The wine dilemma

Excellent piece in the NYT today by wine writer Eric Asimov about the motivations behind the choices of wine drinkers. He delves into recent research and soon-to-be-released books, some of which asserts that American wine drinkers are a big manipulative herd and, if tasting blindly, will often prefer the cheap plonk over the expensive bottle.

I've thought a lot about this too. I've wondered if I were given a glass of a $150 St-Emilion Grand Cru and one of my usual $7 cheapie Italians, would I be able to taste the difference? Well, I goddamn hope so. I've always assumed I could because St-Emilions have, in the few times I've drunk them, typically blown my mind. They're so elegant while my cheap Italian is so, well, servicable, amusing but ultimately, the work of a hack. It would be like comparing any nuanced performance by Juliette Binoche to Al Pacino from Scent of a Woman. Question is, could I notice the difference between, say, a $50 Cab from California and a big-tasting red from Argentina that was one-fifth the price? Dude, I only scored something like a 5/20 on guessing the Asian ethnicities of people in photos on alllooksame.com. I doubt I could be more discerning with wine.

This is the kind of taste test that Asimov is describing that is the basis of a book that's coming out later this month called The Wine Trials, which apparently concludes, among other things, that Americans can't tell the difference between expensive and cheap wines. Fair enough. The next real question is this: Who the fuck cares? I agree with the general public that wine marketing is manipulative, that the perceptions we have about price and quality are often out of whack with what we're served, and that we all are afraid of ordering the cheapest wine on the menu. But it's time the consumers take back control and books like The Wine Trials should form a wakeup call to us casual low-knowledge drinkers. In the past 15 years, wine consumption in the U.S. has grown more than 50% and still, despite the fact that we've become way more familiar with the stuff, Americans (and I think we in Canada fall in the same lot) are still really insecure about their own preferences. This is the conclusion that Asimov comes to and I totally agree.

Rather than call ourselves dupes, we consumers should take the high road unabashedly embrace what we do and don't like. If you're a fan of 4L jugs of Carlo Rossi, go ahead and lap it up. If you like $150 Burgandy from Beaune over the half-as-expensive Barone, good for you. It's books and articles like this that get me riled up in thinking that, for some reason, when it comes to wine, we never trust what our tongues tell us. It's about time we do. Only then can we force the wine press to start talking in a way that we all can understand and in a way that will encourage casual discussion. Talking about wine should be no different than how 15 year-olds debate the differences between a Big Mac and a Whopper. (For the record, I was a Quarter-Pounder-with-bacon-and-cheese man myself.)

A vote for hock

As I type this, I've got a pot of soup with smoked ham hocks and lentils simmering away. Imagine Quebec-style split pea soup, only with brown lentils instead of yellow peas, and a ham hock instead of regular ham.

Pity the hocks. They're only one vowel away from a derogatory word we call ruralfolk and their appearance and origins – hocks are the just inches away from feet - make many squeamish. But before you write it off, try some. Ham hocks are really damn good. Southerners know about this well. They'll add it to collard greens to make the stuff from something healthy to something, well, typical Southern. Chef Frank Stitt elevates the lowly hock in a recipe that combines asparagus with a ham hock vinaigrette. Add them to anything with beans to elevate them to an ethereal level. Do it. This is not just like adding bacon to a dish to give it that dash of porky smoky flavour. Hocks are a whole other level of kickass – they release a ton of collagen and fat as you cook them, so everything in your pot gets a nice sheen, meaty thickness and a deep deep flavour. Go hicks. Er, I meant hocks.

On the virtues of eating early.

I grew up in a small town where the men worked strictly 9-to-5, the commute was never more than 15 minutes from work to home and there was always a woman at the house making dinner. And because of these three factors, the people in my town always ate at 5:15pm – the moment that the dad got out of his truck and into the house and grunted his way to the head of the dinner table at which point the pork chops were lifted from the oven and the apple sauce was finished. (From what I gathered, most of my friends spent their entire youth eating pork chops and apple sauce.)

My house was an exception. My dad worked a bit later – he started around 9:30 and didn't come home 'till 6pm – so we didn't eat until almost a full hour after everybody else in the town. This affected my social life greatly: My friends would often call me around 6:30 on a Friday night to ask me what I was doing but I'd have to tell them I was still eating and hadn't thought that far. My parents were pissed that I had to answer the phone during dinner; my friends were pissed not knowing if I was going to join them or not.

But as late as I thought we ate, I learned early that 6pm for dinner was hardly custom for the cityfolk. Whenever we'd come to Toronto to visit our relatives, I starved. Uncles didn't get back from work until 7 or 7:30pm, which meant dinner could be as late as 8pm. This was an annoyance to me at first, but after a few days, I kinda liked it. It meant one could watch all the sitcom reruns AND the sports highlights of the evening news BEFORE dinner. How cosmopolitan.

After I finished high school, I lived in a couple small towns in France for a year as an exchange student, staying with host families. There, I ate at 7:30pm, but it didn't seem to bother me because I always ate a gigantic and delicious lunch at the cafeteria of my lyceé. (Cafeteria food in France, with its three courses - salad, main and cheese – and limitless baguette was the best part of my day.) Then after France, I lived in a dorm for a year where I regressed a bit to my provincial ways. Dinner service started at 5pm and I would usually line up before the doors to the cafeteria opened. Going at 5pm meant you could get the greatest choice – the more favourite dishes would sell out by 6pm – and make sure you got a warm plate that wasn't sitting on a steam table for too long. Also, it meant beating the post-Simpsons rush (there were twenty dudes who routinely watched the Simpsons at 5pm, thus creating a logjam in the lines at 5:30).

After my freshman year, I then lived on my own, at which point the whole idea of a regimented meal plan went out the window. I'd eat as early as 4:30 and as late as 10pm, depending on when I woke up, how much I snacked and how much I had or planned to be drinking. My dinner life didn't become regimented again until after I graduated and started my first job. I moved to Toronto to work at a magazine and I moved in to my grandparents' place where my grandma ensured I had at least five dishes to choose from – old-school Cantonese – at 7:30pm. I'd eat till I'd burst, go out and meet friends and drink five pints and wonder why I'd feel so bloated that night. Unsurprisingly, I gained ten pounds during my stay chez granny.

A year later, I moved out of her house and lived on my own, and for the following four years, I had to adjust to the dual responsibility of working a job with a long commute and feeding myself – a combination of circumstances that were far more difficult to grasp than I thought. I rarely ate before 8pm and most often around 9pm or later (depending on the number of aperatifs drunk). I'd end up consuming a large amount – I'd be ravenously hungry by that time, not having eaten since lunch. Afterwards, I'd feel sluggish, tired and often fall asleep reading a magazine or watching half a movie. Worst of all, I'd wake up late not feeling too hungry (even if slightly hungover) and skip breakfast. And of course, given my rural roots, I thought I was so urbane and mature for eating so late. Me so cool.

A few years later, my supposed sophitisticate lifestyle changed, though not through any deliberate intent. It happened a bit unintentionally. In 2005, I started working from home, and cooking became a great excuse to quit working or procrastinate. And there's something about being at home all day that makes one hungrier than usual. By the fall of that year, I found myself resorting to the my high school habits. I had, once again, started eating at 6pm. At first, I made fun of myself for doing so but after a few times, I got the hang of it and I liked the routine of it all. Finally, I was eating like a real adult. Or, as others would prefer, like a geriatric.

Of course, there are a few exceptions to this rule: During baseball season, where I co-ordinate my meal with the first pitch of the Jays game, which almost is 7pm most of the time. Also, I realize that it's not very couth or sexy to suggest a dinner date at 6pm, so I will schedule accordingly if entertaining. And, of course, restaurant meals are always made later – eating at 6pm at a nice restaurant almost always means you'll be sitting in a half-empty room populated with seniors and waiters who are anxious to get you out to ensure the reservations at 7:30 will be seated in time.

Still, when eating at home, I adhere to my 6pm routine. Cosmopolitanism be damned: I love eating early. It frees up more time in my evening. It's healthier for me (apparently) and it makes me hungrier in the morning, which means I'll eat breakfast (not always evident in my undergrad and post-grandma years). And it prevents from snacking in the afternoon.

Would I reconsider this routine and shift dinner back a couple of hours? If I lived in France again, sure. If I lived in Spain where tapas is a viable snacking options, absolutely. And what if I got a job with a long commute or late hours? Damn. I dunno. I won't take the job, I guess.

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Fiesta time people.

Check it out: I made some mole poblano and wrote about it for the National Post.

What wasn't included in my column was the aftermath. I actually made an excess of mole sauce, so the next day, I cut up some pork shoulder, browned it and braised it along with the remaining mole. A few hours later, I placed the pork on some warmed tortillas and some salsa fresca. Result: Bueno.

Naturally, given how many expat Latinos there are in the U.S., the New York Times is flogging its archive of Mexican recipes in name of the holiday.

Where have I been?

Admittedly, it's been way too long. First, some housecleaning and updates on what I've been doing lately:

- A Passover-themed Ingredient column about schmaltz, as in the chicken fat, not the senimental kind.
- An Easter-themed Ingredient column about Zurek, the Polish easter soup
- A short feature on the difficulty that chefs have describing their dishes on menus.