Manhattan's Pastoral Tradition

My closet of a kitchen hardly inspires me to open a can let alone prepare a meal. But since it was Saturday morning, and a beautiful day, I decided to make my way to fourteenth street and brave the starving masses at the Union Square Farmers’ Market;I was craving pesto afterall.

Surrounded by piles of bulbous, almost bursting, kaleidoscope colored tomatoes, peaches, and berries, I took a deep breath, and escaped the urban machine. My first task: trying every free sample. My second task: finding ingredients for pesto. While stuffing myself, I entertained Anna with wannabe foodie jargon. “These pretzels are to die for, I wonder what sort of sea salt they use,” “and that cranberry walnut bread is divine” and “that peach is heartbreakingly ripe.” With all my foodie jargon, I was getting on my own nerves and we were getting sidetracked. As we braved strollers carrying passengers far too old to be pushed, their knees bumping their foreheads, we began our search for lovely bunches of basil. Anna, being the fabulous and humble chef she is, offered culinary tidbits along our journey…“the basil grown near Genova is like none other in the world,” “traditionally they use a mortar and pestle,” and “the olive oil in Liguria is so delicate.” My culinary offerings were, “I’ll carry the groceries” and “leave clean-up to me.” As a farmer politely asked me to stop squeezing his peaches, Anna selected some beautiful bunches of basil, and we were on our way.

In typical New York fashion, we stumbled up five flights of stairs with arms full of goodies ready to prepare our meal in Anna’s apartment—apparently she had something called a food processor. As Anna went to work gently wiping the basil with a damp paper towel, grating the parmesano reggiano, blending the lovely olive oil, pine nuts, and basil, I sat brainstorming—what oh what to drink? Do we stick to a Ligurian white? Or, since I’ve been drinking a lot of whites from Campania lately, maybe a Falanghina or Greco di Tufo? I called my boss. “Schiava,” she said. “Yes that’s right, Schiava from Trentino Alto-Adige.” She had never led me astray, so I went with a bottle of Schiava Grigia from Cantina Nalles Magre. It was perfect. The mossy, almost mint-like flavors of the Schiava, with a hint of strawberry, went perfectly with the licorice-like flavors of the fresh basil. The wine’s pleasant acidity was a pleasant companion for the rich olive oil and salty parmesano reggiano. As we twirled our spaghettini, we exchanged a few text messages confirming plans for later in the evening. After such a wonderful meal, five dollar beers sounded terrible, but sometime a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. We lit some smokes and hit the pavement

Gessami

Crawling out of my window onto my fire-escape couldn’t save me from my sweltering Brooklyn apartment moreover that hot August evening in New York City. Beverages were surely in order. My roommate and I assessed our lack of funds, asked our selves again why we were too cheap to buy an air-conditioner, and decided dinner and wine were our best options to cool down and satisfy our late summer boredom.

The wine was “Gessami”, a Spanish white from the Penedes Region, and a blend of Muscat and Sauvignon Blanc, and our take-out dinner venue being Fabianes Cafe in Williamsburg. I decided upon my usual—a grilled chicken salad, tossed with jicama, roasted corn, creamy black beans, and mixed greens tossed with a delicious cilantro, pesto vinaigrette.

Firstly the wine, notes of almond, honey, peach, with a slight effervescent finish went perfectly with the earthy yet almost cucumber and celery-like fresh flavors of the jicama. I also added to my plate some of Brooklyn’s finest— mainly some vine-ripened tomatoes grown on my fire-escape. The tomatoes, little bulbous treasures of the summer heat, were bursting at the skin and drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, and topped with sea salt. The sea salt sparkled through the olive oil which shone like rays of sunshine. The vibrant acidity of the tomatoes with a touch of richness from the olive oil added structure to the wine’s soft fruit aromas creating an almost nutty flavor. The sea salt enhanced the wine’s soft acidity just enough to brighten the wines delicate finish.

As we polished off our last glass and began our search for chocolate, we solved our apartment cooling predicament—finding boyfriends with air-conditioners.

Gamay: My Favorite Plain Jane

Lately, I’ve been so pleased with Gamay from the Loire Valley. With its structured fruit—notes of strawberry and tart cherry—and its entertaining acidity, Gamay wines have added some variety to my mid-summer Rose woes.

The other night, I enjoyed a wine called “Le Carre le Prieur” with my friend Anna at Tartine in the West Village—our favorite BYOB spot. I decided upon the evening’s special—sesame encrusted escarole with a citrus vinaigrette, atop of green beans, braised fennel, and summer squash. The wine’s young, round fruit and vibrant finish, paired perfectly with the light fish. The vinaigrette of lemon, pink pepper corns, ginger, and sesame offered South East Asian flavors to my bistro fare. I enjoyed notes of licorice courtesy of the braised fennel, while the perfectly seasonal sautéed yellow squash and green beans complimented the young wines playful acidity.

Yet, this wine’s brilliance is it’s purity of flavors. Its naked simplicity is refreshing and honest. This wine yearns to be a guest at the dinner table, enjoyed along side simple, classic food, cigarettes, and bars of chocolate offered from hand bags.