La Sobremesa

Lately I have developed a fondness for the term gastronomad, someone who wanders in search of gustatory pleasures or gastronomic sagesse. I was pleased to think that I'd invented the word myself, however, with a little more research I found that there already seems to be a small group of Russian food enthusiasts with the same denomination. No matter- not all nomads need to wander alone. In fact, that is the theme of this post: shared experiences, conviviality.

Those who follow my posts know that I am currently living in Spain, a country with both a deep-rooted, traditional cuisine along with a world-famous strain of innovative alta cocina. For me, I find them both fascinating and I am fairly saturated with information about the two. I am taking a class called Gastronomía, tradiciones culinarias y salud (Gastronomy, Culinary Traditions and Health) where we study both the traditional culinary legacies from the 5th century to present, as well as the contemporary cocina vanguardia of renown chefs such as Ferran Adriá. While one could easily contrast the two and reveal in what ways they are unique or access each one for it´s respective 'pros and cons', today I am more interested in looking at what they share in common. Where they overlap: shared experiences, conviviality. Additionally, in their best expressions, both cuisines possess an important consciousness about seasonality and responsible agroalimentary practices regarding both environmental and personal heath. However, today, I'm here to talk about the shared experience of dining. This can be summed up in my favorite of all Spanish words: sobremesa.

Sobremesa can literally mean desktop, however, the more accurate translation is table talk. It's a Spanish custom that leaks out of the house and into the restaurants and cafés, as well. Sobremesa refers to the time spent at the table, during and after dinner, where families and/or guests continue to enjoy the ambiance of dining pleasures while talking about anything: politics, fútbol, family, food, etc. This tradition is not unique to Spain and I have enjoyed many a sobremesa in France, Belgium, Italy...however, I love how omnipresent it is here in Spain where it has its own word, and, as it turns out, its own spot in the food pyramid.

One look below at the Pirámide de la Dieta Mediterránea is enough to demonstrate the role of conviviality in Spain. Enjoying a glass of wine and table talk is as integral and fundamental to a healthy lifestyle as exercise or eating locally and seasonally.

I think that this idea of shared gastronomic experiences is one of the key features that has made Europe so alluring to me ever since I spent my first year here studying. Friends and families gather daily, ready to spend hours together slowly eating and savoring every bite and moment. Clearly, these are the words of a foreigner who is idealizing a tradition that is not her own, however, my experiences prove that the sobremesa far more than just an image to export, but indeed a reality, rooted in tradition.

Anticipating Rioja | A Girl Goes North

In just a few short days I will leave Alicante heading northbound towards... La Rioja, the mecca for any Spanish wine fan. Because I will be rubbing shoulders with guests at some of the most prestigious wineries in the whole country, I am going to take advantage of the free time I have in these next few days to brush up on my knowledge of Rioja.

Lets start with what I already know. La Rioja is one of seventeen autonomous communities in Spain and is located in the central northern part of the country. Wines with the Rioja D.O.C (Denominación de Origen Calificada) come not only from La Rioja, but also from parts of Navarre and the Basque province of Álava. The wines of Rioja are what have practically defined the wines of Spain, at least it appears that way to the undiscerning tourist. However, the reputation of Rioja is not for nothing. It is a fantastic viticulture spot and produces wines of extremely high quality. [Well, shoot, it looks like I can't share anything more than a few factoids and generous adjectives, so let's see what else I can find.]

Starting with the basics: Rioja measures about 75 square miles (877 km for my eurofans) and is home to 14,000 vineyards owned by 150 wineries. The main grapes grown in the region are Tempranillo, Viura, Garnacha, Graciano, and Mazuelo. Rioja is divided into three parts: Rioja Alta, Rioja Baja and Rioja Alavesa and each produces its own expression of Rioja wine. 

Rioja Alta is located on the western end of the region which has higher elevations, which means shorter growing seasons, which, in turn, produces brighter, fruit flavors. It is relatively light on the palate and supposedly reflects and "old world" style of wine. I was given some very compelling advice from a trusted friend in the states imploring me to visit R. Lopez de Heredia, which is located in this region of Rioja. I was told these are 'goose bump' wines and if that's true, I will surely dedicate a longer post to them once I've visited. For anyone interesting in a particularly compelling article about these wines, click this link. This is a post by Eric Asimov, a fantastic contributor the the New York Times Dining & Wine section. When doing grant research over the summer, my team had the pleasure of interviewing him in Portland, OR.

[photo from the NY Times]

Rioja Alavesa shares a similar climate to the Alta region, however, wines produced here have a fuller body and higher acidity. The soil in this region is relatively poor, therefore, vines are grown at farther distances from one another so that there is less competition to vital soil nutrients. We will be visiting the winery that was named the best European Winery by the Wine Enthusiast: Marqués de Riscal, which is famous, if not only for its wine, but also for its stunning hotel designed by the architect Frank O. Gehry. Recently, I had a fever and was in bed all day so I decided to watch Modern Marvels: A History of Wine and images of this building appeared several times throughout the documentary. In many ways, for better or for worse, it has become the face of Rioja wineries. It is also mentioned in the NY Times article above, yet Asimov speaks with less reverence than the folks over at the Wine Enthusiast. Take a peak.

Rioja Baja, unlike the other two regions, is influenced by a Mediterranean climate which makes the area the warmest and driest of Rioja. Because drought can be a viticultural hazard in the summer months, irrigation was permitted in the late 1990's. Unlike the typical pale color of Rioja wines, Baja wines have a much deeper hue and can have an alcohol content as high as 18%. Tengo que tener cuidado! These wines typically are blended with grapes from the other two regions of Rioja. 

So, let's talk about the grapes themselves. Most of the grapes cultivated for Rioja wine are those used for the production of vino tinto (red). Of the 250 million liters of wine produced annually in this region, 85% is red, and from there, a great percentage of that is made from one grape: Tempranillo. However, other grapes are grown and used including Garnacha Tinta, Graciano and Mazuelo. "A typical blend will consist of approximately 60% Tempranillo and up to 20% Garnacha, with much smaller proportions of Mazuelo and Graciano. Each grape adds a unique component to the wine with Tempranillo contributing the main flavors and aging potential to the wine; Garnacha adding body and alcohol; Mazuelo adding seasoning flavors and Graciano adding additional aromas." (The Wine Bible p. 418) The remaining 15% of wines produced are blancos y rosados (whites and rosés). Viura (also known as Macabeo) is the prominent white wine grape, which can be blended with Malvasía and Garnacha blanca. Rosé from Rioja is made mostly with Garnacha grapes, however, some bodegas are experimenting with Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot.

Rioja red wines are classified into four categories based on how long they are aged in oak barrels and then in their bottles. There is simple Rioja, Rioja Crianza, Rioja Reserva and Rioja Gran Reserva. Simple Rioja is the youngest, spending less than a year in an oak aging barrel. A crianza is aged for at least two years, one of which must have been in oak. Rioja Reserva is aged for at least three years, of which at least one was in oak and finally, Rioja Gran Reserva wines have been aged at least two years in oak and three years in a bottle. 

So, it's quite likely that I will be drinking wine that is at least from 2008. Let me see- what was I doing in 2008 at the same time that these Gran Reservas were spending their first few months in a French oak barrel. I too was in France- studying as an exchange student and drinking my first ever sips of wine. Here I am, five years (and hundreds thousands of sips) later and I can reflect on how much depth I've gained in that amount of time- I am expecting nothing less of the Rioja wine.

'Cata' Me Down a Size

Last week, I attended my first cata in Spain. A cata is much like what one would call a dégustation in France or a winetasting in English. However, I quickly learned that I was mistaken if I thought that a cata was merely an opportunity to degustar.

Let me back up- degustar in Spanish means to taste or savor; to appreciate a food or beverage. The way I've heard it used also seems in imply that when degustar-ing, one is reflecting on their food or drink as opposed to just consuming it. Déguster, in French, implies the same elevated eating/drinking habit, as opposed to the other eating verbs: manger, se nourir, s'alimenter. And, of course, all of these verbs have their Spanish equivalents. I will now return to my narrative and give you a break from the vocabulary lesson.

So, when Antonio, the gentleman hosting the cata, asked his audience, "What do we do at a cata?" I waited for a few moments of silence to pass before daring to speak [in Spanish, mind you]..."Um, pues, well, it is an opportunity to degustar various wines, no?"

"NO!"

I quickly learned that one does not come to degustar wines, which, to Antonio, would imply a hedonistic happy-hour sipping fest. Instead, at a cata, one comes prepared to analyze and scrutinize. So, here I was sitting in the front row, having dared to respond to the first question and then feeling like the student who everyone is glad not to be: the one who wanted to look like she knew what she was talking about, but instead missed the mark- publicly.

Therefore, I will title this blog post, "Cata me down a size". Because I feel like I walked away with two binary conclusions: A) I learned a lot of new, useful information and B) I knew (and know) less than I thought I did. However, there's never a bad time to be reminded that you maybe aren't the hot-shot you thought you were.





So after Antonio made an example out of me, he continued with his introduction into the wonderful world of wine. He described how wine is capable of engaging all of our five senses. He questioned us again, "what are the five senses?" I'm sure that this question seemed so inane and obvious to an audience of Spanish people that it was probably meant to be rhetorical, however, someone was answering and it was clear that she was eager to redeem herself. Oh, no!- that's my voice! At the very least, I got it them all right and Antonio appeared pleased with me: the accented, overachiever. Little does he know that I once labored over a love-poem to a Spanish man that described each of the five senses...ha! But, he threw me a bone and said, "They say that women even have six."

He poured us each our first wine, 2011 Bodegas Bocopa Marina Espumante Brut, a sparkling wine from the D.O.C of Alicante. He used this wine as his teaching tool that enabled us to understand how each of the senses in engaged during the wine tasting process. *He says all five, however the hearing sense seems rather absent. First, we looked at the color and were made to consider a few things. Is it a yellowish white wine or greenish, murky or clear, how does it behave against the glass, is it bright or dim? Also, a question that seemed interesting due to its subjectivity: does it allure you? Do you like the way it looks?

Then we moved on to scent. Immediately I learned something new. Do NOT swirl your glass before smelling your wine. In the past few months, I have become quite the 'swirler'. So there I was, 6,000 miles away from home with the same swirling vigor that I'd carried from my 'real' life in Portland, sitting in from of Generalísimo Antonio and swirling away.

"NO!"

"Hombre, you have to wait. Smell it before swirling it, then wait and swirl...see how it changes." "Sí, señor." But, of course, he was right. It did change, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot.

[I want to pause for a brief interlude and ask anyone reading who knows the answer: what is proper protocol in a restaurant when you've ordered a bottled of wine, the waiter comes and ceremoniously uncorks it for you and pours a bit in your glass for tasting. To swirl or not to swirl? Better to smell and taste, swirl and taste or carry out the entire theatrics of wait-smell-smell-swirl-smell-smell-sip-swish-smell-nod approval.  Maybe someone out there with a little more experience than I can clue me in.]

* I was given an answer by a trusted friend and winesman, you can find it in the comments section below.

So, once one has waitled (waited+swirled), it is now time to identify what exactly is going on in the glass. What aromas are bridging the gap between wine and nose? To be perfectly honest, one of my great insecurities when it comes to wine is the fact that while I have devoted a lot of time and studies to it, I remain unable to discern the different scents that should be found in a respective wine. I know that there are ways to train oneself to do this better and I intend to. Particularly after another humbling cata misstep. While tasting a 2011 Torre de Reloj Macabeo, Antonio asked us what we smelled. I responded, "el mar [the sea]", to which he replied,

"NO!"

And then made a clicking noise with his tongue, "tch tch tch", which seems to be as intrinsically European as Rioja or Burgundy. Others postulated scents like manzana, melocotón, heno to which Antonio frowned a bit a made a shuffling motion with his shoulders. Occasionally, someone would name a scent and he would say definitively. "SÍ." This compelled me to ask him to what degree the act of smelling is subjective. I expected him to say that it was, indeed, quite subjective (I would feel redeemed for my 'sea' comment) however, he said that it really wasn't at all subjective. He offered the example of a person who makes perfumes: they are doing so with precision in order to yield a certain smell, not so that people will interpret it whichever way they choose. 

While I tend to eagerly accept the beliefs of 'an expert', which Antonio undoubtedly is, I struggle to get behind this assertion. Why? Because certain smells are evoked by our experiences. How am I to smell hay in a wine if that is a smell I'm unfamiliar with. Instead, won't I discern some other odor? How can I accept that what I am smelling is wrong, when, presumably, we all have different olfactory mechanisms, just as we have different palates? The idea of it being so subjective seems either a bit dogmatic or a bit ambitious. Perhaps it would be great if a label could tell us with 100% accuracy what we'll smell, but also, isn't it a bit limiting to say that we can't conceivably interpret a wine differently?  

Moving on to the taste and touch senses, which, with wine, happen somewhat simultaneously. Touch, in the case of wine, can be better interpreted as mouth-feel. Is the wine viscous, does it dry out your mouth, does it seem to stick to your tongue and the walls of la boca? I once had a professor (by day, wine enthusiast by night) who told me to take glasses and fill them with skim milk, 2% milk, whole milk and heavy cream and focus not on the respective flavors, but, instead, how they felt in my mouth. This was to give me an idea about texture and a better understanding of mouth-feel. This same professor also shared with me that in French, there is no word for 'mouth-feel'. Mes amis, il faut en trouver un, non?

So what about taste? Arguably the most important of the five senses (I suppose, technically smell would be because of it's function as a way to strengthen tastes). However, with technicalities aside, the taste of a wine often is the reason that people drink it- why they elect one wine over another (or maybe they just like the label...¡NO!) So, how does one assess taste? The most popular response: drink a lot of wine. Through tasting several varietals, vintages and regions, one starts to recognize what characterizes each of those categories- simultaneously, one starts to realize their own preferences. Through both mechanisms, one can assess a wine: a) is it a good representation of its category and b) do I like it? 

Antonio, while being strict, was a very generous host. We tasted upwards of 8 wines- all from Alicante. ¡Que bueno! We were able to taste across varietals, while also across vintages and I finally was able to make a three way comparison between Crianza, Reserva and Gran Reserva. Spain is unique in its concern about the amount of time aged in barrels and the three latter words refer to different amounts of time. It is a Spanish indication of quality and while other wine-growing regions are also interested in various lengths of barrel-aging, nowhere is it present in the wine psyche like it is in Spain. 

By the end of the evening- our group of well-behaved visitors had morphed. All the bottles of wine were open on the table as well as the packs of crackers meant to be palate cleansers. However, we'd consumed a great deal of wine and it looked as though we weren't going to stop. People approached the table and began serving themselves. The decibels in the room started to raise (maybe that's where the sense of hearing finally comes in to play) and the crackers were scattered all over the table. And then Antonio, the man who had so intimidated me, tipped his glass in my direction. Maybe he was just leaning over to join the scramble for the remaining crackers, but I thought I noticed a discernable wink, perhaps just as subtle as the sea flavor I detected in the Macabeo. 

Here is a look at my tasting notes (as you can see, I became less studious at the wines became more numerous)

Raise Your Wineglass to the Octopus

Wednesday was a day of relatively obscure holidays. While only a few people might have known that it was National Octopus Day in the US, my Spanish comrades were celebrating the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana- ever so slightly less obscure. Of the two, I was fare more eager to embrace latter, although without the former, I would have never learned that octopi have three hearts...que romantico! Why was the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana a special day: it was a regional holiday and it meant that instead of going to Spanish grammar class, I instead ventured into Alicantinian wine country to visit Salvador Poveda.

I was accompanied by new friends, Armando and Manuel, both wine enthusiasts from Alicante. Upon our arrival at Salvador Poveda, we were greeted by Señor Rafael Poveda Bernabé, who was, perhaps the most endearing host I've encountered yet: a combination of enthusiasm, sarcasm, and pragmatism. I'll explain how.

We began our tour in the vines themselves. To me, the ground looked dry, almost hostile, yet good wine often comes from soils that don't look exactly like they're overflowing with vitality. Vines need to struggle to make the best wine, to seek water, to encounter and overcome sedimentary obstacles. In the chalky, dusty lands of Monóvar, the vines would certainly face this necessary challenge. I struggled to keep up with the three hombres as we stumbled over pebbles the size of my face, but Rafa, our host, would stop occasionally to share a story or toss me a few factoids about a particular varietal.

We started with Monastrell, a very popular grape grown in this particular D.O.C, which, as it turns out, is the same grape as France's Mourvèdre [news to me]. This reminds of when I was researching 'natural' wine in Paris and I sipped a glass of Chablis and said, 'hmm, this reminds me a bit of Chardonnay'. Quelle honte! We also strolled through Riesling and Syrah vines, which unlike Monastrell, are harvested by machines and not by hand. Rafa explained the way that machines are programed to harvest grapes, which is a question that I've wondered about many times. So often, much care is given to the grape clusters, it seems a bit barbaric to then harvest with some giant, undiscerning machine. Unfortunately, Rafa's explanation was a bit technical and my Spanish still just isn't up to snuff. I was able to understand parts of the story, thanks to his animated gestures. From what I gathered, it's not uncommon for there to be a sleeping snake or partridge nesting under the grape leaves, and occasionally, they can possess a similar enough volume to density ratio that the machine snatches them up as if there were a lovely cluster of Tempranillo. Perhaps think twice when you hear a sommelier describe a wine as gamey. No, no, I kid: it's highly unlikely that the snake or partridge would ever make it to fermentation.

Before leaving the vines, we got to pick fresh almonds from the trees growing on the estate and enjoy their sweetness as we stumbled back towards the bodega. At this time, Rafa said:

"You see all of these grapes that are left on the vines, they weren't picked at harvest, but we leave them. They will fall and seep into the vines and the earth, strengthening the essence of the future wines. You see all these weeds, we leave them here, we don't use pesticides or try to get rid of them at all. They also impart unique characteristics to the soil and the wines. We call this viticultura biodinámica."

Bingo! This was the first time I've heard someone besides myself speak these words in Spain. While many would argue that there is far more to biodynamic viticulture that what Rafa described, it was like music to my ears. As it turns out, Rafa's wines resemble more the French idea of viticulture raisonnée, which means making responsible viticultural practices without ascribing to a particular doctrine or certification standard. This is an philosophy that I am very fond of, as I am of most ideas that incorporate a sensible degree of moderation. 

As we approached the wine-making facilities we were joined by three other men, one of whom was a doctor who traveled all the way from Cuba, while another was a professor at my school. It looks like we had shared a similar idea of how to take advantage of the Fiesta de la Comunidad Valenciana. At this time, Rafa explained to the group many of the processes necessary to turn grapes into wine, which he essentially described as 'finding a way to keep it from turning into vinegar, which is what it wants to do." I have been explained the various stages of the wine-making process a few times before [unfortunately, never in English] so, until, I've managed to truly understand it, I won't try to write the incongruous factoids that I've gleaned. They are, however, starting to pile up, so soon I hope to present a linear understanding of the winemaking process.


We went into the bottling and labeling room where Rafa tossed around various corks, labels, caps and mused about the various preferences between wine drinking nations and the wines themselves. For example, it is better to use a traditional cork for Reservas [one year in barrel and Gran Reservas [2 years]. A wine less than a Crianza [6 months] that will be drank soon can use a twist-off cap which eliminates certain risks associated with corking. Rafa shared that he sends lots of young wines to the Chinese market, that needn't have traditional corks, however, the Chinese appreciate the whole 'pomp and circumstance' of uncorking a bottle [even if the wine is new, or even mediocre]. He said the opposite is true for the English market- they could care less about the bottle/label/cork so long as the wine is good. These are, of course, generalizations. And what about me? I like a good cork- there's something too gratifying about the sucking pop that happens after your wine opener slides into that second notch and you give it that final, upward thrust. [Without even meaning too, I think I've discovered a new niche: erotic wine banter]

Before climbing the stairs that would lead us to the tasting room, we stopped where all the barrels of Fondillón are kept. Each barrel has a year written on it in chalk [the oldest I spied was 1940] which is not the vintage of the Fondillón, but the year when the particular barrel was put in use. Conceivably, in every subsequent usage, there are traces of 1940 Fondillón. So, before, I get too far ahead of myself, one might ask: What is Fondillón? Well, it was once described as the world's best wine. I first heard mention of it in a cookbook from the 15th century about Alicantian Gastronomy that I am reading. Kings would come to dine in Alicante and they would rave about the bacalao and Fondillón. It is rumored that Louis XIV was given the choice between a Port, Amontillado and Fondillón and claimed that he would always, siempre, toujours chose Fondillón. It was even celebrated in great depth in Alexandre Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo.

Therefore, you can imagine my excitement when I was offered the opportunity to sign my name in chalk on a giant barrel of Fondillón. We even got to taste some straight from a barrel from 1953. I'm no Louis XIV, but I felt a bit like him in that moment. To make my bond with Fondillón even deeper, Manuel [who you could describe as my Alicantinian wine sensei] bought me a bottle from 1987. Como se dice a trillion thankyous en español?

I bought a few more bottles for my personal consumption [already I have two less then what I started with] and we bid a grand adieu to the winery which so graciously hosted us. Next up, we went to a nearby pueblo, one of the kinds where you hardly expect people to live, let alone have a grand, elegant restaurant. But, there it was! After double parking- but leaving a note- a juxtaposition so delightfully Spanish, we went inside.

Keep and eye out for a post under 'Experiences' about the restaurant and all of that day's gustatory wonders!

Vinícolas: Bring on the Spanish Pun

Last Friday, the 4th of October, I had the opportunity to dine at Vinícolas, arguably one of the best reputed restaurants in the municipality of Alicante. Why the reference to a pun in the blog title? Why, indeed! Let me tell you. Vinícolas is a word built from the words vino [wine] and Nicolas [the surname of owner of the establishment]. To make the name even more delightfully complex consider this: vinícola is an adjective the refers to the production of wine, or, for that matter, anything related to wine.

Upon entering the restaurant, this emphasis in wine is made instantly clear: bottles are everywhere, lining each wall and dividing the restaurant in to separate dining quarters. The friend with whom I was dining was a long-time friend of Manuel Quiles, son of the aforementioned Nicolas. He was kind enough to show me around the restaurant [in English, nonetheless]. The wines at Vinícolas are organized in two, complementary ways: first by general categories e.g. whites, reds and sparkling wines and then by region. While Vinícolas does, indeed, have both new and old world wines, there is an obvious emphasis in old world wines, namely Italian, French and an immense Spanish section, which is further separated by prominent D.O.C.s [Denominación de Origen Calificada, which is, essentially, the same as the French A.O.C or the American A.V.A]. If a buyer were looking for European wines, he or she needn't look further than Vinícolas, however, when it comes to New World Wines, the choice would have to be made between Robert Mondavi and a handful of Chilean reds.

There were few 'natural' wines and those that were indeed 'natural' weren't immediately distinguishable as such- the plight in many a store. When I asked Quiles about 'natural' wines and their degree of success in Spain, he shared that the movement did not have anything approaching the momentum that exists in France and Germany, where 'natural' wine is more readily embraced and pursued.

After a tour of the restaurant, I was beckoned into the very glamorous glass room reserved for the finest wines. Veuve Clicquot and Dom Perignon were like towering king and queen chess pieces, while their price tags cowered like pawns below them.

Next, we were seated and while we awaited our first of 7 dishes, we were served a positively delightful champagne- so good, in fact,  that it compels me to use adjectives like positively delightful. It was a French champagne [as all Champagnes are] by the name of R.H. Coutier [refer to image | bottle on the right] and we were graciously served modest pour after pour. I suspect I've had champagne this good before, however, truthfully, I cannot remember enjoying champagne quite so much. It could be the fantastic way it paired with triple cream brie and shaved truffle bocadillos, croquetas of salted cod and a highly gourmet version of ensaladia rusa with dried black olive dust and sea salt. Each flavor-packed bite and subsequent sip of Champagne felt like a challenge between the two to win the affections of my taste buds. Just when the aioli or foraged trufas had almost put me under their seductive spell, the combative bubbles brought me back to my senses.

The next courses naturally brought with them a new wines. As a transition from the champagne to a local red, we were first offered Blanco Nieva 2012 Verdejo, a strategically selected white wine that would serve as a bridge from espumante to tinto. This wine [refer to image | middle] epitomizes the wine I've been drinking since I arrived in Spain in August: pale yellow-green, floral, complex & elegant- I only wish that every bar that I frequent offered a Verdejo this pleasant. With Blanco Nieva we enjoyed a plate of mussels which seemed to float like little buoys in a garlic, sea-water sauce, as well as navajas [razor clams] with lemon foam. Having never tried navajas, I was surprised by their nutty flavor and meaty texture. The navajas themselves also seemed surprised. They tightened and tensed as if receiving an unwanted caress from the acidic, lemon foam. My quivering plate was slightly disarming, but easy enough to overlook once I tasted the unfamiliar shellfish. It was the best dish of the night.

Regrettably, I am missing more than one of the wines I enjoyed that night. With all the splendor of the seemingly endless plates of beautiful food, I grew a little distracted and stopped taking pictures of the bottles as they came and went. I suppose some of the bubbles from the R.H. Coutier had already gone to my head and I had the false confidence that I'd be able to remember the wines several days later. Wrong! However, I was sensible enough to snap a shot of the local tinto that we drank from Alicante: Beryna 2010, a blend of Monastrell, a popular Alicantinian grape, Tempranillo, Syrah, Merlot and Cabernet [refer to image | left]. While still being a young wine, it had a powerful, peppery aroma and deep color, the sort of red a matador would use to lure in a bull.

Bulls and red are almost a Spanish cliché, but when I was served bull with a purée of alcachofas, artichokes, paired with the Beryna blend, the combination seemed transcendent instead of trite. While the almost bloody bull steak was a very liberal interpretation of al punto, the earthy, unctuous flavor was right on point. The steak revealed its bull-like virility while the buttery, fluttery artichoke possessed all the finesse of the matador.

The dessert at Vinícolas looked as though it had hopped of the menu at Portland's Le Pigeon and sailed across the Atlantic. It was a chocolate-dipped mousse of foie-gras and hazelnut, served up with speculoos dust and micro-greens. If it had been served with a Pinot Noir, I might have believed I'd blinked my eyes, tapped my red slippers and been taken back home. But instead, we were drinking Port (from Portugal, not Portland) which was strong enough to hold it's own against the half-moon of foie, but still contributed to a dessert that was too heavy. I enjoy foie as much as the next hedonist, but I maintain that it behaves better as a starter than as a dessert. I was craving acidity and freshness after the bull and the one leaf of minor's lettuce couldn't stand up to the other rich ingredients that dominated the plate.

Over dessert, I learned that Vinícolas the restaurant really began as an experiment after having had early success with the wine distribution business under the same name. To me the meal had seemed well-crafted, intentional and above-all, laborious, with each ingredient displayed with the precision and pride of an successful abstract artist. And yet, the restaurant was new and still in transition according to Quiles. How nice it would be if all my brainstorms and after-thoughts were as much of a success as Vinícolas.