MARIANI’S

Virtual Gourmet


  March 13,   2020                                                                                            NEWSLETTER



Founded in 1996 

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Guy René Do Bois, "Mr and Mrs Chester Dale Dine Out" (1924)

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IN THIS ISSUE

À LA RECHERCHE DU PARIS,
Part One
By John A. Curtas


NEW YORK CORNER
THE INN AT POUND RIDGE BY JEAN-GEORGES
By John Mariani


ANOTHER VERMEER
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By John Mariani


NOTES FROM THE SPIRITS LOCKER
IRISH WHISKEY'S POPULARITY SOARS
By John Mariani




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On this week's episode of my WVOX Radio Show "Almost Golden," on Wed. March 16 at 11AM EST,I will be speaking about the bygone restaurants of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s in Westchester County NY.  Go to: WVOX.com. The episode will also be archived at: almostgolden.










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À LA RECHERCHE DU PARIS,
Part One
Text and Photos by John A. Curtas




 


     “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” – Ernest Hemingway

       American writers have been rhapsodizing about Paris since Ben Franklin’s powdered wig was peeking down some mademoiselle’s bustier. There’s not much I can add to the musings of everyone from Henry James to Ernest Hemingway, but I can share a few pointers on what to see and where to eat, along with some thoughts of my own about what makes the City of Light so compelling, one-hundred years after Ernest & Friends fell in love with it.
       Every time I see Paris’s low profile and history-drenched boulevards, I feel like a wonderstruck ten-year-old seeing a big city for the first time. Rick Steves’s aphorism, “Traveling is living intensified,” seems especially true on the streets of Paris, where awesome architecture defines every corner, your senses are excited on every block, and sweet surrender beckons under a relentless assault of good things to eat.

The "Lost Generation": Ernest Hemingway, Pauline Pfeiffer, Hadley Hemingway, John Dos Passos  and Gerald Murphy.

   One of the most impressive things about Paris is the mind-blowing number of places to feed and refresh yourself. Cafés and bistros have always been in abundance, but the patisseries/boulangeries (technically not the same thing, but often combined) seem to have doubled in number over the past two decades. The size of the brasseries and the sheer number of cafés means you’ll never go hungry or thirsty, no matter what the hour. My wife, poor thing, has always operated under the illusion that there is something to do in Paris other than eat and drink. Occasionally, I agree to do a little site-seeing and shopping, just to buy some marital harmony.
       Amazingly though, we actually lose a few pounds on every visit. Five to ten miles of walking each day do the trick, no matter how many baguettes, crêpes and soufflés we ingest. My advice to anyone traveling to Paris is to always find a café to call your own on your first day in the city, preferably close to your hotel. (This will not be hard; on some blocks there are six of them.) Stop by every morning for a quick café au lait or allongé and you will start to feel like a local in no time. By your third visit, even the frostiest waiter will start to smile when he sees you.
     Take your time (the French do): Say, “Encore, s’il vous plait” … and they let you camp there all day, diddling your phone, reading a book, or planning where next to eat, which is the surest way to make you feel like a Frenchman.
       The French may have invented blasé (the word and the mood), but no matter how many times I visit (this last trip was my tenth), it is the one feeling I never have because I’m too busy picking my jaw off the pavement, when I’m not using it to wine and dine. All you have to do to enjoy yourself in Gay Paree is give in to the Parisian vibe (by turns energetic one minute, and insouciant the next), leave your American expectations at home, relax, stroll around a bit, and say “bonjour!” and “s’il vous plait” about thirty times a day. Do that and the French are almost as nice as Italians.
      Breakfast? Fuggidabadit. In France, breakfast (“petit déjeuner”) is good for only one thing: thinking about lunch. So let’s get to it.

“We had eaten very good cold chicken at noon but this was still famous chicken country so we had poularde de Bresse and a bottle of Montagny, a light, pleasant white wine of the neighborhood.”—Ernest Hemingway.

 

CHEZ L’AMI LOUIS
32 Rue du Vertbois
+33 1 48 87 77 48

 

       Straight off the plane, still groggy from crossing the ocean, we staggered into L’Ami Louis, still one of the toughest bistro tickets in Paris. It was worth the wait, which for me had been twenty-five years, a quarter century of hearing about its allure to ex-pats, celebs, and galloping gourmands, followed by a revisionist decade (starting ten years ago) of how gauche, passé and “not worth it” it was. It is the one bistro critics love to hate. Especially British critics, as you’ll see below.
      Since its founding in 1924, the only things that have changed are the prices and the dress of the patrons. Some have called its interior “museum-like.” Others, like the late, great, splenetic A. A. Gill, described it as “painted, shiny distressed brown dung…set with labially pink cloths which give it a colonic appeal and the awkward sense that you might be a suppository.”         Nasty, Brit-lit gymnastics aside, what you find when you enter is a classic, narrow, well-worn bistro that feels as comfortable as a favorite sweater on a frosty day. Where Gill found “paunchy, combative, surly men” waiting tables, all we saw were affable-if-brusque, seen-it-all pros. Gill (who died in 2016, and whose hemorrhoids must’ve been acting up in 2011 when he wrote those words) also savaged the food. As much as we loved his knives-out style, we found ourselves silently pleading with his ghost throughout our two-hour lunch. Au contraire, mon frère, we muttered continually.
       From three ethereally silky slabs of foie gras to our deviled veal kidneys to the famous roast chicken, this was Parisian bistro cooking at its most elemental and satisfying. True, the recipes probably haven’t changed since Bogart was wooing Bergman, but that’s part of the charm.
       Where Gill found the foie gras to be “oleaginous and gross,” our bites were of the smoothest, purest duck liver. A mountain of shoestring fries came with our oversized bird, and better ones we can’t remember. Ditto the escargots, brimming with butter and electric green parsley, soft, slightly chewy and shot through with garlic in all the best ways. No fault could be found with the wine list either (pricey for a bistro, but not off-putting), or a baba au rhum the size of a human head.
       Gill concluded his hatchet job by calling L’Ami Louis the “worst restaurant in the world.” It may not be the best old-school bistro in Paris, but it’s a long way from deserving such opprobrium. The prices are high, but not enough to put you on your heels, especially if you’re used to Las Vegas. (Lunch came to about 200 euros/pp, with about half the tariff being wine.) 

 

 


LE DÔME
108 Boulevard du Montparnasse
+33 1 43 35 25 81

 

       “As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.” – Ernest Hemingway

 

     Montparnasse is chock full of good restaurants, many of which, like Le Select (1925), La Rotonde (1911) and La Cloiserie des Lilas (1847), are haunted by the ghosts of Gertrude Stein, Hemingway and Henry Miller. These cafes formed the social hub of Roaring Twenties Paris, and, amazingly, continue to hold their own today, one-hundred years after they became American-famous. Le Dôme remains le ultimate seafood brasserie in a neighborhood teeming with them. All gleaming glass and brass, it has become de rigueur to stop there for oysters whenever we get to town.
     Like many of its equally renowned neighbors, Le Dôme is huge, so don’t think twice about dropping in on a whim for a douzaine plate and a glass of Sancerre. Classics like Breton lobster and Dover sole (right) are prepared so perfectly they remind you why these dishes became part of the French gastronomic catechism. The freshness of its seafood is legendary, even in a town known for legendary fresh fish and shellfish. Whether you’re in for a bite or hunkering down for a full meal, Le Dôme can dazzle with the best of them. For dessert: don’t miss the mille-feuille Napoléon (sliced from a pastry the size of a rugby football)—which elicits “oohs” and “aahs” for both its appearance and taste.
       A note about the supposed insufferable French: This was our third visit to Le Dôme in the past four years, but we are hardly “known” to the management. On each visit, whether as a walk-in solo or with reservations, we have always received a friendly welcome from the solicitous staff who couldn’t be more helpful in guiding us to the best oysters of the day and which wine to pair with them.
      You get out of restaurants what you put into them, and if you walk into Le Dôme with a happy heart, it will only make you happier.
       Dinner came to 310 euros for two, including a bottle of pricey-but-not-overpriced (150 euros) Puligny-Montrachet.

 




LE COQ & FILS
98 Rue Lepic, 75018
+33 1 42 89 82 89

 

       “A walk about Paris will provide lessons in history, beauty, and in the point of life.” —Thomas Jefferson

 

       After cruising Montparnasse one day, we trekked up the hill to Montmartre, to visit Le Coq et Fils (formerly Le Coq Rico), Antoine Westermann’s paean to poultry. Climbing up to Sacré Coeur basilica and exploring the cobblestoned streets of this “village inside a city” puts you in an appetite to take down an entire yardbird, accompanied by a variety of other Westermann signatures like poultry broth “shots” (perhaps the most intense chicken soup I’ve ever tasted), duck rillettes, and egg mayonnaise “Westermann’s Way”—a gorgeous puck of umami-laden egg salad (below).
       But the undeniable stars of the show are the whole birds, and we opted for a four-pound Bresse specimen of unsurpassed flavor. From the crispness of the skin to the fineness of the grain to the richness of the flesh, these are flocks which put to shame the universal putdown of “tasting like chicken.” Of course, the olive oil-drenched pommes puree and straight-from-the-fat frites don’t hurt one’s enjoyment of this succulent beauty either. The birds are sized and sold according to how many you want to feed (for example, a guinea hen and smaller birds are sized for two). Yes, everything truly does “taste like chicken,” as in: the best chicken you have ever tasted.
     The wine list was modest in scope but interesting and reasonable (we chose a Maurice Schoech Alsace Grand Cru Riesling with the chicken, at 100 euros), and the service couldn’t have been better. For dessert we took down an Ile Flottante (“floating island”),  a light version of this classic with a softball-sized meringue so airy it seemed to be floating above the swishy pool of crème Anglaise beneath it.
      Although the design, and the creative side dishes and approach are much more modern here than at L’Ami Louis, prices were much softer, with our shared bird/wine lunch running 100 euros/pp.

 


John A. Curtas is a food writer and author of Eating Las Vegas: The 52 Essential Restaurants















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NEW YORK CORNER



THE INN AT POUND RIDGE
BY JEAN-GEORGES

258 Westchester Avenue
Pound Ridge NY
914-764-1400


Text and Photos by John Mariani


  

    With more than 40 restaurants around the world, including twelve in New York alone and branches in São Paulo, Guangzhou, Jakarta and Marrakesh, it is fair to say the Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who is considered one of the finest and most influential chefs in the world, is now more of an overseer than a chef you can expect to find in any one of his restaurants.
    Decades ago this young Alsatian chef first made his mark as chef de cuisine at two superb restaurants run by French master Louis Outhier, following up with his own namesake restaurant in Trump Tower at Columbus Circle. I have long given high praise to several of JG’s New York operations, on four occasions listing them among Esquire magazine’s “Best New Restaurants of the Year.” But those few I’ve visited outside of New York have been largely facsimiles that brought his style to far-off ports-of-call but little of the intensity and savoriness of the cooking at his home base, where he spends much of his time.
     Opening in the New York northern suburb of Pound Ridge, an hour from Manhattan, came as a surprise until you learn that he has a house nearby, and, I’ve been told, the idea of an inn, rather than a splashy restaurant, appealed to his Alsatian roots.
       The premises were long ago the venerable Emily Shaw’s Inn, opened in the 1930s and closed in 1989, a typical suburban dinner house of its day, where her signature item was cheddar cheese soup. Subsequently it became The Inn at Pound Ridge until JG took over and attached his name to it a few years ago.
     It’s a very beautiful space, dating to 1833, set on two levels, with a handsome bar, four fireplaces and a wine cellar room, all done in a canny balance of beamed rusticity and romantically lighted modernity by Thomas Juul-Hansen. It is, however, very loud, even mid-week, buoyed by the brash crescendos of a crowd yakking about IPOs and debentures, buying short and selling long, and their opinion of the new Porsches, many of which fill the parking lot.
      The staff, dressed in L.L. Bean-style lumberjack shirts, could not be more affable or knowledgeable, and they seem wholly sincere in their cordial greetings and farewells.
      The menu is described as serving “down-to-earth food,” which is true, and you won’t find the kind of Asian fusion dishes JG made trendy twenty years ago, when the phrase “farm-to-table” first appeared as a p.r. marketing claim.  It is food that JG’s clientele will find much of at their country clubs. There is even the obligatory thin-crust pizza section ($19-$22) and a cheeseburger ($24). There’s nothing particularly wrong about any of it, but it is all too safe and hardly shows off the scintillating breadth and depth of JG’s repertoire.
    Thus, an appetizer of tuna tartare with avocado, radish and ginger marinade ($25), of a kind JG debuted, is now ubiquitous. Crispy salmon sushi (left) with a chipotle mayonnaise and soy glaze ($22) is delicious, but a little bland. An abundant steamed shrimp salad (below) with mesclun, avocado and champagne vinegar dressing ($25) is, in one word, refreshing, while a butternut squash soup with wild mushrooms ($15) is ideal for this cold weather, equally vegetal and sweet and wholly hearty.        
    
Among the main courses, steamed black sea bass with a carrot confit, orange juice and a touch of cumin and olive oil ($52) reminds me of similar items at JG’s ABC Kitchen in New York, but a simple roasted chicken ($38) was so dried out from cooking that its broccoli di rabe, salsa verde and sage could not resuscitate it. A prosciutto-wrapped pork chop with glazed mushrooms and sage ($48) was also overcooked, and the cheddar cheeseburger (below) with frizzled onions, yuzu pickles, winter pink tomato ($24) was overwrought and not particularly beefy, with all the ingredients of the same mushy texture. The side of French fries, however, was terrific.       
   
Desserts toe the same comforting line: a pleasing carrot cake with cream cheese frosting ($14); a tangy-sweet Meyer lemon crème brûlée with smooth mint-lime sorbet ($14) and a dish JG perfected and made famous around the world: a molten chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream ($16). The only unusual dessert was a classic Australian passion fruit Pavlova ($14), named after ballerina Anna Pavlova, with a passion fruit sorbet, which has a brittle outside crust cracking open to reveal the passion fruit within (right).
    The Inn’s wine list is substantial without being overwhelming, but there are very few bottles under $100. (I ordered one of them and was told I got the last bottle, usually indicative that a lot of people want to drink at that price level.) There are 13 wines by the glass ($14-$36). Mark-ups are all over the place, many quite reasonable, but others off the charts, like the Lutum Durell Vineyards Chardonnay 2015 that retails for $49 but is $219 here. A Spottswoode Lyndenhurst Cabernet Sauvignon 2017 sells for $85 in a store, at the Inn, $268.
    By the way, I did ask how often JG actually was present at his restaurant and was told by one waiter, very rarely, and by another, that he used to come often “when it opened years ago.”
    There is so much to like about the Inn, but it’s a stretch to say it’s easy to love, given the pedigree of its owner. Those who live in local mansions and drive Teslas surely find it a comfortable drop-in kind of place (though getting a reservation can take perseverance), but those who do not live within 10 miles may find it not worth the effort.

 




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ANOTHER VERMEER

By John Mariani

To read previous chapters of ANOTHER VERMEER, go to the archive

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

         “So what’d you think?” asked Katie as they left the Mirage.
         “I think Wynn's a straight shooter,” said David. “Sounds like a guy with nothing to hide, except maybe his loathing for Harry Balaton. So, do you think Wynn’s going to be a bidder?”
         “I don’t know. My research shows he’s never yet bid anything close to what the Vermeer might go for.  Though, if he sticks it in his own museum in his own hotel, there’s got to be tax breaks or write-offs he can take advantage of.”
         “I don’t know anything about that, but if there is, a guy like Wynn will know how. So, what do we do about Balaton?”
         “Well, now that we’ve seen his arch enemy, we can use it to get in to see him. At least I hope so.  Still, I’m glad I got the Wynn interview just in case.”
         “You have breakfast?” asked David.
         “Coffee in my room.”
         David said, “Rule number one while traveling: Never drink that sludge coffee in the room. Anyway, I missed breakfast, too. I know: I’ll take you to the Omelet House—it’s been in Vegas forever—and they have all these goofy dishes with names like ‘The Kitchen Sink (below)’ and ‘The Loch-Ness Monster.’”
         “Sounds charming.”
         “Eggs are fresh.”
         After a very, very hearty meal at The Omelet House, Katie and David went back to the Baccarat and asked to be put through to Harry Balaton’s office. After s
several transfers, Katie finally got on with the head office, which was on the sixth floor, and after explaining why she wanted to see Balaton she was asked where they might get back to her.
         “Oh, we’re staying right here in the Baccarat. I’m in Room 332.”
         An hour later the phone rang in her room.
         “Miss Cavuto? Will you hold for Mr. Balaton?”
         “Yes, of course.”
         The line clicked and Katie could hear a gruff male voice shouting into a speaker phone, something about a catering problem.
         “What the fuck do I know about catering?” the voice said, then he came on Katie’s line.
         “Yeah, hello, this is Harry Balaton. Who’s this?”
         “My name is Katie Cavuto and I spoke to your assistant . . .”
         “Yeah, yeah, she told me you spoke to Steve Wynn about his shitty art collection and you wanted to speak to me about mine.”
         Katie said, “If that’s convenient for you, sir.”
         “And you’re here in my hotel?”
         “Yes, Room 332.”
         “Okay, come to the private elevator on the northeast corner of the lobby, tell them you’re coming up to see me.”  And that was that.
         Katie called David and told him to meet her at the elevator, whose security man already had their names and brought them up to the sixth floor. This time, the outer office was garishly decorated with green, black and silver wallpaper; in a corner stood a gilded nymph and in another a matching nude male figure beckoning to her. 
        
“Miss Cavuto and Mister Greco?” asked the secretary. “Please come right in.”
         Harry Balaton’s door was already open and Katie heard the same frog-like voice she had on the phone. Balaton was again shouting into a speaker phone, this time about some high rollers coming in that night from Hong Kong. “Full comp, Casanova Suite.”
         In most ways, Balaton looked every inch the casino tycoon—not very tall, balding with a comb-over, something like comedian Don Rickles, wearing a deep burgundy suit, white-on-white shirt and gold silk tie. He didn’t get up from his chair, so Katie and David couldn’t see the crease in his pants, or if he was wearing any.
         He waved Katie and David in, said, “Have a seat,” and finished his phone call.
       “So, you’re a magazine reporter,” he began. “And you are?” he added, nodding towards David. “You look familiar.”
         “I used to be a New York City rackets cop.  I met you once when you turned state’s evidence.”
         “That must’ve been it.” Balaton seemed wholly unfazed by having an ex-cop in his office. He started talking before they could ask him a question.
         “First of all, I could buy and sell Wynn, if I wanted, and I could outbid him on anything that comes to auction. He tell you that? No, I don’t suppose he did. Wynn thinks he’s going to completely transform this city into something high-class, but what he doesn’t realize is that nobody wants that shit. They don’t call it Sin City for nothing, y’know. People come here because of the glitz, the bar girls, the dealers with the string ties and fluffy shirts.  Even the high rollers from Asia and Russia, they don’t want Vegas to look like freaking Monte Carlo, which is dying because they don’t have slots.”
         Katie broke in and asked if she could use her tape recorder.  Balaton waved his hand to indicate go ahead.
         “We did want to ask you about the new Vermeer coming on the market soon,” she said after turning on the recorder.
          “Yeah, I know all about it.”
         “You do?”
         “Well, I know it’s being hyped to the skies as the most expensive picture ever auctioned off, and if that’s true, there’s only a handful of collectors who will get in the game. That schmuck Japanese guy, what was his name, Saito? He pushed the price so high on that van Gogh, knowing he’d have to sell it and someone would have to pay more, because first he said he’d cremate the damn thing, then said he wouldn’t show it to anyone. Dumbest goddamn thing I ever heard.”
         “So, do you think the price may not be as high as the $82.5 Saito paid for the van Gogh, if the Vermeer goes to auction?” asked David.
         “I hope not. I’d love to bid on the picture, but I’m not going that high. Hell, nobody’s even seen the goddamn thing.”
         “So, if you wouldn’t go that high, who would?” asked Katie.
        “I’d say there’s no more than five people who could afford that kind of money, especially if he’s just going to stick it in a vault somewhere or keep it out of sight. It might be a syndicate of some kind.”
         Recalling that Balaton was in some way connected to a Hong Kong syndicate with holdings in Macao, David ventured to ask, “What about Chinese money?”
         Balaton rubbed his nose, then said, “S’not out of the question. But no one but an asshole like Saito could come up with that kind of cash on his own. Could be Russian Mafia.”
         “Why would a mob, Russian or otherwise, want to dabble in collecting fine art?” asked David, who knew a good deal about the workings of the former Soviet republics’ mobsters.
         Balaton said, “Damned if I know. In the old days the Italian and Jewish wiseguys who ran Vegas didn’t have the slightest interest in owning or even fencing art. It was just a world they didn’t know; stealing and fencing a famous painting was not like stealing and fencing diamonds or bonds.”
         “But you did mention the Russian Mafia,” said Katie.
         “Well, maybe, because they’ve got some very wealthy wiseguys of their own who would love to own the painting for a while, then sell it later for a profit without having to steal it in the first place.”
         David thought to himself that mobsters never think that way. It’s easier to steal something and ransom it, but the criminals who rob art are generally small-time crews contracted by an individual. In the case of the stolen Mona Lisa in 1911 the culprit was an Italian petty criminal named Vincenzo Perugia (above) who tried to sell it two years later for 500,00 lira to a Florentine art dealer, who immediately called the police and had the thief arrested.
         David sensed that Balaton did not want to say anything more about a Hong Kong Syndicate being involved in either bidding for or perhaps even bringing the painting to auction.
         “So, just to be clear, Mr. Balaton, you believe whoever bids on this Vermeer is so,e kind pf reclusive billionaire who's not going to reveal anything about himself.".
         “It won't be a museum. I doubt even the Getty would bid the kind of money expected. I think it might be a syndicate with a gallery owner as its front man.”
         “Any suggestions?”
         “If I hear of any, I’ll let you know,” Balaton said, standing up, with pants on, “but I gotta get back to work. Enjoy my hotel while you’re here.”
         Katie and David headed down to the gaudy lobby of the Baccarat.
         “So?” asked Katie.
         “I think he knows more than he’s letting on at this point,” said David. “Remember, this guy ratted out his mob friends and enemies to save his own ass, but there’s pretty solid evidence he’s in with a Hong Kong Syndicate, and Macao is the Wild West when it comes to political corruption, skimming and laundering money.”
         “Well, he did seem to wholly discount anyone in Japan having money like Saito did to buy the painting. What about the Japanese mob, the Yakuza?”
         “That,” said David, “is a vast subject with as many interlocking tentacles as you could ever imagine. But they’re almost entirely linked to extortion, drugs, pornography, human trafficking—and they insist it is dishonorable to steal anything. Go figure.  I can ask Gerald Kiley, but I doubt the Yakuza have anything to do with fine art.”
         Katie stifled a yawn and said, “Well, I think we got what we came for out here. Some good leads as to where not to look.”
         David smiled at her and said, “You gotta remember, Katie, we are not involved in a criminal investigation here. Nobody’s committed a crime. At least not yet.”
         “Oh, I know, but so many people in this global art market seem, shall we say, on the shady side. So many secrets, so many prospects for cheating, so much hype. Not to mention the possibility of forgery.”
         “Maybe so, but let’s not forget: Nobody’s even seen this painting, much less examined it. The whole thing may be one big hoax.”
         “Well, if it is, I hope it makes for a good story, because my leash is getting pretty short. The interview with Wynn should cut me some slack, but something new better turn up soon or there’s no story.” 
      
David didn’t like hearing that.
       They parted to go back to their rooms to pack and get a red-eye flight back to New York.  When Katie entered her room she saw a pink note pad on her night table. (This being Vegas it read: WHILE YOU WERE OUT COLD.)  The message said, “Call me. I have some news. John Coleman.”
         Katie looked at her watch.  Four o’clock Pacific Time, which meant seven in New York. Katie dialed the phone number, but it rang until a voice message said Coleman was out of the office and unreachable until tomorrow.   Katie cursed herself for not having his home phone number, then she packed quickly and met David in the lobby to catch a taxi to McCarran Airport.



©
John Mariani, 2016







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NOTES FROM THE SPIRITS LOCKER

 

FROM FOUR TO FORTY DISTILLERIES, IRELAND
CAPITALIZES ON ITS WHISKIES’ SOARING SUCCESS

By John Mariani


Copper pot stills used to make Waterford Irish Whiskey

 

    It’s difficult to believe that twenty, even ten, years ago liquor store shelves carried little more than two or three Irish whiskies. These days that number is more likely to be ten to twelve, and there are more coming into the market all the time. Indeed, sales of Irish whiskey are soaring, with 11.4 million 9-litre cases sold globally in 2020. Estimates for 2021 are to post a leap to 13 million cases, and the Distilled Spirits Council of the United States has recently reported that 5.9 million cases were sold in the U.S. last year, representing a nearly 18% increase in 2021.   The numbers are all the more astonishing when you learn that as of  2010 there were only four distilleries operating in Ireland; today there are forty, with more being built, some with visitors’ centers.

      The vast majority of Irish whiskeys use malted barley dried over coal fires, though some, like Connemara and Killbeggan, are, like Scotch,  dried with peat smoke, which gives the latter a smokier flavor and the former more aromatics.  Both malted and unmalted barley are distilled three times in a pot still to make Irish whiskey, after which lighter and heavier whiskies are blended for a house style.
                                                                 Barley harvest
  
 
For many years the dominant Irish whiskey has been Bushmills, which has the world’s oldest distillery on record (1608), in County Antrim, and the most popular has been its basic label, affectionately called “White Label,” which really is a fine standard introduction to a whiskey that Tzar Peter the Great once declared the best spirit in Europe. The same distillery’s Black Bush ($39) has been a considerable hit here, with a more pronounced maltiness and a near Sherry-like, soft finish on the palate.  The firm now markets a slew of variants, including a 10-Year-Old Single Malt ($55), 12-Year-Old ($50), 16-Year-Old ($140) and 21-Year-Old ($210) to compete with the success of Scotch Single Malts.
     Jameson (left), which dates merely to 1780 in Dublin, is a solid contender, though a little lighter on the palate than basic Bushmills.  I used to love its 12-Year-Old, but it’s been discontinued and difficult to find, so now I the rich but very smooth blend of barley and wheat Black Barrel ($45) aged in double-charred barrels. The 18-Year-Old goes for $130.
     John Power & Sons dates to 1791 as a
“public house” in Dublin (said to be the origin of the term pub), with an attached distillery, and was one of the first to bottle its whiskies from oak barrels. It begins dry and almost severe, but it mellows on the palate and takes on nice caramel-like notes, then comes up again with just the right heat in the finish and a little sweetness. Its Gold Label sells for $30; its 12-Year- Old for $70.
     Tullamore Dew gets its name from “Tulach Mhoŕ” (big hill), while the “Dew” is not a fanciful metaphor but the letters of general manager Daniel. E. Dew’s name, and the company motto is “Give every man his Dew.”  Tullamore has gone gang busters with various iterations, including its basic brand ($30), a 12-Year-Old ($60), 14-Year-Old ($80), 18-Year-Old ($109), Old Bonded Warehouse Release Single Malt ($65), XO Caribbean Rum Finish ($40) and Cider Cask Finish ($35).
     As with other brown spirits, the Irish whiskey producers have latched onto the concept of “iterations” or "expressions" based on aging in different ways and different casks, which include those once used to make Sherry, Cognac, rye and bourbon.
     Like many others, Lambay does not have its own distillery but buys spirits from others’ and has an identifiable evergreen taste and bouquet. Made on a private island visitable only by rare invitation, Lambay is only made in small batches with local well water, emerging from Cognac barrels at 40% alcohol ($63).

         Proclamation’s label calls it “Ireland’s Independent Spirit,” honoring the country’s independence movement of 1916. This is a big and bold whiskey, 40.7% alcohol, finished in bourbon casks with “a touch of sherry finished malt” to round out a toasted finish. Another bottling is done in Cognac barrels ($35).
     As noted in a recent interview here with J.J. Corry Irish Whiskey’s owner Louise McGuane, she sought to bring back the tradition of Whiskey Bonding, becoming the first Whiskey Bonder in Ireland in well over 50 years. She built a Rackhouse (warehouse) on the family farm and began to build a library of Irish Whiskey flavors from whiskies from distilleries all over the island and casks from all over the world, matching the spirit to cask and blending selections to create unique expressions. Its four whiskeys run $65-$87.
        
Busker’s, located at the Royal Oak Distillery in County Carlow, makes all four styles of Irish whiskey:
Single Grain ($40), Single Pot Still ($37), Single Malt ($45) and Blend ($20). Its distinguishing mark is that during the aging process of the blends Triple Cask Triple Smooth ($33) and Single Grain expressions the spirits are in Cantine Florio Sicilian Marsala wine casks.
      Waterford is producing a new kind of pure single malts, the Cuvée ($100) and Luna 1.1 ($120), marketing them more like Bordeaux wines from unique terroirs, even using extended fermentation of the harvested grains. Twenty-five various whiskies go into the Cuvée, which they call a “radical celebration of complexity” and a “paradigm shift.” I wouldn’t go quite that far, but these are distinguished and refined spirits.
      Clonakilty ($55) is a small-batch Irish whiskey (2,400 bottles) made from 8-year-old grain and bottled at a whopping 62% alcohol, finished in rye casks obtained from the Virginia whiskey maker Catoctin Creek.
     So, too, Keeper’s Hearts ($39), whose Latin motto is “Fugit hora” (the hour flies), is also blended with four-year old Irish grain whiskey and the same amount of Irish pot still spirits and American rye at 43% alcohol, crafted by master distiller Brian Nation. The first reveals a pleasant vanilla note, the second spiciness and the rye provides a good edge.






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OH, SHUT UP AND PASS THE SUGAR


“Capitalism and caffeine are hand in hand. If you want any proof of that, just look at the institution of the coffee break... Your employer not only gives you a free drug at the at the workplace, but gives you a place and time in which to enjoy it twice a day, in most places. Why would employers do that if it didn’t offer them more benefit than cost? And clearly it does. They get more work out of people.”—Michael Pollan, Gastropod (2/22)












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 Any of John Mariani's books below may be ordered from amazon.com.



   The Hound in Heaven (21st Century Lion Books) is a  novella, and for anyone who loves dogs, Christmas, romance, inspiration, even the supernatural, I hope you'll find this to be a treasured  favorite. The  story concerns how, after a New England teacher, his wife and their two daughters adopt a stray puppy found in their barn in northern Maine, their lives seem full of promise. But when tragedy strikes, their wonderful dog Lazarus and the spirit of Christmas are the only things that may bring his master back from the edge of despair. 

WATCH THE VIDEO!

“What a huge surprise turn this story took! I was completely stunned! I truly enjoyed this book and its message.” – Actress Ali MacGraw

“He had me at Page One. The amount of heart, human insight, soul searching, and deft literary strength that John Mariani pours into this airtight novella is vertigo-inducing. Perhaps ‘wow’ would be the best comment.” – James Dalessandro, author of Bohemian Heart and 1906.


“John Mariani’s Hound in Heaven starts with a well-painted portrayal of an American family, along with the requisite dog. A surprise event flips the action of the novel and captures us for a voyage leading to a hopeful and heart-warming message. A page turning, one sitting read, it’s the perfect antidote for the winter and promotion of holiday celebration.” – Ann Pearlman, author of The Christmas Cookie Club and A Gift for my Sister.

“John Mariani’s concise, achingly beautiful novella pulls a literary rabbit out of a hat – a mash-up of the cosmic and the intimate, the tragic and the heart-warming – a Christmas tale for all ages, and all faiths. Read it to your children, read it to yourself… but read it. Early and often. Highly recommended.” – Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling author of Pinkerton’s War, The Sinking of The Eastland, and The Walking Dead: The Road To Woodbury.

“Amazing things happen when you open your heart to an animal. The Hound in Heaven delivers a powerful story of healing that is forged in the spiritual relationship between a man and his best friend. The book brings a message of hope that can enrich our images of family, love, and loss.” – Dr. Barbara Royal, author of The Royal Treatment.




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The Encyclopedia of American Food and Drink by John F. Mariani (Bloomsbury USA, $35)

Modesty forbids me to praise my own new book, but let me proudly say that it is an extensive revision of the 4th edition that appeared more than a decade ago, before locavores, molecular cuisine, modernist cuisine, the Food Network and so much more, now included. Word origins have been completely updated, as have per capita consumption and production stats. Most important, for the first time since publication in the 1980s, the book includes more than 100 biographies of Americans who have changed the way we cook, eat and drink -- from Fannie Farmer and Julia Child to Robert Mondavi and Thomas Keller.


"This book is amazing! It has entries for everything from `abalone' to `zwieback,' plus more than 500 recipes for classic American dishes and drinks."--Devra First, The Boston Globe.

"Much needed in any kitchen library."--Bon Appetit.




Now in Paperback, too--How Italian Food Conquered the World (Palgrave Macmillan)  has won top prize  from the Gourmand World Cookbook Awards.  It is a rollicking history of the food culture of Italy and its ravenous embrace in the 21st century by the entire world. From ancient Rome to la dolce vita of post-war Italy, from Italian immigrant cooks to celebrity chefs, from pizzerias to high-class ristoranti, this chronicle of a culinary diaspora is as much about the world's changing tastes, prejudices,  and dietary fads as about our obsessions with culinary fashion and style.--John Mariani

"Eating Italian will never be the same after reading John Mariani's entertaining and savory gastronomical history of the cuisine of Italy and how it won over appetites worldwide. . . . This book is such a tasteful narrative that it will literally make you hungry for Italian food and arouse your appetite for gastronomical history."--Don Oldenburg, USA Today. 

"Italian restaurants--some good, some glitzy--far outnumber their French rivals.  Many of these establishments are zestfully described in How Italian Food Conquered the World, an entertaining and fact-filled chronicle by food-and-wine correspondent John F. Mariani."--Aram Bakshian Jr., Wall Street Journal.


"Mariani admirably dishes out the story of Italy’s remarkable global ascent to virtual culinary hegemony....Like a chef gladly divulging a cherished family recipe, Mariani’s book reveals the secret sauce about how Italy’s cuisine put gusto in gusto!"--David Lincoln Ross, thedailybeast.com

"Equal parts history, sociology, gastronomy, and just plain fun, How Italian Food Conquered the World tells the captivating and delicious story of the (let's face it) everybody's favorite cuisine with clarity, verve and more than one surprise."--Colman Andrews, editorial director of The Daily Meal.com.

"A fantastic and fascinating read, covering everything from the influence of Venice's spice trade to the impact of Italian immigrants in America and the evolution of alta cucina. This book will serve as a terrific resource to anyone interested in the real story of Italian food."--Mary Ann Esposito, host of PBS-TV's Ciao Italia.

"John Mariani has written the definitive history of how Italians won their way into our hearts, minds, and stomachs.  It's a story of pleasure over pomp and taste over technique."--Danny Meyer, owner of NYC restaurants Union Square Cafe,  The Modern, and Maialino.

                                                                             






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FEATURED LINKS: I am happy to  report that the Virtual Gourmet is  linked to four excellent travel sites:

Everett Potter's Travel  Report

I consider this the best and savviest blog of its kind on the  web. Potter is a columnist for USA Weekend, Diversion, Laptop and Luxury  Spa Finder, a contributing editor for Ski and  a frequent contributor to National  Geographic Traveler, ForbesTraveler.com  and Elle Decor. "I’ve designed this site is for people who take their  travel seriously," says Potter. "For travelers who want to learn about special  places but don’t necessarily want to pay through the nose for the privilege of  staying there. Because at the end of the day, it’s not so much about five-star  places as five-star experiences." 






Eating Las Vegas JOHN CURTAS has been covering the Las Vegas food and restaurant scene since 1995. He is the co-author of EATING LAS VEGAS – The 50 Essential Restaurants (as well as the author of the Eating Las Vegas web site: www.eatinglasvegas. He can also be seen every Friday morning as the “resident foodie” for Wake Up With the Wagners on KSNV TV (NBC) Channel 3  in Las Vegas.



              



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

 

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