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Why the quotation marks? Because there technically isn’t any such thing as “Bouillabaisse Sauce.” It is what I call a “sauce after the fact,” i.e., abstracted from a complete pre-existing dish à la Alfredo Sauce, Buffalo Sauce, au jus, etc. That being said, the classic Mediterranean French seafood stew called Bouillabaisse readily lends itself to such an abstraction– just omit the fish, and use it as a sauce for fish. I have found this combination especially delicious with wild-caught Striped Bass (my favorite fish in the world) and it is hard to go wrong by adding shrimp or chunks of lobster to the leftover sauce you’ve saved and refrigerated. Bouillabaisse (either the sauce or the finished stew) proffers a seductive and complex interplay of multiple flavors– mainly tomato, garlic, fennel/anise, orange, saffron, garlic, and something spicy hot. (I like Sriracha Sauce.) Everything else plays a supporting role. To make the sauce, gather and prepare to deploy the following: 1 14.5 oz. can Petite Diced Tomatoes 2 smallish (or 1 large) stalks of celery, diced 2 smallish (or 1 large) carrot, peeled and finely diced 2 smallish (or 1 large) yellow onion, chopped 1 Fennel Bulb, chopped like the onion (consider saving the fronds for garnishing) 4-6 cloves of garlic, minced (include according to taste) 1 Clementine Pinch of Saffron Pinch of Herbs de Provence 8 oz. bottle of clam juice OR your own strongly-flavored shellfish stock 1 glass of dry and crisp white wine 1 small white potato, peeled and cut into 1” cubes Extra Virgin olive oil Dash of Sriracha (to taste) Dash of Pernod (optional) Salt as needed A bit of tomato paste as needed In a 3-quart saucepan or larger, sauté onion, fennel, and carrot in just enough grapeseed oil until translucent. Add celery and garlic and sauté some more. When all veggies are sufficiently soft, add the diced tomato, wine, and clam juice (or stock.) If the liquid level seems insufficient, add just enough water to rectify. Simmer to integrate for a few minutes, then add the zest from the clementine rind, and then its juice. Add a wee pinch of saffron, no more than ¼ tsp. (Saffron is extremely expensive; good thing that a little goes a long way.) Add a tiny dash of Sriracha (you can add more later.) Add 3-4 potato cubes and simmer on low heat. The potato cubes act as both a thickener and a timer– when they can be mashed, the cooking is done, and fork-mashing them into the sauce will thicken it just enough. Stir in a splash of Extra Virgin olive oil, and then its time for a final flavor check– if you want it more “tomato-ey,” stir in a tad of tomato paste. Want more spice? Easy fix. More “licorice” flavor? Carefully add a few drops of Pernod. Same with salt. After a final and gentle unifying simmer, this sauce is ready for action. * * * * * * * Bouillabaisse is one of those dishes that generates surprisingly vociferous discussion regarding the authenticity of multiple competing versions. For a highly detailed discussion about the dish-defining correct fish, check out this NEW YORKER piece from six decades ago– https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1962/10/27/the-soul-of-bouillabaisse-town Above: Wild Striped Bass w/ Bouillabaisse Sauce that I recently made for AndyS., OlgaY., and myself. Below: Photos of supposedly Classic Bouillabaisse show the breadth of the variations out there. To me, the trick is figuring out what they have in common.

It is typical of American Cookery to take a perfectly good dish from another culture and then adapt and tweak it into something unrecognizable… and for it to become so wildly popular that we lose sight of the original. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. Fettuccine Alfredo began its existence as a simple and elegant preparation of fresh egg pasta, butter, and cheese. (see ESSAY.) But America– for better or worse– can’t leave well enough alone… and thus, with the addition of chicken breast meat, cream, garlic, and a few micro-tweaks, we arrive at an embarrassingly delicious bastardization of the original. Restaurants like the CAYUGA LOUNGE must necessarily offer food that its customers expect and demand or else go out of business, and Chicken Alfredo was a popular (and profitable) menu feature right up until its 1971 closure. For two generous servings, gather the following for deployment: 2 smallish ½ chicken breasts, boneless and skinless Your choice of pasta (needn’t necessarily be fettuccine) FOR THE SAUCE– 3 Cloves of Garlic, Finely Minced Dab of Clarified Butter 1 Cup Heavy Cream ¼ Stick Vermont Creamery Unsalted Cultured Butter at Room Temperature ¼-½ Cup Shredded Grana Padano Cheese Finely Chopped Italian Parsley (for garnish) Freshly Ground Pepper Pinch of Freshly Grated Parmesan (for topping) A dab of demi-glace OR 2 Tbsp rich chicken stock A dab of Better than Bouillon® Briefly cook garlic in just enough clarified butter until it is about to change color. Add cream and reduce by half. Stir in dab of Better than Bouillon® and either demi-glace or rich chicken stock. Remove from heat and swirl in butter. Stir in Grana Padano. Stir occasionally while the well-salted pasta water comes to a boil and the chicken breasts simmer. COOKING THE CHICKEN– There are numerous ways to cook chicken breasts; for this recipe we poach them, because scorched edges or grill marks would be incongruous with this dish’s baseline gentle creaminess. Also, poaching affords the opportunity to hold the breasts at the proper temperature in their cooking liquid while we finish preparing the other components. To poach breasts, sauté onions, celery, & carrot (mirepoix) in a 3-qt. Saucepan and then add just enough water to poach (2) ½ breasts. (Optional– add 2 bay leaves and a little rich chicken stock.) simmer furiously for a few minutes, then lower heat and add breasts. Simmer them gently; definitely do not boil or they will toughen. ASSEMBLY– Assuming you can cook your pasta without direction, cook it and then toss with some of the sauce to thoroughly coat. Add pasta to individual plates or bowls. Slice the breasts, toss with some sauce in a small bowl, and then decoratively layer atop the pasta. Sprinkle with parmesan and parsley, then serve. * * * * * * * NOTE– I’ve recently made occasional mention of “rich chicken stock” as a useful ingredient. Here’s how I make it– Every week I purchase two small whole organic chickens and roast them on a bed of sliced onions at 350º until they reach an internal temperature of 160º. I let them cool and then pull all the skinless meat from the bones. I then simmer everything else (bones, skin, onions, pan goop) in a pot of water for a couple of hours. Then I strain it and reduce it by half or more, producing a dark and rich substance that is loaded with flavors and nutrients, and also gelatinizes when chilled. The meat keeps well in my truck fridge and saves me about $15/day in fast food expenses, and it provides my bride with a tasty and healthy addition to her salads while I’m away. The rich chicken stock, meanwhile, is a magical addition to this Chicken Alfredo and numerous other dishes.

“Hope you like Jammin’, Too!” (Bob Marley) This might well be the best and highest use of onions. A painstakingly long and labor-intensive simmer rids the lowly bulb of its tear gas and celebrates a soul-melting trio of sweetness, tang, and umami (the fifth taste; umami is Japanese for deliciousness.) Here are but two of many recipes, and the technique is the same– slowly and patiently simmer the onions in grapeseed oil. First they will wilt, then become translucent, then they will shrink and start to get darker. DO NOT TRY TO ACCELERATE THIS PROCESS. Add the garlic and cook briefly before adding the liquids and the brown sugar. Taste periodically to maintain a balance between the sweet and the sour. When reduced to stickiness, add final seasonings (salt & pepper, thyme, and/or lemon zest) and chill. Serve as a delightfully piquant counterpoint to pâtés and smoked meats. Grapeseed Oil 2 Pounds Red Onions, Halved & Thinly Sliced 8 Fresh Thyme Sprigs (Of course you can use dried.) 4 Garlic Cloves, Pressed (or Finely Chopped) 1 cup Ruby Port 1/2 cup dry Red Wine Pomegranate Molasses (to taste) 1/4 cup Balsamic Vinegar 1/4 cup Brown Sugar Salt & Pepper (as needed) * * * * * * * Grapeseed Oil 6 Medium Red Onions, Coarsely Chopped 3 Cloves Garlic, Finely Chopped 1 cup (cheap) Red Bordeaux or other Light-Medium Red Wine 1/3 cup Brown Sugar 1/2 Cup Red Wine Vinegar 1/2 teaspoon (or more) of Lemon Zest Salt & Pepper (as needed)

French Onion Soup, an ancient Parisian stable that fortified workingmen and soothed hangovers, enjoyed newfound popularity after WWII. (Makes 6 Portions) 8 Large YELLOW Onions (accept no substitutions.) Clarified Butter Scant 2 Tsp. Sugar 2 Tbs. Dijon Mustard 8 Cups High-Quality Beef Stock (2 x 32-oz, or 2 Quart) ⅓ Cup French Brandy (Cognac or Armagnac) 3 Stale Ciabatta Rolls, Split (or other thick white bread) Lightly Toasted Grated High-Quality (Swiss) Gruyère 2 or 3 Bay Leaves Salt & Pepper Peel and (thinly) slice onions. Melt clarified butter is a heavy-bottomed stockpot and add onions. Sauté until they soften, then add sugar. Patiently stir until they are nicely browned. Add mustard and brandy and continue to stir for a few more minutes. Add beef stock and bay leaves, and gently simmer over low heat for an hour. Add salt and pepper as needed, then ladle into individual 12 oz. crock-style bowls. Top w/ toasted bread, then top each with a handful of Gruyère. Place crocks on a half-sheet pan and carefully broil until cheese bubbles and browns slightly. Cue up Edith Pilaf’s “La Vie en Rose” and serve.

Three Royal Sisters– Chardonnay, Riesling, and Sauvignon Blanc– reign supreme over the world of white wine. They are as different as can be. * * * * * * * First, a little Grumpy Old Mansplaining– At its most basic, white wine is fermented grape juice… as contrasted with red wine, which is the juice of fermented grapes. Why the distinction? Because the skins of red wine grapes (whether red, purple, blue, or black) are loaded with flavorful components (phenolics, etc.) as well as deep crimson pigments and tannin. In order to extract all such available flavor components and color, red wine grapes are usually crushed whole and then the resulting mash is given a long soak– for several days, sometimes weeks– before the fermented liquid is drained from the solids. Aside from a few specific instances, skin contact adds nothing to white wine, and so upon harvesting the juice is quickly separated from the grapes and then fermented. It follows that without the benefit of the pigments, phenolics, and tannin contributed by the skins of their red wine counterparts, white wine grapes need to entertain our palates with only the charms of their inner juice– the œnological equivalent, perhaps, of Ginger Rogers mirroring Fred Astaire’s every move, except backwards in heels. The white varieties that have secured their place in the pantheon of great wines have done so by engaging us with prominent, enticing aromas and flavors from the realms of apples, citrus, flowers, and herbs. In the absence of all the goodies provided by dark-skinned grapes, their shimmering, clean acidity shines through and takes center stage (which is why we drink white wines chilled; imagine drinking warm lemonade.) And of all the light green or yellow-skinned grapes on God’s Green Earth that have danced backwards in heels from vineyard to cellar to bottle and then finally across our tongues to delight us with only their inner charms, three varieties rate above all the others for yielding world-class wines of distinct flavor and structure in multiple regions worldwide– Chardonnay, Riesling, and Sauvignon Blanc. * * * * * * * It was really just during my lifetime that the wine industry fully switched from categorizing wines by their geographic origin (e.g., Bordeaux, Chianti, Rhine, etc.) to “varietal labeling,” i.e., by grape variety. That’s because when the greatest varieties from France, Germany, and Italy found success in distant lands, we learned that the grape variety is the single greatest determinant of a wine’s character and quality. It also played right into the hands of my inner wise-ass, because I like to think of varietal wines as people. So here we go– CHARDONNAY Chardonnay in France (L.) and California (R.) Same print, but a whole different look. In France she invariably wore Chanel– cool and elegant, the epitome of understated perfection. Her throngs of admirers had difficulty defining her beauty; they just knew it when they saw it. Indeed, her attractiveness was a holistic package– much more than the sum of its individual components… blessed with good genes, born into the right soil and climate, schooled in the proper oak, etc… But then she expanded her realm to a far-away but promising region… and beneath the sultry Golden State skies she burst into rip-roaring full womanhood, sun-ripened flesh all a-jiggle beneath her overworked bikini. Everything about her suddenly seemed exaggerated… her figure, her tan, her hair, and even her scent– aggressively fruity like a tropical Easter bonnet rather than subtly exquisite like pricey Parisian perfume. Chardonnay might well be the single most important wine grape (white OR red) in the entire world, for no other commercial variety performs so well in so many different countries and climates. While the Cabernet Sauvignon grape is more widely planted, Chardonnay succeeds in a much wider climate range, from the chilly hillsides of New York and Champagne to the sun-roasted Hunter Valley of Australia. Chardonnay also far outperforms Cabernet Sauvignon (and just about every other common variety) in its sheer diversity of styles, ranging from ultra-dry and crisp Chablis to oaky and buttery-rich Californian bottlings… not to mention those Champagne and Chardonnay-based blanc de blancs sparkling wines. Chardonnay is the sole ingredient of the greatest bottlings from France’s Burgundy region– the very finest of which, with critical unanimity, comes from a 20-acre patch known as Le Montrachet. A single bottle from the 2018 vintage will set you back about nine Benjamins. The Le Montrachet vineyard straddles the towns of Puligny and Chassagne, allowing both of them to hyphenate their names to their most famous property, as per Burgundian custom, and so we see the label names “Puligny-Montrachet” and “Chassagne-Montrachet” on bottles selling for considerably less money than Le Montrachet itself. Such village wines can be excellent, but they mustn’t be mistaken for their coyly-appropriated namesake. Elsewhere in Burgundy the vineyard Corton-Charlemagne (130 acres) enjoys a reputation nearly as stellar as Le Montrachet’s, and a bottle of the 2018 can be yours for a $200… a comparative bargain, one might suppose. And yet interestingly, at least to me, it was a far humbler white Burgundy that seized the American public’s attention and perhaps cemented Chardonnay’s prime position among whites in the Great American Wine Boom that began in the early 1970’s. In 1949, a young Vassar student sailed from New York to spend her junior year in post-war Paris studying French art and culture. She returned a full-fledged Francophile, in love with everything from the French language to their wines. And the tipple that had captured her youthful fancy was a perfectly nice but relatively inexpensive white Burgundy called Pouilly-Fuissé. In the decade after her return stateside, this young lady got married and then accompanied her husband to the White House as our First Lady Jackie Kennedy, and Pouilly-Fuissé suddenly became a lot more popular. Fast forward to today– undoubtedly aided by Jackie’s love of Pouilly-Fuissé, Californian Chardonnay has become a huge category in the American wine market. From just 150 acres at the end of Prohibition, Chardonnay vines now cover nearly 100,000 acres of California real estate– 156 square miles. Like the Cabernet Sauvignon vines transplanted from Bordeaux, Chardonnay has thrived in the “more-is-more” Californian climate and accordingly has surpassed all other varietal white wines in market dominance… by so much that its success has fostered contrarian backlash– the ABC (“Anything But Chardonnay”) movement. Were grapevines actually sentient, I’m guessing Chardonnay would take that as a compliment. Every great wine grape variety has a signature interplay of contrasting elements– its “drama”– that unfolds in one’s mouth. With Chardonnay, the nature of this theater varies somewhat according to its level of ripeness. In the frosty northern reaches of the Burgundy region we find the chalky vineyards of Chablis, where Chardonnay struggles to fully ripen but nonetheless conveys beauty, like the barely discernible feminine twinkle in the eyes of an otherwise austere nun. Typically unoaked and sternly spartan in structure, great Chablis succeeds by proffering crystalline mineraliness as a counterpoint to its unapologetic acidity. Meanwhile, in the warmer Burgundian subregion of Beaune, the incomparable cologne of French oak perfectly intermingles with flavors of apple and white peach and such that build upon the soil-driven mineral foundation. In the vineyards of California, sassy flavors of pear and fig enter the chorus, and the dynamic duo of glycerine and high alcohol fill one’s mouth. What’s more, what would normally be the counterbalancing acidity is commonly lessened by a malolactic fermentation, which essentially turns tart apple acids into softer dairy acid, leaving the wine with a “buttery” mouth-feel. Add to this the ripe flavors and aromas of tropical fruits resulting from a sunny Californian ripening season and the perfect counterweight to this raucous cacophony is oak– not just oak, but French oak. And not just French oak, but new French oak… and not just new French oak, but toasted new French oak, which introduces a hint of char equivalent to the green pepper edge that contrasts with the dense fruit in California’s Cabernets. At its most extreme, Californian Chardonnay is a wine with serious “presence,” as impossible to ignore as that tanned platinum blonde stepping out of a pool. And finally, “White Wine with Fish,” right? Not so fast… not only can you enjoy red wine with fish, but you can pair Chardonnay with all kinds of things other than seafood. If you want a white that can stand up to spicy hot food or other aggressive seasoning, Chardonnay is the way to go. I love to pair a brassy and ripe Californian Chardonnay with a marinated and grilled veal chop. Meanwhile, the lighter and more acidic Burgundian bottlings– from Pouilly Fuissé to Chablis– are a natural fit with raw oysters and just about everything else from the ocean. * * * * * * * RIESLING Big and Small Screen Rieslings Katherine Hepburn and Shelley Hack – could the side-part be a dominant trait? It can’t be easy being Chardonnay’s sister. Riesling is every bit as beautiful, just different. VERY different… like, Lap Dancer vs. Ballerina different. Whereas Chardonnay is often voluptuously sexy and noticeable as such from a distance, Riesling is long and lithe, her beauty crystalline and brittle… a distinction unintentionally yet uncannily mirrored by their bottle shapes. Think for a moment about World War II in an alternative universe– if, in 1940, a militarily belligerent France had invaded and overrun peace-loving Germany (stop laughing) then Riesling, not Chardonnay, might well have become the go-to white for the Great American Wine Boom. Jackie would have spent her year abroad in Berlin rather than Paris and fallen in love with, say, J.J. Prüm Wehlener Sonnenuhr Riesling Spätlese (or some other Teutonic tongue-twister) rather than Pouilly-Fuissé. Accordingly, our wine stores might now be loaded with multiple floor stacks of Riesling from several different wine-producing countries rather than Chardonnay… prior to WWII, German Rieslings actually enjoyed sufficiently high regard for that to have been a conceivable outcome. And yet being associated with Nazi Germany isn’t Riesling’s biggest handicap, nor is being skinnier and less obviously sexy than Chardonnay…Riesling's problem is that way too many people automatically think that it is invariably SWEET. And for that we can blame Blue Nun. One of my source articles describes German wine as having suffered three major crises– World War I, World War II, and Liebfraumilch. The original Blue Nun wasn’t even necessarily composed of Riesling– under the hilariously complex and seemingly self-parodic German wine laws, it was bottled as “Liebfraumilch” and thus had to be composed of at least 70% of the varieties Silvaner, Müller-Thurgau, AND/OR Riesling. It was a well-conceived and intelligently-marketed product– a sweet, easy-to-love white that passed for classy stuff among Americans before they knew better. However, as tastes changed and its market share dwindled, the American public was left with the falsely-reasoned conclusion that all Riesling is sweet. (“Blue Nun is German; Blue Nun is sweet; Riesling is German… therefore all Riesling is sweet.”) And so, as Americans’ wine sophistication grew, it was their love for Chardonnay, not Riesling, that deepened. There is something about this that seems a little unfair to me. Not only is not all Riesling sweet, but when it is, no other noble grape variety– red or white– wears residual sweetness as dazzlingly as does Riesling. That’s because, unlike a lot of other varieties, Riesling maintains its razor-sharp and refreshing acidity even as the sugar levels rise. That being said, if you want to explore dry versions, look for Germans labeled QmP (Qualitätswein mit Prädikat, the highest level of quality) AND Kabinett (the driest of the QmP’s.) If you wish to venture beyond Germany, just remember the “4 A’s”-- Alsace, Austria, Australia, and America. Alsace sits on the border of France and Germany and has traditionally belonged to whoever won the last war between them. Bottles labeled Vendange Tardive (and, more rarely and dearly, Sélection de Grains Nobles) are late-harvest and sweet dessert wines, but the regular bottlings of Alsace Riesling are perfectly dry and nicely full-bodied, generally more suitable for the dinner table than their lighter-bodied German counterparts. Austria’s finest wine regions, just up the Danube from Vienna, produce bone-dry and razor-sharp Rieslings of undeniable excellence even though they may be an acquired taste, more appreciated by hard-core wine geeks than the general public. Just about every wine grape variety imaginable ripens in Australia, where cool ocean breezes mitigate the powerful ripening forces from the relentless sunshine. Riesling takes on a unique quality in Australia’s Clare Valley– an unmistakable hint of lime rind that puckers away any vestige of sweetness. Which brings us to America. While California has produced some excellent Rieslings, no other noble white grape variety has thrived in states other than California as has Riesling. With a ripening season both longer and cooler than California's, Washington State has become the seat of Riesling’s power in America. Riesling has also become the signature variety in New York’s Finger Lakes region, where the deep and narrow Finger Lakes mimic the steep valleys of the rivers Rhine, Moselle, and Danube in protecting vineyards from autumn frost well into October. Intentionally or not, Washington and New York versions tend to be more sturdily structured than the Germans, nearly as full-bodied as those of Alsace. And finally, what are the signature flavor components of great dry Riesling? With the notable exception of that hint of lime in the Aussies, the short answer is apples and wildflowers. For the long answer, you’ll need to treat yourself to a $30 German Riesling Spätlese (the second-driest QmP, but trust me– it is utterly delicious) and marvel at the near-psychedelic progression of apples, flowers, minerals, and even an intriguing whiff of diesel. If you ever feel the urge to drink a really good wine with, say, lobster salad on a very hot day, you could do no better than this, and for the same price as Pouilly-Fuissé. One flavor you won’t find in Rieslings– cheap or expensive, dry or sweet– is oak. Although European Rieslings occasionally repose in wooden barrels before bottling, it is typically in cooperage so voluminous and so old that it imparts no influence. I once opined at a wine conference that Chardonnay uses oak like teenage girls use makeup– it hides flaws, it enhances beauty, and it makes wine under ten look like grown-ups. Riesling, however– skinny, ethereal, and light-bodied Riesling, less obviously beautiful from afar than Chardonnay– has never needed any such adornment, for she is perfectly lovely all by herself. SAUVIGNON BLANC Madame Curie & Julia Child… two monumentally consequential women who would never have won a beauty contest… and therefore two perfect exemplars of Sauvignon Blanc. If Chardonnay is a lap dance and Riesling is a ballet, then Sauvignon Blanc is a TED Talk– nothing about the speaker catches your eye beforehand, but you are surprised at how much you enjoy listening to her… how brilliant she is… and how downright attractive she mysteriously becomes as she speaks. * * * * * * * When it comes to dry, light, and crisp whites, most Americans think first of Pinot Grigio. Be it here known, Dear Reader-- I utterly hate Pinot Grigio. I’ve often explained that of all the wines we drink, Pinot Grigio changes the least as it navigates the human body. If Pinot Grigio were human, she would be your annoyingly vapid, gum-popping, teenage niece texting from her pew at her grandmother’s funeral. In contrast, sipping Sauvignon Blanc is like having a great conversation with a highly intelligent woman– as your glass empties, you feel smarter and the wine gets prettier. If you can get past the notion that expensive Riesling can smell faintly of diesel, then you might be ready to appreciate that really great Sauvignon Blanc can smell a little like cat piss and still taste fabulous. But that is just one of many components in Sauvignon Blanc’s complex and piercing aroma… the snarl of zingy smells pouncing from your glass features everything from melon to minerals, from grass to herbs to, so they tell me, gooseberries. (I’ve never tasted gooseberries, but I think I know what they mean.) Among the great wine varieties, few are as instantly recognizable as Sauvignon Blanc. And yet, despite its unmistakable olfactory signature, Sauvignon Blanc varies stylistically from one region to another. In France’s upper Loire Valley sits the Sancerre sub-region, where Sauvignon Blanc reaches perhaps its finest, most mineral-driven and age-worthy expression in the chalky soils. Across the river, Pouilly Fumé is grown in slightly different soils that impart a hint of what the experts call “gunflint” aroma. (I’ve never smelled gunflint, but again, I think I know what they mean.) Several of the great properties of Bordeaux, meanwhile, have long produced comparatively small amounts of white wine to accompany their super-premium reds, typically fattening their Sauvignon Blanc with Sémillon and showing it a little oak to produce a well-rounded, complex wine regal enough for the Dover Sole course at a State dinner. Beyond France, New Zealand has more or less adopted Sauvignon Blanc as its national standard-bearer. Kiwi versions tend to feature sharp, zingy fruit and nipple-quivering, enamel-stripping acidity. In the finest vineyards of California, meanwhile, Sauvignon Blanc tends to soften its edges a little and offer intensely ripe fruitiness. The low-yield, old-vine Napa vineyards that have survived the great financially-driven switchover to Chardonnay will reward your diligent search with incomparably complex and powerful wine. Matching Sauvignon Blanc with food is easy, especially if you like salmon. Just as fresh dill perfectly enhances salmon, so too do the snappy green flavors and aromas of Sauvignon Blanc. But don’t stop there– Sauvignon Blanc is perhaps the perfect universal seafood wine, and it’s really hard to go wrong there. * * * * * * * Of the trio of varietal wines in this essay, Sauvignon Blanc might be the biggest stretch in correlating grapes to people and personality types. And yet the connection makes perfect sense to me… If I had to drink only one white for the rest of my life it would be Sauvignon Blanc because, as a man who appreciates all three of the Royal Sisters and their respective charms, I nonetheless find female intelligence the sexiest trait of all, and inner beauty the most powerful beauty of all. Accordingly, I leave you with three of what I consider the Greatest Moments in the history of Sauvignon Blanc-As-Women (or vice-versa)– Computer Science pioneer Margaret Hamilton of MIT posing with the lines of code she and her team wrote for NASA’s Apollo guidance computers. (She was too busy overcoming sexism, putting men on the moon, and inventing the concept of “software” to bother getting a Ph.D. in a field that barely existed.) Dr. Lucy Jones, Ph.D., USGS scientist and young mother, A.K.A. “The Earthquake Lady,” explains seismology to us mere mortals during California’s massive 1992 Joshua Tree earthquake. She became a “breaking news” regular after that, a soothing and reassuring voice of expertise whenever SoCal houses suddenly started changing addresses. And, of course, the Mother of All Sauvignon Blanc Moments– Susan Boyle’s 2009 audition on “Britain’s Got Talent.” As with a pour of Sauvignon Blanc, there was nothing in her outward mien that remotely hinted at the inner magnificence that would soon reveal itself. (Simon’s expression reminds me of mine the first time I ever tasted great Sancerre.)

($6.59 + tax, actually.) I went on a RESTAURANT DEPOT safari yesterday. While I was loading my Soviet coal cart with the items I came for, something else caught my eye— a chef’s knife at an unbelievably low price. Of course it came from TCTMATCC (“the country that makes all that cheap crap.”) It couldn’t be otherwise at that price. But it says right on the package that it is made of “Superior German Stainless Steel,” to wit, an alloy known as X50 CrMo V15. This seemingly secret code means that it is forged from a particular German stainless steel considered very good but not great for knife blades. Indeed, it is the same steel one finds in the well-known German brand Henkels. For approximately 1000x the price of our $7 special, one particular Nesmuk Chef’s Knife is hand-forged with 400-layer damask high carbon steel rather than mere stainless. For seven bucks, I’m perfectly okay with the Chrome-Moly stainless… I can afford plenty of fabulous Wagyu Beef with the difference. With so little to lose, I bought this knife. I had promised to help my BFF AndyS. equip his Boston kitchen, and this would make a great addition. More importantly, perhaps, I also felt the need to answer the question in the title above. * * * * * * * I agree with whoever said that the best knife is a sharp knife. I like my knives sharp enough to shave a worm without hurting it. (Pro-Tip: Own a good sharpener.) And while a razor-like implement can accidentally slice human flesh as effortlessly as it cuts onions or beef, a sharp knife is generally considered safer because it affords greater control with less effort. And folks, this knife is sharp… astonishingly sharp. What’s more, the blade isn’t some flimsy-ass, paper-thin affair that will be essentially useless after a month of regular use; rather, it has perhaps two-thirds the blade width of a serious (and expensive) brand-name knife of similar configuration. My only gripe so far is that the handle is perhaps a half-inch shorter than the handles to which I have grown accustomed. Some things remain to be seen— will the blade stay firmly riveted to the polypropylene handle? Will the “long-lasting edge” actually last long and then re-sharpen to its original form? Only time will tell. I promise to report my findings in a follow-up post.

HOW TO THINK ABOUT POLITICS (AND MAKE MONEY BETTING ON ELECTIONS) “Government is the entertainment division of the Military-Industrial Complex.” (Frank Zappa) “Politicians view their constituencies as batteries– the greater the difference between the two extremes, the more power they have.” (DannyM.) “Hey-HEY! Ho-HO! has GOT to GO!” (Political Cheerleaders Everywhere) Our rules here at Danny’s Table are strict and clear: no political discussion allowed on this site. The two wings of American mainstream politics— the Liberal Left and the Conservative Right— obviously perceive the same issues and situations so differently that there is little likelihood of getting one to remotely consider the merit of the other’s perspective on any issue. Even citing an especially clear-cut example of this is to run the risk of inciting a war in the comment section, so I won’t. That being said, I think it is worth examining how people think about politics rather than what they think, so we’ll look inside the skulls of partisans and see how their minds work… or don’t. And then we’ll reveal how you can make money betting on political outcomes. * * * * * * * When it comes to politics, the best subject I can think of for illustrative dissection and metaphorical organ-harvesting is high school basketball, the fundamental components of which are the Players, Coaches, Referees, and CHEERLEADERS. (I have nothing against cheerleaders; some of my best old girlfriends were cheerleaders.) The Players are the candidates– all they care about is winning. The Coaches are the pollsters and political advisor class– they are similarly focused on winning, but they are also knowledgeable and realistic about their teams’ chances against their current opponent, and so they formulate game plans and strategies for maximizing their chances, however slim. The Referees are the free and impartial press as envisioned by our founding fathers, but which of course no longer exists as such. And the CHEERLEADERS are in all caps because they comprise what has become by far the most important group as it relates to current politics. It is a sad commentary on society that our collective ignorance in the areas of Law, History, and Civics 101 has reduced most of our population– including the press– to the political equivalent of CHEERLEADERS… arch-partisan pom-pom wavers who know next to nothing about the contest right before them, and yet remain absolutely certain that their team is the best, never commits a foul, and that the other team can only win by cheating. Political Cheerleaders (on both sides of the political divide) tend to operate from very small fact tables and instead hold political views that are based primarily on ideology… and seemingly wired directly to their emotions. Rather than strive to expand their knowledge and understanding, Political Cheerleaders tend to stovepipe themselves with a steady stream of one-sided blather that corroborates their existing world view. They scrupulously (and, perhaps, lazily) avoid exposing themselves to anything that might challenge it or take them out of their narrow comfort zones. It certainly doesn’t help that our once (mostly) fair-minded press– the news divisions of television, radio, and newspapers– have prioritized partisanship, profits, and pom-pom waving over fairly and intelligently presenting all sides of every issue. And why not? There’s no money in presenting the plain truth, especially when they can stimulate viewership by broadcasting what was once merely the daily news as a never-ending series of life-and-death crises. (I’m old enough to remember when winter snowfall wasn’t newsworthy… nowadays the mere possibility of January snowflakes activates our local @StormTeam24 wall-to-wall coverage complete with dramatic storm-cam footage of actual snow plows and Doppler radar imagery. Anything for eyeballs, I guess.) But what I think is worse than the shameless dramatization of everyday events is the obvious death of objectivity in political coverage. Alas, it seems that the referees have morphed into cheerleaders and chosen their favorite teams, depriving us of the flow of factual content so necessary to an informed electorate. And so, dear readers, I respectfully ask– have YOU become a Political Cheerleader? For useful self-examination we channel Jeff Foxworthy: If you get most of your “news” from Facebook or Twitter, you might be a cheerleader. If you have a strong opinion about abortion rights (either way) but have never actually read Roe v. Wade and Planned Parenthood v. Casey, you might be a cheerleader. If you have strong feelings about gun ownership (either way) but have never actually read D.C. v. Heller, (both the thoroughly detailed majority opinion and the eloquent and scholarly dissent) you might be a cheerleader. If you have strong feelings (either way) about the disposition of immigrant children at our southern border but lack any familiarity with the Flores Consent Decree, then you might be a cheerleader. If you hold statements made by the opposition to a higher standard of proof than those made by your own side, you might be a cheerleader. (While it is certainly understandable to believe your side more readily than the other, unequal standards of proof are a downhill path to self-delusion.) And finally, if you are easily triggered to anger by the mere mention of politicians or policies you don’t like… if you can’t stand to even be around people with views different from yours… if you’ve permanently damaged relationships with (former) friends and even family members because of politics… then being a cheerleader is perhaps the least of your problems. If you’ve answered “yes” to any of the above, you are far from alone. How did we get here? How did the richest, free-est, most powerful nation in the history of the world become so polarized? I find it astonishing that we live in an age with nearly unfettered access to information (like the above-referenced court cases) and yet it seems that people are less informed than ever about the issues supposedly important to them. There are a lot of institutions and simple realities worthy of blame for this. For a concise illustration of the role of the American media, let’s look at what I think is an especially great bit of drama. In the HBO series THE NEWSROOM, actor Jeff Daniels portrayed cable news anchor Will McAvoy, the character whose epic rant (profanity alert) in the show’s pilot about the present state of America has become an Internet legend. Less popular among YouTubers, however, is his apology on behalf of the media– what I consider the very finest moment in one of my favorite shows of all time. It still gets me wistfully pondering an alternative universe whenever I compare Will McAvoy’s vision of what a free press could and should be to the stinking, corrupt sewer of misinformation, disinformation, and propaganda it has sadly become. (And if you’re still pissed at McAvoy for bullying the “sorority girl” in the epic rant, know that they fix that nicely in Season One’s finale.) If you are one-tenth as interested in the interface of politics and journalism as I am, I highly recommend paying HBO so you can watch this fantastic series in its entirety. So, how does one discuss politics with Political Cheerleaders? You don’t, because more likely than not you’ll find yourself engaged in what I call a “Sumo on Ice” argument, i.e., each side ineffectually spinning his or her feet in the absence of the traction afforded by a mutually acceptable set of truths upon which each side can postulate a position. But you can make money betting on politics provided you know more than the pool of fellow bettors who collectively set the odds. And one look at the comment section at predictit.org should convince you that you’ll be betting against Political Cheerleaders… meaning that there are some easy pickings to be had. And since you’ll never change the minds of the cheerleaders there or anywhere else, you might as well help yourself to some of their money. * * * * * * * THE WORLD OF PREDICTIT Predictit was launched in 2014 by the Victoria University in Wellington, New Zealand, ostensibly for “research purposes.” (This sounds to me suspiciously similar to whale-meat-loving Japan’s annual slaughter of hundreds of majestic leviathans under the guise of expanding mankind’s scientific knowledge… in other words, research, my ass.) However, Predictit was sufficiently convincing to our Federal Commodity Futures Trading Commission that it was issued a “letter of no action,” essentially immunizing Predictit from prosecution for promoting online gaming. But there are limits– every election or issue open for betting is limited to 5,000 bettors, and there is a $850 cap on individual “investments” per question. Here’s how these “investments” work. First you have to register and move some money into your account. Now, let’s say the upcoming 2024 presidential election comes down to… I dunno, let’s see… How can I avoid offending people? For our purposes here we’ll make it Tom Brady versus Snoop Dogg. The market (the pool of bettors) quickly establishes the share prices for each. Let’s say that the market on Labor Day 2024 settles at a point where we can buy “YES” shares for Candidate Brady for $.60 and YES for Candidate Dogg for $.45. If Brady wins, holders of the Brady YES shares receive $1 and the holders of Dogg YES shares get nothing, and vice-versa if Dogg becomes POTUS 47. Now, let’s suppose that surveillance video emerges of Brady sneaking into the opponent’s locker room before his son’s high school game and surreptitiously spiking their Gatorade with similarly-flavored colonoscopy prep. In the wake of the metaphorical and physical s**tstorm, the market price of Brady YES shares might plummet to $.35 overnight while the Dogg YES shares surge to $.70 as panicked Brady shareholders sell their holdings for less than they paid, fearing that otherwise they will lose everything. Other Brady shareholders opt to nervously sit tight, while still others, remaining fully confident of TB12’s eventual electoral victory, might see it as a buying opportunity and load up on more shares at the lower price. Meanwhile, some Dogg shareholders might opt to unload their positions at $.70/share and take the profit rather than sweat it out until Election Day. After a day or so of furious trading, the market resettles at $.55 for Brady YES and $.48 for Dogg YES. Note that the YES shares for both Brady and Dogg always add up to slightly more than $1.00. That way bettors can’t make money by betting both sides, and also the house (Predictit) always wins. Furthermore, because it is ostensibly a “research project,” Predictit takes a 10% of your profits and another 5% of your withdrawals to cover its operating expenses. This affects my betting and account management decisions in two ways– One, I see no point in betting on favorites; rather, the only way to make significant profits is to find markets that are irrationally priced at well below $.50/share. And Two, I leave at least some of my winnings in my account so I don’t pay the withdrawal fee when I know I’ll likely be betting on future contests. So, can you actually make money at this? Nobody gets rich via Predictit.org. But yes, you can make a little money… enough to validate your superior knowledge and reasoning in lieu of actually changing other people’s minds. But you have to know what you are doing… you have to know more than the cheerleaders. Which means you have to get good at figuring out what is really going on. You want the truth? Here are some helpful guidelines for finding it– Develop A Reliable BS Meter I am known by many of my friends to have a reasonably accurate BS Meter, the basis of which is, in my estimation, nothing more than the combination of a logical mind and a basic working knowledge of subjects such as science, statistics, probability, and civics. For just one example of something that recently set it off, this item used to make the rounds on Facebook because people who read it took it at face value and uncritically re-posted it– July 2022 has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays, and 5 Sundays. This happens only once every 823 years. The Chinese call it “silver pockets full” or "money bags." A few seconds of brain activity should spark the realization that this happens every time the first day of a 31-day month falls on a Friday, as it does not only in July of 2022 but also in December of 2023, March of 2024, August of 2025, etc., or an average of about once per year. If you are over 55, a rigorous high school education is a sufficient basis for a good healthy BS Meter. For the relatively youthful among us, I recommend visiting used bookstores or scouring eBay for textbooks older than 1979, when the U.S. Department of Education was established. I KNOW NOTH-ING! The actual definition of “knowledge” is so strict that, when it comes to politics, it precludes much of what we strongly believe to be true. So… take everything you hear with a grain or more of salt until your cardiologist orders otherwise. Always allow room in your heart and mind to consider the possibility that something you strongly believe might turn out to be wrong, and vice-versa. Recall that it was the CIA that coined the term “conspiracy theory” to ridicule and discredit those who suspected that Lee Harvey Oswald wasn’t solely responsible for the JFK assassination… and also recall that yesterday’s “conspiracy theory” is often today’s accepted explanation. It’s All On Tape With a quick visit to YouTube and a few clicks you can see just about anything. For just two examples, how about footage of Democrat leaders positing (Pre-Trump) the need for a southern border wall, or of Republican leaders, having torpedoed President Obama’s SCOTUS nomination of Merrick Garland, swearing that they would never try to seat a GOP nominee during an election year? (Like they did without hesitation in late 2020 when RBG died.) Although a lot of politicians seem to sometimes forget this, EVERYTHING is recorded for posterity. The Petrosian Test Grandmaster Tigran Petrosian, the 9th official World Chess Champion (1963-69), was famous for his excruciatingly cautious style of play. In stark contrast to the dashing and romantic gambiteers of the 19th century who sacrificed pieces with wild abandon, GM Petrosian relied on slow, almost imperceptible strangulation of the board and his opponents’ positions until they found themselves paralyzed. His successor as champion, GM Boris Spassky, once quipped, “If Petrosian ever offers you a piece, resign!” implying that if Petrosian ever ventured so far out of character as to sacrifice material, it would surely be part of a game-ending forced checkmate. To generalize, whenever someone strays way out of their normal M.O., it is probably for a good reason. Applied to the media’s coverage of politics, we all pretty much know how Sean Hannity and Rachel Maddow will cover a particular issue because they are both arch-partisan and similarly predictable. However, I think it is safe to say that if you ever hear Hannity fact-check Donald Trump or Maddow fact-check Bernie Sanders, their words would count for way more than usual. The Reverse Footwear Test Whenever you hear about a politician getting in trouble, ask yourself (and answer honestly) whether he or she would be treated differently by the media or even the DOJ if the situation were the mirror opposite, i.e., if the shoe were on the other foot. Sometimes, it seems, the only difference between an art thief and someone who takes nice pictures is their political affiliation. The Binary Correction Coefficient Are the major Mainstream Media outlets biased? Yes. But media bias can be hard to see when following a particular outlet with which you mostly agree. However, we can turn to the fascinating world of probability for an easy answer. The odds of flipping a coin seven times and getting heads seven times are 1 in 128 (1 in 2 x 2 x 2 x 2 x 2 x 2 x 2.) Even perfectly fair newspapers make mistakes and need to issue corrections… but if their inaccuracies all paint one side more negatively than the other– if they need to print seven corrections in a row that all go in the same direction– then we can infer that their reportage is systemically biased. Open Your Purse Are the Liberal Democrats trying to ban all guns and promote CRT in the classroom? Are the Conservative Republicans trying to outlaw abortion everywhere and allow prayer in schools? The quickest way to get the most honest answers to these and similar questions is to go right to the source. Just donate $20 to both the DNC and RNC and get on their email lists– they will regularly tell you in plain English what they want to do with the money they want you to keep sending. (Pro-Tip: you only have to donate once for a lifetime membership to these email groups.) The Truth Doesn’t Care Where It Came From When it comes to media coverage of politics, if something you’ve heard is true, then it doesn’t matter where you heard it. Indeed, what’s more important is where you DIDN’T hear it, because Lies of Omission are even more insidious than outright falsehoods; no correction is necessary for something that was never printed or aired. Which brings us to– No Pain, No Gain Since Lies of Omission are so common and insidious, you need to listen to both sides of the media and keep a sharp ear for stories that one side is covering and the other isn’t. To put it bluntly, if you really want to know what is going on, you need to listen to people you don’t like saying things you don’t want to hear. If you do so with a wide open mind, you might actually hear a point from the other side that you grudgingly agree with. And FINALLY– Whether you are debating someone, scouring the news, or simply observing the world around you, always try to remember that WHAT is right is more important than WHO is right. By willing to be wrong once in a while, in the long run you will be right most of the time. * * * * * * * Predictit Case Study: Herschel Walker For US Senator Herschel Walker– the former University of Georgia football star (1980-82), Heisman Trophy Winner (1982) and USFL/NFL star (1983-97)-- is running for a U.S. Senate seat as a Trump-endorsed Republican in his native Georgia. His opponent is the Democrat incumbent Senator Rev. Ralph Warnock. Current polling shows them close but with Walker holding a slight lead. Does Herschel Walker still have a special place in the hearts of Georgians four decades after his collegiate pigskin heyday? Is the Trump endorsement (for better or worse) a magical advantage? Will the widely expected Red Wave sweep Walker to victory? Predictit “investors” seem to think so– Walker YES shares are currently priced at $.61 while Warnock’s sell for $.40. As I write this it looks like one could likely pick up a little pocket change by betting on Walker. The political winds seem to be at his back. However, 5+ months is a long time in politics, and a lot can change between now and November 8th. Recall that Rev. Warnock came from way behind to win his seat in the special election of 2020… and, for whatever it’s worth, history teaches us that Herschel Walker knows a thing or two about getting caught from behind– https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WooPp3UVCp8 (Ignore the “unavailable” tag and click on the “Youtube” link.) Like I said a few paragraphs ago– It’s All On Tape.

I am inspired by the current baby formula shortage to write about Fettuccine Alfredo, a dish created to help a sickly mother nurse her baby. * * * * * * * Rome, 1908– A young mother is sickly and weak after giving birth to her first child. Her husband, chef Alfredo di Lelio (see photo above) fears that she is too unhealthy to nurse their newborn son. So he creates a dish that, he optimistically surmises, will fortify her constitution enough to restore her maternal prerogative. And thus was Fettuccine Alfredo born, from just three ingredients– egg noodles, butter, and cheese. His recipe was simplicity itself– cook the noodles, drain them but leave just a little water, toss with butter, then toss with freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Fast-forward to today. I have heard more than one restaurant professional describe Fettuccine Alfredo as a “Heart Attack on a Plate,” so unapologetically loaded with saturated fats it has become. This current version of Fettuccine Alfredo enjoys worldwide fame, and yet would be almost unrecognizable to its creator– pasta (egg or not) drowning in cream-based quicksand copiously enhanced with garlic and often incorporating broccoli or artichokes and such proteins as chicken or shrimp. Furthermore, “Alfredo Sauce” is available at your local supermarket, shelf-stable in its jars, i.e., loaded with preservatives; “creamy,” and yet sometimes even devoid of actual cream. I feel compelled to observe here that “Alfredo Sauce” could rightly be called a “sauce after the fact,” much like the “Buffalo Sauce” derived from the original Anchor Bar Wings recipe and now available by the bottle, or the jus in “Prime Rib au jus” that is widely found in chemical-laden powdered form in conveniently packed envelopes for instant mixing. All three of these are sauces abstracted from the eponymous finished dish rather than a preceding, stand-alone component thereof… almost like a novel based on a movie instead of vice-versa. To me there is something not quite genuine about that, like it’s not supposed to work that way. How did we manage to get from the original version of Fettuccine Alfredo to this? It reminds me of the evolution of all good things, like, for instance, the basic Toyota 2WD 4-cylinder pickup truck. I bought one in 1995, and it was as small and simple and inexpensive and perfect as a vehicle could be… no radio, no A/C, just four wheels and a heater. In 1999– 200,000 high MPG, low-cost miles later– I sold it and bought another. The new one was a little bigger and heavier and more expensive, and yet no more functional and not as elegant as its predecessor. After a couple of Hyundai Accents, I bought my third Toyota pickup in 2014. It was WAY bigger and heavier yet, loaded with superfluous features for which I had no use or desire. And then in 2020 I traded it in and finally graduated to a 4WD version of the Toyota pickup with half a back seat accessible by backward half-doors– a space too small for humans, yet big enough to stash stuff like laundry and tools. Its sticker price was over thrice that of my first, and it is only marginally more useful. All in all, I liked that first pickup best… I thought that all the additional weight and gadgetry were not only a pointless waste but actually detracted from the original simple concept. And I suspect that if Alfredo di Lelio’s wife were here today, she would feel the same about the evolution of Fettuccine Alfredo. So I set out to re-create as closely as possible the original. And as I read up on the dish’s history, I encountered a few mysteries that aroused my Inner Hunter to investigate further. According to multiple histories I found online, the original version called for “fresh Parmesan cheese.” Did that mean fresh vs. aged, or freshly grated, or both? No one seemed to know for sure. However– some of the earliest descriptions described the cheese as sufficiently creamy that it would smoothly melt into the butter and thereby coat the noodles with silky richness. This would preclude properly labeled Parmigiano-Reggiano, which is aged 24 months to such dry granularity that it certainly could not be described as the least bit creamy, and would not have behaved as such. One current recipe, published by a major foodie magazine, smugly extolled the superiority of its version for eschewing cream and thereby hewing to the original, and yet it called for aged Parmigiano-Reggiano. Questionable reasoning like that only sharpens my hunger for the whole truth. Upon consulting the cheese manager at a quality grocer, I tried a different cheese– Grana Padano, which could perhaps be described as a “junior varsity” Parmesan… same region, same milk, same culture, etc., but with less rigid standards and, most importantly, less aging. Upon pinching a wedge of it I felt a little youthful springiness, and the cheese guy confirmed that it was, in fact, creamier than the decidedly non-creamy Parmigiano-Reggiano. Could that be what Chef Alfredo meant by “fresh Parmesan?” I wanted to find out, so I bought some. Egg noodles were easy enough to find. I opted for the fresh rather than the dried, as this was what Chef Alfredo used. (The Pennsylvania Dutch Noodle Company offers a popular line of dried egg noodles.) For the butter I sought a rich, high-butterfat version, and I left the store with a two-stick package of VERMONT CREAMERY Unsalted Cultured Butter that boasts 82% butterfat content. (Regular American butter comes in at 80%, and the 2% makes a significant difference; meanwhile, the “Cultured” means that the milk underwent an overnight fermentation that gave it a slight and delightful buttermilk tang that endured as it was churned into butter.) From these three ingredients I made old-school Fettuccine Alfredo… and it was utterly delicious. (No, I didn’t start lactating.) How could it possibly be any better? But then, like a judge who has privately already decided a case but nonetheless agrees to hear the other side, I made the Modern Version– Fresh Egg Noodles, Individual Portion (4.5 oz) or Double Portion (9 oz.) There will be just enough sauce for a light coating of the double portion. FOR THE SAUCE– 3 Cloves of Garlic, Finely Minced Dab of Clarified Butter 1 Cup Heavy Cream ¼ Stick Vermont Creamery Unsalted Cultured Butter at Room Temperature ½ Cup Shredded Grana Padano Cheese Pinch of Finely Chopped Italian Parsley Freshly Ground Pepper Pinch of Freshly Grated Parmesan (for topping) Briefly cook garlic in just enough clarified butter until it is about to change color. Add cream and reduce by half. Remove from heat and swirl in butter. Stir in Grana Padano and then parsley. Stir occasionally while the well-salted pasta water comes to a boil. Cook pasta to al dente, then toss with sauce. Top with Parmesan and serve. It was freaking fantastic. Which version did I like best? I can’t choose one over the other; I consider them two different dishes. I would lean toward the original when using high-quality fresh egg pasta, and use the modern version for dried pasta, eggy or not. Furthermore, I can easily imagine other uses for this sauce, which seems an awful lot like a gluten-free version of classic Sauce Mornay. Accordingly, I would readily use it with chicken, fish, and especially sea scallops. I would use it on broccoli or cauliflower. In fact, while writing this I whipped up a little of this sauce and cooked some cauliflower; I tossed the cauliflower in the sauce, put it in an oven-friendly ramekin, and fired up the broiler to see if this sauce could withstand being gratinéed without breaking. Not only did it survive the process, but it was so delicious that I couldn’t imagine it being any better with $28/lb. dry-pack sea scallops. * * * * * * * In this case as in others, the search for the truth is never complete. I’m still waiting to hear from friends of friends in Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region for more inside information on what Chef Alfredo actually meant by “Fresh Parmesan.” But I like what I’ve found so far. And speaking of truth-searching, the long-held truism that saturated fat automatically kills people is up for new discussion among the scientific/medical intelligentsia. In other words, the cream-laden version of Fettuccine Alfredo might not be a “Heart Attack on a Plate” after all. Whatever the verdict from the health professionals, always remember that Eating Well is Living Well.

(AND $40 WINE FOR $12, AND SO ON) “Ready for a secret? Wine does not cost a lot to make, it costs a lot to sell. Since the end of Prohibition, layer-upon-layer of government-mandated middlemen and cumbersome state-by-state distribution policies have created the world’s most inefficient wine market. Only in the USA does a wine that costs $10 to produce end up costing you $50.” (Cameron Hughes, Wine Genius) * * * * * * * As an economics major with a concentration in consumer behavior and its underlying psychology, I can confirm the existence of a fundamental assumption among consumers— that the products we purchase are priced somewhat fairly. This belief is the bedrock upon which our retail economy is based and the secure wrapping that holds it together. Without our implicit faith that spending more gets us more, said retail economy would implode and chaos would ensue. In an open and free competitive marketplace, this assumption about price and value is generally true. HOWEVER– I can also confirm that just about every market has a semi-secret back door… an unadvertised place where people in the know can buy the same stuff the rest of us do, but for less… or else somehow get more for their money… or where they have access to some really good things that are just plain unavailable to everyone else. The dark alley with all those back doors is where I thrive and why I’m here, folks. Like I tell my medical caregivers, I don’t pay full price for ANYTHING except doctor’s visits– and insurance covers most of THAT. All in all, I’d rather be clever enough to buy $60 wine for $20 than make so much money that I don’t mind getting hosed for the $40 difference. And second only to the hunter’s thrill I enjoy in finding such deals is the pleasure I take in sharing such information with you. So, please join me on a safari to the lesser-known side of the wine market… the place where this guy finds great wine deals as naturally as the rest of us breathe– Ladies and gentlemen around The Table, say hello to Cameron Hughes. Having spent a good portion of my life in one corner or another of the wine trade— as a restaurateur, retailer, wholesaler, importer, writer, and shipper— I am in prime position to appreciate what this man brings to the wine market. And who, exactly, is Cameron Hughes? You can read recent articles about him HERE and HERE, and you can sign up to purchase wine from him HERE. Hughes’s company– de Négoce– is pronounced (approximately) “da-nay’-go-shay’.” He couldn’t call it “Cameron Hughes Wine” because that is the name of a company that he previously founded and then sold. (They appear to have removed the cute video of Cam from their website but they still offer some great wine buying opportunities.) There is also a completely unaffiliated and interactive website HERE dedicated to tracking de Négoce’s offerings, rating them, offering tasting notes, and even guessing their actual origins. In a nutshell, here’s how buying wine from de Négoce works— At its most romantic, wine is a magical elixir that naturally arises from sun, soil, and water… a generous gift from the heavens to gladden our hearts and souls. In reality, a winery is a capitalist enterprise that essentially manufactures products requiring anywhere from one to three years of profitless patience before going to market. While they wait, wineries are subject to vagaries of climate that might foster a bumper crop one year and a hail-devastated vintage the next. They are similarly vulnerable to market shifts far more rapid than their ability to react to them. For these and other reasons, wineries frequently find themselves with surpluses of wine and shortages of operating revenue. That’s when the uptight guy with the green eyeshade ventures out from his cubicle to the warehouse, where he gazes in slack-jawed horror upon the pallets of unsold inventory, the roomful of ridiculously pricey French oak barrels, and the giant stainless vats sneering in shiny expensiveness. “Sell some wine NOW!” he commands, over protestations that it needs at least another year in the barrel or bottle, maybe two. And then, as if in response to some sort of secret signal– –-in swoops Cameron Hughes with a 7-page non-disclosure agreement and his 22,000+ email subscribers… and, notably, none of his own hard currency. Armed with an unsurpassed knowledge of the industry and the market, Cam strikes a win-win deal for the extra wine, swears on his ancestors’ souls to keep the source a secret, and then offers it to me and the rest of his followers at an unbelievably great price in an email blast. A typical de Négoce email offering from Cam might read like this— “Folks, if you LOVE Carneros Pinot Noir, you’ll wanna MARRY this one! (not yet legal in Cali, but give it a week.) A low-yield, single-vineyard gem from a legendary Carneros pioneer, priced at $60/bottle in the tasting room, yours for just $240/ case! (That’s only $20/bottle for a consistent 94-pointer that could raise the birth rate… in a convent!!) Upon first swirl, suggestions of raspberry eau-de-vie explore one’s sinuses, followed by notes of sub-alpine goat leather and freshly-ground Nicaraguan French Roast infused with extinct heirloom cherry, all haloed with uplifted northwestern forest floor during morel season. A cacophony of sun-sweetened stone fruits firmly bitch-slapped by taut, vibrant acidity seemingly surfs across the palate atop an unctuous swell of glycerin before gliding to a finish longer than the last note on SGT. PEPPER. Only 400 cases available, and this one is sure to go fast. Dijon clones, 50% new French oak. 16.2% alcohol (Yet perfectly balanced.) Drink or hold. Ships when I’m feelin’ it… maybe six months from now.” I exaggerate a tad or more, but Cam’s tasting notes are indeed delightfully effusive AND accurate. Anyway, let’s break this down– we pay up front for wine we won’t see for six months… and when we do get it, we won’t know who made it. All we know is that Cameron Hughes has said it is good… $60 good. He takes our money, pays the winery, and keeps the change. In exchange for the anonymity and tying up our money, we get $60 wine for $20 six months from now. All of which naturally raises a huge question— how do we know the wine is truly worth $60? The answer has multiple components. (Keep in mind that before you finish reading this paragraph, the above-mentioned wine will, in all likelihood, completely sell out.) The actual value of a particular wine is both objective and subjective. If the wine in fact sells for $60 at the winery on a regular basis, then its objective value has been pretty much established by the free market. That being said, if I were driving a winery tour bus through Carneros, I would caution my passengers as follows— If you can’t tell the difference, then maybe you shouldn’t pay for the difference… because if you are paying for something fairly priced that you cannot fully appreciate, then by definition you are wasting your money… kind of like buying a sports car that goes three times faster than any speed limit you’ll ever see. But of course humans aren’t completely rational, and you might enjoy the somewhat irrational prestige of parking a new Porsche in your driveway for all to see even if you’ll never drive it particularly fast. Similarly, you might enjoy serving your important guests a $60 Pinot Noir even if you personally can’t distinguish it from Chilean box wine. All that being said, the subjective part of wine value is, at its essence, how good it tastes to you. (More on that below, because even that can be complicated.) Another big question about that $60 wine practically suggests itself– how can we be certain that it is really the wine that Cam says it is, or that he is presenting it honestly? We can’t, but I do know two important things about Cam– ONE, he has spent his entire adulthood steeped to his hairline in the West Coast wine trade, and he knows every row of vines from Temecula to Walla Walla; and TWO, the unbroken trust of us consumers is absolutely essential to his business model, and he can’t afford to EVER abuse or lose it. I have purchased dozens of different wines from him, and he has never let me down. And if Cameron Hughes says a wine is worth $60, I am confident— I know from my own experience— that it is. * * * * * * * So, I’m convinced that the wine is indeed a $60 wine for $20… does that automatically mean that I’ll buy it? Returning to my undergraduate work in consumer economics for a moment, there is the significant issue of “comfort level” when buying wine or anything else. We wine consumers all have a comfort level where we make most of our wine purchases, a price range that is a function of our disposable income, our love of wine relative to all other goods, and the law of diminishing returns. My personal comfort level is $15-25 retail. (I NEVER buy wine in restaurants because I know better. I once casually shared insider intel with a purchaser for a Manhattan restaurant chain who buys Pinot Grigio for $4/bottle wholesale and then sells it for $13/glass. Nice work if you can get it, but no thanks.) In my $15-25 retail comfort zone I can buy well-made and perfectly delicious California sparkling wine, all the whites I’ll ever need, and sturdy and complex reds up to and including very good Pinot Noir. Beyond $25 I know that, while my palate is capable of appreciating the higher quality, I’d rather spend the money on other stuff like grass-fed prime steak and dry-pack diver scallops, or maybe roquefort and gruyère. And so, given my personal comfort level, Cameron Hughes and his de Négoce wines are perfect for me because I have access to wines much better and more expensive than I would ever buy at market value. (Just how expensive can wine get? There are some ultra-rare, super-premium wines out there that cost as much as new Porsches… and I would have to be a terminally ill multi-billionaire to justify ever buying them.) In short, I drink much better wine for the money I’m accustomed to spending. For $20– right smack in the middle of my comfort zone– I’m getting a wine that I’m perfectly capable of fully appreciating, and yet it’s a wine I would never purchase at full market price. Pinch me! Given the foregoing, there is one more big question worth addressing— why would any lover of wine NOT avail themselves of this program? I can think of two major reasons… both of which seem a little silly to me. SOME PEOPLE DRINK LABELS RATHER THAN WINE. Since wine appreciation is at least partially subjective AND simultaneously associated with social sophistication (think of James Bond’s sherry scene in GOLDFINGER) some people are afraid of looking utterly foolish to the very people whose esteem they crave. For such folks, their easiest path to instant credibility is serving a famous wine that’s been awarded a high score from a big-time magazine or respected wine critic… preferably a wine in high demand that is unavailable to the general public. Several years ago I defined a term that applies to such people and postulated an equation for it– If your “Cachet Value” is significantly greater than zero, then the great deals offered by de Négoce might not be for you. SOME PEOPLE ARE INHERENTLY DISTRUSTFUL. These people are completely invested in the notion that A) You always get EXACTLY what you pay for– no more, no less; and B) If something seems too good to be true, it must be. The suggestion that there is a smarter and better way to buy wine (or anything else)-- the notion that someone can buy something better AND cheaper than what they are getting-- disrupts their notions of cosmic justice and economic equilibrium. And folks, perhaps that’s what I like best about Cameron Hughes– like me, he is a disrupter. If that means that not everyone will “get” him, then so be it… that just means that there will be more great wine at unbelievable prices for the rest of us. * * * * * * * As if his efforts to source great wine at ridiculously low prices weren’t enough, Cameron Hughes recently founded a parallel business– HOLY GRAIL STEAK COMPANY– dedicated to bringing world-class great beef to our doorsteps. Cam offers both Japanese and American Wagyu along with other selections including my go-to steak, grass-fed prime ribeye.

Of the thousands of grape varieties that can be made into red wine, only a pair of them— Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir— stand out as absolutely supreme, responsible for the vast majority of the very finest and most expensive wines in the world. If they both make fantastic wine, then how are they alike and how do they differ? * * * * * * * To provide the proper framework for comparing the top two red wine grapes, a little history and botany review is in order. First, recall that King Phillip Came Over For Good Spaghetti. That’s the mnemonic device used by high school biology students of yesteryear to remember their taxonomy, i.e., the categorization of life forms into Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, and Species. For the grapes responsible for the wines we drink, it goes like this, as per the 2016 APG IV system of plant classification: Kingdom— Plantae (Plants) Phylum— Magnoliophyta (Flowering plants) Class— Magnoliopsida (Flowering plants that produce seeds) Order— Vitales (Flowering Vines) Family— Vitaceae (Flowering Vines, and the “only child” of the Order Vitales) Genus— Vitis (Grapevines of all types, 79 species) Species— Vitis vinifera (5,000 -10,000 varieties) We’ve narrowed our focus, but the hierarchy continues in our trek up the pyramid, atop which the two Royal Brothers reign alone and supreme. Of the thousands of vinifera varieties, only a small percentage (still numbering in the hundreds, mind you) are capable of yielding wines of distinctive and agreeable character above and beyond their alcoholic content and refreshing acidity. And of these, perhaps only a dozen each of the red and white varieties are responsible for just about all the wines we see in our stores, whether they are labeled by grape variety (“varietal wines”) or by region of origin. You will likely recognize most of the major white grape names– Chardonnay, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Grigio, Gewürztraminer, and (as of late) Moscato. And of the reds, we know well the names Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Merlot, Syrah, Malbec, and Zinfandel. But there are others– some widely-planted grapes never become famous because they are useful for quantity over quality. (Ever hear of Trebbiano or Carignan? You’ve probably consumed many gallons of one and/or the other without realizing it.) Other grape varieties go out of style… Chenin Blanc was once more widely planted than Chardonnay in California, and it was so ubiquitous that a bottle of it was even featured in the original TOP GUN. Still other perfectly good or even great grapes remain anonymous to the general public because A) they are pretty much specific to a particular region; and B) said region maintains a tradition of labeling wines by geographical origin rather than grape variety. This perfectly describes Nebbiolo, the grape that gives us Piemonte’s fabulous Barolo and Barbaresco; as well as Toscana’s Sangiovese, the main component of Chianti and Brunello di Montalcino. Of the two dozen or so grape variety names that appear on wine labels, a subset are unofficially considered “noble grapes”-- a term with no firm definition, so I’ll take it from here: A noble grape variety is one that had proved capable of producing world-class wine in multiple regions around the world. Among the whites, we readily acknowledge Chardonnay, Riesling, and Sauvignon Blanc as such. The list of noble reds is a little longer– Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Merlot, and Syrah, followed closely by Grenache, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, and maybe Tempranillo. And as region-specific as they are, it is somewhat nonsensical to exclude Nebbiolo and Sangiovese, as the sheer excellence of their finest manifestations surely justifies their inclusion. Some wine geeks regard only six varieties (three red and three white) as noble, while other sources cite as many as eighteen; it doesn’t really matter. To me, and for our purposes here, what matters most is that of all the millions of species of plant life in that “King Phillip” hierarchy, we need only consider TWO as the source of the most exquisite liquids on this planet– Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir. * * * * * * * "God made Cabernet Sauvignon, whereas the Devil made Pinot Noir." –Andre Tchelistcheff, legendary Californian Winemaker (1901-1994) I disagree. I believe that Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir are both Divine creations, each heavenly in its own way, albeit very different from one another… two contrasting aspects of heavenly magnificence. In its finest versions, Cabernet Sauvignon is a medium for transforming nature’s bounty by human hand and expertise (like Tchelistcheff’s) into what may well be mankind’s highest agricultural achievement. And perhaps great Pinot Noir is God’s way of occasionally demonstrating how far we have to go, gracing us with elusive heavenliness that leaves us forever captivated and doomed to a mostly fruitless quest to repeat the experience. But I get what Tchelistcheff meant. Although he could harness his experience and knowledge to reliably make great Cabernet in vintage after vintage, he found Pinot Noir mostly unresponsive to reason, more a product of mysterious happenstance and even alchemy than established science. Indeed, one can even understand Tchelistcheff’s implication that he was “bedeviled” by this most temperamental of wine grapes. Because for all of his success with Cabernet Sauvignon, Tchelistcheff always said that he produced but two truly legendary wines– the 1946 and 1947 Pinot Noirs for BEAULIEU VINEYARD (“BV.”) Who knows? Maybe God figured it would take not one but TWO magical vintages to hook the wily Russian. If so, it worked, for Tchelistcheff spent the rest of his winemaking career trying in vain to equal those twin peaks of excellence. At least he could take solace in the consistent excellence of his BV Cabernets. Cabernet Sauvignons like Tchelistcheff’s BV GEORGES LATOUR PRIVATE RESERVE please us from the neck up, as do great art and music, while Pinot Noir arouses our inner animal passions, in a manner like musk oil or truffles. If these two wines were women, then Cabernet Sauvignon would be many a country gentleman’s idea of the perfect wife— a blond, blue-blooded Ivy League equestrienne, regal of breed and icily refined in manner and bearing… always correct, if unexciting. Pinot Noir, in contrast, would be his raven-haired, fiery-eyed gypsy mistress, galloping bareback on a stolen horse to their next steamy tryst. But I tend to think of white wines as women and red wines as men. And so if these two wines were males, I imagine them as a pair of musically-gifted brothers-- One brother effortlessly thrives at the conservatory and goes on to earn a seat in a prestigious orchestra. He is consistently brilliant with his violin in a wide variety of styles, and conductors worldwide find him easy to work with. This brother is Cabernet Sauvignon. The other brother drives several of the conservatory faculty to quit in exasperation at his unfulfilled talent until he himself is finally expelled. Having pawned his violin for meal money, he roams from city to city playing tenor sax in seedy clubs, never more than two paychecks ahead of abject poverty. But he is supported by a rabidly loyal following who tolerate his all-too-frequent no-shows and off-nights because they know that perhaps one night in seven— when the stars or whatever else magically align— he will shuffle to the stage, close his eyes, rear back, and then proceed to channel the very voice of God. This brother is Pinot Noir. * * * * * * * After all this long trip up the hierarchy and such a lengthy introduction, we should at least share some tasting notes, right? What makes wine interesting as well as delicious is the drama that plays out with each sip– the conflict and its resolution; the creative tension between opposite flavors and textures. Cabernet Sauvignon is a thick-skinned late-ripener that requires a long and fairly dry summer to fully and properly ripen. When it does, the complex interplay of flavors can be spectacular– deep, dark flavors of sweet purple and black fruit (such as cassis) are counterbalanced by pleasantly acrid notes of bell pepper. The effect is quite similar to that of the grill marks on your steak– you wouldn’t want to thoroughly incinerate the whole slab of meat, but a modicum of char beautifully accents the succulence of the medium-rare interior. Maybe that’s why big Cab and grilled steak seem so perfect together. But wait– there’s more! Those thick skins on the Cabernet grapes are loaded with tannin, an excess of which can make drinking such wine in its youth feel like biting into a wool sweater. In moderation and/or with some cellar age, a judicious measure of tannin conspires with the oakiness from the barrels to give Cabernet Sauvignon a seemingly three-dimensional solid structure in one’s mouth, a framework in which all that luscious, purple fruitiness can fully express itself. When done right, the result is astonishingly delicious… more so, I dare say, than any other red grape variety similarly grown and vinified. In recent decades there has been an effort among winemakers to make Cabernet’s sturdy profile softer and its massive fruitiness more accessible in its youth. They usually do this by withdrawing the juice from the skins before fermentation is complete, thereby avoiding further extraction of tannin. I personally prefer old-school Cabernet. If I want a big red that’s fully approachable before its third birthday, there are plenty of good Merlots and old-vine Zinfandels out there. They don’t call Cabernet the “King of Grapes” for nothing… so when I head down to my wine cellar for a perfect red to accompany my fancy steak after a week on the road, I don’t want some metrosexual, over-refined Cab trying to hide its muscles and manhood as if ashamed of them; rather, gimme a Cab that tastes like it was grown in a junkyard, trellised on barbed wire, and picked by felons on work release. I know that half a day’s exposure to air in my decanter will at least partially civilize it before dinnertime without compromising its God-given strength. In my experience, Cab that has softened up is better than a Cab that was never tough in the first place. And if all that sounds like a difficult act to follow, then perhaps you just haven’t met the right Pinot Noir. The 20th century struggles of Californian winemakers to consistently make Pinot Noir that was as good as their Cabernets eventually taught everyone in the Golden State an important lesson– that more isn’t always more. While Cabernet Sauvignon had long thrived in the Californian “more-is-more” warmth and sunshine, Pinot Noir did not. Perhaps because in France’s Burgundy region (Pinot Noir’s native heath) summer sunshine and dry warmth are so highly desirable, it didn’t occur to Californian winemakers that, for Pinot Noir anyway, there might be an upper limit to such blessings. And whereas Cabernet’s dark fruitiness benefits from all it can get, Pinot Noir, they eventually realized, might do better in a different microclimate. They didn’t need to travel far, just to the nearby coast. Pinot was found to thrive in the cool coastal draws where the sea fog filters the sun and moderates the temperature, slowly nudging Pinot’s more delicate red fruit flavors to perfection. And once they found out how to make consistently good Pinot, it wasn’t long before they started making GREAT Pinot Noir on purpose instead of by accident. The sensory theater in a sip of great Pinot Noir, while not as loud and powerful as that of Cabernet Sauvignon, is no less dramatic. Red fruits– mainly raspberry and cherry, in my experience– tend to dominate Pinot’s perfume, counterbalanced by what is often described as notes of soil, coffee, and/or cola. (Sometimes I find myself in a coffee shop when they are brewing freshly-ground French Roast, and I get a shiver of olfactory nirvana when my brain recognizes it not as coffee but rather as a component of fabulous Pinot Noir.) And whereas Cabernet’s structure is sturdily framed with oak and tannin, Pinot Noir tends to feature the unctuous, silky-rich texture of glycerin, leaving the rip-roaring red fruit flavors and shimmering acidity room for full expression in the absence of significant tannin. Pinot Noir hasn’t traveled as widely beyond its Burgundian base as has Cabernet Sauvignon beyond Bordeaux, but it performs well enough in enough different regions to easily qualify as “noble.” In California we find lushly fruity versions from the regions Santa Barbara, Monterey, Sonoma Coast, Carneros, the Russian River Valley, and the Anderson Valley. California’s northern neighbor Oregon is a whole Pinot Noir success story in itself– Willamette Valley pioneer David Lett scored a significant upset in 1979 over prestigious Burgundian competition with his Eyrie Vineyard 1975 South Block Reserve Pinot Noir, and Lett’s success in Oregon likely helped to motivate his California counterparts to seek cooler sites for their Pinot. Elsewhere in the world, Australian versions of Pinot Noir are predictably ripe and muscular without fundamentally deviating from the classic Pinot template, while New Zealand has shown promise with relatively light and zingy interpretations that echo their refreshing take on Sauvignon Blanc. And finally, a bit of serving advice– just as Cabernet Sauvignon’s massive structure benefits from a few hours of breathing prior to service, Pinot Noir’s prominent acidity coupled with its comparative lack of tannin makes it a great candidate for the chill-bucket. (NOT the ice bucket, unless it is Pinot Noir BUBBLY.) Half an hour before serving, simply give your bottle a bath in a stock pot full of cold tap water. I guarantee that your Pinot Noir will taste twice as good if you serve it ten degrees cooler than room temperature. (This is good advice for most reds, but big reds with downright chewy tannin benefit less from a cold dunk.) * * * * * * * So, let’s say you’re relatively unfamiliar with these two varieties, or maybe you are sufficiently inspired by my descriptions to try one or the other or both. Here are a couple of good entry-level recommendations in the $15-20 range– CABERNET SAUVIGNON After extolling at length the virtues of California, I’m going to pull a switcheroo and recommend heading north to Washington State, which enjoys two advantages over California– One, land is cheaper in Washington, meaning that wine can be made more inexpensively; and Two, Washington’s vineyards are well north of California’s, meaning that its summer days are a couple of hours longer. Combined with a cooler climate, this means that Washington’s grapes enjoy a longer, more leisurely path to full ripeness, developing plenty of complex flavors for twenty bucks. While the best of California’s Napa Valley Cabernets are without parallel in both quality and price, Washington Cabernets are often better values in the more user-friendly price ranges. Look for CHATEAU STE. MICHELLE “INDIAN WELLS” CABERNET SAUVIGNON at your local wine shop or order it online. PINOT NOIR Until recently it has been rather difficult to find Pinot Noir for less than $20 that was both varietally correct and consistent from one vintage to the next. But a powerful major producer changed the game just a few years ago. It has become fashionable among wine mavens to bash MEIOMI PINOT NOIR simply because it is, well, mass-produced. I don’t criticize MEIOMI for that… not when their result is so excellent. I think that, given Pinot Noir’s troubled history and checkered track record, MEIOMI is a welcome accomplishment– a large production Pinot Noir that is well worth its tariff, available always and everywhere… even if only as a gateway to better and way more expensive bottlings. I can only conjure one little criticism– In mass-producing a wine that requires year-to-year consistency from such a finicky grape, MEIOMI PINOT NOIR is by necessity tightly managed (i.e., “manipulated”) in the cellar, making it a little like the surgically remastered face of a veteran supermodel— flawlessly beautiful from afar and yet, upon close examination, lacking an element or two of fleshly liveliness and spontaneity that we normally associate with youthful pulchritude. But if you find it in your heart to forgive a little œnological scalpelry and Botox, MEIOMI is a darn delicious Pinot Noir for eighteen bucks. * * * * * * * (As I was reading up for this essay, I got sidetracked by a fascinating story that really had no place in the paragraphs above but that I consider worth sharing. –DannyM.) APPENDIX– THE 19TH-CENTURY NEAR-DEATH OF FINE WINE AS WE KNOW IT European wine grapes (red AND white) are all of the same species, Vitis vinifera (just vinifera for short.) When the early European explorers reached the Americas, they found wild non-vinifera grapes growing everywhere that superficially resembled their Old-World cousins but differed in significant ways– one of them so disastrous that it nearly deprived future generations of fine wine as we know it. The colonists found that the grape species native to the Americas— including Vitis rotundifolia, Vitis riparia, and, most notably, Vitis labrusca— could be coaxed, with equal parts ingenuity and imagination, into yielding drinkable wine. Good thing, because the vinifera grape vines they brought with them withered and died in their new soil for no apparent reason. No one, not even our brilliant and wine-loving third president Thomas Jefferson— could figure out why. Then in the 1860’s a southern French vigneron introduced American vines to Europe, and the world soon had the answer. Through a quirk of evolution, the New World grape species were resistant to the phylloxera vine louse, which they harmlessly hosted. However, Vitis vinifera was not… And so, upon landing in Europe, the American vines inadvertently introduced a ravenous pest that promptly killed all the major vineyards of France and elsewhere. But nature rarely presents problems that humans can’t solve, especially when big money is at stake. And so after a few years of frantic experimentation, most European vineyards were re-planted with vinifera vines grafted to phylloxera-resistant American roots. Of all the owners of all the vineyards of Europe thus saved, the happiest were likely those in Bordeaux and Burgundy– the thrones of power of, respectively, Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir… …And without this clever solution to such a devastating biological calamity, this whole article might well have been about beer rather than wine.

Author: Guest Contributor KaylaC. A minivan is being towed by triple-A. The front is smashed in, nearly to the second row of seats. The metal looks crumpled like tin foil with the roof caved in, clearly flipped a few times. Who knew metal could bend like that? There's the obvious stain of blood on the seats. You have to wonder how people survive something like that. But the minivan is the evidence of that. But before that, the minivan is flipped over on the side of the road. One man is hanging upside down in the passenger's seat. Another man is sprawled out in the grass. Without the blood, he could be sleeping. Both are breathing, but someone is near death. Before that, the two men are together at a bar, close but not too close. Alone. One laughs and grabs the other's shoulder. It's the little things that matter the most. They eat the bowl of pretzels and chips and nuts on the bar, more and more as the drinks flow faster. Before that, the other is telling his wife that he's hanging out with some guys from work. There's a new guy who moved from across the states and they're showing him the town. The wife kisses him goodbye and tells him to be safe. He promises to come home in one piece. Before that, one is staring at his phone, asking to hang out after work, get drinks at some popular sports bar. One is smiling so wide his jaw will hurt later. He pulls out the message every so often, staring at the contact picture, and pretending he isn't going to do what he desperately wants to do. Before that, the other takes his wife out to a nice dinner, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket twice, signaling a text message. He ignores it the best he can but his heartbeat picks up, his leg begins bouncing, and he smiles slightly to himself. His wife asks him what's up. He responds with nothing. Before that, one is talking with the other, like they've done many times before. One is talking about his parents, something he hasn't done in the two years since he met the other. And he tells the other who he really is, and waits for the rejection. And he waits. And it never comes. Before that, the other notices one's dimples. He knows his own thumb would fit perfectly in them. The other says nothing and keeps his fantasies to himself. He feels sick. Before that, one is hired at a construction company. He is an accountant, making sure that worker's compensation is being paid fairly. He meets the workers on shift that day and finds himself blushing, luckily hidden behind his complexion, as another man shakes his hand one second too long. One thinks maybe he can try here. Before that, the other sees the new worker from across the yard. His helmet is too large and he keeps adjusting it so it doesn't cover his eyes. The other feels a pit begin in his stomach, the feelings he's suppressed since he was a child. He won't give in this time. Before that, one is at home with his parents. He's crying, sobbing into his mother's dress and begging them to not kick him out. He loves them. He loves home. His father pulls him up by his shirt and shoves him across the room, tells him to never touch them ever again, to leave and never come back. Before that, the other is in college, partying every weekend, and maybe during the week but his grades are fine and he's dating the hottest women on campus so it's no problem. He is scared, knowing that the small glances he throws his friends' way are too much. But they're hot and he can't help it when he gets tipsy. So he drinks more and more until he can't see a thing. Before that, one is in high school, bullied mercilessly, tries to fight back but there are too many of them. A boy steps up and pushes someone over and the crowd disperses. He helps one up and one thanks him for stopping the group from hurting him. His eye is swollen, his cheek bloody from where it scraped the pavement, his hands sore from being kicked. One is not happy, but he has a friend. Before that, the other is eight and asks his parents why the church prayed for a boy in Mass. They explained that the little boy was confused but their prayers would help him. The other asks why he was confused. They say that he needed a little push in the right direction. The other still has no idea what they are talking about but they won't answer him. He finds out why the next day and knows to push every part that could relate to that other boy deep inside him. No one will need to pray for him. Before that, one is with his parents at Disney, the happiest place on earth. He watches two men kiss in front of Mickey’s Palace and his parents quickly cover his face. They whisper that it’s sick and that those people should just keep to themselves. They’re going to hell one day, you know. But before all that, one is born and his parents say, "We will love you no matter what." But before all that, the other is born and his parents say, "We will love you no matter what." * * * * * * * KaylaC. Is a 25 year-old writer and up-and-coming retail management professional living in Boston. She enjoys writing short stories and micro-fiction, and is currently working on a fantasy novel series.

Author: Guest Contributor Olga Yulikova She was at the train station every day. Her spot was right across the main entrance next to the coffee shop. She knew his routine. He exited at 8:32, passed her, and went in to get his small size dark roast with whole milk. She waited for him every work day. He always gave her two or three dollar bills and five bucks on a payday Friday. He chatted a bit before getting his coffee. He was tall and slim with longish curly hair. He had the gait of a dance teacher, a soft voice, and a cool computer bag across his shoulder. She liked how he looked at her without any prejudice. He never asked her why she was there, never offered to take her to the shelter or bothered with any other stupid Good Samaritan advice. He treated her like an independent being, which was nice. He often had a sad look, and she was working up enough courage to ask him what was wrong someday. In the winter he wore a warm black jacket and a Russian style hat, the rest of the year - a variety of hoodies and an occasional buttoned down shirt. But those were rare. He looked good dressed up. Very good, in fact. He was remarkably punctual, never missing his morning train. On Mondays and Wednesdays he carried a yoga mat; he liked hot yoga in town after work. After work she was gone. Her shift was 8am till noon. She had a lunch break at the vet’s soup kitchen. Then she met Igor at the downtown crossing to get high and spend the rest of the day hanging out on the Commons. The Commons were getting too crowded these days. New people kept on arriving in the last two years and their crap was everywhere. They migrated from out of state and were ruder and more vulgar than the townies. She was mad at them mostly because now the night shelters were stricter, and she had to go to the woman's place for dinner. Too many women were not her thing. Bitches. This morning she started her shift at 8:05. By 8:32 she was all eyes. She spotted him from far away, which was pretty easy because he had his bright yellow hoodie on, and he was a good foot taller than most people. He was approaching. Her heart was racing. He looked distraught today. His hair was wet and he had an extra duffel bag with him. “Hey, going someplace?” He paused. She never really talked first to him. “Oh, yes. In a way,” he gave her a $50 bill. “I am going.” “Wow. Thanks.” She was getting braver. “Any place nice?” “Perhaps.” “Well, good luck then.” This was the most she ever said to him. He looked at her and smiled. “Would you like a coffee?” “Nah, I'm good.” She would have fallen down but she was already sitting on top of a sleeping bag. “Up to you.” He shrugged and continued to stand there. “Here.” He reached inside his bag and pulled out a small item wrapped in gift paper. “It's not Christmas yet.” She could barely speak. “I hope you like it. I wrote it.” “You what?” “It's a book. I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it.” He now blushed a little and waved goodbye. He went across the street to the coffee shop. She was not moving. The treasure in her hand, the book he created, was a part of him she gets to keep. His thoughts, his feelings, his moods are going to be revealed to her. She will get to know him. She will live inside his head. She will understand how he is, she will be allowed into his inner world, his world of the Secret Life of Tall People. She will travel with him to where he wants to go. She'll breathe the same air and touch pages he turned. This was the best day of her life. She barely noticed others who were putting coins and small bills into her plastic cup in front of the cardboard sign. Maybe next time she would take him up on his coffee offer? Maybe she would even be invited inside the coffee shop? Maybe he would even stay for a cup with her? Or she could walk with him to his office and they could talk? And someday maybe she would skip the park portion of the day, come back to the train station around five and see him again on his commute back. And what if he invited her over for dinner? This is just pure nonsense. But then again, who knows? Maybe he will want to be friends, especially now that he shared such a big part of himself with her? She sat cross-legged pressing the wrapped book to her belly till the usual time, then went to the vet’s. The lunch room was crowded and noisy. She gulped down her usual green pea soup and a slice of pizza, grabbed extra bread and headed to Downtown Crossing. Igor was already high. “Hey, I got a gift today from a regular customer.” “Yeah.” He clearly didn't care. “Want to see it?” “No, take this,” he handed her the glass pipe. Hurry up, we need to go get our bench, or those cockroaches will take it.” She had to be quick. The asphalt got softer right away and they both floated down the street around the shopping mall entrance into the back alley towards the park. She felt good and clean. Like she was a brand new baby just arriving to this world as an unaccompanied minor. She giggled. “Good stuff, man.” “Yeah.” Igor was flying next to her in his own bubble. Their bench was already taken, so they had to set up on the grass. Grass smelled like dog pee and bird poop was everywhere. She put down her sleeping bag. Igor used his jacket. He started to tune his guitar. She carefully took the gift out of her day pack. The wrapping paper had cool stripes and shapes of color. There was a ribbon. She slowly unwrapped the book and turned it right side up. His name was dancing with letters and the title of the book was written in cursive font. The intimacy was unbearable now. She held her breath, opened the cover and read the dedication page like a sacred text, like a document of the utmost significance, the testimonial to the infinite universe that connects all travelers. That reaches to strangers who are on time from those who are waiting at the door. The ones that have and those who ask. The wonderful and glorious dancers to their inner melody, which only sometimes reaches someone else's ears. And when she turned the page to the first chapter, her heart could no longer contain itself. It burst into a million little hearts that exited her chest like a swarm of pink butterflies. Their fuzzy delicate wings were flopping faster and faster. And they flew up above the grass and into the trees, and covered the branches and the leaves and the flowers and the statues and the old carousel and all the people’s surprised faces. A million butterflies in the city park were trembling with pleasure. Igor’s guitar went on. And she kept reading his book until it got completely dark. * * * * * * * Olga Yulikova was born in Moscow and emigrated to the United States when she was 22. She quickly fell in love with American literature, particularly the works of O. Henry. Now a writer and visual artist, Ms. Yulikova presently lives in the Boston area with her teenage daughters.