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Taste of heaven
When I was a kid vinegar was clear and distilled or amber and cider, and it was chiefly used, as I recall, to fix the dye in Easter eggs. Either it, or I, have come a long way since. Recently I was in the kitchen at Restaurant Tallent working on a Slow Food project with Chef Dave when he approached me with a vinegar bottle and a spoon. I was wary — it was vaguely reminiscent of the way my mom used to dose me with Robitussin — but in Dave's kitchen I trust him implicitly. He poured a few drops from bottle to spoon and I took my medicine like a good girl. I wish I were a better writer so I could tell you how astoundingly good that vinegar was. It wasn't sharp or stingy or eye-watering like the vinegar of my youth, but rounded and sweet and pungent and almost vanillalike on the back of my tongue. This must be why oenophiles use so many peculiar adjectives for wine — the normal words for the things we taste don't really do the trick. I made those few drops last as long as I could, and then licked the spoon like a lollipop. What the heck is that, I asked him (although in slightly stronger terms). Minus 8 vinegar, he replied, made from grapes that have been left on the vine into the autumn, when frost concentrates the sugars and flavors. It's rare, expensive and delicious, and he corked it and stowed it away where I couldn't get at it. An obsession was born on the spot. As soon as I got home I hit the Internet, ordering my very own bottle of Minus 8, and while I was at it, a few (okay, 10) other vinegars that sounded intriguing. If people can have wine tastings, I saw no reason why I couldn't organize a vinegar tasting. By the time I was done I had assembled 15 bottles and four tasters who were willing to spend a few hours sipping them with me. That may not be everyone's idea of a wild party, but I had a blast and learned an amazing amount about vinegar in the process. Vinegar (vinaigre) means sour wine in French. Basically, what makes vinegar happen is that bacteria is introduced into wine, or juice, or fermented honey or grains and converts the alcohol into acetic acid. The taste of the vinegar varies with the quality and flavor of the initial wine, the bacterial culture, the container the vinegar is aged in, and the length of the aging. Vinegars range from the everyday workhorse of white distilled vinegar, made from wood or petroleum products and great for making pickles and scrubbing coffee pots, to the pedigreed high-steppers like balsamic vinegar which, if you pay enough for it (about $180 for a very small bottle), can be a splendid thing, caramelly, rich and mellow. Among the bottles I collected for my vinegar tasting were a champagne vinegar, a chardonnay and a zinfandel, a couple of sherry vinegars (one 50 years old), vinegars from the French port-like Banyuls and the Italian dessert wine, Vin Santo, a honey vinegar, a blueberry vinegar, an aged cider, my Minus 8, and a special balsamic that I had been hoarding for a long time. Most of these vinegars I bought online at zingermans.com. My tasters and I sat down one morning with bottles and spoons and got to work. Some of the vinegars tasted like Easter egg dye — up-the-nose-sour, and back-of-the-mouth tart. The zinfandel, the blueberry, and the aged cider fell into this category. These were vinegars that would make a good salad dressing — usually one part vinegar to 3 parts oil, to offset the pucker. In the middle were a range of vinegars that had their own distinct and wonderful flavors in addition to that vinegar tang. Fratelli Pofi vinegar smelled like honey and tasted like apricots. Pastry chef Kristen Tallent imagined peaches marinated in it, served with salted pistachio ice cream. The Vinagre de Banyuls was almost drinkable by itself with a nutty, aged sherry taste. It too would make a spectacular vinaigrette (try it on a watermelon and feta salad) and the chefs in the group thought it would be perfect for finishing a sauce. The chardonnay vinegar from a small Spanish village was unexpectedly good. Very sweet and perfumey, ideal for dressing fruit or saucing seafood. The aged sherry vinegar was acidic, but had a complex and evocative aftertaste that reminded my friend Pat of "figs, raisins and other dark things." The Vin Santo was mellow but intense. And then there was the A-list. These were vinegars that could be drizzled over fruit or foie gras or fish, or just sipped all by themselves. I have to say that the idea of "sipping vinegars" has always seemed preposterous to me, as appealing as drinking mouthwash, but that's apparently because real sipping vinegars had never come my way. To be sippable, vinegar needs to be mellow, and flavorful and non-acidy. Such vinegar could tickle the taste buds before dinner as an aperitif, straight up or stirred into sparkling mineral water. Or a tiny, tiny serving might be the very thing after a rich meal, to help settle the stomach and give you a well-fed glow. Several of the midrange vinegars we tasted could be sipped but the ones on the high end of the scale demanded it. The Minus 8 is lovely with food, but it is a marvel sipped from a glass. And then there was the legend: gold label, tradizionale balsamic. Aged for more than 50 years in wooden casks in Modena, Italy, it coats the spoon with a reddish chocolate sheen and tastes of ripe fruits and caramel and oak against a softly pungent background. The real thing is exquisite, the stuff you see dotted sparingly around the plate at a high-end restaurant, served with heirloom tomatoes or perfectly ripe strawberries. It's enough to make a lucky Easter Egg think it had dyed and gone to heaven. Vinegar PieAdapted from Gourmet Magazine, May, 2002 Vinegar pie is an old fashioned dessert that hearkens back to a time when we couldn't get lemons year round. Vinegar and lemon extract allowed you to make an out-of-season lemon meringue pie whenever you felt like it. But vinegar pie is delicious in its own right. I made this pie with cider vinegar (very good) and Minus 8 (served with ripe peaches — really fantastic). I also experimented with balsamic vinegar (supermarket grade) and strawberries. It was outstanding! Play with this recipe to find a combination you like. Flaky pastry dough for one pie, partially prebaked 2 large eggs 1 cup sugar 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 1 cup cold water 2-4 tablespoons cider or other vinegar (depending on how pungent it is, and how sour you like your pie) Cinnamon for dusting (optional) Whipped cream for serving Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Whisk together eggs and 1/4 cup sugar in a bowl until blended well. Whisk together flour and remaining 3/4 cup sugar in a 1-quart heavy saucepan, then whisk in water and vinegar. Bring to a boil, whisking until sugar is dissolved. Add to egg mixture in a slow stream, whisking constantly. Pour filling into saucepan and cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until filling coats back of spoon and registers 175 degrees on an instant-read thermometer, 12 to 15 minutes. (Do not boil.) Immediately pour filling into a 2-cup glass measure. If pie shell is not ready, cover surface of filling with a round of wax paper. Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees , then pour hot filling into baked pie shell in middle of oven and cover rim of crust with a pie shield or foil (to prevent overbrowning). Bake pie until filling is set, 15 to 20 minutes, then cool completely in pan on a rack. Dust evenly with cinnamon. Serve with whipped cream. Serves eight to 10. The strawberry balsamic variation I tried (source, Los Angeles Times, July 15, 1998) called for a custard made from 1 cup sugar, 3 tablespoons flour, 1/2 cup water, 1/3 cup melted butter, 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar, and two eggs. Halve 10 ripe strawberries and line the crust with them. Pour custard over and bake until set. |
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