Latour on the Farm

  Every now and then there is, in the day-in, day-out monotony of life in the twenty-first century, a day that reminds one of the joys of being alive. This past First Day of Spring (20 March 2012) was one of those days. My good friend (currently in self-imposed exile in the Southwest of France) and I took a trip through the Italian Market to gather supplies for what was meant to be a feast. Jason had recently introduced me to a friend of his who was planning on moving to North Carolina. At the moment he lived on a small farm with his family an hour West of the City. He had graciously offered to host us at his homestead and continued to talk about his step father's large wine collection, including, he thought, some rather nice bottles. I confess that my interest was piqued. The date was unwittingly set for the Vernal Equinox and with the background of beautiful, and terribly Vernal, weather we made our way to the farm. As concrete gave way to grass and trees the sense of well being and relief increased. The City (the parabolic one) is wonderful. It can be oppressive however and the liberation of the countryside is exhilarating. The farm was charming and upon our arrival we were given a tour of premises, this included meeting the two donkeys, the fainting goat and the small clutch of lambs. These last were one of the provocations for the meal; Nick, our host, had offered to provide the protein for our dinner and the prospect of lamb raised on site was quite exciting. The kitchen was gorgeous, dominated as it was by the antique professional range, with a flat-top extending about four feet in width. Old-fashioned implements hung from every surface and a collection of handsome antique knives was displayed temptingly in one corner. This family knows how to live, I remember thinking. To say nothing of the hospitality inherent in inviting over near strangers to partake in the bounty of their land.
  Next, came a tour of the cellar. Oh my. I have never actually held, in my hand, first growth Bordeaux before this time and I suppose it was I thrill, I have to suppose since it was a very heady experience. Frank, Nick's unaccountably gracious step father, began by pulling out a Chateau Montrose. I was floored, a second growth is nothing to sneer at and at thirty years old no less. Next came Anjou from the thirties (!). Then came the Chateaux Mouton-Rosthchild, Margaux and two half bottles of Chateau Lafite-Rosthchild. The most famous red wine in the world. Fifty years old. Is there anything else to say? There was a bottle Frank wanted to drink with dinner: Chateau Les Ormes-de-Pez, 1990. This is what was once called a Cru Bourgeous Exceptionnel, meaning that of all the wines of the Medoc region of Bordeaux (considered by some to be the zenith of red wine making on this Earth) there are the Five Classed Growths with the First Growths (including the above-mentioned Chateaux Mouton-Rosthchild, Margaux and Lafite-Rosthchild) as the pinnacles of quality down through the Fifth Growths, in theory finer than all Bordeaux but those of a "higher" growth. Immediately after this are the cru bourgeois. This classification has been disbanded and reformed several times and at the moment includes only one form. In previous incarnations it was sub-divided between regular cru bourgeois and cru bourgeois exceptionnel, sitting on the top of that particular heap. This is a very fine bottle of wine at a terrific age for its type. Then, Frank, in a fit of generosity, offered me the choice of whichever wine I should like out of a small wooden box. Straightaway I caught sight of Chateau Figeac, a name hailing from the St. Emilion district of Bordeaux and about as well-regarded a wine as one may hope to find. Underneath there were wines of rare breeding and more than respectable age. Also among these bottles sat a gem among gems: Chateau Latour, 1980. All thoughts of Figeac were banished as I zeroed in on the First Growth over thirty years old. 1980 was not a great year for Bordeaux, or so I am informed. It was my hope that I could count on Latour's reputation for prodicing fine wine in off years and, frankly, was not of a mind to pass up the opportunity to sample a wine of such impressive pedigree. The Latour was opened and decanted and the Ormes de Pez was opened about three hours before dinner.
  Dinner itself was a straight-forward affair. I took a butterflied leg of lamb and stuffed it with a mixture of broccoli raab (an inspired decision engineered by Jason to "bring some of South Philly to the farm"), minced butter-cooked onion, garlic, parsley and olive oil. I did not want a starchy bundle of stuffing to obscure to succulence that a roasted leg of lamb offers. The stuffing was light, flavorful and a terrific relief to the rich meat. The meat was tied into an even shape and the surface spread with olive oil, salt and ground pepper and thyme and bay leaf were secured under the strings. The meat was roasted in a medium-slow oven to a rose succulence throughout, it was basted often and finished under higher heat to crackle and brown the surface. The roast was accompanied by lots of beautiful chops, shoulder, loin and rib. The shoulder chops were browned in olive oil, surrounded by garlic cloves and cooked gently with herbs and intermittent splashes of white wine and water, covered by a sheet of foil. The rest I waited till the roast was resting (about twenty to thirty minutes time) and colored the lot of them in olive oil in a pan that fit them perfectly. They were cooked entirely in the pan and were done in a few minutes' time. The surfaces were crisp and browned and the interiors a beautiful rose throughout. The fond, that source of ineffably meaty flavor, was plentiful in the bottom of the pan, I deglazed the pan, dissolving all the burnished bits from the surface, instantly creating, in the act, a sauce. The degreased jus from the roasting pan was joined to the pan sauce and the thing was done. No refinements, not even a swirl of butter to obscure the flavor. On the side was one of my favorite accompaniments to roast lamb: haricots panaché: an equal mixture of fresh white beans and fresh green beans cooked (seperately) till done in boiling water and tossed together with butter, salt, pepper and chopped parsley. The effect is splendid and the commingling off shapes, colors, textures and flavors is nothing short of exciting. It is fresh and hearty at the same time. Both beans were procured that morning from the Italian Market and were bought specifically for their obvious freshness; the cranberry beans were brighly speckled and crisp in aspect. The pods opened to reveal uniformly sized morsels, so fresh they were nearly shining. The green beans were crisp and small and perfectly formed. The pale green was turned to a vibrant kelly when they cooked in rapidly boiling salted water and the joining with the slighly gray cranberries (their beautiful speckles sadly fading as they cooked to palatability) was declarative.
  The meal was everything one could hope for, conviviality was contagious as were compliments to the food, the company and the wine. That splendid wine. Chateau Latour, about as fine a claret as one mght hope to meet, and sitting in my glass. I had been smelling it all  evening as it sat in its decanter across the room from where I cooked dinner. It would come in wafts. The bouquet was rich, powerful, each time slighty differnet as it developed. The tension I felt raising the glass to my nose made my movements stiff. I tried to reflect on what was happening and how I felt about it. I confess I felt very fine. The centerpiece of the meal was the lamb. Raised on the property and impossibly luxurious for that.  Its consort in nobility was the Massive Wine washing it down. The wine was a bit reserved at first; the first few approaches seemed to reveal only the scent of a fine claret with rare breeding. I was hoping for transcendence, I am afraid. The Wine, however, as it was swirled and sipped and nursed to awakening seemed to stretch itself out, shaking sleepy limbs as it stood proud and tall. The sensory feelings were electric. The last few sips seemed to send a jet of something down my spine. Shivers of happiness, I suppose. The dinner was filled out by wine-soaked fruit. I had, earlier, gotten what fruit was good and ripe from the Italian Market only to combine them with a fine German Riesling of the 2010 vintage, supposedly a unique one. The buttery cookies I brought along added to what can be a bit austere after eating all that meat.
  The whole evening was a thing of beauty. I am convinced of the "cosmic" nature of such experiences. The (to quote a finer mind and palate than mine) "formalization of gastro-sensory pleasure" is a path to understanding and a valid one at that. It also happens to be paved with rare pleasure. The analysis of the enjoyments one experiences at table is a peek into divinity. Granted, a rushed meal that encompasses neither care nor thought hasn't much to offer, save perhaps a study in the dissolving institutions engendered by our modern society. I am referring more to what I suppose I would call "fine" meals. This doesn't need to be a six course menu with matching wines. It can be a perfect barbecue shared with people you care about where the food assumes a greater dimension than it might otherwise, inspiring, as it does, human connection. I fear that I've treated the subject to a dull death. It is only my intention to share what dining provokes in me: a feeling of transcendence. It is about pleasure. It is about the feeling closer to your loved ones. There is something nearly magical, certainly magisterial, about sharing a table. The anticipation of the pleasures in store is usually enough to create a certain atmosphere and a shared feeling of goodwill (wine helps too.) Such was our night and I feel the better for it.
  It is not every night that we may drink as fine of wine with such sympathetic company let alone accompanied by such regal fare as roast lamb raised au domaine. I am very lucky that such circumstances as occured did and I was present for this meal. It meant a great deal to me and not only because I was somewhat greedy to try such a noble wine. I consider myself lucky for the entire experience: from the wind blowing through my hair en route to the farm to all the beautiful sensory memories formed while consuming such fine fare to the exhilarating midnight golf cart ride that followed dinner to the people I met that day, willing to indulge a silly young man to cook them dinner and share their table. Life is fine.