Riesling Quotes

I want to change my life...except I sort of like it. I mean, I couldn't be more delighted every Monday night after Fletch goes to bed when I come downstairs, pull up the Bachelor on TiVo, drink Riesling, and eat cheddar/port wine Kaukauna cheese without freakign out over fat grams. I'm perpetually in a good mood because I do everything I want. I love having the freedom to skip the gym to watch a Don Knots movie on the Disney Channel without a twinge of guilt. I've figured out how to not be beholden to what other people believe I should be doing, and when the world tells me I ought to be a size eight, I can thumb my nose at them in complete empowerment.

...some men say get them crying on your shoulder and you have the sheets half-unfurled already. Other fellows say get them laughing. I say get them drunk. I ordered up more Riesling...

I'd urge you to try German Riesling because it's delicious, but I fear you'll be more impressed if I tell you it's cutting-edge. That, after all, is what we want to know-- what's now and happening. (Do you really think clunky square-toed shoes make your feet look better than those with slimming, tapered toes? You just wear them because that's what fashion dictates, you slut.)

In the cafeteria Ana and Maya’s voices grow louder in heated debate and Kira hurries down the stairs before one of the girls says something about boys that her mother would have to scrub away from her brain with soap, water, and copious amounts of Riesling.

Goriška Brda, Simčič has been around for some time and is one of the best. Also very good and consistent is Ščurek. And let's not forget Movia. Vinakoper has once again been voted tops for offering the best value for money. But it’s not just about reds from Primorska. In the last few years there’s been much interest in the whites of the northeast: Silvaner from Marof; Riesling from Ducal, Kupljen and Protner; Furmint from Verus and P&F; and the native Bouvier variety from Radgonske Gorice. In fact, Sauvignon Blanc from the northeast is being compared with New Zealand’s very best. And just this year, Pullus from Ptuj won the coveted Decanter International Trophy for its Welschriesling 2012.

Come on, let's get you an apron." There probably wasn't any real point in making him wear something over his fur and ragged clothes. Still, she tied a tablecloth up and around his neck, trying not to make him look ridiculous. Actually, if the thick white cloth had leather straps, he could easily be Hephaestus or one of his titan helpers working the forge on Olympus. But they were going to make ratatouille, not swords for heroes. "...And buckwheat crepes, and an onion tart, and coq au... um... Riesling, in a skillet," she added thoughtfully, looking at the time. The clock in the kitchen didn't talk, thankfully. "We don't have time for a true coq au vin or cassoulet. Oooh, and a tarte tatin for dessert!

Three square tiers of hazelnut cake filled with caramel mousse and sliced poached pears, sealed with vanilla buttercream scented with pear eau-de-vie. It's covered in a smooth expanse of ivory fondant decorated with what appear to be natural branches of pale green dogwood but are actually gum paste and chocolate, and with almost-haphazard sheer spheres of silvery blown sugar, as if a child came by with a bottle of bubbles and they landed on the cake. On the top, in lieu of the traditional bride and groom, is a bottle of Dexter's favorite Riesling in a bow tie and a small three-tier traditional wedding cake sporting a veil, both made out of marzipan. It took me the better part of the last three weeks to make this cake. Not to mention the loaves of banana bread, the cellophane bags of pine nut shortbread cookies, and the little silver boxes of champagne truffles in the gift bags. And the vanilla buttermilk panna cottas we're serving with balsamic-macerated berries as the pre-dessert before the cake. And the hand-wrapped caramels and shards of toffee and dark-chocolate-covered candied ginger slices that will be served with the coffee.

Depuis les siècles des siècles, les rillettes sont du Mans, le piment d’Espelette, le cassoulet de Castelnaudary, la poularde de Bresse, les escargots de Bourgogne, l’andouille de Vire, la saucisse de Strasbourg, la potée est limousine, l’aligot auvergnat, le poussin au riesling alsacien, la bouillabaisse de Marseille, le coq au vin du Berry, la quiche lorraine, la tête de veau sous la mère de Corrèze, l’huître de Marennes, la sole est dieppoise, la mouclade est de La Rochelle, le saucisson chaud de Lyon, les tripes de Caen, le morteau de Morteau et le camembert de Camembert. Chaque petit Français apprend cela plus sûrement que l’orthographe.

Orange Sesame Dressing Serves: 3 4 tablespoons unhulled sesame seeds, divided ¼ cup raw cashew nuts or ⅛ cup raw cashew butter 2 navel oranges, peeled 2 tablespoons Blood Orange Vinegar*, Riesling Reserve Vinegar*, or white wine vinegar Toast the sesame seeds in a dry skillet over medium-high heat for 3 minutes, mixing with a wooden spoon and shaking the pan frequently. In a high-powered blender, combine 2 tablespoons of the sesame seeds, cashews, oranges, and vinegar. If needed, add orange juice for a thinner consistency. Sprinkle remaining sesame seeds on top of the salad. Serving Suggestion: Toss with mixed greens, tomatoes, red onions, and additional diced oranges or kiwi. PER SERVING: CALORIES 162; PROTEIN 5g; CARBOHYDRATE 17g; TOTAL FAT 9.6g; SATURATED FAT 1.5g; SODIUM 4mg; FIBER 3.5g; BETA-CAROTENE 82mcg; VITAMIN C 55mg; CALCIUM 133mg; IRON 2.2mg; FOLATE 43mcg; MAGNESIUM 76mg; ZINC 1.4mg; SELENIUM 5.4mcg

The Albert Boxler Riesling, not from Germany, but from Alsace, one of the high-end pours at twenty-six dollars a glass. And I was drinking it. Nicky had served it to me. To thank me. I rolled it through my mouth the way Simone had taught me, pursing my lips and cupping my tongue and almost making an inward whistle. I thought it would be sweet. I thought I tasted honey, or something like peaches. But then it was so dry it felt like someone had pierced me.

It was a buoyant place under a clear sky, everything in the air whispered that the plains were far behind and the sunlight sent a flicker and a flash of reflections glancing up from the snow; and two more invisible lines had been crossed and important ones: the accent had changed and wine cellars had taken the place of beerhalls. Instead of those grey mastodontic mugs, wine-glasses glittered on the oak. (It was under a vista of old casks in a Weinstube that I settled with my diary till bedtime.) The plain bowls of those wine-glasses were poised on slender glass stalks, or on diminishing pagodas of little globes, and both kinds of stem were coloured: a deep green for Mosel and, for Rhenish, a brown smoky gold that was almost amber. When horny hands lifted them, each flashed forth its coloured message in the lamplight. It is impossible, drinking by glass in those charmingly named inns and wine-cellars, not to drink too much. Deceptively and treacherously, those innocent-looking goblets hold nearly half a bottle and simply by sipping one could explore the two great rivers below and the Danube and all Swabia, and Franconia too by proxy, and the vales of Imhof and the faraway slopes of Würzburg: journeying in time from year to year, with draughts as cool as a deep well, limpidly varying from dark gold to pale silver and smelling of glades and meadows and flowers.

They drank a cheap Hungarian riesling that spelled “headache” after the third glass. They held hands. The lights were going out at the Garibaldi nursing home across the street, a five-story residence built in the sixties to prove how closely a building could resemble Formica.

I sat down again, picking up the slender stem of my glass between shaking fingers. When I lifted the glass to my lips, I saw a tiny droplet of blood suspended in the wine, dark as garnet against the amber-colored Riesling. My father was watching, so I had to drink it down.

Choucroute This dish is pronounced “shoe-croote,” and is French for “sauerkraut.” As the sauerkraut cooks the taste becomes very mild. Because of the acidic nature of sauerkraut, it’s better to use an enameled skillet for this dish. Ingredients | Serves 6–8 4 slices bacon 1 large yellow onion, chopped 3 garlic cloves, sliced 2 apples, cored and sliced 1 quart sauerkraut, fresh, jarred, or bagged 1 bottle non-bitter beer, or ½ bottle Riesling 7 juniper berries, or ½ cup gin 8 peppercorns 2 bay leaves 1 tablespoon brown sugar ¼ pound ham, cubed 1½ pounds German sausages (knackwurst, bratwurst, garlic sausage, kielbasa) 1. Place a skillet over medium heat. Once it is heated, add the bacon to the skillet and fry until is cooked through but not crispy. Add the onion and cook for 5–7 minutes or until the onion starts to brown. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, stirring continually. 2. Add the apples, sauerkraut, and beer. Stir to combine. Add the juniper berries, peppercorns, bay leaves, and the sugar. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer for 1 hour. 3. Stir the ham into the skillet and add the sausages. Cook for 1½ hours, covered. Add water to the pan if it seems like it is getting too dry. When the sausages are cooked through, serve while warm with boiled and buttered potatoes.

Helen, what would you like to drink?’ Saskia asked. ‘Wine, beer, cider, juice, soft drink . . . ?’ ‘Wine, please.’ ‘Red or white?’ ‘White.’ She opened the fridge. ‘Sav, chardonnay, pinot gris or riesling?’ ‘Pinot gris, please,’ I said, slightly dazed by the number of options. ‘Mission Estate or Greywacke?’ ‘Whichever’s closest.’ ‘They’re both equally close,’ she said inexorably. ‘Greywacke,’ I said, and accepted my glass feeling I had earned it. ‘Excellent choice,’ said Saskia, pouring one for herself.

RJ gets to work in the kitchen on the dinner he is preparing, allowing me to sous chef. He seasons duck breasts with salt, pepper, coriander, and orange zest. Puts a pot of wild rice on to cook, asks me to top and tail some green beans. We open a bottle of Riesling, sipping while we cook, and I light a fire. The place gets cozy, full of delicious smells and the crackling fire. We ignore the dining table in favor of sitting on the floor in front of the fire, and tuck in. "This is amazing," I tell him, blown away by the duck, perfectly medium-rare and succulent, with crispy, fully rendered skin. "Really, honey, it couldn't be better." "Thank you, baby. That's a major compliment. And I have to say, I love cooking with you." "I love cooking with you." And I did. I never once felt like I wanted to jump in or make a change, or suggest a different choice. I followed him as I would have followed any chef, and the results of trusting him are completely delicious, literally and figuratively.

The common perception of Riesling wines is that they’re sweet, and many of them are — but plenty of them aren’t.

Reach for a bottle of either Riesling or Pinot Noir, which our wine experts told us to be two of the most versatile wines for food and wine pairing.

From my right, along the polished wood, there arrived a little trolley train on wheels, in the shape of a silver swan, with three parts joined by swivels, and each part bearing a decanter. A card said that the port was Taylor 1955, the white was Raventhaler Herberg Riesling Spätlese Cabinet 1959, and the red was Corton Les Marechaudes 1962. Beyond Brenner sat a gray-haired woman, a computer mathematician from one of the women’s colleges. Brenner leaned towards her. “There will be no difficulty in computers’ being adapted to biology,” he said, with clenched teeth. “There will be Luddites. But they will be buried.

But it is the shape of the acid structure that really sets Chenin apart.  Chenin Blanc has a crescendo shaped acid structure.  On entry, the wine feels quite soft and a bit structureless.  But as the wine remains on the palate, the perception of the acidity increases and increases and increases...until the taster must spit or swallow.  The acidity has a crescendo shape to it. Compare to Chardonnay or Riesling, where the acidity is felt immediately when the wine hits the palate and stays constant throughout: this is a totally different experience.  Here, the acidity comes on gradually but then dominates the finish.

It could be any date night. Perhaps Tom takes her to Ray's in Ballard. They share a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Dry Riesling, even though Tom is more of a negroni man. The wine goes well with her market halibut and the view of the bay. He has the filet mignon, and judging by the bite he offers her, it's exquisite. Or perhaps it's that Mexican place somewhere in Ravenna, operated out of an old house. The wall paint is chipping, but the air is sweet with the aroma of freshly cut tomatillos. They have margaritas and share chicken mole, with extra chips and fresh guacamole on the side. No matter where they go, it has been a long day, a bad day for Elle. She probably dropped a pie, or an angry customer yelled at Bonnie, or old milk ruined a batch of cake batter. She probably almost said no to Tom's spontaneous idea for a dinner date. As usual, though, she's glad she didn't. The crème brûlée or fried ice cream is reason enough-- let alone the way he makes the negativity melts away.

She kneeled down, opened the wine fridge, and scanned the shelves, filled with a variety of white wines. Sam began to pull each bottle out and read the labels; all of the wines were products of the dozens of vineyards that dotted northern Michigan, including the two peninsulas that ran north from Traverse City into Grand Traverse Bay. There was a wealth of whites- chardonnays, sauvignon blancs, Rieslings, rosés, and dessert wines. All of these were produced within a few miles of here, Sam thought, a feeling of pride filling her soul. Sam pulled out a pinot gris and stood. A few bottles of red gleamed in the fading day's light: a cab franc, a pinot noir, a merlot. Robust reds were a bit harder to come by in northern Michigan because of the weather and growing season, but Sam was happy to see such a selection. Sam had had the pleasure of meeting famed Italian chef Mario Batali at culinary school, and the two had bonded over Michigan. Batali owned a summer home in Northport, not far from Suttons Bay, and he had been influential early on in touting Michigan's summer produce and fruit, fresh fish, and local farms and wineries. When someone in class had mocked Michigan wines, saying they believed it was too cold to grow grapes, Batali had pointedly reminded them that Michigan was on the forty-fifth parallel, just like Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Alsace. Sam had then added that Lake Michigan acted like a big blanket or air conditioner along the state's coastline, and the effect created perfect temperatures and growing conditions for grapes and, of course, apples, cherries, asparagus, and so much more. Batali had winked at her, and Sam had purchased a pair of orange Crocs not long after in his honor.

Next, we moved to dessert with a bite of berry torte, passed out in shallow bowls meant for sauce. "There are over fifteen individually prepared components in this," Matthew started. "And you must know them all!" Jake added. Matthew cleared his throat. "The important ones are: berry cake, chia seed brittle, mint-honey glaze, preserved orange peel, burnt sugar whipped cream, almond tuiles, almond-Riesling gelato, and rose meringues. Then everything is set ablaze with bay leaf-infused brandy.

Once she left, Jack pointed at the bottles of wine sitting on the counter. “Take your pick.” I let his hand go and walked over, fetching the Riesling, my favorite.

He could pass off the inferior bottles on tables seven and four. Table seven knew nothing of wine, sending back a bottle of Riesling as "corked" because it had bits of cork in it, the imbeciles. Table four had gulped down a very special old pale brandy as though it was common wood alcohol, which was probably what they had been drinking because they had said that his brandy lacked bite. They deserved inferior burgundy. The bottles that had been stored too close to the stove might have enough bite by now for table four. A wine waiter's revenge may be long in coming, but it arrives in the end.