When I was in Los Angeles recently, I had the good fortune to stumble upon what should be my favorite new winebar (it was sort of directed stumbling, in truth; Minneapolis Star-Tribune food critic Rick Nelson's uncle is the chef, and he sent me toward it). In fact, the only thing keeping it from being my favorite place for a quick glass of vino is that it's about 2,400 miles from my apartment. But that aside, Lou is a nifty little place located in an unlikely corner of a strip shopping center on Vine just north of Melrose, adjacent to a laundromat and about seventy feet from a Thai massage joint. It's relatively unmarked—even though there's a sign saying Lou, I kept thinking I wasn't in the right place—but once you step inside you're in an appealingly low-lit nook full of appealingly low-key-yet-hip Angelenos, most of them holding glasses of wine and noshing on cheese, charcuterie and larger dishes (Chorizo with black lentils, garlic confit and fried egg, for instance) off the menu, under a chalk drawing on the wall of a pig holding a glass of wine.

Lou focuses on small-production, organic/biodynamic/post-organic (whatever post-organic means) wines, thirty of which are available by the glass at any given time, and is "unabashedly Eurocentric," as the website says. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll recognize or at least be intrigued by offerings like the 2006 Guy Breton Morgon for $14 a glass, 2007 Clos Roche Blanche Sauvignon Blanc for $8 a glass, or Huber & Bleger Crémant d'Alsace Rosé NV for $10 a glass...though it may well be that those choices have changed since I was there. Regardless, I still think they're providing plates of "pig candy," which is essentially candied artisanal bacon, for five bucks. Candied pork? Uh-huh. I'm in.

I stopped in the other night at the Macao Trading Co., which occupies a desolate block of the Tribeca landscape (or at least it seems desolate at 11 PM when there's sleet blowing in your face). It's a neat trick, then, to walk in and abruptly find oneself transported back to some fanciful version of colonial days in Macao; Somerset Maugham may have spent more time at the long bar at Raffles in Singapore, but I still wouldn't have been surprised to find him lurking in a linen suit somewhere in a back booth.

The restaurant brings together the disparate talents of David Waltuck, Chanterelle's longtime chef-owner, and Dushan Zaric & Jason Kosmas of the West Village cocktailian watering hole Employees Only. Waltuck handles the food end, which splits somewhat oddly between Portuguese-influenced and Chinese-influenced dishes (a nod to Macao's colonial history, but—like that history—a somewhat conflicted relationship). For my part, the winning dishes were mostly on the Chinese side of the menu, like an appealingly earthy-briny bowl of Manila clams with black beans and chilies, and a whole sea bass with a ginger-scallion sauce that was fun to pick at and expertly cooked.

But the real reason to head here is the cocktails. In the interests of scientific inquiry, I felt it incumbent on me to try all nine or ten of the house cocktails. They were uniformly excellent both in concept and execution, the sort of cocktail experience that's becoming oddly easy to come across in NYC these days (think Clover Club, Tailor, Pegu Club, PDT, and six or seven other places) and that tends to make one think we're living in a kind of cocktail golden age—an excellent thing, since every other aspect of our age seems rapidly to be turning into some base metal, say lead, or brass.

Anyway, here are two of my faves, recipes courtesy of Mssrs Zaric & Kosmas:

Esmeralda
3 cubes of fresh honeydew melon
1 heaping demitasse spoon of cubed ginger
2 demitasse spoons of sugar
3/4 oz. fresh lime juice
1/4 oz. Luxardo Maraschino liqueur
1 1/4 oz. Esmeralda Cachaça
 
Directions: Muddle the melon, ginger and sugar in the bottom of the mixing glass. Add the rest of the ingredients and ice. Shake and pour unstrained back into a rocks glass. Garnish with a honeydew cut as a "sharks fin."
 
Kaffir Jimlet
3 oz. Kaffir leaf infused Plymouth gin
1 oz. fresh lime Juice
1/2 oz. agave nectar
Green Chartreuse
Kaffir leaf
 
Directions: Wash the inside of a cocktail glass with Green Chartreuse. Pour Gin, lime juice and agave nectar into a mixing glass. Add ice and shake vigorously for 7-8 seconds. Strain into the prepared cocktail glass. Garnish with a Kaffir leaf.

I'll add as a final note: go for the Esmeralda, if you can find it; it's a great aged cachaça, and has more depth than run-of-the-mill white cachaças (for more on artisan cachaças, see my F&W article here). And if you don't feel like infusing your own gin with kaffir leaves, Hangar One makes a kaffir-lime vodka that would probably work as a good substitute.

Sometimes a wine is so good that you immediately have to get on a plane and fly to Italy for five days just to calm down, which is apparently what happened to me after I went to the Champagne Jacques Selosse dinner at 11 Madison Park about a week and a half ago. Now that the synapses are back in working order, here are a couple of observations.

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Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of how radically wine lists in restaurants have changed over the past, oh, fifteen years or so. I've been on a sort of Italian-resto-spree lately, and I'm coming out of it thinking that I'm either dreaming or I'm living in a golden age of Italian wine and food here in NYC.

Example One: Scarpetta. I've been a fan of Scott Conant's cooking since the first bite I had of his luscious polenta with wild mushroom fricassee at L'Impero, a dish which, I'm thrilled to find, he's replicated on the menu at his new restaurant, Scarpetta. I've been here a few times in the past month or so, and it's quickly becoming one of my favorite spots in the city, partly because it seems like Conant has finally landed in a place where the ambience of the room is of a piece with the character of the food. I loved L'Impero, but it was a tad formal for my taste; Alto was like watching Cezanne try to paint like Tintoretto or something; Scarpetta nails it. And besides the presence of things like Conant's signature capretto (roasted baby goat, and mighty darn good it is), there's also the smart, adventurous, and fairly priced wine list. We drank a terrific white, the 2006 Vadiaperti Fiano di Avellino, about which I know nothing but that it's packed with flavor and focused all at once. Next, a bottle of the 2006 Hofstätter Lagrein. Its bright acidity played foil to its dark, chewy fruit, and both went ideally well with Conant's rich duck-and-foie gras ravioli, not to mention his fall-apart-tender short ribs.

Example Two: Bar Milano. First off, if you're lucky, then partner Tony Abou-Ganim is going to be behind the bar mixing drinks here, as he was the night I stopped in. I asked him to make me something interesting with rye. He replied with a Rattlesnake, which, according to the 1947 edition of Trader Vic's Bartender's Guide is one ounce of rye, two dashes of Pernod, a teaspoon of lemon juice, a half-teaspoon of powdered sugar, and half an egg white, shaken with cracked ice and (in my case) strained onto rocks. Sublime on a steamy evening, and a good lead-in to poking around Bar Milano's all-Northern-Italian wine list. I bypassed the exceptionally weird 2005 Movia Lunar—I love Ales Kristancic's wines, but this stuff is odd to a fault—and instead settled on a bottle of the 2006 Grosjean Freres Cornalin from the Valle D'Aosta. This is the kind of wine that never, ever, in a million years would have appeared on a wine list back in, say, 1985 or even 1995. Utterly obscure, it was also mighty darn delicious—bright red fruit, potent but not weighty, distinctive and very fresh. Good with duck, you might think. I did, and it was. Plus the duck itself was superb, the skin crisp to a just-so toothsomeness, the meat tender and deeply flavorful (Pekin from D'Artagnan—good to know), the rhubarb compote that came with it a nice tangy-sweet touch as were the earthy, savory lentils.

Example Three: Dell' Anima. One thing I like about this place is that practically every bottle that wine director Joe Campanale offers probably wouldn't have appeared on a wine list back in 1995 (with maybe the exception of some of the Tuscan & Piedmontese wines). The list is like a playground for Italian wine fanatics. In the mood for a little Fumin? A glass of Cesanese del Piglio? Or maybe some Petite Arvine—I was, for the latter, since I was still on my Valle d'Aosta kick. The 2006 Grosjean Freres Petite Arvine (those guys again!) was unctuous and rich; lots of texture, lots of minerality, and very good with avocado & preserved lemon bruschetta, a snack which wasn't exactly Italian but somehow very much was, all at the same time. Next up was a 2007 Romano Clelia Fiano d'Avelino "Colli di Lapio", about the best Fiano I've run across (including the Vadiaperti, much as I liked it). Melony, aromatic, and long, it was substantial enough to go with chef Gabe Thompson's intensely woodsy Garganelli with mushroom ragu (a died-and-gone-to-heaven dish for mushroom fanatics) yet graceful enough to also go with something as evocative of springtime as Thompson's farfalline with asparagus, ricotta salata and hen-of-the-woods mushrooms.

And I forgot to mention: we started off at Dell'Anima with a bottle of white Lini Lambrusco, which is made from red Lambrusco Salamino grapes, just to make things even a tad more complicated. It was like drinking lightly sweet flowers.

Man, this Italian wine-list thing. Esoterica everywhere. But it sure is fun.

It’s heartening when one’s home state strikes a powerful blow against the forces of darkness. And I’m here to tell you, if you want the forces of darkness whisked from your view like yesterday’s dust-bunnies, you’d better get on a plane, fly to Houston right now, go to Killen’s Steakhouse in Pearland, and order their creamed corn.

Yes, I know: creamed corn? What’s with this lunatic and his dern creamed corn?

Well. If fate had smiled on you as it did me, and you had made your way to Killen’s the other night and seen fit, as I did, to order yourself a sixteen-ounce ribeye, a plate of fried asparagus (yep) and some of chef Ronnie Killen’s so-sublime-your-brain-will-melt creamed corn, you’d know what I’m talking about. You’d start to give a damn about creamed corn. An upside-down, sideways and with boots on damn, in fact.

Anyway, enough of this folderol. What Killen said he does is as follows (I think this is largely accurate): he cooks his corn on the cob, slices off the kernels, then simmers the cobs in cream and butter, infusing the liquid with an intense essence of corn character. He removes the cobs, scrapes every bit of corn pulp and milk out of them into the pot, purees a quarter of the kernels, adds those, adds the rest of the whole kernels, dashes in a bit of cayenne pepper (crucial), grates a bit of parmesan on top, and sticks the whole thing under the broiler just long enough to brown the parmesan. Whereupon he serves it to people like me, who then have their whole understanding of creamed corn’s place in the culinary universe pretty handily rewritten for them.

Alison Cook, esteemed restaurant critic at the Houston Chronicle and hometown pal, hauled me (and my mother—long story, but she's pals with Alison, too) out to Killen’s the other night, and thanks is due. Outside of my corn-epiphany, everything about this meal was spot-on: a sixteen-ounce wet-aged ribeye that was charred on the outside and toothsome within, a sixteen-ounce dry-aged ribeye that was straight-up the best steak I’ve tasted in at least a year (better than anything I’ve had in NYC in that span), and, hey, fried asparagus. Breaded fried asparagus. With lump crabmeat in a lemon-butter sauce on top. God knows what Houstonian chef-maniac dreamed up deep-fried asparagus, but apparently it’s the latest food-rage in my always odder-than-it-seems hometown.

Nice wine list, too, by the way (this is a wine blog, after all). We ordered a 2004 Les Mas de Collines Gigondas that was aromatic and supple and went surprisingly well with onion rings, and then a 2004 Scott Harvey Old Vines Zinfandel ($30) that was chock-a-block with wild berry fruit and relatively (14.5%) moderate in alcohol, at least as far as old vines zins run these days. Great with a steak.

Oh. And chef Killen’s crème brûlée bread pudding, four words that were destined to go together, as far as I'm concerned. You don’t want to know, but essentially it involves soaking buttery croissants in lusciously rich (but not wildly sweet) crème brûlée custard, then baking the mushed-together mass until it is, um, extremely good for your heart. Right. (Here: the look of someone used to getting everything, denied his rightful portion of c.b. bread pudding.)

Two last things: I left with lingering regrets that I did not order Killen's sirloin chicken fried steak, though that does give me a justification for driving 12 miles straight out Telephone Road to this deceptively low-key place the next time I'm in town. Also, it's worth noting that when Ronnie Killen's parents owned the property, it was an ice-house. Man, the times they are a'changin. Oh wait—hasn't that been said before? 

I had lunch the other day with Sandro Boscaini of Masi, the Italian Amarone producer, at Manhattan's Alto restaurant. Boscaini has a bit of that same mischievous twinkle in his eye that the late William F. Buckley, Jr. had (which David Remnick memorably described as "the eyes of a child who has just displayed a horrid use for the microwave oven and the family cat"—so actually it's probably more fair to say that Boscaini has the same mischievous twinkle but without the implied hint of cheerful sadism). In any case, the lunch was terrific—chef Michael White's cooking blew me away—and the wines, a series of Masi amarones stretching back to a 1983 Campolongo de Torbe, were remarkable, too.

Boscaini has a way with a phrase, and I particularly liked this comment: "It's impossible to bring Juliet's Balcony in Verona to New York, but we can bring a bottle of Amarone. Through the juice of the grapes we can encapsulate in a bottle the romance, the culture, the story of a people."

He went on, "In Tuscan wines, the sense of Renaissance nobility—sometimes a little arrogance?" Yep, there's that mischievous twinkle, and a sort of half-smile to himself. Then, "But the Veneto...I think it's the sweetness. Supple, elegant, approachable, with a little understatement...we take life very easily. Even our wines, from the Veneto, they have a certain understatement or cordiality." Hemingway, he added, described the wines of Verona as dry and cordial, like the home of a brother one gets on with.

We tasted a string of 2001s, including the cherry-and-tea-leaf-scented '01 Vaio Armaron, full of sweet dark cherry notes and a nice lush depth, the '01 Campolongo di Torbe, with a note of black olive in the nose and spicy, exotic, cherry-blueberry fruit, and the '01 Mazzano, much more austere and brooding, its plum and dark chocolate wrapped up in drying tannins. Boscaini said, "Mazzano is very austere, with no voluptuous character. The vineyard is very high in the hills, the soil is very poor, and the temperature is colder. It's severe. Campolongo is more like a painting by Rubens, more color, more warmth. It has that illusion of sweetness that is typical of Amarone. Mazzano is more like Modigliani." A side note: this was very surprising to hear, as I'd just used the same analogy about two wines in my March column on Washington reds. He continued: "And Vaio Armaron is more a baroque style, an elegant, majestic wine."

The older vintages were all from Campolongo di Torbe, in honor of its fiftieth anniversary. I found the '97 Campolongo a bit overly ripe and raisiny—"gormless" was the word I used in my notes, which means brainless; mostly I meant it was a bit hulking. However, it came to life paired with White's delicious short-ribs. Context, y'know, it's a pretty crucial consideration. The '88 Campolongo I loved for its complex aroma of herbs, tobacco, dried cherry and clay, its round cherry pie flavors, brick dust tannins, and note of milk chocolate...just terrific stuff. And the '83 Campolongo, though a bit attenuated, was still intriguing and pleasurable, with a sort of delicate perfume of almond, dried cherry and licorice, and sweet dried cherry fruit wrapped with licorice notes.

I'll wrap this up with Sandro Boscaini's advice about the best way to enjoy Amarone, at least in its first twelve years. "Serve it with a piece of Parmesan cheese drizzled with a spoonful of acacia honey. It's a perfect match." 

I have a long history with the restaurant that used to be Duane Park Café and is now simply Duane Park. In 1998, when I was selling wine in NYC (back when the thought of paying my bills by way of journalism was a joke at best), I lived down the block from the place. Times changed—for instance, terrorists blew up the neighborhood, essentially—but Duane Park Café remained oddly unchanged. Well, not anymore.

First, longtime manager and now co-owner Marisa Ferrarin brought in her husband, artist Paul Etienne Lincoln, to redesign the place. What was once a slightly dated-feeling room is now, in a way that's somewhat hard to put one's finger on, unlike any restaurant I've ever walked into. It still has the requisite tables and chairs, sure, but with black-and-white wallpaper fashioned in Italy from enlarged 18th century etchings (Lincoln chose them), a rather grand chandelier that once hung in a plantation in Louisiana, and a line of blue velour barstools at the bar, it feels more like walking into a particularly aesthetically-driven European private salon than the typical NY restaurant. That said, it's a salon that also happens to serve terrific food and wine.

The menu has been completely redone, thanks to new chef Seaun Knight (formerly of Cello and Alias in NYC; pre-NYC, he helped open Emeril Lagasse's first restaurant in New Orleans, where he also worked with Susan Spicer at Bayona). Knight describes his food as "seasonal contemporary American with a southern twist," the latter evident in dishes like a perfectly seasoned Louisiana crabcake with paddlefish caviar and white remoulade, and pecan pie made with bittersweet chocolate and whiskey (which justified once again, as far as I'm concerned, my feeling that the only thing better than pecan pie is pecan pie made with Bourbon). 

The wine list is short and well chosen, and it's also well priced, a relief after some of the muggings I've been subjected to recently. The '05 Le Meurger Bourgogne Rouge that I had with Knight's red-wine braised short rib ravioli, which are just as absurdly good as they sound, seems to be gone from the list already, but I'd happily order a 2004 Domaine Jessiaume Santenay Gravieres 1er Cru for $55 instead, especially since many of the '04 red Burgundies, which were so unfriendly to start, seem to be opening up.

So go there. Order the Berkshire pork chop, not just because it's good, but because it comes with smoked bacon spaetzle, and how can you argue with that? Have a glass of Château de Campuget from the Costières de Nimes. In fact, have another glass, since it's good and it's only $28 a bottle. That, to me, sounds like a mighty pleasant evening. 

Having had more than my fair share of the crispy duck necks from Trestle on Tenth that my colleague Kristin Donnelly on the food side blogged about last Friday, I can say with authority that, in terms of outré finger foods, there's nothing better to pair with Pinot Noir than these little guys. The Superbowl's over—they were being featured as a take-out special—but conveniently Ralf Kuettel (Trestle on Tenth's chef/owner, who also used to manage NY's Chelsea Wine Vault, which may be why Trestle's wine list is so remarkable) always has them on his dinner menu. Hie thee hence, hop a cab or a bus or a plane to TonT, and chow down on some of these intriguingly flexible snacks along with, say, the '05 Jean-Marc Bouley Volnay Vieilles Vignes that's on the list there right now at an appealing $69 a bottle.

I've been tasting wines somewhat at random over the past couple of weeks, as we try and whack our February issue into shape (whack! whack! get in shape, you!). Many were unremarkable, as always, yet a couple were remarkable. The standout was a 1981 Lopez de Heredia Viña Tondonia that I had last night at Suba, whose odd downstairs dining room—a moat full of water surrounds the dining area—is a lot more inviting now that the walls are painted white. Formerly it felt like a dungeon for hipsters; now it's kind of cool and, if not quite Spanish, at least sort of ultra-moderne South American. And chef Seamus Mullen's food is terrific, especially the arroz al horno our table shared—perfectly cooked bomba rice with that ideal crisp, caramelized layer around the bottom and edges (soccarat, if you want the Spanish—or is it Catalan?—term), flavorful chunks of pork shank, enough morcilla (blood sausage) to give it earthy depth...man. Need more. Now.

I also need more of the other thing our table shared, which was that '81 Viña Tondonia. The first bottle we ordered was corked, but the second was glorious, an affirmation of the amazing ageability of traditionally-styled Rioja. It had intense, bright acidity, dried cherry notes that somehow managed to be fresh at the same time, deep earthy layers of flavor underneath, an aroma so complex I'm just not even going to try and dissect it, and that luscious liquid velvet mouthfeel that good, old Rioja gets. Not cheap, but neither is gold.

However, for those who aren't into blowing their paychecks on aged Spanish wine, here are a couple of good Thanksgiving pours from my recent tastings:

2006 Planeta Cerasuolo di Vittoria ($21) A Sicilian blend of Nero d'Avola and Frappato, vinified and aged in steel tanks, this is loaded with classic Cerasuolo notes: bing cherry, licorice, strawberry, lots of freshness. And if $21 is still too pricey, you could do worse than to buy Planeta's black raspberryish, juicy 2006 La Segreta Rosso ($15) instead. 

2005 Capezzana Barco Reale ($15) I'm intending to write more about Capezzana soon, since I just had lunch with Beatrice Contini Bonacossi, whose family owns the property, and was impressed by the whole line of Capezzana wines. But, in the meantime, this bright, flavorful, berry-driven Sangiovese blend would be a dandy match for turkey with cranberry sauce.

2006 Henschke Tilly's Vineyard ($21) A floral blend of Semillon, Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc from the producer of one of Australia's greatest Shirazes (that'd be Hill of Grace, and it ain't cheap—$550 for the current vintage. Ouch.) This may not be as profound as HoG, but it's an impressive white for a fair price—sweet green apple and lemon notes, ending on a faint nuttiness. NB, Henschke's wines can be hard to find. Try wine-searcher.com.

2006 Terre Rouge Enigma ($24) A mention of this wine is upcoming in our January issue, but I like it enough that I'm just going to throw caution to the wind, set the controls for the heart of the sun, go ape-bat-you know what-crazy, and mention it early. Fine. Bring on the consequences. It's a terrific little blend of Marsanne, Viognier and Roussanne, packed with pear and tangerine notes, ending on stony minerality.

Thing #1:

2001 Pierre Sparr Riesling Grand Cru Schoenenburg ($35, give or take) This is still available out there in the world, according to wine-searcher.com, and that's a fine thing, because it's terrific Grand Cru Alsace Riesling that's drinking just gorgeously right now. Light petrol aromas mingle with floral and lime skin scents, then open into a Riesling with tremendous depth of flavor—lime and tangerine zest notes, peppery spice, graceful texture, and a long finish. Quite old vines; minimum of 40 years on limestone, chalk and clay soils near Riquewihr.

Thing #2:

Marco Canora's Tuna Carbonara at Insieme, in Manhattan: a fragrant tangle of perfectly cooked spaghettini, tuna bottarga shavings, micro-dice of salty, intense tuna bacon, and a little fresh parsley. I'm always impressed with the pastas at Insieme—somehow Canora manages to instill tremendous flavor into what seem (and often really are) very simple dishes. This particular pasta is that kind of clever turn on a classic that makes you think, you know, why didn't someone come up with this before? I'm not sure if it's always on the menu, but nab it if it is.

And you know how these things go: Thing #1 + Thing #2? A sum much greater than the parts, as far as my tastebuds were concerned. Or else a Dr. Seuss story. Your call on that one.