Lebanese Red*
Oct. 29th, 2011 11:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustWhen we received an invitation from local wine merchant Michael Jobling to join him and Ralph Hochar for dinner at Bistro 21 tasting wines from Chateau Musar, we barely hesitated. It wasn't cheap, but nor was it half the price that the Wine Society charges for its dinners. And we have a long, on and off, relationship with Chateau Musar: it would be a good opportunity to discover where we stood at present (and if nothing else, we'd find out the correct way to pronounce 'Hochar'**).
I've been trying to remember, and my best guess is that we first came across Chateau Musar in the 1970s, from Vinceremos: in addition to organic wines, they stocked a small number of wines from unexpected places, and Chateau Musar was one of these***. It was outside our normal price range, but we were intrigued by the description, by the idea that someone was making wine in war-torn Lebanon, harvesting grapes across the Green Line, and by its age (it was sold at seven or eight years old, I think, and we didn't often taste wines of that age). So we ordered a bottle for a treat, and loved it: it was rich and heady, mellow and structured, and it become our wine of choice for special occasions. But something happened: eventually we opened a bottle and it tasted... cooked: like Christmas pudding, but not in a good way. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't the beautifully integrated wine we were expecting. Another bottle was much the same, and a sample at a tasting likewise. So clearly it wasn't a matter of a single dud bottle, either the wine had changed or I had. We have continued to buy and enjoy the second wines from Chateau Musar, but not the iconic Musar itself,
The evening started with a glass of Musar Jeune rosé in the bar: this is described as a "dry, deeply-coloured, serious Rosé", which is accurate if you start from the traditional pale salmon-pink rosés of Provence. (The modern style in rosé - and not just from the New World - tends to a deep raspberry pink and a sweet, heavily fruited flavour, and I spend much of the summer in search of a pale old-fashioned rosé). The Musar is a bright, very pretty pink, surprisingly dry, pure cinsault, deliciously refreshing on its own (we'd walked just over a mile to the restaurant) and a perfect foil for the first course, four dinky little packages of crisp aubergine containing a silky aubergine puree.
The Musar Jeune white was less distinctive: a fresh and fruity blend of viognier, chardonnay and vermentino, it rather overpowered the delicate flavour of the brill, cooked simply with coriander and served with rice and a light cream sauce. I thought the wine needed a creamier sauce; when Ralph Hochar said that people had compared it to the wines of Alsace, it occurred to me that it would be excellent with Chinese foods. But that's true of so many wines.
Up to this point the wine had been flowing very freely; now we moved on to the reds, and things got serious. The large glasses were cleared away, and as the main course was served (two pieces of beef beautifully cooked, one pink and juicy, the other richly caramelised) helpings of the Musar Jeune Red and the Hochar Père et Fils (2004) were measured into tasting glasses. We weren't stinted, but the change of tempo was disconcerting. The Jeune was deep saturated purple in colour, all spicy dark fruits (mostly syrah, with cabernet sauvignon and cinsault).
I was amused by Ralph Hochar's explanation of the origin of the 'Père et Fils' wine: I remembered or first encounter with this wine, in the 1980s. We had learned, I don't remember how, that 'selected branches' of Marks & Spencer would be stocking a new wine from Chateau Musar, which Gaston Hochar - the patriarch of the clan, and founder of the winery - had named in honour of his new grandson. We had stormed into M&S in Durham and demanded to know where we might find a 'selected branch', and they had ordered up a case which we had to collect from the Team Valley - it was worth it. But the inside story was that the wine had been produced especially for Marks & Spencer and that the name was their choice, to emphasise the traditional nature and heritage of the wine: the marriage with M&S had not lasted, but the divorce had been amicable. The offspring, as we tasted it that night, was thriving: it was very much the Chateau Musar I remembered.
Finally, we tasted, before dessert, Chateau Musar itself (2001). It certainly didn't display the overheated faults I recalled; if anything, it was too restrained, less open than the Père et Fils, all elegance and finesse, without the opulence of the younger wine. That was unexpected. Dessert was another variation on the 'black fruit' theme, large ripe blackberries surrounding a little turret of vanilla cream.
We walked home well pleased with our evening. I might even be tempted to buy a bottle of Chateau Musar occasionally (although given their respective prices, I'd probably be happy to settle for the Père et Fils). I might be tempted to dine at Bistro 21 more often, too (though we were told, in awed tones, that "Terry's in the kitchen tonight" so perhaps we were seeing it at its best.
Two bonus (unverified) wine facts: the Bekaa Valley is the world's third or fourth highest wine growing area (after Argentina, Chile and parts of Spain); Mzar - the original spelling - means a small castle.
*It's an old joke, and old jokes, like old friends, should be greeted with affection. Laughter is not obligatory.
**'Hoshar' - pretty much French-style, but with an audible H.
***Another was Rabbi Jacob, a kosher red from - if I'm remembering this correctly - Morocco, which was for some time our house wine.
I've been trying to remember, and my best guess is that we first came across Chateau Musar in the 1970s, from Vinceremos: in addition to organic wines, they stocked a small number of wines from unexpected places, and Chateau Musar was one of these***. It was outside our normal price range, but we were intrigued by the description, by the idea that someone was making wine in war-torn Lebanon, harvesting grapes across the Green Line, and by its age (it was sold at seven or eight years old, I think, and we didn't often taste wines of that age). So we ordered a bottle for a treat, and loved it: it was rich and heady, mellow and structured, and it become our wine of choice for special occasions. But something happened: eventually we opened a bottle and it tasted... cooked: like Christmas pudding, but not in a good way. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't the beautifully integrated wine we were expecting. Another bottle was much the same, and a sample at a tasting likewise. So clearly it wasn't a matter of a single dud bottle, either the wine had changed or I had. We have continued to buy and enjoy the second wines from Chateau Musar, but not the iconic Musar itself,
The evening started with a glass of Musar Jeune rosé in the bar: this is described as a "dry, deeply-coloured, serious Rosé", which is accurate if you start from the traditional pale salmon-pink rosés of Provence. (The modern style in rosé - and not just from the New World - tends to a deep raspberry pink and a sweet, heavily fruited flavour, and I spend much of the summer in search of a pale old-fashioned rosé). The Musar is a bright, very pretty pink, surprisingly dry, pure cinsault, deliciously refreshing on its own (we'd walked just over a mile to the restaurant) and a perfect foil for the first course, four dinky little packages of crisp aubergine containing a silky aubergine puree.
The Musar Jeune white was less distinctive: a fresh and fruity blend of viognier, chardonnay and vermentino, it rather overpowered the delicate flavour of the brill, cooked simply with coriander and served with rice and a light cream sauce. I thought the wine needed a creamier sauce; when Ralph Hochar said that people had compared it to the wines of Alsace, it occurred to me that it would be excellent with Chinese foods. But that's true of so many wines.
Up to this point the wine had been flowing very freely; now we moved on to the reds, and things got serious. The large glasses were cleared away, and as the main course was served (two pieces of beef beautifully cooked, one pink and juicy, the other richly caramelised) helpings of the Musar Jeune Red and the Hochar Père et Fils (2004) were measured into tasting glasses. We weren't stinted, but the change of tempo was disconcerting. The Jeune was deep saturated purple in colour, all spicy dark fruits (mostly syrah, with cabernet sauvignon and cinsault).
I was amused by Ralph Hochar's explanation of the origin of the 'Père et Fils' wine: I remembered or first encounter with this wine, in the 1980s. We had learned, I don't remember how, that 'selected branches' of Marks & Spencer would be stocking a new wine from Chateau Musar, which Gaston Hochar - the patriarch of the clan, and founder of the winery - had named in honour of his new grandson. We had stormed into M&S in Durham and demanded to know where we might find a 'selected branch', and they had ordered up a case which we had to collect from the Team Valley - it was worth it. But the inside story was that the wine had been produced especially for Marks & Spencer and that the name was their choice, to emphasise the traditional nature and heritage of the wine: the marriage with M&S had not lasted, but the divorce had been amicable. The offspring, as we tasted it that night, was thriving: it was very much the Chateau Musar I remembered.
Finally, we tasted, before dessert, Chateau Musar itself (2001). It certainly didn't display the overheated faults I recalled; if anything, it was too restrained, less open than the Père et Fils, all elegance and finesse, without the opulence of the younger wine. That was unexpected. Dessert was another variation on the 'black fruit' theme, large ripe blackberries surrounding a little turret of vanilla cream.
We walked home well pleased with our evening. I might even be tempted to buy a bottle of Chateau Musar occasionally (although given their respective prices, I'd probably be happy to settle for the Père et Fils). I might be tempted to dine at Bistro 21 more often, too (though we were told, in awed tones, that "Terry's in the kitchen tonight" so perhaps we were seeing it at its best.
Two bonus (unverified) wine facts: the Bekaa Valley is the world's third or fourth highest wine growing area (after Argentina, Chile and parts of Spain); Mzar - the original spelling - means a small castle.
*It's an old joke, and old jokes, like old friends, should be greeted with affection. Laughter is not obligatory.
**'Hoshar' - pretty much French-style, but with an audible H.
***Another was Rabbi Jacob, a kosher red from - if I'm remembering this correctly - Morocco, which was for some time our house wine.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-30 07:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-30 10:25 am (UTC)An endearing aspect of Ralph Hochar's presentation was that although he spoke mainly about the business side of the company, and was quite dry and technical about the wine, he became quite lyrical about the Lebanon itself, and the temple of Bacchus at Baalbek.