Smithsonian.com

Quick, think of a wine from Argentina.

I bet I can read your mind: Malbec?

That’s the first thing I think of, and the first thing I see in wine store displays these days. There’s a reason for that: It’s consistently good, and often a bargain. Argentine malbec is my go-to red wine in the $8 to $15 range, and although I like some bottles more than others, I’ve never encountered one I truly disliked. The best ones are rich and smooth, full of dark fruit flavors livened by a peppery zing.

Cover of Vino Argentino, a new book about the Argentine wine industry by Laura Catena.

But did you know malbec is originally French? The malbec grape was once a backbone of Bordeaux blends and is still grown widely in France’s Cahors region. It’s a fairly recent immigrant to Argentina, where other wine varietals (mainly criolla) have been cultivated since the 1500s.

According to Vino Argentino, a new book by Laura Catena, malbec was introduced to Argentina in 1853, when the government hired a French agronomist named Michel Aime Pouget to establish a vine nursery in Mendoza. He brought cuttings of several French varietals, including malbec, which thrived in the semi-arid, high-altitude vineyards.

Not long after that, malbec was hit hard on its home turf by a phylloxera epidemic. Catena writes:

Some 6.2 million acres (2.5 million hectares) of vines in France were destroyed by the disease, caused by an aphid-like insect, from 1875 to 1879. At the same time, in Argentina…Malbec was being propagated through the province of Mendoza by new immigrants from Italy and Spain. The dry climate and sandy soils in Mendoza inhibited the propagation of phylloxera, and Malbec plants are almost never affected here. The grape ripens beautifully.

Though beloved domestically, it took more than a century after that for Argentine malbec to gain international renown. I can remember when I first tasted it—only two years ago, in 2008, which is roughly when its popularity seemed to explode in the American mainstream. That’s due in part to economic factors, but it’s also due to a lot of hard work in recent decades by Argentine winemakers and promoters, including Catena and her family.

Catena’s father, Nicolas Catena, was born into the wine business—his Italian-immigrant father had been making malbec in Mendoza since the 190os—but he was troubled by the turn the country’s wine industry took during the financially turbulent 1970s. Price seemed poised to trump quality.

In the early 1980s, Nicolas Catena spent time in Berkeley as a visiting professor and was inspired by the exciting developments in the California wine industry at the time. Napa Valley winemakers were still glowing from their victory in the Judgment of Paris tasting, and maverick geniuses like Randall Grahm were just getting started.

As Laura Catena writes, her father returned to Argentina “obsessed with the quest for quality.” He spent much of the next decade studying the soils and microclimates of Mendoza, consulting the experts and developing a rigorous winemaking methodology. By the mid-1990s, Catena wines were garnering critical praise from the likes of Robert Parker, and foreign wine luminaries like Michel Rolland were dabbling in Argentine vineyards. International investors took heed. The U.S. mainstream, however, was still largely oblivious.

“I can remember when I was first selling Argentine wine and no one had ever heard of it,” Laura Catena said at a panel discussion organized by the Smithsonian Latino Center earlier this month. “Now, selling malbec seems so easy.”

She attributes this in part to the devaluation of the Argentine peso in 2002, which made the wines much cheaper on the international market, and thus more attractive to importers in the United States, Canada and Britain. Consumers were drawn in by the price, then hooked by the quality. Between 2001 and 2005, Argentina’s global wine exports doubled in value to $300 million, and had nearly doubled again to $553 million by 2009.

By now, malbec and Argentina have become so closely linked in the public’s perception that the grape’s heritage is all but forgotten. France seems to know it, says Washington Post wine writer Dave McIntyre, who spotted this slogan on a booth representing malbec’s homeland at an international wine expo last year: “Try Cahors—The French Malbec.”

Of course, as that Smithsonian panel featuring Catena, McIntyre and others emphasized, there’s also much “more than malbec” to Argentine wine. There’s also bonarda, a bright, often earthy red, and torrontes, a wonderfully fragrant white, along with better-known varietals like syrah and merlot. Even cabernet sauvignon and chardonnay, the proverbial king and queen of the wine world, have been persuaded to rule there.

There’s more than Mendoza, too—although that region accounts for some three-fourths of the country’s total production, it’s just one of seven main wine regions in Argentina. I was intrigued to learn that grapes can even prosper in the distant deserts of Patagonia, in the regions of Neuquen and Rio Negro. (At the tasting after the lecture, I especially liked a red from the aptly-named Bodega del fin del Mundo, which means “winery at the end of the world,” in Neuquen.)

When the panel’s moderator, Argentine wine promoter Nora Favelukes, asked if anyone had ever tasted a wine from Argentina, nearly everyone in the packed auditorium raised a hand.

“Twenty-something years ago, had we asked a big room like this…we might have seen only two or three hands,” Catena said. “That really touches my heart.”

A sukkah at night, courtesy of Flickr user rbarenblat

Among Jewish holidays, I think Hanukkah gets more than its fair share of attention. It’s a relatively minor festival that most likely owes its elevated status in the United States to its proximity on the calendar to Christmas. As a secular Jewish kid in an overwhelmingly Christian neighborhood, I was far more enthralled with the trappings of yuletide—Christmas carols, brightly lit trees and egg nog—than with reciting a Hebrew prayer over a menorah. Sure, latkes were good, and so were the presents, but those nine little candles seemed a little lackluster when compared to the neighbors’ Griswoldian Christmas light displays.

On the other hand, I think another Jewish holiday gets short shrift—Sukkot, which starts tonight at sunset and lasts for seven days. Although my family never observed it (I only learned about it from a book of Jewish holidays my parents gave me), I wish we had; it sounds like fun. It follows soon after Yom Kippur, one of the most solemn days on the Jewish calendar, a day of reflection, atonement and fasting. Sukkot, by contrast, is a purely joyous occasion.

The celebration has two purposes: to give thanks for the harvest and to commemorate the 40 years the ancient Hebrews wandered the desert following their exodus from Egypt. A main feature of the Sukkot observance is the sukkah, a temporary hut built outdoors to remind Jews of their ancestors’ nomadism. (Sukkot observance also used to include a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, during which the pilgrims stayed in temporary shelters.) The sukkah is often elaborately decorated—sometimes with palm fronds, corn stalks or other natural materials—and all meals are eaten inside it; if the weather is nice, some people even sleep in it.

Speaking of meals, because Sukkot is also a harvest celebration, food is a big part of the festivities. Friends are often invited to dine in the sukkah, and, according to Reform Judaism magazine, some Jews follow the tradition of including less fortunate people at the sukkah table.

Stuffed foods and casseroles are especially popular, because they represent the bountiful variety of the harvest and are easy to transport to the sukkah. These can include stuffed cabbage, or holishkes, such as a sweet-and-sour Polish version from the Second Avenue Deli Cookbook (via Epicurious); dolmades, or stuffed grape leaves; or, for a twist on the root vegetable and dried fruit casserole called tsimmes, try Joan Nathan’s southwestern version, stuffed in chilies. On the final day it is traditional to eat kreplach, a meat-filled pasta similar to ravioli or wontons and served in soup or fried for a side dish (Chabad offers a simple recipe).

Stuffing foods? Giving thanks for an abundant harvest? Sound similar to a certain American holiday? In fact, some sources claim the American Pilgrims modeled their first Thanksgiving after the Sukkot festival they were familiar with from the Bible.

Smithsonian magazine staff writer Abigail Tucker wrote today’s post.

Great-grandmother O’Neill and I met only once, when I was one and she was 100, but her Irish soda bread remains a staple of family celebrations. A tiny woman who spoke with a lilting brogue, she never left Brooklyn to go visiting without her iconic loaf in hand—dense and white and crumbling, studded with raisins and caraway seeds, lightly floured on top and inscribed with a cross.

My grandmother, her daughter-in-law, could never quite tease out the recipe (“a pinch of this, a handful of that” was about as far as she got) but various descendants have developed tasty approximations, which are served not only on Saint Patrick’s Day but at family gatherings year-round.

We aren't sure if this is "real" Irish soda bread or not, but it sure looks good. Courtesy of Flickr user Robin Catesby (MizD!).

This month I visited Ireland for the first time and stood in the stony ruins of great-grandmother’s girlhood cottage, amid sheep pastures high above a blue bay. But the soda bread served in her native village and elsewhere bore little resemblance to our family’s festive specialty. The standard Irish version is brown and coarse, with nary a raisin or caraway seed in site.

Often called simply “brown bread” or “wheaten bread,” it is the opposite of a holiday food. Thick slices came with every breakfast we ate (smeared with marmalade or butter) and most lunches (accompanying potato and leek soup or in the form of cheese sandwiches.)

Both versions have a crumbling consistency and are made with buttermilk and baking soda, as opposed to yeast. But along with flour and salt, those are the only ingredients in the real thing. Great-grandmother’s classic—and what most Americans think of as Irish soda bread, based on recipes like this—is apparently a much gussied-up version of the no-nonsense original, using more expensive ingredients.

I now love both types, though apparently the bastardization of brown bread is anathema to some. The Society for the Preservation of Irish Soda Bread notes, in withering tones, that true Irish soda bread should not include any of the following: orange zest, sour cream, yogurt, chocolate, jalapenos—and especially not Irish whiskey. (“Talk about stereotyping!!!” it declares.)

“Would ‘French Bread’ (15th century) still be ‘French Bread’ if whiskey, raisins, or other random ingredients were added to the mix?” the Society’s site asks. “Would Jewish Matzo (unleavened bread), used to remember the passage of the Israelites out of Egypt, still be Matzo if we add raisins, butter, sugar, eggs, and even orange zest?”

And yet I think it might be worth discreetly lacing your loaf with honey, nuts and wheat germ—I tasted some great variations on this theme in Ireland. The bread is reportedly very easy to make and at this time of year, makes a perfect hearty pairing for full-bodied autumn soups.

This is the final installment in our series of reader-penned tales about college food—look for a new Inviting Writing theme to be announced next Monday. Many thanks to all who participated. Since there were so many good ones, we couldn’t run them all, but we loved reading them!

This sweet story comes to us from Lori Berhon, a self-described “fiction writer by vocation; technical writer by profession” based in New York City.

Fondue Memories
By Lori Berhon

At my freshman orientation, the culinary high note was that a former alumna had set up a fund to ensure that every student, lunch and dinner, had access to fresh salad. In other words, an iceberg lettuce fund. In those days, you couldn’t find arugula unless you were Italian and grew it in the yard. Julia Child was just wrapping up The French Chef, and easy access to things like balsamic vinegar, chutney, or even Sichuan cuisine was still a couple of years in the future. In short, the American Food Revolution hadn’t yet begun.

Hopping from room to room, looking for likely friends among the strangers, I noticed that a girl named Susan and I had both considered a few books from Time-Life’s “Foods of the World” series important enough to drag to school. I had The Cooking of Provincial France, The Cooking of Vienna’s Empire and another about Italy, I think. (I know one of Susan’s was Russian Cooking, because we used it the following year to cater a dinner for our Russian History class…but that’s another story.)

Courtesy of Flickr user Denis Dervisevic

It was astounding to find someone else who thought reading cookbooks was a reasonable hobby, not to mention someone else who understood what it meant when the instructions said “beat till fluffy.” Susan and I became firm friends. Over the course of our college careers, we swapped a lot of recipes, talked a lot of food and teamed up to cater a few theme-heavy history department functions. But to this day, if you ask either one of us about food and college, the first thing that comes to mind is our favorite midnight snack: chocolate fondue.

If you were in New York in the 1970s, you’ll remember the fad for narrowly-focused “La” restaurants: La Crepe, La Quiche, La Bonne Soupe (still standing!) and of course, La Fondue. Eating at these, we felt very adventurous and—more importantly—European. In this context, it shouldn’t come as a thunderbolt that my school luggage contained not only a facsimile of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, but also an avocado green aluminum fondue pot, a set of forks and an illegal electric burner.

The “illegal” bit is crucial to the experience. Our dormitory was built in 1927 and, at the dawn of the consumer electronics age, hadn’t yet been rewired. We were told not to use hair blowers in our rooms, and we were not even supposed to possess such things as burners, toasters, irons, televisions…and certainly not refrigerators. We were supposed to avail ourselves of the common-use shelf on each floor, which had an electric burner and a grounded plug. No one listened. Everyone had some sort of appliance for playing music, and I had a television, as I considered myself constitutionally unable to study unless seated in front of one. Susan had a bar-sized refrigerator that masqueraded, under a tablecloth, as a storage box.

I can’t remember how it started, but the routine was always the same. Throughout the term we kept boxes of Baker’s chocolate and miniature bottles of flavored liqueurs—Vandermint, Cherry Heering—in the metal safe boxes nailed near the doors of our bedrooms. When the craving would strike, we spent two or three days filching pats of butter (that’s where the refrigerator came in), stale cake and fruit from the school dining hall. It was pure forage—whatever we found, that’s what we’d be dipping. The anticipation was intense.

When we finally had enough, we would muster our ingredients in one room or the other late at night, after studying to whatever goal we had set. While the chocolate and butter and booze melted together in my one saucepan, we cubed the cake and fruit. The smell of melting chocolate would snake out of the transoms (1927 dormitory, remember), driving everyone else who was awake in our hall half-crazy.

We listened to Joni Mitchell, stuffed ourselves with chocolate-covered goodness and talked for hours, the way you do in college. Afterward, we’d have to wash out the saucepan and the pot in the bathroom’s shallow sinks, with the separate hot and cold taps—not so easy, but a small price to pay.

There are photos that capture that memory. We sit on the floor by the painted trunk that, when not in active service between campus and home, did duty as my “coffee table” and held the fondue pot. There’s one of each of us, looking slantwise up at the camera while carefully holding a dripping fork near the pot of molten chocolate.

A couple of years ago, some friends pulled together an ad hoc dinner after work one night. The host had a brand new fondue pot and wanted to put it to use. Stepping up, I found myself in her kitchen, melting chocolate and butter and raiding her liquor cabinet for an appropriate soupcon. The smell floated out into the living room, drawing everyone near. People picked up their forks and speared strawberries and cubes of cake, and we sat in a circle dipping chocolate and talking for hours.

Don’t you love when your college education pays off?!

A perfect Oktoberfest meal: pretzels and beer. Courtesy of Flickr user kalleboo

Tomorrow at noon local time, the lord mayor of Munich will tap the first keg of Oktoberfest beer, signifying the beginning of the German city’s 200th Oktoberfest. For two weeks thousands of locals and tourists will gather in giant tents and drink liter-size steins of beer (for the metrically challenged, that’s nearly two pints), and occasionally wine, as they rock out to traditional oom-pah-pah music. It’s never a good idea to drink a lot of beer on an empty stomach, so Brotfrauen (bread women) are on hand to sell pretzels the size of a briefcase.

I’ve never been to the official Oktoberfest, but I did become acquainted with Bavarian-style pretzels when I spent a summer in Munich during college. As part of my German language studies, I went on a work-exchange program and was placed as a chambermaid at a luxury hotel in the center of town. I was a vegetarian at the time and, if I had done a little culinary research, I would probably have chosen to study Italian or Hindi instead of German. I survived the summer in that meat-loving land eating mostly ice cream, the little chocolates I was supposed to be putting on hotel guests’ pillows, and pretzels.

There are two kinds of pretzels most Americans are familiar with—the hard-baked packaged ones and the warm, squishy salt-encrusted kind sold at baseball games and carnivals—but neither is anything like Bavarian Brezeln (as pretzels are called in German). In fact, the difference between an American soft pretzel and a Bavarian one is about as stark as between a Lender’s bagel and an Ess-a-Bagel bagel (or a Montreal bagel, for that matter). The secret, according to a recent New York Times article (which also notes the recent fashion for artisanal pretzels in New York), is lye. Lye is a caustic substance traditionally used to make soap. It also imparts a unique, almost glossy, finish to the exterior of a German pretzel, resulting in a bread that is crunchy outside and soft inside (the causticity of the lye disappears when the pretzel is baked). These specimens are a deeper brown and a lot more flavorful than their American counterparts. They can be eaten with mustard but, again, we’re talking a whole different substance than daffodil-hued French’s. Bavarian mustard can be spicy, sweet or both, sometimes with the whole grains of mustard seed still intact.

Many sources say the pretzel was actually invented by a medieval Italian monk, who used scraps of leftover dough to fashion a treat shaped like a child’s arms crossed in prayer. This explanation didn’t make any sense to me, since I had never seen anyone cross their arms in prayer, but apparently this is the traditional way for children who are not ready to receive communion to receive a priest’s blessing. (Some Mormons also pray with crossed arms, but pretzels have been around a lot longer than Latter Day Saints.) The English and German words for pretzel may have ultimately derived from the Latin word brachiatus, meaning “with arms.”

Fans of the TV series Seinfeld remember the episode where Kramer earnestly rehearses his single line in a Woody Allen movie—”These pretzels are making me thirsty.” Utter that line in an Oktoberfest tent, and someone might just hand you a liter of beer (or at least point you in the direction of the Kellnerin, or beer seller).