I’ve worked for a CIA-trained chef in California who drank 375’s of Port like a little girl – yeah, he drank 10 at a click and would end up shooting someone in the ass with a BB gun, but still.
Your Pegasus called, little girl, it would like you to brush its glorious mane.
Another chef, a nationally acclaimed sushi savant, favored Rosenblum Zinfandel when I met him. He’s since graduated, but with a slow and painstaking babystepping that he probably never, ever had to endure in his Japanese food training.
Just because you’ve got a preternatural sense for fish doesn’t mean you’re ready for Burgundy, Daniel-sahn.
The third chef…forget it. Beer. I love good beer, but this is about wine.
So when I come across shit like this:
“Chef Kent (Rathbun, of Dallas fame and Austin jeering) Recommends”
I wet myself with glee. Let’s look at the flavor/texture profiles of his favorite wines, yes?
Amayna, Chardonnay, Leyda Valley, Chile 2006
Domaine Chandon, étoile , Rosé, Sonoma-Napa County
MacMurray Ranch, Pinot Gris, Sonoma Coast
Patz and Hall, Chardonnay, Alder Springs Vineyard, Rutherford
Roederer Estate, Brut, Anderson Valley NV
Rubicon Estate, Roussanne-Viognier-Marsanne, Blancaneaux, Rutherford
St. Supéry, Sémillon-Sauvingnon [sic] Blanc, Virtú, Napa Valley
So from this, I take it this guy’s bag is a giant bucket of buttered popcorn topped with oak chips and a copy of Wine Spectator with which he can wipe his glistening craw.
Not a single Old-World-style wine among them, which has become, for me, synonymous with a lighter, better balanced, often subtler experience.
If I had more time and weren’t just writing this to blow off steam between tasks on my steps-to-fucking-Shangri-La-sized to-do list, I’d thoughtfully consider the notion that chefs’ palates suffer from an eventual blanding – a phenom that explains why so many guests find things saltier than the chef can taste. Anyone out there know the results of studies done to this effect? Like I said, I’m busy with an actual job. Let the geeks do the work and spittle all over my shirt while they tell me about it.
His red selection is even worse. I won’t go into it.
The point of this instruction today is: Don’t give a fucking rat’s ass what the chef likes to drink. If it were up to him, he’d be passed out in the walk-in with an empty case of cherry Robitussin and an underaged Thai hooker.