I enjoyed their sparkling. I’d have to say while attractive to look at, their tables are an uncomfortable place to sit. You can’t sit at the table and fit your legs underneath. Meanwhile, the splinters in the table surface kept catching the sleeves on my shirt.
Overall I do like the look of the wood and we found the hummingbird motif on the glasses to be a nice touch.
Doesn’t look like much, does it? At the time of this photo they were closed for their annual January trip back to Michoacan. Let me tell you, these fine people serve the best al pastor taco I’ve had anywhere, and that includes my travels in Mexico.
What can we say about this place? Right on 3rd street in downtown McMinville we’ve walked past it a thousand times. We finally went in. Well, there’s something for everyone in the world.
Spacious, attractive and clean this is a good place to bring picky and/or unadventurous eaters. People who prefer to not be challenged – kids, grandparents, etc. I would not go there for the food itself. While not actually bad, it is meh. Lacking el sabor that is the magic which animates so much of the regular comida to be found.
It’s unlikely we’ll ever go back here to eat, but it is a comfortable place to sit.
A breezy read about how one young man through dint of determination and hard work, transformed the wines of Beaujolais from a relatively unknown regional wine to world-wide popularity. Young George Duboeuf, on his family winery at Chaintre decided by 1951 to circumvent the big dealers and set up his own wine-tasting cellar. Armed with two of his own bottles, he pedaled over to Paul Blanc’s famous restaurant Le Chapon Fin down the road. History was made. Duboeuf Wines is the #1 exporter of French wines to the U.S. Author Chelminski’s retelling of the events, the people and the wine-making world is well worth the read. Mr. Duboeuf passed away January 6, 2020.
Oddly enough, at the same time as I was reading I’ll Drink To That, I was also reading Life In A Medieval City, which I had pulled from my housemate’s copiously filled bookshelves. It addresses what life was like in Troyes and much of Europe during the 12th and 13th centuries. Like the book above, this volume often mentions Lyon and surrounding areas in modern France, and we were just there!
From the book. Getting the public to taste the wine, as we know, is still an important part of the business.
In addition, there is the wine crier, who is also an inspector. Each morning he goes into the first tavern he can find that has not yet accepted a crier for the day; the tavern keeper must accept him. He oversees the drawing of the wine, or draws it himself, and tastes. Then, furnished with a cup and a leather flagon stoppered with a bit of hemp, he goes out to cry the wine and offer samples of it to the public.
Cork Dork is the story of the author’s journey from technology industry journalist to professional sommelier. Driven by an unstoppable desire to understand the mysterious and obsessive world of those who build their lives around wine, this work never fails to deliver. Not simply a story about personalities, the author chases world-wide research into sensory perception on the high end, and the vast marketplace of add-ins for doctoring your wine at the low end. In between the author retells all the humorous mistakes she made while learning how to properly deliver service. A very rewarding read, or if you’re me, an audio book narrated by the author.
Would you throw down $156,000 for a single bottle of wine? What if it was a 1787 bottle of ChÃ¢teau Lafite Bordeaux that you have good reason to believe belonged to Thomas Jefferson? This book tells the story of the strange world of extremely aged wines and the grey land between the real thing and a quiet underground of fakes. In the end â€“ are they any good? Are they worth the money? Are they even real? You decide.
I’ve stolen the text of this post from Kristian Berg.
From a single malt scotch tasting party some years ago. Comments from the assembled tasters.
Oban 14 year… “Dear Oban, I know what you look like- Catherine Zeta-Jones, still single, living in the Western Highlands- offering me a kiss that is your taste!”Â
Macallan 12 year… “A naked afternoon in front of a cozy fire”Â
Glenkinchie 10 year… “Porch-swingin’ linger with a neighbor- ‘hey! howdya like a scotch? I’ve got Glenkinchie’ ‘Say what? ‘Glenkinchie…’ So we wrapped up around 10pm and I forgot I had any problems… my neighbor? He said he couldn’t feel his toes…”Â
Isle of Jura… “Someone just pushed me down the hill- rolling blur of sun and field flowers” “More fruity – earthy as single malts go with a bit of a circle burn on the after-swallow (if that’s even a word)”Â
Dalwhinnie 15 year… “The whip strikes and stings so sweetly” “Stable – like a pleasant ride in a mid-grade BMW”Â
Glenfiddich… “Screw the rocksalt, it’s glenfiddich and lock de-icer in my vehicle this winter!”Â
Laphroig 10 year… this is a peaty smokey Islay scotch… “The underside of Gandalf’s green wellies comes to mind and to tongue”!
Our second wine visit on this day was less interesting to us as we weren’t there to buy wine to take home. This visit was more like dropping into a wine shop with friends, which we can do back in the USA. However, we enjoyed their wines more than the previous place.
See that box on the counter? It’s got the best winery snack we’ve had so far. BONUS POINTS!
The family crest.
This is where we lost the bus. Or the bus lost us.
We hiked down the hill past the school….
… and here you see us troop off into the distance. Eventually we were forced to join the French Foreign Legion and serve in North Africa.
Well, eventually we made a few calls, and sent a couple scouting parties which made contact with our transportation. Then came the next problem. This ain’t the suburbs baby. Ya can’t just drive your giant heavy bus down any old street, leaving our party stranded.
Well, some members of our party aren’t as spry as they used to be. We got it all figured out. Advice: don’t leave the bus without the bus driver’s phone number.
As an aside, Famille Perrin’s entry level red is right there on the end-cap at our Portland New Seasons market.