The Sommelier's Guide to the 12-Bit Blues

You can't stroll through Niagara wine country these days without hearing some beaming winemaker absolutely effervescent over the fruits of the 2012 vintage. Coming off the heels of spectacular runs in 2010 and 2011 it seems absurd that we could enjoy something even better, but the fact remains that  in just about every varietal grown in Niagara, 2012 bestowed an as yet unseen level of excellence.

The same can be said about the world of underground hip hop. There has been a magical run of records from the likes of Action Bronson, Ghostface, Blueprint, Brother Ali, The Typical Cats, J-Live, Jay Electronica, Saigon, Murs & 9th Wonder, The Roots, Common, Phonte, Blu and Exile, I Self Devine, Lupe Fiasco, Pharoah Monche & countless others that have been complete game changers. Its enough for even this hardcase old soul to grant that we might be at the cusp of a new Golden Era.

And that's when I dropped the new Kid Koala record.

My jaw dropped through the floor like an acidic bathtub in Breaking Bad. The 7th Trumpet had sounded and suddenly I knew the Mayans knew what they were doing with their Calender. This record is "Deadringer" for a new generation. I remember when I first heard Bronson, we hatched the phrase "There is no longer music, only Action Bronson." Apologies to the Chef De Cuisine, but after "12-Bit Blues" there is no longer a planet Earth. Game Over (insert coins for credit).

Inspired so by this magical tidal wave of awesome that surfed so excellently upon my earwax, I am compelled to dedicate a "Sommelier's Guide" piece not to the best records of the year...but one solitary piecee of musical magic.

"5-Bit Blues" - Kid Koala - you'll want this clicked for mood from here on out.

And what better way to celebrate this Canadian excellence on the turntable, but with my most recent Canadian wine obsession. My mind was similarly blown over a recent visit to 13th Street Winery. Our most righteous host guided us through their little slice of Olympus pie, taking us from their garagiste roots, to the world class evolution they are now enjoying. So gangster. They are literally the underground MC, shying away from the mass production world of spinning rims and songs about SHOTS, to deliver hand crafted wine of the soul.

It would appear as though someone is reconsidering their choice of beverage 

This record, and these wines are a match made in Red Devil Hell.

Without further adieu...I give you my 12 course pairing program.

"1-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2010 Old Vines Riesling, 13th Street

"The Kid is in rare form" is heard kicking off the track, and without a doubt the term "classic" resonates throughout. Thus I go with this wine that exudes classic. I at once compared it to a 2001 Heissenberg Riesling I so enjoyed. The nose explodes with that oily/terpine quality that is quintessential riesling. Music and mood for the old soul.

"2-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2008 Premier Cuvee, 13th Street

This is the kind of toe-tapping dancehall crasher that commands you to get on the floor. What's cooler than being cool? Ice Cold. Nothing says party like this zesty fresh sparkler that brings the bubbles. Rick James might just call it a celebration.

"3-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 Gamay, 13th Street

Suddenly, things turn grimey. With the grit of a blues bar in a neighborhood you dont want to visit, you are suddenly staring down the dark heart of the soul. And you are loving every minute. Thus there is no better pairing for the adventurous spirit within, than the wild child that is this Gamay. More wild child Syrah than bubblegum Beaujolais, this is a wine for those who love that wild, gamey, bacon-fat, leesy underworld of wine. GANGSTER.

"4-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 Below Zero Riesling, 13th Street

Blues can be so smooth and so rugged in the same glorious note. This song captures that magic with an ease that's hard to wrap my head around. Meet the Below Zero. Blended icewine and old vine riesling, there is a smooth mystique wrapped in a dangerous acidity that elevates this thing into something that you need to taste to believe.

"5-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2010 Cabernet Merlot, 13th Street

The kind of blues that pours itself into a bottle because that is the only escape from the pain of a broken heart. The kind of blues  that defines why we have the blues. This is that bottle you want to get lost in. Pour your heart out into its rich dark complexity...and grieve brother.

"6-Bit Blus"
Pairing: 2010 Sauvignon Blanc, 13th Street

This is the soundtrack to being alone at some desserted way-station in the sweltering wastelands, awaiting a coach that just aint coming. Your companion on the journey is this thirst quenching number that screams of French Sauvignon blanc. Its hot in this hell, quench that thirst.

"7-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 13 Red, 13th Street

This is blues for the rebellious heart. The renegade of funk. The bitches bastard. Bring then this wine that takes no heed to the dogma that value-priced Niagara reds cannot be serious wines. This wine plays by no such rules, and changes the game.

"8-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 13 Pinot Noir, 13th Street

Back to the gritty, grimey heart of the blues. If grit and grime exists in grape form, it is most certainly in Pinot Noir. In its best expression it hides its inner poet, with the surly disposition of a dangerous man. Get into it.

"9-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2010 Sandstone Reserve Chardonnay

Slow blues. Buttery. Soft and alluring. I forgot if I am describing the song or the wine.

"10-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 Viognier, 13th Street

Harkens one back to a simpler time. A time when you tossed mud at the girl you were crushing on, rather than cyber bully some undeserving victim. Do we romanticize the past more than we should? Maybe...but remember when kids were kids? Speaking of romance, have you met Viognier?

"11-Bit Blues"
Pairing: 2011 June's Vineyard Riesling, 13th Street

Baby making music deserves baby making wine. Enough said.

"Denouement"
Pairing: "2011 BGPP Rose, 13th Street

The record ends as it starts. With charm, charisma and that stylish amount of real world grime. Looks just as good in a 3 piece suit as mud covered work boots. Style that comes from an authentic heart, not some insecure follower of fashion, trying so desperately to be what he is supposed to be. Thats how I feel about this wine. Flies in the face of convention. Does its own thing, and tastes so damned good along the way. Pinot rose man. The bees knees.


So here's the deal. Get yourself this record. Get some friends. Maybe a couple of enemies just to keep things spicy. Roll out the party pack of some 13th Street juice. Throw down this record on the loop. I promise you something  you'll be telling your kids about...when they're 18 of course...and you're suddenly falling victim to email scams from Nigerian princes looking to get their fortunes out of Africa. Ah the Adult Diaper years...they're coming for ya. Best to live some in the interim.

Dear Toronto, A Message to You Rudie

Dear Toronto,

I am writing you over a matter that concerns you directly. It comes from the heart of a Hamilton Tigercat fan, and if from that perspective alone, I might well have let sleeping dogs do their thing. But I am also a proud Torontonian. I live this city. I breathe it. I cough out its flegm in the mornings, I savour its sensations in my every step, and I sleep in short spells lost in dreams about it. I believe in this place and its people. And its this faith and passion in Toronto, that compels me to reach out to you now.

Something very strange happened this weekend. OK alot of strange things happened. Our mayor has been evicted, more people were talking Argos than Maple Leafs, and there was a horse inside the lobby of the Royal York hotel.

Canada celebrated its one of its longest standing traditions, with the 100th Grey Cup, here in the self-established centre of the universe, Toronto. It was always going to be a big deal for CFL fans from coast to coast, some 40,000 folks from Halifax to Vancouver (and even some from Baltimore) who annually make the trek across our vast expanse of Tundra to get together and jam down many beers in celebration of their favourite game. I'm amongst that set. I had my ticket since the spring. But I didnt really expect much beyond that. Toronto hosted the game back in 2007 and it was easily the worst Grey Cup I had ever attended. Poorly executed, and lost in the comings and goings of the worlds greatest little city, the sellout crowd at the SkyDome (sorry Ted, you dont get my naming rights for 30 million dollars when we the taxpayer shelled out exponentially more to build the SKYDOME) couldn't help but feel that this game would have been alot better, ANYWHERE else. I'd have put Baghdad on that list.

Now it was never going to be that bad this time. It WAS the 100th Grey Cup. Too important a thing to be left to the lingering downsides to its surroundings, this was always going to be SOMETHING. But then some shit went down. First, a bunch of millionaires and billionaires decided that their pie was unfairly sliced. They took their bickering over who gets the Cherry's and whose stuck with the crust into an NHL lockout, robbing fans of their game, sports networks of their content, and breweries of their most coveted months of beer sales.

Then, as luck, and a conspicuously dropped pass in the endzone in the Eastern Final, would have it, the Argos did the impossible, upsetting the Als and got themselves into the game they were hosting. Its been awhile since this market has had something to cheer about. The NHL strike changed nothing insofar as a Leafs playoff run, the Jays haven't been to the playoffs since Joe Carter, The Raptors might have a tough night against an NCAA squad, and TFC might just be the worst franchise in pro sports. It has been a liesurely stroll through the Sahara Desert for Toronto sports fans. FINALLY, this nearly unknown group of players did what no one else could do in this town. WIN.

It also didnt hurt that the CFL finally got its shit together and joined the 21st Century. I have been harping on this for years, even putting it in front of Tigercats President Scott Mitchell last year. Why were we not producing legacy films ala NFL Films? Why were we not getting latched on to Madden games, when it would cost next to nothing to gain access to it? Then as if on cue, TSN produced the absolutely captivating Engraved On A Nation series and Mark Cohon announced we were close to having CFL content on future versions of Madden. I didnt need the credit. I was just happy to see it happening.

Finally, after 2 days of golfing weather, Grey Cup weekend arrived, with a 20 degree drop in temperature and it was officially football time. Nobody likes cold the way CFL fans like cold. For just about everyone who lives outside of Southern Ontario, the COLD defines our lives in a much more intrinsic way than our careers, our homes or our flags. Its not the Grey Cup without banding together like a bunch of idiots, drinking ourselves numb and screaming away the sensation of our bloodflow grinding to a halt.

It was the perfect storm. For the first time I can remember, people were talking CFL football in this town. There was genine interest. Genuine excitement. At long last Toronto had caught on to what the rest of the country has known for years. Game On!


I spent Saturday night at the Wreckers Ball, the Tigercats party in the Metro Convention Centre. Spent the night drinking and dancing with the players and their wives from the 1999 Grey Cup Champion Tiger Cats. If Danny McManus had the feet of his wife when she's fired up on booze and music, he might never have been sacked his entire career. I got to wear Andrew Grigg's Championship ring. Rubbed shoulders with the fastest man in the CFL, Chris Williams. Gave GM Bob Obilovich shit for the haggard state of affairs on the defensive side of our team. Spent 10 minutes talking transit, wine lists and the temporary home for the Ticats in Guelph with team owner Bob Young. WHERE ELSE DOES THIS HAPPEN? I'd enjoy dancing with Giselle, but I'm not holding my breath on the chance to dance with Tom Brady's better half. But here in the CFL the legends of the game and their spouses get why its a big deal to get down with the little people. To evoke the ghost of the late Rick James, "Its a celebration bitches!" The CFL is like nothing else on the planet. And its ours.

Now sorry to veer off a bit Toronto, because none of this is that truly STRANGE thing that went down. That eerie sense of trouble that has me so concerned.

What worries me, what genuinely frightens me, is that while the home crowd screamed on their suddenly beloved Argos to victory, at home in the biggest game of games....almost no one clad in the colors of the visiting teams, could be heard jeering against those arrogant clowns from Toronto. In fact most clad in Rider green, BC orange, Edmonton green, Winnipeg Blue and Montreal red were openly cheering on the double blue. Aside from the Stamps fans and most (but frighteningly not all) Ticat fans, nearly the whole park was cheering on Toronto.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Toronto, what happened to us? That hogtown swaggar. That strut that evoked our place as centre of the universe. That persona that called forth so much bitter resentment and jealousy from the rest of the nation. Where did it go? I remember those days. The afforementioned Engragraved on a Nation series highlighted it on their film on the 1971 Argos, featuring the likes of Joe Thiesman, Gene Mack and Leon Mcquay. Playboys the lot of them. The most hated team in the country. Hating on Toronto has long been this country's national sport yet, here we were in the midst of a 50,000 strong pity party.

Have we been so bad for so long that Canadians actually feel sorry for us? Have we been embaressed by one two many batshit crazy mayors that we are now the laughing stock rather than the leaders of men? I mean Mel calling in the army for snow removal was one thing, but maybe Rob Ford has taken it to a place no one could have imagined ridiculous could go.

The good news is maybe this very strange weekend gives us our way back. We are winners again. Not the winners I would have wanted (go Cats go) nor the winners most of you would have wanted (happiness and fulfilment will always reside in Lord Stanley's return to Yonge St), but they are WINNERS. Soak that in. Live it. Breathe it. Tastes fucking good. And that hemoraging butt-wound of a mayor can go back to coaching the Don Boscoe team tomorrow, minus the TTC escort of course. Maybe we are on the way back Toronto.

But one thing is clear. We gotta be rude. We gotta be reckless. We gotta be Sinatra at the opera. We gotta be the best. We may have been asleep at the wheel there for a stretch, but this is who we are. May the rest of country get back to sipping on the Hater-aid.

A message to you rudie.

Jess Koncz

Good Night Ivor Wynne Stadium

Saturday was the last time I ever walked through Ivor Wynne Stadium.

I haven't been contributing to the Red Devil Blog for quite some time. That's mostly to do with the fact I have had the most engaging six months in my adult life, both personally and professionally, and with all of that living, there's been precious little time for reflecting. Its reflection after all, what spawns our uniquely human desire for expression. I've managed to keep the Red Devil meme alive through the world of Twitter, which has been a surprisingly valuable tool in keeping a pulse, but this project has always been about long-winded exploration of passions, and getting back to that remains on the horizon. On the horizon because this is not a Red Devil piece. Its a quivering mound of sentimental pudding that I posted on facebook for the benefit of some loved ones. It was only due to the persistant response of those who read it, and the way they shared it to others, that I decided it was only fair to have a proper publication, however innappropriate to the only forum I have to do so. You've been warned.

 Here we are. The end of an era for a community, a club, a family and for myself. Its difficult to overstate the importance this building has had in my life.

Dad and I have been season ticket holders for 3 decades. When I moved to Guelph...then Toronto...no matter how far apart our lives became, 9 weeks a year I can count on sharing time with my old man. That's pretty sacred shit. He is equal parts my hero, my best friend, my teacher and my inspiration. A younger me used to resent his CONSTANT positivity. His unending belief in the fact that things would be better than alright, but exactly as they should be, used to drive me insane. That is before I somehow fell ass backwards into seeing this in its infinite wisdom. And now here I am, annoying the shit out of those I love with the KNOWLEDGE that everything will be alright. I believe in my friends because he believed in me. If I ever con some poor woman into bearing my children this silly process will continue. Onward and upward.

First and foremost this building is about family.

Family and this club are inseperable. My uncle Dennis worked as a vendor at Ivor Wynne when I was a pup. Probably the coolest thing I ever recieved at Christmas, was a signed ball from the 86 Championship team. Every player signed that ball, and that happened because of family. My dad had been going to games since he was a pup. He saw the Golden Era years of the Mosca generation live and in person...hopping over fences and drunk as fuck. Relating to my dad as a young adult, seeing him as he might have been when he was my age...for the first time I began to see that the stupid shit of youth wasn't a sign of incompetance....but of success to come. If my dad was who he was today coming from places I knew so well...Jesus H Christmas I might just be alright after all.

When I played as a kid, where other kids imagined they were Joe Montana in the Super Bowl, I was Mike Kerrigan. I was Pete Giftopolous. I never hoisted the Lombardi on those grasslots, it was always The Grey Cup, won at home at Ivor Wynne.

My 19th birthday was there. It was the home opener. We DESTROYED our opponents. I remember (through the fog of 19 year old birthday haze) running down to the bench to high five Joe Montford and thank him for making my birthday. Later my boys shared a cigar with my dad in a peeler bar, laughing at me while my ass was whipped 19 times on stage.

In 1996 I saw my first Grey Cup there. It was amongst the greatest football games I have ever seen. A snow bowl. With 90 some total points scored. We sat beside the entire Argos office staff...That got heated. Some Simcoe boys were in front of us...hoodies stocked with mickeys of whiskey that were shared in short order.

Two years later Ozzy kicked the greatest game winning kick I have ever seen in the Eastern Final. Over 50 into the blow. It was impossible. I couldnt watch. My head was buried into Dad's chest and in the last second I looked up, saw the ball sail through and ensued a moment so charged with life, with happiness...I don't know that I've ever been quite so excited in my entire life.

A decade of futility has followed. But that just further evokes the passion. Here we remain. Day in day out, the most committed of believers. Here is my religion. My faith. My hope. That in spite of all the setbacks, the weakness, the insecurities...that our day will come. It will be glorious.
I am who I am because of this park. My unflinching loyalty. My passion. My persistance. Its all rooted here.

Now days I see the park from an entirely different view. I spend time with the team President. I meet the coaching staff. Drink in the alumni lounge. I see the place through the eye of a grown man. Its been a strange evolution. But so has my life. It seems even in my recent growth, so grown has my rellationship with my club. Today still a reflection of my very existance.

I love everything about this place. I love its rusty core. I love we make noise ratthling the tin press box. I love that the visitors dressing room has no hot water. Welcome to the jungle. It is so fucking Hamilton it borders on surreal.

Gameday decended upon the city as the rains decended upon the grounds. What a perfect manifestation of the collective sadness in our hearts. I'd think it self-indulgent and absurd if not for the fact that the past months of my life have seen a bizzare set of physical manifestations, both in the positive and the negative. Skeptic I may be I cannot discount the idea our hearts do not manifest in the physical world. I might have to go back to Leonard & Murphy's "Future Of The Body" if this keeps up.

Before kickoff we honoured the Alltime Tigercat Team. The best in their position over the clubs history. Sharing this day with Danny Mac, Troy Davis, Earl Winfield, Rocky DiPietro, Garney Henley, Grover Convington, Paul Osbaldiston and company was the whiskey. That magical poncho of warmth that rendered the rains into irrelevance.

And what a dance our boys gave the old lady. We knocked 2 quarterbacks out of the game. A defence that single handedly cost us a playoff birth, for one afternoon, channelled the ghosts of Mosca, Barrow, Montford, Hitchcock, Schelling, O'Shea, Tiggle, Browne & Zambiasi. And while the rain unleashed its discomfort, the crowd rose above. The 13th man was every bit a force, with noise disrupting no less than half a dozen Bomber snaps. It was loud, hard nosed Hamilton football. Everything this theatre had spent 80 years delivering to the hungry blue collar generations that poured through the turnstyles.

The final whisatle gave way to a thunderous ovation, and as if on cue, the clouds parted, the rains ceased and for the next hour, the sun snuck out for a gander. Again. Perfect.

I had never felt such a somber exit from such a fantastic win.

We shared our goodbyes to our season seat neighbors. Four families that have shared a patch for 2 decades. While the rest of the clan made their way to the car, Dad and I walked the grounds one final time in complete silence. We left alot of shit behind here. Alot. More than a silly essay could convey. More than we could verbalize to each other.

Its just a building right? There'll be a next one.

Tell that to anyone whose ever lost themselves in this place. Something very unique is being lost. We grow, we progress, we build families, but we never, ever replace our first true love. Some things are only done once.

Saturday everything changed. And that's life...so great, Ivor Wynne has one last lesson for me. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Good night rust bucket. You've been a thing.

 

The Eternal Cowboy Takes On Thomas George Estates

Cavalier eternal, I found myself in need of a hitching post while traversing the coastal side of the Mayacamus mountains in Northern California. Pulling off of US 101, travel weariness began to supercede the glorious viticultural sprawl in evidence around me. The Golden Gate's distant memory was no longer romantic enough to derail the chorous of my tired bones. A grueling firefight at the airport rentalcar counter had left me damaged and the end was creeping in like an evil samaurai. When suddenly like an oasis in the dessert, I came upon a relic of a bridge, 1 lane serving both ways, leading across the Russian River. Awaiting on the north side was Westside Road, and the weary Gunslinger's ultimate hitching post.. A bridge at home in the Wastelands, the secret path to Thomas George Estates Winery.

Beyond the bridge was exactly the oasis I envisioned. Passing through the gates at Thomas George, I was greeted by the Frederick Hart masterpiece, "The Source", an impeccable symbol of the life-giving waters which flowed throughout the Estate. I tied my buggy to its post and made my way inside the Estate hall. Graciously awaiting were Sean and Adrienne, my most excellent hosts for my brief respite in my journey through the wastelands of food and drink. Wasting no time, they unleash the hounds, though instead of guard dogs hellbent on my destruction, it was a team of the most adorable pet pooches one can imagine. Turns out in addition to their own little guy, they were dog sitting for owner, Jeremy Baker, who was in LA for a trade show. Knee deep in dogs and hospitality, they really hit the spot by breaking into some wines.

We start things off with a Brut rose sourced from pinot grapes from their Starr Ridge vineyard. Sparkling rose is a pretty much the way to my heart, and as such this delicious 90 point offering is the ultimate medicine. We move n to the single vineyard chardonnays, which each express unique terroirs without relinquishing anything to taste. These are the Burgundian styled chardonnays that make their Chateau 2x4 counterparts a bitter lesson in what not to do with the most noble of white grapes. Elegance, individuality and taste drive these wines like Schumacker would steer an F1 racer. The same pedigree plays out from the pinot noirs, with the coolest, Cresta Vineyard, scoring amongst the best California wines I've ever tasted. Perhaps the coolest wine of the tasting was the Sauvignon Blanc Musque, a clone (sadly soon to be decommissioned in California) not unlike chardonnay musque with which Niagara vintners have enjoyed many recent hits.

The Baker Family may have scored the biggest hit yet when they purchased this property, which stood as the last wine making home to the elderly Sonoma legend, Davis Bynum (the first man to craft a single vineyard pinot in the Russian River Valley). Having fallen into disrepair they devoted considerable resources into making one of the most state of art facilities in Sonoma County, all the while keeping a keen eye for cultivating the most majestic sense of atmosphere on display in viticulture.

Amongst the greatest achievements on the property is The Cave, built into the side of one of the properties sizable ridges. It was here Sean and Adrienne took me on the most enlightening aspect of the Thomas George experience. A comprehensive barrel tasting is the quintessential means to really grasp the process from vineyard to glass. Tasting the various barrels, maturing in oak until their trip to the bottle, you not only discover the differences in each vineyard, but even in the individual parcels within. We hit one barrel from a plot on the Baker ridge that was close to a small brush fire, and doubt you could fully taste and smell a smoky character in that batch. The wine maker's pallet is on full display for those fortunate enough to see this side of a winery.

Armed with some of the tastiest burritos I have had the pleasure of stuffing my face from nearby Mexican joint, La Rosa I descend to my on site cabin, The Grenach House. Rustic life never seemed so luxurious. The wear ands tear of the wanderer were cured in an instant. We had shared a laugh over a recent article in Food And Wine magazine celebrating Thomas George's astounding guest quarters, in that there was an implied breakfast cooked by Jeremy himself. "That's never happened" I was assured. Nonetheless, this was zen. This was hardcore zen.

Morning came with the calls of the Estate rooster and was promptly chased down with some french press with Sean, preparing for his day in the fields. We drove up to the adjacent Baker Ridge Vineyard, as clearly my hosts once again had sites on blowing my mind.

We came to the crest of the Baker Ridge vineyard to the site of a guest pavilion under construction. Designed with an eye for weddings or other similar gatherings I was presented a view of the entire Russian river Valley rising back toward the Mayacamus Mountains. In an instant the cavalier eternal decided he needed to abandon his life of bachelorhood debauchery to the end of finding himself a lady to get married on this very spot. Floored. In all the right ways. There was something so alluring here. From the views, to the wines, to the people who made it all happen. I could die on this very spot. Everything would be ok.

After an afternoons expedition into the vineyards of Sonoma's greatest gems, I returned to my new home. I walked the grounds. I shared more bottles with my hosts. We came across a bottle of skunky, sulphur-laden chardonnay from a nearby winery. It was here Sean introduced us to the coolest of coin tricks. Turns out the soon to be extinct copper penny, is the secret weapon in the battle against sulphur tainted wine. Swirl away a penny in the glass....and like magic...its back to what it should have been. I wouldn't have believed it had I not tasted it myself.

During my last nights stay, Jeremy had returned from the trade show in LA. Having driven a trailer of barrels from LA all the way to Sonoma after a night that included enjoying the sunrise from the home of Dr. Dre, the man of the estate was understandably drained. Yet this did nothing to curb his enthusiasm for the evenings winemakers party being thrown in his Cave at the estate. He lead his team with the charm of Rasputin, pouring out his best wines for the regions most prolific wine folk. I got to spend some time talking shop with the passionate pioneer, Ulyses Valdez, whose syrah vineyards were sourced for my favourite Thomas George Syrah of yesteryear. While Napa is all Disneyfied with its bells and whistles, Sonoma remains at its heart, farm country. Its legends are the everyman. Icons and grunts in the same stroke. While the juice in the flesh, and the soil the bone, in Sonoma its the people who are the blood.

I would enter Thomas George Estates as the eternal cowboy. I would leave the enchanted, the poet and the lover.

 

My Mother Thinks I'm A Catch (or The Wines Of Karl Lawrence)

The Karl Lawrence spread in the kitchen of winemaker Mike Trujillo

Whether at his home atop Howell Mountain in the Napa Valley, or on the road leading a tasting on the Carlton Street home of Barrel Select in Toronto, Mike Trujillo is the most engaging of consummate winemakers. His tales carry the scope of his roots herding 3000 head of sheep in the Colorado ranch lands, to ducking an engineering degree for life as a Napa cellar rat, and every bit of it contributes to the story unfolding in the glass. While his wines at Karl Lawrence have sung for themselves for decades, sharing a tasting with the man behind the wine lays in that back beat that really packs the dance hall.

 Its been a long journey to iconic Napa winemaker. Mike began this trek in the barley fields of his family ranch in Colorado.

"Seeing 3000 sheep is mind-boggling", he offered up in one of his parables this afternoon at a private tasting here in Toronto. From the farm he moved on to an engineering degree, which came to a crashing halt during a vacation with college pals. Moving up the California coast from LA, his travelling band stopped at a family friends' new farm in the not quite yet famous Napa Valley (Paris tasting and subsequent Time mag article notwithstanding). They pitched a hard day on the farm and returned to that archetypal California style supper with a grand spread of whole birds, sides and all the fixings. They stayed on a few more days and each was the same. It wasn't long after he called home to try and explain to mom, that he wasn't going back to school.

From there he worked as a farmhand in what geeks like myself may dub the Golden Age of California wine, in which many of the most revered appellations in Napa came to life. Using his background in engineering, he helped build many of the now iconic Carneros vineyards. Yet the journey really came into focus over a dinner and a chance tasting of that oh so famous muse of vinophiles, the red Burgundy. It was the kind of eureka moment that lit the fuse for him to intern at Sequoia Grove as cellar rat, while paying for his winemaking education at UC Davis. It was the perfect fermentation tank for his development, putting the lessons from the classroom into practice, day in day out, under the guidance of Napa icon,  André Tchelistcheff. That would be like the young boxer sparring with Mohammad Ali, for those not familiar with Dean of American winemaking. It was Andre who bestowed upon Mike his most defining lesson, which was simply, to never follow the pack. With his Jedi training in full bloom, he Skywalkered himself in front of St Helena's elite, looking for financial backing to launch his own brand of wine. While most wished him luck, fortunately for us, one man stayed behind, cheque in hand. Together they formed Karl Lawrence, and the rest, is delicious history. 

Mike holding court over a dozen bottles of wine

Sourcing your grapes is one of the most defining challenges to the California winemaker. Land costs in Napa make buying farms the game of multimillionaires, and thus securing quality product has evolved into the kind of thing thats buried friendships, severed family bonds and ended dynasties. Through his consummate professionalism, Mike has secured fruit from some of the best vineyards in Rutherford, St Helena & Howell Mountain. The resultant blend of quality fruit from distinctive terroirs has resulted in a painter's palette of juice from which he can paint his vision into each bottle.

The Aldin represents his bordeaux blend, designed to be silky & approachable, yet dancing with adventurous spirit of the Cabernet Franc. The 2009 is a definitive example of this. The herbacious wild child nature of the Franc sews together the mix of valley floor and mountain vineyard character, and finished off with merlot, it oozes drinkability, without giving up its calling as a food wine.

His line of Karl Lawrence Cabernets represent the heart of the production. Blended from the grapes sourced from 4 vineyards (To Kalon, Morisoli, Herb Lamb and Dr Crane), each year he assembles his masterpiece. Most recently, as of 2009, the blend includes grapes from his own vineyard, located on Howell Mountain, which really sees him glowing with pride. The development of his own vineyard allows the craftsman a new level of control right down to the farming techniques, which can only mean a greater expression of his vision of cabernet. At a recent tasting at his home atop Howell Mountain I was blessed to do a vertical tasting. While the current release from 2009 delivers well on his vision of blending ripeness from the valley floor with the pepper and spice from the mountainous vineyards, with each vintage dating back for 7 years, you see a growth in the expression. As these wines grow in the bottle, they truly become something of an otherworldly dimension. At ten years of age a Karl Lawrence Cabernet becomes something that Dionysus might gift Zeus, just to show him whose boss.

Asked what vineyard in Napa he might purchase, if he fell into a winning powerball lottery ticket, he quickly answered, "Morisoli". His love affair with this vineyard is not without merit. In strong releases he will put out a small lot of single vineyard reserve wines from whichever of the source vineyards he feels is worthy (in the remarkable 2007 vintage he for the first time released one for each vineyard). These wines really allow an insight into his painters palette, as you can taste the signature style the individual vineyards represent. Having tasted all of the 2007's I will return to my boxing analogies. While the Dr Crane is drinking today as the crowd favourite, it represents an Arturro Gatti, a young prizefighter dancing in his prime. Meanwhile, the Morisoli is most definitely the Mickey Ward, entertaining in his youth but still awaiting his best years as the ultimate warrior. The famed "Rutherford dust" exhibited here gives an elegance of the highest order. Buy this Cellar this. Drink like the Gods.

Mike Trujillo, myself, and Bruce Langstaff, knee deep in some vino-hedonism

Most interestingly, for one of Napa's most esteemed producers, you will never see a rating beside one of his wines. In the most punkrock of fashions, he refuses to submit his wines to critics. Firstly, he opposes the influence that one person can have over the popular palette. We can return to his experience in herding sheep to understand that the leading publications have the sheppards touch over the masses. I cant count the times I have seen people pour out money for the most pedestrian of wines because Robert Parker gave it a 92. Conversely, time and again, the sheep at the counter will pass on the tastiest of wines because it wasn't in Wine Spectator's Top 100. Its a travesty. And its one Mike has no desire to participate in.

"I have always submitted my wines to one critic and she's always scored it 100. My mom loves my wine."

He also notes a secondary reservation to the critics and its one that hits home to me. While the golden age of food writers were about celebration of excellence, the modern hack seems hellbent on miserables. Today critics seem emboldened to play Vader, choking out the meek throughout the Galactic Empire, rather than to write about what excites them.

"If something is bad, then it will sort itself out. That's business. If its no good than it will either change or it will go away. There's no need to throw darts at someones dream."

I couldn't agree more. The golden age of food writers, the Grimod de la Reyniere, Brillat-Savarin, they were celebrationists of this newfound pursuit of culinary satisfaction. Today we are stuck with the Amy Pataki's of the world, who seemingly build their own self worth by shattering the dreams of others in the cruelist of fashion. My only hope is a new generation of Corey Mintz's and Chris Nuttall-Smith's who seem to get that its of greater worth to celebrate the highs, than to deliver the blows. As the Wine Doctor Ed Finstein once told me, if you can't write something nice, write about something else.

Its in seeing  this humanist side to Mike that really adds a finishing touch to enjoying his wines. In seeing him share his home with some marauding vinophiles, while his daughter dropped her toys down the staircase. In hearing his story, from roots to the barrel. In seeing his passion for everything he does. That's Karl Lawrence. Salud. 

The Shape Of Punk Has Come

Its an odd thing, finding oneself in a moshpit, at age 32, for the first time in at least a half dozen years. Somewhere between getting spin-kicked in the temple by 84 pound emo asshats, or having Gymbo of the Dayglo Abortions pour beer on me and inviting the crowd to analy sodomize the makeshift human barricade we had formed to protect them from the crowd at Shadow (dive bar...no stage...bad ideas), the whole idea of subjecting myself to all that action seemed to be something of a lost desire. Like the way we one day weake up and fail to see the need to associate a houseparty as an excuse to play Edward Forty-Hands. Besides, its the same concert from the sidelines, and the beer is closer. Strange then, to find myself on a rainy Sunday north of Hell's Kitchen in New York City, a few thousand complete strangers at my back, while I pushed my way to 10 feet from a dark stage, curtained off in all black.

Alongside famed G-20 protest posterboy, Adam Wordsworth Nobody, we pushed to front and centre. And then came the light. The low hum of the organ began to ooze into recognition. As too the rising white light gave shape to the stenciled letters...R...E...F...U...S...E....D. Worms of the Senses took shape in our ears as the light gave shape to the word.

"Holy shit we are going to see REFUSED" somebody shouted beside me.

The curtain drops. Then it was this.

I will not endeavor to explain the next 10 minutes in any great detail. The idea of putting words to such a feeling of combustible energy, equal parts survival and cathartic bliss, is silly at best. From the bottom its an undertoe, the force of the mass of angry humanity propelling you this way and that. From the top its the proverbial parachuter falling through the forest canopy of elbow and fist. Ferocity and family to the sounds of the Refused Party Program.

Dennis owns the stage as he would his own skin. The band hits the notes as though they had been jammed out for decades. The crowd screams back at every vocal. Every person, every light, every instrument in this room had seemingly been bread for this singular occasion.

"This is fucking surreal man", admits Dennis between songs 20 or so minutes into the set, his eyes betraying a sincerity mere words couldnt quite express.

Surreal doesnt do justice to the idea of a band, whose last tour through New York State, 14 long years before, saw them playing coffee shops and house parties. How could they know when they recorded their final record, all those years ago, imagining it as a "fuck you" to hardcore music, that it would grow and evolve to the defining record of the entire genre. "The Shape of Punk To Come" became Godzilla, and the world of music became Tokyo. For 14 years this record changed the game, inspiring a new generation of artists and fans from the very grave of the artists who gave it birth. "Refused Are Fucking Dead" was equal parts eulogy, prophecy and salvation. 14 years for the fans they never had, to realize the dream. To give vision to their imagination. To particpate in the genesis of their entire lives in love with modern hardcore. The new romantics had found home.

It wasnt just the moment, but a marriage of moment and place. New York City Hardcore has always been the heart and soul for purists of the sport. Refused has long proclaimed their own affection for the scene, honored as youngsters from the northern reaches of Sweden to press labels of NYC Hardcore. How fulfilling for the band and the crowd to bring to stage Lou Koller of Sick Of It All to cover `Injustice System`. 18 years earlier, they had driven the length of Sweden to catch them play Stockholm. This night, they shared the stage in the hometown of their boyhood hero, equal legends to the hungry masses. Such is the organic beauty of punk rock. There is no glass ceiling. Heroes become peers, teachers become students, the 99 percenters are the one. Equals and individuals in every sense. Utopia becomes palpable reality in every note. Fucking beautiful brother.

The encore opened into the anthem that defined the legacy. From the opening lick of `New Noise`, the energy took a turn to the supernova. Again details fade into the pure electricity of the event. As I imagine the last light of a stellar body, pulled into eternity by the dark mass of a black hole, the event horizon blurred into some version of unrecallable light. The only lasting memory was the crowd, for the only time during the set, managing to drown out the hurculean PA system.

CAN I SCREAM

The role of the crowd cannot be understated in this coup d`etat. Sadly the notion of the respectable pit is a bygone era in modern hardcore. The Johnny OC generation of mosh kids are more interested in the delusions of grandeur of their own slam dance ritual than the unity of cathartic physical rebellion. But on this night, trends became lost, or at least enough folks who know what a mosh pit should be took control of the room. Every man who went down was pulled back up. Every body that rose to the surf, was buoyed by us all. In a sea of disenchantment celebration, we were all one current, bound together but for the moment.

It was really only after 2 nights of Refused reunion, did the full scope of the magic settle in, and not til later, at a second late night show by opening act Ceremony, of Rohnert Park CA, at the Mercury Lounge. Physically drained by two nights of such titanic electricity, Nobody & I cabbed undaunted to the Bowery, having caught wind that Ceremony was playing to a packed dive in the lower east side. As we arrived, a white van pulled up and the band poured out in front of us. After a few moments of props and appreciation, they invited us to pose as their road crew to get in for free. As I lugged a base cab through the backdoor entrance, a flood of realization hit me. I tell this not for the need of `scene points`. I`ve been a human barricade for the Dayglos, cooked spaghetti for Mr Precission (of Rise Against and 88 Fingers Louie fame), cocooned Barn Burner`s tour van in toiletpaper while in traffic on Highway 401, talked regional wine suggestions with The Aggrolites, spent the night camping on the couch at Dave Hilyard's home in Washington Heights, spent a year living with the lads from Farewell To Freeway and shared joints with Chali 2una (only to have him forever judge me for sharing my ex girlfriends pink, tampon shaped lighter). I got my share of dem points. I tell this because it was in that moment I remembered the 2 great gifts of youth and punk rock. As we get older, we may lose it as we lament the arrogance and naivity of the age. But what we should never let die is the unity and the frustration. The idea that it is our obligation to question all moral and intellectual authority. And that no matter what we are in this together, and together we are stronger. Age may bring the wisdom of humility and a common sense rooted in reality. But age also fosters the individual over the collective. Its a great loss, but only if we give in to it. Nights like this remind that in our growth, there are still great lessons from our days gone by.

The very next morning I was on a flight to San Fransisco, on my way to tour the wineries of Napa and Sonoma in my capacity as a young wine professional. On the drive north on US 101, the last stop before Sonoma turns out to be an incredibly boring drive through the outskirts of Rohnert Park.

No one was with me, but I think I said something like, `That`s fucking surreal man`

 

Your Mother Was A Hamster And Your Father Smelled Of Elderberries

Like poor King Arthur amidst the taunts and flying livestock of the French, the kings of British culinary artistry have long been stymied by their counterparts to the South. Despite the taunting and silly accents, the Brits have long succumbed to buying up French wine and recreating French classics in their kitchens. Even here in the New World, our greatest chefs delight to French traditions whilst leaving British fare to the lowly confines of pub grub.

Yet despite their inability to take back their own national gift to world sport (their last Fifa World Cup triumph outdates the last Maple Leafs Stanley Cup), there are those of English blood determined to take back their cuisine, and take it to soaring new heights. One has only to look as far as the Queen & Beaver Public House on Elm Street to see that English cuisine has its place in the bellies of the discerning pallette. Now taking this torch to its next height is the newest kitchen in the food explosion taking place in the Dundas & Ossington corridor, The Grove.

Despite his questionable loyalty to Leeds United FC, Chef Ben Heaton has long been one of the most impressive culinary talents in Toronto. After launching Globe Bistro as executive chef, and a brief stint working under Claudio at Colborne Lane, Ben has spent the past 2 years at the helm of perhaps the biggest volume kitchen in the world of fine dining at One in Yorkville. All of this was merely the journey however that has taken him to his first restaurant of his own, The Grove. Based on bringing British cuisine into the upper echelons of quality food, there is nothing like it anywhere in the neighborhood, which sets it apart in a city determined to be the next guy to do what the other guy did. And while its taken a tad longer than anyone would have liked to finally open its doors, my excitement was palpable as I came in for my first taste of Chef Ben's vision.

The front of house team of Richard, Fritz and barman Mike Bradley have created a very hip environment in the tiny dining room. Comfortable and cool, while still maintaining a tip of the hat to its United Kingdomly roots. The wine list is perfectly tailored to the cuisine (pinot lovers will rejoice in having 5 great pinots from the five leading stylistic regions for the heartbreak grape ie. Burgundy, Sonoma, Central Otago, Oregon and Ontario) and the cocktail list mixes well old favourites with creative newcomers.

But really its all about the food, and despite reminding Chef that Leeds had shit the bed on a recent 7-2 drubbing, Ben was all smiles as he asked if we had the room for a tasting menu.

The Parsley root Soup came first and arrived with the thunderbolt of an instant classic. I've delighted before at Ben's Parsley root soup at the 2nd of his pop-up dinners for First Drop Canada, but this was an even bigger smash, adding snail to the bacon and creamy goodness that unleashed before us. Every chef has their signature soup. I am convinced this is Ben's. I cant possibly express strongly enough that this is easily in the top 10 dishes in the entire city of Toronto.

Next of the potato and leeks in cheddar foam, which was perhaps underwhelming, but a true case of having a tough act to follow. Despite its challenging slot in the lineup, no waste went into its execution, as it served as another reminder of Chef's talent for plating.

Next up was char with spot prawn and once again the symphony was in full gale force. the puree, the pudding and the protein each played their instrument in an overture that Rossini would have been impressed by. Like Tiger Woods when he is winning tournaments, every part of the game was in rythym here. Perhaps most impressive was the prawn, which can make or break a dish based on quality and freshness almost more than any component I know. This one was on (nope not taking the bait on a spot prawn pun. Eat me.)

Anyone can hit a home run. Even pitchers manage the feat from time to time. But you dont get to be Joe Carter until you do it all the time and on the biggest of occasions. There is no bigger occasion for a chef than opening week, and with the 2nd of 4 dishes, Chef had done it again. The Duck confit with brussel sprouts and elderberry puree was an absolute game changer. From its supercool plating to the harmony of flavors, this was the TSN Turning Point. Touch em all Ben, you'll never hit a bigger one than that.

The Steak Two Ways was another in a now running chorous of foodie anthems, belting out its break beats with the fluidity of a tribe Called Quest. /the hanger steak was about as tender s I've had from that cut, while the shortribs were, well shortribs (you can subsitute shortribs for pretty much anything worth experiencing in life, from orgasms to Bill Murray cameos in zombie films). Again with sharp but playful presentation and flavours that strike their own chords while never leaving the key. Along with another of Fritz's expert pairing suggestions, our meal was soaring like a Manchester United title run.

The last course came accompanied by these, chips and house made ketchup, which would seem unremarkable enough. But you'd be wrong though, because mark my words, this ketchup is going to be a Toronto foodie talking point for the summer of 2012. The Cumin Ketchup, Chef's tip of the hat to Indian influence on UK cuisine, is wholly overwhelming. I'd spread that shit on toast, or just about anything else I could scrape from my cupboard. They've been inundated with requests to bottle the stuff for sale, and to not answer the call would be a miss-step unrivaled (unless of course you want to talk about that goal the Brits gifted the Americans in the opener of the 2010 World Cup). Its the stuff of legend.

The Pork Two Ways was our final voyage on the savory side, and it was only here, on our 6th course, that we encountered a 2nd component (not dish mind you, COMPONENT) that was underwhelming. A staggering accomplishemnt for a small kitchen on its 2nd night of operation. And while the belly here joined the cheddar foam in the "close but no cigar" category, the dish was still buoyed by the righteousness of the cider glazed loin.

As we waddled, food-babies onboard, into the dessert course, once again, Ben and team marvelled. Pudding, clotted cream and crumble. Nothing quite so British, and nothing quite so delicious. A perfect dessert, yet still not our last.

Another dazzling plating full of color and flavor. Hard to believe we could still eat, but once again, our plates left completely empty.

I cant possibly encourage you with enough vigor to get your ass to the Grove. Its a stunning achievement in vitrually every aspect of the operation. And heading into European Cup 2012, its a good sign for England. Now that their chef's are realizing the potential in their traditions, perhaps their footballers can get that stadium sized monkey off of their back. Then again, we all know thats not going to happen. GO PORTUGAL!!!!!

Liam Gallagher's Mexican Standoff

Liam Gallagher with The FA Cup

I had one of the greatest experiences of my life last fall, bumping into Liam Gallagher on his birthday. Never mind that "Definitely Maybe" was one of my most revered records during my formative years. Never mind that he was perhaps the last of the line of great and destructive rock icons that once defined the genre. Nope, what I was really stoked about was chirping one of Manchester City's most famed and ardent supporters. At the time United was once again top of the table in the Premiership, buoyed by a strong start from a new generation of United youngsters such as Tom Cleverly, Antonio Valencia, Ashley Young, and Phil Jones. A team that won the title with one of its oldest teams the year before was once again turning heads with a starting 11 that boasted an average age of 23. I asked Liam how it felt looking up at United once again, in spite of the billion dollars in oil money that had been spent to try and buy their way to the top. I half expected my next question would be for the bit of floor my face was sure to be pressed upon. Instead I was treated to the afternoon of a lifetime.

Perhaps having his wife and child sitting at the nearest table came to be my fortune, or perhaps curiousity about having a sports conversation with a Canadian that didn't centre around hockey. I'd like to think it was the tequila however, and a love of the beautiful game that lead to two rivals sitting down for an hours peaceful discourse.

Imagine my surprise as he heaped praise on Sir Alex Ferguson. His methodology for empire building was something he truly respected. Despite the fact that his City boys had secured the most star studded lineup on the planet, he remained unconvinced they had the intangibles upon which United had built 3 decades of world domination. When it came up he was celebrating his birthday, I insisted upon buying him a drink.

"Anything Patron" he said.

Now, I could have simply obliged, but thats really just not my style. I instead ordered up two Tromba Blanco's, and gave a brief lesson on why. While Patron is undoubtedly top class tequila, I have a personal resistance to overpaying on products that incorporate too large a branding cost into their product. It has nothing to do with the hipster aesthetic of avoiding products I see on billboards, rather simple Ukranian numbers crunching. In Odessa, they throw around nickles like they're man-hole covers, and this here Ukie has no interest in paying for billboard adverts when getting off my ass drunk.. Tromba however, is the kind of underdog story I find truly inspiring. Unlike the Avion's of the world, making their name from product placement in a past its prime HBO series, here was a great product, from the former master distiller at Don Julio, in a slick package, that simply sold itself. One drink in, and Liam was onboard for an hour of tequila shots and football talk.

We talked everything football. From the plight of the national team, to the failures of the modern footballer, to our vastly different experiences in having seen an Old Trafford Matchday live. Completely absent was the snarly ego that defined his musical persona, instead he was engaging, thoughtful and fully passionate about the game. You really have to give credit to City fans. 4 decades removed from their last trophy at any level, their's is a support of the most noble and loyal pedigree. Living in Manchester, the home of the world's biggest football club, whose legend has been built upon on an unparralelled degree of excellence, it would be easy to slide into a comfy red kit and join that most fantastic chorous. But instead City fans remain true to their childhood walks to Eastlands. Their blue colar, boyhood club. As a Hamilton Tiger Cat season seat holder, I can respect that loyalty. It comes from a place most sports fans cannot even fathom.

Sixty minutes and half a bottle of Tromba later, I felt I should probably allow his family some Liam time. It was the man's birthday afterall, and I was simply amazed at the courtesy he showed by indulging me so much. I wished him nothing but success in securing second place, and made my way home.

I was reminded of Liam's newfound tequila this morning, when Tromba's Canadian face came into One today to talk shop. Eric Brass is literally the driving force behind this brand's success. It was only a year ago that he was literally going around with bottles of Tromba in his backpack to venues throughout the city and in the process secured such prolific accounts as One Restaurant, the Thompson Hotel and Reposado. Over the next months it would be enjoyed by the likes of Lennox Lewis and Liam Gallagher and found an ever growing cult following. From those humble beginnings, I am happy to let you all know that Tromba has achieved that most unattainable goal in the world of spirits and has been listed by the worlds largest buyer, the LCBO. Thats correct. You can now enjoy this fantastic tequila in your own home simply by going to your nearest LCBO location. Its no small feat. And its very well deserved. But dont take my word for it. Or Liam Gallagher's. Just go get some.

Man vs. Man vs. Sandwich

The concept of the duel is as old as life itself. From crusty long-horned rams to dirty Spainiards with floppy swords, dudes of one form or another have settled their testosterone driven need for oneupmanship in this honorable tradition for thousands of years. Modern man also seems to have a particular fascination regarding glutony. From hot dog eating championships to unmentionable darkness of the dairy challenge to television accidents such as Man Vs. Food, we Homo Sapiens long to celebrate the prowess of overwhelming ones abdominal cavity. In this vein, Brandon Bassett (manager at Toronto's Marben Restaurant) discovered this poster, promptly slapped me accross the face with a particularly lengthy cut of corned beef, and a new duel was upon us.

For the folks at the Corned Beef House (located at John & Adelaide in Toronto), this was business as usual. This contest of colon-wrenching debauchery is a weekly event. The idea is simple enough. Its a game of man vs. sandwich. One mere mortal against 40 oz.'s (thats 2 and a half pounds for the mathmatically challenged) of delicious corned beef. To the winner goes a free lunch, to the loser a $30 bill to pay, and to both significant issues with your intestinal track. In spirit its not such a bad wager. Anyone privy to the super sandwich magic that goes on inside these hallowed walls knows that there isnt a better smoked meat deli in the city (we are no Montreal).

But I did not become this awesome without a sharp grasp of reality, and this was a contest neither of us were going to win. Unless of course we changed the game. It wasnt man vs sandwich. It was man vs. man vs. sandwich. Five pounds of corned beef to be spread evenly through 2 plates, each accompanied by 4 slices of bread, and a whole pickle cut in half. We would have 60 minutes to wage our battle, and in the end our plates would be weighted. To the winner, free lunch and satisfaction of victory. To the loser, 2 bills and the shame of defeat. To both, toilets that would be punching in some overtime on their timecards.

The Face of Fear

At last it was gametime. Jermaine, the admirable referee ushered in a silence of the room. The PA began to pump out a Michael Buffer introduction, giving way to musical atmosphere courtesy of the battle tested anthem "Eye of The Tiger". In his hands...our undoing.

In the mouth of madness

For the first twenty minutes or so, it was pretty smooth sailing. The energy of the crowd (which had indeed gathered to witness our gastronomic penis measuring contest), the words of encouragement from Jermaine, our most noble of hosts and the sheer deliciousness of the corned beef was enough to buoy us forward. The hardest part early on was indeed figuring out exactly how to eat this monstrosity. Truly it seemed most efficient to twirl the meat round my fork like it was spaghetti. I wish that wasnt true. But it was.

Eye of The Tiger

By the 20 minute mark, some new guests had joined the gallery. "Are you guys from Man Vs. Food or something?". Insulting, but fairplay given the foolish nature of our endeavor. In unison we mumbled yes, and thus began a new series of pictures, and twitter updates. Im sure it made their day. Brandon dropped a piece to the floor, which he grabbed and placed in a corner of his plate, marking it as "not to be eaten". A young lady watching intently noted that "If you had eaten that, you would have gotten laid tonight". Unfortunately for the young lady, that just wasn't meant to be.

Approaching the 30 minute mark, I sensed that Brandon's pace had slowed. I seized the opportunity for some psychological warfare (and some straight up old school showmanship) and began dancing around my stool. As if a man possessed I channeled my inner Ali and begain to chant "I'm gonna dance! I'm gonna dance! George cant hurt me. George cant catch me!" Either I had seen "When We Were Kings" a few too many times, or the pound of corned beef in my belly had began to induce delerium. You can flip a coin on that one.

The last 20 minutes was a sheer testament to spite and willpower. We had both aknowledged that the very taste of corned beef had become vomit inducing. Every swallow was a fight to supress the gag reflex. We had been reduced to eating the tiniest of portions at a time. Brandon noted that he even began choosing only the leanest morsels, in attempt to thwart the hardened battle axe of the fatty cuts. Suddenly the bread and pickle became our greatest ally, as we werent exactly full, but needed something, ANYTHING, to mask the taste senstation of the demonic corned beef. With less than 5 minutes to go, Brandon sealed his fate by noting pickle weighed in alot more than the beef either of us could still eat. It was a moment of cartoonish serendipity for myself, comeplete with the animated lightbulb springing up beside my head. While adverse to even the smallest bite of corned beef, I was however all over marving my entire pickle quota. Brandon on the other hand could stomach neither. The lesson here kids. Shut your mouth.

The Weigh In...and The Winner.

We stumbled haphazardly toward the counter to get the weigh in. Our plates were in virtual symetry, minus of course any remnant of pickle on my entry. Then it came in. A hair under 2 pounds of consumption, and 2 miniscule ounces clear of my opponent....I was victorious! Alas there was little to celebrate. Sure, Brandon was stuck with the bill. And sure, I had all the bragging rights entitled to the winner, the newly ordained champion of the hour. But spite Willy, is the word of your undoing.

I wont bore you with the agony of the hours that followed. You can imagine that well enough for yourself. What shouldnt be lost in all of this however is that this entire dance with debauchery came about and was made plausible by the overwhelming deliciousness of our hosts. I would strongly recommend NOT eating 2 and a half pounds of the stuff but the Corned Beef House puts out one hell of a sandwich. Their rueben is to die for. Or at least to moan in gluton induced sleep deprived agony for. And it means those of us who long for Schwartz's dont have to rely on the mediocrity of Caplansky's while we wait for Celine Dion to butcher Montreal's most iconic deli.  Its part of an overwhelming sandwich revolution sweeping this city. From the folks at Porchetta and Co. whose takeout shop was billed in the top 5 restaurants of the year in Toronto. To the Banh Mi Boys of Spadina. To the burger accolades dripping over top of the Burger's Priest. To the little known but super awesome Garage at Pusateri's in the Village. Toronto is a sandwich town without equal. Get it in ya!

The Sommelier's Guide To The Best Records of 2011

Welcome aboard the second edition of the Sommelier's Guide to the Records of The Year. A slight tweak in format to keep things fresh. Instead of pairing our best records with their star crossed beverage, I'll be going one for one, counting down each of the best records of 2011 along in tandem with the best respective wines I tasted this past calender year. In all it was not an incredible vintage on the musical side, especially following the phenomenal class of 2010. Yet still no shortage of good listens all in all. The class of wines however is about as fuckwitable as the Wu Tang Clan. Drink up drink up let me fill your cup.

1. PORTUGAL, THE MAN - In The Mountain In The Cloud 
PAIRING - 2002 Bollinger Rose, Champagne, France
The unmistakeable trajectory of this band is finally impossible to ignore. As complete an album as I've heard in years, the evolution of their sound has absolutely flowered into an experience thats both fresh and familiar in the same note. With every listen, the mountain becomes a new home which you never want to leave. Instant classic.

The Bollinger rose from 2002 is sinply luxury in every way. The world of spirits is littered with high end glamour products, not worth the money beyond the vanity factor to pay the price. Like Louis XIII, this bubbly wonder is the heavenly exception that is worth every considerable dollar. Delicious, as complex as the tower of Babel, and with the finish of a Mortal Kombat champion, this is hands down the best thing I have ever drank. 95 points.

Portugal, The Man - So American
Portugal, The Man - Got It All

2. THE BLACK KEYS - El Camino
PAIRING - 2009 Domaine Du Pegau Chateauneuf Du Pape, Rhone Valley, France 

Another band following that arc of a band rocketing to new heights from their years of launching through relative obscurity, for the 2nd straight year they deliver a classic record to adoring masses hungry for their infectious brand of blues rock. Reunited with Danger Mouse, they've taken the blueprint of Brothers and melded it with the stylistic ambience that made Attack & Release their coming of age. Little Black Submarines may be the best song they've ever recorded.

Robert Parker has given this young blockbuster a stratespheric score of 97 points. I wont go that high, but I will call this a legend in waiting. 10 years from now tis will be amongst the most prized wines on the planet. 95 points.

 The Black Keys - Little Black Submarines

3. COMMON - The Dreamer The Believer
PAIRING - 1982 Chateau Margaux, Bordeaux, France

I'll confess to not being Common's biggest fan. I've long respected his skillset, but I've just never gotten hooked by the vibe of his previous work for an entire album. Until his Christmas present to hip hop he unleashed upon us 2 months back. Finally he has tied his considerable talent and flow to a collection of tracks I just keep going back to. He also kicks some considerable ass in TV's Hell On Wheels.

Chateau Margaux is the epitome of the force behind Bordeaux's place as the most revered reds on the planet. This 1982 is showing signs of fading with age (based on 2 tastes 8 months apart) yet has all the muscle and grace that defines its appelation. 94 points.

Common - Sweet
Common - Lovin I Lost



4. SAIGON - The Greatest Story Never Told
PAIRING - 1982 Chateau Haut-Brion, Bordeaux, France

I would have never guessed a Saigon record would become a personal favourite, but this record is much more about the achievement of producer Just Blaze than it is a testament to the MC. Track after track of incredible jams begins to illustrate that any capable MC can reach the higher level in the hands of top class production. An AZ for a new generation. Make no mistake, this is the definitive arrival of Just Blaze. Sprinkle in some rock solid cameos from the likes of Jay Z, Q Tip and Fatman Scoop and you've got the surprise record of the season.

Another iconic Bordeaux running full stride into its Clooney years. Unlike Pauillacs and Margeauxs, which are cabernets for the entire world, wines from the commune of Graves remain cabernets distinctly for fans of the old world. You can literally taste the ground from which it came, especially in this distinguished age where its lucious fruit has now faded to grey, unveiling a new beauty, both gritty and warm. 94 points.

Saigon ft Faith Evans - Clap





5. BUCK 65 - 20 Odd Years
PAIRING - NV Tarlant Brut Zero, Champagne, France

One of the years earlier releases, this one has stuck with me the entire year. Likely the most complete Buck 65 records of his entire career, it rarely achieves greatness, yet never stops delivering a constant rush of solid and unique musical experiences that together raise the sum above its individual parts. By far the years best use of cameos, the result is singularly wonderful marriages each and every time.

Without peer, Tarlant is the pre-eminant value wine in all of Champagne. This racy wonder is a celebration of sparkling wine that bubbles all the way down to the peasants. Or at least the borgeoisie. 94 points.

Buck 65 - Zombie Delight



6. BAYSIDE - Killing Time
PAIRING - 2007 - Chateau De Beaucastel Chateauneuf Du Pape, Rhone Valley, France

While bands like Alkaline Trio and Jimmy Eat World begin their descent into old age, Bayside has continually risen over the past five years as the most engaging and unique acts in pop punk. The dark twists and unparalelled songcraft continue once again, keeping the dream alive for the tragically hopeful meloncholy kids, whose headphone catharsis requires that special personal trainer.

I tasted my first bottle of my collection of 07 Beaucastel's, and I wont have another for 5 years. I'm already jonesing. Grenache's holy greatness giving sermon on the mount. 94 points.

Bayside - On Love On Life





7. PHONTE - Charity Starts At Home
PAIRING - 2004 Antinori Brunello, Tuscany, Italy

Phonte's undeniable charm elevates this record more with every listen. The Little Brother MC had a big year in 2011, not only with his debut LP, but with notable cameos for the like of The Roots and Pharoahe Monch. Here, he shines through a set of  R&B so smooth, breakfast cooks may attempt to use it to grease their pans.

A classic vintage and a classic producer, truly entering its prime. Equal parts power and finesse, it genuinely runs the full range of sangiovese's character from rich fruit to chalky tannins laced through bracing acidity.

Phonte - Sending My Love



8. BLUEPRINT - Adventures In Counter Culture
PAIRING - 2006 Bouchard Pere Et Fils L'Enfant Jesus, Burgundy, France 

After quietly slipping in the Blueprint Who EP at the end of last year, Print wasted mo time or momentum in unleashing his new full length and hitting the road throughout North America opening for Atmosphere. Once again you see an artist fully embracing new dimensions, with this synth driven hip hop opus. While it may not be his greatest, tracks like So Alive and Radio Inactive remind you at once, exactly why you took the time to know Al in the first place.

Red Burgundy is that elusive experience thats equal parts hedonism and poetry. Bouchard garnered yet another Winery of the Year award this past year and as one of Burgundy's most decorated houses, its little wonder their monopole, L'enfant Jesus, strikes those chords you never knew existed.  Drinking from a wine like this must be as the deaf, cured in attendance of the greatest of opera. Throw down some duck and call it a day.93 points.

Blueprint - So Alive





9. AMY WINEHOUSE - Lioness: Hidden Treasures
PAIRING - 1978 Lafite-Rothschild, Bordeaux, France

Odd to consider this a top 10 record. Thats either teastament to the thin class of 2011 or the class of Miss Winehouse herself, whose final years of alcohol abuse still managed to crap out a collection of tunes this enjoyable. While lacking the blockbuster appeal of her hits, on display throughout is an ability to simply electrify even the most uninspired efforts into something worldclass.

Pauillac is my favourite Bordeaux commune but Pontet Canet is more my financial reach rather than the noble neighbors like Rothschild. Getting to try one of the worlds most expensive wines, from a vintage older than myself was a true experience. 93 points.

Amy Winehouse Ft Nas - Like Smoke



10. THE ROOTS - Undun
PAIRING - 2006 Diamond Creek Volcanic Hill Cabernet, Napa Valley, United States

Its staggering to think that this marks over a dozen studio releases from The Roots and even more incredible, their penchant throughout their career for forging a catalog that never fails to deliver. They dont make your song of the year, but their records have been warming up rooms for decades. Yet another example of reliable, thought provoking musical theatre bouncing to a style thats all their own.

The best Napa Cab I have ever tasted. Their focus on creating distinct terroirs for each label brings an old world savy to the ripest of new world fruit. Nowhere is this as evident as in their Volcanic Hill vineyard, which echoes that same minerality as best exemplified on the volcanic slopes of Campania's Mt Etna. A stunning achievement. 93 points.

The Roots - Kool On



11. THE STEP KIDS - The Stepkids
PAIRING - 2005 Pontet Canet, Bordeaux, France

A shockingly slick and innovative debut record. Fresh, funky, and refined. Baby making music on LSD. You know that record that comes along once in awhile that you like almost exclusively because its cooler than you are? Meet another. 

The most stunning modern Bordeaux vintage thats presently drinking (much hyped 2009 & 2010's need many years before its worth popping cork), the value house in elite wine delivers Tesseron's best work to date. I have been thirsting over Pontet Canet's since the 2001 vintage and this one is every bit the equal of its $1500 a bottle neighbors. Yet at $100 you can drink the wine of kings without selling your car. Alas though, all this great wine is making waves...the 2009's are up to $200 on futures and you can tack on another $100 on that for the 2010's. The secret is out. 93 points.

The Stepkids - Suburban Dream







12. CITY & COLOUR - Little Hell
PAIRING - 1990 Louis Latour Gevrey-Chambertin, Burgundy, France

I'm a tad shamed by admitting this, mostly because as a human being, Dallas was amongst the more douchey folks I ever dealt with in the concert business. But his talent is unmistakable. He elevated each new Alexisonfire record, the more that they showcased his vocals. And while he may fancy himself emo's answer to Michael Jackson, he delivers a mature upgrade to the evolution of his dolo catalog with Little Hell. Electrifying his accoustic past comes to dazzling effect and at times is hauntingly remeniscent of Neil Young gems of yesteryear. I'm sad and shocked...but I like this record.

There's little in life as fragile as old burgundy. No decanter. No doddling over conversation. Just get it into your mouth while the ancient poet still has the lungs to speak to you. When its over, you will contemplate. Stunned even. Trying to put together the pieces of your mind having been blown away. 93 points.

City & Colour - Fragile Bird







13. BLU - Jesus
PAIRING - 2007 Les Clos Jordanne Pinot Noir, Niagara, Canada

If not for the shockingly poor recording, even by mixtape standards, this might have been the record of the year. Even in spite of the questionable sound quality, this record rains new blood into the hip hop vampire. Blu's knack for original lyrical style fused over tantilizing old soul and wall of sound era melodies makes him the most exciting young mc in the game where I'm standing. Cant wait for next.

2007 will long be remembered for Niagara wine lovers as the vintage our reds finally achieved greatness. The evidence is abound throughout the region, but the Clos Jordanne is a particular stunner, with all the classic character of Burgundy pinot, grown here at our doorstep. 92 points.

Blu - Lucky



14. THE AGGROLITES - Rugged Road
PAIRING - 2009 Kistler Les Noisettiers Chardonnay, Sonoma County, United States

The shortest Aggro record of their career but its hard to begrudge given their now bursting catalog and their commitment to touring. Their live show continues to be amongst the best in the world, and the new record adds new classics into the mix. Its amazing to think how a bands weakest record to date could still be so much better than most of whats out there.

Nowhere outside Burgundy itself can you find a chardonnay this perfect. So much complexity, so much buttery softness yet driven by a spine of minerality that commands attention both from the wine as well as the consumer. Breathtaking. 92 points.

The Aggrolites - Aggro Band Plays On



15. CUT COPY - Zonoscope
PAIRING - 2009 Westrey Pinot Noir, Oregon, United States

The hype machine drilled one of the records best tracks into commercial-use irritability, but make no mistake, this record is no one trick pony. Building from their impressive debut, this sophmore release oozes sensible pop through the dancable charms of the 1980's. At times the sounds border on too familiar but in all, its just very smooth from beginning to end.

I will admit some bias here, haven spent an afternoon slugging chardonnay with owner David Autrey during his last visit to Toronto. The fact that he shares my passion for burgundy grapes and has the same vision for his local region as I do here for Niagara takes nothing away from the simple truth that this is a world class pinot noir. Burgundy geeks take note. Home. 92 points.

Cut Copy - Take Me Over



16. THE DRUMS -=Portamento
PAIRING - 2006 Poggio Antico Brunello, Tuscany, Italy

While definitively a step back from their now iconic debut, this record still displays sufficient charm to keep you coming back. While they keep to form on this followup, I cant help but feel some extra time writing new material could have delivered us a better record and left the considerable scraps on the cutting room floor. But its their art, so what do I knowÉ

Perhaps not yet at its peak, but every bit the considerable monster that a tasty brunello should be. With wood oven pizza and San Marzano abound our fair city these days, I feel it would be wise to carry something like this around me, just to be ready. 92 points.

The Drums - Hard To Love


And that brings us to the end once again. There`s a bunch that didnt quite make the grade. Records from Talib, Lupe Fiasco, Face To Face, She Wants Revenge, Killer Mike, Cake, J Cole, Stephen Marley, Childish Gambino, August Burns Red, Fucked Up, REM, Bright Eyes, Raekwon, The Strokes and The Beastie Boys all posessed their respective charm. In contrast efforts from Rise Against, Travis Barker, Blink 182, Chuck Ragan, The Get Up Kids, Radiohead, The Moiuntain Goats and the Alkaline Trio all fell pretty flat. At least we have 2010.

Now get drunk and go dancing! Its Saturday night!