Three 2005 Bordeauxs

When the critics started going nuts for the 2005 Bordeaux vintage, I thought to myself, "Well, that's it. I ain't getting none of that stuff." Sure enough, when the bottles started to arrive in the U.S., they were either snatched up lickety-split or priced well beyond my extremely modest means. Then the monthly mailing from importer Kermit Lynch came through the mail, offering three 2005s at reasonable prices. This is my only chance to get some 2005 in my cellar, I thought. So I bought a mixed case, four of each.

I had to wait out the summer before the case arrived; the distributors didn't want to risk cooking the case. Recently I tried one of each in quick succession; the rest will be put away for a rainy day. Verdict: a good investment, particular the one Haut-Medoc, Chateau Aney.

I didn't know a thing about Aney before drinking this satisfying, understated, medium-bodied Bordeaux. Created in 1850, the Chateau Aney was given "Cru Bourgois" classification in 1932. The 2005, a comfortable 13% alcohol, has a lovely nose of red current, dark cherry, grass, brush and mild tobacco. On the palate, it was well-structured with mild-to-medium tannins, and flavors of cherry, dust, raspberry, rhubarb and more underbrush. I'm sure this is what Lynch thinks a Bordeaux should be. I agree with him.

The other two were a Chateau de Bellevue from St. Emilion and a Chateau Belles-Graves from Pomerol. I liked them less well, but that's my usual bias regarding these often overripe regions. But they're still good wines with potential. The Bellevue is organic and hand-picked and aged in new French oak. It comes in at 13.5% and is inky purple with a deep, dark cherry and plum, spicy nose. It's full-flavored, with the plum joined by blueberries, purple grapes, subtle spice and a tarry bottom.

Belles-Graves is a Lalande de Pomerol. It has a happy, harmonic nose of brush, blackberry, current and dark red fruit. The medium-bodied mouthful has black spice at its center, with fresh and baked red fruit all around it. Some tar, some dill. Not heavy-handed at all (it's only 12.5%).

Can't wait to revisit them in 10 years.

A Golden Rob Roy

Go to a foreign country and you're confronted with liquors and wines you've never tried before. Pimm's "Winter" No. 3; Havana Club Barrel Proof rum; Beefeater Crown Jewel.

During my recent trip to London to sample the new Beefeater gin called "24," I had dinner at Hawksmoor, Nick Strangeway's splendid restaurant at Shoreditch, very near where Jack the Ripper did his handiwork a century or so ago. Strangeway is a friendly, beguiling guy who smokes a great many cigarettes through a long, scraggly beard that twists as it heads toward the floor. His wardrobe has a hectic set of rules all its own; he wore a bright gold sportsjacket at the 24 launch party.

Strangeway has a admirably well-stocked bar at Hawksmoor. One thing that caught my eye in particular was a unfamiliar bottle of Noilly Prat vermouth called "Ambre." What the hell? And it was not on a shelf, but out on the bar, so it was being well-used. I asked Nick about it and he bubbled with enthusiasm. It's a newish product from Noilly, sitting somewhere between the dry and sweet vermouths in taste. According to the Noilly website, Ambre is made from even more herbs and spices than are found in the dry and rouge, including orange, cinnamon and vanilla. "It makes beautiful Rob Roys," he said.

That sounded like an invitation. Sure enough, soon he was making me a Noilly Prat Ambre Rob Roy. It was a beautiful thing. Visually, first of all, it was a glass of gleaming ore. The taste, too, was golden. If a cocktail could ever taste like a color, this was it. A great Rob Roy, no question.

There's a picture of the stuff above, to the left of a gravity-driven, ice-mold contraption that Nick had which was spellbinding all around, including the Pegu Club's Audrey Saunders. (It presses ice into a perfect snowball-shaped ice cube. Nice parlor trick.)

For those out there who are now saying, "I got to get me some of that Noilly Ambre," get ready to grit your teeth. It's only available for sale at the Noilly plant in Marseillan, France. Nick only has some because he has "a friend." Let the obsessing begin.

Absinthe and Philip Roth Don't Mix

The LAByrinth Theater Company of New York is presenting a new play by David Bar Katz called "Philip Roth in Khartoum."

Here's the very interesting plot description:

A marriage in the throes of sexual and financial problems is pushed to the brink in a game of Truth or Dare at a cocktail party. Philip Roth in Khartoum examines the destructive power of truth and the devastating impact of bad sex, autism, Philip Roth, absinthe and genocide on husbands and wives during an intimate evening with friends.

Note to White Star: do not serve Philip Roth.

Oak Room Reopens November 8

The fabled Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel will finally reopen Nov. 8, after a month-plus delay. I'll be there the first day. Here's a glimpse of the cocktails that will be on offer—some of the most expensive in town.

A few observations: St. Germain on the agenda—natch!; they're going for the more modern version of the Old Fashioned, with the muddled orange and cherry; lots of rye in evidence—nice!; and their Manhattan is a perfect version, made with rye, very expensive rye. Looking good.

THE OAK BAR
HOUSE COCKTAILS $18

THE MONARCHY
Stoli Orange, St. Germain, mint, lemon and simple syrup, shaken and served up with a mint leaf

CARROLLS COCKTAIL
Walnut infused Calvados, Benedictine, Sweet Vermouth and ‘Bitter Truth’ Aromatic Bitters, stirred and served on the rocks with a brandied cherry

OLD FASHIONED
Bourbon whiskey, Angostura bitters, sugar, cherry and orange wedge, shaken and served up

CAMERONS KICKER
Blended Scotch, Blended Irish whiskey, orgeat, lemon. Shaken and served up with a peaty scotch rinse

OAK BAR FIZZ
Rittenhouse Rye Whiskey, port, Licor 43, lemon, simple syrup and egg white, shaken and served in a hi-ball with one Kold-Draft ice cube

BRITISH MAID
Plymouth Gin, house made ginger beer, cucumber, mint, lime, simple syrup and club soda, shaken and served on the rocks in a hi-ball

MID-DAY REVIVER
Rittenhouse Rye whiskey, maraschino liqueur and lemon. Shaken and served up with an absinthe rinse

THE OAK ROOM MANHATTAN
Hirsch 22yr Rye, house bitters, sweet and dry vermouth, brandied cherry $40

Plenty of Puglia

The November meet of the Wine Media Guild was of particular interest to me. It was a tasting of wines from Puglia—the southern Italian region I visited for the first time this past September. Charles Scicolone put together the satisfyingly wide array of wines, which included three from Piero Antinori's Puglia venture, Tormaresca, which I toured during my visit. (I was happy to see the Bocca di Lupo Aglianico tasting as good as I remember it. In September Charles, on a New York Times Eric Asimov tasting panel of Aglianico, helped place this wine in the number two spot.)

This being Puglia, the selection was dominated by Primitivo and Negroamaro. There were a couple of roses and a couple of whites, of which a Gravino Bianco 2007 from Botromagno proved a widespread favorite. The pleasurable, pear-noted, nicely acidic blend of Greco and Malvasia was liked by almost everyone in the room, old and new members alike. At $11, this balanced wine is a bargain.

There were a few interesting oddities. A wine from Vignamaggio called "Suahili" was what Charles called the first Syrah he had tasted from the region. (Tormaresca has started to plant this grape.) It was smooth and light, a commercially driven version of the grape. I don't know whether you can expect much more for $13. One of the most expensive wines in the line-up—a Tenute Rubino "Torre Testa" 2003—was made from the obscure Susumaniello varietal. You'll only find this ancient grape in Puglia. It was light with a bouncy cherry flavor. Easy to like. But $54?

The Primitivos were all over the map, from light-bodied and breezy to big and extracted, as I guess must be expected from an emerging wine region that's trying to find itself. None completely floored me, but neither were many of rank quality. Of the Negroamaros, two stood out. Vallone's "Gratticiaia" 2003 was lovely with a cherry candy taste and a beautiful color. A couple other members agreed with me, calling it their favorite. It may deserve its $70 price tag. May.



The wine of the afternoon, however, came from Charles' own cellar: A 1999 Patriglione from Taurino. It illustrated how beautifully Negroamaro can age. A gorgeous magenta color, it was soft, with a velvety texture, mellow fruit and remarkable depth. I only got two small tastes of it, but it was a prize.



Another treat came with dessert—a sweet wine made from the Aleatico grape. Drinking it was like eating chocolate-covered roses covered with honey. I mean that in a good way. It was perfumey and not cloying, and matched perfectly with the poached pear (which may have had some of the wine in the sauce.) The Candido wine is not imported. It was the gift of a representative from Candido, who was present. (That name was Italian, and long, and I didn't get it.)

While be ate, member Terry Robards regaled everyone with a story that seemed to dispel the old myth that America's Zinfindel grape derives from Primitivo grapes from Puglia. This is balderdash, said Terry, since it's been discovered that Zinfandel was grown in the U.S. before Primitivo arrived in Italy. Phylloxera wiped out Puglia's vineyards in the late 19th century, and what we consider Puglia's "native" grapes weren't introduced there until recently. So the journey of Zinfandel/Primitivo was the other way around—from the U.S. to Italy. At least, that's how I understood it. But then there's also the matter of the closely related Plavac Mali from Croatia. The more I listened, the more confused I was. Take a look of Wikipedia's take on the matter, not that it clears anything up.

The Mourning Cocktail

I was recently in London for the launch of Beefeater 24, the venerable old gin distillery's new creation, and its bid to compete in the super-premium gin category—the world of Tanqueray 10 and (shudder) Bombay Sapphire.

The new gin is the work of Beefeater master distiller Desmond Payne. It's funny to think that this is the first distillate Payne has ever come up with, given that he's spent 40 years making gin, first at Plymouth, then at Beefeater. But such is the case, and it's hard to imagine a more experienced hand going at the task.

Not to take away from Payne's achievement, which is considerable, but the formula of Beefeater 24 is pretty simple. He basically took the botanical cocktail found in regular Beefeater (including Lemon and Orange peel, Juniper, Angelica Root, Angelica Seeds, Coriander Seeds, Liquorice, Almonds, Orris Root), and added three new botanicals: Japanese Sencha tea, Chinese Green teas and Spanish grapefruit peel. Tea is fairly pronounced on the nose and palate of the resultant brew, as you might guess (though it was the foundation of the familiar Beefeater bouquet that struck me first when I dunked my nose into the glass). And there's a singular, subtle tannic hit in the finish, which is very long. It makes for an interesting gin, a thought-provoking gin, and certainly a gin unlike any other I've encountered.

I was given many opportunities to sample the 24 in various cocktails, of course. I was surprised how well it showed in a basic Gin & Tonic; the tea element added an interior layer of depth to a drink that can be a pretty simple affair, taste-wise. It works really well in this cocktail. As for a Martini made with 24, my attitude made a progress through a couple nights. The first time I drank one, I liked it, but was troubled by the fact that the drink was rendered so every-so-slightly unusual that I keep thinking about how it tasted rather then simply enjoying the way it tasted. The following night, however, when I had another such Martini, I admired it much more. It had a regal bearing, a certain weight to it, and I liked the flavor edge the 24 gave the cocktail rather than being simply distracted by it. I suspect I will grow more fond of 24 Martinis as I continue to sample them.

The launch offered more unfamiliar cocktails, devised by the likes of Sasha Petraske and Jared Brown and Anistatia Miller. A couple drinks emphasized the tea aspect of 24 by adding further tea-influenced ingredients. These were not my favorites. I felt they took the wrong tack; by pointing emphatically to the tea botanicals, the libations made 24 out to be a more simplistic product that it is. (They also made for unpleasantly tannic cocktails.) My thoughts are still percolating on the matter, but I have a feeling that 24 will perform best when it takes a step back in a cocktail, adding a flavor dimension that informs, but does not bully or command, the tastebuds—exactly as it did in the Gin & Tonic.

Following these thoughts, I paged through a book of classic gin cocktails, looking for one that might welcome 24 as a playmate. I stopped at the Obituary Cocktail. Of course, I thought. Moreso than a Martini, 24 need not have the pressure of bearing the weight of the drink's success on its shoulders. It has both vermouth and absinthe to contend with. Plus the various herbs and plants in absinthe might marry well with the botanical mix in absinthe.

I mixed one up, using 2 oz. of 24, 1/4 oz. of vermouth and 1/4 oz. of absinthe (I used the Pernod, which I'm liking best these days). Sure enough, it was the best Obituary Cocktail I had ever stirred, one of dignity and profundity, one with a lot going on. I'm no great mixologist, but I figure the use of the new Beefeater 24 instead of regular gin is a change of ingredients of sorts, so I gave the drink a new name: The Mourning Cocktail. (Mourning as in Obituary, and also a play on Morning, as in when you might drink tea.)

Here's the recipe:

THE MOURNING COCKTAIL

2 oz. Beefeater 24
1/4 oz. dry vermouth
1/4 oz. Pernod absinthe

I'll probably be writing some more about Beefeater 24 in the future—it's now on the shelves in the UK, but won't reach the U.S. until March—but those are thoughts for now. Until I see how it works in a Bijou.

What the Hell?

During a recent trip to London, I was browsing through the food halls of Fortnum & Mason, which were already decked out for Christmas. There, among the mustards and preserves, was a large, nasty display of a new beverage called Scorpion Vodka.

This is not a fanciful name. It is a literal name. At the bottom of each clear bottom, there for the disgusted consumer to flinch at, is an actual dead scorpion. Scorpion Vodka is not a joke product. Their literature seems to indicate they are deadly serious. Nonetheless, the text is inadvertently hilarious. The little stinging bugger is in fact a "farm raised scorpion." (Can't you just picture them happily scampering around the open plains right now?) They are bred in southern China, then "put through a special detoxifying process then infused in the vodka for 3 months before hitting the shelves." OK, that's good. So the scorpions won't kill us, like they usually do.

Why do it? Lotsa reasons. No. 1: "The scorpion imparts a pleasant soft woody taste to the vodka, it also effectively smoothes off the sharp edge of the vodka."

No. 2: "Alcohol infused with a scorpion is said to possess many excellent health properties when drunk, such as helping to increase libido, lowering blood pressure & helps remove toxins in the bloodstream." Uh huh.

They recommend you serve the revolting creature in a Martini. Drink the Martini, and they enjoy the scorpion, like it was a beer nut. Because "it is 100% safe to eat!" BUT, "Please be careful of the sharp stinger."

Listen, if I want a stinger, I'll order one.

The company that makes this ridiculousness is called Edible. They specialize in insects. Other products include Worm Crisps and Thai Curry Crickets. You can also take your Scorpion covered in chocolate.

Oh, did I mention that that Scorpion Vodka is monstrously expensive? A bottle the size of your thumb is 10 pounds.

Is it time yet to stick a fork in the vodka era?