This collection of pieces is devoted to the lighter, brighter, funnier side of wine and food.

April Fools 2005!
Mondavi: the Takeover Becomes the Makeover
Find the Hidden Yquem!
10 Signs You've Been Spending Too Much Time in the Cellar
Food & Wine Finally Get Hitched—Or Do They?
Whining & Dining in the Borscht Belt
News Flash: Euro Pastry Makes U.S. Debut
Food for {21st Century} Thought
Marlow, the Incredible Wine-Drinking Bird
Addendum to the Napa Valley Wine Auction
Gastro-Mania

Perfection Plus?
101-point rating sends wine world into tizzy;
collectors and trade await wine's identity
with bated breath and drooling palates
By W. R. Tish

New York City, April 1, 2005 – The American wine scene teetered toward chaos today following news that Wine Spectator magazine had awarded 101 points to a humble wine from Spain.

To call the 101-point rating unprecedented would be an understatement; unthinkable might be more apt. In the current (April 30, 2005) Spectator, sprawling from page 56 to page 80, senior editor James Suckling probes how and why the 100-point "summit of perfection" has been achieved a mere 32 times over a span of 140,000 blind tastings of new releases.

Speaking on condition of anonymity, a Wine Spectator junior assistant apprentice tasting coordinator acknowledged that the rating was given by executive editor Thomas Matthews (the magazine's official arbiter of all things Spain) during a flight of "Miscellaneous Reds Under $10." Until yesterday, a new release from Spain had never exceeded 97 points on WineSpectator's 100-point scale; in fact, only a handful of $10 wines from any country have scored higher than 90 since the '90s.

Marvin R. Shanken, the magazine's editor and publisher, issued a brief statement indicating he has the utmost confidence in the veracity of the 101-point score, as he does in all Spectator Buying Guide reviews. Per standard procedure, Shanken noted, the identity of the 101-point wine will not be revealed prior to publication, except of course to wine retailers that sign up to receive advance notice of top-rated bottlings, thus allowing them to stock up before subscribers hit the stores.

As if the 101-point score itself were not shocking enough news, the tale of the beyond-perfect wine took a bizarre twist as word spread over the Internet that Tom Matthews had taken ill shortly after tasting the historic flight. An anonymous post on the bulletin board at the website www.wineratingsrule.com stated that Matthews left the magazine offices at approximately 12:15 p.m. yesterday, appearing wobbly and flush, but alert and even ecstatic. Spectator officials would not comment on their executive editor’s condition or whereabouts. However, at least one witness confirmed seeing Matthews being escorted up Park Avenue while exclaiming, "Tempraneeeee-yo!" Yet another poster asserted that Matthews was admitted to a nearby hospital for tests.

Not surprisingly, news of the 101-point wine from Spain and Señor Matthews's mysterious departure sparked rampant conjecture in cyberspace. One active thread at www.wineratingsrule.com argued that the score had to involve politics. Another suggested divine intervention, although no one could quite figure why a modest Tempranillo-based red would be at the Chosen One. Another thread speculated that supernatural forces might be at play. Most of the Web-based discussion took a more earthly approach, revolving around the philosophical and economic implications of the immaculate-plus rating. Faithful followers of ratings appeared ready and willing to embrace the 101-point Spanish red, even though it meant having to recalibrate their notions of wine quality, value and even collectibility. As one poster put it: "I was starting to get bored with those low-middle 90s wines...92, 93, 94...they just weren't doing it for me. But 101 points, now that's gotta get your blood pumping!"

Reactions around the wine industry were surprisingly muted—perhaps a consequence of the fact that hardly anyone actually reads Wine Spectator anymore. One man in a perfect position to comment, however, was Adam M. Strum, whose Wine Enthusiast magazine is among a dozen or so publications that copied the 100-point scale after Wine Spectator copied the scale from Robert M. Parker Jr. "A 101-point wine is categorically impossible," Strum stated as he sipped a glass of cool Cavit Pinot Grigio—a wine he once personally awarded 91 points (yet somehow the score never made it into his own magazine's Buying Guide). "In fact," Strum added, "implying that a wine could be better than perfect is patently dishonest." Indeed, surely if a wine could score more than 100 points it would already be available for purchase at www.wineexpress.com, Strum's wine-retail business specializing in private-label, back-vintage and direct-import wines that all receive 90+ point "WEX" ratings.

Noted Manhattan retailer Peter Morrell, whose store catalog features a "ratings key" to help shoppers keep track of the 10 different 100-point scales his store references, was far more optimistic. "It's a whole new ball game," Morrell asserted. "And there is no telling where the scoring will stop. One-oh-one is the new 91; 91 is the new 81; Spain is the new France. I would not be the least bit surprised if a wine from Priorat or Ribera del Duero topped 110 points before long."

Circumstances surrounding the Spectator's mythical 101-point vino tinto took yet another funky turn last night when a spokesman at Mount Sinai Medical Center confirmed that Wine Spectator executive editor Tom Matthews had been released with a clean bill of health. Reports that Matthews had suffered some sort of seizure were erroneous, the spokesman explained. In fact, Matthews had simply experienced an "episode of sudden and prolonged euphoria," which was likely induced by the wine he was sampling at the time. Doctors did not believe the wine constituted a threat to public health, however, the spokesman added, noting that matters of taste are essentially personal, and one person's reaction to a wine—even a famous wine critic's—would not necessarily mean other drinkers would share the same experience.

But clearly the most uncanny development of all in the 101-point episode came late last night. Noted wine writer and speaker W. R. Tish, distraught over the prospect of having yet one more digit to contend with in his ongoing campaign against wine ratings, decided to ponder his next move over some fondue at Artisanal restaurant, at Park and 32nd. Upon overhearing a waiter chuckling with the bartender over "what went down at Wine Spec" earlier in the day, Tish injected himself into the conversation.

Tish: What happened? And how do you know?

Waiter: Well, I was working lunch, but we were short a delivery guy, so I took over an order to the Spectator.

Tish: What time was this?

Waiter: Just before noon. They usually ask us to deliver at 12:30, which is when the editors finish tasting, but I needed to get back for my shift so I went over early.

Tish: And you just dropped it off?

Waiter: Not exactly. Tom Matthews had ordered a platter of Spanish cheeses and chorizo sausage. We had been talking about Manchego when he was last in the restaurant, so I wanted to tell him we gave him two different ages.

Tish: And you took it in to him?

Waiter: Yeah, right into their tasting room. I took out the platter, explained which cheese was which, and left. No big deal.

Tish: So what was so funny?

Waiter: Well, a couple other Spec editors came in for dinner, and they told me Tom Matthews gave a seven- or eight-buck wine a freakin' 101-point score! Can you believe that? And I was like, whoa, I know why...it's gotta be the cheese! I'm not kidding. Last time Tom was in here, I was ribbing him about how nothing under $20 ever seems to get over 90. Not that I'm a fan of numbers for wine at all.

Tish: And what did he say to that?

Waiter: He starts in about quality and structure and typicity and vintage and terroir.... And I say, 'Tom, your problem is you never taste the wine with food! Get real. You put the right wine with the right food and poof—might as well add 10 points to the rating, just like that.'

Tish: Ten points, eh?

Waiter: Ten, twelve, thirteen…who's counting?

Tish: Exactly.

+ + +

The above story, of course, is an April Fools Day piece provided for your entertainment by Wine For All, a New York-based firm specializing in wine writing, speaking and events. At Wine For All, we know there can not be a 101-point wine. We also believe there is no such thing as a 100-point wine. Or a 92-point wine. Or an 84-point wine or even a 69-point wine. We find wine ratings in general to be ridiculous—which is why we like to make fun of them. 

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Meet the New, Improved(?) Robert Mondavi.
Most wine lovers who have not been living under a barrel probably know by now that Constellation Brands recently acquired The Robert Mondavi Corporation for something like $1.36 billion. "This is history in the making," Constellation chairman and CEO Richard Sands told Wine Business Monthly when the merger was announced last November. The acquisition solidified Constellation's position as the largest wine company in the solar system (now pumping 87 million cases annually), and executives pledged to keep the Robert Mondavi portfolio intact as part of the firm's Franciscan Estates division. "I am particularly pleased," Sands added, "that Robert G. Mondavi has agreed to remain involved in the business and serve as the brand's ambassador while working out of his office in the Robert Mondavi Winery."

Even at the time the deal was completed last month, analysts and enthusiasts alike were still scratching their heads, wondering what would become of the iconic Napa Valley winery, not to mention the world-famous RM himself. But now, thanks to a top-secret internal memo which has been obtained exclusively by WineFlash, the truth can be told. As Constellation shifts gears from takeover to makeover, it is clear that Robert Mondavi—the man, the wine, the brand—will never be the same….

MEMO
From: RS
To: Constellation Executive Board
Re: Short/Long Term Objectives for Robert Mondavi Wines

To recoup our substantial cash outlay, we need to move ahead quickly with plans for RM wines. Over time, given the glut of grapes in California, we will gradually sell off vineyards, save for a few token plots near the winery in Oakville. Immediate emphasis will go toward extending the portfolio and re-inventing the brand. In short, it's not about the wine anymore; it's all about Bob. Our driving goal is to ensure that wherever wine is sold, Bob is there. The following programs will be implemented in 2005.

1) Bob is the new Robert. Effective immediately, all company materials should refer to Robert Mondavi as Bob. Focus-group research has indicated that people feel Bob is friendlier and more contemporary than Robert. To make this shift more tangible, Robert Mondavi will henceforth wear a "Hello My Name Is Bob" sticker during all public and private appearances. (Marketing note: to emphasize Bob's status as the Mondavi patriarch, Michael and Tim Mondavi will henceforth be referred to officially as Mike and Timmy.)

2) Brand extensions. We need to reach beyond the typical wine consumer. Way beyond. The following new labels are currently in R&D:

• Screw Bob. Bulk varietal wines with Stelvin closures; aimed at twenty-somethings. (PR note: encourage press to call it Screw Bob Wine Pants.)
• Bob-in-Box. Same wine as Screw Bob, in handy 3-liter carton featuring lifesize head shot of Bob.
• Moondavi Bay. Same wine, cork-finished; label to feature tropical motix and full moon with visage of Bob as the man in the moon; destined for cruise ships, country clubs and senior citizen homes.
• Robert Mondavi Steelbridge. New outlet for surplus Woodbridge by Robert Mondavi wine that has been sitting in tanks in Lodi.
• Woodierbridge. Woodbridge wine, with oak chips IN THE BOTTLE. (PR note: position oak chips as a French invention that Bob merely perfected.)
• Mondavi ODB. ODB ("Old Dirty Barrel") will target growing hip-hop market by tapping into the legacy of Ol' Dirty Bastard; label image of Bob with black stocking cap, gold tooth and solid gold tastevin on a big fat chain.
• CHILL by Robert Mondavi. Fumé Blanc, aimed at the easy listening audience; photo of Bob and Celine Dion on the package.
• Mandavi/Womandavi. Alternative name: Himdavi/Herdavi. Two-pack of Cab and Chard appealing to men and women of all sexual orientations. Label graphic of Bob with diamond stud earring. Ad campaign tagline: "Cool wine for the straight guy...straight wine for the cool guy...oh, and chicks dig it too."
• Xtreme Bob. Wine-based energy drink; Chard-Merlot blend infused with gingko biloba, echinacea and ginseng; package will feature a "lab-approved" seal
• The Full Mondavi. Same base as Xtreme Bob, but with Viagra and Splenda.
• 96 Points. Preemptive strike on wine critics; if they rate this wine anything other than 96 points, readers will rise up in confusion.

3) Goodbye Opus. Opus One is so 1980s. All ties with Rothschild family will be cut. They can have the brand, the vineyards and the facility (which always looked like an Aztec spaceship anyway); we get the benefit of appearing magnanimous and forward-thinking. Announcement of parting ways will precede by one week the "discovery" that the Opus One winery is actually built on ancient Native American burial ground.

4) Special promotions blitz. Bob Mondavi practically invented wine-country publicity; our job is take it to the next level.

• Bob on ice. Now that the NHL season is officially toast, hockey fans are thirstier than ever. Plans are under way to rent out arenas in all NHL cities for Mondavi Zamboni nights. Fans will be treated to free Zamboni rides with the purchase of any Bob beverage. Gratuitous fistfights in the stands will keep the evenings lively.
• Redecorate Highway 29. In light of recent California state assembly proposal to name the stretch of Hwy 29 through Oakville after Robert Mondavi, we are in the process of having 100 inflatable likenesses of Bob manufactured in the Far East. Helium-filled "Inflate-a- Bobs" (5x actual size) to be tethered along the roadway, not unlike a Christo and Jean-Claude art installation. (PR note: plan in place to accidentally cut one Bob loose during opening ceremony week for extra publicity.)
• BYOB parties. Grassroots campaign to stage spontaneous wine tastings to which guests will "Bring Your Own Bob" wines.
• Auction Napa Valley surprise. Mid-auction, Bob will rush the podium and auction himself off to the highest bidder. (Legal note: have lawyers ready to sue winning bidder to get Bob back asap.)

5) Bob Nation. New merchandise for tasting room, website and retail stores:

• Bob-bleheads – Collectible Bob dolls with spring-mounted oversize heads; promotional photography to feature Bob-blehead with Wine Country Barbie.
• Robert Mondavi Riedel glass – Working name: "the Boblet"; designed to enhance the aroma and flavor of every RM wine.
• Bob-picks – toothpicks made from French oak barrels, soaked in Chardonnay.
• Bob-wear – Now everyone can dress like Bob with branded Hawaiian shirts, Panama hats and sneakers ("Air Bobs").

6) Eat with Bob. Reaching consumers via new food ventures is a priority. Plans to roll-out "fast casual" restaurants throughout the country, starting in 2006. Name possibilities include: "Bob's American Table," "Bob's Big Bob" and "TGI Bob's."

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Ten Surefire Signs That You've Been
Spending Too Much Time In The Wine Cellar
By W. R. Tish

10. When someone asks how your weekend was, you grin and say
"I'd give it a 93!"

9. The thought of getting a "Shiraz Dude" tattoo has crossed your mind.

8. Your cats are named Corky and Tannin.

7. Your kids are named Robert, Parker and Junior.

6. You wake up in a cold sweat after dreaming that phylloxera
got ahold of your garden.

5. You prefer Viognier to Viagra.

4. You keep your pens and pencils in a Riedel glass.

3. You can't wait for your kids to go away to college so you can turn a spare bedroom into a temperature-controlled wine vault.

2. There's nothing you fear more than volatile acidity.

1. That really is a corkscrew in your pocket.

© 2004 Wine For All

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Wine & Food Finally Get Hitched—Or Do They?
April 1, 2004 [This piece first appeared as a WineFlash]

After a bizarre turn of events in San Francisco, the national debate over marriage has taken a tasty new twist.

The stunning incident began when W. R. Tish, a New York-based epicurean writer and speaker, flew to San Francisco to obtain a marriage license that would enable wine and food to exchange vows. "These tablemates have been in a committed, loving relationship since B.C.," Tish said. "It's time to sanctify their union. Plus, they deserve a nice honeymoon."

Tish arrived at City Hall wearing a tuxedo and carrying a dome-topped silver tray and a bottle in a black velvet sack. He declined to identify the bride and groom, claiming secrecy would prevent interference from gastro-political opponents. "There are people out there who think it's fine for food to cohabit with food, but they want to keep wine and food apart," Tish explained. "Personally, I have nothing against victuals hooking up, but really, peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese, even green eggs and ham—been there, ate that."

If the sight of a tux-clad man sitting alone in the pre-nuptial area of San Francisco's City Hall wasn't enough to attract attention, the savory aroma escaping from the silver platter certainly was. A crowd of curious observers grew to about 50 by 1:00 p.m., bolstered by employees on their lunch break.

When number 88 was called, the fortyish New Yorker stood and approached the clerk. He lifted the dome, exposing a ragout of brilliant green, red and purple vegetables. Then he peeled off the sack, revealing a bottle of Provencal rosé. Against a backdrop of ooohs and ahhhs, Tish declared to the clerk on duty: "I would like a marriage license to wed this rosé wine to this plate of ratatouille."

"Rata-whatty?" replied Roberta Moldavi, who has worked in the City Clerk's office for 23 years. "Are you crazy? We're having enough trouble marrying people in this office. No way the mayor's gonna go for this."

"Au contraire!" Tish responded. "Mayor Newsom would understand perfectly. Being vegetarian, ratatouille is lighter than most meat, chicken or fish dishes, so it calls for a lighter wine. Dry rosé is the perfect spouse—crisp and lively with mild flavors that won't overwhelm the mix of eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes and onion."

But before the dumbfounded clerk could respond, a loud "Wait!" echoed through the room. Out from the circle of onlookers squeezed a couple—of undetermined gender-who identified themselves only as Pat and Chris.

Pat continued, "With all due respect, I think the rosé belongs with Salade Nicoise more than ratatouille."

Against a collective gasp, Tish turned to face the couple. "Nicoise salad, eh?" he wondered aloud. "Hmm, olives, tuna, capers, tomatoes, little anchovy...with the rosé... sounds pretty tasty."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. "And the ratatouille smells a bit on the spicy side," added Chris. "I think it could use a red wine...like a Santa Barbara Pinot Noir."

The murmurs grew louder, punctuated by interjections. "What about salmon?"..."How about some nice cheese?"..."Is somebody going to open that bottle already?"

In a carpe-diem moment, Tish jumped atop a bench and banged the silver dome with a Rabbit corkscrew he had somehow snuck through the building's metal detector. He declared, "Wine-loving foodies of San Francisco, how foolish of me to think I could marry a single wine to a single food. Thanks to Pat and Chris, it's clear that food and wine are destined to enjoy multiple partners. In that spirit, I invite all wines and foods that would like to bond in marital bliss to join the wedding party."

Cell phones all over the room snapped into action while Roberta Moldavi slipped out a side door, shaking her head, "Wait 'til the Mayor gets wind of this...." Before long, a parade of delivery people arrived at City Hall, toting signature dishes from all over the Bay. There was tuna tartare from Aqua, gougères from Bay Bread, and foie gras ten ways from Campton Place. Zuni's roast chicken arrived; so did inside-out gnocchi from Scala's and french fries in goose fat from Town Hall. There was Boulevard's pork chop and Slanted Door's shaking beef; meatloaf from Lark Creek Inn and moussaka from Kokkari. There was pizza haute (Postrio's salmon-crème fraiche) and pizza humble (Tommaso's); and an entire cheese cart from Gary Danko.

In marched the wine as well-from Amphora, K&L, Coit Liquors, Plumpjack, Wine Club and The Jug Shop. The Rabbit corkscrew went to work, releasing a rainbow of Cabernet, Riesling, Merlot, Zinfandels, Bordeaux, Barolo, Shiraz and more. Plastic cups and utensils and paper plates were rushed over from 7-Eleven.

Pat, Chris and Tish began pairing up wines and foods, carefully listing the respective brides and grooms on a marriage license snagged from the Clerk's counter. They set up a makeshift platform while volunteer ushers set up buffet tables and dozens of eager (and hungry) people lined up to participate in the impromptu ceremony.

But faster than anyone could say "Dearly beloved," all hope for an orderly wedding procession was tossed aside as people began trading bites and sips with raucous abandon. Asparagus with Cabernet-way! Bubbly with fish—delish. Goat cheese with red or white?...both, of course. With no pairing off limits, the normally sedate City Clerk's office become a breeding ground for food-and-wine promiscuity.

As the bacchanalian scene built to a crescendo, Roberta Moldavi returned, accompanied by Mayor Gavin Newsom himself. The mayor was greeted with cheers. The cheers became a chant: "Marriage! Marriage! Marriage!", which then morphed into "Polygamy! Polygamy! Polygamy!"

The stunned but smiling mayor raised his hand, quieting the crowd. "I understand that many people here are interested in marrying wine to food. As much as I support the rights of every Californian to join in matrimony with the partner of their choosing, state bylaws clearly indicate that couples must not only be just that—a twosome—but also, they must be at least 18 years of age. Given the circumstances, I am unable to solemnize this union," Mayor Newsom said. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a bite to eat, though."

After a collective sigh, the feast resumed. Mayor Newsom ordered his office to send over a bottle of Plumpjack Chardonnay, which he enjoyed with some tomato bisque from Bistro Jeanty. Even Roberta Moldavi had a chance to sample some ratatouille and rosé. April 1st, 2004 would not, after all, go down in history as the official wedding date of wine and food. But all who witnessed the unusual proceedings at San Francisco City Hall could agree on one thing: Food and wine are much more enjoyable fooling around than in monogamy.

At the end of the day, W. R. Tish and his new friends Pat and Chris, were seen leaving City Hall arm in arm. They drove off in a limo with a sign on the back that read "Almost Married." Some believe their next destination is Utah.

© 2004 Wine For All

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Whining & Dining In the Borscht Belt
by W. R. Tish

In the process of scouring America in search of offbeat food meccas, there is nothing I love more than an establishment where the chef's passion for cooking borders on religion. I recently stumbled upon just such a haven in, of all places, the Catskills, at The Shmoncord (formerly The Concord), where Chef Ishmael K. Bibble is raising the act of traditional Jewish cooking to the point where his mother can actually say she's proud he never became a doctor.

Of course, the Catskills, perhaps better known as the Borscht Belt, have gone from their heyday as a playground for wealthy New York City Jews, to a stretch of chintzy, grungy, outdated mega-motels where sweatsuit-clad families go to eat, play bingo, and swim in pools that contain almost as much chlorine as water. The only thing more certain in the Borscht Belt than a resort having unctuously overwrought entertainment is that the comedians always get more than enough material from the kosher kitchen's own food.

Enter Chef Ishmael, whose training includes a degree in Jewish Holiday Feasts from Hebrew Union College as well as stints working at a pickle stand on Manhattan's Lower East Side, Murray the Sturgeon King on the Upper West Side, and the Stage Deli in Midtown. He's the only chef we know who corns his own beef, pickles his own herring, and bakes his unleavened bread the old-fashioned way-by wandering around on a scorching-hot day with yeast-free dough in a pan on his head (a trick he learned on a kibbutz). Ishmael's adherence to tradition is exceeded only by his attention to detail; witness the perfectly dimpled matzoh balls and melt-in-your-mouth brisket that have helped make The Shmoncord the hottest table west of the the Hudson Valley. And he does it three meals a day, day in and out, for a room that seats 500, resting only on the Sabbath. Amen!

I had heard such wonderful things about The Shmoncord that I had to see it and for myself. So, with visions of tzimmes dancing in my head, I hopped in a car and sped up Route 17, the direct patch from Seventh Avenue to the Catskills that some people say is lined with pure sour cream.

We arrived mid-day, which allowed us time to tour the facilities (excellent ping-pong tables) and partake in some of the scheduled activities that help people stave off boredom between those all-important meals. An art auction in the main lobby served up a variety of oils and velvets, with some 1970s period pieces thrown in for good measure. Nearby, a financial seminar focused on "How to Get the Most Out of Your Hired Help" and many people were engaged in a casino-like "horse race," placing $5 bets on children who moved one hop at a time along a track, as determined by a pair of oversize fuzzy dice. Such good, clean fun! Of course, for those who were not quite up to all the action there was TV and Lotto to help pass the time.

The excitement started to build around 5:30. Bubbies and zeydies on down to babushka-wrapped babies began to mill around the dining hall, stomachs growling in unison. When the doors opened, it was like Moses parting the sea—I trotted right along to avoid getting trampled.

The great thing about Catskills dining is that all meals are prix-fixe and family style and all-you-can-eat. On top of that, every table has a waiter whose sole mission is to butter you up and thereby increase the tip he'll receive at the end of your stay. I was seated with the Grossmans, a family of four from Long Island. It was also their first night, too, so we dove into the mimeographed menu with equal excitement.

Hmm, there was no doubt that I'd start with the borscht, but the entrées presented a challenge. Hungarian Stuffed Cabbage Purses with Piquant Raisin Sauce; Roast Native Quartered Capon Cressioniere; Sautéed Chinese Pepper Steak with Bamboo Shoots and Horseradish.... When our waiter, a hormonally turbulent teenager named Myron, arrived, I asked for his recommendation. He said he'd be happy to bring me a plate of each dish. Can you imagine that happening anywhere else? Not even at IHOP!

Myron then turned to our dining companions, who were already wrist-deep in the bread basket and olive tray. The father, Ira, ordered the Braised Sliced Brisket of Western Prime Beef with Pan Gravy; the kids, Zack and Zoe, 9 and 6, ordered the Italian Style Spaghetti with sides of French fries. Now it was Esther's turn, and for some reason she couldn't decide. Myron suggested that she order a few things.

"No, that won't do," Esther said curtly. "Why don't you just bring me the consommé, a tossed salad with vinaigrette on the side, and chopped liver with no schmaltz."

"No schmaltz?" Myron said.

"Make that no schmaltz and no salt," she amended.

"I'll see what I can do," the young teen replied, his voice cracking.

We were just beginning to learn about Esther Grossman's work as a dietitian for the Greater Dix Hills School District, when we heard the kitchen doors swing open with a thwap and saw Him emerge. Chef Ishmael K. Bibble himself was stomping out of the kitchen and heading straight for our table. Why, this was tantamount to Elvis jumping off stage!

"Who's the meshugena who wants no-schmaltz, no-salt chopped liver?" the chef growled.

"I am," countered Esther.

"No schmaltz? No salt?" he wailed. "Why even bother chopping it? Maybe I should just rip the liver right out of a chicken and slap it on a plate!"

Personally, we were trembling at the sight of the aggrieved master chef. But Esther stood her dietetic ground: "For your information, schmaltz—as in rendered chicken fat—is one of the unhealthiest foods known to man. Similarly, salt is a leading contributor to heart disease and hypertension. I prefer to eat sensibly while my family stays here, regardless of your artery-clogging traditions."

It was then that we realized why Chef Ishamel was so outraged. Culinary legend had it that Ishmael was the latest in a long line of cooking Bibbles, and not only had numerous recipes been passed down to him, but he also had inherited his family's schmaltz solera, which his grandfather had started back in the Old Country. Using a system like the one used by sherry and brandy makers to ensure continuity of their blends, the Bibbles has handed down a large barrel of schmaltz, replenishing the cask every time some was drawn off, thus ensuring that a fraction of the original 19th-century fat goes into every recipe of Chef Ishmael's that calls for schmaltz. In short, Esther had struck a sensitive nerve. She might as well have asked the chef to whip up a baconburger with cheese for Saturday lunch.

"I don't need a soccer mom from Long Island telling me how to cook," Chef Ishamel asserted. "If you don't like my food, just take your chutzpah and your family and hit the road."

"I have chutzpah?" Esther shot back. "I can't believe you have nothing better to do with your cooking skills than to shove plate after piled-high plate in front of all these fressers who don't know any better than to devour fat-laden food and then ask for seconds on dessert. This is not the 1990s—food professionals need to set an example for healthy living."

Sensing that this discussion might quickly escalate into fisticuffs or flying foodstuffs, I stepped in to defuse the situation: "Obviously there is a slight misunderstanding here. You two are both really just two peas at different ends of the pod. Esther, why don't you forget about the chopped liver tonight and enjoy a crisp salad and hot soup. Ishmael, if you don't get back in the kitchen, we may well have a riot on our hands."

Order seemed restored, until Esther mumbled under her breath, "I could teach him a thing or two about Jewish cooking."

"That's it!" Only a quick body block by Myron stopped Ishamel from leaping across the table and affixing his hands to Esther's throat. He yelled, "I'll put schmaltz in your salad, schmaltz in your soup. I'll pin you down to the floor and pour schmaltz in one ear and out the other!"

"Vayhismere!" I said. "Here's a better idea. Let's have a friendly neighborhood Jewish cook-off. Each of you will prepare six dishes in pre-determined categories and we'll serve them to a jury of your peers who will then vote on their favorites. The one who winds up with the most votes gets a 'World's Greatest Jewish Cook' apron. How does that sound?"

"Fine by me," said Chef Ishmael.

"You're on," said Esther.

We went on to have a lovely meal. Even Esther relaxed a bit by dessert, joining us in an extra piece of strudel after tamping it with a piece of paper towel.

+ + +

Perhaps I should not have been shocked to walk into breakfast the next morning and find that word of the impending cook-off had already spread to every corner of the dining room faster than a hot stock market tip. The Shmoncord's social director immediately came up to me and said that he had canceled all of the day's activities so that everyone at the hotel could watch the contest.

At our table, Esther looked ready to rumble, what with a shmatte on her head and a shopping basket filled with ingredients she had picked up at a 24-hour supermarket. In a clear attempt at psychological intimidation, Chef Ishmael stood just outside the kitchen's swinging doors, staring down Esther as he sharpened a meat cleaver. It was beginning to look like our fun little cook-off was going to make The Iron Chef seem like midget wrestling.

After a quick breakfast of poached eggs on rye toast points, the social director and I determined the six categories for the competition and handed them over to each contestant so they could begin their menu planning. We then set about selecting a jury, which went surprisingly quickly. Starting with two Blacks and a Hispanic, we rounded out the dining dozen with three goyim, two mensches, a recent Bar Mitzvah boy, and "Tante Lena," a feisty, wheelchair-bound octogenarian who came to The Shmoncord on vacation two years earlier and simply refused to budge when her family went home.

As the jury took their places at a long table on a dias, I accepted a microphone from the social director and wasted no time, announcing: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first ever World's Greatest Jewish Cook-Off. In this corner, The Shmoncord's own king of chazzas, chazza of kings, the world-renowned chef whose single portions can feed an entire minion...please give it up for Chef Ishmael K. Bibble [Wild cheers and applause.] And in this corner, don't be fooled by the simple hausfrau appearance—this degree-toting dietitian from Long Island is all business when she gets near a Cuisinart. Let's hear it for the lady who took the crap out of kreplach, Esther "Granola" Grossman. [Scattered boos amid polite applause.] Now let's break some bread! Our first category today isÖbrunch you would serve to the Temple Sisterhood."

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The two cooks' designated waiters emerged from the kitchen bearing the first course. Chef Ishmael's entry: Challah French Toast with Fig Syrup. Esther's entry: Boysenberry Blintzes with Nonfat Yogurt and Apricot Chutney. After a brief full-frontal display for the audience, the dishes were served directly to the members of the jury, who recorded their votes on a secret ballot.

The category for Round Two was a box lunch to sell on the sidewalk during the annual Hadassah March for Israel Walkathon. Chef Ishmael presented a cardboard box filled with Gefilte-Fish-on-a-Stick; Aged Tongue with Onion and Dijon Mustard on a Pumpernickel Roll; Cinnamon Rugelach; and a Chocolate Egg Cream. Esther countered with a Gucci bag filled with Farfel and Cucumber Salad; a Tofu Knish; Lowfat Date-Almond Mandelbrot; and orange seltzer.

Although I wasn't actually tasting the dishes myself, judging from the number of jurors taking second bites, it seemed that momentum shifted somewhat during that course. And a small shmatte-waving section had sprouted in the audience.

For Round Three—soup you'd cook for an ailing relative—I expected new riffs on traditional chicken soup. Alas, Ishmael sent out a steaming cauldron of Split-Pea, Split-Mushroom and Split-Barley Soup. Esther's humble bowl of Celeriac-Watercress Soup seemed to pale by comparison...that is, until Tante Lena took two sips, chugged the rest, then rose from her wheelchair and walked into the kitchen to ask for more. The round was a clear slam dunk for Esther, and Ishmael looked shaken.

Next category: a Hanukah feast with something for everyone. Ishmael stayed conservative, dishing out Carrot-Laced Potato Latkes; Stovetop Pot Roast; Rainbow Noodle Kugel; and Get-Studded Honey Cake. Esther sent out a silver platter arranged with Baked Zucchini Patties; Cornish Hens with Couscous; Lentil-Leek Casserole; and an enormous fresh fruit display shaped like a dreidel.

The jury's reactions appeared to be split that round, and several jurors looked like they were starting to get full—a factor that might favor Esther. As we approached the fifth round, the only sure bet was that the young entrepreneur selling popcorn, Snapple and halvah in the audience was making a killing.

Round Five was a departure of sorts, as I posed a hypothetical question: "If you had one meal to prepare for Gold Meir, what would it be?" Ishmael struck up a theme that was at once sweet and symbolic, with a Mount Sinai of Chopped Liver followed by a Sweet Borscht Frappe; Caramelized Tzimmes; Deep-Fried Matzoh-Meal-Coated Flounder; and Haroset-Filled Hamantaschen. Esther took a decidedly more savory and sour tack: Schav (sorrel soup); Buckwheat Kasha and Spinach Varnishkas; Mock Stuffed Derma with Sauerkraut; and Pineapple Upside-Down Sponge Cake.

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Sensing a tight contest, curiosity got the best of me and I took advantage of my position as official commissioner of the cook-off to designate the Shmoncord's rabbi as temporary bailiff. I instructed him to collect the jurors scorecards and determine the running total as we entered the final round. Indeed, just as I had suspected: the score was tied!

How fitting that the final and determining round presented the toughest challenge in all of Jewish cooking: Passover dessert. For eons, Jewish cooks have struggled with the task of creating edible after-dinner treats without leavening agents or regular flour, subjecting their egos to the ignominy of half-finished dessert plates. I cajoled the audience into humming the theme from Jeopardy en masse while I snuck a peek into the kitchen and pre-announced the climactic dishes: Ishmael's Toasted Macaroon and Esther's Flourless, Sugarless Chocolate Torte.

Call it fate, call it chance, call it an act of God, but what happened next defies logic. With all eyes fixed on the kitchen's swinging doors, two waiters emerged simultaneously and, as if in slow motion, veered into each other with a thunderous crash. I raced over to help and saw that the young men were fine, but the desserts were both smooshed beyond recognition. In fact, it was hard to rell where the macaroon left off and the torte began.

"You got chocolate on my macaroon," said one waiter.

"You got macaroon in my chocolate," said the other.

I reached down and dipped my fingers into the brown and white mess. Mmmm. I waved the hurry over and they did the same. The verdict was as clear as the brown schmears on their faces: I declared the cook-off an official tie.

As the throngs of spectators rushed up to lay hands on the fallen waiters, Esther and Ishmael shook hands and returned to the kitchen to work on the recipe for Chocolate Macaroon Torte. Passover would never be the same.

© 2004 Wine For All

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NEWS FLASH! Euro Pastry Makes U.S. Debut

NEW YORK (Apr. 1, 2002) - Now that the European Union has successfully melded its respective nations' currencies into one, is it any surprise that their foods may follow?

Today marks the official debut of the Euro pastry.

"It's a croissant-danish-strudel-cupcake kind of thing," says W. R. Tish, an epicurean writer and speaker who invented the the pastry. Semi-circular in shape with two cross-hatches, the fresh-baked Euro bears an apt resemblance to its monetary namesake, which was introduced early in 2002 to replace francs, pesetas, marks, lira, etc.

But it's doubtful that any Euro currency will be used to buy the Euro pastry. The edible version is 100% made-in-the-U.S.A., and it currently exists only in Manhattan. "If you can bake it here, you can bake it anywhere," says Tish, who celebrated the launch by handing out free samples at the New York Stock Exchange before the opening bell.

Tish has no immediate plans to compete directly with the centuries-old originals enjoyed across the Atlantic. "I doubt Europeans will give up their pastries as easily as they gave up their spare change," he admits. "Plus, they've never really understood the American mindset when it comes to food. We put the Wonder into bread. We put the duh in delicious. They have Royal monarchs; we have Burger King and Dairy Queen."

The truth, he asserts, is that America has a long tradition of tinkering with the foods and beverages of other cultures. What some see as crass commercialism, Tish sees as American savoir faire, so to speak. "Take cappuccino, for example," he says. "We can make cappuccino as good as anyone. But we also make Frappuccinos, Slushaccinos, Coolattas, and so on. We like to think of this as our way of giving back to Europe. After all, they gave us herbes de Provence, Belgian waffles, Swedish fish.... They also gave us 'continental cuisine,' but we're willing to overlook that."

If all goes as planned, Tish envisions toaster and vending-machine versions in the Euro's future. And down the line, he has a few other foodstuffs targeted. "We're working on Pasta Mondo right now," says Tish. "It's a global pasta dish—sort of lo mein meets vermicelli by way of Chef Boyardee."

Reality Bites Back: April Fools!

Having been born on April 1st, the Euro pastry is definitely inedible. It does, however, exist, in two dimensions, on a postcard in Oddibles, the line of deliciously funny greeting cards created by Tish. To see all the Oddibles, go to www.oddibles.com.

© 2002 Wine For All

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Food for {21st Century} Thought
By W. R. Tish

The food world has always been ripe for endearing combinations—macaroni and cheese, PB & J, spaghetti and meatballs—and where would salt be without pepper? But in the new millennium, just tasting good won't cut the mustard. It's all about the synergy, the value added, the multi-tastking. Here are some new combos built to meet the complex needs of the 21st century's busy gastronomes.

Slim Jim Pens
What's more important to a high-powered executive-a precision writing instrument or a tasty protein snack? The question is now moot, thanks to Slim Jim Pens, available in blue or black, fine or extra fine, and of course, mild or spicy.

Balsamic Window Cleaner
What's good for your salad is even better for your windows. Don't be fooled by the muddy brown appearance—this stuff will have your glass sparkling in no time. The secret is in the acidity. Cuts through grease and leaves every room in your house smelling like an upscale trattoria.

McDMV
Just imagine the well-oiled work ethic of McDonald's applied to the drudgery of the Department of Motor Vehicles: "Renew your license? No problem. You want fries with that?"

Sushi-Slurpee
Coming soon to a 7-Eleven near you, this fast-food fusion is all the rage in Japan, where teenagers have taken to the ultimate thrill of a mouthful of wasabi-coated raw fish followed by a rush of icy, dye-laden slush. Mouth burn meets brain freeze-what could be more exciting?

Mazola-Tan
Nine bucks for a squeeze bottle of goopy coconut sunscreen? Controlled tests have proven corn oil to be just as effective as pricey chemical-based lotions at fostering a nice golden tan. Plus, Mazola-Tan is way more fun to put on.

Grappa-Tussin
Grappa, the fiery digestif of Italy, is about as close to poison as a distilled beverage can get. But with the simple infusion of some expectorant, grappa becomes a cough elixir to swear by. The same formula makes a dandy paint stripper, too.

Pepper Grinder Flashlight
While not for everyone, the Pepper Grinder Flashlight is a godsend to those who have long struggled with the awkwardness of getting a good twist of fresh pepper while trying to hold a light on their food. Perfect for snack-packing night watchmen and the chi-chi camping set.

Cake Hats
Finally, fashion meets function, with a dash of good taste. Have your hat and eat it too! Imagine an Easter bonnet of spun sugar and handpainted hardboiled eggs, or a crepe beret, or a derby-pie derby.

Egg Nog Paint
Deck the halls, then paint the walls. Now you can enjoy a mug of creamy egg nog one night, and the next morning use the leftovers to do some redecorating. This delicious latex-based beverage dries quickly and leaves a bright, durable, yellow sheen.

Saltoids
Tired of going to the gym and turning into a sopping-wet mess after just a few reps? Pop a coupla these "curiously strong" tablets in your mouth and feel a whole new kind of burn. No sweat? Indeed, not even a drop along the brow. You won't even have to towel off!

© 2004 Wine For All

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Marlow, The Incredible Wine-Drinking Bird

Click here for link.

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Addendum to the Napa Valley Wine Auction Catalog
By W. R. Tish

Organica Vineyard
Lot #841
Carved into a remote Howell Mountain slope previously trod upon only by deer, rattlers and Sasquatch, the one-acre Organica vineyard yields but 12 bushels of exquisite Cabernet Sauvignon grapes. Stringent dry-farming techniques and imported Brahmin bull manure fertilizer combine to produce an earthy character and cud-like tannins. The wine is unracked, unfined, unfiltered and unrepentant. Unbelievable! This six-liter demijohn, which was once filled with spare change, represents the entire production of Organica's inagural 1997 vintage. The paper cups and milk-bottle decanter are recyclable, or may be donated to another auction.

Private Donor
Lot #399
Those who have followed the career of Robert Mondavi know that his wardrobe is nearly as celebrated as his wines. We are fortunate today to have a vertical collection of the shirts worn by Robert at every Napa Valley Wine Auction since 1979. This unique array includes the famed Hawaiian shirt that was sold off his back in 1992. For added interest, the anonymous donor of this lot has stuffed the shirt pockets with sentimental curiosities such as gravel from the To-Kalon vineyard, shares of Robert Mondavi Winery stock and robustos left over from his grandson Robert's smoldering cigar business. All shirts come lightly starched, on hangers.

Sliced Bread Winery
Lot #500
The greatest thing since Sliced Bread Winery set up shop in the valley three months ago, the Yadda Yadda Cuvée represents the very first Napa Valley vintage of the new Millennium. Vineyard manager Jerry George Kramer culled the fruit for this unusual cuvée from Chardonnay clusters that were dropped to the ground by wineries thinning their crops via a so-called "green harvest." Displaying razor-sharp acidity and spine-straightening lemon-lime flavor, the Yadda Yadda has the structure to last for decades. Make that Yadda Yadda Yadda!

Dude Vineyards
Lot #666
True connoisseurs know that Napa Valley Pinot Noir can't hold a candle to Sonoma's. Well, somebody in Napa has finally done something about that. Twin-brother vintners Reggie and Rick Dudas (who both answer to "Dude") snuck over to Sonoma County and made off with the famed Rochioli West Block vineyard. They took not only the vines but the whole terroir, microclimate and all. Now ensconced at a secret location on Highway 29, the plot of Pinot heaven is thriving, and the first vintage is described by Reggie Dude as "a real dog." Rick Dude clarifies: "He means it's so good, it'll make you roll over and beg for more." The Dude Pinot Noir auction lot comes in an 18-liter screwtop that the brothers call "a big-ass bottle." Don't miss this vintage—as soon as the Sonomans figure out what happened to their vineyard, the ¹99 could be the dudes' first and last. And, last but not least...

Lot #00700
Napa Valley Vintners Association Special Event:
"Mission Vin-Possible" (co-starring The Wine Bomb)
The one we've all been waiting for: a lot whose sheer excitement is exceeded only by its ability to generate publicity. As the winning bidder, your adventure begins precisely two minutes from now when you will be handed a tape recorder, corkscrew, Prada knapsack and a stainless steel briefcase with a digital timer ticking down from 24 hours. A helicopter then lands on the Meadoworld lawn to whisk you away for a peaceful bird's-eye tour of the Napa Valley.

Alas, the serenity is short-lived. The helicopter pilot turns out to be Officer Pépé La Trine of the French Appellation Police, and he wants what you have: The Bomb. A struggle ensues; you manage to skewer him with the corkscrew (a Laguiole, mais oui). The aircraft spins out of control, but that knapsack is really a parachute, enabling you to leap to safety moments before the chopper crashes into the Dale Chihuly installation at Clos Pegase.

Serendipitously, you drift down to Auberge du Soleil and enjoy a midday espresso on the terrace while playing the tape. Your mission—and you must accept—is to deliver The Bomb to New York City within 23 hours.

Wasting no time, you hop aboard a custom BMW motorcycle and head due east, stopping only for a romantic interlude with a sweet, sultry siren—Arbor Misty—in Las Vegas. Too good to be true? Yes! She turns out to have a lust for Cabernet, and a very sharp ice pick, so you jump back on your motorcycle and make a beeline for the airport, where a Lear jet is ready for takeoff.

You have only enough fuel to make it to Chicago. But that's fine, because after making an emergency landing in Lake Michigan, you swim ashore with The Bomb and are met by Vito, your very own personal chef-trainer. After a grueling workout, Vito rewards you with a seven-course feast paired with assorted Napa Valley wines.

From Chicago's O'Hare airport you will fly first class to Baltimore, catching a cat nap while The Bomb ticks methodically in your lap. You will be confronted at BWI airport by a man with purple teeth...the Wine Hermit. Beware, for he too has his sights set on your booty. Be prepared to say no again and again as he offers you case after case of 100-point wine in exchange for your single bottle. Eventually, you work your way to the taxi stand with the Wine Hermit clinging to your leg and blubbering about first-growth Bordeaux.

The taxi you catch is fortuitously driven by a former Indy race car driver, which enables you to catch up with Acela, the new high-speed Amtrak train en route north to New York. You make a daring leap from car to train, pulling yourself in through an open window while holding The Bomb case in your teeth. Go to car 4, seat 7B. A man with an "I Love Oak" tattoo hands you another mini tape cassette and a moist towelette. The latter will help you freshen up; the former instructs you to proceed directly to Broadway, to see the Phantom of the Opera. Relax, kick back with a 187ml of White Zin. You are three hours from Manhattan and have four hours left on the briefcase ticker.

Upon arrival at Grand Central, you head straight to Broadway by foot. Unlucky: Fifth Avenue is in the thongs—er, throngs—of the annual Gay Pride parade. You manage to squeeze through, arriving at the theater just in time to rush the stage and encounter the Phantom. Audience and actors gasp; security guards converge. But not before the Phantom whispers the address of your final destination: the annual blind Cabernet tasting of the Cult of the Culty-Cult-Cult Wines.

You arrive at the subterranean locale on the Upper East Side with five minutes to spare. A hooded man takes the briefcase, hammers off the lock and removes The Bomb, cradling it like a newborn baby. The wine is uncorked, decanted, and then poured in a blind flight of 45 overpriced Napa Valley Cabernets. The tasting is afoot!

But you can only observe from a soundproof booth. After 60 torturous minutes, the score sheets are collected and tallied. Thanks to your heroic efforts, The Bomb comes in first place, a whisker ahead of Screaming Eagle. Too bad there's none left to taste...and none left to auction off on winebid.com. Such is the price of fame at the Napa Valley Wine Auction.

This lot is sold "AS IS."

© 2004 Wine For All

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Gastro-Mania!
By W. R. Tish

Rocky Mountain festival proves fertile ground for rhubarbs & brouhahas
Tasmanian Chicken Wings were on the menu at this year's Food & Wine magazine Classic at Aspen. So were Flying Pancakes, Knuckle Sandwiches and good old-fashioned Noggin Noogies when Jesse "the Palate" Ventura whipped a crowd of normally mild-mannered epicures into a frenzy by demonstrating these and other maneuvers that earned him fame prior to being elected Governor of Minnesota.

Speaking as a panelist at a trade seminar entitled "Comfort Food: Just Chew It," the wrestler-cum-governor confessed that he is mostly a raw-meat-and-potatoes man, but stressed that service is more important than ever in fine dining. He proceeded to show the proper way to body slam a maître d' who says he doesn't see your name in the reservation book.

Urging the crowd of restaurateurs and wine professionals to get in touch with their inner goon, Ventura said, "Good taste means nothing if you don't have the attitude to back it up." The audience appeared to take the burly politician's advice to heart, with many of them trading in their toques and corkscrews for complimentary day-glo tights and lace-up boots as they bolted from the seminar.

What followed could only be described as two days of gourmet mayhem:

The unannounced appearance of gastronomic legends Robert Mondavi and Julia Child turned ugly when, tossing aside decades of congeniality and mutual admiration, Bruisin' Bob tried out his new move, the Nebuchadnezzar, on Jumpin' Julia, who countered with a resounding Nutcracker.

At her cooking seminar called "Couscous, Yeah, Uh-Huh, What Is It Good For?", "Mediterranean Mama" Paula Wolfert tossed down the gauntlet, holding a big chunk of Roquefort aloft and yelling, "Let's get ready to crumble!" Emeril Lagasse—perhaps still stinging from not being invited to last year's Classic—rushed the stage, and this time when he said "BAM!" he really meant it! Wearing a cape with the inscription "Don't Knead on Me," pastry wizard Jacques Torres came to Wolfert's aid, stunning the Ragin' Cajun with a cream pie to the face before Madhur "Than Hel" Jaffrey subdued him with one swift blow of Larousse Gastronomique.

Food & Wine's reputation for treating chefs with kid gloves remained intact during the 1999 Classic. The same could not be said for the magazine's competition. Former Gourmet critic David "Bad Taste" Rosengarten and current editrix "Ruthless Ruth" Reichl snuck into the grand tasting tent and began heckling Charlie Trotter as he slaved over a hot stove at the United Airlines booth. After a few rounds of "You call that an entrée? Looks like a garnish!" and "Hey, Chuckie, take off those little glasses and put 'em up!", the pair was pounced upon by the tag-teaming Too Hot Tamales, who applied a quick but efficient and low-fat chile-pepper rub before reinforcements arrived. Martin "Yan Can Clock You One" and Dean "Put the Fear in" Fearing promptly pounded the New Yorkers like scallopine.

In a mild surprise, wine critic Robert M. Parker Jr., sometimes known as "the Iron Palate," decided to leave his Maryland safehouse for the first time in a decade, attending the Classic with Helen "Wine Goddess" Turley. The pair blended in nicely and nonchalantly. That is, until Karen MacNeil's Zinfandel tasting, when Turley stood up and declared the wines in front of her to be "just so much watery juice." In response, panelists Joel "No Wimpy Winemaker" Peterson of Ravenswood and Paul "Ridgemeister" Draper ducked under the table and emerged wearing spandex that identified them as Bacchus and Dionysus. The Zin-fueled grapplers ran circles around the revered critic and the consulting enologist he deified. The match finished like a typical Turley Zin—with a numbing whack of oak. Bacchus chided his young partner for resorting to such tactics, but then he bent down and asked Turley to sign the paddle so he could auction it off for charity.

En route to a press conference to announce his next Manhattan restaurant—Down the Street and Around the Corner from Nobu Next Door—Drew Nieporent bumped, literally, into Mario Batali. Witnesses feared the outbreak of a Sumo-style free-for-all. But, alas, cooler heads prevailed and within minutes the two had agreed in principle to a new restaurant of their own, to be called either Mo Pó or Yadda Yadda Babbo.

At a seminar called "Green Eggs & Foie Gras: Prepping for a Post-Apocalyptic Y2K World" Union Square restaurateur Danny Meyer took exception to French legend Jacques Pepin's announcing his "new recipe for pain;" it later turned out that Pepin was merely referring to a new type of bread. At the same seminar, Wolfgang "the Wolfman" Puck revealed his plan to have servers and kitchen to wear gold-lamé hooded masks staff at all six Spago restaurants. "Or is it seven?" he added.

Randall "the Bombastic Elastic Capitan Fantastic" Grahm, communicating telepathically from a soundproof booth at VinExpo, issued an open challenge: He will thumb-wrestle any vintner anytime, anywhere. At stake...the winner shall inherit the Earth; the loser must drink Chardonnay until pigs fly.

Finally, the Hotel Jerome played host to Food & Wine's Top 10 New Chefs in a Royal Buffet that might have turned into a Battle Royale if everybody wasn't so darned hungry. Meanwhile, the hotel's courtyard was the scene of an old-fashioned Texas Steel-Cage Match. In one corner, the mysterious French Paradox and the shadowy Direct Shipper; in the other corner, Senator "Stone Cold Sober" Strom Thurmond and the Lazy Wholesaler, better known as the 800-Pound Gorilla. The match started slowly, and no wonder-the Paradox and Shipper had been forced to fight with their hands tied behind their backs! Senator Thurmond made his move, knocking the feet out from under his opponents, kicking them when they're down, and then affixing huge warning labels to their heads. Meanwhile, the 800-Pound Gorilla sat in his corner, drinking bourbon with beer chasers. Suddenly, the crowd started chanting for "blood"...as in blood-red wine! Corks popped, glasses clinked, bread broke, and scores of wine aficionados rush the ring, reviving their fallen heroes with the heady aromas of Cabernet Sauvignon. Thurmond and the Gorilla slinked off (presumably across state lines) vowing, "We'll be back...we'll be back."

© 1999 Wine For All

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