Two buck fifty Chuck

charles shawAttention bargain (wine) shoppers. Two Buck Chuck, the wine famous for costing $1.99 a bottle (in California at least) is now 2.5 Chuck.

Yes, Charles Shaw wines, sold only at Trader Joe’s grocery stores, saw a price increase this month, going up to $2.49 a bottle after a decade under the two-dollar line.

That’s still pretty cheap, but it’s an indicator that grape prices are picking up after a world-wide grape glut followed by recession had the market awash in bargains. With the economy slowly recovering and two difficult growing years (2010 and 2011) chipping away at inventory things are looking very different.

Charles Shaw comes from Bronco Wines, the Ceres-based company run by the iconoclastic Fred Franzia, one of the most powerful vintners in California … and the only industry power player I ever interviewed in an office tucked into a single-wide trailer.

Franzia’s family got into the wine business in California in the 19th century but later sold their company, which means the boxed Franzia wine you see in grocery stores has nothing to do with Bronco. Franzia, along with other members of the younger generation, started over with Bronco, keeping costs down by cutting out the middleman. They own the land, grow the grapes, own the bottling lines and run the trucking companies.

There seem to be two schools of thought on Charles Shaw. You either love it as great value for the price (count Mr. Vinecdote in this camp) or hate it as a commercial, mass-produced product that lacks individuality. (You’ll find the majority of wine critics over here.)

I’ve written about this wine a few times. When it first started to get popular and again when it won a blind tasting competition, much to the chagrin of the h8trs.

As for me, I’d have to say selling multiple varietals (i.e. cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay, shiraz, etc. not just “red” and “white”) for less than $2 a bottle for 10 years is a remarkable achievement that probably has put a lot of wine on a lot of dinner tables that didn’t have wine before.

Cheers, thriftily.

Diet of Worms

Fried worms. I can't believe I ate the whole thing /Photo Michelle Locke.
Fried worms. I can’t believe I ate the whole thing /Photo Michelle Locke.

The setting: A balmy January night at a top-flight resort on the Mayan Riviera. The occasion: An ultra-chic dinner honoring  up-and-coming-chef Rene Redzepi, a guest at the hotel.

Camera zooms in on subject, a woman of a certain age (as in I’m certain she won’t see 48 again)  who is gazing with trepidation at her plate. Close up of plate reveals a wedge of citrus sprinkled with red spice, a cup of clear liquid and a pile of crispy fried worms. Subject dips finger in bowl, tastes. It’s tequila. She looks around nervously, closes eyes, takes a quick bite of the citrus, mutters “It’s just like shrimp. It’s just like shrimp,” and gingerly spoons up a worm along with a generous dollop of tequila. 

A tense moment follows. Will it stay or will it go? It stays. Subject smiles and prepares to deliver her verdict.

“Very interesting!” I said brightly.

Yes, friends, I have breached a new gastronomical frontier. I have eaten worms.

Specifically, crispy fried maguey worms, a dish native to the Yucatan Peninsula.

They did not taste like chicken. They did not really taste of anything. It was a little like eating slightly limp mini onion rings. minus the onions. There was also a disturbing teeth-sticking quality that did not bear dwelling on. But the tequila chaser was definitely a good idea. I haven’t had that much neat spirit since that evening in the tapas bar in Logrono. (The night before the morning when I swore off drinking straight liquor ever, ever again, but every rule has its exceptions.)

I do not know what Rene thought of his worms since he sat across the restaurant from me. But it seemed like that table was having a pretty good time. After the worms came a “caviar” of ant eggs, which, naturally, I downed without a second thought having crossed the wriggly Rubicon as it were, and a few more standard gourmet dishes like pork belly and roast venison.

It was all very unique and quite the change of pace for someone who thinks adding yams to mashed potatoes is an exotic touch.

And luckily for me, back in my posh hotel suite I had the perfect nightcap waiting. A diet coke, some pub mix and a good book.

I think 2013 is off to a splendid start.

Cheers, adventurously.

Ant-egg caviar. Yum. /Photo Michelle Locke
Ant-egg caviar. Yum. /Photo Michelle Locke

 

 

Terror in the treading tank

I was doing fine until I crossed paths with the smiling bald guy.

Sure, I looked a little odd wearing a Royal Stewart tartan shirt and navy blue shorts. But everyone in the grape-treading tank at Quinta do Vesuvio was wearing the same outfit, the uniform for treaders at the Symington family property in Portugal’s Douro Valley, so no big deal.

And yes, it did feel weird, sloshing about in knee-high grape soup, but I felt I was treading with the best of them as we helped kick-start the Port wine-making process old-school style.

And that’s when  I encountered Fred Astaire, Douro version. Before you could say Late Bottled Vintage, he had clasped my hands and was spinning me around as a trio of drummer, tambourine player and accordion whaled away in the corner.

A quick note: Foot-treading takes place in the evening after the day’s harvest is in and at Quinta do Vesuvio consists of two hours of fairly ritualized marching followed by one hour of freestyle — march, waltz, conga, whatever. I and a visiting group of wine writers were there to participate in the freestyle part of the evening.

Well, I thought, at least I’ll only have to keep this up until the song ends.

Did you know songs played to keep up the treading beat are really, really long?

“Help me!” I hissed as I was whirled past my companions, who stood in a corner of the tank doing a kind of dance I can only describe as The Dude Shuffle.

Did they swoop in to my rescue? Or did they stand there laughing like a bunch of tartan-wearing hyenas. If you have ever met a wine writer you will not need me to spell out the answer on that one.

I waltzed. I conga’d. I may have done a little Texas Two-Step and possibly the Funky Chicken until I finally made my escape.

As you probably know, scenes like this are becoming increasingly rare. Treading is a vanishing art for a number of reasons and the truth is I feel fortunate to have seen and experienced it. Here’s a story I wrote for Palate Press talking about treading and the Symingtons’ work on automated treaders.

My own little “I Love Lucy” moment left me with two lasting impressions. 1: Those pickers are tough. I can’t imagine working harvest all day and then popping into the tank for three hours of stepping lively.  2: Maybe I’m not a dancing queen, but I can truthfully say I now have some grape moves.

Cheers, rhythmically.

In the tank at Quinta do Vesuvio