Another of Aldo’s drawings of the eternal feminine. Here she gathers up the year’s vintage in such a way that the grapes conceal her bosom. You could argue that she gazes down on them as a mother would on two infants,  or she may have dozed off. As to that bird showing off its profile in the corner, Aldo says it’s a crow, not a pigeon, and functions as a memento mori. He thought a skull would be depressing.

So: Jancis Robinson reported some excellent news recently in the Financial Times. French winemakers expect the 2009 harvest to result in a fine vintage—expectations appear to be high all over, including Burgundy, Bordeaux and Alsace. We thought a particular exception might have to be made for the harvest of  Châteauneuf-du-Pape, based on several French-language reports we read. But then we asked a friend to translate them for us and realized our French is far worse than we thought: The yield will be lower than last year’s, but here too the grapes were healthy and ripe with promise.

Overall, the French weather has been ideal: a severe winter followed by dry summer. Robinson quotes wine consultant Eric Boissenot’s assessment: “Magnificent with very, very healthy grapes. July was good and August was great.”

You have done your duty, vines of France, and done it well. Thanks! Rest up, for who knows what 2010 will bring?

The other weekend we invited a few friends over for a wine-tasting dinner. We happened to have five bottles, and what is that if not an invitation to eat and drink and taste and discuss? These friends weren’t professional tasters. None was in the business of wine. Or food. Or entertainment. Two hailed from the West Coast. Just your usual Manhattan professional class with an enthusiasm for fine dining.

The common grape of the evening was frappato di Vittoria. To the uninitiated it may sound like a drink Starbucks created in honor of the British monarch, but it’s Sicilian — a minor Italian grape that originated in the commune of Vittoria in the province of Ragusa in southeastern Italy. It produces fresh, fruity wines intended to be drunk young, and is used to add fruit and freshness when blended with the more potent, versatile nero d’avola. Frappato di Vittoria is typically light-colored, cherry-scented, with high acidity.

We had hoped our guests would arrive all at once, in a sort of Magi-like flurry of excitement, but Neil came first, followed by two new acquaintances of ours, Brad and Dave. I already had arranged the five bottles of the evening at the end of the dining table, but we got started with a cocktail of Carpano Antica Formula, an Italian vermouth. It’s a delicious drink, by the way, with the deep flavor of bitters and an intense, lingering syrupyness. Keep it chilled—it’s better on ice—for when you’re alone playing Peggy Lee, and that fact is so depressing you need a cocktail.

Dinner, which was prepared by Aldo, was a pheasant cacciatore, a rich braised stew—the recipe came from a British Columbian cookbook, Heidi Noble’s Menus From an Orchard Table—served with a salad (peashoots, arugula, parsley) from New York’s Union Square greenmarket and lentils with mint (courtesy of a Patricia Wells recipe). Aldo had never prepared pheasant before, largely because he always associated it with the poor stupid pheasants that got shot and killed by the hunters in Bambi. (How many people don’t eat rabbit because of Thumper?)

On to the wines, ranging in price from about $22 to $39. The first three are pure frappatos and the last two blends:

COS Frappato 2007. Aldo and I both enjoyed this one immediately. It was lean, light and taut, with a subtle note of strawberry, it seemed like an excellent choice to help digest a gamey meal. It had superb structure. Our guests, though, were disappointed by the lack of obvious fruit flavor. Brad said he and Dave typically preferred bigger, more fruit-forward reds — not surprising. These guys come from the Pacific Coast with its powerful Oregon and Washington red wines. Aldo and Billy wondered whether they might be all headed for a rumble, but decided it wouldn’t be worth the risk of knocking over the glasses.

Valle dell’Acate 2008. “A world of difference,” said Neil with satisfaction when he tasted this wine. He liked its bigger body, its bolder fruit flavors. That became a self-mocking refrain for the evening—you’d exclaim, “A world of difference!” with just about every wine, anecdote or opinion. Neil also admitted more than once that he was still in love with the vermouth: It’s a drink that can have you smacking your lips for hours. (Note: A wine tasting shouldn’t have more than one dedicated cocktail drinker participating.) Brad and Dave agreed. Billy wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the firm, lean COS, but in the Valle he found its hints of fennel and anise attractive.

Occhipinti Il Frappato 2007. Isn’t the name adorable? “Occhipinti” makes me think of a family of baby octupi waving from beneath the sea. Adorable name or no, in many ways this seemed to be met with the least enthusiasm overall. It had less fruit than the Valle dell’Acate, along with a smokiness and a taste of flint — a more complex wine, more bracing, with more acidity. Brad thought the wine a little “edgy.” Neil said he wouldn’t recommend it at all.  “A world of difference!” In other words, in the wrong direction.

Occhipinti SP68. The name comes from a highway near the Occhipinti vineyard, which happens to belong to the niece of the man who produces the COS frappato. Our guests almost sighed with relief:  blended with nero d’avola, this wine gave them real pleasure. On the nose, we detected rose petals and coffee. On the palate, said Dave, “the edge is gone.” Billy remarked none of these wines had edge. “Are you referring to tannins or acid, by the way?” That Billy can be a bit of a whippersnapper, can’t he? Overall the wine was heavier, more aromatic, with a lusher mouthfeel. Aldo still felt No. 1, the uncle’s frappato, was being underrated by the group. At the same time, he (happily) was distracted by the scene of the guests devouring the pheasant and walnut-mint lentil salad. Like all amateur cooks, Aldo sits in dread, wondering if the guests will push away their plates or simply stand up, stride to the window and fling the food down onto the street.

COS Cerasuola di Vittoria. The hit of the evening. The nose was a little funky, which was a surprise, but then came the velvety tannins and a soft, rich palate of dark fruit and autumnal flavors—blackberry, current, leaves, nutmeg. Billy confided to Aldo that he too preferred the first COS. Aldo, now that the apricot tart had been served and the dinner seemed to be a success, reflected that the COS frappato was like a peasant woman with a black shawl over her head and sensible black shoes. Sturdy but light, to the point, with no voluptuousness but the pleasure nonetheless of sun and air and soil.

By now, all five bottles were empty.

I recently ate at a new restaurant in my neighborhood near the Flatiron building in Manhattan. The restaurant advertised itself as ”Portuguese.” Maybe Portuguese-inspired, I can’t remember. Haute contemporary Portuguese, at any rate, served in a chic, understated duplex. But the cuisine was muddled, indeterminate, all over the map and ultimately unplaceable. Not that I expected the classic peasant dish of hare rice, or salt cod, but an appetizer of marinated mackerel served in neat little strips—I keep imagining band-aids on a plate—doesn’t really do it, either. A mere wisp of Lisbon was all I got.

Not so Cochon in New Orleans’ Warehouse District. At this wildly popular little sister restaurant to Herbsaint, I had a terrfic dining experience with some good friends last week. Situated on the corner of Andrew Higgins Drive across the street from a Shell gas station and a manufacturing plant at the far end of  Tchoupitoulas  Street, Cochon is one place that perfectly matches a distinctive regional cuisine to a fresh approach. One wouldn’t describe the food as “haute” or “contemporary”—just thrivingly updated Southern cooking with authenticity intact.

As we know, “cochon” means pig in French, and here it also means Fudge Farm. Just north of Birmingham, Ala., that’s the source of Cochon’s pig. And these are raised to be the happiest pigs in America, practically waiting to be cooked and sliced and laid on a pan of creamed corn. Or so my waitress told me. The emphasis here is on small plates. You really could try just about everything on the menu in three or four nights. (First, of course, you’ll have to stop grabbing the piping hot potato roll biscuits and settle down to ordering.) The roasted corn cafa, a sort of crunchy corn pancake served on an heirloom tomato salad, becomes livelier and more delicious by the bite. The grilled shrimp was moist, offered with a pickled vegetable—the place calls that “chow-chow”—that amplifies and multiplies the flavors.

And then the alligator! It’s cut into small pieces—which, to someone from out of town, is a relief—breaded, grilled to a nice chewiness and lubricated with a dollop of lightly spiced aioli. Rabbit liver may not be your first choice of appetizer—I’m not one for offal or organs—but it might be once you’ve tasted it atop some pepper jelly toast. The entrees are not substantially larger than the smaller dishes, but you won’t be left unsatisfied. I had the cochon, matted and braised, with a small pile of turnips, cabbage and cracklins. The oyster and bacon sandwich on a hard-crusted pullman bread was also a hit: the oyster and bacon sang to each other like a Cajun fiddle and accordion.

And what did we drink among all these plates? Two bottles each of the Domaine Gros’ Noré Bandol Rosé and the 2006 Champalou Vouvray. Cochon’s is a well-chosen, reasonably priced wine list with a global perspective. Many of the producers farm organically. The most interesting wines I found to be among the higher-priced ones, and French—well, this is Louisiana—though no bottle sold for more than $150. Most notable whites were the Dom. Ostertag “Fronzholz” Pinot Gris, Dom. Weinbach “Cuvée Theo” and the savory Meursault by Pierre Morey. Among the reds was a small but outstanding assortment of Burgundies and Rhones, all among the higher-end offerings. I’d stay with the Hudelot-Noellat Bourgogne and the strong, seductive Joncier Lirac, depending on your meal.

Even better were the select wines next door at Butcher—a little deli-wine bar offshoot of Cochon—more affordable and interesting, and by the bottle or glass. Like the Ch. Thivin Côte de Brouilly and the Ch. la Liquière rosé from Faugeres. By the way, rosés, with their appealing versatility, pair superbly with this Southern fare and your wallet.

 

Julie & Julia, Nora Ephron’s affectionate if frustrating double portrait of blogging chef Julie Powell and her inspiration, the legendary Julia Child, is an homage to culinary art and dedication, although this blog wishes it could have given a little more notice to the wines that were part of Child’s wild enthusiasm for food and entertaining. For instance: She was a co-founder, with Robert Mondavi, of the American Institute of Wine and Food. She saw nothing wrong with having an open bottle nearby when cooking, and not merely for braising purposes (although she told Wine Spectator that the glass of wine she raised aloft at the end of her black-and-white TV series was water tinted with Gravy Master). The Pasadena native also admitted that she was “chauvanistic” in her support of California wines.

But nothin’ we can do about that. Or, to put in French, tant pis.

Ephron’s screenplay is a rather unambitious two-track affair, neatly bifurcating the narrative: The one strand follows blogger Julie Powell’s now-famous cooking experiment following every recipe in Child’s landmarkMastering the Art of French Cooking. This culiminated in a book deal and (the movie notes coyly in the closing credits) a movie that made Powell the envy of every blogger in the world. The other strand is the story of Child’s thrilling, life-altering discovery of French cooking in postwar Paris.

You wonder how someone like Charlie Kauffman (Adaptation) might have handled this challenge—the movie calls out for some sort of “meta” slight of hand that would dramatize Child’s life so that it folded into Powell’s, like shavings of a prized truffle in an omelette. Ephron doesn’t seem to be interested. It’s especially startling, late in the film, to learn that Julia Child is still alive, and that she has told a reporter that she doesn’t approve of Powell’s blogging chronicle. Powell concludes that, well, the Julia Child who really matters is the Julia Child of her imagination. But what about the real Julia Child? Was she by this time some grumpy, demented old crustacean who couldn’t get a grip on that crazy internet thing? Somehow Julie staring up at a portrait of Julia and whispering, “I love you” at the end is really not enough to resolve this, or any other issue.

It would help if Amy Adams weren’t so pinched and self-pitying as Powell—she looks like a cute little elf who’s gone sour. On the other hand, there’s Meryl Streep, gloriously funny and alive as Child: Like her star turn in Doubt last year or even her Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, Streep’s peformance is grounded in a witty line of attack. She finds just the right vocal sound, a ludicrously fluty approximation but not impersonation of Child, and launches everything from that. She has mastered the art of acting with a lust and verve that might impress even Child.