Cider Nation Celebration

I apologize to those of you wine fanatics who read my blog, but this time, I regret to inform you, I will have little to say about wine. What could be so great as to divert my attention from my most revered food group, ahem, I mean beverage? The answer: Asturian Cider or sidra asturiana.

Not only is it a special drink, it's a special tradition, in a special land. I recently spent a week in Asturias, a region in northern Spain, which is known for its exquisite vistas, its dialect, its rich cuisine and its cider. I was there visiting my boyfriend, Miguel, who grew up there. This meant meeting his family- los suegros- his friends and learning about Asturias from one of its most patriotic ex-pats. Therefore, no later than day one did we venture to a sidrería to experience local flavor.

When one visits a cider bar, there is a protocol to be followed. Miguel shared that you can often determine who is a guiri- a foreigner- by the way they drink their cider. An Asturian would wait for his waiter to come bearing a bottle and traditional cider glasses (which have very thin sides). Next, from above his head, the waiter pours a golden thread of cider into a glass a few feet below (I suppose I should say meters now). I guess a true Asturian would also know how to do this for himself (refer to photo of Miguelito). When the waiter hands your glass to you, it is probably only a fifth of the way full- this is called a culín and it is to be drunk immediately after smelling it. When the cider falls a few feet and splashes against the sides of the glass, it becomes magnificently effervescent and that's the opportune moment to drink it. The guiris (I myself am a guiri) sometimes fill it up to the brim of their glass and then sip it as if it were beer or wine. MAL! According to Miguel, even spaniards from other parts of the country have been known to mis-drink their cider. Finally, just before swallowing the last few drops of cider from your class, you need to toss the cider out of it. Why? Because when sharing a glass with others, this trick helps 'sanitize' (notice my quote marks of skepticism) the glass for other drinkers. The goal is to toss your cider out over the part of the glass that your lips touched, hence cleaning it for your amigu.

This process is repeated several times and before you know it, there goes a bottle. To be precise, a bottle is about six culínes and it feels like even less. Before you know it, you feel giddy and ready to pull a Spanish all-nighter, which for the locals is nothing short of quotidian.

Sidrerías line the streets of many an Asturian city, reminding you of it's prevalence in Asturian culture. Miguel told me that nearly 90% of cider produced in Asturias is consumed in Asturias. So if the beautiful beaches, majestic mountains and the sounds of bagpipes and sheepbells didn't make one happy enough, add just a little bit of a buzz from delicious fermented apples and you've got yourself a paradise.

The tradition of producing cider, however, has a legacy that runs much deeper than the hedonistic pleasures of Asturians and guiris alike. In fact, the production and consumption of cider acts as a unifier for communities and as a steward of the Asturian language. Throughout the year, the harvest of apples and the production of cider bring together small villages who celebrate with fresh-pressed apple juice and chestnuts. Additionally, many of the words in the cider lexicon are exclusively Asturian with no castilian equivalent. As a student of languages as well as beverages, this nexus fascinates me. At the moment, I can say no more, as I am but a novice and a guiri, however, I hope to return to Asturias to actually study it.

Certainly I will go back, it's just a question of whether I'll come in the costume of 'student researcher' or 'american girlfriend'. Either way, I will return to Asturias this Christmas and I look forward to welcoming 2014 with a culín of cider (or several).

Garnacha Tintorera or Pigeon Blood?

This weekend was full of firsts for this American: my first time visiting a Spanish pueblo, my first time tasting sheep’s brain, my first catholic procession, my first visit to a Spanish bodega [vineyard], and my first giant family meal in Spain. In many cases, I hope this is the first of several occasions, while others, like the brain and the procession, can remain as memories of “that one time in Alpera where I ate goat brains and walked it off behind her holiness, Santa Cruz”.

Santa Cruz is the name of the saint in Alpera and it’s also the name of the wine made in the village. The 2012 Santa Cruz de Alpera received the Gold Selection as the best young wine in Castilla-La Mancha. So, we’re talking about some very good wine. Somehow, Bacchus from above, ordained that I would have a Spanish host-family with some serious wine connections. In fact, my host “brother-in-law”, Guillermo, is the jefe, the manager of the entire cooperative where Santa Cruz de Alpera is produced. I had the pleasure of getting an extensive tour of the facilities from him, as well as some of his personal thoughts on the regional, national and international wine industry.

Guillermo was both literally and figuratively grandfathered into the business. As a little boy, he would come help his father and learn from the oenologist who was a family friend. At that time, the bodega, was far smaller and it was finely tuned to the palate of the aforementioned oenologist. They made only vino ecológico, however, not for marketing prouesse, but instead because it made little sense to do otherwise; they were making good wine without added inputs. Guillermo said that the winery inevitably grew overtime- growth was necessary as were changes in winemaking practices. While most of the wine that is made at Bodega Santa Cruz de Alpera is not ‘natural’, Guillermo thinks that it is generally far better than when he was a child.

While he personally prefers the more “woody, earthy” tastes of the ‘natural’ wine that is made at the bodega, he recognizes that it is surely not the most popular. In the country where Rioja reigns supreme, other wines that don’t mirror it’s powerful, fruity flavor have little hope for success. Therefore, the typical wine made by Guillermo and his 25 or so employees follows that vein.

But, the cooperative collects a small variety of grapes and separates them by a) varietal and b) quality. They make a Verdejo, which I tasted with our tapas meal the night before (extraordinary). They also collect Tempranillo and Syrah to blend or make distinct bottles. Their most popular grape, and that which renders the bodega particular, is the Garnacha Tintorera grown in the region and used in their wines. It is the only known grape varietal with dark, colorful flesh and an equally intense flavor when harvested and fermented.

Later that same day, I was able to accompany my other host “brother-in-law”, José, to his vines that grow both eating grapes and wine grapes. Here, I got to see the Garnacha Tintorera in action. Never before had I permanently stained my clothes or my hands with grape juice, but never before had I squeezed ol’ tintorera. 

The sun was setting in Spain as I strolled through the vines at the base of some unknown colinas. It was warm out, I was feeding myself grapes off the vine with my head cocked back to catch the juices. I had a belly full of fresh tomatoes, a clear mind thanks to my siesta and friends in Alicante to come back to. I wanted to squeal, “que suerte tengo yo!” So I did. My host mom just chuckled. I say that almost every day (usually during mealtime)…I’m not even sure if it’s correct Spanish. Maybe soon, I’ll have enough suerte to know whether it is or not. Until then, salud.

P.S. The same meal I ate the sheep brain, my host father returned from a pigeon hunt and wanted to take shots, chupitos, to celebrate. I indulged him. The next morning I woke up with a hangover (no duh…I was alternating shots of Limoncetto with Crema de Cocoa) and went to get some breakfast out of the fridge. When I pulled out what I thought was a rollo, a sweet bread eaten every year to celebrate the procession, I found a floppy, dead pigeon instead. Esta vez, no tuve tanta suerte.

¡Vino! Por qué no?

10 months ago a Spanish man brought me a bottle of Albariño from his homeland. 10 months later, that man is my boyfriend and here I am: studying in Spain and drinking Albariño that, this time, I bought for myself in a tapas bar just around the corner from my new home in Alicante. While drinking my first sips of  I was falling in love with a man, this time, I'm falling in love with a place. And, naturally, with its wine. 

Because it's so hot here, I have yet to taste more than a few sips of red wine, or as the Spanish would say, vino tinto. But, soon the weather will cool down and I will get to experience the tastes & smells of the country that gave the world the famous Rioja and Tempranillo, among with many others- as well as it's own unique system of quality that is unlike the French system of AOCs or America's AVAs because it is deeply interested in aging. 

So, while I wait for my tinted wine, I've been exploring the realm of inexpensive house whites. First and foremost, I was shocked by the prices. I'm living in a touristy, warm, palm-tree-lined coastal town where bars could charge an arm and a leg for great tasting, local wine. My guess is that tourists would gladly pay it. I don't know enough yet about local Spanish mentality to know whether the locals would go for it or not. What, I'm really trying to get at is: the prices are extremely low and the wine extremely good. I've payed as little as €1.50 and maybe as high as €3.50. As much as it hurts me to hate on Portland, my home city, that much money couldn't even buy you a taste in some of the wine bars I frequent.

With only a few euros in my pocket, I can venture out into el barrio, the neighborhood that is practically spilling over with bars (pun!) and start tasting local flavor. In Spain, like France, the US, Italy (and surely other places), certain regions have been parceled up due to their particular climate, soil, vegetation- essentially their terroir. These are called DOs, or Denominación de Origen. In Valencian, one of four official languages that exist in Spain beyond Castellano, DO is written as Denominació d'Origen. Alicante is one of the cities with a Valencian linguistic tradition and for someone like me who studied languages and wine, I find it quite poetic that a language can be as distinct as a terroir.

Some of the whites from the region that I have had the chance to try are: Planta Fina, Merseguera, Verdil, Airén and Macabeo. Planta Fina is a Spanish type of vines vinifera, which is a cold-weather grape that's very typical in my beloved Willamette Valley. Merseguera is another Spanish white that can also be known as: Blanqueta, Blanquilla, Escanyagos, Exquitsagos, Exquitxagos, Gayata, Gayata Blanca, Lanjaron, Lanjaron Claro, Macaban, Macabeo Basto, Marisancha, Marisancho, Marseguera Masadera, Masaguera, Masseguera, Menseguera, Merseguera de Rio, Mersequera, Meseguera, Messeguera, Messeguera Comun, Mezeguera, Mezeyguera, Planta Borda, Planta de Gos, Trova, Uva Planta, Verdosilla, and Verema Blanca. ¡Que raro! Airén is native to Spain and it represents about 30% of the grapes grown. As of 2004, Airén was estimated to be the world's most grown grape variety in terms of planted surface, at 306,000 hectares (760,000 acres). Since Airén tends to be planted at a low density, several other varieties are more planted in terms of number of vines. Plantations of Airén are declining as it is being replaced in Spanish vineyards with various red varieties, such as Tempranillo. While Macabeo is grown in Alicante, it is not it's primary growing region. It is a grape that is made for relatively early consumption and can be blended with many other varietals to make highly aromatic wines when aged longer. I have also been drinking Verdejo, which is from the Rueda DO. It is an excellent wine that originates in North Africa and during it's introduction in Spain it had a sherry-like quality. The French oenologist, Émile Peynaud, helped develop a fresher style of Verdejo, which is harvested at night and fermented at slightly lower temperatures, preventing oxidation. 

 The same man I referenced at the beginning of the post shared with me stories about the favorite beverage in his region: cidra, or cider. He explained how the cider is poured from a bottle feet above the glass, exposing it to air as it falls. I have yet to try Asturian cider, however, I noticed a bottle of Asturian wine while at a tapas bar. Naturally, being a wino-romantic, I ordered it and to my surprise, they also poured it in that same manner. It was served in a glass the reminded me of a cognac glass and with a smaller portion than usual. It was a maravilla- wonderful! Unfortunately, with all the pomp and circumstance of the pouring and the tasting, I didn't think to ask the name of it. I am sure to find out soon because in only a few days, I'll be reunited with that same man- only this time we'll both be in Spain.