Imbibing With Georg

I am very pleased to begin 2009 with my writing debut in Imbibe, a handsome and well-edited Portland-based magazine I have long admired. The piece is about Georg Riedel, the reigning emperor of stemware. Looking at it from a certain perspective, the glassmaker has had as big an impact on the wine-drinking world, and has as much a hand in the wine revolution of the past decade or so, as any vineyard owner or winemaker. Think of it. The average Joe can remember few if any of the souls that actually make the wine he loves. But everyone knows the name of Riedel.

I met with Georg Riedel several times: at Tales of the Cocktails, where he was marketing his new lines of spirits glassware; in the Finger Lakes region, where I participated in a tasting to determine what was the best vessel for an proposed official Finger Lakes Riesling Glass; at his glassware showroom off Union Square; and at a dinner at the Modern restaurant at MoMA honored his late father, the wine glass innovator Claus Josef Riedel. I also met and got to know his son, Max, who runs the business in the U.S.

The article's not available on the Imbibe website, so I'm posting it here. Here's the article:

Georg Riedel, armed with the old world manners of his native Austria and soft-spoken, accented English, greets four dozen guests as they enter a private dining room at the Modern in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. With his high forehead, thoughtful coun-
tenance and perfect posture, Riedel has the look of a career diplomat. Ever dapper, he wears a business suit with a black tie, setting off his rosy complexion and sharp blue eyes. Maximilian, his 31-year-old son and heir apparent to the Riedel glassware empire, looks equally elegant in a red tie. red and black: the Riedel colors.

Near the entrance is a Warholesque portrait of Georg’s father, Claus Josef Riedel. though he died in 2004, Claus is actually the man of the hour: the event is celebrating the 50th anniversary of the invention that sparked the Riedels’ ascent to the top of their industry, the Riedel Burgundy Grand Cru glass. With that creation, Claus set the company on its future path by proposing that the shape and design of a glass could materially affect the way wine is received by the nose and palate.

The guests quiet as Georg knocks his glass against a microphone—the loudest noise he’ll make all night. “I am between two giants,” the diminutive man says with a self-deprecating air. “My father, Claus, and my son, Max. i am just happy to be squeezed in the middle.”

This kind of modesty belies the fact that under his leadership, the Austrian company has come to command the wine-drinking world. Over the past year alone, the glassmaker, who turned 60 in December, has seen his company expand in key ways. Already armed with more than a dozen different lines of wine glasses, Riedel (pronounced “REE-dle”) has extended its domination of modern drinking by introducing a Bar series sporting specific glasses for grappa, bourbon, tequila and other spirits; and a trio of beer glasses, released through Spiegelau—a former competitor that Riedel absorbed in 2004.

Though Claus can be credited as the progenitor of the Riedel revolution, it is the analytical, driven Georg who took the battle to the doorstep of every restaurant, wine bar and liquor store in the western world (and, increasingly, Japan, China and India). Friends describe him as a cultured perfectionist who is single-minded in his commitment.

Larry Stone, general manager of Rubicon Estate, calls him “very persuasive and very ordered. He’s a serious person who’s passionate about what he does and has been for most of his adult life.”

And not only wine connoisseurs harken to the Riedel name. A wine drinker who can’t tell a Bordeaux from a Burgundy may very well recognize a glass made by Riedel Glass Works. Now in its 11th generation, the Austrian glassmaking family has made itself famous to all—and nearly indispensable to some—through the philosophy that each grape varietal requires the right glass to offer the full expression of a wine. It’s a notion that’s hotly debated among winemakers, journalists and other professionals. But whether you buy the theory or not, there’s no denying that Riedel’s campaign has elevated the role a glass plays in the wine-drinking experience.

“There’s a practical impact to what they’ve done,” says Robert Bohr, the wine director at Cru, a wine-centric Manhattan restaurant. “The ample-sized glass that’s elegantly designed is now the base minimum that a restaurant can provide. And I think that’s a good thing. If you went into a two-star restaurant and they gave you a cater-
ing glass, you’d be floored.”

The Riedel dynasty began in the late 17th century with Johann Christoph Riedel, a glassmaker from Bohemia. For centuries, the company produced a wide range of glass goods: windowpanes, chandelier parts, colored glass beads. And wine glasses. Things changed in 1957, when Claus Riedel assumed control of the company and answered
the call of a wine-loving Italian nobleman.

According to Riedel lore (many of Georg’s sentences begin with “The story goes...”), one Conte Odazio asked Claus to create a glass suitable for Piedmont reds. Claus came up with the Burgundy Grand Cru. Its enormous bell and closed mouth ran counter to the decorative, flare-lipped glasses of the time. According to Georg, Odazio raved
about the glass to Italian merchant Richard Ginori, who then featured it in his tony shop on Via Condotti in Rome. Wallis Simpson, the wife of Prince Edward, the Duke of Windsor, saw the glass and bought 60. At a 1958 World Exhibition in Brussels, another Riedel glass was awarded a “Grand Prix.” Riedel’s rep was made.

The Burgundy glass, as well as the equally famous Bordeaux Grand Cru glass, were eventually folded into the Sommelier collection, the company’s first wine-specific line of stemware, introduced by Claus in 1973. Georg entered the family business that same year, though it wasn’t always a certainty that he would. “My papa was not such an easy person that you would have jumped on the opportunity to come to this business,” he says. “He was a patriarch. Everything had to go as he would have it and there was
very little dispute about it.”

Nonetheless, Georg—who lives with his wife Eva in Kufstein, Austria—took his father’s concept of “wine-friendly glassware” and ran with it. In 1979, he shrewdly opened a subsidiary in the United States, foreseeing that it would become Riedel’s biggest market. Traveling the world—with a case containing four wine glasses for his personal
use—he earned the support of winemakers like Robert Mondavi and Angelo Gaja. “I understood the potential of the winemaking in America,” he recalls. “I saw the investments there.”

At the turn of the 21st century, when Americans were becoming entranced with wine and wine culture, Riedel was poised to capitalize on the phenomenon. Its glasses started to be seen more widely in department stores and fine-dining establishments; Target began carrying them in 2006, the same year that U.S. sales hit $60 million, their highest annual figure so far. More glassware lines were introduced—five between 2006 and 2007 alone, each one’s design overseen by either Georg or Maximilian. Today, six European plants produce 150,000 pieces a day.

“I am selling tools,” says Georg, explaining his populist marketing approach to what is essentially a luxury item. “So why shouldn’t we, as a toolmaker, sell tools to everyone who wants one?”

Such success has inevitably prompted increased scrutiny, as well as some grumbling: Does all this specialized glassware really do what the Riedels claim? Are they true visionaries, or merely smart marketers? “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the glasses,” says Eric Asimov, wine writer for the New York Times. “They’re great. But the idea that every sort of wine requires a specific glass is nonsense.”

In 2004, Gourmet published a blistering broadside by Daniel Zwerdling called “Shattered Myths,” which asserted that scientific studies had debunked the notion that glassware makes a difference in tasting wine. It also condemned the idea of the “tongue map.” The map—which claimed that the salty, sweet, sour and bitter taste buds
are located on different parts of the tongue—was a conceptual tool the Riedels once used to explain how the differing deliveries of liquid imparted by their glasses influenced taste.

It’s clear the criticism stings, though Riedel has not given up on the idea. “There are scientific backgrounds on why there are differences in the aromatics and the quality of the aromas,” he maintains.

“But the effect on the palate is impossible to explain, especially once you swallow it. How is it possible that from different glasses the perception changes? But it does change! There is no doubt.”

To prove his point, Georg (who’s on the road six months a year), Maximilian and other Riedel associates maintain a steady schedule of tasting demos; very often, former skeptics speak of being converted by these seminars. But the tastings also provoke criticism. “People do this because they know how it’s going to work,” says Asimov. “It’s one of the reasons winemakers want you to taste their wine in their presence, because there’s a psychological disposition to like them better as they tell you the story.”

Other aspects of Riedel’s growth have fueled further cynicism. For example, the introduction, in 2003, of the popular stemless glasses known as the “O” series struck some observers as going against much of what Riedel preached about creating vessels that served the wine.

“The O line throws me for a loop,” says Tyler Colman, author of the popular wine blog Dr. Vino. “Having your fingers touch the balloon, it does warm the wine. But I also find it gets goobery fingerprints all over the glass.”

Regional glass lines have been equally scrutinized, such as the Oregon Pinot Noir glass, created in 2006 at the request of some of the state’s vintners. “Overlaying place on top of grape variety is a recipe only to fill up your cabinets,” argues Colman.

And yet Riedel can’t seem to resist promoting the concept. In August 2008, he traveled to New York’s Finger Lakes area to consider what shape glass would work best for the wines of this developing viticultural region. Bob Madill, general manager at Sheldrake Point Winery, organized a tasting, and then spent some time afterward quizzing guests at the event. “I don’t think they came away thinking, Riedel glasses are the only glasses,” he says. “They came away thinking a glass makes a difference. That’s a big piece of information to a lot of folks.” It may be the only piece of information needed to keep the Riedel train steaming ahead.

Which begs the question: Where does the proliferation of glassware end? What if a burgeoning, but young, wine-growing area—like, say, Virginia—approached Georg Riedel about making a new glass? Would he accept the challenge or gracefully decline? Ever
the diplomat, Riedel smiles mischievously and says, “I would listen carefully.”

From Tuscany With Love

Tuaca's a curious animal. With its small clear bottle and amber color, it looks at first glance like a beer. Perhaps a Mexican beer, given the name and the font on the label. But Tuaca is an Italian liqueur from Tuscany, and it is getting a big marketing push right now.

I confess I knew nothing of this beverage when it arrived in the mail last month. The oracles of publicity tell me it is a liqueur of ancient provenance, possibly created during the Renaissance for none other than Lorenzo the Magnificent, great art patron and ruler of Florence. They further tell me that G.I. Joes stationed in Livorno during WWII drank their fair share of the stuff, and it arrived in the U.S. in the late '50s. This all sounds like a bit of eyewash, but who knows?

So, what is it? "A premium Italian liqueur with a hint of citrus and vanilla." Hint, my eye. This silky, viscous stuff is all about orange and vanilla. There's no avoided the two tastes as it coats your throat. The drink is brandy-based. It's basically a kind of Italian Grand Marnier, with vanilla thrown in. Just not as good.

If I was in Livorno, sitting at a cafe and it was a really hot day, and someone brought me a chilled shot of Tuaca, I'd probably think it was great. But, you know, I'm not.

Like all liqueurs out there now, Tuaca wants to be claimed and loved by the cocktail crowd. The website suggest plenty of drinks to try. Some are well left alone, like the Tuaca Dreamsicle, made of Tuaca, triple sec and vanilla ice cream. (Not a drink to breed good habits among the young.) Tuacacolada, Tuacarita, Tuaca Sour and Tuaca and Cola kind of explain themselves. Many of the cocktail recipes add Triple Sec to the Tuaca, which, to my mind, is like bringing coals to Newcastle. How much orange flavor do you need in a drink?

A Tuscan Mule sounds a bit more promising. A spin on the Moscow Mule, it substitutes ginger ale for the ginger beer. Still, this could be a good drink. Overall, however, I'll leave it to the bartenders to come up with better Tuaca libations than this, ones that aren't so keen on using as much Tuaca in a cocktail as possible, or in keeping things sweet and syrupy and appealing to the "Sex and the City" crowd. Tuaca has such a dominating flavor, in a cocktail it should back a backseat to another anchor spirit.

Being Frank about Franc

I seem to drink a lot of Cabernet Franc.

Why is this? Well, part of the reason is my natural attraction to undersung varietals. And Cab Franc is that. Part of it is because of the price. When I'm in the mood for a French red, and don't have the do re mi for a Bordeaux or Burgundy or Chateauneuf-du-Pape (which is often), I reach for a Loire red as a better value for my limited bucks. Another reason is my longstanding interest in the wines of Long Island, where Cab Franc grows well. And, finally, importer Kermit Lynch seems to love the Loire, and, as a subscriber to his wine mailings, I sometimes pop for a case of his Cab Franc offerings. Usually, I am not disappointed, though I have to admit, making your way through a case of the often astringent grape can be a challenge.

So, when I learned that the first 2009 tasting of the Wine Media Guild would be Cab Franc from all over the world, it was like Darth Vader saying to me, "Robert, it is your DES-tiny." Two good speakers were on hand, Long Island winemaker Roman Roth and restauranteur Paul Grieco, owner of Hearth and Terrior in the East Village. Roth was the epitome of European reserve and modesty. Grieco was the epitome of American bravado, even if he is from Canada.

The talented and smart Grieco a member of a brazen breed I like to call the Wine Jocks. These folks, usually men, usually young, approach their enthusiasm for wine the same way sports fanatics talk about last night's game. Every opinion that is thought is also expressed, and forcefully. Attitudes are personal. Cockiness and machismo abounds. I've seen many speakers at Wine Media Guild lunches. Grieco is the only one I'd ever seen who actually worked the room. He didn't stand where he was seated and speak from there. He paced and gestured. I think some members were a bit stunned by this behavior, but the talk was all the more effective for his animation and lung power.

From Grieco I learned a lot about Canadian wine. To you and I and the man on the street, Canadian vino means one thing basically: Ice wine. That's what we see on the shelf. Paul said there is much more to Canadian wine, and there are some great makers, but America sees little of it, because Canadians drink most of it themselves. Also, winemakers sell most of their wine to the government, which then distributes it to the public. (There are no independent liquor stores.) With a guaranteed buyer like that, there is little incentive for vintners to sell wine to the U.S., where they would make considerably less money.

There were four Canadian Cab Francs in the tasting, but, sadly, none of them were impressive. I found them all too flowery and pretty. Grieco called them "mediocre."

There were many French bottles. The thing with Loire Cab Francs, it seems to me, is there's a lot of sameness. With most Chinons, say, you'll get the cherry flavors, the dustiness, the green notes. And then you'll get them again and again, bottle after bottle. It takes great artistry for a wine to stand out. The best among the French wines, I'm happy to say, came courtesy of a WMG member, importer Frank Johnson. His Jean-Paul Mabileau Cuvee Graviers 2006 Saint-Nicolas de Bourgueil was the wine of the day in my opinion: understated, with a dignified nose and palate, and nicely balanced. Others seemed to think so to: both bottles were finished by the end of the lunch.

Johnson told me he sampled Mabileau's 2007, and, not liking what he was tasting at all, asked "How many 2006s do you have left." He bought them all.

Of the Long Island Cab Francs, my favorite was the Shinn Estates. To me, this maker rarely falls down with this varietal. Just the right amount of fruit vs. vegetal notes, and well-structured. There was a $60 job from Schneider Vineyards. I don't really think a $60 American Cab Franc has much reason for being, and, while the Schneider 2005 was rich and big and not bad, it wasn't worth three Jacksons.

The surprise of the tasting were three Canadian Cab Franc ice wines that were served at the end. Grieco said these have become a big hit in the Far East market, where ice wines are loved and red is a lucky color. The best by far was a Pillitteri Estates Winery Icewine 2006 with a fascinating, original nose of rhubarb and strawberries, and similar notes on the palate.

"Mad Men" and Drinking, Part II

I've just finished watching episodes 4 through 6 of season one of the AMC series "Mad Men." The drinking is just as prevalent as in the first three episodes of the 1960-set series, but the references aren't as specific. Just lots of brown liquor poured from cut-glass decanters into glass tumblers being downed by ad execs in gray suits and narrow ties. Our hero, Don Draper, continues to take his Canadian Club straight in the office, and order Old Fashioneds when on the outside, including one during a memorable scene set in the Tea Room at the Pierre.

Episode 6, entitled "Babylon," provided the most interesting cocktail cameos. Early on, Draper and his boss Roger Sterling try to woo potential clients from the Israeli Tourism Board with a tray crammed tight with a dozen Mai Tais. The tiki drink has played a fairly big role in the series so far. This marks its second appearance. Sterling Cooper, the fictional ad agency, must have some great bartender on staff. Whipping up 12 Mai Tais is no easy task.

Aging ad executive Freddy Rumson is the biggest lush at Sterling Cooper. He begins drinking at breakfast, in one scene pouring himself a Screwdriver, using a bottle of Smirnoff. This is historically accurate, as Smirnoff would be the most easily accessible vodka available at that time, when the vodka revolution was in its infancy.

The episode ends at the Gaslight, the beatnik hangout on Macdougal Street that thrived in the early '60s in Greenwich Village. Draper, his bohemian mistress Midge and her long-haired pal Roy take in some readings and music there over shots of Jack Daniels. A bottle of Jack Black is pictured as well. This rung a little false. My impression has always been that such places were known for the espresso drinking. Indeed, the Gaslight's rep was as a "coffee house."

The Absinthe Backlash Begins

It was bound to happen. You knew it. There were too many articles about the once-forbidden elixer. About 47 new brands were dropped on the market at once. Cocktail geeks wouldn't shut up about it. And then there's that clown down at Apotheke making homemade, flaming absinthe every hour on the hour. (Like there aren't enough brands to choose from already.) A liquor has to taste incredibly good to withstand that kind of publicity without inspiring contrarians like myself and, now, Eric Konigsberg at the New York Times.

Konigsberg just authored a long piece on the Green Goddess which is basically a long, hilarious slam on the booze and the trend. A sample:

Now it is legal, and so we are in the midst of what appears to be an absinthe mini-craze. But to follow the arc of this craze, like others that have come before (remember cigar bars?) is to see just how quickly something that was once illicit — and acquired notoriety because of that very illicitness — can lose its sheen of mystery and become, well, rather uncool. Once the naughty aura of the forbidden fruit is removed, all that remains is a grasp at unearned sophistication.

Konigsberg is too mean by half, and he purposely avoids talking about Absinthe's virtues. The good versions of the stuff have a complex and interesting flavor profile you won't find elsewhere, and it makes for an irreplaceable accent to many fine cocktails, including my beloved Sazerac and the wonderful Remember the Maine. But I know what he means. Absinthe is just not that good. It's begin poised to play with the big boys of booze, but it can't begin to compare with the classic, seducing, impossible-not-to-love tastes of other liquors, like scotch, bourbon, gin, or even various liqueurs and amari. Konigsberg puts it as bluntly as possible:

The first, Lucid, came in a dark bottle with cat’s eyes on it and had what Mr. Bergougnoux called a “classic absinthe taste.” It tasted like licorice.

Remember: licorice jelly beans are always the last to go.

The second absinthe, Tourment Vert, was listed on the menu as containing the maximum legal amount of thujone. It tasted like mouthwash.

I have listened to spirit experts tell me for a year that Absinthe is going to explode in the next year or so. I'm here to tell you the Absinthe trend will not explode; it will implode. Brands will appear and disappear. And the stuff will go from being the Next Big Thing to being just one more bottle in the back bar. Which is probably where it belongs. It's an interesting addition to a bar. It's not a star player. 19th century France didn't have the variety of drinks we have today. It if had, Absinthe wouldn't have been as big a deal.

As the bartender at a recently opened New York saloon that prominently features Absinthe told me, when I asked him if first-timers ordered the drink: "They do. Until they realized they don't like Absinthe. Then they order something else."

Old Wisconsin Beers

Some years ago, I bid on and won on eBay a pack of old Stork Club matches. I was a bit obsessed with the swank Gotham club at the time. The owner sent the prize to me, using some other old matchbooks as packing material. I didn't pay much mind to the extraneous items, tossing them in a box, where they remained until this past weekend, when I gave them a closer look.

The matchbooks are all from old Wisconsin taverns. (The owner must have lived in Green Bay. How he ever got to the Stork Club, I've never know.) It's a quaint collection, and not just because the matchbooks are from places called Chubby's Corner Bar and the Ten-O-One Club. Each book was furnished by a now-extinct local brew, making the throwaway items historical artifacts.


Gettelman's is one of my favorite lost beers, mainly because I well remember it's catchy slogan: "Get—Get—Gettelman's!" It was brewed in Milwaukee. "Fritzie," an advertising character with a Tyrolean hat on his head, was a Gettelman trademark. The beer was last produced in 1971.


Braumeister Pilsner was another Milwaukee beer. It's tagline was "Milwaukee's Choicest."


Whoever decided to nickname Old Imperial beer "Little Imp" was a marketing genius.


Knapp's "Bohemian Style Beer" was brewed at Knapstein Brewing Company is New London, WI. It shut down in 1958.


The Athelsane-based Boesen Distribution Company handled Black Star and Red Stripe beers, and encouraged us to "Give Them a Trial."

I Love The Orkney Islands

I remember that, during a college-years trip to Scotland, I was inexplicably drawn to the Orkney Islands off the northern coast of the country. I couldn't say why. Perhaps it was the ancient ruins, perhaps it was the sweaters, perhaps it was the remoteness of the place, but I knew I would like the Orkneys.

Now I know the attraction: It was the scotch. Unconsciously, I knew there was great scotch there. Recently, I tried and loved the new 40-year-old Highland Park. Now, I have tried and loved the new 16-year-old Scapa. What scotch whiskey comes out of this windswept clutch of rocky isles! Spicy and saline and wonderful.

The Scapa distillery was founded in 1885 and uses a rare Lomond pot-still. The 16-year old is made in first-fill American oak casks. The distillers use water from the heather-scented Lingro Burn spring and distill it in two pot stills with a slow fermentation for up to one hundred hours.

What an involved series of experiences are wrapped within one sip of Scapa 16! It is a light butterscotch hue. This is a hint, for the nectar is also dominantly butterscotch on the nose, with some tangerine, brine and spice thrown in there. It is candy smooth upon first taste. We get that butterscotch again. But then comes a bracing attack of spice to wake you up and remind you you're drinking scotch, not soda pop. That phase then calms down to a silky smooth caramel flavor and finish as long as a country mile.

A great scotch whiskey. Not as much of a hair-raising spice box as Highland Park. But as good in another fashion. At $75, a relative bargain, I'd say.