Virtual Gourmet

Paz Vega, Téa Leoni and Adam Sandler in "Spanglish" (2004)

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IN THIS ISSUE
TAPAS AND DINNER
IN THE BASQUE COUNTRY
By John Mariani

NEW YORK CORNER
LOVE AND PIZZA
Chapter Thirteen
By John Mariani

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR
MILLBROOK WINERY
By Geoff Kalish

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TAPAS AND DINNER
IN THE BASQUE COUNTRY

By John Mariani

Berton in Bilbao

      The news that Spain’s restaurants are now open—with reduced capacity and social distancing—makes the prospect of visiting all the more savory at this time, when deprivation makes the appetite roar. It might well be said that the way people eat in Spain is the way the rest of the world is now eating. Not that Spanish foods like salt cod, paella, and garlic soup are showing up on global menus, but that the flavors of Spain’s cuisine—sweet peppers, beans, ham, shellfish, and the idea of tapas—have become part of the repertoire of chefs from Portland to Paris.
      Spanish wines are now considered among the finest in the world, and the explosion of media attention given to Spain’s “molecular cuisine” has cooled down and never had much to do with the way Spaniards actually love to eat, according to revered regional traditions.
           Nowhere is this more distinctive than in the Basque country of Northern Spain, especially in the seaside city of San Sebastian (left) and the surging cultural capital of Bilbao and La Rioja Alta. The Basque country, stretching from the French border westward to Cantabria and south to Burgos, is only 4,500 square miles of territory, and you can’t drive more than three hours in any direction without crossing into another province. It is richly indebted to foods from the Cantabrian Sea: chipirones (baby squid), ventresca (tuna belly), rodaballo (turbot), gambas (shrimp), merluza (hake), kokotxas (hake cheeks), bacalao (cod), almejas, (clams), txangurro (spider-crab), cigalas (langoustines), and the famous—and very expensive--angulas (baby eels), found in the estuaries of the Bay of Biscay.
    The farms around Gernika provide wonderful pimientos and kidney beans, mushrooms and potatoes. The sheep’s milk Idiazabal cheese (once smoked in chimneys) has a distinctive wild gaminess. Spanish hams are nonpareil, and the lamb is as redolent of whatever it feeds on.
        People go to old cider houses to drink the fresh, slightly alcoholic apple juice. And the regional wines, including the fine red Rioja Alavesa and the sparkling Txakoli, go perfectly with hearty Basque cooking.
      The easiest way to begin sampling all these foods and wines is at the ubiquitous tapas bars, called tascas.   Most nights in the casco viejo (old quarter) of the gorgeous city of San Sebastián, which arcs around the Bay of Biscay, the bars are packed with locals who come to snack on tapas—called pinchos—and to drink red and rosé wines, cider, Mahou beer, or Txakoli. The prowl from bar to bar is called el txikito, referring to the squat, wide-mouthed glasses drinks are served in.
       The array of tapas. listed on a blackboard, at some bars may number thirty or more, though most places serve perhaps twenty, some hot, some cold, and are quite similar from bar to bar. You always find thin, silky slices of Spanish ham on crusty bread (good bread is a distinguishing factor among tapas bars); scrambled eggs and mushrooms; sardines and anchovies; stuffed pimientos; fried croquetas; and a potato omelet called tortilla de patata. Everything is unstintingly fresh: in a good tasca those pinchos made in the morning and not consumed by the afternoon are discarded and new ones prepared for the evening.      The best way to tell a good tapas bar from a poor one among more than 500 in San Sebastián is to measure the square footage you can manage to occupy on the floor. Anything more than one square foot means the bar is not very popular, and jostling for a position near the bar itself is part ritual and part endurance test.
      The best tascas offer a wider variety and several house specialties. One of the best is Gandarias Jatetxea, which serves tripe, chorizo sausage, several types of croquetas, some with cod and a creamy béchamel inside, and has exclusivity to carry Spain’s finest and most expensive ham, from the producer Joselito.
      My favorite tasca is La Cuchara de San Telmo (left). It is also the one with the least wiggle room, so you will find yourself cheek to jowl with locals‒although these days there might be social distancing‒, who point to the cold tapas on the bar or order the hot ones, which on any given night might include shredded oxtail, a risotto with blue Cabrales cheese, even foie gras.
      The tradition among barmen at the tascas is to pour the wines by holding the bottle a good foot away into the txikito glasses, and rarely do they ever waste a drop. You get a short pour—maybe an inch or two, the reason being that most people eat one or two tapas, slug down their drink, and move on. My own preference is to drink the cold, fizzy Txakoli, whose alcohol is only about 10-11.5 percent. That way I don’t wobble (much) down the street after my third tasca visit.
      From San Sebastian you can drive, as I recently did, west on Route N634 along the rippling seacoast, through small cities and tiny towns, many with ancient Basque names that contain those identifying x’s and z’s within their spelling. Less than an hour from San Sebastián is the wonderful old, cobblestoned fishing town of Getaria, cuddled around a snug harbor dotted with seafood restaurants, where what you will eat is what just came up from the docks that morning.
     The prettiest perch is at Kaia-Kaipe (right), a restaurant above the harbor, with an extensive menu that includes the velvety bacalao dish called pil-pil, made by combining olive oil and garlic with cod until it becomes like mayonnaise. But my favorite place is Iribar, catty corner to Getaria’s San Salvador Church.
      My wife and I sat on the mezzanine, watching people drift in after one o’clock for lunch. The large menu is built around the day’s fish, so we ordered a lustrous and tender octopus salad, quickly grilled prawns glossy with olive oil, and rodaballo (turbot), which, like all the fish, is grilled over an outdoor charcoal grill, the fish moistened with frequent sprinklings of olive oil, white wine, and garlic. Lobster on the grill is remarkably well priced (left).
      Farther west, we found Eneperi Jatetxea (right) off a hairpin turn along the swerving coast road between Bakio and Bermeo. Timbered throughout with a barn-like roof, plenty of sailor memorabilia—even a small museum of marine artifacts—and waitresses in traditional blouses and long skirts, this is a rustic and beautiful restaurant (with a somewhat lax service staff) that is clearly for either a business meal or serious night out. The menu still holds to regional cookery but with considerable flair in dishes like green Basque peppers stuffed with onion and pork, the moist tail of hake in a red pepper sauce, and an ice cream made from fresh cheese and walnuts with Chinese gooseberries.
     Eventually we wound our way south through pine forests and tiny towns like Eibar, Urkiola, and Durango to the beautiful, broad city of Vitoria, called Gasteiz in the Basque language. Bustling and modern, Vitoria has been very careful to restore and maintain its historic buildings, magnificent churches, and green parks, and many streets are closed off to motor traffic. There we dined at one of the oldest restaurants in northern Spain, El Portalón (left), hidden behind a nondescript door in a three-story building dating to the 15th century, inside a warren of varnished staircases, rough wooden beams, tiled floors, and antique artwork. The food is hearty and generous, from a thick, red bean soup riddled with cabbage and slices of blood sausage, to squid cooked in its own ink with rice, and a platter of flavorful, fatty morsels of oxtail with sliced fried potatoes.
      So much has been written about modern, tourist-overrun Bilbao that its Basque character has been somewhat displaced. But you will still find it in the spirit of restaurants and tapas bars all over the youthful, fashionable city, particularly across the river in the Old Town around the Cathedral of Santiago, now teeming with new tascas and cafés. Berton is one of the best new ones, known for its ham. On the other side of the river, where all the new cultural facilities are built, Restaurante Etxanobe (left) is located on the third floor of the striking Palaçio de Congresos y de la Musica, looking out over the city from glass walls. Well-spaced tables and impeccable service lend a sophisticated ambiance to the evening, which begins with excellent breads and six different olive oils, followed by grilled langoustines scented with vanilla, and a red rockfish with orange—inventive but not molecular, simple cooking with real flair.

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Here are a few more tips about bar hopping in San Sebastian:
• There are at least a dozen tapas bars (and restaurants) along the Calle 31 de Agosto, and every hotel will provide a map of them.• Cold items line the bar, while hot dishes are listed on blackboards.
• The barman totals up the bill merely by looking at the empty plates you return. It’s an honor system.
• There is no tipping required in a tasca.
• The locals tend to eat late, but not nearly as late as they do in Madrid. Start bar hopping after 8 p.m. and the tascas will be swarming by 9. During the week they start to close up around midnight, later on weekends.

RESTAURANTS
Gandarias Jatetxea--Calle 31 Calle de Agosto 23, San Sebastián; www.restaurantegandarias.com
La Cuchara de San Telmo--Calle 31 de Agosto, 28, San Sebastián. www.labicidesantelmo.com
Irib0ar, Kale Nagusia Kalea, 34 Getaria. www.iribargetaria.com
El Portalón—151 Correria, Vitoria; www.restauranteelportalon.com
Kaia-Kaipe—General Arnao 4, Getaria; www.kaia-kaipe.com
Eneperi Jatetxea—89 San Pelayo, Bakio; www.eneperi.com.
Berton—11 Jardines, Bilbao; https://www.berton.eus
Etxanobe—4 Avenue de Abandoibarra, Bilbao; ladespensadeletxanobe.com

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NEW YORK CORNER
By John Mariani

LOVE AND PIZZA

Since, for the time being, I am unable to write about or review New York City restaurants, I have decided instead to print a serialized version of my (unpublished) novel Love and Pizza, which takes place in New York and Italy and involves a young, beautiful Bronx woman named Nicola Santini from an Italian family impassioned about food. As the story goes on, Nicola, who is a student at Columbia University, struggles to maintain her roots while seeing a future that could lead her far from them—a future that involves a career and a love affair that would change her life forever. So, while New York’s restaurants remain closed, I will run a chapter of the Love and Pizza each week until the crisis is over. Afterwards I shall be offering the entire book digitally. I hope you like the idea and even more that you will love Nicola, her family and her friends. I’d love to know what you think. Contact me at loveandpizza123@gmail.com
—John Mariani

To read previous chapters go to archive (beginning with March 29, 2020, issue.

LOVE AND PIZZA

By John Mariani

Cover Art By Galina Dargery

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

        It had been through an odd turn of fate and fortune that Milan had become a major fashion capital, when for decades it existed in the shadow of far more elegant cities like Rome and Florence. After World War II, Florence, which had been a major European textile center since the 14th century, had come to dominate Italian fashion through its production of silks and leather goods made by designers like the Ferragamo family, Gucci, and the aristocratic Emilio Pucci (left)—all Tuscans by birth and temperament.
    There had been modest versions of Fashion Week held in Milan since 1958, and the city was home to a few well-respected Milan designers, including Krizia, Mila Schön, and Biki. Elio Fiorucci, at first an importer of British mod sportswear at the time of “Swinging London,” opened his own boutique in Milan in 1967, emphasizing casual, youthful fashion. That was the same year the Missoni family, based in Trieste, was invited to show their collection at Florence’s Pitti Palace art museum.
    That show caused a sensation, though as a succés de scandale. Just before the show was to go on, Rosita Missoni, the company’s co-founder, noticed that the brassieres her models were wearing were the wrong color under her exquisitely thin knit dresses, so she told them to discard them (right). Owing to the near-transparency of the fabric and the lighting in the palazzo, the women’s sleek nudity showed through, to many viewers’ delight and to others’ sheer horror. They saw . . . nipples! The Missonis were not asked back to the Pitti the following year.
    That began a slow exodus from Florence to Milan. The Missonis and many of the Italian men’s wear designers moved to the city while Krizia relocated to a 16th century palazzo in the city and shifted her shows there. And they all began mounting fashion shows with a distinctive theatrical flair and Italian brio. The press dubbed the shows “happenings,” and, because there was no official venue like the Pitti in Florence, the Milan shows popped up all over town, especially in the posh hotels like the Principe di Savoia and the Palace. Music of the moment—including the soundtrack from the movie “Star Wars” at one show—boomed over crowds that might include a thousand store buyers—a number never known to attend shows in Florence or Rome.
    By the late 1970s, the success of these shows, based not so much on couture as on ready-to-wear, quickly engaged interest from Milan-based banks, whose lenders saw far more potential in selling tens of thousands of suits, dresses and sportswear everywhere, rather than in selling couture to a few hundred rich women around the world.
        In 1977 The New York Times’ fashion critic Carrie Donovan pronounced the city “a fashion capital rivaling Paris and New York.” Investors sought out young designers on the verge of breaking through, and none was readier than Giorgio Armani to make a transformative splash in the international fashion market.
    Armani (left)—the name came via his father, who was half Albanian—was born in Piacenza, a town in Emilia-Romagna, and he had once been a window-dresser at La Rinascente department store in Milan, before becoming an acolyte of Nino Cerruti. Persuaded he could go out on his own, the 40-year-old Armani set up shop in Milan on the Corso Venezia, at first designing for other houses and winning applause for shows with which he was involved at the Pitti.
        He first showed his own ready-to-wear and women’s lines to overwhelming praise in 1975, and by the 1980s there were a perfume and an underwear line, then the Emporio Armani store in Milan. By then everything was conceived and marketed from his 19th century palazzo on the centrally located Via Borgonuovo, where he lived and worked—when he was not relaxing at his villa outside of town, his farmhouse in Forte dei Marmi, or his hideaway on the remote island of Pantelleria. Armani’s store, on Via San Andrea, was antagonistically devoid of classic Milanese trappings: the floors were rubber matting, the walls translucent acrylic held up by steel girders; track lights brought everything in the store to life. And prices were kept to a moderate level—an Armani blazer sold for just $330 at the store, half what it was in the United States.
        Having built up the most enviable reputation and clientele of any Italian designer—even appearing on the cover of Time magazine—Armani didn’t even hold runway shows for two years in the early ‘80s, so there was a well-stoked fire of intense interest as to what his next show would be like.   For his menswear show, held earlier, in January, Armani put up a huge billboard to announce his lower priced Emporio Armani men’s line. He bought magazine ads showing an androgynous-looking Charlotte Rampling dressed in jackets in stripes and checks that hinted at what was to come in the women’s shows. By then, Armani’s annual sales were soaring upwards to $100 million, and the new show was intended to be a blockbuster among other Milan extravaganzas.
    And Catherine and Nicola had passes for it!
    Milan Fashion Week, which ran after the London and before the Paris shows, began in earnest on Monday, with truckloads of clothes shipped into the city days before and every hotel room booked weeks prior. Limousine drivers made more money in that one week than they did all season, many of them hired on-call twenty-four hours a day, moving their impatient passengers slowly through or around what was called the Golden Triangle—the cobbled streets of Via della Spiga, Via Sant'Andrea and Via Montenapoleone.
     Both the choreographed and the wholly unplanned madness of Fashion Week, all avidly reported on by the Italian press and dutifully covered by their bemused European and American colleagues, was, of course, much about the pecking order: who would be seated in the front rows, who would be the first to interview the top and the new designers; who would be invited to the most coveted parties; and who would get the “A” tables at the city’s most fashionable restaurants, where the designers’ marketing people entertained buyers and buyers entertained clients.
     The frenzy of merely getting into the shows was astonishing to Nicola and Catherine, largely because Italians had a long tradition of never paying any attention to orderly lines, preferring instead just to assemble in a slowly moving mass, in these cases a very well- dressed mass, as were the two American girls in their new outfits.
    Catherine had been to fashion shows in New York, but these were much less structured, the music completely different—more American rock and roll than Italian disco, thank God—and the atmosphere far more entertaining than commercial.
   Armani’s show was, as usual, held at his office-and-residence in a basement that had once served as a bomb shelter, which he had reconfigured as a theater. Nicola and Catherine were suitably dazzled by it all, astonished when they were shown to seats just four rows from the runway.
    “I think I’m going to faint from all this perfume around us,” said Nicola, aromatically assaulted on all sides by conflicting scents that included plenty of the new Armani, which had just been introduced to coincide with his show.
    “I know,” said Catherine, blinking. “You could go out of the house without any perfume and just brush up against some of these women and absorb theirs.”
    The girls then began taking note of the few famous people they could identify, like the fashion editor from Vogue, Grace Mirabella, with her short-cropped blonde hair, and Carrie Donovan of the Times, famous for her ridiculously large black-rimmed glasses that made her look as if she were always taking an eye test. But most of the first-row people were unknown to Nicola and Catherine, who said, “Most of them are probably buyers from, like, Bloomingdale’s, Bergdorf’s and Saks.”
    There were also a lot of very well-dressed men at the show, some in Armani. When Nicola nodded in the direction of one or another, Catherine just shook her head and said, “Forget it, they’re all gay.”
    “I doubt they’re all gay,” said Nicola.
    “Well, if they aren’t, they are either fat buyers or rich guys just here to pick up the new models.”
    “Hm,” said Nicola, then, noticing an extremely handsome, impeccably dressed man with slightly long hair standing off near the door, asked, “What about him?”
    “Oh God, he’s gorgeous!” said Catherine, her jaw dropping. “I don't know, he doesn’t look gay. Maybe he’s a bouncer.”
    Nicola laughed, “That guy is not a bouncer. All the bouncers are wearing the same outfit, over there, the muscle heads in the black t-shirts and jeans.”
    But at that moment the gorgeous man they’d been discussing was saying goodbye to a woman with a clipboard and earphones, He kissed her on both cheeks and was out the door.
    Nicola sighed, “Well, guess we’ll never know.
    And so it began, with a parade of models sashaying down the catwalk in the provocative, exaggerated way Catherine and Nicola had mocked on their way over—which had gotten them a couple of comments and wolf whistles.
    This was Armani’s tenth women’s line, and the clothes had the flow and caress of fabrics that seemed only he could somehow obtain: the patterned silks and the subtle woolen weaves, the muted but true colors of taupe, gray, brown and black. Nicola, even from the fourth row, could tell that what lay behind the flow and drape of such fabrics seemingly so unconstructed was in fact due to the kind of exacting and exquisite tailoring that had long distinguished Italian fashion and showed the true artfulness of the Armani style. Like the undercoatings and build-up of colors in Renaissance paintings, Armani’s genius was hidden beneath the exterior beauty of his clothes. Sprezzatura, after enormous hard work.
    There were many jackets—the article of clothing on which Armani had built his reputation—some short, some long, some in black velvet, gathered at the waist rather than hanging free; skirts were above the knee and tight across the hips or bouffant, flared by petticoats; slacks fit like ski pants, with foot straps; coats dropped to the ankle; tunics were crafted from lace.
    What struck Nicola and Catherine most was that the clothes were so clearly, so remarkably, adapted to what a woman in 1986 could actually wear, rather than the extreme gimmickry of so much haute couture. Right then and there most of the women in the audience wanted to rip the clothes from the models’ bodies and immediately put them on to wear outside, to go to work in, socialize in, even fall asleep in, knowing that the fabrics would look as fresh and unwrinkled the next day as the night before.
    After successive struts down the runway, the willowy, never smiling models stopped appearing. “Well, the show looks like it’s over,” said Catherine. “Let’s get out of here before everyone gets up.”
    At that, on the two-tier stage, each model emerged for the last time from individual cubicles, followed by a sheepish-looking, bleary-eyed Giorgio Armani in his black t-shirt and jeans. He was applauded and greeted with successive waves of bravos as the models discreetly patted their slender hands together, almost in unison.

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NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR

MILLBROOK WINERY
By Geoff Kalish

        Sitting on a scenic Hudson Valley hill overlooking vineyards and 3 ponds (manmade to moderate the surrounding temperature), Millbrook Winery was founded in 1981 by former New York State Commissioner of Agriculture John Dyson (left) and his brother-in-law, David Bova. It was the first Hudson Valley winery to produce wines only from vitis vinifera grapes—classic European varietals, as opposed to hybrid grapes used at the time by other facilities. (Of note, Dyson was also instrumental in the 1976 passage of New York State’s Farm Winery Law, allowing farmers to make and sell wine for only a small licensing fee, thereby encouraging numerous small wineries throughout the state.) And managed now primarily by Mr. Bova and winemaker John Graziano, Millbrook Winery produces approximately 15,000 cases of wine annually.
        Since it’s less than a two-hour car ride from New York City and a popular outing spot for tourists from the nearby counties (especially Westchester), in the past the winery was bustling on weekends, with tours and tastings, and numerous special events as well as lunch served on an outdoor terrace overlooking the grounds. Also, in addition to sales of bottles at the winery, wholesale sales to local restaurants and retail shops in the area as well as in Westchester County and New York City was brisk. Obviously, with the COVID-19 pandemic, that’s changed now and to gain some insight into the future of Millbrook and other Hudson Valley Wineries, I spoke to Bova. Some of his comments follow:                 “The key to our financial success over the last many years has been selling wine directly out the front door of the winery. And last year we saw over 25,000 visitors to the winery to taste wine, come to our Food Truck Friday events or a Jazz concert on Saturday evening. Of course, that is before COVID hit. However, if Millbrook’s local support during this COVID crisis is any indication, I believe there is a great future for Hudson Valley wineries. While our Tasting Room is open for pick-up only, without tours or tastings taking place, out Direct-to-Consumer sales are up over 200%. These are from customers who want our wine and call in to get it directly. In fact, we are thrilled that our core customers are still supporting us even if they can’t come here and taste with us. Actually, I believe Millbrook’s long tenure (celebrating our 35th vintage this year) is very helpful. Of course, and more importantly, the wines produced by John Graziano (our only winemaker) have gotten better over the years, so we have a solid track record and reputation for producing high quality wines.”
        To follow-up on Bova’s comments I recently took a ride to the winery for curb-side pick-up and purchased bottles representative of the current releases and the following comments are based on tasting these as well as an “oldie” from my cellar. (All prices provided are suggested retail cost for 750ml bottles. Of note, there’s a 15% discount for bottles purchased at the winery)

2018 Millbrook Chardonnay ($18.50). Made from grapes grown in a variety of New York State locales, following fermentation 50% of this wine was aged in oak for 7 months. It shows a bouquet and taste of ripe apples and lemon and a crisp finish with notes of vanilla and anise. Mate it with roasted chicken or turkey as well as grilled branzino or orata.

2019 Millbrook Unoaked Chardonnay ($18.50). Produced in the style of a French Chablis, this wine has a bouquet and taste of apples and citrus with a refreshing lemony finish. It marries well with scallops, grilled trout or shrimp.

2018 Millbrook Proprietor’s Special Reserve ($25). Similar in style to a top-flight Napa Chardonnay, this elegant barrel-fermented wine, from estate grown Hudson Valley grapes, is loaded with flavors of ripe apples, citrus and vanilla with a long smooth finish. It makes ideal accompaniment to halibut, grilled tuna, even swordfish.

2018 Millbrook Proprietor’s Special Reserve Tocai Fruilano ($18). Made from Hudson Valley estate grown grapes, this varietal is usually associated with wines from northeastern Italy. However, one would be hard pressed to find it dissimilar from its Italian cousin, showing a bouquet and flavors of ripe pears, gooseberries and lime, with a touch of almonds in its soft finish. Try it with mahi mahi, cobia, turkey or even grilled pork chops.

2018 Millbrook Pinot Noir ($23). This barrel-aged, 100% Pinot Noir, with grapes hailing from across New York State, has a bouquet and taste of ripe plums, cranberry and notes of cherry in its finish. It matches well with grilled salmon, Artic char or roasted turkey, as well as pasta with red sauce.

2018 Millbrook Cabernet Franc ($23). Produced from a blend of 79% Cabernet Franc, 9% Malbec and 2% Merlot grapes from the Millbrook estate as well as other prime growing areas in New York State, this wine was barrel-aged for 11 months prior to bottling. It shows a bouquet and taste of ripe raspberries and cassis with a long, smooth finish with a touch of tannin. Mate it with grilled steak, lamb or pork roasts as well as hamburgers and pizza.

1986 Millbrook Claret ($14 when originally purchased in 1988)—Made from a blend of Merlot (65%), Cabernet Sauvignon (25%) and 10% other varietals, this wine has a bouquet and flavor akin to an elegant, aged right bank Bordeaux, with a scent of violets and a taste of black truffles and chocolate with still a bit of tannin in its finish. We enjoyed it with grilled skirt steak and baked acorn squash.

MARIANI'S VIRTUAL GOURMET NEWSLETTER is published weekly. Publisher: John Mariani. Editor: Walter Bagley. Contributing Writers: Christopher Mariani, Robert Mariani, Misha Mariani, John A. Curtas, Gerry Dawes, Geoff Kalish, and Brian Freedman. Contributing Photographer: Galina Dargery. Technical Advisor: Gerry McLoughlin.