Riesling Recess

I could play a montage in my head of last week. In fact, I have been. I've been letting the cool, occasionally rainy days parade back and forth in my head, then forward and back like a slideshow gone awry. Tuesday, one of the tamer nights, included a Riesling tasting at another couple's home. Bugs also wrote about the tasting at bottlevariation.blogspot.com, so visit his blog for another, perhaps more serious and studious viewpoint, but please note that he stole some of his best lines from my tasting notes. Harrumph. Ahem. Here we go. 

We were served poached salmon atop a salad of greens, strawberries, goat cheese, pecans and a delicate roasted garlic vinaigrette. To start, because that's what an evening is, the commencement of the night, we sipped on Chinook's 2008 Cabernet Franc Rose. The peppery, strawberry-driven nose complemented the salad, but the palate, with its tart zing and berry sweetness, wasn't quite subtle enough for the subdued salmon. We waited for others to show up to pour the Riesling, the bottles all brown bagged and numbered, waiting in a quiet queue to be sampled and spat. 

The first, Australian Margaret River's 2006 Leeuwin Estate, greeted our glasses with a pale hay color, but the overwhelming smell of petrol made us shrink our noses. The attack was absurdly acidic, like warheads, but as the surprise wore off I picked up on green apples, sour peaches, a slight yeastiness and even a juiciness on the mid-palate. Overall, though, the $18 wine was too austere. I rated it a 6 and it received an average score of 5.2.

Next, Donnhoff's 2007 Riesling looked like diluted pineapple juice or an old metal shined up. It was sweet like honey and I found myself craving a bite of spicy Thai or Indian food to contradict and somehow satisfy the sweetness on my lips. I could drink a whole bottle of this stuff, but thankfully I limited myself to a glass. The tropical fruit, coconut and melon flavors were fun, but the fruit was subtle. Sweetness dominates this lick-your-lips wine. At $24 and 10% alcohol content, this wine was a worthy pleasure. I rated it a 7.5 and it received an average score of 6.6.

Substance's 2007 was a decent offering from Washington State, though it didn't induce the same level of mass-merriment as Germany's gift to the table. I picked up some fun citrus on the nose, but overall the wine was less expressive. Translucent in appearance, it tasted of tart kiwi, white grape juice, and had an orange and pineapple finish. Though beautifully balanced between sweet and acidic, it tasted cheap, cheaper than $18. I rated it a 6.5 and the group gave an average score of 5.5.

Mr Rigg's 2006 Watervale Riesling, another Australian number, smelled of petroleum and Haribo's raspberry candies. You know those ones with small wax and sugar dots stuck to the outside of a gummy berry? Yes, those! It tasted surprisingly of pineapple juice with vanilla vodka. I would know. We detected granny smith apple and sweet grass, but it was the hints of saline and oyster shell, as well as the firm acidity, that saved it from being cloying. I rated it a 7, the group a 5.5, and I think this is a good buy at only $12.

Domaine Marcel Deiss' 2007  Riesling from Alsace was floral and pretty, but somehow got stuck with the dreaded term "palatable." It smelled like a kitchen with bread rising on the counter and a pot of geraniums on the sill. Tart, with a slightly puckering attack, the pale wine revealed bright highnotes of apricot and pineapple. I rated the $25 wine a 6.5 and it received an average score of 5.8.

Lastly,  Maximin Grunhauser Abtsberg 2007 Spatlese Riesling from Mosel stole the show. Divvied out into our glasses, the syrupy wine shone a darker yellow than those previous, an opaque light gold, like sun reflecting on water. After the harshness of the Australian wines, we welcomed the mild petroleum nose (expect Bugs, who noted a disappointing small of sulphur). It only made the tropical fruit flavors, risidual sugar and fruit acidity more complex. Indeed, it had the best balance of all the wines, and a price point of $35 to prove it. The low 8.5% alcohol content surprised me, but I suppose that's how great wines are made. I licked my teeth, trying to savor it. 

Clearly, I need more Donnhoff and Mosel in my life, more sweet yellow sun colors, more acidic tropical fruit tastiness. I'd like to devour great quantities of these wines from large opulent goblets, but of course that would be terribly indulgent, too terrible to do unless I shared it with you. So, next time, perhaps? 

Next time, next time we all murmured as we embraced and beelined for the door, Bugs bellyaching and me trying to hurry him home. We took a taxi back to Capitol Hill and fell into our bed of routine, each of us careful to set alarms and be asleep by 11, careful to wake up on the right side of the bed and tip toe through another dream-like day. Careful to again eat and drink ourselves into a slumber of domesticity. I look back on Tuesday and wonder if I'll ever sleep in the same bed again. 

The Harvest Vine

I know it's been around for a while, but people have been begging me to go to the Harvest Vine recently. Not with them. They go without me and then rave about it, begging me to follow in their stomach's footsteps. I admit it's a romantic destination and there are few in my life who would romance me. Few meaning one. So on Friday night, specifically chosen as "special date night" since I was to flee the following morning for a week-long vacation to California, Bugs and I walked out of the apartment holding hands and wearing dress shirts to catch a cab to our 8:30 reservation. 

"I'm so glad putting a nice shirt on over jeans means dressing up in Seattle," Bugs said as the cab pulled up. 

"I'm so glad we live in a neighborhood where we can walk to the corner and catch a cab in a minute."

As cool a couple we may be, I stumbled a bit in my heels when exiting the taxi, and I swear the (older, richer, more fashionable) patrons sitting on the porch watched my stumble and then cast their eyes to the floor when we entered. Inside Harvest Vine, however, exists a different world of comfort. 

Yes, forget about interrogating eyes and heeled hipsters with your fashionable food (such is the world when one leaves Captitol Hill!). Our server whisked us down a stone stairway, through a labyrinth of small rooms that made the good-sized restaurant feel hidden and intimate. Sitting just an iron-worked bar away from the booze-filled one (why do I always envy the bar patrons at nice restaurants, who I envision as both spendy and spontaneous?), Bugs claimed the wine list first while I ogled the food menu, revisiting friends' and family's recommendations in my head. At times I do wish someone would bring two wine menus for our table (and yes, sometimes I do get so impatient I ask for my own). Bugs has to pore through it, cover to cover, like his Neal Stephenson novels. He commented on the abundance of Lopez Heridia wines, a tasty Rioja producer, and of sherry. Most of the wines were a double mark-up, pretty standard, though some topped out at triple retail. 

Our friendly and handsomely bearded server brought us a palate cleanser of apple and fennel sorbet with fennel and parsley oil. Green and sweet like good wheatgrass, the sorbet was somehow creamy and crave-worthy as well. I arouse from my last green spoonful, wondering if food might be the fast lane to heaven. 

I assented to Bugs' wish to order the 2005 Muga Reserva Rioja, though he grumbled a bit that the 2004 was unavailable. A delicious decision at $55, and not a bad markup from $25 retail, we loved analyzing it while waiting for food to arrive and then observing the changes with time and food pairings. 

"Who will taste?" The wonderfully bearded and helpful man asked innocently. Bugs simply frowned his mustache a bit, fully prepared for the seriousness of the ordeal, and raised a pointed finger like a student affirming his presence in class. 

"Yes, him," I said, deferring to the expert at the table, though I do enjoy the first taste when I select the wine, or better yet, when a taste is offered to both of us like at our neighborhood favorite Table 219. 

From his askance glance as the waiter uncorked the bottle to his screwed up face as he tasted and discerned the quality, I loved him, like I only love my Bugs. One of the truly special things about date night is admiring your lover in public. 

The nose on the Muga smelled of cherries, blueberries and eucalyptus, the latter fulfilling a broader sense of the herbal, medicinal and alcoholic. 

"A little coconut," Bugs whispered, his nose buried deep in the glass, lifting his thick-rimmed glasses. And then I smelled it, too. Was it a subtle note, only obvious once pointed out, or powers of persuasion? Almost impossible to know in the wine world because in such a land citizens are often engaged in some stage of drunkenness.

Focusing again, I felt the smooth dry mouth feel, running my tongue through the broad tannic background. It finished black, with hints of soil, dark cherries and cocoa chalkiness. As the alcohol and medical smell faded, the acidity of the fruit broke free. I felt citrus on the back of my throat and a pleasing astringency on my tongue. The rich tannins, sharper acids and alcoholic sweetness all balanced on a hair. 

The Guisantes y bee gedarte, fresh peas with Marcona almonds, burnt lemon vinaigrette and ash-rubbed cheese arrived at our table. Though the flavors I forked up eagerly were bright and delicious, I would have preferred the peas just a little more plump and crisp, less cooked, but the nuts almost made up for it with their crunchy texture. Indeed, the dish hinged just as much on texture as it did on taste. Bugs, not usually a nut fan, commented on the spectacular almonds.

"That's because they're texturally important," I responded, savoring both their snap and sweetness. The ash on the cheese brought an essential bitterness, balancing the peas, baptized in their oil and lemon bath. I mopped up the last of the grassy olive oil, staining the bread and table cloth green. And so our waiter presented us with clean plates and forks! Such a surprise after Corson Building, where I paid twice as much to eat four times as many courses on the same dirty plate.

Next we ordered the clams with bacon, onion confit, chorizo and cream sauce ($10). The smoky pork slid around and over the juicy clams, the tenderly-textured dish rendered spicy by the onion and chorizo compote. Though it didn't pair the best with our Muga, the pork and seafood plate evoked a spiciness in the wine that we otherwise would not have noticed.

"I like how the waiter isn't pouring our wine," Bugs confessed, leaning over the table. I'd noticed it subconciously and greatly appreciated the lack the service, too. Of course, just then a gentleman (not our server! not on my watch!) must have overheard us, thinking we were sarcastic, and promptly filled our glasses. We really weren't being sarcastic! We just like to swirl our wine, really. Please let us fill our glasses at our own speed. At least the lights dimmed. Mood lighting is always better with bacon. Or is that the other way around?

I was then served and immediately devoured the blood sausage, which I later recounted in great detail to my very German and very blood-sausage-loving Oma. The crisp black exterior gave way to a rich but delicate interior, entirely reminiscent of bread pudding or a soft bread stuffing delicately flavored with fennel and nutmeg. 

For dessert we ravaged an Espellette pepper chocolate flan, the spiciness just warming the creaminess and sweetness, further flavoring our 1989 Colheita by Porto Kopke. 

As one of the last tables lingering in the stone-walled wine cellar of Harvest Vine, we said goodbye to the romantic lighting, rich food and surprisingly cheery air, leaving the stones to grow cold with the night. When the 11 didn't come, we hailed a cab (it took a little longer than on the hill) and made our way back home to say our goodbyes to each other and do anything but let the bed grow cold like stones.   

Rosé Colored Glasses

Drinking rosé can unlock a little chest of possibilities. It brings us together then calls us outdoors to bask in the summer days, drinking up the sunset. 

Four others and I decided to taste 6 different Northwest rosés. Each bottle was brown bagged and labeled with a number, so we could taste them blind and without bias. Well, most of us. Bugs bagged them and organized them generally from lightest to darkest. When we revealed the bottles at the very end, I was more than a little surprised! I'll let you know each wine upfront in the tasting notes that follow.

The 2008 Elk Cove rosé, made from pinot noir, greeted our glasses with a salmon color, almost a pale, peachy orange. The faintly fruity nose opened up with notes of strawberry and honeysuckle, but turned medicinal, like cough syrup, by the end of the night. Don't let this one sit open for more than a couple hours, and drink it today if you have a bottle in your fridge or wine rack. When at its best, though, it tasted of Rainier cherries and unripe stone fruit, and sang with acidity. It almost felt like orange juice on the back of my throat as the delicate tartness on the mid-palate developed into a zingy finish. The Elk Cove is an enjoyable sipping wine, but does not have enough substance to pair with food. Though I gave it a 7 in our 10 point rating system, it received an average score of 5.625. Those wine industry boys are pretty harsh with their scores.

Syncline's 2008 Rhone blend rosé is composed of 44% cinsault, 30% granache, 17% mourvedre and 9% counoise. It's pink color would suit a ballerina. Aromatic and creamy, three of us agreed it smelled like orange-glazed cinnamon rolls. I enjoyed the consistent acidity and the flavors of white peach and lemon, but the abrupt finish lost it a point. Overall, I rated it a 7.5 and it received an average score of 6.125. Only Bugs preferred the Elk Cove to Syncline. 

Saviah's rosé, made from sangiovese, won my favor for the evening, but it was a hard decision. The nose was rich with strawberries and cherries, with a hard-to identify high note, perhaps lemon or key lime. In the mouth, it attacked with juiciness and and big refreshing acidity. Watermelon, strawberry, rhubarb and citrus dominated the palate at first, but a faint minerality gained presence as it opened up. We noticed a saline smell and flinty sharpness on the finish when we revisited it at the end of the evening. Tracking Saviah's evolution in the glass is a pure, pink joy. 

After that glass of tasty, Waters' rosé was a huge disappointment. The dark, almost garnet-colored wine smelled grotesquely funky, like spoiled food, but with a hint of burnt figs. The vodka-and-cranberry-juice palate might suit some, but our group panned it and we all rinsed our glasses before filling them anew. Did Waters finish last because it was the oldest at 2007, just past its prime and suffering from the oxidation that marks old age? It's hard to know if it was old or flawed, doomed from the beginning by too-late a harvest or spontaneous fermentation with accidental yeasts. Bugs and I actually tasted and bought this at the winery in March, at which point it tasted deliciously of watermelon Jolly Ranchers. Sadly, bottle to bottle variation is inevitable. We thought we purchased a bottle worthy of $20 and a gathering of friends, but we scored it at 3.625 and promptly dumped it down the drain.

Happily moving on, we tasted Chris Gorman's "42-39-56," a raspberry-hued Red Mountain cabernet sauvingon, just lighter in color than Waters. "It's booze!" one declared, while another said it smelled "like the exhaust of an '86 Datsun." The nose, I thought, had a sharp vegetal aspect, perhaps of asparagus, but my palate tingled with the tastiness of a cranberry tart dessert and the sumptuousness of cherry liqueur soaked currants. Though lush and lively in the mouth, it lacked any agreeable aromatics. I rated it 6, and the group gave it 5.25.

Lastly, Barnard Griffin's 100% sangiovese rosé showed surprisingly well, tying with Saviah for best Northwest rosé. For such a cherry-colored character, the Barnard Griffin was expressive and complex. High notes of ruby grapefruit and tropical fruit complemented the background taste of raspberry and watermelon. As it opened, the fruit-forward nose revealed some feet stink, though others said it was cat pee. But don't be dissuaded. Usually sold at under $10, this wine is a great deal. 

Surprisingly, the Saviah and Barnard Griffin, the two cheapest wines, proved the tastiest. Though they're both made from 100% sangiovese, the wine makers allowed them to develop in opposite directions. When compared side by side, Saviah's light color and subtle flavors quietly contrast Barnard Griffin's purple-hued cherry color and explosive fruit. 

How long does the juice play and swim with the skins in the making of rosé? It's sensitive, so touch and go. When the time comes, the juice is pressed and fermented on its own. Most Washington wine makers, however, practice saigneé, the bleeding of the vats. This lowers alcohol content and increases concentration of flavor on the mother red wine. During this process, if the pink child isn't bottled as rosé, it simply runs down the drain. And that's no fun. Sometimes, we all need to wear rosé colored glasses and greet the world with a sanguine complexion and disposition.

To Wine and To Wed

Entangled grape vines lined the entrance to their eternity. I had visited Areus Inn earlier in the day, before the wine tasting and lunch and the peak of the heat. We hung paper lanterns over the bar and strung tiny lights through the trees and filled glass vases with dried lavender, the bride, her sister, and I. I wasn't entirely needed, but desperately needed to be present and useful. In the morning, the empty hills seemed peaceful, like the pause between preparation and final action. Like the time between doings when we just seem to be. Now, 5 pm and five wineries in, the crowd of people pulsed with excitement and anticipation. The doing time had come.

I saw the groom briefly to hand off the Okanagan ice wine, carefully transported across the border and passed along a relay line of hands. Without it, my hands were empty. The bride, of course, hid inside until her moment. We milled about until finally, every person in place, we sat beneath the sun with shining faces and fidgeting hands. We, the audience of their affection, watched the bride walk the grassy aisle toward her bearded beloved.

Oh, how we ladies love those bearded men.

Like two pillars, the pastor said, they stood apart. I liked that. I liked the wheat field altar and the church of rolling hills, and the sanctity of the sun. After the simple ceremony, we stood under the light-strung trees, sipping Mountain Dome brut, or Argyle if we were lucky enough to be in the bridal party, waiting until the shade crept over our tables before sitting down to dinner. Once tucked into our meal, the wine kept pace with the plates.

The Okanagan ice wine proved a perfect complement to the wedding cake, certainly the best I've ever tasted. Satiated, we let the sun set behind our backs, we allowed the light to slip between the leaves, beam briefly between the tree trunks and disappear.

I had come to Walla Walla for their wedding, but a little wine tasting proved the perfect side dish to the weekend entree. Bugs and I visited once before, quite the to-do two months back. We stayed at Girasol Inn where the breakfasts were large and the beds soft, perfect complements to a whirlwind wine tour. Budget Inn was more my speed for this solo venture. Poor bugs had to slave away at the same wine shop that employs the groom.

Back then, the highlights of our stay were Abeja, Buty and Waters. Waters winery is an essential stop when visiting Walla Walla, and I'm always surprised how few people in Seattle are familiar with it. For this second trip, I joined forces with someone a little more capable of driving than myself. Revisiting Waters was a must, and I was blown away by their Loess. At Northstar, we agreed on the Columbia Valley Merlot as a favorite, though it was the cheapest of the three Merlots offered and grown in the least prestigious vineyards. One more winery, my companion said, and then he said it again. Time ticked toward the ceremony, and my planned hour to "do myself up" was whittling down to 15 or 20 minutes. But Tru was worth it.

Tucked away downtown, the odd little tasting room occupies the back of a retail store, the entire set-up clearly aimed at ladies such as myself. Chunky, candy-colored belts dressed up displays and draping dresses lined the racks. I was impressed with the selection of clothing, clearly chosen with a playful attitude. And what better companions to a shopping spree than blanc de blanc, viognier and gewurztraminer? The bubbly lit up my mouth with a shower of fine, delicate bubbles, and tasted deliciously of green apples, but I thought it was overpriced at around $35. The frangrantly floral viognier was a steal, and I snatched up a bottle along with the gewurz. Undecided if I liked it or not, I couldn't deny that it was interesting. Really, it was weird as shit, with a petroleum nose and palate that wasn't sweet in the least. I needed to give it a second, more focused tasting.

Later, back in the fields, after dark set in and the elders went to bed, a live band set up by the pool and the newly weds danced to Red Red Wine. While some joined them, others stripped off their finery to dive in. Such a relief, after the hot dry day, the hours of drinking and social pleasantry. They baptized themselves in youth and abandon. Emerging from the pool, shivering and wet, they just drank more wine for lack of a towel and danced and embraced people until the whole party was a little damp. The night nodded yes, and eventually even the bride soaked her polka dots and pearls.

The celebration continued long after I left. I think it's still going.

The Corson Building

My treasured dining companion Lacy and I arrived at the Corson Building via way of Vessel. There, seasoned bartender Zane Harris served up a Captain Handsome and a Cucumber Lime Swizzle, perfectly paired to match the palette of our dresses. In his silk finery and vestigial vest, Zane looked the part and played it well. I was glad to have decided on the pale purple Captain. It underscored the floral print on my summery dress, while Lacy's lime-colored drink quite complemented her turqoise and gold ensemble. Within my pretty glass, the gin, creme de violette, limoncello and lime juice settled into a surprisingly cohesive cocktail. The wash of absinthe might just be for fun, but the carbonation-infused drink fizzled my head and tickled my lips in more ways than one.

Next time I visit, I'll be eager to try the Obama Nation with Calvados, vanilla liquer and burnt figs, or the Vessel 75. It's the maple foam that gets me. I'll have to find a really good excuse to go back so I can try both. I know it's hard to get out when we're all limiting ourselves and counting coins, but we need to stretch our legs and twirl our skirts once in a while. The Corson adventure was certainly a big night out.

Since the bus schedule would only allow us to arrive 45 minutes early or 15 minutes late, and neither one was acceptable, we hailed a cab. After the usual neighborhood circling we ran across traffic on Georgetown's Airport Way and found the gate into the Corson property, another world entirely. While other couples milled about the garden and used the sunlit brick building for photo op's, we marched right inside, confident a glass of bubbly awaited us. The Chateau Gaillard Cuvee Charlotte was delightful enough to sip and enjoy while roaming the garden, but not one of the evening's standouts.

We sat down to a do-si-do of introductions with our dining companions, and were relieved to receive an amuse bouche, Vancouver Kushi oysters grown in suspension to develop deep pockets of shells and ample meat. An Alsacian Reisling, 2005 Meyer-Fonne Kaefferkopf, was served with a stinging nettle salsa verde, radishes and Lebneh from Vashon Island. The Reisling smelled faintly of petroleum, while the palate hinted at honeysuckle and pineapple.

About the time we were passing around the head cheese, Matthew Dillon emerged from the kitchen to introduce himself and his food, mainly his food. I was so amped up during his elocution of the menu, feverishly jotting ingredients and numbering the coming courses, I wanted to hoot and holler when he was finished. I swear I almost stood up and cheered like a goal had been scored at a Sounders game and I had just downed an $8 beer. And I loved the head cheese, served with pickled red onion and wood sorrel, though it was my first experience with "pork jell-o."

The raw King Salmon with Miner's lettuce, dill and chive flowers was spectacular. Everyone at our table loved it. The salmon was so fresh and firmly textured, not at all fishy, but the portions were so generous that we all ate our fill and still left some on the communal platter. The fifth (yes! already) course of fried soft-shell crabs and aoili was presented with a mutli-colored grapefruit salad. We were allotted half a small crab per person. Next came cold mussels and clams with fennel, dill and shallots. I ate up my whole plate, and then ate Lacy's mussels since she liked the clams better.

Next we ate a very interesting dish: blanched asparagus with marinated sheep's milk feta and a hazelnut-coriander crunch. I complained that the asparagus was terribly bland, but then the pretty lady across the table told me I had to have everything in one bite. The coriander transformed the feta and the feta transformed the asparagus. This kind of transmogrification doesn't happen so easily at home, though. The quality of each ingredient heightened the bite to a pallatable perfection. While the ingredients in the dish were so well paired to each other, the wine, sadly, was not. The 2005 Domaine Piron et Lafont Chenas Quartz, a Beaujolais, smelled of black cherries and tasted fine on it's own, but did not settle well with the salty feta or the upcoming pickled dishes.

Unfortunately, the cheesy asparagus was followed by the flop of the night: cold sand dab with creme fraiche, parsley, and pickled carrots. Now, the carrots were amazing, not even cooked but pickled to be easily edible, with a little snap and a lot of tang. I confess that I butchered my sand dab trying to remove it from the bone. Yes, they were served on the bone, and we had to fillet it with our fork and large spoon as we passed the platter hungrily around the table. After several botched attempts, the gentleman who worked at Maximilien deftly removed an entire little fish body from it's skeleton, barely any pressure applied, just the right tilt and he had an intact fillet with not a single bone. Alas, he was the only one who knew how to do it right. I could barely eat the smily flatfish; the texture was terrible and the flavor forgettable.

Out of the kitchem emerged another winner, just in time. The only plated dish of the evening was spotted prawns served atop black rice and garnished with green onion. Oh, the lovely, sticky, sweet black rice was so aromatic, with floral and lemongrass notes. Again, the rice and prawns played a duet, enticing each other to reveal their flavors.

By this time we'd moved on to my favorite wine of the evening, a Slovenian blend of Ribola, Pinot Girgio and Sauvignon Blanc. The 2001 Movia Veliko Bianco smelled surprisingly of brown sugar and sherry. The gentleman from Maximilien and I bonded over our instant attraction to this odd little wine. Though I said it was my favorite wine, my favorite food and wine pairing was still to come: Pinot Noir with veal braised in whey.

The platter brimmed with veal, piled high in mounds and surrounded by potatoes and morel mushrooms. I've had morels at three different restaurants recently and these were definitely the best. The meat was meltingly rich, the fat mellowing the 2005 Tasman Thorn Ridge Vinyard Pinot Noir from Sonoma Coast and its 14% alcohol content. So fruit forward and fabulous, it developed a subtle smokiness and spiciness as it opened up. As I took my second helping of fattened baby animal I think the heavens opened up a little, just above our table. Though the veal may have been the climax of the evening, another dish arrived to take its place. The local, hand-eviscerated chickens were delectably juicy, and quite enjoyable with a second pour of that Pinot.

All through the night, the sommelier, Mark (who really deserves a last name!), poured generously and answered my questions graciously, even if they were already printed on the tasting notes I was too excited to read. Last but not least, he slipped a stream of Chenin Blanc into my glass.

The 2005 Domaine des Forges Coteaux du Layon-Chaume tasted delicious with my rose petal-garnished Meyer lemon cake. A pretty, perky cap on a very big dinner. The whole thing was quite the event, lasting more than four hours and thoroughly discussed and enjoyed around the table. Thank you, Matthew Dillon.

Lacy and I were almost the last to leave when a cab pulled up to take us back to Capitol Hill. With dinner done and a Saturday night spread out before us, we had the cabbie drop us off at Sun Liquor for some Scarlet Ladies. We sat in the corner and giggled about inappropriate things, as if it were junior year French all over again. Bellies sated and minds sedated, we walked back to my apartment for a sleep over.