The hot days of Texas summer are upon us. What better thing to do than get your outdoor chores done by noon, get showered up and then stay inside in “air-conned” comfort. Perhaps, the only thing better is to also get in a few tastings of some cool white wines. The tasting experience that follows exposure to our summertime weather makes you appreciate wines with the ability to quench; quench the heat of summer and also the heat of our spicy regional cuisines like Tex-Mex, Southwestern, Creole/Cajun and even Pan Asian.
This was the context for my recent tasting of three premium white table wines. All were fascinating and somewhat exotic blends that prompt the near-philosophical questions as to how the blends were developed and how their names were derived.
The focus of my attention was the newly released 2008 Viviana, the Yin/Yang counterpart of the premium Mediterranean red-blend, Viviano from Llano Estacado in Lubbock, Texas (www.llanowine.com). This wine was made by Llano Estacado’s winemaker Chris Hall and is a proprietary blend of the aromatic northern European Gewurztraminer conjoined with equally perfumed Mediterranean Muscat Canelli and Viognier. Riesling and Chardonnay play their part offering wine structure, mouth feel and body. In this case, no one varietal greatly dominates in percentage.
Viviana’s partners in this taste pairing were two highly rated premium white blends of equal creativity from California: Beringer (www.beringer.com) Knights Valley 2007 Alluvium Blanc by winemaker Laurie Hook, and the 2007 Conundrum (www.conundrum.com) by winemaker Jon Bolta and from the distinguished Wagner family of Caymus Vineyards. Alluvium starts with a conventional white Bordeaux blend of Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon and Chardonnay and then adds a pinch of Viognier. Conundrum’s approach is also based on Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay and Semillon then follows it with less conventional additions of Muscat Canelli and Viognier. Recent vintages of both Conundrum and Alluvium Blanc wines have garnered ratings from Wine Spectator and Wine Advocate in the range of 89-92.
How will Llano Estacado’s new Viviana compare?
More evaluation, pairing and analysis at: http://vintagetexas.com/blog/?p=920
Today there are many realizations pouring out of the Narconon drug rehab. Many of the students like to share them with the hopes that they can be of help to others with problems. The realizations are simple, but powerful.
“Today was a good day in class. I was in great spirits and very attentive.
The work today made me realize that I can keep control of my mind and my urges. It’s my choice to control my actions and to use all the tools I have been taught to overcome urges.
Today I learned to stop, think and relax. I don’t have to keep going a mile a minute. I need to take time for myself and relax. I don’t have to constantly plan every detail of my life.
This was a big gain for me because I always had to go, go, go…”
Narconon drug treatment helps with most drugs of abuse – heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, pot, Xanax and alcohol.
The Herald strikes the right tone, for Alf, when it reports that the prospect of increased booze prices, is
The increases are likely to be triggered when the Government increases the excise tax on alcohol by 2.8 per cent from today.
The tax, which is adjusted to reflect the rate of inflation, rose by around 3.5 per cent last year.
Some retailers tried to resist passing on price rises from the main breweries in March but would be forced to increase prices now, Hospitality Association of New Zealand chief executive Bruce Robertson said.
“My understanding is that most manufacturers are going up similar amounts or more – I certainly know that Lion (Nathan) and DB (Breweries) are increasing their prices by at least 3 per cent, and we’re certainly expecting that retailers are going to have no choice but to pass that on to consumers,” Mr Robertson told NZPA.
Different rates of tax are paid on different levels of alcohol, but the 2.8 per cent increase will apply to all tax rates.
Prices are expected to rise over the next month – some retailers are likely to apply it immediately while others use up stock before passing on the increase.
Tax increases could contribute to a further decline in sales, and job losses across the hospitality, entertainment and beverage industries, the Distilled Spirits Association said.
The Hospitality Association had written to Minister of Finance Bill English asking that the annual adjustment be deferred.
Betcha six rounds of beers in the Eketahuna Club he won’t get far with that proposal.
Incorporating fair trade into your day has never been easier!
Begin your day with a piping hot cup of fair trade coffee or tea. Add some fair trade sugar to your coffee. Eat fair trade bananas on your cereal. You can buy fair trade coffee or tea from , or (dare I say it?) (hey, if it helps those coffee and tea farmers…). Or, if you’re in a rush, you can pick up a cuppa fair trade joe at , (ask for the fair trade blend) or (ask for their Global Village Fair Trade blend). You can buy the sugar for your coffee or tea (or for that Peach Cobbler) at or . Bananas can sometimes be found at your local supermarket or health food store. If any of these stores don’t have fair trade, ask “why not?” And always request that they get fair trade items that you want.
Use fair trade beauty products. Buy for your shower or to wash your hair. You can pick it up at your local health food store or online. Most beauty products that are fair trade certified are from the UK and are certified by the A list can be found . And these are the websites: , , , and . Other beauty products that adhere to fair trade policies, but that are not certified per se can be had at: , and .
Wear fair trade (and organic) cotton t-shirts. Carry a fair trade hand bag. Buy fair trade cotton t-shirts online at , a hip, extremely ethical shopping website. And get a fairly traded, extremely ethical hand bag to go with it at .
Snack on fair trade chocolate, fair trade nuts or fair trade dried fruit. You can find fair trade snacks at your local health food store, at or online at or at .
When you go shopping, instead of paper or plastic, carry your own fair trade, recycled bag to bring home the bacon and your treasures. Buy a hip, recycled rice bag, big enough for all your shopping needs at .
Bring your honey fair trade flowers…just because. You can find fair trade flowers at and .
Sip fair trade wine at the end of the day. And now that you’re completely knackered (really, really tired), it’s time to find a really comfortable chair, put your feet up and sip some refreshing fair trade wine. From Pinot Grigio to Cabernet Sauvignon, your favorite can be found, fairly traded, at , and .
As you can see, it’s as easy as can be to incorporate fair trade into your day. So, what’s stopping you??? Get out there and DO IT!!!
“C’mon, you’re not ready for bed yet,” my new friend Kim coyly whispered in my ear.
We were introduced through a mutual colleague two days earlier at Sunday brunch. We were in Jakarta for a business conference, and Kim and I shared a desire to explore this mysterious city. Having witnessed the bloodied victims of the Australian embassy bombing being tended to in the hotel lobby during her last trip to Jakarta, our friend flat out refused to leave the hotel under any circumstances. So Kim and I had wandered through the junky chaos of Jalan
Jalan Surabaya Market
Surabaya, the so-called antique market filled sketchy merchandise and even sketchier salesmen. Not finding anything to our liking, we then participated in the Indonesia’s official sport: mall shopping. Kim showed great patience while I excitedly tracked down , the Spanish chain of young, frivolous and colourful lingerie with soon-to-be classic expressions like “In the future, everyone will be team-famous.” In exchange, I helped Kim find the perfect silk blouse for his new girlfriend.
It was now Tuesday night, and as conference hosts we were obliged – happily – to show our attendees a good time. We foolishly packed the whole group into one minivan taxi; I was somewhere under the crush of bodies. We arrived at our destination like a clown car, an impossibly large number of passengers unfurling themselves one after the other. By the time I pried myself out of the taxi a small crowd of goggle-eyed Indonesians had formed to watch the entertainment. The bar was elegant, with high ceilings, long, crimson velvet curtains, and hundreds of posters proclaiming the immorality of drugs. Even the fashionable wait staff were forced to endure large, circular pins declaring “Say NO to drugs!” It was a very odd place. Moreover, the bar was empty. Turns out they had recently reopened after being shut down by the government when a famous Indonesian actress was caught in their bathroom using cocaine. Not quite the atmosphere we sought.
Jakarta nightlife
The subsequent bar had a good vibe, good music and nice crowd. We danced up a storm and giggled over the creatively-named cocktails.
“What do you think a ‘Screaming Chinese Virgin’ is?” I asked Kim.
The next thing I knew a large, pink cocktail replete with skewered marachino cherry appeared on the table. Kim smiled. I tasted it – I had no idea what was in it, but it was good. I offered some to Kim and soon the whole group was, ahem, having a bit of screaming Chinese virgin.
At midnight the group was spent. Everyone, that is, except for Kim.
“You’re not ready for bed,” he cajoled as we walked to the front door. “Let’s keep going. After all, when will you next be in Jakarta?” He had a point.
“Ok,” I answered, and our adventure began immediately.
On the subject of hired transportation in Jakarta, the recommendation is consistent and unanimous: when in Jakarta you should only take Blue Bird or Silver Bird taxis. Period. End of. Non negotiable. Kim promptly walked to a beat up, rusty red no-name taxi and held the door open.
“Madame….” he proclaimed with a bow and sweep of his arm.
“Uh, do you think we should be taking *this* taxi?” I meekly asked.
Kim, a strapping Korean raised in Nairobi, was not going to be discouraged by the middling issue of personal safety on a post-midnight August Tuesday in Jakarta. He dismissed my concern and enthusiastically asked the driver to take us to Tanamur Bar which he explained to me was the oldest disco in Jakarta – we just *had* to go.
“Tanamur….?” The driver looked at us blankly.
Tanamur
“Big disco? Dancing? Bar?” Kim explained, animatedly acting out each word.
“Tanamur.” Now it was a perplexed statement.
Kim mimed that they should ask one of the other taxi drivers together. Glumly, I sat in the back. Even if I had a map I had no idea where we were or where we were going.
Kim and the driver returned wearing big smiles.
“We got it now,” he beamed.
Although the driver took us down well-lit residential roads, at every intersection cross streets trailed ominously into blackness. One sharp turn and we would have been swallowed up by Jakarta, never to be seen again. I was acutely aware of our vulnerability.
After twenty minutes we still hadn’t reached our destination, but neither had we been robbed, raped and left to die in some dirty Jakarta back alley. Kim, in his wonderful African way, was suggesting to the driver that we pull over and ask for directions. The driver understood and drove up to a brightly-lit shopping mall. It was now close to 1 am.
As Kim, the driver and three others noisily debated the best route to our destination, I quietly took in our surroundings. Looking over Kim’s shoulder, I wasn’t sure I believed what I was seeing.
“Uh, Kim? Kim?” But he was too engaged in conversation.
It was the middle of the night and somewhere in a mall in the midst of Jakarta a full-on boxing match was taking place. I’m talking ring, ropes, boxers in shiny shorts, a zebra-shirted referee, bell and hundreds of spectators. I was mesmerized. And I was starting to quite like this town.
Again we set off and finally, finally reached the holy grail of discos. Cost of the cab ride? About $3. We were relieved we didn’t have to stand in line. We stepped up to the outdoor ticket booth where I delightedly learned that Tuesday was Ladies’ Night – free entry for me! Kim paid his entrance (about $10) without complaint and asked how the scene was. The two staff members looked at each other quickly, smirked and said they had heard it was good inside. Kim could barely contain his excitement. He was already dancing.
We walked up the long, winding ramp, designed for massive swells of revelers. The bouncer eyed us surprisingly, but let us in. We entered a cavernous, dark, quintessential booming nightclub. We were the only patrons.
Recovered from our initial shock and disappointment, Kim cheerfully chatted up the bartenders while I went for a walk. The place was colossal. As I climbed stairs, exploring hazy, green-hued spaces on different levels, I felt like I was in a bizarre fun house. Expecting zombified barflies to lurch at me from darkened corners, I shrieked when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“I think we’ve done this place,” Kim announced.
Good, I thought. Time to go home.
“Let’s go to Blok M!” he suggested eagerly, clapping his hands.
Blok M, he explained, was a bar-lined street popular with ex-pats and probably the only happening place after 2 am in Jakarta. I was not unimpressed by the volume of research he had conducted on Jakarta nightlife. Kim was a walking Let’s Go. Literally.
After we thanked the ticket sellers for the wonderful evening we took yet another unmarked taxi. The driver kindly afforded me the opportunity to practice my newly-acquired Indonesia Bahasa.
“Hati-hati!!” I yelped while being flung sideways as he screeched around corners. “For the love of god, slow down!”
Even at that speed, however, I was starting to recognize Jakarta landmarks. My locals’ badge was pending.
Blok M was still lively. The neon of “My Bar” beckoned brightly.
“Home of the world-famous ‘Big Ben’ cocktail,” I noted.
We entered the bar, and 80 young Indonesian prostitute eyes simultaneously locked on us. I looked back with equal curiosity. There were also three white
Dance floor at My Bar
men: one in his sixties amorously engaged with one of the young ladies; a shaggy fellow casually chatting up a couple of birds; and a youngish, uncomfortable-looking guy with short brown hair and glasses whose eyes furtively scanned the room while his fingers twisted his cuff links nervously. The place had a damp, alcoholic aura with occasional zephyrs of sweaty perfume. The music played loudly and a few of the women danced together.
Kim took the initiative and ordered us two Big Bens. I viewed the tall, faintly blue glass with suspicion.
I choked on my first sip. “What the hell is this?”
The bartender explained that it was a blend of every white spirit in the bar with a tiny splash of blue Curacao for colour. I offered him my drink which he happily slurped up.
Kim and I made quite the pair: a tall Korean guy from Kenya and white Jewish girl from Canada flailing around the dance floor in a bar catering to sleazy ex-pats during the wee hours of a weekday in the main city of an Islamic Asian country. I could feel inquisitive gazes trying to figure us out.
“Do you think they’re wondering if were looking for a threesome?” I asked Kim while busting a move to Kylie Minogue.
Without missing a beat, my now happily-drunk new friend – and work colleague – answered, “Have you ever had a threesome?”
My eyebrows shot up. Realizing the very personal nature of his question, Kim turned crimson. To put him out of his misery I suggested a game of pool. He crushed me. By 4 am we mutually agreed it was time to go home.
The next morning I saw a map of the city and realized just how much ground we had covered. Starting in the middle of the city we had gone way to the northern suburbs, then south practically to the port, then to the east and back to centre. We had ridden in no-name taxis, imbibed Big Bens and Screaming Chinese Virgins, seen a late-night boxing match at a mall, had a disco all to ourselves, danced with the prostitutes and lived to tell the tale.
There are a lot of elaborate ways to get smoke into a drink. Several of which have been featured and discussed here (check the archives and the recipe pages). But here is a simple, easy approach where you can add herbal smoke to a drink
First prepare your coktail in a mixing glass, and add ice. Remember, time is now a factor.
Next, hold an empty metal shaker tin upside down and over a sink. With your pinky, firmly hold whatever herb you are using against the lip of the shaker. Long stemmed herbs like rosemary and thyme are easy, but others may take a little balance, like the sage in this picture.
Now, take your lighter (yes, even in the days of anti smoking bars, I still carry one) ignite the herbs and catch the smoke inside the tin. as soon as you have some smoke, drop the herbs into the sink to burn out (A-ha!!).
Cap you mixing glass with the smokey tin, and shake. That’s it!!
If you are doing a cocktail that should be stirred, then after you cap the mixing glass, roll the ingredients once into back a forth, then uncap the glass and stir the cocktail as per usual.
The drink I made while doping this post was a Smoked Sage Margarita:
1/2 oz anejo tequila
1 oz Grand Marnier
1/2 oz fresh lime juice
1/4 oz agave syrup
2 sage leaves
combine liquid ingredients in a mixing glass. Smoke the sage as described. Shake and strain up into a chilled and salt rimmed cocktail glass. Garnish with a lime wedge and sage leaf.
For many a year I have praised the virtue of the seeming ubiquitous Russian markets here in my San Francisco neighborhood of The Richmond. These corner shops stock all sorts of Eastern European goodies: Russian spirits, Polish sweets, German mustards, and Hungarian paprikas. They also usually carry a fairly decent selection of basic corner store necessities like milk, butter, fruits, vegetables, bread, and meat. My favorite, Royal Market on Geary Avenue, has the entertaining addition of four flat-screen televisions blaring Russian variety shows and music programs at all times. And though it’s loud and I understand nary a word of what is being said or sung, I feel strangely at peace wandering the aisles and fondling the strange objects on the shelves. I suppose it’s something in my traveler’s soul that doesn’t ever feel quite at home unless I’m surrounded by the unfamiliar.
Needless to say, Royal Market abounds with a certain charm. It’s bright and shiny, yet strangely mysterious at the same time. The black leather jacketed proprietor stands heavily behind the register, either yelling into his cellphone or thumbing his way through last week’s Moscow Times. Little Russian ladies squeeze past each other in the narrow produce aisle, poking at the leeks, potatoes, and onions. And of course there’s the young people of the neighborhood, brought out here by the cheap (for San Francisco) rents, perusing the incredible variety of jams, cookies, and naturally, liquors. Each Russian market is different in its own small ways, which just adds to the unique allure of them all.
So for years I have been a happy advocate of these small markets, gleefully parading around my tiny culinary discoveries. Most of my friends and roommates over the years respond with indulgent smile and mild pats on the back, as if to say, ” Yes, yes Kitty, it’s very wonderful. Can we please go to Whole Foods now?” So imagine my slightly confused delight when my boyfriend Chris burst through the door late one evening with a huge paper bag of groceries and a beaming smile, fresh from his first solo adventure at Royal Market. As it was past nine PM and he was rather late for the dinner I’d planned to make, I thrust my hands on my hips and greeted him with my best withering stare.
“Hi honey, I know I’m late, I’m sorry. But look, I was down at that Russian market you love and I got you a surprise! It’s awesome! The guys at the store were so friendly and cool, and they said that this was the best dinner ever!”
Relaxing my stance a bit, I moved towards the kitchen to see what he was unpacking. Salami, brie, a Spring Hill pepper jack, and a bottle of cabernet came tumbling out of the paper bag. This was my surprise? We had four different cheeses and two kinds of salami in the fridge already — though one can never have too much of either, it still seemed a bit anti-climactic, as far as surprises go. I returned my hands to my hips.
“No Kitty wait! When I was chatting with the owner, I mentioned our trip to Eastern Europe, and he said I just had to try this before we went, so I know what I’m getting myself into. And then he made me buy this awesome stuff to go with it. So this, Baby, this is going to be great!”
With a triumphant flourish, Chris reached into the bag and produced his surprise. Of all the I’m Sorry For Being Late presents he’s come up with, this one was truly a unique surprise. No flowers or chocolates here, no way. Chris likes to push the envelope on creativity and he certainly succeeded this time.I looked into his eyes, then looked at his proud purchases sitting on the counter, then back to his face again (I can never look into those hazel-y green eyes without swooning just a little.) I couldn’t possibly restrain the laughter that burst out of me. Strong and stalwart they stood: a jar of pickled herring and a bottle of Russian Standard vodka.
Seeing that my laugh was one of enjoyment and not one of ridicule, Chris set about making us a grand smargasboard of cheese, salami, and herring. With the bottle and some shot glasses in in one hand and the heaping platter of of goodies in the other, Chris’ grand entrance just made me laugh even harder. I felt the need to warm him just a bit, however.
” You know, this is a very Eastern European snack. Herring is beloved in Germany, Russian, even places like Sweden and Norway. You know I’ve grown up with it, due to my German mother and all, but I’m interested to see how you take to it. It’s kind of an acquired taste for most people. ” Though I didn’t want to dampen his spirits, I also didn’t want him to be disappointed if he didn’t care for the briny, fishy, vinegared flesh. Undeterred, he replied,
” Well, I’m German and Polish, so it’s gotta be in my blood or something!”
And with that, Chris took his first bite of traditional pickled herring. After a few seconds of thoughtful chewing, my fears had been laid to rest as he smiled broadly and exclaimed,
“Wow. That’s exceptional! It’s slippery and briny. Really interesting flavor all-around. Hey, I bet it’s awesome with the vodka!”
Never one to shy away from a bit of high quality vodka, I heartily agreed. “Na zdorovye!” And so we ate and drank our way through a blissful Russian evening. Which, I might add, would not have happened if Chris hadn’t have stumbled upon my beloved market and let himself be taken in. For perhaps that’s the reasonwhy I hold these markets so dear to my heart– going into one for a while to do a bit of shopping isn’t the end of the adventure. When you have a real conversation with an owner or an employee, when you let yourself try something unusual, something authentically different, you are actually experienceing the thrill of the new that we usually only experience while travelling. The whole experience throbs with adventure.
As both of our family histories are tangled up throughout Germany, Austria, Poland, and the rest of Eastern Europe, Chris and I feel a sense of kinship with our Russian neighbors in the fogged-in avenues of San Francisco. After all, the taste for herring is in our blood.
Sam “Mayday” Malone — the epitome of a decent bastard! He was a former Sox pitcher with a nasty slider who owned one of the most renowned bars in history. Being a recovering alcoholic, he still ran Cheers successfully amidst a slew of hard slugging, all-time characters. But more so than anything else, Malone was a legitimate Don Juan — a borderline sex addict — who charmed any and all ladies in the vicinity despite their best efforts to keep his seductive persona at bay.
Make no mistake — Sam Malone was a man’s man, living the dream all dick-owners aspire to. His bar patrons lived vicariously through him and his unprecedented string of female conquests. A seasoned joke teller and a champion ball-buster, this local Boston guy could very well have written the Decent Community Handbook. A DC reader writes in:
“Sam Malone carried a bar, a television show, and most of the male population’s hopes and dreams on his back from 1982 to 1993. (Not to mention all the babes he carried on his johnson!) I was astonished he hadn’t been featured as your Decent Bastard of Week. However, I’m more than confident that after receiving this nomination, he’ll be spotlighted before the Community within minutes.”
I received the email above about 15 minutes ago, and after about five minutes of slamming my head into the wall, I got this post right up. Raise a glass to Sam Malone — a bastard who tagged prudes like Diane Chambers and Rebecca Howe, who pitched five years for the Boston Red Sox, and who was cooler than just about any dude you’ve ever known.
Next, hold an empty metal shaker tin upside down and over a sink. With your pinky, firmly hold whatever herb you are using against the lip of the shaker. Long stemmed herbs like rosemary and thyme are easy, but others may take a little balance, like the sage in this picture.
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