Garagiste Against the Machine

Good timing is often simply good luck, and that's certainly the case with my arrival in Santa Barbara. 1994 was pretty much the dawn of the success of the county's wine industry, so I've had the opportunity to taste and learn, over and over. In those nearly 20 years pioneers have gone bankrupt--twice--while still making terrific vino, a Hollywood film put Pinot on the map, a new AVA got carved out every few years or so, exes and partners have stood equal or more (let's not quibble) with their spouses/exes/"pals" as winemakers, people figured out where to grow Bordeaux varietals (remember the green pepper in every cab once upon a time?), and you can hit 17 wineries without even heading over the hill. Once the Wine Cask's Futures Program was the best way to keep your deeply red thumb on the vinous pulse of the county, but with that a mere memory (unless you have a really deep wine cellar), it was fascinating to attend The Garagiste Festival Southern Exposure: Celebrating the Artisan Winemakers of the Santa Ynez Valley tasting on February 16. There one got to sample the wine of 32 artisans (oh, ok, I hate that word too, but it did mean something once, and does here), who, despite sometimes having ties to larger, more established wineries, all are up to something new, and if nothing else, small. Ryan Cohchrane might win the precious prize, having made only 12 barrels of wine in 2012 (his wines all seem to have names that end "sold out").

But selling out is far from a problem with this intriguing, intrepid group. I had to start my tasting at Larry Shaffer's Tercero Wines table, who, at this point, if he's a garagiste, has at least a three-car garage. As usual he offered an abundance of riches (starting with a vivid '09 Mourvedre) and then some, as he always seems to pour something off the list, too. (OK, I have to admit this was the media/trade tasting, so everyone was trying to double impress. And that works, you know.) One of his greatest projects is a Mourvedre Rose, its pale-pale color and odd funk on the nose (barnyard?) simply not preparing the palate for such a lovely wine that he wisely compared to a Tavel.

Indeed, a pleasant preponderance of pinks on what was a warm day made summer seem very near. In addition to Tercero's, Altman Winery offered a '10 Rose from Petit Syrah that packed a surprising amount of fruit while remaining dry, A-non-ah-mus poured a '12 Rose from Syrah barrel-sample that asked for a veranda with a view to be imbibed upon, and Kaena (another one of the slightly more established garagistes) poured a '12 Grenache Rose barrel-sample to prove many a grape can make a wonderful pink wine.

Well, there's a danger of a write-up like this one to become a mere list, plus when you're trying to taste upwards of 100 wines in two hours, it becomes a bit of a stunt more than a stroll--and since the winemakers themselves were pouring, it was easy to want to linger, discovering winemaker's goals, learning about growing seasons, finding out stories like how the Miller family bought J. Wilkes after Jeff's untimely death and are carrying on his tradition (very very well, it seems).

That said, here are a few producers you want to look for, even though you might have to look hard, as their output is about what a Gallo cranks out since I typed "what a Gallo cranks out."

Ground Effect
Nick de Luca, who has worked at Star Lane/Dierberg among other places, is crafting delightful, sometimes unusual blends, like an '11 Gravity Check that includes Chenin Blanc, Albarino, and Pinot Gris, and he admits as it ages the wine seems to favor one or the other in its profile. There's also the '11 Rock Garden Syrah, Grenache, Zinfandel, a big red monster of berries and vanilla.

La Fenetre
Joshua Klapper aims for direct, elegant wines that could be alongside dictionary definitions of varietals, if you had a dictionary that you could lick to see what things were. OK, that might be a bit gross a description, but the wines--Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Syrah--are anything but.

Shai Cellars
Shawn Shai Halahamy makes bold reds. His '09 Adome is 65% Syrah and 35% Cab and %100 luscious. It could turn PETA's executive board into carnivores, it calls for steak so. His '09 Grenache, as he puts it, "is incredibly savory and meaty, showing copious amounts of dried cherries and kirsch, smoked leather, dried beef, and ground pepper on the nose. This leads to a medium-bodied wine that has a supple, light texture, notable balance, and a long finish." Not only do I agree, I can barely read my notes from this point.

After all the talk in this entry about reds and pinks, it was necessary to include the photo below, with a bit of American flag. But at least our local wine country can wave its banner proudly, with wines like these.

When you opt not to park in spots of a lot marked "Police Station Business Only" for a wine festival, it's advisable to pick a place within walking distance to eat-it-off, as it were. And since this fest ran from noon-2, it seemed a perfect time to walk into Solvang and get a delightful late lunch at Cecco. It certainly didn't hurt it was one of those Santa Barbara perfect spring days that just happen to spring in the middle of February--where else could one want to dine but al fresco in Cecco's charming courtyard? The Caesar salad is a straightforward presentation (Chef David Cecchini is a classicist at heart), all about the crisp romaine, crunchy but not gob-stopper croutons, Parmesan, and a dressing zippy with garlic and anchovy. Then came two wood-fired pizzas, the thin crusts variably charred--since they're cooked in a real wood oven--and the topings spare, but not to the point you need to hunt them down. The Pomodoro was especially lovely with its fire-roasted red and yellow tomatoes a-burst with flavor. Not that the Bianco, adrift in its "snow" of arugula, didn't offer  perfect flavor profile itself, with its salt and brine from artichoke hearts, its richness from daubs of ricotta, and then some red onion and garlic for those notes only the most strong of lilies deliver. A fine way to end the day--plenty left over for lunch the next day, too.

You're Not Getting Any Younger

So I've got this friend who has lived such a wonderful life that because of that very life (that included the high years--hint hint--of the '60s - '80s) he can't remember much of it in detail. Consider it lost in a fog of sorts. Well, this friend, he sort of casually let slip that he had once slept with Faye Dunaway. As a huge fan of Chinatown, Bonnie & Clyde, Network, and ridiculously gorgeous women, I replied, "And?" My friend generally isn't bashful, more likely to try to say something to shock than, well, say anything at all. He said he didn't remember. That is, he admitted he didn't remember this:

 
Now, comparing a lovely woman to a beer might be a massive error in scale, but I'm going to take that risk. I'm pretty sure I've had a Pliny the Younger. Those of you in the hophead-know know that Younger is one of the most sought after beers in the world, often topping Beer Advocate's list of the best brews around the globe. Russian River in Santa Rosa releases just a tiny bit of it each February, mostly at its own brewpub, but some to its best accounts.

But a timeline here is important. Russian River started brewing Younger (it also brews the rare but not Holy Grail-esque Pliny the Elder) in 2005; Beer Advocate's high-hosanna praise made it the Honus Wagner baseball card of beer in 2010. So for five years in between, it was just a damn good brew. I think I had it then, not knowing it would "grow up" to become something like saying you saw the Beatles in Hamburg and Stu Sutcliffe sweat on you. I've had a lot of good beers in my good life, and I keep having them, so it's hard to be transformed by one pint (or half pint, as Younger is generally sold now, so the keg can get to 248 servings). I mean if we only talk double and triple IPAs, there's Pliny the Elder to start, 90 Minute and 120 Minute Dogfish Head, Avery's Maharaja, Green Flash's Imperial (even better, my wife's favorite beer), Green Flash's Palate Wrecker, Alpine's Pure Hoppiness and Exponential Hoppiness, Ballast Point's Dorado Double, Oskar Blues' Gubna, Port's Mongo and Hop 15, Bear Republic's Racer X, and then locally Firestone's Double Jack, Figueroa Mountain's Hurricane Deck, and Hollister's Hip Hop. That's enough drinking to numb your tongue--and perhaps your memory--for a couple of decades.

So that's why I figured 2013 was the year I got Younger. For sure. I even set up a Google Alert to try to track it, not that doing so kept me from searching too (and a good thing, as my alert was merely for news--if you want to learn anything, these days, follow the blogs). Timing just kept not quite working out, but we decided a road trip to Haven Gastropub in Pasadena on Presidents' Day might work, especially as it was already a day off. We couldn't get a super early start, but figured hitting the road from SB at 8:30ish for an 11 o'clock event kickoff might work.

I bet you thought this would be a story of LA traffic and 202 minutes on the 101. But that wasn't the issue--the first real line we hit...was the one outside Haven. That photo at the top (no, keep going past the Dunaway picture, and I know you lingered) is the mere first turn in the line that snaked down McConnell Alley and then turned left again to where we stood at 10:20 am, and most probably too late. But after that, you wait, cause you never know. There was at least one baby in the line in front of us, so that was one person not drinking. Oh, and for Gaucho pride, the first two guys (yep, the line was mostly guys, mostly in their 20s and 30s) in line were wearing UCSB sweatshirts and got there at 6 am. Clearly we weren't devoted/crazy/young enough for this.

The line started forward at 11. And stopped. Every ten minutes it would proceed another 12 feet or so, but it was only 11:40 when the word came out--the keg of Pliny the Younger was done. At first everyone just stood there, afraid it was a trick to shake the trustworthy out of the line. But then the word came out even stronger. Up to 45 people in front of us still didn't get in, so we weren't really close. I was prepared for this eventuality, storing away the title for a blog entry just like this one (look above, oh, there she is again...).

The day got more refusatory (ok, that's not a word, but I like it) as we walked the couple of blocks to Lucky Baldwin's, figuring we could drown our sorrows in their Belgian Beer Fest. We got a table, sat, waited. Tried not to breathe too much--it didn't smell the best in there, as we were close to a clean-the-plate dump and then there's years of spilled beer and someone with too much perfume. One server said she'd get to us, but then didn't for another 5 minutes. We bailed. After all, we were supposed to be enjoying hoppy beer, not malty yeasty beer.

We were headed across the street (Pasadena aside--is it good to have so many bars in a town that allows for diagonal street crossing? Discuss) thinking let's try Umami Burger, as we never have. At this point it was lunch time, too. There we saw the two guys from behind us on the failed Younger line, and they suggested Congregation Ale House (thanks, guys whose names we don't know!). Turns out the place wasn't too crowded and does the Father's Office style, order at the bar, get it delivered to your seat kind of thing. Five minutes, and we had ordered and sat, with beers. The place was already better than anywhere else we'd been.

It's one more of the LA places that figured it out you can do tasty sausages, even vegan ones, on the cheap. For $7 we each got a sausage (a vegan apple sage for Chryss, a duck bacon for me) draped with perfectly cooked onions and peppers on a non-pockety pita and spread with stone ground mustard. Plus fries, Belgian for her, sweet potato (with a bit too much sugar as well as salt--they are ALREADY sweet potatoes, folks) for me, with chipotle mayo and Sriracha ketchup. As for beers, we got to try three we'd never had before, and what more could one want form a beer hunt (of 90 miles or more)--a Birrificio del Ducato Nuova Mattina (which is Italian for a mild and pleasing saison rarely on tap in the U.S.), an Epic Hopulent DIPA (it must make the Mormons of SLC wild), and a Victory Ranch R Double IPA. Add two more DIPAs to the hops happily drunk by this pops list up above.

There was some walking. An independent bookstore. Buying of a book about my favorite indy band. More walking and back to Haven, figuring we needed to see the inside, needed to have Elder, at least. The beer board still teased us with Younger, but isn't that the young for you.

I was hoping, a bit, to hate Haven as it turned me away before I could even ask it for a date, as it were. The place was quite nice, though, the bartender busy as heck but on top of his game (anyone who offers you a taster wins in my bag), and Pliny the Elder, you know, is a mighty fine beer--no double IPA seems so balanced, so full, so in control but still threatening. Haven brews, too, and their 100 Rubles Imperial Russian Stout warmed my Ukrainian heart, or is that liver, oaky and pungent and willing to spank your nose with every bit of its 14% ABV.

The Island of Misfit Torchon

A couple of observations from this week's Top Chef (spoilers, sort of)--Season 10, Episode 15.

First, and maybe it was just the dog-sledding and the glaciers and snow, but were these two separated at birth? And sorry I couldn't find a screen cap of Josh in the snow.

Second, was the Quickfire Challenge nothing more than an excuse to fly in a helicopter? Brooke won, and got nothing for it. No moolah, no year's supply of plastic wrap, not even a sled dog puppy (which, no doubt, she would turn out to be afraid of). No advantage going into the Elimination Challenge. Have they ever done that before on TC?

Wat's New at Petit Valentien

Serkaddis Alemu, despite having lived in the U.S. for nearly two decades, remains Ethiopian at heart. She admits, “If you sit with any Ethiopian for long, don’t be surprised if the discussion ends up about food. To know the food is to know the people.” She’s helping Santa Barbara know both the food and the people, serving Ethiopian lunch on the weekends at Petit Valentien, the restaurant owned by her partner, Robert Dixon.

Want to read the rest then go do so at the Indy's site.

Shoot Out the Rights

My dad was a gun nut, which doesn't give me any special insight, perhaps, but it's not going to stop me from shooting my mouth off. And to open with an aside, what does it mean so many of our metaphors are rooted in violence? We attack problems when it's a war out there, fighting tooth and nail, hoping things don't blow up in our faces or that we get hoisted on our own petard, a phrase fine enough for Shakespeare. Forget a coarsened culture, we might be, at heart, ever trying to back away from the cave of our nasty, brutish, and short selves. Perhaps that we aren't even more violent is the wonder, and why so many great artists, walking on a precipice high above us with better views, so often topple into misanthropy. The more you look, really look, at us, the less you like.

Well, and then there's my dear dead dad. I've joked the greatest disappointment in his life was that he never got to shoot an intruder who broke into his house, but in light of the NRA's clenching of its warm twitchy fingers on its guns in the wake of Newtown, maybe it's not a joke. And it's abysmally not a joke in the slightest that my gun-owning brother-in-law used one of his to blow his brains out in the basement one day. Happy Good Friday, to my sister, coming home to find that. So guns--it's pretty easy not to be ambivalent.

I've fired them, but it's been years, back when in theory that very pretty .22 pistol was mine, even if I was still in high school. It never got pointed at anything more than paper--the biggest thing I've ever killed, a squirrel, I clobbered with a car and not a bullet, and then felt queasy about for the rest of the weekend. But there was an attraction way back then to shooting silhouettes, I have to admit, seeing how many you could cluster in that X where a heart should be. I even got to use some of my dad's guns, and he had a mini arsenal--that .45 automatic, that .357 revolver, and a .44 magnum Dirty Harry gun that supposedly could cut through engine blocks. I was taught to perfect a two-handed grip, to be ready for the kick, and those suckers did. But despite liking it, and probably more than anything liking spending rare time with my dad, I never ever tried to get that gun that was mine once I had a home (ok, for years a rental) to hold it in and perhaps defend. All that force wasn't something I needed at my fingertips. Hell, I liked books, and wound up writing poetry for years. (No doubt Robert Bly just shot a varmint to prove me a sissy-man, poetry or not.)

As for rising up to prevent tyranny--seriously? Even if you're armed to your teeth, methinks the government has more means to do away with you than you could imagine. Ask Anwar al-Aulaqi and his son. And sure, they were al-Qaeda and deserved it but they were US citizens and we've got some other constitutional rights no matter how bad we are--like the right to trial. But now is not the time to drone on.

It must be tough living atop firepower mountain with only slippery slopes as far as the eye can see. No amendment seems more fragile than the second--any hint of a limit to what an individual can do as far as gun owning and the whole right seems to crumble. Yet somehow freedom of speech can exist beside libel laws. And while you can't yell fire in a crowded theater, we seem stuck having to protect someone firing in a crowded theater because, well, you tell me, Wayne LaPierre.

And then there's the land of false equivalencies, the bit about how a car is more dangerous than a gun. Except few people use them intentionally as weapons (David Attias aside; note a car as weapon could manage to be a joke in Manhattan--"the car lurched"--but if Woody/Isaac said "I didn't know it was loaded" that's it for both Meryl Streep's character and humor). Plus what would be the gun equivalent of drunk driving checkpoints? Maybe, oh, stronger background checks? Perhaps what's good for the drunk is good for the shooter. We live in a society full of controls and limits, and a few on guns won't hurt. In fact, that's the very point.

Josh Hamilton Went Down to California

As he snorted the second line of blow off Minnie Mouse’s derriere, Josh Hamilton knew everyone was right. Every last one of those blog commenters. This Anaheim of Los Angeles lifestyle was going to, is going to, well, tenses just seemed confusing now. But this was something different. Cavorting with Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders was one thing – and you could marry one of them like Greinke did. Even they, America’s sweethearts since the 1970s when every cut to NFL commercial featured their pearly whites and perhaps a bit of something more, well they’d been sullied by Debbie Does Dallas. Josh just knew Arte wasn’t going to be pleased if there was a DH Does Disney (“hey batter, hey batter, hey batter – schwing!”) movie someday.

Damn, his last Rangers $24 mil contract, that barely left him enough to keep himself inked and feed the four girls, but with all that Angels’ moolah, it was impossible to control himself, particularly in the whirl that was Anaheim. Sure, behind the Orange Curtain ketchup might be a vegetable, but not for someone pulling down what Josh got. He had no idea till he got to the coast, far from the Bible Belt security and sanctity of Texas – the state, after all, leads the nation in capital punishment to cleanse its population –, that there was a Disneyland After Dark. The shock on his face riding the Matterhorn and having the hairy guy say, “Just call me the Abominable Blowman,” still hadn’t worn off. And then the Jungle Cruise, where someone in a pith helmet, or was it a dashing dude in a fedora, offered him rhino horn powder: “This’ll make you higher than hitting 35 tatters in the Home Run Derby!”

Josh didn’t think his surprise had more left in it until he spied Pujols making out with Snow White, rolling about on the fake gold doubloon strewn bed in Pirates of the Caribbean. At first he thought he should hide, but Albert beckoned him over, telling Snow, “Get your little yo-ho-ho self out of here for a sec, I need to talk to my teammate.” Turning to Josh, he said, “You wonder why I had such a bad April ‘adjusting’ last year when I signed my contact” – he even made air quotes, or tried, but his coordination seemed a bit off – “but it was this west coast lifestyle. There’s nothing like this in St. Lou-ee. Well, maybe East St. Louis, but no one would be caught dead over there. I’ve never been an ace at analogies, but it’s got to be the same for you, even with Arlington is to Dallas as Anaheim is to LA, ignoring Arlington has a bigger population. Well, so much for all that numbers talk, it only leaves nerdy statheads arguing for Trout as MVP. All I’ve got to say to you is, let’s enjoy our decline phase, if you know what I mean.”

Sweet 16.5

So you can fire up the porch heater when you're dining outside on a chilly (it does too get chilly) December southern California evening, or you can order one of these beauties and get toasted from the inside out. I've got a weakness for Russian Imperial Stouts, which are to Guinness what Thomas Keller is to Guy Fieri, except: 1) it's no fun drinking Thomas Keller, and 2) if the occasion is right, and the need for something light in weight if dark in color called for, a Guinness is ok. Fieri never is. But North Coast's Old Rasputin is one of my two impeachables (along with Pliny the Elder); Stone's IRS always rocks (and I embrace that cliche and pun for all its worth); and then there's Ballast Point's Sea Monster, Oskar Blues' Ten Fiddy, Port's Little Santa's Helper. It's a deep dark list of wonderfulness.

So, of course, I had to take a shot at pulling off a Pugachev's Cobra. It seems in aviation, and remember that brewery's name is Hangar 24, if you can emulate test pilot Pugachev, who could maintain elevation while pulling the nose of his plane straight up, so the jet would appear a flying "I" in the sky, you've completed a Pugachev's Cobra. Keeping your elevation while downing one of these, or I should say sipping, which you'll do not just because it's 16.5% alcohol, but because it's a non-stealth-bomber of flavors, isn't easy. But it's worth a shot. For it doesn't taste that hot, not on tap, at least, where its creamy mouthfeel keeps you from the burn--there's barely an alcohol spank at the back of the throat when done. Instead it's coffee and caramel and vanilla, and there's no doubt a bunch of that bourbon barrel has imparted its ways on the ale. If there was ever a gustatory reason to attempt something like an Irish Car Bomb, it would be an excuse to drink one of these, a mix of liquor and beer that isn't just meant to turn your cerebral cortex into slurry.

A challenge beer, yes, but one with surprising finesse.