Liquid : Restaurants

Asian persuasion: Cocktails look East … Far East

Sara Faith Alterman — Mon, 05 May 2008 18:30:00 GMT

WESTERN CHEFS have long looked to the East for inspiration. The cuisines of China, Thailand, Korea, Vietnam, and Japan are all popular in the United States, and Asian ingredients are often coupled with European techniques and flavors, spawning "sub-cuisines" that are a fusion of flavors and cultures. Now that same sensibility is also being applied to the cocktail. Sure, some Asian flavors, like ginger, have been floating around on the liquor scene for awhile, and sake exploded a few years ago as the mixer de rigueur, but a new wave of creations from Boston bars are pushing Asian influences to the next level. Lychee, lemongrass, and even wasabi are big hits behind the bar; why not give 'em a shot?

For those who haven't eaten a lychee, the fruit is a sphere of sweet white flesh. Indigenous to southern China and the countries of Southeast Asia, the lychee is widely used in desserts but is sometimes used to add balance to savory dishes, like stir fries. At Pho Republique (1415 Washington Street, Boston, 617.262.0005) the Lychee Martini ($10) is a shimmery, pearl-colored affair, garnished with a beautiful whole lychee. The aromatic cocktail is a blend of Skyy vodka, lychee juice, and Lichido, a unique French liqueur made from cognac, vodka, lychee, guava, and white peach. This martini is the ultimate fusion experience, and it's incredible to drink - like a mouthful of springtime in Asia, if such a thing could be tasted.

Drawing on its Vietnamese influences, Pho Republique also makes the Vietnamese Coffee Martini ($8), which, like authentic Vietnamese coffee, is rich, creamy, and sweet. Made from vanilla vodka, Kahlua, Baileys, and coffee, the cocktail is sensually heavy on the tongue, the coffee flavor soaring above all other tastes and lingering long after you swallow. One sip of this and you'll be transported to Saigon, especially given the décor here, with its aura of Asian grandeur: distressed walls in a palette of antique browns; sexy red lighting; and lanterns, lanterns everywhere.

Shifting gears from sweet to spicy, the Dirty Wasabi-tini ($10) at Privus Lounge (165 Brighton Avenue, Allston, 617.787.7483) is a cocktail of sheer genius. A Ciroc-and-olive-juice standard gets a swift kick in the teeth from its garnish: giant olives are stuffed with wasabi (a sushi lover's best friend), tempura-battered and fried, and plopped into the drink. Let them linger awhile, and that wonderfully tingly wasabi will infuse itself into the liquid around it.

Love that dirty water, but not the dirty martini? Try Privus's Dice K-sake ($9), a mellow mix of sake and pomegranate juice. Sake is commonly (and erroneously) referred to as "rice wine," but it's technically a spirit. Sake is created by fermenting and processing rice several times (though it can be made from sweet potato or sugar cane, too) and is sometimes augmented with additional distilled alcohol. The bartenders at Privus mix up several varieties of sake cocktail; the Dice K-sake is among the most popular. (Wonder why?) With a bright sake taste and a smooth finish, this cocktail is perfect for enjoying alongside dinner or later in the evening.

Green tea and ginger are both touted for their medicinal properties, and since you've always liked the excuse that alcohol kills germs, the Ginger Green Tea Martini ($13.50) at Rowes Wharf Bar (Boston Harbor Hotel, 70 Rowes Wharf, Boston, 617.439.7000) is the perfect way to ditch the lingering cold-weather sniffles and bound into spring. Made from freshly brewed green tea, house-infused ginger syrup, and Grey Goose Citron vodka, the drink is garnished with a sprig of mint and is lightly sweet and lovely.

Another chi-chi hotel boasts yet another Asian cocktail. The Ritz-Carlton (10 Avery Street, Boston, 617.574.7100) serves a Lychee Lemongrass Martini ($15) made with Bombay Sapphire gin, puréed lychees, fresh lime, and lemongrass syrup. Lemongrass, an herb that's widely used in Thai and Vietnamese cooking, adds a grassy quality to many soups and curries. In this cocktail, it cohabitates quite nicely with the juniper characteristics lent by the gin, creating a new layer of earthy flavor.

Some Asian ingredients, like ginger and lychee, will likely remain mainstays on the cocktail scene. Others, like wasabi and lemongrass, may prove to be fleeting notions and fanciful trends. But if you're a fan of Asian cuisine, you're sure to be a fan of Asian cocktails, especially those that incorporate familiar flavors that you may recognize from your favorite Asian entrées. And what could go better with delicate slices of sashimi than a wasabi cocktail? My point exactly. @

Off the Beantown Path: A tale of four suburbs

Sara Faith Alterman — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 18:19:00 GMT

SOMETIMES I forget that there's life outside of Boston and its surrounding urban communities. But recently I was reminded that I have cultural tunnel vision. I'd found myself in the suburbs (gasp!) after dark, craving a cocktail and a decent meal. Clearly, I reasoned, I was doomed, resigned to skulking into a chain restaurant decorated with manufactured "antiques" and servers in blinking earrings and pins that screamed things like "Food and fun for everyone!" I'd probably have to sit in a striped vinyl booth and drink watery tap beer or cocktails smothered with whipped cream.

I was jolted from my snobbery when I discovered a darling little bistro that featured a bar swarming with hot young hipsters. And a voice spoke to me: Wake up, Sara. People live here. People like you. People like your readers. And even if they don't, surely there are plenty of Bostonians who are sick of the see-and-be-seen crowd, and the pain-in-the-ass process of getting dinner reservations, and the lines to get into anyplace that's worth getting into on a Saturday night. Having a place to go that's not in the heart of the Hub might appeal to, well, everyone.

Just a short drive up Route 1A lies Lynn - Lynn, City of Sin. True, it ain't no Vegas (not even close), but this North Shore community has its own draw, namely Gulu-Gulu Café (56 Central Square, Lynn, 617.848.5967), a coffeehouse-cum-bar-cum-music venue where you can Czech yourself and then wreck yourself. Owners Steven Feldmann and Marie Feldmannnova met and fell in love in Prague (Feldmannnova's native city), in an eclectic café known as ... Gulu Gulu. When they moved to the US, the couple decided to open an American version of their beloved meeting spot, one that offered the same artsy vibe and a taste of the Czech Republic. Done and done. Try a Krušovice Imperial lager ($5) from the Czech Republic, or a Zywiec ($5) from Poland. There's an array of Belgian and American beers, too, for those who like to stick with what's familiar, and the versatile wine list more than hints at greatness, with selections from Portugal, Italy, Argentina, and Spain. Don't miss the Svarené Vino ($5), a traditional Czech mulled wine, and if you're hungry, the tasty paninis, crêpes, and small bites. The Utopenec ($6), marinated sausage stuffed with onions, pepperoncini, and pickles, and served with grilled bread, is pleasingly sour perfection.

Over in Salem, day-trippers, students, and witch enthusiasts are being treated to a cultural renaissance of sorts, thanks to coffee shops and bistros cropping up amid the Wicca stores, old-timey pubs, and colonial-style restaurants serving ye olde American fare. The most recent, and sleekest, addition is Sixty2 on Wharf (62 Wharf Street, Salem, 978.744.0062), which opened in February. The large bar area feels surprisingly intimate, thanks to low banquettes and a rich, woodsy color scheme; and the dining room hums with sex appeal. On a recent visit, they'd yet to obtain a full liquor license (they should have one by the time you are reading this magazine), so they were limited to wine, beer, and cordials. Most bartenders would relegate their amaretto and Baileys to coffee drinks, but not these guys. A full-scale cocktail list featured incredibly inventive drinks, like Nectar of the Gods ($13), with Moet & Chandon Nectar Champagne, house-made ginger ale, and fresh mint; or the 62 Side Car ($11), a twist on the Art Deco classic that morphed Tuaca (a vanilla brandy) with Frangelico, Cointreau, and fresh lime juice. The Frangelico gives the drink a warm, nutty finish that dresses up this old favorite with a new kick in the palate. The Cointreau might give way to Grand Marnier when the full liquor license comes through, but assistant general manager Myron Potter will probably leave most of the cocktail list as is, making additions, not cuts. Potter sees the same type of clientele coming into Sixty2 on Wharf as he did at Mistral, his former place of business. "We're bringing in people who want to go out for atmosphere and long dinners," he says, "and we want people to really dine, not feel rushed."

"We want to attract people from the area who are sick of having to go to Boston for a good meal," adds general manager Mike Pappas, who visited bars, restaurants, and lounges in New York for menu and décor inspiration. "We'll follow food and drink trends, but be selective. Not everything that flies in Boston will fly in Salem." What does fly, though, are homemade sensibilities; chef Antonio Bettencourt makes everything in-house, including the purées and non-alcoholic bases used at the bar.

Heading south, Quincy is a Boston sub-hub with character, charm, and style. A quick jaunt on the Red Line lands you right in the heart of downtown Quincy, where pubs, restaurants, and cute shops await. Gastropub the Fat Cat (24 Chestnut Street, Quincy, 617.471.4363) opened a few months ago to rave reviews, thanks to its inventive and gloriously gluttonous menu and fresh vibe. The cat-themed drink list helps, too. Try a glass of Fat Cat Cellars pinot noir ($8) with your decadent plate of lobster mac 'n' cheese ($16), or sip on a kitty cocktail like the Alley Cat ($8), made with Belvedere vodka, Cointreau, fresh-squeezed orange juice, cranberry juice, and a lime garnish. You can also kick up a martini with house-infused vodkas ($8): choose from hot pepper, melon, and Jolly Rancher infusions. Meow!

Newton goes virtually unnoticed by many Bostonians, which is a damn shame, because it's a vibrant community with a lot to offer, even at night. Specialty beers, seasonal sangria, killer cocktails, and a thriving bar scene should be enough reason for you to drag your urban butt to Union Street (107R Union Street, Newton, 617.964.6684). A quick trip on the Green Line and you'll be sipping a Mint Ginger Drop ($9), house-infused ginger vodka, muddled mint, and fresh citrus in a honey-glazed martini glass, or a Pear Sidecar ($9), pear brandy, orange liqueur, and fresh citrus with a cinnamon-sugared rim. Now that the warmer weather is approaching, you'll appreciate this off-the-urban-path joint even more, thanks to an unrivaled patio that'll make your drinks that much more refreshing.

Now that I know there are incredible bars beckoning from out of town, I'll never again be thwarted by my Boston-centric tendencies - and neither should you. Why let the city set your limits? @

[Photo by Ion Sokhos]

Sour mix: Sweet and tart are a marriage made in cocktail heaven

Sara Faith Alterman — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 18:21:00 GMT

PUCKER UP, sweetheart. Actually, make that pucker up, sweettart — because one sip of the fruity, tangy cocktails that are popping up on your favorite drink lists and your lips will purse into a happy pout. As kids, we adored Sour Patch Kids and Smarties, SweeTarts and Nerds. Naturally, our palates have been refined as we’ve developed into discerning adults, but the marriage of sweet and tart still delights our tongues. Sweet and tart sippers usually involve citrus or cranberry and some kind of sweetener, be it simple syrup, honey, juice, sugar, or a sweeter alcohol. (Pass over the neon-colored booze that screams “you’re going to boot and rally tonight!”, please, and instead choose a cocktail with both class and sass.)

The Charlesmark Lounge (655 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.247.1212) may be the best-kept secret in the Back Bay, or even the entirety of Greater Boston. Nestled on the first floor of the Charlesmark Hotel, the lounge is a mélange of contradictions, somehow managing to be chic, comfortable, trendy, and a neighborhood hang all at the same time. Sit at the bar or head up a few stairs to recline in the futuristic/homey (see, contradictions!) lounge area, but whatever you do, don’t miss lounge manager Jefferson Ryder’s signature drink, the Dancing Bear Martini ($12). Inspired by the Grateful Dead and garnished with a rainbow skewer of Gummy Bears, this drink is a long, strange sip, indeed, a mix of Svedka Citrus, pomegranate liqueur, limoncello, and a splash of fruit juice. The Italian lemon liqueur is an unusual choice of mixer, since, as anyone in the North End can tell you, it’s usually enjoyed on its own, post-pasta gorge. Here it lends brightness and a hint of sour to a martini that’ll put a smile on your face at first glance. “I like to think outside the bottle,” Ryder says. “This isn’t your father’s martini, and that’s the thrill here. I like to create drinks that catch the imagination.”

Imagine, if you will, a magical place where you can shop for designer duds, then tiptoe a few steps across the room to tuck into an amazing meal. Shopping and dining — that’s like the mall food court, right? Wrong. The Achilles Project (283 Summer Street, South Boston, 617.423.2257), in burgeoning Fort Point Channel, is retail haven meets foodie heaven, as customers can satisfy their appetites for hip fashion and local, fresh ingredients in the very same place. The restaurant, Persephone, features a drink list that includes a special cocktail that makes interesting use of a particular tart little fruit that was enough to tempt Persephone herself down into the bowels of the underworld. (Don’t know what I’m talking about? Brush up on your mythology, for Zeus’s sake.) Yes, it’s sweet, yes it’s tart, and, yes, the name makes us giggle. The Obligatory Fifteen Dollar Chowhound-Predicted Pomegranate Martini (ironically priced at $9) mixes Hangar One Razberi Vodka and Orchid Pomegranate Liquor with fresh pomegranate juice and seeds. If you’ve never eaten pomegranate seeds, they require a bit of effort to get to, but they pop between your teeth with a burst of sweetness and a lingering tartness. Taking the tart a few steps further is the Spartan Sling ($12), made with Mark Miller’s gin, cherry-infused brandy, sour mix, Benedictine, and pineapple juice. It’s heavenly.

Another new kid on the upscale block is MKT (120 Water Street, Boston, 617.367.0658), which recently opened in the Financial District. MKT features rich, modern décor, and a creative drink list, including the totally far-out Lava Lamp martini ($13), which looks just the way you’d imagine. Ocean Spray Craisins float in a sea of Champagne and fresh lime juice, providing a tart little kick in the prissy pants. This drink hints (in a whisper) at sweetness, but takes your tongue to a place it’s never been before. Unless you count that one time in that club with that ... never mind.

Though it’s known as a place to suck meat from the bones of delicious little piggies, Redbones (55 Chester Street, Somerville, 617.628.2200) also features a stellar cocktail list that you may have overlooked in your haste to decide between Carolina-style pulled pork or Memphis-style ribs. While barbecue and beer are usually the combination of choice here, there are cocktails that go surprisingly well with piles of peppery meat. One of them, the Swedish Lemonade ($7), shouldn’t be missed, even if your fingers are too slippery from the ’cue to properly hold a glass. Made with Absolut Citron, cranberry juice, and 7-Up, the fruity libation gets its yee-haw factor from the addition of sour mix. Try this tart little guy between mouthfuls of the BBQ Hash Dinner ($8.99) or the nearly unconquerable BBQ Meat and Rib Combo ($14.99). Sweet! @

[Photo by Joel Veak]

Primavera Verde: Sauvignons put a spring in your sip

Thor Iverson — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:38:00 GMT

IT'S NOT easy being green." So sang a triangle-mouthed frog puppet, once. Of course, at the time he had a hand jammed up his ... well, anyway, I'm not sure his plight applies to us.

Still, mention "green" in the context of wine and you've got trouble. A rather dismaying number of people, for whom any wine that doesn't taste like fruit pie slathered with jam is just no good, can't stand even the slightest hint of anything green. No grass. No herbs. No vegetables. Only fruit, FRUIT, FRUIT! One assumes that, as children, they hid their veggies under a napkin, spent hours picking out every last fleck of herb from their food, and did anything they could to avoid mowing the lawn.

But green elements are an essential part of a lot of wines. The problem comes from the arbitrary notion that "green" is a synonym for "underripe," which is usually considered a bad thing. The definition of ripeness has gotten rather extreme of late, sometimes causing wines that don't taste like fermented fruit syrup to be demeaned as, yes, green - and therefore underripe.

That's a shame. Many grapes - most of them white, though not all - have greenish hues as part of their essential natures, whether they're ripe or not. Sauvignon blanc. Sylvaner. Grüner veltliner. Sémillon. And, on the tinted side, cabernet franc and cabernet sauvignon. It's not that it's impossible to eliminate green notes by letting these grapes hang on the vine until they're raisins, it's just that this rather misses the point of growing them in the first place. If one wants their cabernet to taste like zinfandel, why not just plant zinfandel?

The disappearing tinge of green is most missed in the spring, when our food is just starting to emerge from its rich, heavy, fat-laden winter slumber. Plants - fresh ones grown somewhere closer to us than Peru - finally re-enter the food lexicon. Primavera becomes a pasta topping that can be assembled from the produce aisle, rather than frozen foods. People burst into song for absolutely no reason. (No? Not at your house?)

And it's the time to drink sauvignon blanc. It's the most spring-like of grapes. The core of its character is a green-tinged, grassy blend of tart citrus juices. Bell and, in some cases, chili pepper can enter the mix. When pushed to overripeness, it tastes like canned tropical fruit salad, but there's still a lingering, and welcome, green edge.

In Sancerre, a French region where sauvignon blanc reaches its peak of complexity, grassiness is joined with minerality and restraint. Some of the very best bottles - in contrast with most sauvignon - can even age (five to 10 years). Producers to look for include the two Cotats and Thomas-Labaille. A short trip downriver, the Clos Roche Blanche Sauvignon "No. 2" from the Touraine is a chalkier variation on the same theme, and a screaming bargain as well.

New Zealand is the other dominant player on the sauvignon scene (they call it "savvy" and serve it by the caseload at parties), and there the wines exhibit a youthful exuberance appropriate for such a young country - a forceful, in-your-face nature that brought them to international acclaim just a few decades after most of the vines were planted. Dog Point, Isabel, Seresin, and The Crossings all excel.

From Italy's Alto Adige, St. Michael-Eppan's "Sanct Valentin" bottling is exquisite, bringing even more intensity to a Sancerre-like paradigm, while white Bordeaux (typically a sauvignon blanc/sémillon blend) is admirably represented at the affordable end by Graville-Lacoste. Leaping across the majority of the hemisphere, Southern Right from South Africa is as impossible to ignore as any New Zealand sauvignon, with a somewhat more angular aspect.

And how about domestic sauvignon blanc? That's a little more difficult, since many producers still cling to an '80s trend of oaking and sweetening their sauvignon until it's pretty much indistinguishable from chardonnay to which similar abuses have been committed. Thankfully, there are exceptions. Di Stefano from Washington's Columbia Valley is a transitional style, halfway between the traditional and the overly-soft modern version, while Easton in the Sierra Foothills makes an especially floral example. But some of the best of all might come from Oregon, a state almost no one associates with the grape. J. Christopher's two site-specific bottlings, Croft and Maresh, are extraordinary, combing the complexity and sophistication of the Old World with the exciting exuberance of the New.

Sauvignon blanc can be a zingy and refreshing drink all by itself on days when the air doesn't provide quite enough of its own chill (you know, those warming spring afternoons ... which I'm given to understand are common elsewhere, even if they're unheard of here in Boston). But it's better when its exuberance is tamed by food. The best marriages include green vegetables (including the ever-difficult asparagus) and anything made from them, acidic ingredients (citrus, vinegar, tomato, onion), and raw seafood. Especially when wasabi's involved.

But is it the best match for singing frog? Shame on you for even thinking it. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

Going Green: You don’t have to drink colored beer to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day

Sara Faith Alterman — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:34:00 GMT

TOP O' the morning to you! Or, top o' the evening. Or, top o' the aftern - all right, you know what? You get the point. St. Patrick's Day is upon us, and if you're like every other person who lives in Greater Boston, you're probably planning to head over to Southie on the most Irish day of the year to choke down some of that obligatory green beer and hoot and holler your freckled face off. But, I ask, how dare you, when some of the most divine spirits and hearty stouts come from the Mother Land herself? Pay tribute to the Emerald Isle with a little taste of one (or many) of the jewels of Ireland. Whether you fancy beer, whiskey, or Irish cream, each are key ingredients in making sure your March 17 doesn't veer toward Erin go blah.

If there's one thing the Irish are proud of, it's their Guinness. And with damned good reason. A pint of that smooth, creamy stout can be both comforting and invigorating, and bartenders seeking "the perfect pour" appreciate the complexity of pulling one of these suckers from the tap. Finding the right balance between head and body is practically an art form, with Guinness insisting that the worth-the-wait pouring process requires 119.5 seconds in order to truly reach perfection. Pubs around Ireland subtly vie for the honor of pouring the best pint of Guinness; here in Boston, Irish pubs and bars have inherited that thirst for healthy competition. Is there really such thing as a "perfect" pint of Guinness? Perhaps. Is there such a thing as a "great" pint of Guinness? You bet your sweet Irish ass. For folks who truly appreciate the art of the pour, your best bet is to head to joints with a neighborhood feel. Ask for a pint o' the good stuff at the Burren (247 Elm Street, Somerville, 617.776.6896), Atwood's Tavern (877 Cambridge Street, Cambridge, 617.864.2792), Porter Belly's (338 Washington Street, Brighton, 617.254.3300), the Blarney Stone (1505 Dorchester Avenue, Dorchester, 617.436.8223), the Playwright (658 East Broadway, South Boston, 617.269.2537), or the Field (20 Prospect Street, Cambridge, 617.354.7345) and you'll never be disappointed. If you can catch some trad (traditional Irish music) while you're at it, you're in for good craic (a good time. Pronounced "crack." Oh, the irony.). For a truly classic hole-in-the-wall pub experience, head to the Quencher Tavern (170 I Street, South Boston, 617.269.9555) and mingle with the locals who give Southie its authentic flavor. Leave your green sparkly tank top at home, ladies. The "Quenchah" ain't the time or place.

Guinness also makes an excellent mixer, perhaps because of its creaminess, perhaps because of its flavor, perhaps because it's a glass full of magic and it can do whatever it wants. Vinalia (101 Arch Street, Boston, 617.737.1777) is taking that magic and mixing up some tasty classics, such as the Black Velvet ($10), a half-and-half combo of Guinness and Magners Irish Cider (in Ireland this mixture is often known as a Snakebite or a Poor Man's Black Velvet); the Velvet Hammer ($10), featuring Guinness and Champagne; and the Vinalia Black Cossack ($10), blending Guinness with Stoli Vanil vodka. These cocktails and beer blends are lighter than they sound, and are truly refreshing, especially on a cool March night.

It wouldn't be right to discuss Irish booze without a healthy tip of the hat to Irish whiskey, one of the oldest European-distilled beverages and one of the most beloved. The word "whiskey" is thought to be a translation of an old Gaelic term that meant "water of life." And this stuff is aptly named. There are countless varieties of Irish whiskey out there, with enough subtle nuances to warrant an entire column, six times over. Start with the classics: varieties like Tullamore Dew, Jameson, and Bushmills. Drink it neat (no ice), drink it slowly, drink it on rainy nights, into the wee, misty hours of the morning. Whiskey is somewhat of an acquired taste, so if it's not your thing, ease into it with ... a cocktail, naturally. One to try is the Anne Bonney ($8) at Solas (710 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.933.4803), a fruity smash-up of Tullamore Dew, Bacardi, peach schnapps, Triple Sec, and cranberry and orange juices.

Sweetwater Café (3 Boylston Place, Boston, 617.351.2515) may not be known as an Irish bar, but they sure are fired up about their St. Patrick's Day cocktails. Having recently moved over from Lucky's Lounge, chef Aaron Parsons is ready to turn the Alley's resident college hang from sophomoric to sophisticate, while keeping all of the rowdy energy for which this beloved bar is known. Through March 17, special-edition St. Patrick's cocktails will get you suitably in the mood. For chocolate lovers, sink into an Irish Chocolate Martini ($9), with house-made chocolate liqueur, vodka, and Baileys Irish Cream (which, believe it or not, is made from Irish whiskey. You've been fooled into drinking whiskey all along!). The Leaping Leprechaun ($8), says Parsons, is "not for the faint of heart, but definitely good for tying one on." You heard him, party animals! This super-strong cocktail is basically a tailor-made Long Island Iced Tea, substituting sour mix and Coke with Red Bull and Curacao, giving it a holiday-appropriate hue. The Rocky Road to Dublin ($9) may very well become a mainstay on the Sweetwater cocktail menu; it's just that good. Bushmills Irish Whiskey mixes light rum, brandy, fresh lemon juice, and simple syrup for an Irish tour de force. Sweetwater will feature 15 specialty drinks just for St. Patty's Day; visit the bar to check them out in all their glory.

Considering all of the pride and history that accompany St. Patrick's Day, it's a holiday that deserves a full-force celebration. So pick up a cocktail, raise your voice in song, and you'll have a night to remember. (And with drink options like these, you'll forget all about green beer.) @

[Photo by Joel Veak]

Magnum Carta: What makes a wine list great?

Thor Iverson — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 18:27:00 GMT

THERE'S A restaurant in Girona, Spain, where the wine lists (yes, plural) are delivered on a rolling cart, because they're too heavy to carry and too bulky to peruse on the table. Most of the world's great wines are represented, they're all reasonably priced, and they're served flawlessly. It is, by any measure, a truly great list. Lists. Whatever.

There's a restaurant in Berkeley, California, where the wine list fits on a single sheet of paper, with plenty of room to spare at the margins. It's paper printed that day by someone who loves playing with fonts, but doesn't much care what they actually look like on the page. And it is also, by any measure, a truly great list.

How can this be? Aren't all the world's great wine lists like that first example? Giant cloth-bound tomes that kick up centuries of dust as they're dropped on your table? Forty vintages each of the grapey greats, with their names engraved on vellum by some poor quill-and-ink scribe in a dank cellar? You peruse, the sommelier hovers, "monsieur makes an excellent choice," and the ceremony proceeds apace?

No.

Defining a great wine list is a little like defining pornography: we know it when we see it (though wine lists that actually involve pornography don't usually contend for the title).

Length doesn't matter. (Hmm. I can't seem to get off this subject.) Wine novels can be excellent, but they can also just be long. Some of the best lists are short, focused bursts of creativity from a wine buyer who actually cared about quality over quantity. And yes, some of them are photocopied.

Along those lines, focus does matter. "Five Napa cabs? Check. Ten Bordeaux? Check. One Argentinean malbec? Check." Too many wine lists are done that way, and most of them are boring - the buffet lines of the wine world. Fine dining or corner diner, it doesn't matter; a good wine list is cooked to order. The wines match the philosophy, the style, the clientele, and most importantly the food - not some external and unrelated notion of what most people drink. Think about that the next time you're at a glorified lobster shack and there are five pages of cabernet.

Great wine lists are also up to date. I don't mean trendy, though some of them surely are: the current hipster thing is "natural" wine, which covers a vague universe of organic, biodynamic, and/or low-sulfur bottlings mostly coming from Europe (though that's sure to change). I mean that given modern computers and printers, there's no excuse for a wine list rife with sold-out stock and out-of-date vintages. Whether one sheet or Tolstoy length, a restaurant that can't afford to print a few dozen copies of a page as they sell through their bottles isn't a restaurant that cares much about its wine.

Though rare in the United States, for reasons that aren't quite clear to me, a variety of formats is also a hallmark of a great wine list. Magnums are fun and look impressive, but what about half bottles? A by-the-glass selection that's as interesting and wide-ranging as the full-bottle list? The best lists have them.

And then there's the organizational issue. Are wines categorized in a way that makes sense only to those who've studied the subject (that is, does the average diner know or care about the difference between a Pomerol and a Pauillac)? Or are they listed by ascending price? Neither is particularly helpful. Grouping by style (light, fruity reds, or full-bodied, powerful whites) is helpful, as are indications of the sort of food a given wine might enhance. This doesn't have to take place on the wine list, however; it can be shifted to the menu, which means a kitchen and a wine director that work together (which, if the wines on the list are any good with the food, already happens).

Finally, there's the issue of support. The greatest wine list in the world is useless without the people and technology to back it up. This means a temperature-controlled storage area (not open racking up against a hot ceiling). This means a cellaring scheme that saves staff from 20-minute scavenger hunts while diners' appetizers are icing over. And this means employees who can speak knowledgably about the list - whether that be a dedicated on-call wine expert or a well-trained waitstaff - and who know how to serve the wine. No overfilling glasses, no dripping in the diner's soup, no mindless use of ice buckets for wines that are already ice-cold.

And rolling carts? Not necessary. But, I'll admit, cool as hell. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

Honey, I made a cocktail: Sweeten up your sipping

Sara Faith Alterman — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 22:12:00 GMT

NEVER UNDERESTIMATE the seductive power of a sly little lick of the lips. And why not give that serpentine tongue of yours some extra motivation this month by sipping on drinks that are sweetened - and sexified - with honey? Warmly luscious and as complex as Scorpio-on-Scorpio action, honey is the latest in a string of natural ingredients that have cocktail mavens, well, buzzing. A hint of fruity, clover overtones gives honey multi-layered characteristics that add just enough flavor to your drink without overwhelming the palate. Bartenders all over the city are picking up on honey's versatility and earthy charm, and it's quickly gaining ground on simple syrup as Boston's favorite sweetener.

Sweet and spicy are the perfect pair - and nobody knows that better than bar manager Jonathan Henson at Great Bay (500 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.532.5300), who admits to "having a love affair with honey." This oft-overlooked Kenmore Square spot has modern sophisticate written all over it: a vertebrae of warm track lighting slithers along the ultra-high ceiling, while suspended installation art looks like slivers of iridescent water chestnuts. And the drinks - oh, the drinks. A seasonally spicy ode to summertime refreshment - and quite possibly one of the best cocktails in town - is the Remedy ($12), made with Bulleit bourbon, lemonade, honey, and a healthy pinch of cayenne pepper. The aptly-named beverage is the perfect cure for the wintertime blahs.

Also at Great Bay, don't let the seemingly kooky ingredients list for the East Meets South of the Border ($12) fool you: the cocktail is as smooth as Cancun sand. A warm pool of espresso, Sauza Tres Generaciones, and honey lay the foundation for a mouthful of freshly made, sake-infused whipped cream. No split-personality drink here: the flavors mesh impeccably, with the cream's floral bouquet nicely balancing that ruthless tequila bite, and honey sweetening the deal. "I create every drink I make by taking the flavors of the base liquor and looking for complements," says Henson. "Tequila is woodsy; I wanted to take a different approach to it by using sake. Honey rounds out the flavors and softens the drink."

When we first learned of Newbury's newest restaurant and watering hole, we got a little nervous. After all, with a name like Cafeteria (279A Newbury Street, Boston, 617.536.2233), we were expecting to make an awkward entrance and be immediately transformed into our uncomfortable seventh-grade selves. But despite its trendiness, Cafeteria is wholly inviting. Here, bar manager Steven Kim offers the Golden Honeytini ($12), a confection of Stoli Vanil, honey, Grand Marnier, and amaretto, served in a glass that's rubbed with lime and rimmed with sugar. In fact, the citrus rim is what really gives this drink its character; instead of being sickly sweet, the Golden Honeytini has some tarty sass, due to that wonderful marriage of honey and lime.

A marriage of cultures is what defines the newly rejuvenated Mantra (52 Temple Place, Boston, 617.542.8111). The club/restaurant features French-Indian cuisine and cocktails, but new general manager Demetri Tsolakis is putting his stamp on things, one tinyinfluence at a time. Tsolakis was a child of the restaurant industry: his family owns three Greek restaurants in his native Springfield, and he pretty much grew up in the kitchen. So it's no surprise that he's sneaking some Greek inspiration onto the Mantra menu. Honey is a key ingredient in some Greek cuisine (especially baklava, which fuses honey and pastry into a dense slice of heaven), so it naturally found its way onto the cocktail list. The Madhu ($12) - cutely rechristened the Bee Mine for the month of February - starts with a cocktail glass drizzled with honey, and finishes with a homemade honey-cinnamon-stick garnish. In between, Belvedere vodka meets fresh lime juice, resulting in a richer, sweeter gimlet.

Though grapes usually make their evening appearance in a wine glass, the Muddled Grape Martini ($9) at the West Side Lounge (1680 Mass Ave, Cambridge, 617.441.5566) is a refreshing break from the vino. Muddled green grapes bathe in Ciroc vodka with honey syrup and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice; the result is simple, refreshing, sweet, and sour. And just like wine, the Muddled Grape pairs quite nicely with food, especially fish. Try it with the West Side's perfectly pan-seared salmon with haricots verts and whipped potatoes ($18).

Over at Green Street (280 Green Street, Cambridge, 617.876.1655), queen of the classic cocktail Misty Kalkofen sweetens and sparkles Haitian spirits with the Rhum Cup ($8.50), a subtly fruity blend of cava, Barbancourt Rhum, fresh pineapple juice, and honey syrup. It's a taste of the islands in the middle of the city, and a much-needed cold-weather oasis on the most blustery of urban evenings. @

[Photo by Joel Veak]

Bumbling into Bubbly: A sparkling feet of imagination

Thor Iverson — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 22:10:00 GMT

"OH, I CAN'T. It goes right to my head!" And with this phrase, a thousand eager hands (attached to lusting hearts) reach forth, offering yet another glass of sparkling wine to their dates.

But is it true? Does sparkling wine really accelerate the careening path towards tipsiness and the easy abandonment of virtue? Yes, sort of. (I'll wait for a moment, while you all head out to the wine shop. Okay, let's continue.) The carbon dioxide helps blood absorb alcohol more quickly, or something; it's all too biochemical for me. The funny thing is, despite the many attempts our species has made towards concocting a seduction aid, this one - which actually appears to have some sort of effect - is an accident. Apparently, nature wants to encourage such behavior. And why argue with nature?

So what's that about an accident? Well, it's like this: you know how wine comes from yeasts fermenting grape sugars and turning them into alcohol? (Sorry. It's that nefarious biochemistry again. Just bear with me for a moment.) Anyway, one of the other by-products of this process is carbon dioxide. In a non-sparkling wine, this gas is set free before bottling. Even if it's not, there's no lasting effect; the bottle gets opened, there's a minor and momentary "prickle" of fizz, but eventually the wine ends up bubble-free. You'll see this a lot in light, crisp wines like German riesling or Vinho Verde from Portugal.

But back up a step. If there's leftover sugar, and there's even a single cell of living yeast, eventually there's going to be fermentation. And if this fermentation happens in an airtight container - say, a wine bottle - there's going to be carbon dioxide with nowhere to go. Wine folk call this "spontaneous refermentation" (wine folk are armed with the sexiest terms, aren't they?), and it's considered a grievous flaw, because it's usually accompanied by horrible aromas of rotting feet. Try that on a date and see how it works out for you.

At some point in winemaking's long history, this drew notice. We're not entirely sure where or when, but we do know that it didn't first happen in Champagne, and we also know that the monk Dom Pérignon had nothing to do with it (despite much mythmaking to the contrary). Eventually, winemakers were intrigued enough to try to figure it out. Because the thing was, the wines didn't always smell like fermented feet. Sometimes, they were quite nice.

Through much trial (and undoubtedly much error), someone figured it out. Whoever it was, thanks to centuries of aggressive marketing, the method is now associated with the international home of high-quality fizz, and so we call it the méthode Champenoise (Champagne method) or méthode traditionelle (traditional method), which these days has been refined to an efficient combination of art and science. Basically, it works like this: a still (non-sparkling) wine is made and bottled. Sugar and yeast are added to the finished wine, the bottle is sealed - usually with a crown cap, like on bottles of soda - and turned so that its top is angled downward, and the yeast and sugar are left alone together ... with or without romantic music. Dead yeast cells, having given their all, collect in the neck of the bottle - right up against the crown cap.

When they're all dead, the neck is flash-frozen and the cap, along with its attached "plug" of dead soldiers, is removed from the bottle, which is quickly recorded (with the same cork that you'd find in any bottle of wine, albeit slightly fatter). Pressure eventually forces the cork outward, which is why sparkling wines tend to have a little excursion into cork bondage in the form of a wire restraint. But the key point is that méthode Champenoise bubblies are the only wines that are "made" in the very bottle from which you drink them. Kinda neat, huh?

While this is how the majority of the world's best sparkling wines are created, it's not the only way. The second fermentation can be done in a tank, which is how Prosecco is made. It can be allowed to happen spontaneously under very careful conditions, and it's mostly limited to a few unusual French sparklers (like Bugey-Cerdon). And yes, wine can be carbonated like soda, though the producers that do this aren't exactly known for quality. A good way to spot this latter group is the appearance of the word "Champagne" on a wine not from the French region of the same name. Every country but the United States has agreed to forbid this, and only the worst US producers mimic the term.

And so, one of the most elegant and refined styles of wine in the world is an accident, subsequently perfected in order to avoid wines that taste like bubbly toe cheese. Somehow, I don't think we'll see that in Moët & Chandon's marketing campaigns. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

The Dating Game: Every wine has its year

Thor Iverson — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 18:32:00 GMT

MY DINING companion looked up from the wine list, perplexed. "But it's supposed to be a great vintage."

"Yes, it is. Which is why you shouldn't order it."

He dropped the list on the table, exasperated. "Did anyone ever tell you that you make very little sense?"

"Sure, all the time." But on this issue, at least, I had a point.

Vintage is one of the least understood aspects of wine. Everyone knows what it means on a label - the grapes were harvested in such-and-such a year. And most everyone thinks they know what it means in the glass. Self-evidently, the good vintages are better than the bad ones. Right?

Not necessarily. First of all, it might help to understand what goes into a vintage assessment. It's mostly about the weather. Was it hot? Cold? Dry? Was there hail that damaged the vines? Frost that injured the grapes? A deluge at harvest? All these factors matter, because they affect the way in which the grape's various components 1) ripen, and 2) balance with one another, which forms the chemistry of the grape - and, thus, the taste of the wine.

When most people say a vintage was "great," they mean that it was relatively dry and unusually warm. This is thinking based on historical Old World viticulture, in which the best years were those during which the grapes were able to ripen, perfectly and without interruption. In an average year, that wasn't usually the case - and in a bad year, there might not be any wine at all. But that's the past. "Thanks" to global warming (and improved farming), truly bad vintages are virtually nonexistent, and much of what's currently considered average would have been acclaimed as recently as 50 years ago.

In much of the New World, it's exactly the opposite. Many - perhaps most - New World regions enjoy climates for which Europeans would have bartered their firstborn a century ago. So are the hotter, drier vintages still considered the best? It depends very much on whom you ask. Many vintners in such areas actually prefer cooler years, and their goal is to slow down and lengthen ripening, believing - correctly - that it leads to more complex wines.

Hot grapes are sugary grapes, which leads to high alcohol. Hot grapes tend toward simple-minded fruit. The wines that result tend to be big, dumb doofuses (doofii?), full of immediate jam-like pleasure, but providing little else. Tannin can also be excessive in hot vintages. This is the primary fault of many European reds from 2003, a year of unparalleled heat in which many vines simply gave up, stopped growing, and waited for Mother Nature to turn on the air conditioning - which, in some regions, she never did.

But these are things that concern the winemaker. What about you, the person who's going to have to drink all this meteorological data?

First, it's worth stressing that a vintage assessment is a generalization. The most important qualitative factor for a wine is still, and always will be, the producer. Some will overachieve, others will underachieve, and vintage is in no way a foolproof indicator of results. And so, to generalize:

The "great" years tend to need aging. That's need. Full of powerful structure that can obscure much of what's going to be great, these are bottles to put down and forget for years, and sometimes decades. It's not that they can't be appealing in their youth - it's that they're a mere shadow of what they'll eventually become. Wine folk have a word for premature uncorkulation: infanticide. Extreme, yes, but wine nuts take their babies seriously.

Top vintages are also expensive. And why wouldn't they be? Everyone who believes they're great will want to own them, driving demand through the roof. This is an effect that is magnified over time, which is why such absurd prices are paid for older wines (almost always great vintages) at auction. Your average oenophile billionaire will have a cellar stocked with only the greatest years. And why not, if he or she can afford it? But the rest of us need a different strategy.

Wines from less acclaimed vintages tend to be cheaper, certainly, but they also tend to be more accessible in their youth. Maybe they're not going to age as long and thus are "ready" sooner, or maybe the winemaker saw their more limited potential early in the process and took deliberate steps to make what he or she could from the materials at hand. In either case, for the non-billionaires among us, these are the smart buys in a restaurant setting: cheaper, easier to drink, and providing more of what the wine can accomplish at an earlier time in its life.

Which isn't to say that one should ignore the great vintages - only that a steady diet of them gets very expensive and requires a great deal of patience. And a big cellar, or at least a wallet fat enough to mimic one on a whim. Plus, what are you going to do while waiting for the great vintages to mature? Watch the Weather Channel? @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

'Tis the Seasoning: Spices are turning up in cocktails all over town

Sara Faith Alterman — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 17:50:00 GMT

PARSLEY, SAGE, rosemary, and ... chipotle? Spices from all over the globe are popping up in local cocktails, and we couldn't be happier. Herbs and spices add depth to your favorite dishes, so it makes sense that adding a pinch or a dash to your drink will do the same. And these days spices serve as more than just last-minute sprinkles and mix-ins. Infusions of savory herbs are becoming more popular, and the heat of cayenne and dried chipotle is heating up the tongues (and watering the eyes) of Bostonians faster than they can grab a glass of water.

It's new to the Boston scene, but Church (69 Kilmarnock Street, Boston, 617.236.7600) is already making us eager converts. Part restaurant, part pool hall, part nightclub, and part cozy neighborhood hang, Church is a conglomeration of style and sophistication - and so is its specialty cocktail menu. They've got seven drinks for seven sins, so there's a drink that's perfect for your mood, no matter how the devil may choose to tempt you. Feeling selfish, you little piggy? You'll love watching the bartender plunk a fistful of cucumbers into your glass to start building a Greed martini ($10). Drowned in Hendrick's gin and St. Germain, sprinkled with white pepper, then strained into a martini glass and garnished with a salted cucumber, this delicately spiced cocktail will have you craving more. And more. And more. Speaking of more, lustful barflies can't get enough, well, Lust ($10), a drink that's just as bold and complex as l'amour itself. Lavender and honey give Spanish brandy a well-deserved spanking in a naughty drink that will leave you dizzy (in a good way).

A tribute to the ultimate sinner can be enjoyed, guilt-free, at the Met Bar at the Metropolitan Club (1210 Boylston Street, Chestnut Hill, 617.731.0600), where the Fallen Angel ($11) embodies all things indulgent. A satisfying, nearly addictive concoction of Angelique, mango purée, and jalapeño syrup, what really makes this drink sing like a cherubim choir is its rim of sugar and smoked chipotle. Smooth, spicy, salty, and fruity, the Fallen Angel pleases every facet of your palate. It's primarily a brunch drink, but if you flirt nicely, we think the staff at the Met Bar will whip one up for you. Many of the drinks here are takes on modern classics, with general manager Stephen Zeneski and bar manager Leo Neves taking inspiration from whatever's on the shelf or in the produce section of local markets. There are no synthetic ingredients to be found anywhere near the Met, and your taste buds are better for it. That means no Pucker, no Rose's Lime - everything is made and/or infused in-house, including pepper vodka, lemongrass and ginger tequila, and a cilantro-infused gin that's used in the Modern Martini ($11). That earthy, soapy aroma hits you square in the kisser when you lift your glass, and the grape-tomato garnish absorbs a lot of flavor if you let it marinate. Hang on to it for a savory post-martini treat.

Also at the Met, nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon take center stage in the Ipanema ($11), a tall and lovely Brazilian version of the classic Hot Toddy. In it, cachaça is infused with orange and classic cold-weather spices, then served warm in a snifter. The aroma is cozy and intoxicating, the taste even more so.

The soft lighting, über-trendy furnishings, and floor-to-ceiling windows at Rocca Kitchen & Bar (500 Harrison Avenue, Boston, 617.451.5151) set the scene for a hell of a night out. Cocktails here have an aura of mystique, enhanced by unusual ingredients. Try a sophisticated Vino Francesca ($9), rosé wine that's infused with sage and blended with lemon and honey, served cold and brimming with fresh sage leaves. It's a surprisingly savory drink, with the sage adding a pungency that balances the honey and lingers on the tongue. For a cocktail that's not for the faint of heart (or taste bud), sip - and we mean sip - the Devil's Garden ($9): Svedka Clementine with jalapeño, lime, and fresh thyme. Bartender Dave Nasiff describes this as a "progressive" drink: the longer it sits, the spicier it becomes. Usually peppery cocktails deliver a pure, concentrated heat, but here the thyme adds dimension and character. This is definitely a drink with which to take your time, as the spice will catch in the back of your throat. It's pleasant if you're going slow, excruciating if you try to gulp.

You're not the only one cursing the recent drizzles and snow flurries. At Dante (Royal Sonesta Hotel, 40 Edwin H. Land Boulevard, Cambridge, 617.497.4200) the Damn the Weather ($12) is a warming blend of gin, orange cardamom, and fresh lemon sour, perfect for chasing away the stormy-day blues. Equally inspiring is the Mango Cocktail ($12), made with house-infused liquors, pineapple, mango, and a dusting of cayenne pepper. The drinks are as sexy as Dante's neo-sleek atmosphere; if you feel like really heating things up, book a room upstairs at the Sonesta for a post-cocktail romp in the sheets. We won't tell. @

Double Trouble: Two wines are better than one

Thor Iverson — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 17:48:00 GMT

LIKE SOME sort of tipsy Noah's Ark, the world of wine comes in pairs. Or maybe that means it's like socks. Or pants. You'll pardon me if I struggle with this whole simile thing; I'm a metaphor man, myself. Anyway: the point is that there are two kinds of wine.

"Yes, yes, we know. White and red - what, we needed some pasty-faced wine geek to tell us that? Where's the Sex column, anyway?" No, that's not quite what I mean.

Spend a lot of time among wine folk and you'll start hearing two words an awful lot: traditional and modern. Seems pretty simple, doesn't it? It's not. Because what those words mean depends very much on who's using them and what their wine preferences are.

To the traditionalist, "modern" is pejorative. It means a wine made with a lot of deliberate adjustments - in the vineyard and in the cellar - to conform to a taste that admires fruit, size, and youthful smoothness over anything else. Oak is often a major (or dominant) component, while acidity is to be avoided. Most importantly, bigger is always better. And thus, a traditional wine would be one that follows an older path: the fewest possible winemaking techniques, no particular emphasis on fruit or size, and plenty of structure for aging if that's the wine's destiny.

To the modernist, of course, this is all nonsense. Modern wines have the benefit of our accumulated knowledge and seem to be what most people - or at least most Americans - want to drink. Why, they'll ask, is the fact that a wine takes 20 years to be drinkable a good thing, when one can get just as much (albeit different) pleasure from the wine right now? Traditional wines, according to the modernist, are rife with sloppy winemaking, biological flaws, and an aggravating and money-wasting inconsistency from vintage to vintage, or even bottle to bottle.

And yes, there are a few who happily embrace both styles. But not many. Most people, once they've discovered their own preferences, eventually sidle into one camp or another, gradually becoming louder and more strident about their preferences as they go along. There are trends, too: right now, traditionalists are the minority but ascendant, which is a counterreaction to a tsunami of modernist wines from all corners of the globe over the last few decades. And Noah's Ark gradually tips to the left. Must be all those missing socks.

But why should there be any struggle between the two camps at all? Because wineries have their fingers in the wind and their ears to the ground (which makes it hard to drink wine, by the way). A wine might amble along in a traditionalist mode for a century or more, but if consumers seem to be clamoring for the wines of their more modernist neighbor, it takes an iron will and complete financial security - surprisingly uncommon in the world of wine - to stick to one's philosophical guns. To the modernist consumer, this is just spiffy, because it means more wines that they'll like. To the traditionalist this is a disaster, for the same reason.

This is more than a theoretical struggle. Entire wine regions have undergone changes of late, to the delight of one camp and the agony of the other. Bordeaux is one of many poster children, and if one lifts one's ears from the ground and listens to the chatter in the wine world, pretty much every possible opinion has been aired on this subject.

"The wines are better across the board."

"No they're not, and most of the great wines are shadows of their former selves."

"You mean the green, bitter, underripe wines that never came around to maturity?"

"Yes, in preference to the oaky monstrosities that taste like they're from Australia." (And yes, this is what passes for angry debate in wine-geek circles.) Showdown at the Cabernet Corral! Corkscrews at 10 paces, then turn, swirl, sniff, sip, and spit!

But let's leave all that spitting behind for a moment and take a look at another divide in the world of wine, one that is - at least to me - more significant than that between the traditionalist and the modernist. And it gets far less press, because to even talk about it is to nibble away at its foundations and expose a good deal of the wine business for what it really is. It's the bifurcation between wines made as art versus wines made as product.

Clothes, cars, cheese: name just about any category and there will be a wide range of products. Some are targeted at the mass market (Levi's, Toyota, Kraft) and some are targeted at the specialist buyer (Jimmy Choo, Aston Martin, Jasper Hill Farm). "But wait," you might say. "Haven't you just separated products into cheap and expensive categories? Where's the insight in that?" My first answer is: be careful or I'll flood you with more Noah's Ark/sock jokes. But the second and more relevant answer is that things are a little different when it comes to wine.

The majority of wine (by volume) is made as a product. From a philosophical point of view, it's no different than, say, Kraft Pasteurized American "Cheese" (now available in three flavors: white, off-white, and yellow). The primary consideration of a company making such wines is to maximize profit, which is reflected in every step of the process. Grapes are purchased with an eye on quantity. Fermentation is carefully - and chemically - managed to achieve a specific result. Marketing studies and focus groups will have their say. Price points will be targeted and achieved, with a careful eye on the competition. Label and bottle designs will be as appealing to the target demographic (usually working-age women) as possible.

There's an alternative path to wine-as-product, too, this one coming mostly from the Old World. Some firms make wine simply because that's what they've always done, not because that's what they want to do. Grapes are still sourced by quantity, but almost nothing is done in the cellar other than transforming the grapes into wine as quickly as possible. Consumption of this sort of beverage used to be the backbone of the European wine culture, but now it's a dying market - which is why these are the people you'll occasionally see protesting a lack of support (that is, subsidies) from their national governments.

The wines that result from these processes can be, depending on the producer, good or bad, but their primary quality is their inoffensiveness. Wines like this will never be great, though of course that's not the point. If wine were no more than this, there wouldn't be books, tastings, poems, critics, wine expos - all the cultural satellites captured in the gravity of wine's orbit that give it special status as a beverage.

And wine as art? Can wine be art? Some of its practitioners think so. For them, wine is an expression - of the earth, of the grapes, of their own winemaking skill, or of whatever comprises their muse - and, just like art, while it would be great if everyone could immediately perceive how brilliant it is, the fact is that not everyone will. They're wines for the specialist consumer who wants to know and taste the grape, the place, the story in each bottle.

Mass-market wines tend to split very clearly along regional lines: from the Old World they're mindlessly traditional, from the New World they're relentlessly modern. Artisanal wines can be either traditional or modern, because what separates them from the mass market is the intent behind their creation, not their stylistic tendencies. And, perhaps in contrast to most other products, in the wine world price doesn't at all correlate to a wine's "artistic" component; there are horrifically expensive mass-market wines and dirt-cheap artisanal wines.

Is there spillover from one category to another? Yes, but not as much as you might think. Very, very few companies make both mass-market and artisanal wines, though many who make the former claim to make the latter. But beware: smaller production and a higher price alone do not make a wine artisanal. A mass-market producer can, and usually does, market-test and craft their $70 shiraz with the same tools they used for their $10 chardonnay.

So why does this matter to you? Consider how you buy wine. Do you buy by price? Because you like the label? Do you pick up whatever's available at the supermarket or corner store while you're doing the rest of your shopping? Then your choice is almost exclusively limited to mass-market wines. Or do you spend time browsing the aisles of specialist wine retailers, chatting with the staff, regularly taking home unfamiliar bottles on their (or someone else's) recommendation? Then you have access to artisanal wine, though most such stores will also carry plenty of mass-market stuff.

Or, think about wine writing. ("Why?") Okay, I don't have a good answer for that one, but the mass marketers don't really need publicity to sell their wines (they have advertising budgets), while the artisanal crowd needs press to even be noticed. Thus, when the wine press goes to tastings, it's mostly the artisanal stuff that's offered. Moreover, since we get to taste so much wine, we - like restaurant critics - become jaded by the same old, same old. We crave diversity. Since mass-market wines are, by nature, the very opposite of diverse, we end up craving - and buying for our own consumption - the artisanal. Thus, that's what we write about.

In the end, diversity is what it's all about. For people who just want "wine" (as opposed to beer, or soda, or water), there's something at the right price and style available pretty much everywhere. And for those whose interests are both broader and deeper, there are also plenty of wines to satisfy their curiosity. It's the best of both worlds. It's like having one's cake and eating it too. It's like that famous historical guy with the thing and ... the, uh ... other thing.

Sorry. Similes still confound me. But I've never met a metaphor I didn't like. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

Wine Dining: Pre-pairing the perfect feast

Thor Iverson — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 17:43:00 GMT

SIX COURSES in, I knew I was in trouble.

It was my introduction to wine, food, France. And, more important, to my girlfriend's family. I was in some forsaken little village in Lorraine, sitting at a table with her parents, other relatives, and their parents, eating freshly hunted wild boar and hand-picked chestnuts, drinking wines I couldn't even identify, much less pronounce. Every course came with its wine, every wine with its narrative, and I was absolutely hooked. (The girl was pretty nice, too.) But after a half-dozen iterations, I was feeling little other than existential pain, wondering if I would actually be able to stand at any future point, and how much a precipitous but happy collapse would affect my future prospects.

It was the most fun I'd ever had at a table, up to that point. ("At," not "on"; let's keep this family-oriented, shall we?) And it's what led me to write about wine. Fortunately (or un-), I've had even more fun since then.

No surprise: the French have pretty much perfected a procession of food and wine, each selected to enhance the other. It's an expensive proposition for a restaurant, because opening a bottle of wine for by-the-glass pours requires either by-the-glass pricing (your glass price = restaurant's bottle price) or full confidence that sufficient quantities of each wine will be consumed. But why pay restaurant prices when the same experience can be replicated at home?

In these days of take-out convenience, the idea of hosting a dedicated wine-focused party fills some with quavering fear, but it shouldn't. It's actually little different than hosting any sort of dinner party. All it requires is a shift in priorities. That is: the wine comes first, the food later. One can go crazy trying to find the perfect wine for a favored dish. But why go to all that psychic trouble when there's an easier solution? First, pick the wines. Then, match the food to those wines.

And here's finally a use for all those lyrical but otherwise useless tasting notes we writers generate - the ones that mention smoked pork, fresh honeysuckle, or grated blood-orange rind. These are semi-metaphorical descriptors for how a wine tastes, yes, but they're also helpful in constructing a wine-friendly dish.

To illustrate, consider an Alsatian gewürztraminer: cashew, lychee, peach, oil, cumin, and coriander. Perhaps some sweetness, and also, low acidity. Now, one might know that stinky Alsatian Munster (one of the most offensive-yet-delicious cheeses) is the classic match, but that's not something that everyone loves. So why not construct a dish based on the wine's inherent character? I've seared foie gras with diced lychees (available by the can), dusting the foie gras with ground cashews before searing. But more prosaic options like pork chops sauced with slow-cooked peaches and coriander would be just beautiful.

Or consider a Marlborough sauvignon blanc: crisp grapefruit, gooseberry, tropical fruit, hot pepper, and assorted greenery. This begs for fish, but with the appropriate accompaniments, like a homemade fruit salsa (see above shopping list) spiked with Serrano chiles, or a ceviche of tuna with jalapeño, lime, and basil. A peppery syrah cries out for steak au poivre, a mushroomy red Burgundy for slow-cooked meats with truffle oil.

This may sound difficult at first, but just think about the wines you like and how they taste to you. Is your everyday merlot fruity and full-bodied, like chocolate and blueberry? Serve it with meat in a mole sauce. Is your favorite riesling full of crisp apples? Roasted pork with caramelized Granny Smiths. Your Champagne toasty and lemony? Try smoked salmon on toast with a little garnish of lemon zest. The options are endless.

The only caveat is that truly wine-unfriendly foods must be avoided. These include: extremely spicy foods (vindaloo, hot salsas, much authentic Thai cuisine), artichokes (though sauvignon blanc or grüner veltliner work well), asparagus (see artichoke matches), and very sweet foods, with which even the sweetest wines do not pair well.

As for quantities, figure that a bottle will provide about six to seven reasonable pours. If you have more people than that, or expect to serve several glasses of each wine (which I do, but my guests are incorrigible lushes), you'll need multiple bottles. People will drink more at the beginning of the meal than at the end, sparkling wines (served at the beginning of the meal) will rapidly disappear, and sweet wines require lower quantities per person.

And if you feel yourself worried about personal verticality a few glasses in, don't panic. Unless you're the chef. In that case, it might be time to make a few well-placed phone calls to the local sushi joint. With which the best match is - let me remind you - New Zealand sauvignon blanc or German riesling. After all, a good host is nothing if not flexible. Even when horizontal. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.

Bubble Vision: Champagne lends panache to cocktails all over town

Sara Faith Alterman — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 16:08:00 GMT

TO CELEBRATE special occasions, there's simply no substitute for a bottle of bubbly. Champagne is a symbol of milestones and commemoration, and the sound of a cork popping means it's time for the party to start. As we here at Stuff@night celebrate our 10th anniversary (the kids grow up so fast, don't they?), we're certainly lifting our glasses in a toast. Of course, Champagne and other sparkling wines are delicious all year round, so you don't have to wait for a wedding or birthday to tickle your nose with a glass full of fizz. And if you don't like straight-up Champagne, or simply feel too stuffy ordering a flute when your friends are swilling martinis, there are plenty of Champagne-based cocktails that sparkle with flavor.

Trendy Bostonians know all about Tara O'Riordan's lovely French Kiss. No, don't try and slip her the tongue, Casanova. O'Riordon, bartender at the Ashmont Grill (555 Talbot Avenue, Dorchester, 617.825.4300), would prefer that you order up a French Kiss martini ($9), made with Absolut vodka, Chambord, and pineapple juice, mixed and poured over Champagne. "We wanted a fancier play on the French martini," O'Riordan says, "and it's a nice little tribute. We have a lot of fun with this drink. It's very popular, and people like the name." People like a lot more than that. The cocktail is sweet and flirty, just like its name, and though the Ashmont Grill is a bit off the beaten path, the atmosphere, food, and gregarious staff make a trip to Dorchester well worth it. Besides, send a French Kiss to an attractive stranger, and maybe you two can find something to celebrate together.

Over at Ashmont's sister restaurant, Icarus (3 Appleton Street, Boston, 617.426.1790), Champagne blushes purple when blended with cassis. The classic cocktail Kir Royal ($12) here gets a sophisticated twist, with a brut Champagne from Gosset, one of the oldest and most prestigious Champagne houses in France.

Classic Champagne cocktails go Italian at Dante (40 Edwin H. Land Boulevard, Cambridge, 617.497.4200), where bar manager Brian McCarthy uses prosecco in place of Champagne. So the Champagne Cocktail ($12) isn't really a "Champagne" cocktail, but who cares? A dash of bitters and a sugar cube are all that's needed to turn sparkling wine into an homage to the traditional treat. If the bubbly whets your appetite, Dante features an ever-changing and ambitious menu that's a spectrum of all things earth and sea. A recent visit yielded an expertly sliced fish crudo, surrounded by a sea of tomato-scented broth, and a creamy polenta canopied with crispy kale. Exquisite.

Back to the booze. Those who can't get enough of Todd English (and who can blame you? Did you catch his debonair turn on the finale of Bravo's Top Chef? In his all-black chef ensemble, English was like the Johnny Cash of the kitchen) can pair creative cuisine with cocktails at Bonfire (50 Park Plaza, Boston, 617.262.3473), now serving a Pomegranate-Champagne Martini ($11) that embodies all the colors and flavors

a cinnamon-rimmed martini glass goes apple cider that's been shaken with Pearl Persephone pomegranate vodka. The cocktail is kissed with a splash of Champagne and garnished with a slice of green apple. It's all done in the spirit of English himself, whose food tends to celebrate classic flavors with a splash of elegance.

Pumpkin purée and gin? Sounds like the annual Thanksgiving tradition at my alcoholic grandmother's house, but it's actually the basis for a spanking-new (or is it sparkling-new?) cocktail at Bella Luna/Milky Way Lounge (403-405 Centre Street, Jamaica Plain, 617.524.3740 and 617.524.6060). The Pumpkin French 75 ($8), the pride and joy of bar manager Mike Stankovich, is a curious blend of Tanqueray gin, fresh lemon juice, pumpkin purée, and simple syrup, splashed with Sofia Blanc de Blancs sparkling wine. This is definitely one of the more unique cocktails in town - fitting, considering Bella Luna's unique menu, which includes an extensive selection of pizza toppings. Downstairs at the Milky Way, bowl a couple of games, shoot some pool, or settle in at a table to take in a show, Pumpkin French 75 in hand.

Whatever you're celebrating (or even if you're not), Champagne and sparkling wines are a must. On their own, those famous bubbles are a florid sizzle for the tongue. Poured atop fruit and liqueur, Champagne and its ilk lend movement and panache to otherwise still cocktails. We'll toast to that. @

[Photo by Kelly Davidson]

Drink as I say: An imbibing adventure

Sara Faith Alterman — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 18:10:00 GMT

A NIGHT out on the town should be an adventure. Though it's easy to get stuck in a rut bouncing between your old-standby bars and clubs, hitting your go-to bar again and again and again must be boring by now. And if you think you're boring, imagine how your friends feel?

Even I tremble, occasionally, at the thought of becoming a snoozefest. I know, I know: how can a Stuff@night writer possibly have a lifestyle that is anything less than perpetual glamour? Laziness, my friends. Despite the fact that it's our job to tell you about the hottest of the hot, the coolest of the cool, the funnest of the fun (all while ignoring grammatical precision in favor of words like "funnest"), when we're off the clock, sometimes we just want a stiff drink, without having to, well, think.

Thanks to some savvy bartenders and a half-dozen friends who boast endless energy and an insatiable desire for good times, I spend a recent Saturday night on a bar crawl dictated by the good people who serve me my drinks. No pre-planned route for me. No idea where I'm going next or how I'm going to get there. I decide to place my fate in the hands of the bar staff, choosing my next destination based on their recommendations. A truly spontaneous adventure, no thinking required. After all, who better to advise people on where to drink than Boston's booze professionals?

Even the first stop of the night is a recommendation: my boyfriend, Sam, insists that we begin at the Sail Loft (80 Atlantic Avenue, Boston, 617.227.7280), one of his favorite bars. "It's in my top five, babe," he tells me. I've only been once before, but I was charmed by the harborfront hole-in-the-wall, especially the tiny standing-room-only deck that peers out over the water. When we arrive at around 7:30, the bar hosts only a smattering of patrons, which is excellent news for us. We immediately storm the deck, pausing only to order beers, and stake our claim along the coveted railing that overlooks the harbor. The bartender, Greg, passes us drinks through a window, and we watch as boats sway in the breeze, lights twinkling on the surface of the water. Not much time to enjoy the scenery, though; we have places to go! We just don't know where. I make my friends down their beers and hound Greg to point us in the next direction.

On his suggestion, we abandon the peaceful refuge of the early-evening waterfront and venture toward the chaos that is Saturday night in Faneuil Hall. People mill about everywhere, spilling out of the marketplace onto the cobblestone streets. By now it's 8:30, still a bit early for bars to be too crazy, and we're happy to discover that Union Bar at the Union Oyster House (41 Union Street, Boston, 617.227.2750) is somewhat empty. Joined by a few more friends who've been on a bar crawl of their own, we grab some more beers while I try to grab the bartender's attention for a quick chat. When I finally tear him away from a group of scantily-clad barflies, he suggests we hit up his 'hood for our next drink.

We oblige and head to Southie, where we fight our way through the crowd gathered inside the Boston Beer Garden (734 East Broadway, South Boston, 617.269.0990). It's prime boozing time for both rowdy Irishmen and 20-something young professionals, so the bar is packed wall-to-wall. Same routine: we grab beers, throw them back, and make buzzed conversation. Sam tells me that he always thinks every girl at this bar is really, really attractive. I sink my talons into his arm and clutch him like an overpriced handbag. Back off, bitches, I think drunkenly. Make a move on my man and I will cut you. How's that for adventure?

Not surprisingly, I'm ready for the next bar pretty quickly. Heather, the Beer Garden bartender, laughs warmly when I tell her what I'm up to for the evening and immediately recommends Lucky's Lounge (355 Congress Street, Boston, 617.357.5825). She even gives me the names of a few bartenders I should be sure to chat with when I get there.

Lucky's is known for its cocktails, so I stray from my pattern of cheap beer and order up a Lady Luck ($9.50), a sweet treat of raspberry vodka and liqueur with fresh lime and a splash of Sprite. I'm bobbing my head to the thumping bass when suddenly: total darkness. Shit. Ican't possibly be blacked out after three beers and two sips of a candy-flavored martini. Before I begin to panic, soft spotlights illuminate the room in patches. Turns out the electricity has blown on the entire block. We're having too much fun to care, and the dim emergency lighting makes the ambiance kind of sexy. Our sweet-tempered waitress, Marcie, keeps her cool, even though she can't print out checks, run credit cards, or open the registers to make change. Instead, she sends us to City Bar (Lenox Hotel, 710 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.933.4801).

By the time we make it to Back Bay, find parking, dodge the gauntlet of vagabonds gathered around the entrance to the Boston Public Library, and stumble into the Lenox, it's late. (Really late. Jesus, how did it get so late?) The crowd outside City Bar extends beyond the velvet rope and all the way across the lobby of the hotel. No matter: alcohol gives you confidence! I put on my best "I belong here so get the hell out my way!" face and march toward the door. The burly yet impeccably dressed bouncer opens the door for me and waves me through. Ha! Confidence comes in a bottle, I tell you.

Inside, the bartender, Brian, mixes me a ginger-peach martini ($11) and I sink blissfully into a booth, sipping my cocktail and - oops. My confidence has eclipsed my memory. All of my friends are still outside. I rush to the door. Then back inside we all go, where Sam's roommate attempts to hit on a girl by making smooth, sexy exclamations such as "You're wearing a blazer!"

Eventually I remember that I'm working, not playing, so I head straight to the bar, where Brian emphatically tells me that I absolutely must go to the Beehive (541 Tremont Street, Boston, 617.423.0069). I agree! The only problem is that he's also just announced last call, my designated driver has already headed home, and I keep saying things like, "I luuuurve thith drink. I mean, I, like, luuurve it. Omigod, can I tell you howmushiluuuurve you? I'm scho glad we'rrre friendszz."

And so, my travel capability, legal drinking time, and dignity thwarted, Sam and I say our goodbyes and go outside to hail a cab home - which is, of course, an adventure in itself. @

Who You Gonna Call: Surviving the restaurant wine experience

Thor Iverson — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 17:20:00 GMT

MY FRIEND was excited.

"Here's the idea: someone at a restaurant calls you up and says, ‘I'm at Chez Louis, I'm having the veal, and I want a $50 white.' You give them advice, and they pay you."

"Where do I get the wine lists and menus?", I wondered. "Most restaurants can't even keep their own Web sites updated. And let's say I get 40 calls per night. People dine out from 5:30 to 10:30. When do I get to eat? What if this expands to the West Coast? What about business lunches? Are they going to stand around the lobby while they're on hold? What about ..."

And so, my dreams of wine-soaked billions vanished in a tide of objections. But the thing is, my friend had a point. For those who haven't made wine their life's work, the art and science of the wine list can be more than a little confounding. Some help would be nice.

Yes, there are books. But: "Um, waiter, could you please come back in about 10 minutes ... I'm having trouble finding ‘ostrich saltimbocca' in the index." And there are PDA applications, though they're no less distracting at the table. In any case, neither is truly interactive. What you're eating probably isn't represented in the database - unless you're at a steakhouse - and the book has no idea what is and isn't on Chez Louis's wine list.

So now that my dreams of one-lucre are smashed, here it is: a five-step guide to surviving the restaurant wine experience. If I could only find the tip jar ...

1) Simplify the matching process. One could devote a lifetime of study to wine-and-food pairing and still be regularly surprised and disappointed. On balance, you'll have much more fun eating and drinking what you like than you will seeking a brilliant marriage between the two. Still, it's true that some matches just don't work - cabernet sauvignon with lobster, off-dry riesling with steak - but very few couplets (gewürztraminer and Munster) are truly revelatory, either. A tip: focus less on color, and more on body. The fuller-bodied (bigger) the food, the fuller-bodied the wine should be (and vice-versa), which is why a delicate Ouray goes better with trout than it does with tuna, while a hefty Alsatian pinot gris requires a fish with presence, like salmon.

2) Worry less about color. Didn't I just say this? Well, it bears repeating, but in a slightly different sense. What the heck do you order when you've got cod, wild mushrooms, venison, and butternut-squash soup on the table? There's the by-the-glass option (though see below), and there's also genre-straddling rosé. But in general, only extraordinary wine lists offer any interesting pink wine, and rosé doesn't so much match a wider range of foods as it does remain inoffensive with that wider range.

In much of the Old World, there's a traditional solution: just drink red. In Sicily, for example, where the fish is stupendous but the whites ... aren't, they drink their heavy reds with pretty much everything. But there's a better option: light-bodied reds. A Beaujolais will be more pleasant with halibut than will a zinfandel, but it won't be afraid of grilled meat, either. Give it a shot.

3) Control your temperature. This particularly applies to light-bodied reds, which are often served at the same temperature as their heftier brethren. This is a mistake; lighter reds need to be slightly chilled. A few minutes in the ice bucket will lend them a refreshing quaffability that makes them even more amenable to theoretically red-unfriendly foods.

4) Know your prices. Many (perhaps most) restaurants price by-the-glass wines so the first pour pays for the entire bottle. Yes, really. Moreover, the lowest-priced wines on the lists often carry the highest-percentage markups. Other restaurants will price the lower end with more restraint, but take massive profits on big-ticket wines, figuring that if $400 is an option, $500 won't break the deal. Thus, on most lists, there's a "sweet spot" of the best quality/price ratio somewhere in the $35 to $80 range, depending on the restaurant. And don't forget that it's now legal to take unfinished wine out of a restaurant and drink the rest at home. (Not in the parking lot.)

5) Weird is good. The more prosaic and familiar the wines on a list, the more likely it is that there's no one on the floor who can offer much guidance. It's the eccentric and the specialized lists, of whatever length, that are the result of someone's careful attention. Even if those people aren't available at mealtime, they tend to train the heck out of some portion of their staff. So when confronted by a parade of zweigelt, Cour-Cheverny, Taurasi, and ribolla gialla that might as well be in Klingon as far as you're concerned, ask. There's probably someone who can help.

But please, don't call me during dinner. @

Thor Iverson can be reached at wine@stuffatnight.com.