2009 Flor de Viseu Tradition

Producer: Flor de Viseu

Name: Tradition

Varietals: Alfrocheiro 50%; Tinta-Roriz 25%; Touriga-Nacional 25%

Region: Dão D.O.C., Portugal

Vintage: 2009

Tasted: June 18, 2013

ABV: 13%

It was all my fault. I could just chalk it up to a rookie mistake, sure, but it really was poor form, and I ought to own it. You may rest assured that I locked away all of my toys and sat myself in the corner to think about it. The lesson is learned, and the foolish negligence shall not be repeated. Now I know better.

And yet, at the same time, I cannot wholly regret what I did. In addition to learning a valuable lesson, I got to spend some rewarding time with a delightful young wine sporting a keen personality. The transgression, you see, was opening and tasting a wine first, then checking the vintage charts second. Vice versa would have been sensible, an attribute that I have never been accused of having.

By the time that I saw in the charts that the 2009 Dão reds are highly rated but not quite ready, it was a redundant discovery. Upon first sipping - indeed, even upon first gazing at - the Flor de Viseu Tradition, its quality was apparent, but its youth was even more so. The color is well on the purple side of things. The heart of the glass sports a smooth, even melding of ruby and garnet hues, though it takes a moment to discern that because the liquid is very, very deep, dark, opaque.

The nose, too, gives away the wine's youth. At first it is an indiscriminate medley of dark reds, but distinct notes of plums, prunes, and a little bit of cherry emerge. It is tannic. There is also a smack of rhubarb wrapped in spice. In fact, spice-wise, it is like strolling through a forest of cedar and sandalwood. The nose does, however, also betray plenty of latent sweetness.

The palate is of black plums, cherry, and other dark reds. It is rich, sweet, tannic, full-bodied, and undoubtedly fresh. The spice is still there, though understated somewhat. Peripherally, there is some pomegranite and more of that rhubarb. The finish is quite interesting, as the reds lighten up: cherry and strawberry.

But all of this, I fear, may serve to obscure the important qualities of the Tradition more than to illuminate them. The personality, you see, is a distinct pleasure. Here we have a wine like a strong young lad. He is not silent, and not unconfident, but we must be patient in seeking a conversation with him. We get wisps of youthful strength here and there, but they disappear as soon as they ever came about; the wine avoid excess, not out of any utilitarianism, but out of simple habit. Then, when he is ready, this he just starts showing his stuff - the same stuff we always knew he had, but in unexpected places and at unexpected moments. The randomness is almost goofy. And, it is a pleasure to be a part of it. Of course, with all of this give, there is not as much take - the conversation is a bit one-way - but that is not at all inappropriate for a boy. There is plenty of growth yet to come.

Which begs the question: Will all of that growth occur with a little while of breathing, or does the wine need more time in the bottle? Alas, after twenty minutes of aeration, we are met with the bane of every adult's existence: adolescence. The wine is just a tad off the wall now. The nose at first seems plausibly mellower, but then bam! We are back to the spice. The reds may have lightened up, but only a little. The tannins are out in force, and there is a bit of acidity. I note alpine strawberry, plum, dried cherry, and a whiff of watermelon. It really is quite spicy. And, the palate has evolved in quite the same manner. The fruit pulled back a little bit, leaving spice, tannins, and acidity. Not that the fruit disappeared, of course - rhubarb, pomegranite, and strawberry are still there. The finish, astoundingly, is incredibly mild: a tiny dab of spice, some vague fruitiness, and not much else.

So, the wine grew up, but only a little. These are the teenage years. He is still strong, still seeking to charm, and indeed he is well equipped to do so, with occasional success. However, he is less sure of himself, less sure of his identity, of what he wants to be, of how he ought to present himself. He can be recalcitrant at awkward times; at frustrating times. There is dynamism, of a type that is attractive on the surface, but that can be a bit much at intimate levels. But the wine has, at heart, a good personality, and some patience - admittedly, more than may be tasteful (no pun intended) - will yield great reward.

Many wine drinkers prefer to let wine age in the bottle at least a moderate amount before opening and enjoying. Such people should have this wine in about two years, at which point it ought to be absolutely outstanding. In fact, I bought another bottle of this same wine, and taped a note to it saying, "Drink In 2015". But if you cannot wait so long, or are not the type to bother about how mature a bottle of wine is, then there is plenty of joy to be had now. Pair the wine with red meat, heavily herbed fowl, or the cheese of your choice, and enjoy this keen young lad's company.

Starbucks Reserve Cameroon Mt. Oku

Name: Starbucks Reserve Cameroon Mt. Oku

Origin: Mt. Oku, Cameroon

Roaster: (unknown)

Roast: (unknown)

Varietals: Bourbon; Java

Preparation: Freshly ground, French-pressed, sipped black

Well, that time has come. It is hardly inevitable, and yet it has a way of seeming inevitable. To the American coffee reviewer, nothing else could seem like such a trite capitulation to the baser forces of our culture, and like such a keen opportunity to air some strong opinions about an important facet of that same culture, both at the same time. I refer, of course, to a review of Starbucks coffee.

Let me say, I do not dislike Starbucks coffee generally. It is certainly palatable, and indeed I frequent a Starbucks near my day job. It affords a welcome cup of warm caffeination as well as a pleasant atmosphere in which to pass my lunch hour with a book or some homework or what have you.

But see, there is the thing. As much as anything else, what Starbucks has to offer is a coffee atmosphere. It is an ingenious hybrid of Beatnik coziness and corporate professionalism, bringing all types together with what is perhaps the world's most complete menu of coffee preparations, along with treats to eat, a slew of serving options and conveniences, and a consistency both ubiquitous and universal. And the coffee is alright.

But it is not gourmet. It is not craft. Nor could it be. There cannot be corporate efficiency and artisanal roasting in the same ethos. Such huge quantity demanded cannot be satisfied with small-batch crops. The masses cannot be all appealed to with rare, exotic flavors. Certainly, all of that cannot be brought to fruition at Starbucks level profits. Somewhere, sooner or later, something has got to give. Where will the compromise be?

I should have gotten my first clue before even taking the bag off of the shelf. There did not seem to be much point in reviewing one of Starbucks's standard blends, but I noticed lately that they have a line of "Starbucks Reserve", presumably their attempt at craft coffee. I picked up a bag of the Cameroon Mt. Oku. Most bags of gourmet coffee list the date on which the contents were roasted; this coffee had a "use by" date, and let's just say that it was many months in the future. Strike one. The bag also failed to list any varietals other than to assure that it is arabica (the website has the varietals listed), and it does not state any roast profile. Strike two.

Here, I might have thought, "Eh, forget it." If I were just out to get myself something to sip at home, then I certainly would have. But I was determined to see it through with the Starbucks experiment, and this was as good a chance as I was going to get to find a decent bean from them. Best to let it happen. So I brought it home and brewed it. Strike three.

What came out was the most charred coffee I have ever had. One would think that with all of the ado about their "Reserve" coffees, Starbucks (or whoever is roasting it for them) would have at least attempted to find a roast profile that flatters the beans. At least a try. But that did not happen here, at least not with the Cameroon. I can only infer that somebody decided, somewhere along the line, that it would be alright to fall back to the tried-and-trite darker roasting for which Starbucks is known, and then somebody accidently set the roasting machine to "rocket booster" and pressed "take off". It was like brewing and sipping what is left on the underside of a grill's grate soon after a barbecue.

This is a shame, too, because I swear I detected some potential, though it is not easy to say for sure. Sneaking out from behind the rich, mealy charcoal, which utterly dominates 99% of the coffee and all but obliterates any trace of terroir, are: a whiff of florals and nuttiness on the nose; a dab of spice on the tongue; and a hint of fruitiness that, by the finish, is just full enough to identify as white grape. It would not be unlike an Ethiopian if it were roasted properly, and frankly it might well be a very good coffee at that, for all we know.

But it was not roasted properly; it is like a super dark roast except without the usual tannins, smokiness, nuttiness - any flavor at all, really. It is barely identifiable as coffee, even less so as arabica. I would rather have Starbucks's Pike Place, or trendy Verona, or whatever, any day of the week.

But then, unless I am looking for any old convenient coffee while I pass an hour's lunch break, I would rather not go to Starbucks in the first place. The place is not so much for coffee people as for coffeehouse people, because it does not do coffee as well as it does coffeehouses. It does coffee creatively, it does it efficiently, and it certainly does it profitably, but it does not make the actual coffee much better than average. This attempt at putting a pretty label with a fancy tagline on a poor, poor product, and calling it craft coffee, is a shockingly blunt reminder of the fact.

Duck Walk 2011 Sauvignon Blanc Cuvée Select

Producer: Duck Walk Vineyards

Name: Sauvignon Blanc Cuvée Select

Varietal: Sauvignon Blanc

Region: Long Island, USA

Vintage: 2011

Tasted: May 13, 2013

ABV: 12.5%

How often have we heard Sauvignon Blanc described as "crisp"? Other adjectives are negotiable: Sauvignon Blanc may be sweet or dry; grassy or tropical; spunky or reserved; light or rich; mild or profound. To be sure, those dichotomies are legitimate, having to do with where the grapes are grown, how the wine is made, and no small dose of chance. But "crisp" - well, one who spends enough time in the wide world of wine will be excused if he comes to think that a picture of Sauvignon Blanc appears next to "crisp" in Merriam-Webster's. There is no escaping the phrase. Wine reviews, wine surveys, wine labels, wine advertisements - they all, without fail, are sure to explain just how crisp this or that Sauvignon Blanc really is. It is no less fundamental a description of the wine than "white".

But what do we mean by "crisp"? It is not easy to describe. As with any other adjective whose implication people take for granted from a very young age, to define it without resorting to mere lists of examples and roundabout categorizations is a most mischievously exacting task indeed. (If unsure what I mean here, try to define "red".) To simplify for the sake of convenience and brevity, I find that "crisp" generally refers to a distinct, even sharpness, or else the palpable potential thereof. This phenomenon is most commonly associated with the senses of sound and touch, such as with apples, paper, and autumnal air, but may certainly apply to any of the other senses as well, in this case taste via the olfactory nerves. (Most of what people taste in wine, coffee, and a hefty menu of other foods and drinks, are in fact sensed through the olfactory nerves, not the taste buds.)

The next question is, if a wine is to be called "crisp", what does that mean about the wine? Is it the flavors that are crisp? The texture? Does the liquid itself slice about the mouth? A Sauvignon Blanc may have any or all such aspects of crispness. The 2011 Cuvée Select by Duck Walk Vineyards on Long Island, New York, displays a smooth body, but a distinct sharpness of flavor that exemplifies what a Sauvignon Blanc is known to be.

Before it ever occurred to me to dissect the word "crisp" as above, I made the following note on this wine's color: "Clear, crisp, medium goldenrod. A bubble or two, but otherwise smooth." The first aromas are of melon: sweet, smooth, and deep. After a few seconds, it opens up a little, and citrus appears, but in an easygoing sort of way. It is not acidic. The entire aroma, even the citrus, is rather tropical.

In the mouth it is quite different. Riding on a full body, the citrus is much more dominant here, with notes of lemon zest and quince. An emergent acidity gives the wine a spark on the tongue. The remaining melon flavor, and a new note of nectarine, are very subtle. The texture here is smooth, but the flavor - fruity, but not tart so much as tangy - is not. By no means spicy, it is just as strong as though it were. It is pungent, in a sharp sort of way. It is - crisp. The finish is of lemon zest and pears, and it, too, is strong and pungent.

After aerating for twenty minutes, the wine is mellowed out some. The aroma is still of tropical fruitiness. Disappeared from the nose, the citrus is still dominant in the mouth, though the melon and nectarine have grown in prominence. The flavor as a whole has smoothed out to match the texture. It is still strong, but not pungent; maybe "full". My notes say "swirls of fruit". The finish now has added to it some melon.

As anyone familiar with Sauvignon Blanc has likely discerned by now, this wine can pair with a wide variety of foods. Like many whites it is also good, if chilled a bit, for simply sipping in the sun now that the warm weather is upon us. You will probably sip it among friends or family, in a backyard or similarly intimate venue to relax as a group, all convened after an busy Sunday of brunch, errands, baseball, and crossword puzzles. As you start to realize that it is almost dinner time, someone will right away reach for the wine, and someone else will get the glasses as the bottle is opened. The first glass will be about halfway finished before somebody serves snacks, then barbecue. Then the sun will signal that it will be setting any hour now, and some dessert will be served, maybe a strawberry shortcake, or a melon carved into a funny shape. Be sure, as you sip the wine, enjoying its rich texture and complexity of fruits, to take a brief moment - a pause in the conversation, a shifting of seats as someone gets up, or, best yet, a momentary retreat from the gossip for just long enough to glance over to where the lower ridge of the big, red sun is shimmering and shaking and digging the hole in the horizon into which the entire orb is about to descend - to truly enjoy it.

Organic Bai Mu Dan

Name: Organic Bai Mu Dan 

Type: White Tea

Purveyor: You, Me and Tea

Preparation: One teaspoon steeped in about eight ounces of 180-degree water for 4:30, sipped plain

Bai mudan means "white peony" in Chinese. The Chinese have other words for "peony" in addition to mudan, among them fuguihua ("flower of riches and honor") and huawang ("king of the flowers"). We might reasonably expect, upon learning this, that if they were to name a tea after this important symbol, they would reserve it for a premium variety. And indeed they have: whereas the other main grade of Chinese white tea, bai hao yinzhen ("white hair silver needle"), is made just from leaf shoots, bai mudan is prepared from shoots with young leaves on them. Bai hao yinzhen is very popular for its lighter, gentler flavors, but bai mudan takes no back seat with its more robust flavor profile, which, because it is robust only relative to white teas, results in a delightful beverage that offers nice, light tasting notes without devolving altogether into a glorified cup of barely flavored water.

The dry leaves of this organic Bai Mu Dan from You, Me and Tea are hazel colored. They are sizeable, and really do not appear terribly withered or curled up. The leaves smell very much of citrus - sweet citrus - maybe with the slightest wisp of white table grapes. They brew into a light, gentle, sprightly beverage that shakes about playfully as the vessel gets moved around. It is not at all unlike the color of a white peach.

The aroma is sweet and malty, smooth, with clear notes of citrus and melon, along with a side of very mild tannins. The first thing noticed upon sipping it is the light body, followed immediately by the delightful citrus and the practical absence of tannins. The beverage is not brisk, but one can discern that if there were a few more tannins about, then it would indeed be brisk, and that would not be such a bad thing. After a few sips, one notices a maltiness beginning to poke its way about, sneaking up from the back of the palate. It never overpowers, but with each sip it becomes felt further and further up the mouth, until soon malt is forming an underlying context in which all of the other tasting notes, heretofore independently frolicking about, are now playing together.

Thinking about it for far longer than anyone with something useful to do ought to spend thinking about it, I have found that this organic Bai Mu Dan bears a vague resemblance to a first flush Darjeeling tea.

In fidelity to the traditions of elegance and beauty that brought this tea about and have tended to its continuing prosperity, the tea has a lovely finish that rewards those who explore it most thoroughly: florals emerge for the first time, and form a lovely scene on the palate in which, if one waits just a moment or two extra, light notes of citrus and melon pass through with a breezy flourish.

Despite being lighter and more energetic than traditional tea-time teas, which tend to be deeper, smoother, calmer, and more thoughtful, thusly lending themselves to relaxation and quiet contemplation, this Bai Mu Dan is recommended more for the afternoon than for the morning. It is caffeinated and will work just fine for a chemical wakening agent, yes. However, its personality is much better suited for someone who is already about the day. The Bai Mu Dan is playful, energetic, almost cute in its childlike get-up-and-go. To get the most out of it, one should approach it already awake, in good humor, excited at the very thought of unshouldering the burdens of the day and expending the rest of one's energy in sweet recreation. Have an extra few minutes on the way to your kid's baseball game after work? The Bai Mu Dan is eagerly waiting to accompany you along the way. Done with your chores and errands for the weekend and looking forward to yoga class? This BMD just wrote your name on itself, and in your favorite font at that. Come to think of it, morning sipping may work after all: if you are one of those lucky devils who continues to spring out of bed with bountiful verve every single morning, and find yourself having just finished your jog at sunrise and now preparing to tackle the preposterous challenges with which a phalanx of bosses and coworkers has schemed to bombard you before you have even traversed the office parking lot - then a little Bai Mu Dan on the way there is just what the doctor ordered.

Pick some up today, and enjoy.

Guadalupe El Salvador

Name: Guadalupe El Salvador

Origin: Ahuachapan, El Salvador

Roaster: Irving Farm

Roast: (unknown)

Varietals: Bourbon; Catuai

Preparation: Freshly ground, French-pressed, sipped black

There are elitists who cannot help it, and there are elitists who do not want to help it; I am of the latter variety. I often eschew trendy things - which, much like celebrities, seem to exist merely for their own sakes these days - just because they are trendy. This is not to say that I am under the illusion that more obscure things are necessarily better; to avoid something just because it is trendy involves no more rigor of thought than to gravitate towards it for the same reason. But setting myself apart from the masses does feel good - great, often - and so I continue upon that path. It is a habit, in other words, based on aesthetic, not philosophic, convictions.

It is therefore rare indeed to hear me ask, "What's popular these days?" But in a craft coffee roaster's shop, there is no avoiding the fact that that is a wise question to pose. Firstly, if the roaster is a good one, it is hard to go wrong with just about any variety. Secondly, anybody inside the shop, in all likelihood, posseses faculties of epicurean discernment well above those of the unwashed masses. So if it does so happen that an elite clientele with inevitably diverse preferences is generally congregating around one or two beans in particular - id est, if there is something popular or trendy - then it is hard to avoid the conclusion that these beans are receiving so much attention for good reason. And indeed, I have never visited a gourmet roasting house in which this did not prove to be true.

I had the pleasure of conversing with Dan Streetman of Irving Farm lately. The timing coincided with a favorite season of his, the arrival of Central American harvests. So, while congratulating him on his recognition by the SCAA, I took the opportunity to ask him what some of Irving Farm's popular Central American coffees are. The answer: Santa Isabel Guatemala and Guadalupe El Salvador. Sounds pretty good! I picked up some Guadalupe beans the next time I was in the store, and brought them home to brew.

What emerges is a coffee of a light oaken color. There is no specific orange tinge, but much like a blend reviewed here some months ago, it is of such a hue as to remind us that brown is really a shade of orange. Most remarkable about the coffee's appearance, though, is the complexity of its opacity. It is perhaps the most obscure translucence possible without abandoning translucence altogether. At first glance it appears opaque, but not quite viscerally so, and upon closer inspection one sees that, if one were to travel through a great body of the liquid, one would not at all be hard pressed to expect to find a light to guide one to the surface.

The Guadalupe El Salvador opens with an aroma of earthy notes, but soon expands into fruit and spice, and remains smooth throughout. There is some sweetness, but one has to dig deep to get to it. The moderate level of acid works well here. When sipped, the coffee is smooth, with simultaneous notes of earthiness and sweetness at first. There is some chocolate there. Slight florals and citrus appear over time, but they do not compete for dominance, simply complementing the primary earth and sweetness. Tannins are moderate, and acid is low. The coffee rides a fine line between rich and medium-bodied, and continues to flow smoothly down the throat. It is alive on the tongue and palate, but that is not to say jumpy; it is just that one can feel the freshness. As the sips go on, more and more citrus surreptitiously slips into the flavor, as does a vague scattering of spice. Are these notes beginning to compete for primacy after all? Compared to their counterparts a few minutes earlier they are certainly aggressive, yes - and yet, generally speaking, they are no threat to the earthiness and sweetness, which have a comfortable hold on the positions of principle flavors. The coffee's finish bears mention here: rather unexpectedly, it offers notes of white table grapes and chocolate.

It is not altogether mysterious that this fresh, dynamic coffee should be popular among clientele at Irving Farm. Far from yet another obnoxious example of silly nonsense being popular just for being popular, we have in the Guadalupe El Salvador an exemplary instance of high quality and prime taste rising above worthy competition on the merits. Trend-followers, trend-setters, and even my fellow crotchety, haughty trend-eschewers would all do well to pick some up and learn from the example of what popularity really ought to be about. In the process of all that, enjoy.

Aiace Riserva 2007

Producer: Castello Monaci

Name: Aiace Riserva

Varietals: Malvasia Nera 20%; Negroamaro 80%

Region: Salice Salentino D.O.C., Italy

Vintage: 2007 Riserva

Tasted: April 1, 2013

ABV: 14%

It really is interesting how much history of culture and civilization there is to be divined from a single word. For example, a principle grape of Salice Salentino D.O.C. is negroamaro. On the face of it, the word breaks down simply enough: negro derives from "black," amaro means "bitter," ergo "negroamaro" refers to a dark, bitter grape. And indeed the wine is often so; maybe that is all there is to say about the etymology here after all. A little snooping around outside the box, however, turns up the interesting fact that the suffix -maro is rooted in the Ancient Greek, and modern Salentine, word for "black." "Black-black," perhaps the grape is really called. Heck if the color does not approach such dark depths, and besides, while negroamaro does ferment into wine that includes notes of earth and herbs that may be considered on the bitter side (among many other notes), that would be an odd way to name a beverage that is, in totality, one of the sweet and pleasant drinks in life. The Ancient Greeks, furthermore, planted grapes in most of the motable wine regions around the Mediterranean before the Romans took over such tasks, including in Salento, the peninsula forming the heel of Italy's boot, towards the bottom of which Salice Salentino D.O.C. is located. Snooping around yet further, we find that before even the Greeks arrived in Salento, the Illyrians got there and made a wine called "merum." Mention of this merum is found here and there among Mediterranean literatures for the better part of a millenium, up through the days of the Romans. Technical records, to the poor extent that they exist, are sketchy, but it is plausible that negroamaro was used to make merum. In that case, then, we may have nothing less than "black merum" comprising eighty percent of this beverage here before us today. And who knows what the philologists, anthropologists, and ampelographists will discover next? Absent proof one way or another, we may consider it plausible that any number of civilizations brought negroamaro to Salento at almost any point over the last seven or eight millenia.

Fascinating, really. It is truly remarkable how a single word often contains more history and wonder just waiting to be discovered than an entire sentence that spells something out.

Castello Monaci named this estate bottling after Telemonian Ajax, Ajax the Great, cousin to Achilles and hero of the Greeks in the Trojan War. A blurb in Italian on the back of the bottle discusses how Ajax "distinguished himself time and again" with his "inherent strength and great valor. Powerful, imposing, and quite handsome, he remained calm and collected." (Translation mine.) Ajax was, generally, an intense person, as his falling out with Odysseus and mortal derangement illustrate. But Castello Monaci does well to remind its patrons of the hero's almost superhuman ability, on the battlefield, to keep his abundant energy away from his nerves, housing it instead within his massive limbs. He was thus a paragon of both strength and poise where it counted most. In that respect, it was very keen indeed to name this wine after Ajax.

The Aiace Riserva is a deep red wine, more garnet than ruby. The 2007 has just the absolute slightest hint of orange around the edges. We can certainly get the maximum out of it by drinking it now, without worry that it is not quite ready - but, were we to leave it until 2014 to open, we would be forgiven for looking at it then and thinking that we just hit the beginning of peak drinking age.

The aroma is full of sweet reds, primarily cherry and strawberry, and some purples, principally dried plum. There is even a fig come over to play. Not as heavy as most aromas with so many components, this aroma does lack any sign of the oak casks in which the wine has aged.

The first thing one notices when tasting the wine is how smooth it is. There are some initial notes of vanilla - there are those casks - and some redcurrants and plums. After a couple of sips, the vanilla fades away, and the fruits take over. The Aiace Riserva is medium bodied. It thereby is strong enough to have bold flavors, but it does not allow those flavors to run rampant about the mouth; rather, it keeps them to a gentle, easy glide as they flow smoothly down. The finish is cherry and plum, and I wish it lasted longer.

After breathing for twenty minutes, the wine drinks optimally. In the nose there are some purples and darker reds: plum, cranberry, pomegranite, fig. Still, though, the aroma does an impressive job of staying light. A couple of vanilla and toffee notes are to be found, but the fruits dominate. The palate is slightly richer than it had been earlier, though the tasting notes have not shifted too much at all. The redcurrants have morphed to slightly lighter reds, but they carry the depth of darker reds. The finish has not changed, nor, sadly, learned to endure longer.

Does this wine have an undercurrent of explosive emotions just waiting for a good reason to pop to the forefront of tales and adventures recounted and examined by laypeople and scholars all over the world for millenia to come? Probably not. After even a couple of hours, the wine remained cool and composed. But on the other hand, any time that I am drinking it is a time that counts - precisely the type of situation in which the warrior Ajax would have been the last to even flinch. Beautiful, powerful, poised - and with ends that come way too soon - Ajax the wine and Ajax the hero have an extraordinary amount in common. Open a gripping narrative of his exploits, pour a glass of the good stuff, sit back with both, and enjoy.

Jasmine Petal Tea

Name: Jasmine Petal Tea 

Type: Green Tea

Purveyor: Two Leaves Tea Co.

Preparation: One tea bag steeped in about eight ounces of 180-degree water for 3:00 (as recommended), sipped plain

It is hardly a secret that tea is an absorbent product. It absorbs moisture, of course, but more perniciously, it absorbs scents, aromas, flavors, and just about any other such compound, making careful storage of dry leaves an indispensable task for tea drinkers. Anyone who has ever, from a cavalier attitude or simple laziness, just tossed an unsecured bag of tea into the cabinet or (even worse) the 'fridge, knows precisely of what I speak.

Of course, it is not all a bad thing. The good Mr. Richard Rosenfeld, founder and CEO of Two Leaves Tea Co. (formerly Two Leaves and a Bud), is said to take tea that he finds sub-par for drinking, and use it in place of baking soda as an odor absorber in his refrigerator. It works quite the same.

Another, perhaps more appreciable way to put tea's absorbent qualities to good use is to produce scented tea. This nifty category of flavored teas is produced by drying tea leaves among whatever is is that we want the tea to taste like, and letting the scents and flavors get absorbed. Then the tea leaves - and only the tea leaves, not the scent-producers - are gathered and sold.

Scented teas are hardly rare, and comprise a tradition many centuries old going back to China, but all too often these days tea is flavored by throwing it together with other objects and packaging them all together. The flavors become overpowering, the tasting notes and health benefits of the tea become diluted, and even calling the product "tea" becomes rather more a convention of convenience than one of precision, as actual tea may comprise a rather small percentage of what gets brewed.

With scented tea, on the other hand, the flavors are discrete, balanced, in harmony with the tea instead of clashing against it. Two Leaves Tea has done a keen job with Jasmine Petal of scenting green tea with jasmine. By no means should my kind readership just take my word for it: trust some experts. This tea has brought to Two Leaves Tea first place prize at the 2012 North American Tea Championship in the Jasmine Scented Green Tea category of the Packaged Single-Service class (a new class in the competition). Very nice!

The tea brews into a strong, yellow beverage - not fluorescent, but not pale or translucent, either; just a deep, rich hue of yellow. In the aroma, jasmine opens like a lotus as it ascends into the nose. There are slight - very slight - fruity notes as well. The aroma is rich, but discreet. Also, smooth.

Most people who have tasted jasmine are familiar with its occasional tendency towards astringency, but this jasmine here, on the contrary, is quite sweet. Some malt underlies the flavor, but comes off more as a textural note than as a tasting note. As the sips go on, the green tea's own notes come out from the woodwork: leafy, sweet, slightly tannic. But the jasmine maintains the spotlight, right through to the finish. Conveniently for this flavor combination, the tea is medium-bodied and very smooth, even silky.

The flavors really do blend well together. The green tea notes make for an excellent platform on which the jasmine sits high - elegant; solid yet supple; strong yet gentle.

The Jasmine Petal tea works for breakfast inasmuch as it is caffeinated, but it would be most ideally suited for the afternoon. The rich flavors and easy smoothness make for an excellent vessel by which to return oneself to a state of calm, focus, and clarity after one of those busy days in which, between the mind and the body, each seems to be more wound up than the other.

Enjoy.

Blue Batak Sumatra

Name: Blue Batak Sumatra

Origin: Lintong, Sumatra

Roaster: Irving Farm

Roast: (unknown)

Varietal: Catimor; Java; Jember

Preparation: Freshly ground, French-pressed, sipped black

Ever since coffee was first brought from the Horn of Africa to Indonesia in the late 1600s the Batak people have been growing it in the Lintong region of Sumatra, around Lake Toba. The high elevation, hearty rainfall, and volcanic soil make for superb conditions to grow the crop.

The coffee in Lintong, as in most of Indonesia, is wet hulled, also known as semi-dried or, in Indonesian, giling basah ("wet grinding"). This means that for a little while the seeds are partially dried while still in their parchment before finishing drying outdoors with the parchment removed. That initial step allows all of the sugars, alcohols, and other compounds of the fruit to be absorbed into the bean itself, creating a sweet and immensely flavorful coffee. During this process the beans turn from a light green to a darker, bluish green, ergo "Blue Batak".

Of course, the beans are not blue once they have been roasted - they are quite as brown as roasted beans should be. They brew into a busy brown; dark and complicated, but not opaque or self-absorbed. The aroma has notes of fruit and herbs everywhere. It is somewhat light in impact, but still absolutely chock-full of flavors. It is not tannic or acidic; the word "vegetal" comes to mind.

The palate offers earthy notes at first, but only at first. The acidity is a non-factor, moderate at most. As the coffee cools, the acidity remains low, but the flavors turn into fruit, vegetables, herbs, and spices, and to say that they are many and varied is a gross understatement. There are notes of green pepper, red pepper, and bay leaf, along with peripheral notes of smoke, florals, black pepper, and walnut. Irving Farm is also right on the money with the tasting notes that they have printed on the bag: "Heavy, oregano, green tomato" - that is, assuming that the first comment refers to the gargantuan complexity, the absolute mélange of flavors with which the coffee is dripping (literally, I suppose), and not to the texture, which is medium bodied. It is just substantial enough to carry all of the flavors, but nothing further; the body does not even try to interfere with its own effect on the tasting notes, as even knowing where to begin would be a Herculean task for it in this case.

So, there is certainly an epic smorgasbord embodied in the terroir here, but whence the terroir? Am I on an Indonesian plantation or in a Mediterranean garden? And either way, may I please stay a while longer?

Often, when I am done reviewing a coffee, wine, or tea, even if I liked it, I move on. "Time for what's next," I think to myself. But not this time. I may not quite have a handle on where, exactly, in the world I am, but that will not stop me from hanging around. I am off to have another cup of Blue Batak Sumatra, and my kind readers ought to have one as well. Enjoy.

2009 Veuve Aubert Ainé Chablis

Producer: Veuve Aubert Ainé 

Varietal: Chardonnay 

Region: Chablis A.O.C., Burgundy, France 

Vintage: 2009 

Tasted: February 8, 2013 

ABV: 12.5%

The name "Burgundy" literally implies red wine, in that a shade of the color red is named after it.

There are many people who would argue against that little statement there. (Alright, the gig is up, I am one such person myself.) Some might argue that it is pointless to pursue such a linkage outside of any context. Others might point out that the color is only eponymous in the English language. (Interestingly, in Italian, the same hue is called bordeaux.) Still others might remind us that the region of Burgundy produces an extraordinary amount of white wine to similar standards and renown as its red wines.

Notice that the only rebuttal to refer to the facts of the region, the latter, is the most concrete and substantial of the three. The truth is, not only is the Burgundian white wine sector producing quality spirits at bountiful levels, but it has been doing so for many centuries to great acclaim, and is just as integral a part of Burgundian wine history as red wine production.

Chablis is farther north than any other French wine region except Alsace and Champagne - in fact, it is closer to Champagne than to its nearest sister region within larger Burgundy. Nevertheless, it is a part of the Burgundian tradition. Like the larger region, Chablis makes both red and white wines; and like the larger region, it almost exclusively uses Pinot Noir for the former and Chardonnay for the latter.

Burgundy, including Chablis, has been home to wine production since the time of the Romans. As in much of France, and indeed Europe, Burgundy saw her vineyards tended primarily by monasteries during the Middle Ages. The Cistercians first brought Chardonnay to Burgundy in the 1100s, when they planted it in the vineyards surrounding Pontigny Abbey in the Chablis area. By the mid-1400s, Chablis was being imported as far away as England, Flanders, and Picardy - no mean benchmark in a time when transporting wine was cumbersome, risky, and expensive - but the most important patronage came from Paris. Chablis's proximity to the capital gave it a vital advantage over other wine regions in the bid to slake the wealthy and noble - and royal - thirsts.

For the next five hundred years, though, the fortunes of history were reversed. In 1568 the Huguenots destroyed the area, so thoroughly decimating both the land and the winemaking houses that Chablis never really resumed its oenological traditions until the mid-1700s. Then, just as production seemed to approach pre-Huguenot levels, the region (indeed, France generally) was struck successively by the Little Ice Age, the French Revolution, the Jacobin Terrors, the revolutions of 1830 and 1848, foreign invasion (most notably by the Prussians), the twin natural disasters of oidium and phylloxera, and finally World War One. Against all odds, the region emerged from all of that miserable misfortune producing such high-quality wine that, when the authorities granted Chablis appellation d'origine contrôlée status for its Chardonnays in 1938, one of the main reasons given was that too many other white wines from all over the world (including many non-Chardonnays) were fraudulently labeling themselves "Chablis" so as to command a high market value.

Then, the very next year, World War Two began.

Thankfully, that was the last catastrophe to befall the region, ending half a millennium of trial and tribulation. Chablis emerged as strong as ever, and a global Chardonnay fad in the 1960s helped to give the region a chance to grow. Wineries were founded, land was planted (or re-planted), innovations in grape growing and winemaking were tested, and, even after the wine craze moved on to another grape, Chablis had successfully shown the world the persistence of the quality and distinction that stand behind her AOC designation. And she continues to thrive.

So, what is all of this hoopla about, anyway? The 2009 Chablis by the négociant Veuve Aubert Ainé offers some pretty good clues. The wine is a crisp, pale straw color. The aroma is also crisp, and comprised of a veritable bouquet of autumnal produce: golden apple, citrus around the edges, honey, white table grapes, even marzipan. An absolute medley of fresh sweetness. The palate is no less a cornucopia of delights: honeycrisp apple, tropical citrus, nectarine, and quince. Mild florals balance things out, and there is a finish of nectarine and citrus. The wine is smooth, even. The bite - there is alcohol in this beverage - appears in both the front and back of the mouth, but is mild, and appropriate. The wine as a whole, though clearly strong, is rather mellow in personality. The strength is almost latent. Imagine a classic beach bum: muscular, maybe even chiseled as though out of stone, but someone who would never even think about beating people up; just hanging out, relaxing, looking good. That is how this Chablis comes off: it is muscular, and powerful, and yet it would never imagine smacking around anyone's palate. It just wants to chill out with us and have some fun.

After twenty minutes, the wine has a new aroma, equally well endowed but slightly adjusted in character. The particulars have more to do with summer than with fall now. A whiff of white peach comes first, then citrus - smooth citrus - and then apples and pears. It is as pungent as ever. The palate, however, is no different in detail than before, nor in nature. Even smoother than before, the Chablis offers the same tasting notes of honeycrisp, tropical citrus, nectarine, quince, and mild florals. Even the finish is the same. The body has filled out, though, and is even more muscular, though equally relaxed and mellow in personality. Imagine that our beach bum has spent those twenty minutes tossing around some iron, and now he has returned to the beach, barely even aware of his bulging biceps, ready to chill.

This is a wine that has flavors to meld perfectly into any summer setting; body to hold its own against any autumnal evening; and a flowing, easy-going nature that is quite ideal to pair with just about any preparation of seafood at any time of the year. Is it any wonder, then, that come hell or high-water - or a combination of perpetual civil war, foreign invasion, global climate change, fungus, and pestilence, all within a century - the tide has hardly receded before all of planet earth is clamoring for some more Chablis? We can be grateful that no matter what the millennia may bring, there is always a monk or oenologist around to help fill the demand. Go get some today, and enjoy.

Scottish Breakfast Tea

Name: Scottish Breakfast Tea 

Type: Black Tea 

Ingredients: Assam; Ceylon; Kenya 

Purveyor: Clipper Ship Tea Company 

Preparation: One teaspoon steeped in about eight ounces of boiling water for 3:00 (as recommended), sipped plain

Those who have never visited the village of Northport, NY, really ought to go explore there. The quaint diversions, placid atmosphere, and coastal scenery are just what the doctor ordered on those weekends when a getaway is vital to one's mental health. And, for those who live on Long Island or in the boroughs, traveling there and back is quick and easy - Long Islanders should have no trouble making a fulfilling one-day sojourn.

While browsing the shops and boutiques around Main Street, be sure to stop by the Clipper Ship Tea Co. It boasts both an extensive selection and a friendly staff that likes nothing better than to talk tea and educate its customers.

Clipper Ship's black tea blends include, generally, some combination of Darjeeling, Keemun, Kenya, Ceylon, and Assam teas. In the case of the Scottish Breakfast blend the latter three are used, all with similar-looking leaves, like little twigs, or tightly wrung bits of cloth. Most are dark brown, like dark chocolate, but there are some tan ones here and there. The dry leaves have a strong nose of vanilla - very strong, almost astringent even. There are also notes of toffee and a vague hint of citrus.

When the tea brews, it looks like someone took toffee and caramel and mixed them together into a rich, textured liquid. The aroma is of sweet tannins, with a little briskness and a modicum of citrus. It is a rich aroma, but not overwhelming, or even pungent - just a different kind of rich. Maybe "solid" is a good word. The flavor is a perky kind of brisk, and lush with a lemon zest, inhabiting a medium-full body. The tea is not acidic, but the tannins are quite present, and make it taste like tea really ought to taste - the same notes that, in coffee, wine, and other beverages make us think of tea, are front and center here. Meanwhile, the citrus tones keep it light and spright, and the sweetness pulls it all together.

The Scottish Breakfast tea is excellent as a morning pick-me-up, quite as the name implies. Also though, for those who do not mind caffeine in the late afternoon, this would work great as a tea-time tea. The notes are ideal as a carry-over between lunch and dinner, just what the palate requires.

Enjoy.