Biodynamism (sort of) explained.

The first time I heard about biodynamic wine, it sounded, to me, like some odd French marketing gimmick. Not an unreasonable thought, considering the fact the bottle of wine being discussed was from Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a place known for prohibiting flying saucers or, as the French call them les cigares volantes from landing in their vineyards. I find it reassuring to me to see the French senses humor and creativity so alive and well. Of course, such laws also illustrate an equally French no non-sense approach to what fuels these qualities-- wine.

All we knew at the time was that biodynamic winemaking had something to do with the full moon. We all had a good laugh. My boss kept asking if various items around the restaurant -- it could have been a chair or a dog for all he cared-- were biodynamique. He just liked to say it. In French.

Biodynamism was, we thought, similar to organic winemaking, only more hippie-like.

I feel so ashamed of myself, I could just spit. It might be hippie-like, but it is definitely worth taking seriously.

So what exactly is biodynamic winemaking?

It is a category of biodynamic agriculture, which is essentially an organic farming system based primarily upon eight lectures on anthroposophy given by Rudolph Steiner in Germany in 1924.

Even in 1924, when man's faith in better living through chemistry was picking up speed, Steiner was convinced that the quality of food was being degraded by the use of artificial fertilizers and pesticides. Sounds very much like our modern, and fortunately blossoming, organic agricultural movement. What set Steiner and his biodynamism apart from the organic philosophy was more than his belief in the spiritual shortcomings of a chemical approach to farming. Steiner considered the world and everything in it as simultaneously spiritual and material in nature, that living matter was different from dead matter. He also believed in the influence of planetary events on agricultural crops. Ah, there's that moon reference.

Biodynamism is, more or less, a very holistic approach to organic farming.

You are, at this point, either yawning or scratching your head. If the former is the case, go get yourself a coffee and come back when your caffeine has kicked in. If the latter is true, read on and follow these links pertaining to biodynamic agriculture, vitalism and Demeter International and then get back to me. I'm happy to wait. It's a rather complex topic. One, with a slight bow to irony, not easily digested.

Two days ago, my fellow co-workers and I were fortunate enough to have someone explain it all-- or, at least his application of biodynamism-- to us.

Fresh from his stint as cover model for next week's Wine Spectator, Mike Benziger took some time out to both explain his biodynamic approach to winemaking and to let us taste the results-- his 2004 vintage Tribute.



He began his talk by asking us about various alcoholic beverages. What does beer do to you? He mentioned that it made one tired and gassy. Tequila? I muttered something about how it renders one stupid and causes one to sleep with people one might otherwise regret sleeping with sober. And wine?

"Wine is a high energy substance, it changes the spirit of the room as soon as the bottle is opened. Wine connects us to the sun, to the earth and to each other."

In two sentences, Benziger encapsulated what I belive to be essence of biodynamic winemaking, in as much as I can gather. Wine just might be the poster child for this approach to agriculture-- a mingling of living and dead matter that, if you will forgive me for saying, creates its own life force, therby enhancing our own. Unless, I thought, one drinks excessive amounts of it and dies of alcohol poisoning, I reminded myself that biodynamism is about cosmic balance and the thought passed.

To Benziger, biodynamism is about a personal connection to the land. And he is certainly connected to his. He's been working his 85 acres for the past twenty-five years. Only forty of which are planted with vines. The rest, in the closed farming tradition of biodynamism, are occupied by such things as stables, insectaries and pasture.

Biodynamism considers the environment more important than the plant, the whole trumping any of its parts. In Benziger's vineyard, one might be overwhelmed by environment, or at least cataloging it. His vines are planted in a circle created naturally by volcanic crater. Over the years, Benziger has recognized thirty-one distinct microclimates within that circle-- each contributing it's own particular qualities to the final blend of his wine.

Biodynamism dictates that man work within nature's boundaries rather than bend it to his own will. This, of course, is a dictum impossible to follow since agriculture is essentially a system created by man to exploit and propagate that nature which serves him best and eliminate--or at least exclude-- that which does not. Those rabid enough to adhere to such a strict construction would be reduced, in my opinion, to hunting and gathering. Fortunately, Benziger and, I'm sure, most other biodynamic farmers approach this idea with a more practical spirit.

To eliminate a dependence upon chemical pesticides, plants are planted to attract beneficial insects to the vineyards. Insects are neither purchased nor physically transported, but rather invited onto the property by means of what Benziger refers to as "bug highways"-- swaths of specific plants that lure the insects directly into the vineyard.

In addition to insects and creative planting, various animals are utilized to keep down the number of pests-- chickens and owls, for example. Grazers, such as Scottish Highland cattle and sheep keep weeds in check and remove any need for chemical fertilizers. "Sheep are a great viticultural tool." quipped Benziger, "They do three things for us: they eat, shit and turn the soil with their hooves." Who needs a tractor?

With the removal of chemical pesticides and fertilizer comes the eventual return of native yeasts, which are, he believes, essential to the character of his wine.

The goal with biodynamic farming is a closed environmental system. The borders between natural and farmed areas eventually merge and begin to speak, as Benziger says, "the language of terroir." Which, of course, is also essential to the character of his wine.

And how does biodynamism apply to the process of winemaking?

Here's where the moon comes in. Don't cringe. It makes perfect sense. Wine is racked only under a new moon. Why? sendiment is at its most compact at this time. The tidal pull of a full moon causes it to puff up.

Biodynamic regulations, as laid down by Demeter International, also dictate that no yeast or malolactic bacteria may be added to the wine though sulpher dioxide is allowed. Apologies, I forgot to ask why this was so., I was busy drawing the Demeter logo in my notebook, since the logo on Benziger's bottle did not photograph well:



The logo sums it up, I'd say. From the top left and working clockwise around the four quadrants are: fire, air, earth (which I drew somewhat inaccurately) and water. Everything in the universe, according to the Ancients, was comprised of some combination of these elements. What the logo does not show, however is a fifth element; one created when the four other elements get together-- spirit. It does sport a rather intriguing symbol directly under the name Demeter. Being the strong fertility goddess she was to the Greeks, I am not certain if the symbol represents some sort of budding plantlife or not. I prefer to see it as a highly stylized hermaphrodite. One with enormous breasts and a penis dangling between its legs. How much more fertile can one get than that?

Okay. We've heard about how the vines were tended and how the grapes were vinified. But what about the taste? Benziger poured.

It was good. It was more than good, truthfully. Everyone in the room agreed. I must add here that I am talking about a room full of people who have, at one time, more or less rejected California Cabernet Sauvignons and blends thereof as showy and often juvenile-- an embarrassment to be around. Not that they all are, but more in the spirit of rejecting one's parents as an embarrassment in one's teenage years.

Benziger's 2004 Tribute is a well balanced wine, with soft-but-present tannin, hints of cedar, black cherry and, not surprisingly given todays topic of biodynamism, a certain earthiness. The finish lingered. It doesn't try to out-macho its neighbors with an over-powering amout of oak. Silver Oak is a man who wears too much Brut and tells time by his gaudy Rolex. Tribute stands by its own, natural masculine scent and tells time by the position of the sun in the sky. Orthe moon, depending upon the time of day.

More importantly, I imagined I could taste everything that went into making the wine-- the volcanic crater, the bees, even the Scottish Highland cows. Not literally, mind you but, knowing the effort and, well, the love that went into making this wine made the experience of drinking it even more pleasurable.

After the Benziger's talk, my wine director was excited. "You're going to see a lot more of these wines coming along." I'm glad. It's the wave of the future that many winemakers are considering riding. Wave of the future. Odd how a technique older than Charlemagne can be considered futuristic. Winemaking has now made a full circle-- or is it full cycle?-- like the moon that rules over the biodynamic process. It's about time.

I'll stop giggling now. I promise.

*Note. The pyramid diagram is borrowed from the Benziger website.

The French Laundry: Heavy on the Starch

There are some things in this world best left to the imagination; people, places or events so idealized they could never live up to the expectations built up around them -- your wedding day or a mènage a trois with a pair of identical twins or, in this case, dinner at what has been referred to as the best restaurant in the world-- The French Laundry.

Ten years ago, a friend organized a chauffeur-driven pilgrimage to the French Laundry. Being fresh out of culinary school, I could scarcely afford the dinner, so I politely declined the invitation. Besides, I had been taught that limousines were for funerals and diplomats, so riding in one was out of the question. I was anything but diplomatic in those days and, had I chosen to spend what little money I had from my $8.50 an hour kitchen job, the only funeral I would have been attending would have been my own after my parents decided to kill me.

I'd regretted not going ever since. I've since wondered what it would be like to dine there. When my friend Lyle invited me to join him in place of his mostly vegetarian and largely non-drinking girlfriend, I said yes. Two days later, I went to see Thomas Keller interviewed along with Dorothy Cann Hamilton at the Commonwealth Club. I enjoyed hearing him discuss his philosophies regarding life, food and a life in food. I was excited that I would soon be sitting in his dining room eating what he had to offer.

I don't think anyone living beneath a certain sky-high tax bracket can go to The French Laundry without making it into some sort of event. It is not, by it's own design, a place one goes to grab something to eat. When we visit, we pack our emotional baggage full of inflated expectations and drag it behind us through the little garden and into the front door. It is the one thing the hostess who greets you is unable to check.

My fellow diners and I arrived on time for our 6:30 reservation and were whisked into a little side room, dimly lit and cool like a cave with walls of river rock, where our table awaited us. A little window cut into the rock showed off the wine room. If this was, as I had sensed, a place of worship, we were seated in its chapel.

Two couples shared our space. One pair dined with such grim seriousness that I thought one of them-- or their relationship-- might have only days to live. The other couple, from Houston as I gathered from their limited conversation, looked a little bewildered and on their best behaviour. I leaned into the center of our table and whispered to my dinner companions, "Why is everyone so quiet? No one seems to be having a good time!"

It was true. Except for us, of course.

Our waiter soon introduced himself, explaining and expanding upon the nine course menu. He was aware of the two bottles of Burgundy we had brought with us and suggested that we might start with a bottle of champagne, since it went so well with the first four courses. Lyle was presented with a wine list and we were given a moment to look it over. Lyle passed the list over to me and I browsed. We had agreed amongst ourselves that we weren't interested in champagne, but some sort of white wine was definitely in order. I saw a short list of Austrian wines that interested me. When the waiter returned, asking which champagne we might prefer, I told him we were interested in drinking a still white wine instead. Feeling rather dense, I said as much and handed the list back over to Lyle. Our waiter once again suggested champagne. We once again declined.

Enter the sommelier. We assumed he was the sommelier, since he was very knowledgable about wine, but he did not introduce himself as such. I explained that I was looking at Austian wines. Lyle mentioned his preference for crisp minerality, for something interesting at around $60. The gentleman returned almost instantly with precisely what we were looking for-- and Austrian Riesling. We were very delighted with his selection.

The food began its slow, steady dance to our table. And I do mean dance. Movements are choreographed. Servers perform what is known as ballet service-- dishes are served in synchronized sweeps by, in our case, two people. Plates from the left hands glide down in front of diners one and three followed by plates from the right, supplying diners two and four. It is all seemless, perfect. A simple, well flavored gougère here, a doll-sized black sesame tuille cone filled with Scottish salmon served there. Both charming. The two amuses seemed to carry with them bold-faced bullet points in what I imagine to be Thomas Keller's mission statement: the former promised a mastery of understatement, while the latter promised the evening of theater that lay ahead of us. Conflicting messages certainly, but not incompatible.

Our food selections were noted and our deciphering of lampshades applauded by our waiter.



Wash. Do not use bleach. Iron. I wondered how many of the other diners in the restaurant had an intimate knowledge of laundering. We turned our attention briefly to the linen. Not a crease or stain to be found. I noticed that my napkin was the size of an adult diaper and was, in fact, folded as such over my lap. I quietly tucked the edges around my hips and under my crotch and hoped no one noticed as I looked down to admire my handiwork.

With the meal under way, our conversation turned to food, as it invariably does with foodies. "There's a slight bitterness to the foie gras. What is that?" ."Lyle? Okay. Did that little Tokyo turnip just explode in your mouth like it did in mine?" "Did he say Jurassic Period salt?"

And such like.

I am pleased to tell you-- pleased to tell myself, at any rate-- that I was too busy enjoying the company of my dining companions and the food before us to be snapping many photos of the food. I did manage one or two, like the one of the Line-Caught Atlantic Halibut shown below:



I made an attempt to capture the pretzel rolls-- Lyle's favorite thing-- on film, but it looked rather unappealing in the photograph. "Did you try a pretzel roll yet? God! It tastes just like a pretzel!" We then explained to him that it was, in fact, a soft pretzel which merely lacked a knot.

As we finished off the bottle of Austrian Riesling and tucked into a beautiful Volnay given to Lyle as a birthday present, our conversation became more animated. So, too, did the main dining room. I actually heard laughter from some place other than our table. I turned around to see a room full of 55 to 65 year-olds dining and chatting. Over my right shoulder, a table of European businessmen with deep voices and, surprisingly bright-colored socks. I wondered what they were talking about and where they would go after dinner. I made no plans to join them.

Back at our table, the conversation turned to Evelyn Waugh-- Brideshead Revisited and my favorite character, A-A-Antoine. He had a stutter. Lyle's friend Jack and I offered our impersonations. I asked if he had ever seen or read The Loved One. He offered a detailed rendition Liberace's brilliant upselling of funeral services at Whispering Glades. I was impressed. Later in the meal, I learned why Jack took such an interest in that scene-- he's a funeral director.

At this point I went up the narrow staircase-- a staff member nearly hurling himself over the bannister to make way for me-- to wash my hands for the second time and, for the second time, found the single occupancy room empty and spotless. It seemed as if it were merely for show-- toilet tissue wrapped in silk ribbon, unused. Cute, but I wondered if people in polite society ever rid themselves of unneccesary body weight, or if they had people to do that for them. I returned to our table to find my diaper folded neatly on the table. We finished our sixth course -- a Snake River Farm "Calotte de Boeuf Grillée"-- with not too much comment. It was excellent. Techinically perfect. Of course it was.

Yet something was not quite right. At least to me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The food was uniformly beautiful, flavorful and perfectly executed to the detection of both my eyes and palate. The dishware and silver were often conversation pieces. The rooms were lovely-- well-appointed and understated as though to counterbalance the fact that this building once housed a brothel.

And the staff? A sudden chill came over me. Or was that the Glacé de Fruits Exotiques set before me after the cheese course?

There was, below the smooth, perfect surfaces of the French Laundry, a subtle uneasiness; a tautness under its skin, like that of a woman fresh from a facelift-- eager to please her wealthy lover and unable to relax her facial muscles.

I scanned the members of the staff. Everyone was clean, very attractive and well tailored. They all smiled, but not too widely, as though no one should have a better time than the guests. Eye contact was always just narrowly avoided. Or did I imagine that? If our waiter would attempt levity, he would say, "I am only joking" before any of us had even the time to react. The fear of offense was fascinating. There was a Stepford-like quality to the members of the front-of-house staff that I found troublesome.

When he spoke at the Commonwealth Club, Thomas Keller stated that "Cooking is about repetition-- the perfection of the task at hand." I would agree with him there. Mr. Keller has perfected his cooking through strict repetition. But that repetition seems to makes its way into the dining room as well, which is unfortunate. When our food was brought to the table, it was described in marvelous detail, but it the delivery of information gave the impression of having been memorized, scripted and completely uniform. No color. Words like gougère and gratinée were mispronounced.

When our bill was presented, we were disappointed but not terribly offended that we had been charged $50 for uncorking the bottle we'd brought and had opened for us. In my experience as a waiter, if a guest brings a bottle of wine yet purchases a bottle from a restaurant's wine list, the corkage fee is waived. But I do not make policy and we were already of the mind to pay it before we even sat down, but it struck a slightly sour note at the end of our evening.



As we looked over our bill, Jack made a generous offer-- that he would pay for the food if the rest of us took care of the rest. Then the waiter, who happened to be standing between Lyle and Jack, offered that he would be happy to split the check four ways, if we liked. Jack replied that that woulnd't be necessary and that we just needed a minute to figure out the bill. Instead of leaving us alone with our bill, our waiter picked it up from the table. I cannot remember why, but I'm sure there was a logical reason for it. Lyle asked what the total was and, in what I hope was an attempt to be helpful, our waiter then read our bill-- which was, I'm sure quite conservative by French Laundry standards-- out loud.

"Food: $1,020... Wine: $166..."

We were pleased to know that everyone in the room knew how much we spent. Perhaps our waiter thought that a guest at one of the other tables might avail us of his or her superior math skills. We were, all of us, quietly horrified.

The check was paid. Shortbread cookies and copies of the night's menu were distributed, two round coasters with the restaurant's name on them that reminded me of dress shields were pocketed and we left.

On the drive home, we talked about our experience. We all enjoyed it very much. The food was wonderful, but only the little Tokyo turnips and chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were hailed as "amazing." We were well-sated bodily. Just enough food, just enough wine. But none of us saw it as truly fantastic. Not the best meal ever.

And that is our own damned fault. Or mine, at least. There must be such tremendous pressure to operating a restaurant like The French Laundry. It's an institution. It's a shrine to which so many come expecting the greatest meal of their lives. With food prices of $240 ($270 if one opts for foie gras), one almost demands it. How can one restaurant satisfy all the unspoken expectations of, well, everyone who has ever dined there, or ever will? It can't.

Perhaps Mr. Keller is correct in his approach of uniformity and repitition. It seems to be working for him and, I'm sure, the majority of diners there. It is his consistency that has kept his machinery well-oiled and running more or less smoothly since 1994. I just don't think it's for me. Which I can accept as either my own virtue or my own flaw. Whatever the case, it is my own.

I am, however, extremely glad I had the opportunity to dine there. I applaude Keller's food, his technique and his sense of fun-- at least on the plate. Now if he could just get his waitstaff to loosen up...

The Best Cooking Show Ever

There is very little that needs to be said about Posh Nosh. It speaks for itself.



Earlier this week, I was dining with friends at the most expensive restaurant in the universe when the topic of Posh Nosh came up. I had to fess up to my ignorance regarding the show, but I was intrigued.

Twelve or so courses of food and a one-hour-and-twenty-minute car ride later, I made my way back to my much loved computer and searched YouTube for anything I could find on the programme.

Jackpot.

I may be the last person on earth to have heard of Posh Nosh but, if I am able to bring this laser-sharp beacon of light into anyone's awareness, mine will have been a life worth living.

Do yourself a favor. Take the time to watch this episode.

Getting Stuffed

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic lately, which isn't terribly surprising considering the fact that I am usually found in a state of past-reflection. That's not to say that I can't focus on the present as well as others. I can, especially since paying close attention to the here-and-now comes in handy when, well, the here-and-now eventually becomes the there-and-then.

A short while ago, I made a comment to friends that my mother didn't really cook. What I meant was that, unlike the fantasy version of my mother I wish I had had (culinarily-speaking), my real-life mom was never seen floating about the kitchen baking pies or putting up strawberry preserves from fruit picked ripe from our garden. We did, in fact, have strawberries growing in our back yard but, in the heat of summer, it was generally a race to see who could get to them first-- us or the garden snails. Besides, one was never certain if one of the dogs hadn't peed on them.

The truth is that my mother did cook. And she did it rather well, I think. It sounds noble of me, I know, but I have forgiven her lack of enthusiasm for daily meal preparation. The fact that she, as a single mother, managed to feed two sullen teenagers and a hyperactive pre-adolescent without relying heavily on fast food take-out while working 40 hours a week now strikes me as utterly amazing.

Often, she was time efficient-- making large batches of food stuffs that froze well. She'd make a gallon of pasta sauce and meatballs and freeze them in empty plastic containers that once housed whipped topping or Country Crock margerine. Though the former contents may not have been especially noteworthy, her red sauce and meatballs were as good as my Sicilian paternal grandmothers-- apparently, learning to makethem was a pre-condition to marrying my father. Not bad for a white girl.

The traumatizing effects of stew night aside (I would sometimes cry when I saw it simmering on the stove top, spend dinner time loading mouthfuls of it into my heavily-napkined lap and request to make repeated trips to the garbage can), dinners were generally tasty affairs. One of my favorite non-special occasion meals she'd prepare was stuffed bell peppers.

It struck me as odd that I would remember this dish as one of my favorites, considering the fact that the peppers in question were invariably green as they pretty much all were thirty-odd years ago. I still don't much care for them. What I loved about them was the fact that the pepper (which I ignored) was simply a bit of negative space waiting to be filled by what was basically my mother's meatballs, but with a little rice mixed in to make it stuffed-peppery.

I'd never made stuffed peppers before, but I decided to give it a go this week. What I find appealing about stuffed peppers is that, basically, one can stuff them with whatever you want. As long as it's edible, I mean. I take that back. Stuff them with whatever the hell you feel like stuffing them with. I would hate to be accused of stifling anyone's creativity.

Mexicans have probably been stuffing peppers ever since they began cultivating them some 6,000 years ago. When they were brought to Europe from the New World, the Italians, Greeks, Hungarians and Spanish took a liking to them. When they made their way back to the Americas (yes, they were here the whole time, I know), Southerners took to stuffing them, too. Meat, rice, bulgar wheat, cheese-- you name it-- has made it's way into the sweet pepper with more or less successful results.

I chose a somewhat Greek approach to stuffing a pepper. Perhaps stating that I used typically Greek ingredients, for the most part, might avoid unnecessary giggling. I just thought my particular attack was tasty. Remember, there is no right and there is no wrong. At least, not that I am willing to get into this morning.

Stuffed Peppers

Ingredients

4 red bell peppers (or whatever color most pleases you and your budget)
1 pound ground lamb
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, diced fairly small
3 tablespoons of olive oil
1/2 cup cooked white rice, cooled
1 teaspoon salt
a rather large amount of black pepper
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon gound allspice
1 large egg
1/4 cup feta or goat cheese

Preparation:

1. Pre-heat oven to 375 F.
2. Saute (or sweat, in this case) onion and garlic in one tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat until translucent. Set aside. Turn up the heat and add the second tablespoon of oil and then the ground lamb. Brown, please. Add third tablespoon of oil and then zucchini. Cook until just slightly softened and a tad brighter in color. Toss the onion mixture, lamb and zucchini together.
3. I suppose before you've taken on steps one and two you could have washed and sliced the tops of the peppers and, if they aren't behaving as they should and sitting up straight, you might cut their bottoms and forcibly make them do so. Free them of their seeds and ribbing. I choose to blanch the peppers as well, which cuts down on oven time.
   
4. Add salt, pepper, allspice, nutmeg, egg, cheese and rice to the stuffing mixture, combining well.
   
5. Fill the empty inner spaces of the peppers with the stuffing and place in a casserole or dutch oven-- something not too shallow. Peppers are fairly social creatures, so keep them close together, but do allow them some space-- they need to feel the hot oven air circulate around them. Oh, and add some water or stock to the bottom of the dish to prevent the peppers from burning. At this point, I rub the tops of the peppers with olive oil and salt and place them in a pan to roast along side the peppers themselves. Not necessary, but I don't see why not.
6. When the peppers are sufficiently roasted (like, in about 30 minutes), dot the top of the stuffed peppers with more cheese and place under the broiler to brown.
7. Serve hot.

My mother, and lots of other people besides her, serve peppers with some sort of tomato sauce. I decided to accompany mine with something a little lighter and sharper. It's almost completely mindless...

Garlic and Mint Yogurt Sauce:

Ingredients:

1 cup plain yogurt (Greek is good, but I think too thick for this. Save it for eating with honey)
4 cloves garlic, minced
several leaves of mint, chiffonaded
a pinch pr two of salt

Preparation:

Mix all the above ingredients in a bowl and whisk together. Serve. Or, better to let this sit in the fridge overnight so the flavors can get to know each other better. I hope you took notes on that one.