The 500 Blows

I have spent  a lot of time underground. In fact, I calculated today that in the year 2008 alone, I spent an estimated 500 hours on a New York City subway train, or waiting for one in a station. In 2009 I spent less time on the subway, as this was the year I moved to Paris. Yet, even so, there were many nights and days spent beneath the earth, both in America and in France. And I can't account for the hours. I sometimes feel as though they were stolen from me, or worse, deleted from existence.

My earliest train memory is of the Long Island Railroad. It  was here where I spent some time as a child traveling with family on day trips to Manhattan from my uncle's home in Queens, and years later, from Rockville Centre. I remember most clearly the transfer station, Jamaica, where we would wait, my mother and uncle and I, for a connecting train. It was also here, as an adult living in Brooklyn, where my husband and I often waited patiently to transfer to the train that would, from here, screech its way into the small town where family lived.  The total travel time of 90 minutes began at the Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn and ended in Rockville Centre, Long Island. At least it was above ground.  Besides, these were fond memories. Especially the journeys of childhood. Then, the trains seemed to travel faster, and you had the sense of actually going somewhere. Somewhere exciting. Maybe you were going to see the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, or to take a carriage ride in Central Park. Maybe there was snow on the ground outside, and in that split second of descent, just as the train is plunged into the darkness of underground tunnels, your window fills with white light, and this stays with you forever.

But then, you grow older. And if you should happen to work for a living and live in the city, you will probably spend a greater portion of time than you desire on a train. I certainly have. I know that I was most often going from home to this or that terrible job. I was sometimes meeting friends, or going to the market. I know that the journeys were necessary ones;  I just wish they hadn't kept me in the dark for so long. But, if I try, maybe I can salvage some of the pictures from the black mass of time.

I have a still, deep, blue tinted recollection of a glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk, a single moment I didn't realize at the time was imprinting itself upon me. I remember one summer evening sitting across from my husband, happily exhausted from a day at the beach. I wore my blue dress, which was damp at the hem, and the saltwater still burned on my calves. I also recall vividly that September afternoon when I was told my father died, and the excruciating 20 minute subway ride home. As an opposite train passed, I glanced out of the window and briefly met the forlorn gaze of a stranger, who is a stranger still. Then there are less significant memories. A forgotten bottle on the floor of the car, rolling involuntarily between the black boots of passengers. A tired advertisement for a credit card company. The red crease in the crook of my arm made by the bag I carried. A feeling of having left something behind. This must be what we call Time.

As time elapsed, those hours by train accumulated into a sense of heaviness and fatigue, much like a series of blows to the head. I grew weary. So heavy and weary, that when the last train left the station on the third of July, and I dropped my metro card into the trash as my husband pulled me along toward JFK airport, I felt the weight of 500 hours drop away. And then I slept. I slept going over the Atlantic Ocean without opening the window. I slept in an airport chair under the midnight sun of Iceland. The moment we arrived in our Paris quarters, I collapsed onto the bed and slept some more. For many months, I slept for a few hours in the middle of the day. People crept by, suspecting I was sick. No, I told them. I have just been on too many trains.

On this New Year's Eve, looking back in time is as important as going forward. I am happy where I am, and try not to worry too much about the future. I have learned, mostly the hard way, to value time. Perhaps this is just a part of ageing, or maybe it's the result of too much underground thought. I can't remember much about my subway travel or what I may have been contemplating during all those waiting hours. I imagine I  thought about someone I saw or something said, what I would eat for dinner, how I would make it and where I would buy the ingredients, where I had been and where I needed to go next. I'm sure I thought I had plenty of time to do it all.

Like I said, I can't account for the hours. I just know they are gone.

DRINK LOCAL, NEW YORK!

I have spent years supporting the concept of eating locally, so it is with heartfelt passion that I can now say, without a shadow of a doubt, that I support drinking locally, too. New York wines have officially earned my respect, my devotion, and my palate. From here on out, my focus and my consuming habits will mostly consist of grapes grown near home, just as it was meant to be (though the occasional French, Italian, and Chilean wines will be imbibed from time to time).

I have tasted, I have studied, I have compared, and I have read the writing on the wall. It said, "Great wines are growing right in your own state, dummy. Drink more of them, and tell people!" Why did it take me so long to realize this?

To be fair, it wasn't all my fault. I simply didn't have easy access to these NY gems. I read about them from time to time, but when I looked for them in stores all I ever found in the way of NY wines was Manischewitz. So, needless to say, I stuck to the French aisles. But I knew I was missing out on something, and I decided to dig deeper. Why were there only two or three NY bottles on store shelves? And why all the California stuff, anyway? Sure, there are some superb California wines, but there are also a lot of bad ones, primarily due to the state of mass vinification going on there. New York, by contrast, does not mass produce. Most vineyards and wineries here are small, family owned operations. This explains in part why they aren't showing up everywhere, since the production amount is relatively small. But don't let that fool you into thinking the world doesn't know about them. These wineries can boast of some prestigious international awards, I have recently learned. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to taste many excellent New York wines now, as my curiosity and my desire to drink locally led me to Vintage New York in Soho, where I am now employed. And since April is officially New York wine month, now is a fabulous opportunity to talk about what I think are the some of the best wines in the world.

I was informally educated and ordained into the world of New York wines by way of my job, where we sell New York wines exclusively (the first store to do so in the city). Initially, I suspected that half the wines would be very good, with the others being mediocre. Well I, like so many others, had a lot to learn. New York is the third largest wine producer in the country, and home to some of the world's award winning and legendary wineries such as the Lenz estate, Vinifera Wine Cellars, and America's oldest winery, Brotherhood. I have encountered very few bad wines so far, and dozens of outstanding ones. In fact, having enjoyed mostly French wines in my lifetime and having a palate that prefers Burgundy, the Finger Lakes wines are a perfect match for me. Generally, in both style and climate, New York wines are similar to French wines. So, if you prefer big oaky California Chardonnays and overtly fruity Cabernet Sauvignons, then NY wines may not be for you. However, if you tend toward the elegant, well, then you've come to the right place. I have much to say about my beloved state's terroir, too. Each region is unique, so just as a Riesling from the Keuka Lake area will tell of the shale that made up the sandy soil, a North Fork Cabernet Franc will whisper notes of herbs and spice and cool gulf stream breezes.

The Finger Lakes region, where award winning Rieslings and Pinot Noirs abound, boasts terroir comparable to Burgundy. The area's steep slopes provide excellent soil drainage, while the large bodies of water serve to moderate harsh temperatures. The often cool and damp conditions inspire grapes to produce more resveratrol, with the end result being wines more concentrated in the antioxidant. I am particularly fond of Dr. Frank's Rkatsiteli and Fleur de Pinot Noir.

On Long Island, the temperatures are warmer in summer, and there Bordeaux grapes dominate under a longer growing season. I am in love with the earthy, luscious Long Island Merlots as much as I am the dry, smoky Cabernet Francs. Long Island is known for its likeness to the Bordeaux region of France, both in the grapes planted there as well as the climate and terrain. I'll let you read more about that area from expert Lenn Thompson, whose blog, Lenndevours, is devoted to New York wines, and particularly the North Fork of Long Island. (Thank you, Lenn, for all the information and great reading you provide about NY wines)

Despite being written about in numerous publications including Wine Spectator, Food and Wine, The New York Times and others, I still think more needs to be done to promote NY wines on the east coast. We are in an era where consuming locally is more important than ever, and New York wines should be filling east coast shelves. It's the sustainable way, it's the logical and ecological way, and what's more, it's the most pleasurable way. If you're in the city or close by, don't take my word for it. Come by and taste for yourself.