The Impossible Port
Wine in the woods beats claret in the kitchen
OF ALL THE INHERITED WISDOM IN THE CULINARY WORLD, N0 maxim may be older than the chestnut,
"Food always tastes better outdoors." (Indeed, some food historians feel this hoary insight
likely dates to an era in which there was no "indoors" worth mentioning.) At one time or
another, nearly everyone has enjoyed glorious al fresco meals that corroborate this deceptively
simple adage. But can anyone explain why?
Time and again the mystery unfolds. What transforms a so-so cook into a three-star chef the
minute the Coleman stove gets cranked up in a state park? Why does a casserole that routinely
produces yawns at the dinner table suddenly inspire free-run saliva when it's reheated over a
campfire? What makes the tuna salad sandwiches come alive when they're taken out of the cooler,
and the premixed iced tea sing in the glass?
Perhaps there's nothing more to it than the salutary effect of abnormally clean air. Giving the
lungs a vacation from smog, even a temporary one, could well sharpen the senses and bring out
previously hidden flavors in that leftover fried chicken. Or maybe it's the sheer presence of
Nature, the banishment of urban artifice, that frees up the sous-chef in all of us and sparks
so much creative cookery, things like coffee with crunchy grounds, or morning toast charred on
one side and still cold on the other. The natural camaraderie of the wide open spaces also likely
plays a part, infusing the chow with the good vibes of the chow hounds.
Let me advance a much simpler answer: desperation.
Nine times out of ten, food and beverages outdoors are consumed by people on the edge of starvation,
dehydration, or emotional meltdown. The vast majority of open-air meals (leaving aside things
like afternoon tea service on yachts) arrive on the plate only after the debilitated diners have
worked their way through some rustic appetizers: unusual levels of physical exertion (and discomfort),
tussles with raccoons, crows, and ants over control of the food supply, multiple failures at fire starting,
ineffectual mosquito abatement, the abrupt descent of total darkness, discovery that crucial cooking
implements were left at home, harrowing trips back into town for additional propane, firewood, or
lantern mantles, and the consumption of excessive volumes of beer.
We've all been campers on this trip. Yet as a worshipper of the grape, I was somehow blind to the subtle
interplay of location and libation, the many ways in which wine in the woods is different from claret
in the kitchen. It took the following true life experience to convince me of the obvious; that
desperation equally accounts for the wondrous qualities of certain beverages in the outdoors.
Some years back, my wife and I took up the civilized custom of unwinding after dinner on Friday evenings
with a round of blue cheese, sliced pears, and good Port. We make no claim of originality here; on the
contrary, half the fun was participating in a time-honored gourmet tradition. Week after week, we roamed
through the fields of blue, from Roquefort to Maytag, from Gorgonzola to Castello to Stilton. Depending
on the season, we varied the pears from Bartlett to D'Anjou, sometimes throwing in a Gravenstein apple
instead. And depending on our budget, we sipped basic blended Port or treated ourselves to a well-aged
tawny or the occasional vintage bottle. Endless variations on a familiar theme.
When summer came along, we simply carted the practice outdoors on weekend camping trips. Under the stars,
the combination took on just enough decadence to seem extra delicious. We would sit by the campfire, let
the aromas and flavors expand our senses, and pity the poor folks at the adjoining site making do with
Cheetos and Bud Light.
In the early fall one year, we headed down the Northern California coast to one of our favorite spots,
a gorgeous redwood-lined campground in Big Sur. Though we normally brought pretty basic Port on these
camp-outs, this time I had decided to up the ante with a tantalizing 1984 Late Bottled Vintage Character Port
from Quinto da Infantado. My interest was piqued by knowing that Quinto da Infantado is one of the few
Portuguese-owned Port houses, and further aroused by a hearty recommendation from a trustworthy wine shop.
To accompany it we had two Bosc pears (purchased a day or two earlier in order to ripen them fully), a savory,
slightly funky wedge of imported Cambozola, and a box of crackers.
Arriving in the morning, I found a good shade spot for the Port, and stood the bottle upright to settle the
sediment. We spent a glorious day taking in one of the most lovely stretches of surf and turf on earth. We made
dinner, lit a fire, took the cheese out of the cooler to warm up properly, and got really to rock and roll.
Smugness was thick in the seaside air.
|
For Port - red Port; as one of its earliest celebrants after the Methuen treaty no less justly than emphatically
calls it, white Port being a mere albino is incomparable when good. It is not a wine-of-all-work like Sherry—
Mr. Pendennis was right when he declined to drink it with his dinner. It has not the almost feminine grace and
charm of Claret; the transcendental qualities of Burgundy and Madeira; the immediate inspiration of Champagne;
the rather unequal and sometimes palling attractions of Sauternes and Moselle and Hock. But it strengthens while
it gladdens as no other wine can do; and there is something about it which must have been created in preestablished
harmony with the best English character.
- George Saintsbury, Notes on a Cellar-Book (1921)
|
By lantern light, we both admired the bottle's label, consciously old-fashioned in its plain design and faux-faded color
scheme. After removing the capsule, I plunged the point of my double-winged corkscrew into the cork, gave it a couple of
twists, firmly grasped the wings—and broke off the shaft, leaving most of the screw securely lodged in the cork, which
had raised not a centimeter.
No problem, I thought. I had brought along a double-pronged cork remover (a souvenir from some tasting room) as a backup,
and was confident that the application of a little torque would do the trick. I soon discovered that serious Port bottles
are stuffed with truly tight corks. (My personal theory is that because Portugal is home to nearly all of the world's
natural cork, its homegrown wines get the best stoppers.) This particular plug was stubborn enough that the prongs stayed
resolutely put while my wrist flailed in ever more exasperated motions. The result was a metal tangle worthy of the Museurn
of Modern Art...but still no Port.
Sensing the direction of things, Nancy turned her attention to the Cambozola and pears. Uhwilling to compromise, I turned
to my last remaining option, the pathetic screw blade on my ancient pocketknife. I might as well have used my elbow. I
hacked with increasing fury at the recalcitrant cork, twisting and yanking, achieving only a dusting of cork shavings and
a near-hernia. Utterly defeated, even our late-night game of strip poker (another camping ritual, considerably less
fattening) failed to console me.
Late the next morning, after breakfast, Nancy drove the quarrelsome Quinto over to the upscale Ventana Inn restaurant.
The sommelier immediately complemented her on the quality of our selection, deftly removed the cork, and put a user-
friendly stopper in the bottle.
And on our second night, we laid out what was left of the cheese and fruit and poured the Port. By now, thanks to the
previous night's epic struggle and the bumpy trip to and from the restaurant, every bit of sediment in the bottle had
been stirred up. The mouth-feel resembled giblet gravy, and Nancy and I both felt compelled to floss by lantern-light before
retiring.
But I swear to you: that Port tasted fabulous outdoors.
|
|
|