I've been thinking about wine pairings lately--mainly because Julia Child dedicates several pages of her book to them--and I'm just not sure about them. Granted, I know that some things definitely do not jive (for example: last night's dinner was, as recommended by Julia, paired with a rose--but Julia did not recommend the rose to accompany the blue cheese appetizers). But I think sometimes--well, you might as well do what you want.
Last night's bottle of wine was a special one, if only for one reason: it came from France. It was one of Ian's and my souvenirs from our European trip last summer, and we finally found a good use for it. French dinner, French wine. It was a Bordeaux Rose--le Rose de Malartic. Before our journey to Paris, I'd never heard of such a thing, and I certainly never would have ordered a rose with dinner--or any other time, for that matter. But while dining out at a fancy restaurant near l'Opera, we thought we ordered a regular Bordeaux and got a rose instead. Domage. Well, actually, not domage--the wine wasn't half bad. In fact, to our surprise, we liked it. So we bought a similar bottle and brought it home.
I wish I could remember exactly what that wine tasted like. I wish I could compare. Because while last night's rose wasn't revolting, it wasn't as delightful as I remembered, either. It wasn't as hopelessly sweet as White Zin (thank goodness) but it wasn't particularly complex, either. Generally, I just felt that it was a little flat. Not offensively so. But still--flat.
This, of course, makes me wonder about other things. We ate pre-packaged Madeleines in Paris, from a sealed plastic bag--were those as amazing as we thought they were? We bought cheeses that made our tongues melt--were those as amazing as we thought they were? Were we in a food haze? Because we loved everything in Paris--with the exception of a very expensive, very disgusting meal, which I swear included Pace in my appetizer and Ragu in my entree--a revolting meal in any country.
Still, I have to wonder--was last night's wine really flat, or was it because it was drunk in an American apartment with improperly trussed chicken while Ace of Cakes played in the background? It could have been in a bistro, with violins and accordions in the background, and lovely people wearing fancy shoes that click on the cobblestones as they arrive. Maybe it was pouting. Or maybe everything tastes better in Paris.
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