Authenticity is a slippery eel. How to spot it when you think it shows up? Sadly, in 2020, with terms like “fake news” and “alternative facts” currently in vogue, we must remember that the thing called “news” was once professionally researched and facts were, well… facts. Now, the world is seemingly a vast Sargasso Sea of eels…
In November, 1986, Ed Behr released the first issue of the Art of Eating. Ever since, the publication has been a tireless authority on flavour, and few familiar with Ed’s work would deny that he’s among the most important living food writers. An equally true claim is that he’s also one of the world’s most thoughtful and insightful wine writers.
October is a meaningful month for us, and not just because wine tastes particularly vivid or because we love Halloween. 24 Octobers ago, Richard and Michelle opened the doors to Metrovino, altering the city, and their lives, forever. I was only 14 at the time and had no interest in wine, but in the same month and quite possibly the same day, my life was to be permanently changed as well.
I was out of town for the weekend when I received the heartbreaking news. My friend and colleague, Sarah, had been involuntarily relieved of her beloved bicycle. It was a true rarity; a beautiful purple Nishiki, probably 40-years-old but seemingly ageless. Little by little, Sarah customized it to her own specifications, in the process managing to improve a bicycle that was immaculate from the outset… And then somebody stole it.
Summer sleep is a rare phenomenon. And even when its reticence abates, its utility is questionable. How unfairly weighted the seasons are when the same one offers us the most tantalizing mornings, the most sublime evenings, the sultriest afternoons and the most gravid nights. The audacity of the cliché, I'll sleep when I'm dead, could be agreeably rationalized by the proposal, I'll sleep in the winter, one taking full advantage of summer’s potential in the meantime.
Impeded from enjoying an evening outdoors by merciless June rain, my wife and I found ourselves halfway down the Youtube rabbit hole. We were taking turns selecting video clips, mostly obnoxious punk rock footage, and somehow or other, I Hate You by the Monks popped up. Decent enough song (Big Lebowski fans will recognize it), but I was ecstatic to be reminded of the brilliant title. “Wow... I Hate You,” I said, “that's obviously the best song name of all time!”
The rocky heights of the village of Saint-Jean de Minervois in France’s Languedoc indeed regularly produces grapes each year, subject to the universal vagaries of Mother Nature. In St. J de M, the celebrity grape (historically) here is the Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains, or just Muscat for short. Gorgeous, floral, exotically-scented sweet wines are synonymous with the village, but in this remote hamlet, more strange and wonderful things are to be found.
I begin writing this just before 5 a.m. It's a beautiful time of day when the few humans stirring might be particularly dedicated partiers, inordinately early risers, or just nocturnal. Excepting those whose vocations summon them involuntarily from their cozy beds, these hours are for the curious and the pensive. The world breathes differently in the early morning, sharing tranquil secrets with those who wish to discover them.
