for most Italians, still comes in a water glass. As such, wine drinking seems a touch more genuine, more enjoyable. No pedantic rigamarole, just good wine and, of greater importance, kind, witty people.

If you're itching to taste the proverbial "fruit of the vine" and want to experience what really put Montalcino on the map, go to the tourist office and get a bus schedule for the wineries themselves. They're located outside the city, it takes a vehicle, a Japanese friend with a vehicle, a bus, a taxi or a long thumb to get there. For a taste of the original Brunello, head toward Biondi Santi. Clemente Santi was responsible for isolating the Brunello strain of the sangiovese grape in the last century. Since then, Biondi Santi has claimed awards around the world for its Brunello. Good for them. Also good for us -- if we want to spend around $40 a bottle. Prices and standards are high. However, if you're a Brunello freak, or plan on becoming one, this wine is a "must taste;" and the winery, a connoisseur's "must see."

I also highly recommend Banfi: one of the most established yet progressive wineries in Montalcino. You can enjoy the views from the tasting room, the Banfi Villa, the Banfi Castle and, most importantly, slurp some vino with Yoshi. (Tell him I sent you. Heck, it might be good for some perks.) You can even eat at the winery, if you want to drop some major cash and really impress your significant other. However, any type of winery experience is possible. Montalcino has everything from space age, stainless steel producers, to old school brothers with unpronounceable names.

Just about any type of winery experience is possible, though. Montalcino has everything from space age, stainless steel producers to old-school brothers with unpronounceable names. The smaller estate of Campogiovanni, for example, doesn't have the esteemed reputation and, therefore, must make quality wine at the lowest cost possible. Although owned by the larger San Felice, Campogiovanni is fighting to make a name for itself in the highly traditional ground of Montalcino And in this category, there's a plethora of great wineries ready to sell you on wine before non-existent, or at best, respectively small, reputations. Apart from Campogiovanni, definitely try Marchesato degli Aleramici, Col d'Orcia, Castelgiocondo, Mastroianni and la Poderina. Brunello from these producers usually runs in the $18 to $30 range; Rosso from $6 to $10. Though their wines are easy to acquire, information on most of these wineries is scarce. Check with the tourist office, or call directly upon arriving.

"But we must eat," you say. "We can't live on wine alone." Sadly, this is true. Have no fear, though. If the Montalcinese know anything beside wine, they know food. And the question is not where or what to eat, but how to sample everything without breaking your budget or your new Italian leather belt. Yoshi and I checked out his favorite place, Osteria di Porta al Cassero. From the street it may not seem like much. The actual surroundings are quite simple and unpretentious -- my favorite style. But the smell alone is enough to merit a try. I almost floated in on a wave of heavenly aromas a la Tom and Jerry. Definitely try anything with wild boar, usually prepared as a stew or ragù. And if tripe is your game, it's also the specialty. Yoshi partook. I did not. If you're like me, check out Pici -- thick, worm-like spaghetti -- or Pappardelle -- big ribbons. Both are traditionally served with one of many rustic treats from meat lover's heaven and come almost attached to a bottle of Montalcino vino.

For espresso, cappuccino and every derivative thereof, stop by Bar Mariuccia, sort of across from Enoteca Franci. I never asked, but the elderly couple who slings the java must be the Mariuccias. A real mom-and-pop operation complete with sweets from another Mariuccia who runs a pastry shop and rents rooms down the road. Stunning views of the countryside await in the backroom of the bar. There is no charge to sit down or be waited on as there is in the bars of some of the more touristy hilltop towns.

Now you're beat. You pounded out the last drop of your Brunello and went for the after-dinner grappa. Feeling oh so Italian, you even stopped for the late-night espresso. Where to stay? Hotels are scarce and expensive, but fortunately rooms abound. While taking your non-goal-oriented strolls, you probably saw signs here and there saying: "camere/zimmer/rooms." These could be anything from private rooms inside family houses to quasi-condos.

The best I found was a place called Il Moro. Also located on Via Mazzini but away from the main piazza, Il Moro is attached to the trattoria of the same name. There are four double rooms, beautifully refinished with wooden interiors, superb views and a combined kitchen/dining room/sitting room downstairs. I was there in March, and my girlfriend and I had the whole swanky place to ourselves. A room will run you about $40 a night, but it increases to $60 from Easter to the festival month of June. Well worth it, even if you have to bend, twist or otherwise alter your budget. If Il Moro doesn't turn your crank, check with the Mariuccia family or the tourist office by the main piazza for listings. Otherwise, take another leisurely stroll around the city inquiring about prices when you see the sign "camere/zimmer/rooms." Nothing could give you a better feel for Montalcino and its inhabitants.

More rustic getaways are also possible. If you're bent on getting away from everything, try an agriturismo: usually a rural hotelesque setting on the road less traveled. Being that Montalcino is already a tad "out there," agriturismo offers you the possibility of stretching your days even further. For a really different take, try Abbadia Ardenga. This ex-abbey now rents entire apartments at reasonable prices (starts at about $20 per person per day). This is particularly worthwhile for larger groups. A minimum stay of three days is required.

If Il Moro and the rustic hideaways don't turn your crank, there are, of course, the star clustered hotels. Montalcino's best -- Hotel Bellaria and Albergo Ristorante Il Giglio -- boast three stars and have all the amenities. Get the full treatment and opt for "full pension" -- two square meals along with the room, all at the same place for around $85 per person.

If you go for a posh pad, save money on eats by grabbing some sausage, cheese, good Tuscan bread and wine from the COOP supermarket. Have a picnic on the church lawn at the opposite end of the town from the Rocca. And don't worry if you find yourself becoming more Montalcinese than you thought possible: hanging out in bars when you're not thirsty, chatting with locals when you don't speak Italian. I was even eyeing Yoshi's overtly Italian shoes and coat thinking, "those are pretty sharp." Just enjoy these metabolic changes -- what I group collectively as "The Montalcino Syndrome" -- while they last. ]]> 2007-02-01T20:21:01-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/wine-queens/ Let's raise a toast to these lovely ambassadors of the grape and honor their contribution to the success of the California wine industry as it stands today. Goin'_Big After years of struggling to prove itself to the rest of the world, it seems the California wine industry has finally arrived. There's no disputing the quality of California wines, and never before have they enjoyed a finer reputation. But at what price?

Somewhere in the uphill struggle to world-class status, the California wine industry lost a very important tradition. The French still have it. Bovine festivals still have it. Even garlic, cherry and apple growers still have it. But when autumn rolls around in California wine country, the folks are left empty-handed. Without representation. Without hope. Without...a queen!

Things weren't always this dark. In the 1950s and '60s, wine queens reigned over the California vineyards like welcome spring showers. Each October, at the California State fair in Sacramento, vintners chose a local lovely to represent them as their queen during National Wine Week. Some queens were blonde, some brunette. Some even studied dramatic arts. All, of course, were beautiful.

For seven glorious days, the newly crowned Vintage Queen would take her position as wine's goodwill ambassador, making appearances at vintage festivals, attending dinners and proclaiming the excellence of California wines. But perhaps the most important duty of the Vintage Queen was posing for stunning publicity photos, personifying the glamour, grace and charm of California wines. Even some 40 years later, the message comes through loud and clear.

It's time for these photographs to charm the world all over again! Let's raise a toast to these lovely ambassadors of the grape and honor their contribution to the success of the California wine industry as it stands today. In fact, why stop there? Let's be the first to shove all the nineties politically correct crap aside and elect new wine queens to lead us proudly into the 21st century!

Long Live The Queens!

. Everything grows large in California, they say! The beautiful 1950 Vintage Queen has the proof, as she playfully prepares to drink a giant glass filled with California Champagne.

The charming 1950 Vintage Queen pauses from her grape picking duties to flash the lucky cameraman a smile.

. Sultry! 1951 Vintage Queen Jeri Miller pauses during the wine grape harvest to adorn her hair with grape clusters. No wonder the grape was America's third ranking tree fruit that year!

Beautiful Jeri Miller, 1951 Vintage Queen, toasts National Wine Week and wonders where she left her house key.

. Diane Bagshaw, 1953 Vintage Queen, wears the traditional grape picking outfit favored by field workers of the day.

. Dee Hardy, 1957-58 Vintage Queen, has a sunny disposition in spite of the grape vine growing out of her head.

The lovely Dee Hardy, a 23-year-old San Francisco dramatic arts student, is pictured here trying to figure out where she left her glass of Chardonnay.

Dreamy Dee Hardy, 1947-58 Vintage Queen, prepares to sip California Champagne while bubbles dance around her head in admiration.

. Wine Queen June Adler reigned over National Wine Week, October 10-17, 1959. She is truly the picture of glamour!

1959 Wine Queen June Adler raises a toast to California wines after a day of hosing down tanks in the cellar.

. Making wine is hard work, but Marilyn Lockway, 1963 National Wine Queen, makes it look easy!

]]> 2007-01-01T21:52:00-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/deal-me-in/ Being a good poker player requires something few people do in today's short-attention-span society: paying close attention to everything. Among_Men

Never play cards with any man named 'Doc.' Never eat at any place called 'Mom's.' And never, ever, no matter what else you do in your life, sleep with anyone whose troubles are worse than your own. -- Nelson Algren

Without man's innate urge to take risks, we'd all still be sitting around drawing on cave walls, grunting and belching. Fortunately, our daring ancestors ventured forth into the dangerous world and created civilization. Which means today we can take our risks in small doses, like sitting around a dining table playing poker... and grunting and belching.

If you haven't smugly riffled a newly won stack of poker chips in a smoke-filled room surrounded by smelly guys swilling beer and cursing, then you haven't lived. You can leave the martinis, Baccarat and double-breasted dinner jackets to James Bond and his crumbled-British-Empire ilk. If you're an American man, playing poker's part of your heritage.

Our nation was founded on the idea of taking chances. This country was built by a bunch of rowdy guys who liked drinking and taking risks, and didn't like being told what to do. This is precisely why poker -- that most American of card games -- couldn't have been invented anywhere else. The father of our country, George Washington, who also happened to brew his own beer, was known to host card games in his tent during the Revolutionary War -- a war in which, it's important to remember, our opponent held the far better cards. Against all odds, those stalwart colonial souls managed to back up their bluff and rake in the rich pot that included freedom, democracy, self-determination and the deed to several hundred thousand acres of prime real estate. Some years later (in the mid-1800s), poker as we know it today was invented in the American West. So, if our founding fathers hadn't played and won, we'd be as lacking in cultural identity as our floundering Canadian cohorts up north, eh? (Note to Canadians: Please address your letters to the editor, RE: Canadian Cultural Identity Crisis.)

It's estimated some 60 million Americans play poker regularly. Some play for their love of gambling, some for their love of money, some to escape the humdrum routine of their lives, and some just for their fondness for camaraderie. Whether you win or lose, whether you know when to hold 'em or know when to fold 'em, gathering around a table with a group of pals, a deck of cards, stacks of colored chips, and some eats and drinks is one of the hallowed traditions of the American male.

The human instinct to gamble with fate is probably as old as...well, human instinct. The Ancient Greeks believed the lofty Gods of Mount Olympus threw dice to divide up the world. (Crude dice have been found in most ancient civilizations.) Roman soldiers cast lots for Jesus' robes. Julius Caesar conquered Gaul to pay off gambling debts. It's a fair bet that amoebas floundering in the early primordial soup wagered on who'd be the first to make it out of the bog.

Poker differs greatly from the games of pure chance in casinos. Gamblers, whether they bet on the roll of the dice or the spin of a roulette wheel, are generally betting against the odds. Smart gamblers know this, but it hasn't stopped gaming from becoming one of the most successful business enterprises. Skillful poker players use their knowledge to wager only on favorable odds. Gamblers are romantics looking forward to what might happen.

Accomplished poker players are realists betting on what should happen. Of course in poker, as in most endeavors, what should happen isn't always what does happen.

Fortunately in poker, as in life, you don't have to be good at it to like it. (Though I'm sure those who are absolutely no good are welcome and regular guests at many a poker table.) You just have to enjoy yourself.

>> There are no Miranda Rights in poker; anything you say and do can and will be used against you.

A man's character is stripped bare at the poker table. Friends will notice things about you that you've never even noticed yourself. These things are called "tells" -- signs you give off indicating what type of hand you have. If you hold chips in your left hand before betting, or always pull on your ear when you're bluffing, rest assured some savvy soul at the table is aware of it. There are no Miranda Rights in poker; anything you say and do can and will be used against you. Being a good poker player requires something few people do in today's short-attention-span society: paying close attention to everything. Because poker's as much about people as it is about cards, and how we live influences how we play. There are those who play and live cold and conservative, striving to avoid risk, and those who play and live brash and full of bluster. There are players in the games of life and poker who'll never bet unless the odds are actually in their favor. If you can't spot the sheep waiting to be sheared at the table by the time you've quaffed your first beer, there's a good chance it's you. But in a friendly game always remember that you can shear a sheep many times, but you can only skin him once. You don't have to have the best cards to win, either. You just have to play the best. And every hand is different, depending on what you choose to do with it. If you enjoy bluffing your way through life -- and getting away with it -- then you probably get a major adrenaline rush by stealing a healthy pot knowing your opponents have you beat. The bluffing element of poker sets it apart from almost all other games and pursuits. You can't pretend to have the best hand and win in bridge or blackjack. You can't pretend you're a great mountain climber and conquer Kilimanjaro any more than you can bluff your way through the Iron Man Triathlon. So many human endeavors are cut and dried; if you say you're the best, there's only one way to prove it. This is the very beauty of poker. After all, isn't this what we all want? In every deck of 52 cards there are 2,598,960 possible five-card poker hands. The bad news is that you're only going to be dealt one of them. The better news is that there's always the chance, the possibility, that you can transform whatever cards you hold into the winning hand. That's why poker's never dull. The game has thousands of variants, and all it requires is your group of buddies, a deck of cards and some chips. It's always better if you switch the venue and the responsibility for providing the eats and drinks. And you can bring as much, or as little, flair to your poker night as you like. If you're like me, you started with Budweiser, smelly Swisher Sweets and nickel-dime-quarter games. Over the years my friends and I have graduated to imports in both our beer and cigar preferences, and the same red, white and blue chips have grown to represent much larger sums. It's not fun without the risk of losing a bit more than you should, and you can't win if you don't play. If you're really a gambler (this most superstitious of species) you'll of course have a good-luck token of some type, whether it's the old Dunes $5 chip you didn't cash in before the implosion, your tattered boxers emblazoned with the Queen of Hearts, the filthy Cubs cap you bought at Wrigley the year they were going to go all the way (but didn't -- again) or maybe even a silk smoking jacket. Poker is more psychology than sophistication. Studies have shown there's a real psychological boost from believing in a good-luck piece and that gamblers actually get an adrenaline surge as if they were in a fight-or-flight situation. Jonny Chan, former World Series of Poker champion, was always known to place an orange beside him when he played, though he never ate it. Stories abound about how many people have offered him absurd amounts of money for his orange, which he never sells. Having others believe in your good-luck charm never hurts. Whether you carry an edible good-luck piece or not, poker night requires sustenance. You need fuel to keep you going during the hours you're spending trying to outwit your opponents. The history of eating and playing cards goes back even further than the Earl of Sandwich, who actually invented the snack that bears his name as a way to eat without getting his hands greasy and without missing a moment at the card table. While it's not as exciting if there's no money involved, your game should never be too serious. You can play to win money or to have fun, but doing both is the best. Dealer's choice allows the deal to rotate around the table, with each person given a chance to deal whatever game he chooses. In the old days they used to place a silver dollar, one buck, in front of the person whose turn it was to deal. This ultimately became a cliche when President Truman, an avid poker player, declared: "The Buck Stops Here." When we play poker, the games run the gamut from the classic 5-Card Draw of the Old West to 7-Card Stud, 7-Card No-Peeky, Baseball, Black Mariah, Chicago, 2-22, Guts, Lo-Ball, Omaha, Acey-Deucy, 3-Card Monte and several of our own twisted variants. It's good to have a healthy and eclectic mix of games, some where skill plays out along with some of the whimsical games of pure dumb luck that the poor players and drunks always enjoy and often win. Each pack of cards holds within it the possibility of millions of different outcomes every single time we deal. In life and poker we can't all be winners, but we certainly can't win if we're not in the big game. And not knowing what'll happen, well, that's the real beauty of this poker game called life anyway, isn't it? That's exactly why life is such a big deal, after all. Anything might happen.

>> If you can't spot the sheep waiting to be sheared at the table by the time you've quaffed your first beer, then there's a good chance it's you.

>> HISTORY OF THE CARDS Wild Bill Hickok and the Dead Man's Hand: Legend has it that Hickok always sat in the back corner of the saloon so he could see who was arriving, but eager to get in a high-stakes poker game that had only one seat open, he took a seat with his back to the door. He was shot in the back while holding two pair, black aces and eights, ever after known as the Dead Man's Hand. ACES OF SPADES: Believed by many the world over to be an omen of evil, and known in the Far East as the "Card of Death." In 1966, the U.S. Playing Card Company produced several million decks composed solely of aces of spades for use as a secret weapon in Vietnam. They were dropped on the Front and said to have struck terror into the Viet Cong. HIGH FLYING CARDS: Apollo 14 astronauts took specially made flameproof decks of cards for use in the 100% oxygen atmosphere of Skylab. INVENTION OF PLAYING CARDS: Because they invented paper, and because it's almost unfathomable to imagine a culture having paper and not making cards, the Chinese are generally credited with the invention of playing cards. HISTORY IN THE CARDS: Before the invention of printing, the Italians are known to have produced hand-painted playing cards of four suits (though cards were first mass-produced by the Germans very shortly after Gutenberg's invention of the printing press and were one of the first things to roll off after the Bible). In the Middle Ages the suits were set up to reflect contemporary society with hearts (cups or chalices) representing the Church; spades (or swords), the military; diamonds, the wealth of the merchant class; and Clubs the peasantry. FACES OF HISTORY: Originally the four kings represented the four civilizations that begat Western culture: the Greeks, the Romans, the Hebrews and the Holy Roman Empire. Today's images are much the same as the symbolic ones chosen centuries ago. The king of spades is the Biblical King David carrying the sword of Goliath; the king of hearts is Charlemagne; the king of diamonds wielding a battle-ax is Julius Caesar, who appears in profile because the only surviving images of him were profiles on Roman coinage; and the king of clubs is Alexander the Great, who holds an orb representing the world he conquered. Most of these original symbols hold true on today's cards, though cards as we know them truly became popular when English soldiers of the Tudor era returned home with the concepts after serving in France, adorning the royal face cards in Elizabethan Age garb. The colored roses held by the queens represent the ending of the War of the Roses. POKER RULES: The first book to codify the rules of poker was compiled in 1871 by the U.S. ambassador to England, at the request of Queen Victoria, whom he had introduced to the game. The current authority on poker and all card game rules is the famous "Book of Hoyle," hence, the phrase "according to Hoyle" for something done by the rules.

]]> 2006-12-11T20:17:01-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/recent-decent-cookbooks-vol-61/ Reviews of: Marcella Says: Italian Cooking Wisdom from the Legendary Teacher’s Master Classes, with 120 of Her Irresistible New Recipes; Inspired by Ingredients; Off the Shelf: Cooking from the Pantry; Barefoot in Paris: Easy French Food You Can Really Make at Home; Feast: Food to Celebrate Life. Cookbooks

Marcella Says: Italian Cooking Wisdom from the Legendary Teacher’s Master Classes, with 120 of Her Irresistible New Recipes
by Marcella Hazan
(HarperCollins, $30)

When the maven of Italian cooking writes another cookbook, you best pay attention. This isn’t a spaghetti and meatballs book - this is Italian cooking from Italy, with Italian ingredients and a whole lotta straightforward Italian advice from Ms. Hazan. (You did see the word “Master” in the title, didn’t you?) Be sure to try Baked Mozzarella, Tomato, Capers and Parmesan Crostini; Fennel and Goat Cheese Salad; Veal Shanks with Lemon; and Spaghetti “Rotolo” with Zucchini and Bacon. It’s almost like graduate school for foodies. C’mon, you know you wanna bust Iron Chef Italian on home culinary turf. So don’t cut class.

Inspired by Ingredients
by Bill Telepan
(Simon & Schuster, $35)

New York City chef Bill Telepan loves fresh ingredients - so much so that he dedicated an entire book to cooking (and eating) seasonally. Telepan comes across as an enthusiastic guy who must have been a farmer in a past life. (Maybe even a Master Farmer.) Recipes range from easy to complicated, but there’s something for everyone - from Pan-Fried Summer Jersey Vegetables and a delectable Pea Soup, to Chilled Shrimp with an Autumn Slaw, to Grilled Dry-Aged Rib-Eye Steak with a Red Onion Cipollata and Herbed White Beans. Head to your local farmer’s market, grab some of-the-moment veggies and get Berkeley on everyone’s ass.

Off the Shelf: Cooking from the Pantry
by Donna Hay
(Morrow, $25)

Reasons why we love Donna Hay: the recipes are easy, the food’s tasty, and the books are paperback (read: lightweight) yet full of pretty pictures. This Aussie chef has come out with another must-have cookbook, and the only shopping involved serves to stock the pantry. For those nights when unexpected (read: uninvited) guests drop by, rest easy that you can now step into the kitchen and whip up dishes like Stir-Fried Prawns and Noodles; Baked Chicken, Lemon and Pea Risotto; and Pasta with Buttered Broccoli. She even throws in recipes for quick sweets like a Peach and Raspberry Tart; Honey Cakes; and Raspberry Sorbet. Off the Shelf will rescue even the most novice cook from take-out menus.

Barefoot in Paris: Easy French Food You Can Really Make at Home
by Ina Garten
(Clarkson Potter, $35)

I love Paris… and I especially love it a la the Barefoot Contessa, otherwise known as Ina Garten. Ms. Garten manages to transform fussy French recipes into easy, do-it-at-home-in-under-one-week dishes. Her simple recipes include classics like Boeuf Bourguignon; Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic; Zucchini Vichyssoise; Loin of Pork with Green Peppercorns; and Blue Cheese Souffle. (And the Creme Brulee - ready to bake in 10 minutes, I swear - is a godsend.) Her conversational tone will ease any kitchen anxiety, and before you know it you’ve made an entire meal. Buy this book, kick off your Jimmy Choos, pour yourself a Kir Royale and browse through the glossy photos. It’s like Paris without the long flight and snooty customs officials.

Feast: Food to Celebrate Life
by Nigella Lawson
(Hyperion, $35)

Nigella, the British icon known for her sensual finger-licking television show and cleavage as much as for her culinary skills, is back with a book dedicated to holiday feasts. Impress your beloved with a dozen Love Buns or a Chocolate Raspberry Heart on Valentine’s Day, or liven up Halloween with Blood and Guts Potatoes and Ghoul-Graveyard Cake. For lesser-known holidays (like my-in-laws-are-coming-for-brunch-so-help-me-God), whip up Ms. Lawson’s tasty Banana Buttermilk Pancakes or a batch of Andy’s Fairfield Granola. New Year’s, Midnight Feast, Wedding Fest, Festival of Lights, Rosh Hashanah - they’re all here and they’re all fabulous. (There’s even a “Meatless Feast” section for you veg-heads.) Start celebrating. Burning Man is just around the corner. ]]> 2006-11-14T21:13:00-08:00 http://www.winexmagazine.com/index.php/wine/vieweat/slow-spokes/ Cycling the Tour de France has been likened to running 20 marathons in 20 days. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t run one marathon in 20 days. Trippin'_Out

Cycling the Tour de France has been likened to running 20 marathons in 20 days. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t run one marathon in 20 days.

Yet there I was, under the blistering sun of Provence, slowly pedaling my way up one of the most dreaded, soul-crushing climbs of last year’s Tour: Mont Ventoux. What lured me to that beast of a hill was a longing to do more than just watch the Tour de France. I wanted to experience the Tour de France. I yearned to ride the very roads that, just hours later, would be chewed up by Lance Armstrong, Laurent Jalabert and Joseba Beloki. I wanted to white-knuckle it down the same hairpin turns, and be cheered on by the giddy spectators who’d camped out for days, waiting for that colorful tsunami of Spandex to speed by. Basically, I hungered for a taste of what the world’s most grueling sporting event really felt like.

That’s what landed me, my husband and 13 others on a Tour de France cycling trip with Backroads, an adventure travel company. The plan was to follow the last third of the three-week race as the riders whizzed their way past the lavender fields of Provence, up the mythical Alps and down the cobblestoned Champs-Elysées in Paris. Along the way, we’d stay in four-star hotels, consume obscene amounts of French fare and work off those calories by cycling 40 to 60 miles a day (except during the trip’s three rest days). We’d get to bike some of the most memorable segments of Tour de France routes. We’d also tackle short sections of last year’s course, a torturous 2,032-mile journey.

“How hard can this be?” I naively wondered as I sat on my couch, lazily thumbing through a Backroads catalog. “It’s not like we’re doing the whole Tour. Just part of it.”

But that “part” happened to be the part with the mountains. Big, colossal, mammoth mountains.

Even so, I saw this as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If the prognosticators were right, I’d be witnessing Lance Armstrong pedal his way into the history books, becoming the first American ever to win six Tours. I’d be right there, literally, on Armstrong’s road to victory. Mountains, shmountains, I reassured myself. I’m 34 years old; I take spinning classes. I’ll be just as good as anyone else on the Backroads trip.

I knew I miscalculated that last part as soon as I got a glimpse of the other Backroads travelers. Most of the men’s legs were shaved closer than mine. This meant there was either a disproportionate number of transvestites on the trip, or these were some serious cyclists. It turned out to be the latter, which meant my husband and I were destined to play the role of lanterne rouge, the red lantern that hangs from the back of a train. It’s Tour-speak for “the slowpokes.”

But unlike the Tour, this was a vacation, not a competition. At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I crawled up Mont Ventoux, which I think is French for “makes you curl up in a ball and cry for Mommy.” The 6,273-foot mountain juts out of the Provençal landscape like a giant tumor; and this tumor is anything but benign. Comedian and cycling aficionado Robin Williams summed it up this way: “Even the mountain goats don’t like it.”

Ventoux is a relentlessly steep 13-mile climb to the barren, lunar-like summit, where exhausted British cyclist Tom Simpson keeled over and died during the 1967 Tour. As I started to wonder if the same fate might await me, a burly Frenchman with a moustache as big as my handlebars decided I needed a little pep talk.

“Allez! Allez!” he repeatedly shouted in my ear as I crept up the mountain in granny gear. My French friend was telling me to “Go! Go!” which was what I wished he would do, since sweat was stinging my eyes, my legs felt like the beleaguered stage during “Riverdance” and the last thing I wanted was a hairy cheerleader.

But his words pushed me on, if only to put a little more distance between me and his Burgundy-infused breath.

I’d hear the “Allez! Allez!” refrain countless more times from the throngs of onlookers who’d staked out their spot on the mountain, waiting for the Tour to wheel by in a few hours. Folks like me were merely the warm-up act.

We all know the French are very good at some things (food) and not so good at others (war). But they’re extremely adept at the high art of tailgating. When they weren’t rooting on amateur cyclists like me, they killed time by sipping wine, nibbling on brie and baguettes, playing cards and painting riders’ names on the street.

At my heady speed of 4 mph, I had ample time to witness all of these pre-race festivities. It became clear that, to the French, the Tour is much more than a sporting event. It, like Jerry Lewis, is a cultural phenomenon. Unlike Jerry, it’s easy to understand the Tour’s appeal. This is a race packed with more drama than a Jerry Springer show, and with at least as much potential for bloodshed. Catastrophic crashes. Drug raids. Cheating. Smack talking. Not to mention jaw-dropping displays of athleticism. It’s hard to imagine just how much pain these guys put themselves through until you’ve sampled some of it firsthand.

Mont Ventoux is a kick-in-the-teeth climb, even when you’re cycling it with fresh legs like we were. But the Tour racers had logged 120 miles that day before broaching the base of Ventoux. And they still managed to go up it faster than I went down it. How’s that for an ego-deflater?

It truly is a humbling experience to watch more than 150 Tour riders sail up the very road you just cycled. They make it look so easy. But your burning quads and aching back remind you that it’s not.

I thought cycling Ventoux would leave me too exhausted to cheer on the racers. But one glimpse of that Texan wearing the coveted yellow leader’s jersey had the effect of a dozen espressos. There he was. Lance Armstrong — cancer survivor, cyclist extraordinaire — about an arm’s length away from me, plowing up the very mountain that made my legs feel like overcooked fettuccine. Despite being chased by a pack of cyclists who wanted nothing more than to strip that golden jersey off his back and feed it to him in tiny pieces, he looked more serene than I do in a bubble bath.

Other racers gulped oxygen like frat boys chug beer. But Armstrong seemed to be barely breathing while he pumped his pedals like pistons. I knew I was watching an über-athlete in action. I had a front row seat at the Tour de Lance, and I’d earned it. At the top of my overworked lungs, I shouted the words I’d once heard from a wise, mustachioed Frenchman: “Allez! Allez!”

Going against the better advice of my high school English and sex education teachers, this story starts with the climax. For anyone involved in wine, the three months from the end of August until the end of November are both the most exciting and the most frightening of the year. These three months dictate the final say in whether you happily learn that your wines will be served at the White House or whether you become the largest vinegar producer in your neighborhood. These are months of 60- to 80-hour work weeks (and many times more) that on one hand require complete control of the environment around you and on the other hand require you to give in completely to the whims of nature. These are months where all thoughts of family and friends dim in an ever growing purple haze as your sleep deprived mind attempts to reconcile the hundreds or thousands of details that'll make or break the next year of your life. This is Crush.

More specifically this is my accounting of Crush for David Coffaro Vineyards and Winery. This vineyard/winery is owned and operated by (take a big guess here) David Coffaro and I'm his assistant winemaker (i.e. only employee). This is the inside scoop of what we have to do in order to put a prime bottle of vino on your table. David Coffaro Vineyard and Winery consists of 20 acres of grapes that Dave planted in 1979 and a winery building that he's been operating since 1994. We make wines that are big and red; zinfandel, petite sirah, carignane, an "Estate Cuvee" (a blend of the previous grapes plus cabernet sauvignon) and a "Neighbors Cuvee" (our only non-estate wine whose blend changes from year to year). Like a sandblaster to Tammy Faye Baker's face, I hope to strip away the layers of overglamorized marketing rhetoric and highlight the best advice I ever got about becoming a winemaker -- "Don't do it!"

The excitement of crush takes place on two separate but intertwined stages that seem to spin and twist in independent motion. The first of these stages is the vineyard. The 20 acres of vines we grow is minuscule by industry standards (There are certainly vineyards that are smaller but we are definitely of the side of pretty-darn-tiny). The first job we have in the vineyard is to wait for the grapes to turn from a rather pretty translucent pink color into an intense dark purple/black color. This process is called veraison. Once the color changes we're in the picking ballpark and ready to play the game. The second step is doing a large amount of grape sampling from each block of vines. It's amazing how grapes will vary from one small block to another, even if they're only 10-100 feet away. For about a month before the actual harvest, my job is to pick a representative sampling of all the grapes we grow and monitor them for sugar content. In general we're looking for a level of 24 to 25 percent sugar, which we measure as 24 to 25 degrees Brix.

The Brix reading is only the second stage however. Knowing the sugar level lets you know the technical ripeness of the grapes but not their actual flavors. Somewhere in the early to mid-twenties (sugar level), grapes go through an incredible change of flavors that ultimately add to the complexity of flavors in the finished wine. This change can only be determined by tasting the grapes themselves. So during the final week before harvest Dave and I walk through every block and randomly snack on grapes to make sure they have the flavors we want. If the sugars are perfect but the flavors aren't there then we simply wait until they develop before picking. Once they do, Whamo!, it's time to wake up really damn early and pick some grapes!

Harvesting grapes is a demanding and sticky job. The grapes are about 25 percent sugar and as the workers dump their picking tubs into the half-tons bins, grape juice splashes everywhere. It's well worth the effort, however, because I get to drive a really cool tractor. Once the half-ton bins are full they are driven to the winery and weighed. From there they're taken, by forklift, into the winery and the grapes are put through a machine called a crusher/destemmer. Now, agricultural machine manufacturers are not very creative when it comes to naming their equipment. When I say we dump the grapes into a crusher/destemmer you can be well assured that the machine will probably crush (lightly) the grapes and destem then, doing very little if anything else. We then pump the destemmed/crushed grapes (a.k.a. "must") into a one-ton bin (again, no big guess on how much it holds). The must is then inoculated with yeast and the transformation into wine begins. [As a side note I should mention that this is specifically the process for making red wine. White wine is processed in a similar but distinctly different manner. I'll get into the whites later.]

The addition of yeast is technically a winemaking choice and not a requirement. Native yeasts, which accumulated on the grape skins in the vineyard, will naturally transform the grapes into wine. But most winemakers don't trust these native yeast strains for the same reason you don't let your crazy cousin Leroy baby-sit your kids -- you just don't know what might happen and, even though the results might be fine, it's just not worth taking the chance. Yeast contribute four things to the winemaking process: heat, alcohol carbon dioxide (CO2) and sulfites. The heat and alcohol produced make it possible to adequately extract the flavors and characteristics from the grape skins (almost all of the character and all of the color of red wine comes from the skins being broken down). Alcohol acts as a solvent that extracts organic compounds in the grape skins and the heat aids in and speeds up the chemical reaction involved in fermentation.

The CO2 has a separate and interesting effect on the fermenting grape skins. As the CO2 is released by the yeast cells it catches in the grape skins and causes them to float to the surface of the fermentation bins. This forms a solid layer of covering the top of the bins like ice on a lake. This layer is called the "cap" and can get so thick in larger tanks that a full-grown person can walk across it without falling through. The cap, however, presents a small problem. Since most of red wine's character comes from the skins, having them separate from the juice during fermentation can be bad. This small problem is solved by either "punching down" or "pumping over" your bins or tanks. Punching down involves taking a stick-like device (a 2x4, garden hoe, etc.) and breaking up the cap while at the same time mixing it with the juice. Pumping over involves hooking up a pump to the bottom of the tank and pumping the juice over the top of the cap. These actions insure that the grape skins have enough opportunity to breakdown into the wine.

We monitor the fermenting bins at Coffaro constantly and record the residual sugar levels and temperatures at least once a day. When our measurements show that there's one percent sugar or less left in the wine we prepare the press. We use what's called a bladder Press (For $200, what item is inside this press?). The bladder press is a long cylinder made up of a perforated screen. We pump the fermented juice and skins into the press and rotate it while inflating the internal bladder. This is such an efficient form of pressing that when we remove the grape skins -- the squeeze-dried skins is now called pomace -- they are dry, warm and flaky. They serve no real further purpose and are dumped back into the vineyard as fertilizer.

The pressed wine is pumped from the press into a selection of barrels that we've pre-chosen dependent on the wine varietal and individual character it exhibits. At Coffaro we use six to 10 different cooperages, with barrels ranging from American, French and Hungarian oak. However, this doesn't mean we make "oaky" wine. Barrels serve two general purposes; the first is storage and aging; the second is imparting flavor. Barrels only contribute oak flavors to wine for the first two-to-three years of their life, then, after that, are considered "neutral." As storage containers they can be used for decades with the proper care. So, although all of our wines are barrel aged, we only use 20-25 percent new oak to contribute delicate oak flavors. (This percentage varies from winery to winery. Some use as much as 100 percent new oak, some don't use any depending on the varietals grown and the style of wine preferred by the winemaker.

Once the wine is in the barrel we inoculate it with a malo-lactic starter. All red wines and most whites go through a process called malo-lactic fermentation (ML). ML is a bacterial process that changes the malic acid that's naturally found in wine (it's the same acid that makes green apples taste tart) and changes it into lactic acid (the same acid found in milk). This process makes reds more chemically stable, and for white wines it adds flavor (i.e. that "buttery" flavor in most chardonnays). Now that this is done both the wine and the winemakers get a chance to take a short break and recuperate before it's time to start the whole process over again.

Next time we'll learn why they call cellar workers "rats."

Best Endorsement: Coming in a close second to Ron Loutherback’s endorsement (see The Insider, page 40 in this issue) is an endorsement by Wine Spectator. We learned in 1999 that they (mainly their publisher) call us “The Dark Side.” Not quite sure why. You’d think they’d figure out that the more young adults we turn on to wine now, the more subscribers they’ll have in about 10 years. But then again, it’s Wine Spectator.

Best Brokest Moment: In 2000, Random House published our first edition of the Wine X-Rated Guide to Wine. They were flying me to LA for the Festival of Books at UCLA to have me speak on a panel with other wine/food authors. Sounded great. ‘Cept I had absolutely no money. I mean NO money. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. And I had no one to sponge off. Luckily I had gas in my car, so all I really needed was $6 to pay for airport parking (when I returned). So here was my plan: I had some foreign currency (from press trips abroad). I figured I’d fly down to LA, do the festival, then get dropped back at LAX early so I could go to the International terminal to cash in the currency. These best-laid plans were going great until I found the foreign-currency exchange booth. Closed. After running through the terminal in near panic, I found another that was open. I cashed in my currency and made it back home with a whopping $11.52 in my pocket.

Best Catch-22: After a year of dogged persistence, former Wine X ad sales director Dan Eliason and I finally snagged a meeting with a brand manager for a big Italian wine company. For an hour we did the ol’ dog and pony show, covering all the details on why the brand (which retailed for $11) would appeal to our readers. Their response? “We don’t think your readers will spend $11 on a bottle of wine.” I could tell (from so many other meetings with middle-aged brand managers who think young adults don’t have any money) that arguing with them was futile. So I said we’d forward the results of our recent reader survey, which included the average price our readers were paying per bottle. Upon receiving this information, which indicated our readers were spending about $16.50 retail for a bottle, we received an email back saying that if our readers are spending that much on wine, they’d never buy an $11 bottle. D’Oh!

Best Cover: To this day, despite all the great celebs we’ve had grace our cover, I think the best cover we’ve ever published is the first. Not because it shocked so many old farts in the industry (which it did). And not because the design of the cover alone cost me more than the design of the following 63 pages (which it did). I think it’s the best cover we’ve done because it did exactly what it was supposed to do: it alienated the “old guard” (as intended); it attracted young adults to a magazine about wine (as intended); it paved the way for a new era of wine magazine appealing to the other 35 million U.S. wine consumers who weren’t reading Wine Spectator or Robert Parker. If you have a copy of our first issue, Vol. 2.1, hold on to it. Trust me. It’s worth more than the paper it’s printed on. Wanna see the intricate detail that our then-cover designer Glen Martinez achieved on that first cover? Look at the button on the jeans. (No, Wine X wasn’t making jeans at that time.) Or examine the tattoo. One by one Glen painstakingly placed each hair that seemingly comes through the tattoo ink. Yes, the tattoo was Photoshopped in. But the belly ring was real.

More next issue. ]]> 2006-08-28T20:00:00-08:00