Monthly Archives: March 2016

It wasn’t until my third visit to Prague that I tried my first glass of Czech wine. That is partially because in 1998, when I first set foot in this jewel of a Central European city, the country’s wineries had yet to shake off the depredations of communism. And it’s partially because large glasses of local beer could be had for about a quarter.

By the time of my latest visit in 2007, the city had been overrun by British stag parties, beers cost $5, and sizeable sections of restaurant wine lists were devoted to Czech bottlings. We had our first dinner of the trip at the atmospheric U Modré Kachničky (The Blue Duck), in the relatively quiet Malá Strana neighborhood on the castle side of the river. I ordered duck in plum brandy sauce with potato pancakes, and after consulting with the waiter, a glass of Svatovavřinecké to pair with it. I memorialized the meal with the blurry photo to the right.

I still can’t pronounce Svatovavřinecké (St. Laurent), but I remember that dinner — the worn frescoes of wisteria glimmering in the candlelight, the savory duck with crispy skin, the surprisingly rich St. Laurent. Moments like that stay with me.

It will doubtless surprise some readers that the Czech Republic makes wine, let alone wine of quality. Most of its best vineyards are in Moravia, immediately north of Austria’s Weinviertel. As The Oxford Companion to Wine explains, “Because of their position north of the Danube, most of the slopes face south and are protected by higher land in the north.” And just as important, “Winemaking techniques have fully recovered from the communist era,” the Companion goes on to say.

That’s all well and good, but quality aside, it remains quite difficult to find Czech wine outside the country, as The World Atlas of Wine notes: “Little [Czech wine] is exported yet, but the potential is there.” Very, very little Czech wine crosses the Atlantic. I never spotted one until about a year ago.

I was browsing the egregiously disorganized wine section of Gene’s Sausage Shop & Delicatessen, which never fails to irritate me. But sometimes I unearth a gem before my patience wears out. As my eye drifted along the jumble of wines on the shelves, a label with an Alphonse Mucha print caught my attention. “Vino z Czech” were the words beneath, and for the first time since 2007, I found myself purchasing a Czech wine.

I assumed Vino z Czech, which translates as “Wine from the Czech Republic,” was the rather uncreative name of the winemaker. It actually encompasses an entire collection of wines made by different Moravian vintners and assembled by Czech Wine Imports for sale in the United States. “Most of these wines are from small wineries,” according to the Vino z Czech website. “Annual production of our varieties range from 180 cases to just under 2200 cases.”

This particular wine, a 2006 St. Laurent, comes from Vino Marcinčák, the Czech Republic’s largest organic winery, headquartered in the Mikulov region of Moravia. Its vineyards “…have excellent locations in the warmest region of the Czech Republic,” if Vino Marcinčák’s website is to be believed, and the winery seeks to produce “…wines with character, intended for the most discriminating wine lovers.”

It all sounded very promising, but I did have some concern that this 10-year-old wine might be past its prime. The Oxford Companion asserts that St. Laurent is “…capable of producing deep-coloured, velvety reds with sufficient concentration — provided yields are limited — to merit ageing in oak and then bottle.” Even so, I poured a glass for myself with more hope than confidence.

Before my nose arrived at the rim of the glass, I could detect the wine’s enticingly dark, purplish aroma. I loved the generous fruit flavors of plum and prune, overlayed with a floral, violet note. The wine moved from cool, dark fruit to rather rustic acids, which morphed into a low-grade but lengthy hum of white-pepper spice. There was a pleasant duskiness throughout, likely because of its age.

My husband decided not to drink that evening, and I managed to finish only half the bottle. I used some inert gas in an attempt to prolong the wine’s life, and put it in the fridge. Two days later, it was time to cook Sunday dinner, and I uncorked the bottle, fully expecting the fruit and acids of this decade-old codger to have flattened or disappeared altogether. It was quite a shock, then, when I took a sip and found the wine to be perfectly lively. I happily finished off the other half of the bottle as we prepared some white bean soup with kale and kielbasa. For $17, this wine struck me as a very fine value.

You won’t find Czech wine in most wine shops, regardless of the extent of their selection. But Vino z Czech does distribute its wines in New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Connecticut, Washington D.C., Texas and Illinois (see a full list of stores and restaurants here). If you live in one of these states, by all means, visit an establishment that sells these wines and try one out.

And if you go to Prague, which I still recommend doing in spite of the crowds, don’t limit yourself to beer, as I did on my first two visits. The local wines may be difficult to pronounce, but they certainly aren’t difficult to enjoy.

If you prefer cocktails, this Czech concoction is one of my favorites.

A “Spicy Mayan” cocktail at Belcampo Belize

I must admit that I didn’t expect to enjoy much fine drinking in Belize. I knew the country made rum, and, for better or worse, cashew wine, but that certainly wasn’t the reason I visited. What drew me was the uncrowded Mayan ruins and sensational snorkeling. I didn’t have hopes of finding unique craft cocktails in remote jungle lodges.

Nevertheless, there they were:

SPICY MAYAN

My first stop in the country was Belcampo Belize, a jungle lodge near the coast with a very creative barman, Tim. He created the best thing I drink in all of Belize, the “Spicy Mayan.” Fortunately, Tim put a lot more thought into the cocktail itself than he did the name. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.

First, he muddled some fresh allspice leaves in a shaker, releasing their oils. Ancient Mayans, a guide told me, used to chew allspice leaves in order to numb their mouths before dentists embellished their teeth with jade dots or performed other dental procedures. I tried chewing an allspice leaf, and while I did notice a numbing sensation, the leaf did not strike me as an adequate substitute for Novocaine. As a nibbled the leaf, my guide said something insane about ancient Mayans using molten jade to decorate their teeth, and I took a moment to heartily thank God for modern dentistry. But I digress.

Tim muddled several allspice leaves, shaking them with a mix of white rum, lime, simple syrup and Casa Mascia Apothecary Culantro Elixir, a liqueur made from cilantro’s wild cousin. The result, served over ice and garnished with an allspice leaf, had an inviting aroma of cilantro. Sour, sweet and herbaceous flavors balanced each other beautifully, and the slight numbing sensation of the allspice enhanced the cocktail’s general feeling of freshness. This drink, in short, was absolutely superb.

WATERMELON SMASH

While staying at Belcampo Belize, I also tried a delightful Watermelon Smash. Fresh watermelon, I find, makes a delicious and versatile mixer, and I would love to see it used more often in U.S. cocktail bars. In this drink, it was combined with bourbon, fresh lime juice, mint and Peychaud’s Bitters. It was sweet, a little tart, and far too easy to drink. I rather loved it.

PLANTER’S PUNCH

My lunch at Victoria House, one of the most highly regarded properties on Ambergris Caye, was not a success. The seared grouper had obviously emerged straight from the freezer, not the sea, which is unconscionable considering that countless numbers of the fish swim along the reef within sight of the hotel. I played dumb and asked my waiter where the Victoria House got its grouper. Pointing to the ocean, he exclaimed, “Right there!” But he gave the game away when he continued, “We get it from local fishermen every Tuesday and Thursday.” (I dined there on a Sunday.)

Fortunately, my Planter’s Punch tasted much better than the bland, gummy fish on my plate. The bartender modified the standard recipe a bit, using both white and dark rum instead of just dark, and omitting the grenadine. I didn’t miss it, however. The drink tasted of pineapple tinged with a hint of molasses, and though it was fruity, it didn’t feel overly sweet. It was a pleasure to sip it as the palms along the beach swayed in the breeze.

EDWARD THE CUCUMBER

The photo above makes this unusually named cocktail look like something sent from heaven, but this drink was more of a taste of purgatory. I ordered it at Ka’ana, a jungle resort near the ancient Mayan city of Xunantunich. It sounded perfectly lovely; the menu described it as a fairly straightforward mix of vodka, cucumber, mint, lime and ginger. But what should have been refreshing, cool and complex tasted almost unbearably tart, and when that flavor had finished bashing in my palate, some overbearing ginger spice gave it an extra kick for good measure.

My waitress confided that very few people actually like the drink. Who would? But why Edward the Cucumber continues to dishonor the menu with his presence remains a mystery.

HIBISCUS DAIQUIRI

Ka’ana’s bartender redeemed himself the next night with this cocktail, an attractive Hibiscus Daiquiri. A standard Daiquiri is one of the simplest and loveliest of cocktails, a perfect mix of rum, fresh lime juice and simple syrup. Here, the bartender steeped fresh hibiscus flowers in hot water and used the resulting infusion to make the simple syrup. The drink tasted tart and sweetly rummy, as it should, and just a touch floral. Delicious.

Belize, it turns out, isn’t just good for ancient cities hidden in the jungle, or eye-popping coral reefs inhabited by purple sea fans, acid-green eels and turquoise parrot fish. The compact country has more than its fair share of bartenders mixing up superlative cocktails. And there’s something especially wonderful about sipping something as civilized as a well-crafted cocktail while surrounded by unspoiled nature.

I recently mentioned to a Los Angeles resident that I write a wine blog, to which she responded, “Oh, you must get out to California all the time!” But I don’t. The state produces no shortage of beautiful wines, but bottlings that qualify as unusual or obscure are a little harder to find.

That’s why it was with some excitement that I read an email from a wine marketer offering to send some samples from Mosby Winery, set in the Central Coast’s Santa Ynez Valley, not far from Santa Barbara. Many wineries in the area concentrate on Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, the latter made famous by the film “Sideways.” But Mosby, which The Sotheby’s Wine Encyclopedia describes as “interesting” and “sometimes provocative,” focuses instead on a range of Italian grape varieties.

You might well wonder how grapes from sunny Italy could successfully grow near cool-climate Burgundian varieties, but Italy has its share of cool wine regions, too. Some of the country’s greatest wines come from northern areas like Piedmont and Alto Adige. Nor is the Santa Inez Valley a cool-climate monolith. In fact, according to The Oxford Companion to Wine, “Although far from being the only schizophrenic AVA in California, the Santa Ynez Valley comes close to being the extreme case.” Parts of it grow Pinot Noir well, but other warmer sections, Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah are perfectly at home.

I had planned on cooking some sort of Italian feast to accompany the six wines I received, but I must admit my grand visions of fresh-made tagliatelle with porcini and osso buco with polenta never quite came to fruition. Instead, one of my tasting crew offered to bring a salad, and I ordered pizza. The food may have been simple, but the wines, by and large, proved delightful.

2013 Mosby Cortese: According to the Oxford Companion, wine made from Cortese — most commonly Gavi from Piedmont — is, at its best, “clean and fresh.” This example had a heady, rather sweet nose of honeycrisp apple, but it tasted quite dry, its ripe fruit quickly overtaken by tight acids and a hint of something smoky or even burnt. Two friends immediately dismissed the wine, but a third taster defended it. “I like it,” he said, “but then, I like funky, Old World-style wines.” I rather do too. In any case, this wine needs food — I wouldn’t drink it on its own. With the salad of fennel, grapefruit, beets and goat cheese, it felt crisp, clean and balanced. $19

2014 Mosby Traminer: Many wine drinkers are familiar with Gewürztraminer, grown with particular success in the Alsace. Traminer is a clone of this famous variety, which quite possibly originated in the village of Tramin in Italy’s Südtirol/Alto Adige region. The Oxford Companion calls it “non-aromatic,” but this wine certainly couldn’t be classified as such. It smelled of white flowers, like lily of the valley or jasmine. The fruit felt lush on the tongue, but the wine was essentially dry, and it finished with a pop of spice. Dry, floral wines aren’t for everyone though, even when well-balanced, and the Traminer, like the Cortese, proved controversial among my tasting group. $20

2012 Mosby Dolcetto: This grape, which tends to produce relatively soft and fruity wines (“dolce” means “sweet” in Italian), grows most commonly in Piedmont. Dolcetto ripens early, and most Italians plant it in vineyards where other grapes don’t tend to reach maturity. But I have a feeling that Mosby’s Dolcetto grapes receive plenty of sun, because the red fruit flavors in this wine were delightfully rich, balanced by plenty of black pepper spice. Another taster exclaimed, “Asian salted plum!” and indeed, this wine had a pleasant saline note in its finish. The sausage-topped pizza tamed the black pepper notes, which had at first been too prominent for my taste. $28

2011 Mosby Teroldego: Unfamous Teroldego grows mostly in Trentino, a region in Italy’s far northeast near Slovenia. The Oxford Companion makes it sound like an Astor or Rockefeller of the wine world, describing it as an “old, well-connected grape variety.” In the hands of Mosby, it produced a wine universally popular with the group. “Teroldego is the winner so far,” one taster remarked, and I can’t deny that I loved this wine. It had an inviting aroma of dusky, dark cherries. The dark red and purple fruit flavors were very ripe and round, shot through with focused white pepper spice. Soft tannins gave the wine an elegant finish. Superb. $32

Tasters Scott, Sonja and Thom

2011 Mosby “La Seduzione” Lagrein: Most commonly found in Alto Adige and Trentino, little-known Lagrein has quite the pedigree as well. According to the Oxford Companion, this grape is “a progeny of Teroldego, a grandchild of Pinot, and a cousin of Syrah.” That heritage qualifies as royalty in my vine peerage. The wine smelled of ripe dark fruit and mocha, and it tasted rich and full. Lots of up-front fruit gave way to a chocolate note and slow-building spice, with a finish of supple tannins and a raisin tone. It felt even bigger when paired with some pizza. I certainly was seduced by this thoroughly delicious wine, and I was left wondering why more people outside of northeastern Italy don’t produce it. $32

2011 Mosby Sagrantino: Mosby claims to have produced the first domestic Sagrantino in 2006, and the winery is surely still one of the very few outside of Umbria growing this variety. It appears mostly in wine from Montefalco, where “the overall level of viticultural and oenological sophistication… is not high,” argues the Oxford Companion. But the variety “shows promise,” it says, and Mosby’s version illustrates that fact. The wine had an enticing, rather brooding aroma of dark fruit. It felt beautifully balanced, with ripe blueberry jam notes leavened with sharp, persistent spice, leading to a dry and softly tannic finish. $38

As evidenced by the polarized reactions of my friends, Mosby’s white wines aren’t for everyone. Buy them only if you’re a fan of Old World-style whites. The reds, however, were quite popular with everyone, including me. Mosby may be provocative, but its wines have real substance to back up their novelty.