...or how I came to
love just a wee dram
of the single malt. When we arrived at our destination in Inverness, a grand estate now converted into an even grander hotel,
I was once a guest on the National Public Radio food show called The Splendid Table, produced by Minnesota Public Radio. In the taped interview, I was asked a popular question amongst neophytes to the world of wine: how does one discover wines from regions of the world with which they may be unfamiliar?
In my favorite film of all time, and the one I play impetuously whenever the mood envelops me, a ship emerges from a blanket of fog while the Adagietto from Mahler’s 5th Symphony, mournfully guides the film’s opening credits and ultimately the destiny of the principal character.
So here we are, in limbo, in life’s holding pattern, awaiting the calendar’s version of air traffic control to give us the thumbs up to land in the new year...
I had lunch
recently at one of my
favorite Philadelphia restaurants, Panorama, at 14 N. Front St.
I chose this restaurant because the marketing folks at Greg Norman
Estates (yes THAT Greg Norman, the golfer) invited me to meet
winemaker Andrew Hales and the winery’s U.S. PR guru Sheri
Ketchum. They wanted a “wine friendly” environment
and Panorama is so wine friendly it’s almost indecent.
A
Wine-ing Lament
Now a child of the corporate world,
it's all about sales
Watching American
Idol, I was struck
by the relative ease with which the leading judge on the panel
of experts managed to deflate the ego and confidence of the ripe
young talent who just performed before him. I’ve noticed
my own tendency towards the cutting remark, the honest opinion
and the ability to dampen and extinguish flames of enthusiasm...
On my frequent
nibbles around Europe, I am afforded the opportunity of sampling the fare at stellar
dining establishments. Places who seem to go bonkers at the merest
hint of an award from the tire company (Michelin). I really don’t
understand why a company that’s made its name in rubber
gets all these chef’s aprons in such a twist. But I digress.
We’ve all spent quite a
bit of time recently reliving the good old days—as my grandma
strangely used to refer to the War years. Even though I was born
a few short years after the Chaplin-esque tyrant topped himself,
I get misty eyed and throat lumps when I hear the sounds of that
era or see the now so familiar scenes of my beloved city being
devastated...
