by Julian Schultz
julian@oxfordwineroom.com
Major eating, wining, socializing within a 10-day period. Where else but
at the Castle Restaurant. With whom else but sommelier extraordinaire/suave
maitre d’ Jim Nicas and Master Chef papa Stanley Nicas pampering our
prodigious appetites with prestigious wines and superlative food.
By
the way, it may be James Nicas to everyone else – James,
consonant with his august station. But not to me: I have a mental block about
referring to Jim as James. As James, in my mind’s eye, I see him
as a haughty nose-elevated supercilious butler in long-frocked formal tails or
as an overly respectful genuflecting chauffeur in military style uniform. Sorry,
but I see him for what he is: a down-to-earth, friendly mine host guy –
he’s Jim to me!
Among
my other shortcomings is my being a sentimental, emotional gink. And this
episode relates, of all things, to my tuxedo: I selected my batik (Indonesian)
silk red dinner jacket with an interwoven squiggly black lines pattern for the
formal Chaine des Rotisseurs dinner.
At
my age, I didn’t need the flattering comments on my sartorial splendor; but I
duly gave the obligatory thanks. In hindsight, I should have worn the
conventional trouser-matching black tux jacket. But…so far so good.
At
the International Wine & Food Society dinner, where most of us wore formal
for the 30th anniversary celebration of the local chapter that was
started by the Castle’s Stanley Nicas, inexplicably I chose to wear my soft,
purr-y/furry, velveteen/velour, shiny dinner jacket.
Again…as
I said, at my age I didn’t need…etc., etc. Ladies interminably came over to
stroke and caress the jacket, all the while murmuring appreciatively at its
texture. But…so far not so good.
The
sweet and lovelies got no response from me.
They
were perplexed and dismayed by my dour “far away indifference,” they said.
“What ever is wrong with Julian?” they asked worriedly of my friends.
Dr.
Mike (OK, Michael) Bradbury, retina surgeon and close friend, who has
successfully operated on both my eyes, by design took his seat next to me at the
dinner table:
“Julian,
some people here – your friends – are concerned about you. Is something
wrong? Tell me, please.”
So
I told him: “Mike, after I finished dressing and fussing with the goddamned
cuff links – so tough to insert them without Lillian’s help now -- and
making ready for Bob Ouellette (Dr. Bob) to pick me up to take me to the dinner,
I noticed one of the 12 pictures of Lillian alone and with me in my room that
are posted all over the walls. It was a picture of us standing together on the
veranda of the Mt. Washington Hotel, at Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, in 1978. I
was wearing this same velveteen/velour dinner jacket. We were holding my hands.
I remembered how she always said how much she admired that jacket and how
handsome I looked in it. Before I could change jackets, I heard the beep of
Bob’s car horn.
“You
know me Mike, know how emotional I become when I dwell on Lillian or speak of
her. So here I am at the dinner, which she always attended, alone now, and
wearing this particular jacket.”
Mike,
who usually is quick with a quip, sat silent, his eyes half closed in thought.
His silence was worse for me because I knew I had resonated with him my damned
“feeling-sorry-for-myself” emotion. How long would it be before his words
would make me smile and chuckle or his lips would sympathize and bring on tears?
The
discussion that follows went something like this:
Finally,
and after a deep breath, followed by a sigh, he said, “My friend, I find it
emotionally difficult to respond to you. I would like to relieve the tension I
see in you with humor…but I’m afraid I can only be serious…or say nothing
at all, which in this social situation might be best.”
I
shook my head: “No, Mike, sometimes it’s better that I dwell on something
other than on Lillian and my depression.” I tried to change the subject:
“So
what’s your take on the evening so far? How about the lox hors d’oeuvre with
the slight smack of wasabi that once I thought was pistachio cream cheese and I
swallowed a mouthful. I yelped; it burned me from palate to poopick. I actually
removed my glasses; I thought I was going to pass out! Even Lillian, who tasted
it prudently, gasped in dismay.”
I
chuckled at the remembrance of the episode -- a Chaine dinner at a Lenox
restaurant. Without stopping I continued, “Hey Mike, did you taste the grilled
Nantucket scallops with that cream of coconut sauce? Superb, wasn’t it, with
the Brut Champagne? Sort of counterpoint, don’t you think?” I was speaking
too rapidly, too artificially rapidly, which Mike perceived.
Mike
answered, “Look, Julian, I understand. And I’m trying to combine
sensitivity, tact and respect for you without becoming maudlin. I could say that
life must go on, that we are like wine: some wines like life live long, others
like life fade quickly. I believe life is preordained and is destined beyond our
control. We need to accept, or at least understand, this belief and enjoy what
is given to us when and while we can.”
“You
know,” I said, “you’re one hell of an articulate philosopher for a doctor.
Lillian always would say there was more to you than your repairing detached
retinas or writing prescriptions – that there was ‘substance to your
statements, compassion in your personality,’ her words. She always was
concerned about you and looked upon you as a son.”
Did
I detect a mist over Mike’s eyes when he spoke hoarsely, almost in a whisper?
“Julian, she enriched the lives of the people who knew her with her
intelligence and kindness…and patience and attentiveness. My friend, just
think of her as you would a fine and memorable wine and relish the wonderful
times you had together. So I implore you…look ahead…continue to look ahead.
You once wrote that for youth there is no encore…that once upon a time never
comes again. So don’t torture yourself by trying to summon yesterdays, trying
to bid time return. Time heals everything.”
“Yah,
Mike…everything…everything but remembering, loving, missing, loneliness,
crying alone in the dark at night…
“Oh,
here comes Jim, pouring the ’99 Chateauneuf du Pape, Chateau Fines Roches. We
must concentrate on this prestige Rhone Chateauneuf before we are served the
cherry wood smoked duckling with spinach, orange segments, cashews in what
tastes like a balsamic/soy syrup.” I felt myself brightening, especially as
the magnificent artistic presentation of the food quickened my palate.
I
turned to Mike, “Well, what about this appetizer course, Mike?”
He
replied, “My lavish praise for the food and wine is poor by comparison with my
pleasure. If ever Stanley and James combined their talents to present a unique
and exciting flavor adventure, they certainly succeeded here…easily one of
their best presentations.”
“Amen!”
I agreed with uncustomary religious fervor. “Superb indeed, I agree with you.
And how about the Chateauneuf’s forthcoming nose and full-flavored flavors of
currants and cherries, spice and some black pepper and tar?” Mike smiled at my
enthusiasm and excitement:
“That’s
more like it, my friend. You sound more like the Julian I know.”
I
elaborated on the Chateauneuf: “This is a youngster Chateauneuf, this ’99.
Imagine what it will be like six years from now when the just emerging
complexity comes to fruition. Suggest, Mike, you scrounge around and try to buy
some for your cellar. I know there isn’t much of the Fines Roches around.”
Jim
and wife Denise came around, pouring the wines of the dinner: the Bordeaux 1975
Chateaux L’Angelus of St. Emilion and Batilley of St. Julien, both Crus
Superiores in Lichine’s proposed 1962 reclassication of the out-moded 1865
classified Medoc growths. Although not a Medoc wine, the L’Angelus, with its
preponderance of Cabernet Franc and Merlot over the Cabernet Sauvignon, was
sensational at its apex of complexity. The Batailley had come around nicely with
an intriguing compost nose and complex Burgundy flavor of mulch – compost,
slight barnyard.
The
Medoc ’75 vintage was a problem vintage: lots of tannin that might outlive the
wines’ fruit. Many ‘75s never amounted to much; but the Batailley had enough
fruit and fruit acidity’s sustaining power to enabling our drinking it
successfully, now in ’03. I wouldn’t recommend holding it, however. Time and
tide and wine wait for no man…the time had come and the tide was receding.
“Julian,
my friend, concentrate on the entrée,” Mike suggested. “If Stanley were a
golfer, I would say he is at the top of his game tonight. This dish of inspired
medallions of juicy tender veal, layered with fresh basil, sliced local
tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, venison pastrami, Florentine-style spinach, orzo,
and corn fritter, baked and served with diced black olives and a citrus-y brown
butter, defies my accolades to adequately do it justice.”
“Right
on Mike,” I agreed, “I am overwhelmed first by the wines and now by the
food. Hey, if this course alone were all there was to the dinner, the evening
still would be worth the expense and my presence. So, so far we’re well ahead.
And we still have the dessert and the 1983 Offley Forrester Vintage Port!”
Came
the dessert: a rich chocolate blend of cold whipped cream cheese with peaches,
plums, and red raspberries, accompanied by dark Belgium chocolate. If I died
then and there, right on the spot, I would feel that I exited this earth in full
gourmet glory!
As
good as was the Port – and to say it was good is a major understatement; it
was perfection, and the dessert was heaven blessed. If I hadn’t already
imprudently overeaten, I would have ordered- and gladly paid for a repeat of the
dessert.
The
evening ended on this note, a happy note. Good friend Dr. Mike was a comforting
table companion, listening, understanding, responding, and advising. It’s nice
to have such friends.
Oh,
I just remembered – my having suffered a very senior, senior moment – I had
reported on the Chaine dinner in the previous wine column: You know, the tale
about the guy with the eerie sounding bagpipe, red plaid skirt, embroidered
ribbon-ed hosiery, sword by side, and seven Scotch spirits.
So,
I’ll review the Castle’s big tasteoff competition: Cabernet Sauvignons of
1982 vintage French and California. Who won? Read on:
Preliminarily,
by way of disclaimer: I am not a California wine chauvinist. And because I was
driving, I did not swallow one single sip of the 16 wines; consequently, I was
unable to judge the wines with food to determine compatibility; I was forced to
rely on my hyper imagination.
The
scenario: Six wines were Bordeaux.
Chateaux
Belgrave Haut Medoc – 60 percent Cabernet Sauvignon (CS), 35 Merlot (M), 5
Petit Verdot (PV);
La
Croix de Boursseau Pomerol – 60 M, 20 Cs, 20 CF;
Clos
L’Eglise Pomerol – 55 M, 25 CS, 20 CF;
Figeac
St. Emilion -- 30 M, 35 CS, 35 CF;
Dauzac
Margaux -- 65 CS, 25 M, 5 CF, 5 PV;
De
Pez St. Estephe – 70 CS, 15 CF, 15 M.
For
my palate the de Pez and Figeac were best, really good stuff; Belgrave and
Dauzac were not a close second, but very much OK; Croix de Boursseau and
L’Eglise were disappointing, especially L’Eglise’s stinky nose and palate.
Nine
wines were from California, Napa, except Sebastiani from Sonoma: all were 100
percent Cabernet Sauvignon, except Shafer with 96 CS and 4 M.
Trefethen;
Vichon “Fay Vineyard”; Shafer; Tudal; Girard; William Hill “Gold”;
Freemark Abbey “Bosche Vineyard”; Beaulieu “Georges de Latour”;
Sebastiani “Reserve.”
Jim
had sneaked in a Pergole Torte Monte Vertino from Tuscany, 100 percent
Sangiovese grape. In this company, he might well have permitted it to sleep in
the peace of his cobwebby cellar.
Again,
for non-swallowing Julian’s palate: Far, far away best wine was Trefethen; far
way second best, Freemark Abbey; close runnerup, Beaulieu.
Excellent
were ALL the others with the exception of Girard and William Hill, and the
thoroughly disappointing Sebastiani. Girard still retained a vestige of complex
fruit, but much too much acid for me; William Hill was the better of the two
wines – not at all bad, but outclassed here.
Francophiles
will hate me for this. I already heard from one snorting, derisive – our
friendly relationship tenuous now – companion. The California ‘82s, their
flavors predominant with berries, cedar and oak, were far superior to the
Bordeaux! The Californias were alive, vibrant, complex, emphatic with fruit and
spice, and augmented with mature – dare I say, voluptuous? -- complexity.
Whoever said California cabs don’t age should have been here.
Jim
said he has retained his happy old menu prices on these wines, much lower prices
than the same wines of current vintages are selling for. Next visit, I’ll buy!
Oh,
I almost forgot the hors d’oeuvres, which are always included in the price of
the tastings: red and green grapes, sliced nectarines, cantaloupe, plums; cheese
variety: Muenster, Cheddar, blue Tobias; breads and crackers; pita triangles of
egg, feta cheese and green pepper and spinach/feta cheese; chicken kabobs.
Wine
Pick: Herzog Special Reserve Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon 2000, $34.99. Great
cab aromas and flavors of cranberries, blackberries, violets, balanced with
fruit acids, soft oak, black pepper, easy tannins; nuances of mint and cedar. An
assertive muscular wine now that will mellow into intricate complexity with
bottle aging.
Wine
Pick: Bonny Doon Ca’ del Solo Big House Red 2002, $10. A delicious palate
challenging blend of Syrah, Petite Sirah, Carignane, Barbera. Zimfandel, Malbec,
Charbono, Mourvedre, Petite Verdot, Cabernet Franc. Sangiovese and – whew!
–Montepulciano. Everyone found something and more among these aromas and
flavors: black cherry, raspberry, strawberry, white chocolate, plum, nectarine,
black olives, white and black pepper, hints of meat; nicely balanced, smooth
texture. A real palate pleaser for small price!