Blame it on Rioja

Or, how, with the help of an aluminum-lined plywood box made in Florida, I brought joy to family and friends on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, Chanterelle sous chef Steve Jackson can be found in his kitchen in Brooklyn Heights, communing with his inner Italian Catholic nona, turning out a traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes for a small group of friends. He’s been doing it for something like five years now.

In one of those cultural ironies that make perfect sense when you really think about it, Steve is neither Italian nor Catholic (and certainly not a grandmother). (more…)

In ten years’ time, when we look back on Rioja’s trajectory into the American popular imagination, it’s my guess that 2006 will stand out as a watershed year. (more…)

In 2006, I’ve had the good fortune of visiting Rioja twice, first in late May, when the region’s vines had just begun to flower, and again in late October, just after harvest. The picture that emerged is one of a region in flux, an enclave of impeccable taste in the midst of reinventing itself while simultaneously staying true to its essential character, to what it knows and does the best. (more…)

A few weeks ago, on the night before Thanksgiving , I was trying to figure out a way to console my younger brother, Pablo—who had to work a double shift the next day at Rosa Mexicano on the Upper West Side, when most of the rest of the world would be toasting loved ones—the best way I know how: with food and wine.

Turkey was definitely out. I knew I would get plenty of that the next day with friends in Rhode Island, and I didn’t want put us both in a food coma. Whenever Pablo and I hang out, the night always ends up back at our East Village apartment, playing the acoustic guitar and indulging in rock n’ roll fantasies, learning the two-part harmonies for songs like Radiohead’s “Let Down,” or Toto’s shamefully underrated “Africa,” activities greatly compromised by high levels of Tryptophan in the bloodstream.

I settled on one of my all-time favorite New York City restaurants, the Peking Duck House in Chinatown, where the namesake bird gets beautifully hacked up right in front of you, quickly becoming dinner under the deft and economic movements executed by a guy whose evening most likely includes little else.

Beyond the food and the pomp, Peking Duck House has the added bonus of a liberal BYOB policy, and option I always take them up on. On this night, I had something special in mind, a souvenir brought back from a recent trip to Spain: a bottle of 1996 Viña Real Gran Reserva.

It was a wise move.
(more to come)