by tashmcgill | Jun 27, 2016 | Drink, Opinion
Around my fireplace (indoors in winter, outdoors in summer), whisky nerd-dom and booze geekery gives way to philosophy more often than not. We may talk for a few moments of taste, colour, texture, body and the characteristics of the wood, but quickly the whisky leads us to stories, memories and things that ought to be shared with others. It may be that in my blood runs the blood of the great philosophizing nations or simply that spirit loosens the tongues of fools, but I am certain that whisky has accompanied some of the grandest philosophical conversations of world history and even more certain, it has been present at most of mine.
I have philosophies on lots of things, which sometimes leads me down interesting and unusual paths. But those are the not the stories you want to hear today, you can hold on a touch for those. No, the philosophy and therefore story of the day is simply a question: when you should drink whisky and when should you store it away? Which is in turn, closely followed by the question when should you invest in a bottle or just in a dram?
I have recently been invited to join several private tastings; one where the buy-in was an easy $50, another $25 and yet another, a bottle. The only caveat was the bottling needed to be from a closed distillery; Port Ellen in fact, one of my few and out of reach unicorn bottlings. A recent auction saw a Port Ellen 31 year old 1978 sell for over $NZD3000. Not to mention the 33 year old Port Ellen currently for sale at Auckland Airport for a mere $9264.00 (duty-free).That’s a steep entry fee, but at least you’d be opening the bottle with drinkers who would appreciate it. As David McGee says, ‘What we spend, we lose. What we keep will be left for others. What we give away will be ours forever.’ He has a point, I think – because what’s the point of owning a Picasso, Van Gogh or something even more esoteric and then keeping it locked away? The point is to learn it, know it intimately and preferably to share it with others. Democritus said no power nor treasure can outweigh the extension of our knowledge. And nor can our knowledge be robbed from us. So most of the time, I firmly believe there is little point collecting whisky if you don’t intend to drink and especially if you do not intend to drink it in good company. That is the first question answered.
Why is one bottle more sought after than another? It’s market dynamics with a little bit of human nature thrown in, I think. Rarity and scarcity will always increase demand so long as someone wants what is difficult to come by and even more so, when having it says something about your power, your wealth and your means.
After all, men desire beauty and go to great lengths to own it. Women desire beauty and go to great lengths to become it. At the heart of it all is a desire to have, to hold, to own, to capture. What does treasure look like?
I’ve only recently become aware of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, an independent bottling company with a difference offering membership packages that come with drinking, buying and experiential opportunities that are hard to come by. The SMWS only offers limited edition single cask bottlings, from distilleries all over Scotland and beyond with a particular bent for the unusual. These whiskies have their own lexicon; a code of numbers that refers to the original distillery but insists the whisky speaks for itself. Many of their bottlings stand out as unusual amongst the traditional flavour profile of their region. Hence, the whiskies themselves are like decoding a great treasure hunt. It’s some of the most fun you have with whisky, letting it take you entirely by surprise without the compass of expectation to guide you. The rewards are great, particularly when comparing notes with others.
I tasted the 50.68, the Orange Exposition and imagined myself in a candy store to rival Willy Wonka’s factory so present were the gummy drop, boiled sweet and marshmellowy layers of the dram. I’ve tasted baked apples before, but not like this. Or the extraordinary 3.246, the most curious combination of lemony manuka, smoked bacon and herbal tea aptly named the Curious Apothecary. These are bottles that range from $200 – $450 on the current SMWS New Zealand site.
So these treasures – should I buy the bottle or the dram? I am not rich, at least not as far as whisky connoisseurs and collectors go. I budget, save, measure and plan my indulgences and my palate runs broad enough to enjoy accessible and approachable whiskies that do not cost the world. So how do I gain access to the intimacy and knowledge of those things I desire, in a game I can’t always afford to play? I taste and treasure hunt. I buy the dram and sometimes (preferably) six of them at a time in a tasting, surrounded by good company of fellow adventure-seekers. Which is why you’ll so often find me at regular tasting nights at The Jefferson and in particular, at the SMWS tasting this Wednesday 29th June.
What better way to go treasure hunting and share a little philosopher than in a room full of fellow aspiring hunters? And for $80 a ticket, six tasting glasses is one heck of a ride through vaults. I buy the dram and not the bottle, when I want to indulge. Then if I am overwhelmingly in love, I buy the bottle and open it, giving it a home on my whisky shelf to be enjoyed by those who gather around the fire. The point is to taste it, to learn it and to do so in good company. You can’t take your treasure with you, you can only take what you’ve experienced and known. At least, that’s this whisky-girl’s philosophy on tasting, treasure and some other truths too.
PS: For a membership fee to the SMWS, you get your own tasting samples, membership card, exclusive access to tastings, dinners, events and partner bars and clubs around the world. Plus, they have been judged Best Independent Bottler for a few years in a row.
See you at the tasting table soon or email to book your Wednesday night tickets.
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by tashmcgill | Jun 27, 2016 | Eat, Opinion
There is a silky, moreish perfection of squid ink risotto sliding over my tongue and giving way between my teeth. I always have to start with the rice when eating risotto. The glistening, crispy morsels of squid sitting in that dark bed are patiently waiting their turn to shine, which they do – salty, sweet and tender.
Five courses later, the risotto is still forefront of mind and Fraser Shenton, head chef at FISH explains casually that his supplier let him know the arrow squid had come in on the catch. “So I ordered three kilos of it,” he says. Suppliers are in fact, the crucial third of the holy trifecta when it comes to the hospitality business, so this passing comment is testament to how important suppliers are to the menu here.
There’s no need to labour over details of each dish for the sake of critique. Between Shenton and Gareth Stewart, executive chef for Nourish Group, over a couple of visits, I’m unable to fault quality of the cooking or presentation coming out of the kitchen. Besides, no restaurant should ever be judged on the quality of a single dish but rather the consistency of the experience and the integrity to what they are trying to do. Which is why I’m here, eating lunch overlooking Auckland’s harbour on a day where the grey-blue Waitemata is moody. Between kitchen tasks and meetings, Fraser comes out to join us and we talk about what he is trying to do at FISH.
Here in New Zealand, we seem to have a funny attitude to hotel restaurants – viewing them as overpriced or novelty-based experiences. It’s true, dinner at Sky City’s Orbit will send you spinning around the city and The Langham’s Eight is in the crudest sense, an oversized buffet. FISH could not be more opposite than this. The dining room windows frame the changing sea and sky vistas with warm and natural tones that feel welcoming and comfortable. The relationship between the décor and the environment makes sense, as does the relationship between the ingredients on each plate. Everything is dressed with a tone of subtlety and a very organic, understated New Zealand.
Now it’s worth talking about the details of each dish we are greeted with. Naturally, squid belongs with squid ink, with traditional Italian staples such as pasta or risotto being the sensible vessel for that dark, salty flavour of the sea.
“I want people to understand the food easily, the relationships between what’s on the plate should make sense,” Fraser says. We muse on what this means briefly and he addresses the monkfish dish with crispy potato and a vibrant green saagwala sauce, a slighty off-menu variation. “New Zealand is multi-cultural but creating a menu that reflects that shouldn’t mean having a Japanese dish, an Indian dish and a Thai dish on the menu. Elements of each of those cuisines should make sense in the context of the dish being primarily about great New Zealand produce.”
The monkfish by the way, is delicious. The suppliers are credited again with that. “That was probably swimming in the deep yesterday, at most the day before.” Monkfish is hard to maintain on a menu, supply can sometimes be inconsistent depending on catch and demand. “We’re lucky to be part of a group in that respect, we can be assured of consistent supply. There’s only once we haven’t had it delivered and even then, we were able to serve another deep-sea fish in it’s place.”
And what of the Argentinian red shrimp, dressed with garlic and lardo di colonnata? It’s an example of another core principle behind Shenton’s menu development. “Well it’s just so good, it’s such a good product and there’s nothing like it here in New Zealand, so it’s worth bringing it in,” he says with a relaxed grin. He goes on to explain it’s about the best product available in the peak of season. This has an immediate effect on menu development. Seasonal changes are fairly standard, meaning restaurants often base dishes around the longest stretch of a season.
“I’m really interested in when the product is at it’s very best,” Fraser says. Consequently, the kitchen is almost constantly in development with new dishes coming on to the menu quickly and always at peak of season. He’s currently working with hay in the kitchen three different ways as part of dish development for a new cut of beef he’s introducing. Fraser admits it may not make it to the final menu, but that is the unseen hard graft of creativity – you work through a range of ideas, develop some and discard others. The result that customers enjoy in the dining room is usually the product of a sometimes ecstatic, sometimes less ecstatic creative process in the kitchen.
Speaking of ecstatic, the pork cheek with fermented cabbage and crackling arrives. Still a relatively unusual cut to see on a menu, the acidic and punchy kimchi variation cuts through the fatty and tender pork harmoniously. It’s good to have the chef on hand to explain the best technique to enjoy it is to slice through the cheek and stir it through the vegetable. Only a fork is required. This dish screams of Asian influence but again, it’s restrained enough that it feels at place overlooking the harbour in downtown Auckland. The five-day process to create the perfect crackling is explained as well, which I won’t share but will experiment with in my own kitchen at some point soon. There have to be some benefits to having lunch with the chef.
Fraser admits there are pressures created by this very responsive approach to seasonal food, offset by a well-balanced and established relationship between himself and Stewart. The process of ‘re-launching’ FISH over the last few months has obviously built a strong rapport between the executive and head chef, not to mention the relationship with the Hilton. At a party to celebrate the re-opening just the week before, Roger Brantsma smiled widely, visibly and outspoken about the pride the Hilton Group have in the offering. Reciprocally, Fraser says Brantsma and the Hilton team couldn’t have been more supportive, which combined with Nourish Group’s experience and resource is a really positive environment for what they are trying to achieve.
“What is that, exactly?” I ask. Dessert is a difficult choice between chocolate tart and the exquisite cheese selection. Chef decides on the chocolate tart which is indulgent. Thankfully I’m good at indulgence.
“Well, it’s about being honest,” he says, at which I almost want to challenge him on a relatively cliché description. However, the evidence is on the plate.
“Yes, but you haven’t branded the restaurant as being about local and sustainable produce, organics or any of those ideas we traditionally associate with ‘honest’ food.”
“No, but we are doing our best to be. We’ve chosen a partnership with Yealand wines because they run a carbon-zero winery and because they have the best New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc in the world.” Fraser goes on to explain that it’s both and Yealands have just moved (their office) into the same building on Princes Wharf, so the ideal of being local has more meaning than simply running a 100 kilometre menu.
It’s that same understated Kiwi attitude that demands a certain sort of integrity from the marketing talk chefs are sometimes expected to do. While it would be easy to create a thread of a story that starts with a young Shenton growing up in Whangarei, working the wood-fired pizza ovens at Leigh Sawmill influencing his menu at FISH, the truer story is less historical, more present day.
“We were on a road trip around the country recently and it really did bring me back to how much we have here on offer in New Zealand and what our food stories really are. Hence the hay I’m working with right now. It’s what we saw as we drove through the country and it’s what the cattle are eating right now, at this time of year. So it makes sense to bring that relationship through to the plate.”
There’s that honesty and approachability. The food is faultless, because at no point does the technique overwhelm or detract from how the ingredients work together on the plate. Everything makes sense and is delicious. In addition, it’s also approachable. Let’s put one more of those hotel restaurant myths to bed. The wine list is exceptional, as is the menu and it’s all affordable, despite million dollar views across the harbour.
I’ve been regretful that with the close of The Food Store in Viaduct Harbour (it’s now Oyster & Chop, which is fairly self-explanatory), there has been an absence of a distinctly New Zealand restaurant in Auckland. Certainly, there are plenty that use great produce but there is a clear character present at FISH that subtly but strongly resonates the best of what New Zealand cuisine can be and that alone makes it worth the walk down the wharf.
FISH
Hilton Auckland
Princess Wharf
Open 12pm until late, 7 days
Phone (09) 978 2020
email@fishrestaurant.co.nz
www.fishrestaurant.co.nz
by tashmcgill | Jun 7, 2016 | Drink, Opinion, Tasting Notes
The days are getting colder and in my neighbourhood, the smell of burning wood and charcoal is hanging in the night air by 6pm each night. That smell reminds me of the burning peat I smelled in the same dark air hanging over Islay. I imagine the dark cove in Ardbeg Bay. It’s not hard to picture the black outline of a pirate ship hidden in the black ink of the Sound.
When Ardbeg Night passed this year on the 28th of May, it started as each of the last five Ardbeg Days has – whisky fans lined up for the bottles to go on sale and to taste the latest release. But as night fell, the smoke and mist rose up in a late autumn haze and we ducked under the cover of our own darkened den, a safe haven underground called the Jefferson.
The Dark Cove sat side by side in a vertical tasting of Ardbeg Ten, Uigeadail and Corrywreckan. Disclaimer – my favourite of all the Ardbeg releases is the Uigeadail. As soon as I lift the lid of the tasting glass, I can smell the distinctive nose and my mouth waters at the blush pink of salmon blinis lining the tasting table. It’s going to be a delicious night and I’m ready to indulge my memories of Islay already.
Scotch salmon, lemon and salt was one of my favourite meals at the Port Charlotte Hotel in Islay. I’m swept up in nostalgia and excited to talk whisky with other food writers and lovers in this special tasting.
The beauty of this vertical tasting is to explore the Ardbeg Day whisky as part of the Ardbeg story.. as told by many previous releases. Jonny leads us to begin with the Ardbeg Ten. The classic profile is straightforward but big, because it’s all on counterpoint to the traditional Ardbeg smoke.
Ardbeg Ten
Nose: Faint vanilla in the air and a ring of citrus that surrounds a firepit of peaty embers and sea salt spray.
Palate: It delivers exactly what’s promised on the nose. Vanilla becomes sweet, citrus becomes distinct as lemon and lime with a smoky, salt brine.
Finish: The sugars develop to leave a lingering sea salt caramel and smoke haze. It’s long.
This Ardbeg is well-balanced and sets the scene for the journey that each consequent Ardbeg will take us on. So to Uigeadail we go. This is bottled at 54.2%, an extraordinarily precise figure that the distillery manager assured me is the perfect cut to enjoy the raisin-rich tones added to the spirit from time in ex-Sherry casks. Once again, those sherry notes capture me.
Uigeadail is named for the Loch from which Ardbeg draws its rich, peaty water. It means ‘dark and mysterious place’ and the water that runs from the loch is tinged dark from the peat it runs through. This whisky has intrigued and wooed me from first tasting, a multi-layered and complex whisky that comes from
Ardbeg Uigeadail
Nose: Ground coffee beans, dark sugars, oats and cereal with classic peat profile.
Palate: Dark, sweet fruits hit first. Cereal and oats on the nose become a mouthful of malt, with the sweetness of honey around the edges. Quickly the smoke and peat emerges, leaving the crack of peated barley on the tongue.
Finish: Long as Ardbeg tends to be: the sweet dark sugars emerge again into dark caramel and malt. The Ardbeg smoke rounds with touches of espresso coffee.
Now we move on to the Corrywreckan, named for the monstrous whirlpool that sits off the north west coast of Islay. Various warnings exist for seamen daring enough to approach, but the best visage is offered from the air. The currents of the sound meet in an extraordinary surge. Such it is with this malt, the peppery, smoky air of Islay churning in the glass. Of the extreme whiskies, this is an extreme example. Every flavour is blown to an extreme, no surprise given that it’s bottled at an astounding 57.1%.
Ardbeg Corrywreckan
Nose: Dettol and plastic, roasted fats and salt, butter on potatoes and light, herbal notes like a pine tree blowing in the breeze.
Palate: This malt buzzes on the palate with fresh tangy fruit, pepper, spice and then a smooth creamy nature that belies the alcohol percentage. I get a orange note at the backend that feels juicy and sweet, while maintaining the tartness of the fresh peel, bitterness entering at the end.
Finish: By the end the story is all medicinal, salt, cream and fresh fruit. It’s long but not as long in my opinion as the Uigeadail, but it’s also not as mysterious. Everything about Corrywreckan leaps out and smacks you in the face. The peaty element will fly past you, but chili, asphalt, bbq smoked meat and salt will linger long.
You can read the Dark Cove tasting notes here. There’s obviously some sherry cask (PX, for my money) in the Dark Cove. It’s perhaps my most favourite of the Ardbeg Day releases since Ardbog, which was peaty, earthy and bold.
Where to next? Personally, I’d love to see the Ardbeg team take the citrus notes to another level or explore that edge of salt and medicinals that make the malt so distinctive. I want to see what happens with a chocolate and coffee emphasis balanced in sherry casks or dare I say, a wine finished Ardbeg whisky that I am certain is sitting in a warehouse on the coast of Islay. Ardbeg gave us space whisky. Keep giving us the future Bill.
by tashmcgill | Jun 2, 2016 | Monologues, Poems
If you want to build resilience into your character, visit a bar. Put on your favourite clothes, wear your best scent. Promise yourself to be exactly who you are in every moment, because there are things that sometimes happen in a bar that can make you strong. They won’t feel good but they will stretch you, assure you, reaffirm you. You will feel your heart swell and your spine grow tall like an oak tree. Visit a bar and listen, learn the difference between what people say and what they mean. Hold nothing tightly but yourself and remember always to rise.
This story has happened more than once so I have had to learn to let it empower me but it sits in memory. Last night, two phenomenal women in their 50’s sat alongside me and asked if I was fine drinking alone. It was joy to tell them yes, I am happy to sit alone and listen, or not alone and still listen. Then I thought of a night with two other phenomenal friends, women of great beauty and I remembered why sometimes it is not so easy.
Amazing.
‘Hello,’ and you swagger into the midst
of a conversation you were not invited to,
but discretion is powerful and so
I am not rude. I give you leave to
make a case or entertain and then you say it –
‘You two are amazing girls.’
So then I had to look you in the eye and
consider what happens sometimes in a bar
and what a woman does.
I’m certain your mother loves you
but I am equally certain she did not raise you
to be defined by the weight of your purse
or the length of your stride.
Nor did mine raise me to be defined or dictated
by the weight of where your gaze rests
Or how the word beautiful drops off your tongue
I taught myself to raise my head and
keep my words inside my lips; fool, jerk, dick.
Tonight, you looked at the woman to my left
and the woman on my right and said
‘You two are amazing girls.’
Your pronunciation pointed
in any direction but mine.
So I raised my head
and brought up my pride
looked you right in the eye.
I watched you until I saw you,
and you saw me but didn’t see a thing.
You are right, these are amazing women.
Talented, compassionate and smart
You would have come to know that eventually
but it’s not what you meant when you said
Amazing.
You meant beautiful in such a way you
wanted to touch them, possess them
as you looked left and right
and over me, through me
around me as if I were nothing
and thought instead of having
power over beauty.
Did you have a mother who loved you
but couldn’t or maybe wouldn’t
teach you that where two women are amazing
the third is most likely a Queen
so that is why you didn’t know, when you met me
how you were in the presence of royalty?
I raised my head and brought up my pride
from within me; looked you right in the eye.
I watched you until I saw you, and you saw me.
And still you did not bow to me.
So let me tell you again, because it should be known,
where there are three women
sitting at a bar or on a step or anywhere
it is statistical impossibility, a scientific anomaly
if only two of three women could be called amazing
because amazing women stick together
out of necessity because there are some who
caress our skin uninvited
or interrupt with awkward conversation
when we were just now solving significant problems
and we didn’t care what you had for dinner
or to tell you of ours when
We had other amazing things to talk about
and no desire to give you power over our beauty.
But this is just a bar and
you didn’t come for serious talk
you came for a drink and a laugh
and to drink in the sights
possessing us for a moment
despite being momentarily blind
seeing two not three
women in your company; sigh
it’s not likely you will ever see,
not enough for Woman One, Two
or Three
but I’ll give you this; perhaps
with my head raised I can
offer you a new definition of amazing
(though I am certain you were raised
from the warm womb of kindness
by a woman who was also thus)
if you could somehow
raise yourself up and learn to see
then Three is the prize you seek
Three knows more than the world
and has the colour and power of a Queen
knows how grit can polish and
rolls her hips because it pleases her
and takes pleasure gladly in it
the feeding, clothing and making of love
gives out grace because she knows
she can afford the price and pays it
from a deep, old treasure chest
meets you mark for mark
in the heat of an argument
in the depth of her heart.
Your blindness is heavier than your hands
which do not, will not and can not touch me,
but I rise
shake it off and walk unburdened
by the weight of all that is amazing in me
what you could not see between my breasts
or in the sway of my warm, wide hips.
I was glad of the beauty either side of me
beauty of mind and glow of skin
I was gladly not beholden to profanity
the offence of blasphemy that you
could ignore the wonder of me.
the presence of amazing me,
so I rise
I feel delicately the absence
of perfection under your eyes
but I rise
and decide your eyes are not the seeing kind
I entertain the words I might use in response and sigh,
instead onto the higher ground,
I rise
seen or unseen,
beauty to the left and right
but mostly in the midst of me.
