WHINE # 36 – October, 2012

Welcome Gary Doucette of Antigonish, Carolyn McFarlane of Halifax, and Al Pressey of Winnipeg to the Whine.  I am also very pleased to have Al  as a guest blogger.  I hope this is not they only time that he agrees to contribute to the Whine.

 I first met Dr. Pressey in 1968 when he was a young Professor and I was just starting my Ph.D.   I have very fond memories of that time when, as a Maritimer,  I was introduced by Al to the vibrancy and culture of the Canadian Prairies.   However, before we get to Al’s article, let me first describe what I now call the 100-mile restaurant.

Dining in the “back of the beyond”:  In late August Betty was surfing the net, looking for a place to stay near the Aroostock Valley Golf and Country Club (which straddles the New Brunswick/Maine border.)  She happened upon the Canterbury Royale Gourmet Dining Room, which is in Fort Fairfield, Maine.     For those of you who have never been to Fort Fairfield I can honestly say that it is so far into the back woods that it makes Antigonish seem like the centre of the universe.

The website indicated that meals were a fixed price and always included 7 courses.  E-mailing for a reservation she was told that we had to select our entrées  a minimum of 7 days in advance and that the other six courses were selected by the Chefs.  This was because most meats had to be flown in from New York City, although we learned later that the duck breast came directly from France.

Hoping for the best we ate little (a wise decision) on the appointed day and simply chased golf balls around the Presque Isle Country Club.  After a leisurely cocktail we drove though Fort Fairfield and entered the deep forest, relying entirely on our trusty GPS.  Eventually we turned into a parking space next to a modest building.  The sign on the door read “Welcome Johnsons”.

We were ushered into one of the two rooms, each having only one table.  Ours was beautifully set with very fine china and enough silverware to arm a small band of revolutionaries.  I ordered an excellent Cabernet from Napa and our dining experience was about to begin.

We were first presented with loaves of Challah bread and onion bread.  It was next to impossible not to satiate ourselves but we did manage to leave a few crusts.  Next came something called Consomme Olga, which had a huge and delightfully fresh Bay of Fundy scallop in the centre.  This was followed by a green salad (see picture) served with a brandy and brown sugar dressing.

Our next course was French duck breast braised in morel mushrooms and paired with a bread pudding.  This was followed by a tiny filet mignon that had been perfectly cooked in a reduction of Chateauneuf-du-Pape and Cognac.  This was served with Potatoes Dauphine and Artichokes.

For the main course Betty had Seafood Crepes and I had lobster sauted in Cognac.  Although I wouldn’t have traded my lobster her crepes were rolled in a rose shape and were clearly a work of art.  Her lobster, shrimp and scallops were in a side sauce and the rose-shaped shells contained grapes, poached peaches and watermelon.

The decadent desserts were not a disappointment and we enjoyed a coffee before driving back through the forest to our hotel.

Canterbury Royale is owned and operated by two women who were New York chefs before making the dramatic move to northern Maine.  

Why do I call this the 100-mile restaurant?  That’s because if you are ever in Maine it’s worth a 100-mile side trip.  And, for the curious the meal cost us $ 168, including the wine. (that’s 164 Loonies at the current rate of exchange).

Al Pressey’s “Nectar of the Gods”

                I was born in the final days of the Great Depression.   Attitudes that were formed during that unfortunate decade lingered for a long time.  One sentiment that persisted was that money was scarce and was not to be wasted especially on those things that could be made at home.  Although it was not true at our place, many still carded their own wool, made yarn and knitted socks and sweaters.  A rare few even made their own soap.  So it is not surprising that making one’s own whiskey was simply another act of self-sufficiency.  Indeed, to waste precious money on a luxury was considered to be irresponsible.  The only reason that some gave it a second thought was that it was illegal.  Our region was considered to be “unorganized territory” but there were two law enforcement agents.  One was a game warden and the other an RCMP officer. This meant that virtually every farmstead had a secret cache where deer meat and home brew were stored.  Because no one in our family was a big game hunter, any deer meat that we had was a gift and I knew exactly in which well it was hidden.  Whiskey was another matter.  Whenever a special guest appeared or when the local priest came for dinner, mother would disappear, and several minutes later, reappear with a pristine bottle of white liquid that was well above the 80 proof that was advertised by commercial products. I knew that the hiding place was not underground and that it had to be nearby but the sacred spot was never discussed and never revealed.

                I was the youngest in our family and one of the perks was being allowed to sleep in the warmest bedroom during the winter.  But there was one drawback associated with that good fortune.  I had to share the space with a crock of mash and the ensuing odor that heralded the first phase of brewing.

                Twice a year, a 10-gallon clay crock was placed on a chair beside the hot air radiator.  Into it were added sliced potatoes, wheat, raisins, sugar, yeast and water.   I do not recall what else glorified the concoction but once I believe I saw orange slices floating atop the fermenting mass.  Such subtle inclusions would not be surprising since communal reputations were at stake. 

                Distillation was a genius of simplicity.  The only apparatus required was a canner (with cover) and a small home crafted four-legged stool.  The canner would be placed over low heat and filled with about 5 inches of mash.  The stool would be centered so that it held a small basin just above the surface.  The canner would then be covered with an inverted lid that was sealed at the rim with a wet cloth.  Ice, snow or just cold water was poured into the inverted lid so that the steam from the mash was converted into liquid that flowed to the center of the lid and dripped into the basin.

                The most exciting part of the process was the test for purity.  Mother would extract a teaspoonful of the liquid, strike a wooden match, and try to light the distillate.  Successful ignition indicated a successful product but the best part occurred when she tossed the flaming liquid into the wood box.  It would burn on top of the logs without ever setting them on fire.  I never tired of watching flambeed fire logs but this experience did nothing to enhance any future appreciation for such exotica. 

                The white elixir was known by many names including “home brew”, “white lightening”, and “porch climber” but in our household such phrases were considered demeaning probably because the drink was intimately tied to religious holidays such as Christmas, Easter, and, of course, the joining of husband and wife in holy matrimony.  So, it was just called “whiskey” and was used in much the same way that other cultures used champagne.

                I do not recall my father ever being involved in actually distilling the product.  I suspect that it was because he sought to squeeze too much out of the mash thus imbuing the extract with too harsh a taste.  To produce a proper result required the exact balance of heat, length of simmer and many other variables, the entirety of which probably existed as an intuitive “feel” in the mind if the maker. It is, as I understand it, much like making perfect “borscht”.  Outlining the ingredients and the steps in a recipe does not guarantee an exquisite creation.  And, an exquisite creation was indeed the aim of every man and woman in the community.  I recall an occasion when Christmas carolers came and, after their performance, were offered the obligatory shot glass of liquor.   My cousin Tony declared, “Auntie, you are a genuine artist!”  Perhaps I am making this up, but there seemed to be a renewed bounce in my mother’s step for several weeks after.  

                Humans were not the only species that experienced the rewards of the nectar of the gods.  One morning I stepped outside the house and saw an astonishing and alarming sight.  There, in the yard lying on the ground, were several dozen Barred Rock and White Leghorn chickens.  They were all dead!  Fearing a lethal attack (of chicken pox, perhaps), I called out for help but there seemed to be no one around.

Finally, gathering some courage, I cautiously approached the nearest carcass and gently tapped it with my shoe.  “ Poot-poo duck; poot-poo duck” cackled the suddenly enervated corpse as it struggled to its feet.  But walk it could not.  It spread its wings like two canes and tried to propel itself forward.  Then, emitting its deranged cackle, it collapsed in a heap once more.  Relief engulfed me as I realized that the chickens were not dead. But the puzzle remained until I noticed the scattered remains of puffed wheat, bloated raisins and slices of potato.  Then it struck me; the hens were as drunk as the proverbial skunk!

                On occasion, my wife asks me how I would like my chicken prepared for supper.  When I reply “pickled”, she rolls her eyes having tired of the joke long ago.

 

Aging wine in oak barrels:

Wine which is aged in oak barrels undergoes significant change.  Firstly, the oak adds flavour to the wine.  The aroma of an oaked wine is best described as that of cloves or vanilla.  Secondly, the wine takes on some of the oaks tannins, giving the wine a more astringent feel in the mouth.  Thirdly, the porous oak allows evaporation which makes the remaining wine more concentrated, so that it seems fuller and more robust.

Sixty gallon oak barrels are expensive, each costing more than $ 1,000.  A good vintner will only use a barrel 3 times (then perhaps selling the barrel to those making lesser wines) as there is, at that point, little flavor to impart to the wine.  In addition, the evaporation of up to 10% of the wine adds additional cost.  A barrel-aged wine is going to cost the consumer several dollars more than the same wine aged in stainless steel.   The good news is that vintners only oak wines made from their better grapes.  This means that when you read on a label that the wine was aged (usually between 6 and 18 months, but more for a Spanish Gran Reserva) in oak you know that this is most likely going to be a good wine.

On caution, however, is that in order to save money oak chips are sometimes added to wine aging in stainless steel.  While this adds a bit of flavour there is no effect on the critical evaporation process.  My advice is to leave on the shelf wines that are simply described as oaked, searching instead for the key phrase “aged for so many months in American and/or French oak”.

Not all wines benefit from aging in oak.  Of the reds Cabernet Sauvignon is most frequently oaked.  In fact, I have never had an unoaked Cabernet that was worth drinking.  Merlots and Malbecs also benefit from oaking. 

White wines, in particular Chardonnay, are sometimes oaked.  The effect of oaking a Chardonnay is so dramatic that it doesn’t appear to be from the same grape as an unoaked Chardonnay.  Without oak a Chardonnay has a crisp taste reminding one of limes or green apples.  Heavily oaked Chardonnay becomes rich and buttery tasting.  In fact so many consumers react negatively to the buttery taste of well-oaked California Chardonnays that vintners more and more often put the word “unoaked” prominently on the label.  I should point out to those of us who like are freshly boiled lobsters dipped in melted butter that an oaked Chardonnay is a very good match.

Finally, there is a health benefit to oaking wine.  We all know that wine contain potent antioxidants that benefit the heart, lungs, blood pressure and even skin tone.  The most important antioxidant is reservatrol which prevents damage to skin cells through aging and even prevents post-menopausal bone density loss, and may reduce the risk of Alzheimer’s.  This is not even mentioning that reservatrol helps  kill cancer cells.  Oak-aged wines are higher in antioxidants than other wines.  Thus paying an extra few dollars for wines aged in oak barrels doesn’t bother me at all.