Some Wines From Michigan

I know they make wine in all 50 states, now, but that doesn't mean I have to try them all.

Still, when Shawn Walters, the winemaker from Forty-Five North Winery, in Leelanau County, northern Michigan, contacted me and asked if I would like to sample his wines, I was intrigued. The winery seemed to have a good reputation. They made a couple Rieslings, which always gets my attention. I had recently tasted some pleasing wines from Pennsylvania and Virginia, so there was hope. And it's hard to tamp down my natural curiosity. So I told him to send them on.

A little background. Forty-Five North is owned by the memorably named Steve Grossnickle, who used to have an ophthalmologist practice in Indiana, and bought property in Leelanau County in 1983, while a farm intended for grape growing was purchased in 2006. The name of the place translates Grossnickle's ambitions: Bordeaux also lies at the 45th parallel, albeit 4500 miles to the east.

Walters sent me bottles from both their first (2007) and second (2008) vintages, and, from what I tasted, there's more than a bit of beginner's luck going on here. All the wines made for fine, suitable drinking, and a couple were more than fine.

All the whites were extremely light in hue, owing to the northerly climate, I should imagine. Nearly water white. The 2008 Semi-Dry Riesling had good acidity and was well-focused. The nose was appealing: white melon, white peach, nectarine, apricot, and grassy fields. The palate showed high fruit, but not big fruit, if you know what I mean—lime, lemon, gooseberry, white cranberry and lemongrass. (This wine is now sold out; I'm not surprised.)

As for the Select Harvest Riesling 2008, honey and pear scents were evident. In the mouth, there were lovely flavors of Barlett pear, tangerine, white peach and honeysuckle. It had a medium finish. Not a lot of depth, but perfectly pleasing.

Of the reds, I liked the Cabernet Franc 2007 as a bright, light, summer red of medium body and medium finish. It had a full fruit nose of cherry and plum, with some spice, cocoa and chocolate. It was light going down. The palate mirrored the nose. Red and black cherries and plum mingled with flavors of cocoa and chocolate, plus some green notes hidden there in the middle.

But the prize, perhaps, of all the bottles I tried was the Pinot Noir Rose 2008. I've tried a lot of disappointing roses made from Pinot Noir; this wasn't one of them. Very likable, it began with a cherry-strawberry-raspberry-gooseberry nose. The acidity was good, but modest in its effect; overall this was a fruit-forward wine, sporting flavors of strawberry and Prince Ranier cherries. A touch of creaminess and a little tannic edge added to full and interesting flavor profile. At $18, it's a good, if not fantastic, buy.

The alcohol levels on these wines were low—below 12%, with the exception of the Cab Franc (13.5%)—allowing you to enjoy them over dinner well into the third glass.

Not every wine worked. The Pinot Gris was simple and lacked dimension. But if I lived in upper Michigan, I'd be awfully thankful to have this winery around.

A Beer At...Reynold's Cafe

My latest "A Beer At" column for Eater took me all the way up to 204th Street and Broadway, to the frozen-in-time Reynold's Cafe:

A Beer At... Reynold's Cafe

The jukebox at Reynold’s Café played a Spanish ballad one recent rainy Saturday afternoon. It then played “Maria” from “West Side Story,” sung by Johnny Mathis. This Washington Heights corner tavern is just that kind of place. If it was once, like the neighborhood, an Irish stronghold, the bar is now shared by more recent Hispanic immigrants. Unlike the two gangs in “West Side Story,” however, the bar’s patrons—mostly old men—long ago made their peace. The groups don’t exactly intermingle, but neither do they fight. And there is room for joking. As one garrulous Irishman said from the bar, for all to hear, “Since I’m in a Spanish bar, I wanna say My Irish mother said that on her mother’s side, she can trace her lineage to Seville.”

The Gaelic quaffers tended to favor the question-mark-shaped, wooden bar. They wore windbreakers and baseball caps and drank bottled beer. (There is nothing on draft at Reynolds Café.) The longnecks saved their places when they went outside for a smoke, which was often. The Hispanic men drank wine, convened around small round tables, and wore nattily dressed in suits, Cuban shirts and straw hats. What both sectors seemed to have in common—unless I am very much mistaken—was gambling. There was an intense examination of newspapers, and much cash brandished in hand and counted. A lumpen, bald man never left off the video poker game in one dark corner. Could this explain the presence of odd illustration on the wall entitled “The Gamblers” and the old photograph of a bygone casino?

The barkeep, wearing a short-sleeved, button down shirt, a proper tie pulled up to the collar, and a shiny black toupee, seemed the sort to keep a secret. He said, in an Irish brogue, that the bar dated from Prohibition and the current owner has run it for 45 years. Nothing was said about the mounted deer head above the bar, or the more alarming bits of taxidermy: a bobcat’s head and a full-length ferret. The men’s room, used frequently, is behind an exceedingly narrow wooden door at the end of the bar. The ladies’ room is not as convenient—it’s down a flight of stairs as tight as those that lead below deck on a ship. No matter. There were no women about.

More Mathis played: “Chances Are.” The Reynolds crowd is not an unsentimental one. An elderly Puerto Rican handyman, employed by the bar to do odd jobs, is treated by the regulars as some sort of mascot, back-slapped and hailed from across the room. And the playing of the weepy anthem of selfless love, “Angel of the Morning,” might lead to a spontaneous sing-a-long. The original version, not the later cover by Juice Newton.
—Robert Simonson

Stick to Swizzles

I can't tell you how sick my wife is of hearing me say, with utter seriousness, the word "Swizzle." For the past few weeks, I've been researching this category of West Indies cocktail—talking with bartenders about Swizzles, soliciting recipes for Swizzles, sampling Swizzles. Each time I mentioned a new tidbit of information on the topic, my better half would roll her eyes and walk into the other room.

You can't blame her. It's a funny word. And cocktail people can start to sound a little touched in the head when they start talking with deadly earnestness about things like garnishes and the right kind of ice. Still, she was impressed when she finally sat down and tried a properly made Queen's Park Swizzle.

I was fortunate enough to write about Swizzles for the New York Times Summer Drinks issue. Here's the piece.

It’s Not So Mysterious: The Secret Is in the Swizzle

By Robert Simonson

WHEN Katie Stipe, a bartender at the Clover Club in Boerum Hill, gets an order for a mojito, she recommends that the customer try a Queens Park Swizzle instead.

“We steer them to it as a far superior version of the same sort of drink,” she said. Indeed, the cocktails share many ingredients: rum, citrus, sugar, mint. So why bother converting a customer? What makes one different from the other? Well, the swizzling, of course.

A Queens Park Swizzle is the best-known representative of a crushed-ice-laden and slightly mysterious cocktail category. The genre was born in the West Indies, probably in the 19th century, but has become increasingly popular in New York bars of late. Among other noteworthy examples are the Bermuda Swizzle (still wildly popular on that island) and the Barbados Red Rum Swizzle, a onetime staple at Trader Vic’s.

These drinks are not shaken or stirred, but rather swizzled with a genuine swizzle stick. Now, if you’re picturing one of those colorful plastic doohickeys that bars and resorts stick into their drinks as a combination advertisement and souvenir, stop right there.

The implement in question is an actual stick. It is snapped off a tree native to the Caribbean. Botanists call it Quararibea turbinata, but it is known to locals as the swizzle stick tree. The sticks are about six inches, with small prongs sticking out at the end, like the spokes of a wheel without the rim, and they are used as a kind of natural, manually operated Mixmaster.

These are halcyon days for behind-the-bar theatrics, and nothing lends the bartender’s art a touch of razzmatazz like a deftly deployed swizzle stick. “It takes a little showmanship,” said Stephen Remsberg, a New Orleans lawyer known for his extensive rum collection (1,300 bottles) and knowledge of rum drinks. “You insert the swizzle stick in the drink. And with both hands moving in coordination, simultaneously backwards and forwards, you simply rotate the shaft of the swizzle stick between your palms as quickly as you can.”

It is believed by some that the success of any swizzle lies entirely in the mixing prowess of the bartender.

“There really isn’t any difference between a simple rum punch and a swizzle except the technique used for making them,” Mr. Remsberg said. All agree that one thing happens when the drink is prepared in this way — and has to happen, for it to be a swizzle. “With the ideal swizzle you get a nice frost on the outside of the glass,” Ms. Stipe said.

Beyond that, what the method contributes to the drink — aside from a lively sideshow — is somewhat open to debate. Wayne Curtis, a cocktail authority and the author of “And a Bottle of Rum,” suspects that the stick’s significance is mainly cultural and ritualistic. Not that that’s a bad thing. “Ritual is fine,” Mr. Curtis said. “There’s a lot of ritual in the cocktail world.”

Richard Boccato — who put the Queens Park Swizzle on the menu at Dutch Kills, a new bar in Long Island City, Queens, that he owns with Sasha Petraske — thinks there’s more at stake. “The act in the swizzling is what makes the drink aesthetically pleasing to the guest,” Mr. Boccato said. “They enjoy watching it, for sure, but it’s also something that integral to the preparation. It’s very much what brings the drink together.”

But Mr. Petraske regards swizzling as simply a more controlled way of stirring. “It’s a way of not disturbing the muddled stuff that’s at the bottom,” he said. “Aside from that, I can’t think of any difference it makes.”

The swizzle is just that kind of cocktail. The more you chase after its essence, the less you understand. The cocktail expert David Wondrich said, “Vague answers are all you’re going to get.” That’s perhaps just as well, because it seems a shame to invest too much analysis in a practice so pleasingly theatrical, and in a drink that’s so easygoing and refreshing. “It’s almost like an adult snow cone,” Ms. Stipe said.

There’s one additional mystery surrounding the swizzle. Despite the demands of the cocktail craze, a real swizzle stick is not easily found in New York. Nearly every bar that serves swizzles gets the needed tools through some Caribbean connection. Mr. Boccato brings some sticks back from Martinique every time he visits his father, who lives nearby on St. Lucia.

“I’m surprised no one’s come out with a plastic version,” Mr. Curtis said.

While you're at it, take a look at the other fine articles in the section, including a A to Z guide to home bartending and a look at the lives of sober bartenders. And Eric Asimov looks at the problems in New York's beer scene.

Brunch at the Clover Club

If the cocktail world has an official brunch place, it's Brooklyn's Clover Club. In the year that it's been in operation, the bar has established itself as the place to dine and drink, at least for those brave souls in this universe who actually get up on Sunday mornings. I've encountered several local bartenders of note who've said they make it a habit of getting their Sunday eye-opener, and some sort of fatty meal, at the Smith Street tavern.

It's taken me this long to finally check out this scene, partly because I despise the concept of brunch, and partly because of a lack of interest on my wife's part (there's little on the seafood-and-pork heavy menu that she can eat). But Father's Day was my trump card. You can't say no to a Daddy's request on a certain Sunday in June, and my wish was to have brunch at Clover Club.


We arrived at opening time, 11 AM. Which was good, because our drink order—a Ramos Gin Fizz for me, a Queen's Park Swizzle for the Missus—was safely the most complex of the morning, and our being the only table about gave the bartender plenty of time to lavish loving care on our drinks. Both came out smashingly well. I do love a Ramos Gin Fizz in the morning. The rest of the tables ordered Bloody Marys and Mimosa variants almost exclusively. (When will people end this self-imposed, two-drink limitation on themselves during the morning hours? I can't think of two drinks that bore me more.)


I began with the Bacon Tasting, because that's what everyone talks about. It's become the brunch's signature dish, and a kind of signal for the sort of culinary decadence you should expect here. Three styles of bacon: maple, black pepper and duck, served on toast.

It was savory good, as expected, though I could have done with less bread and more bacon. (Actually, less bread could be a rally cry for the whole menu. I never lacked for several slices of it.)


From there, I went on to the Baked Eggs With Truffle and Leeks. It's actually truffle butter, and parmesean cheese is in there, too. Very rich, as you might imagine, though it's nicely set off by a light arugula salad on the side. I had no complaints about this dish. The serving seemed on the small side, but it left me completely full.

My wife had an omelette she enjoyed and my son loved the house-made marmalade that came with the baguette (and he doesn't like marmalade). I also liked that you could order a simple egg, for $1.50, made any way you like. Simple is good sometime. And every good old-school bar should make hard-boiled eggs available on request.

The Sipping News

Not every grape is suited for sparkling wine. [NY Times]

Time Out New York reviews Long Island City's new Dutch Kills.

Bittermans, the German bitters makers, is partnering with America's The Bitter Truth to bring their bitters Stateside. The official release is in July.

A bit of old style wine advertising from Sonoma. [Dr. Vino]

Burgundy house Joseph Drouhin is relaunching its Chablis wines under the Drouhin Vaudon banner. [Decanter]

Jamie Goode likes Stag's Leap Wine Cellars Artemis Cabernet Sauvignon. Well, don't we all?

The Man Who Sold America The Pimm's Cup?

I own an old book by Maurice Zolotow called "It Takes All Kinds." It's a collection of profiles of odd New Yorkers, published in 1952. One of the profiles is of one Jim Moran (1908-1999), an inventive and irrepressible publicity man.

According to this account, he was hired in 1949 to concoct a stunt that would get the Pimm's Cup—then without much of a following in the U.S.—into the newspapers. His scheme went like this. He contracted the services of band leader Alvino Rey, radio actor Herbert Evers, movie actress Ann Staunton and musical actress Nancy Andrews (using money as a lure, I imagine). He instructed Evers and Staunton to enter the posh East 55th Street Manhattan joint called the Little Club on June 15 around 2 AM and begin demanding Pimm's Cups. Fifteen minutes later, Rey and Andrews entered and ordered Pimm's Cups as well! Only Andrews specified, in a loud voice, that she wanted hers with a spring of mint.

At this request, Staunton pretended to high dudgeon! She argued that everyone in the world with a brain knows that a Pimm's Cup is only properly taken with a cucumber, not mint! Mind your own beeswax, answered Andrews. Evers exclaimed, "You can't talk to my friend like that!" Rey told Evers to back off. Then the food fight began! Staunton flug a cucumber at Rey. Rey punched Evers in the face (or pretended to). Evers fell down. The police were called. Rey was taken to the station house, where he was released on $500 bail (by Moran, in a beard).

The "incident" made the front page of the World-Telegram and the third page of the New York Sun, and got two columns in the Daily News. After that, it broke nationally, and everyone knew about the Pimm's Cup.

Hold the Mayo!

Sometimes I think today's ambitious mixologists are too much Mr. Hyde and not enough Dr. Jekyll in their strivings for something new. There are a lot of kooky drinks out there. But, then again, who can say with any sureness from which corner that critical "Eureka!" will come.

With that in mind, and without comment, I submit for your consideration the P.B.L.T. (Plymouth gin, Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato), the creation of D.C. mixologist Gina Chersevani. I have never tasted one. But if you have a free afternoon, and feel like drinking your lunch, give it a go. Or, better yet, visit Gina and have her make you one.

P.B.L.T.

1 oz Plymouth™ Gin
1 cube of lettuce water
1 cube of tomato water
Spray vinegar on one side of glass and stick dehydrated bacon dust on side.

First spray vinegar on a glass and dip in dehydrated bacon dust, then place a lettuce water cube, tomato cube, then pour the Plymouth Gin over top.

Tomato Cubes

16 oz of fresh tomato juice (either in a juicer or done in a blender and then strained)
1 teaspoon of white pepper
1 pinch of fleur de sel
4 oz of fresh lemon juice
4 dashes of Tabasco

Combine all ingredients together and fill ice trays. Makes about 24-30 cubes

Lettuce Cubes

14 oz of lettuce water (2 large heads of iceberg lettuce, that has been juiced in a juicer)
1 teaspoon of white pepper
1 pinch of fleur de sel
4 oz of lemon juice

Combine all ingredients together and fill ice trays. Makes about 20-24 cubes