A Day Trip To New York City: Walking Around A Sense Of Place

Terroir, a sense of place, is an interesting idea. The idea that a place, a piece of ground, weather, various elements and influences all play a part in the make-up and sensations you get from a bottle of wine. Terroir is applied to other foods as well: coffee, tea, chocolate; even various meats, fish and cheese can be described as having terroir. I say it can sometimes be applied to people, to some extent, as well. If you are steeped in the place that you live, New York City, parts of California, Texas, Maine, astute or sensitive people can pick out accents, traits and mannerisms that are telling signs of your terroir. I think you lose that sense of place if you have lived in many locales or if strong influences from other cultures or lands affect your character. With regards to wine, when the wine-maker adjusts and fiddles too much, the wine can become characterless, lose its sense of place.  It is not necessarily a bad thing for a person to not have or exhibit a sense of place. We are living thinking people who can express who we are with our ideas; and while some could argue that it isn't necessarily bad if wine doesn't exhibit a sense of place, wine isn't really capable of expressing, differentiating itself in a meaningful way other than by its terroir.


I was born in New York City. Queens, one of the five boroughs to be precise, but I made many trips into Manhattan as a kid with my grandmother. I loved taking the bus from Queens Village to a hazy location where we entered into the subway that took us into the City. She would take me, annually, to the Christmas and Easter show at Radio City Music Hall, where, on one occasion, I confided that someday I was going to marry a Rockette. I was probably six at the time and I think I was in love with everything New York. We would go to the Museums, Times Square, Roosevelt Center, Broadway, Chinatown, Little Italy and of course Central Park and its little zoo. Central Park, I think, was the nearest thing to a forest I would know for most of my pre-teen life. I have no recollection of my outward projection of terroir but it definitely wasn't a pre-adolescent version of Archie Bunker.


My family moved (essentially dragged me kicking and screaming) from Queens when I was twelve, to the culture shock known as New Hampshire, with its bad food, big lakes, Quoddy moccasins, Anna Lee dolls, and never ending forests of pine sticking out of granite. New Hampshire had its share of fun things for kids. Lots of swimming, building forts in real forests, and, in the winter, snow that a New York kid, if so inclined, could only dream about. In typical New Yorker fashion, however, even at twelve, I would point out to anyone who would listen how life outside of New York was a form of banishment from the one true glorious place on earth and my situation here in the sticks was only temporary. I would complain about the food, the lack of exciting things to do, and the lack of myriad transportation options, but mostly I whined about the food. I would have killed for a good slice of pizza or a real bagel with lox and cream cheese. Life moves forward, sometimes spiraling away from beginnings and I didn't visit Manhattan again until I was in my twenties.


I remember clearly the last time I was in Manhattan. It was pre-Giuliani, mid-eighties, and I was wandering around somewhere near Columbia with my girlfriend, at that time, and a friend of hers, who lived there. The friend's apartment was essentially a large walk-in closet with a heavy duty door that stayed secure with the help of a half dozen assorted deadbolts placed at varying heights and an iron rod that was planted into the floor and then leaned up to the door. I was sure there must be a boiling pot of oil on an electric hot plate handy in case there was an attack by the natives or coked up pre-law students. We left the safety of the reinforced closet to walk around and get a slice of real pizza, the kind you can only get in New York City (or Queens). But instead of being transported back to the city of my youth, I was struck by how filthy everything was - garbage everywhere, the streets and sidewalks covered with permanent stains of unknown origin. Derelicts staggering along and muttering to themselves or at anyone stupid enough to get close enough. The city didn't seem big and glorious to me; it seemed small and ugly.


It was shortly after leaving the apartment to begin our wanderings that the lights went out. The City blacked out! The energy changed; people around us got louder, agitated. Some people around us went from walking around placidly to walk/jogging with intent. I have to admit I became concerned. I was torn between getting that slice of pizza and bee-lining it for the apartment with all its locks and bolts and making sure the oil was hot and ready. I decided that life was too short to forgo good pizza and we pressed on. Shortly after procuring that heavenly slice a police officer passed us and I had a momentary sense of relief. I then watched as he took a swig from a brown paper bag. I guess that clinched it.


A couple of months ago a friend contacted me about a gallery show of Monets at the Gagosian in Chelsea. The exhibit would feature works that hang in private collections and homes and rarely if ever see the inside of a museum. There would be a private tour by a renowned Monet historian. Would I like to go with her and some friends?



So there I was, south of Houston St., SoHo - it was where we parked- walking up towards Chelsea. It was blazing hot. No one wanted to take a cab. It took us about forty minutes to reach the gallery. We passed stores of international stature, little shops that catered to a select few (one appeared to only sell chess related items) and street vendors selling truly useless items. The energy of the city? Electric, and I felt this was more like the city of my youth than of the last time I was here. The garbage and the stench, however, was invasive. As much as I was enjoying myself, wandering down big avenues and smaller side roads with their little villages tucked in a big city, I was repelled by the palpable filth the streets and buildings exuded from years of overuse and overpopulation of the inured. Somewhere on 10th we passed a nondescript building with an open door, a sliced up plastic curtain, moving slightly, in the doorway. The stench, of what I imagine a slaughter house stinks like, pushed its way out and all but knocked us over. I nearly puked. I blurted, "What the fuck was that?!" Maybe it was a slaughter house. We didn't investigate. When we found and entered the gallery with it's pristine white walls hung with expansive colorful Monets, it was like entering another world, and I really wanted a glass of wine.


I had other reasons for wanting to come to Manhattan other than the Monet exhibit. After 20 years, I sincerely  wanted to see the City again and to see if had changed for the better as I had read and heard. I also really wanted to visit a wine bar and I was hoping to have a good but not terribly expensive dinner. As for the wine bar, after listening to people on Twitter and doing a little research online I decided I had to pay a visit to Terroir in the East Village. So after convincing the rest of the group that we needed to check this place out we trudged from Chelsea across the Island to what I was hoping would be a memorable drinking experience. I was not disappointed.


Terroir in the East Village is located at 413 E. 12th St. across from an open patch of green and a small concrete playground/skate-park. The earthen flat stone facade makes the little bar easy to pick out in the mostly red-brick building neighborhood. Inside, although very small and narrow, the atmosphere is lively, yet down to wine-business. The servers are not only knowledgeable and helpful but they were friendly as well. The bathroom is awesome.


The eclectic, raucous and sometimes hilarious wine list (which is viewable online) is loaded with bottles of interesting, obscure and potentially great wines. They have more Riesling, arguably the greatest white grape in the world, per square footage than perhaps Alsace. They have six, yes six, different vintages of Trimbach's Cuvee Frederick Emile Riesling! They have a page devoted to Blaufrankisch. They have the 06 Domaine Leflaive Batard-Montrachet ($1,100) for when you can expense it. They cater to the adventurous or, I am certain, anyone really.


The day I went was the first day of their Summer of Riesling promotion. Twenty or so Rieslings were offered by the glass. My only negative critique? There wasn't much choice of another white varietal by the glass to be found. I found this a bit odd. Not a problem for me, but I could see how this could turn some people off.


I started off with a Rose from Lopez de Heredia which was insanely good after a very long morning car ride and the hot walk around NYC that took up much of the afternoon. Dry, faint strawberry and raspberry aromas, with toasted hazelnuts and vanilla. I was in a little oasis and was feeling quite joyous. My second glass was the 07 Hermann Wiemer, Magdalena Vineyard, Riesling. Both wines were very good and I would have been quite content if we spent the rest of the evening there sipping different wines.


I enjoyed everything about Terroir; the cheese and charcouterie plate was delicious, but the thing that struck a chord within me and resonated the core of my wine beliefs, the one thing that made me say, "Oh my God, that is so obvious, why doesn't every restaurant or bar do this!?!" was the way they served you a glass of wine. In my experience, when you order a glass of wine at a restaurant, bar, or even a wine bar, you are served a glass of wine. That's it! You are sitting at a table and your waiter delivers to you a wine glass filled with, presumably, the wine you ordered and that's it! The way they serve you a glass of wine at Terroir is different. The waiter brings you an empty glass or glasses and the bottle or bottles of wine you ordered. They show you the bottle to make sure there is no misunderstanding about what you ordered and after confirmation they pour a small taste for you to make sure you indeed like the wine and to check if it is perhaps flawed. After accepting the wine, they pour you a decent glass of wine and take the bottle back to the bar. Now, that is it! That is the way all glasses of wine should be served. If I ever open a wine bar ...


We then moseyed over to the Apiary on 3rd Avenue. It was Monday and they have "No Corkage" on that night. I wanted to find Chambers Street Wines and grab a couple of bottles for dinner but my companions were getting tired and we did have a long trip back home to Massachusetts. It turns out, after looking at a map, we were nowhere near Chambers Street. For some reason I thought it was in the East Village, ah well. The Apiary turned out to be a very good choice for food and can I recommend it for that. The service however was less than stellar. Our waiter was indifferent and sullen, just took our orders and seemed displeased at the fact that he had to work this shift or perhaps at all. The other complaint was over a glass of wine. After finishing off a bottle of a light and lively Bruno Giacosa Arneis, my friend and I were still working on our dinner. The other two said they had had enough wine so we just ordered a couple glasses. The disgruntled waiter brought them to the table, wine in the glass. They were corked. Not terribly so, but musty enough. The glasses were whisked away. The waiter came back with new glasses filled and informed us that the bartender said the wines were not corked. We asked if these glasses were from a new bottle. We were told that they weren't, the wine isn't corked. I took a whiff: corked. The wines were taken off the bill at least. I can't condemn the place after one visit, and the food was quite good, so perhaps it was an off night with the B staff. We struck up a very brief conversation with the group next to us, they had a plethora of yummy looking wine bottles littering their table - they were taking advantage of the no corkage fee - and, oddly enough, one of the diners was John Truax of Chambers Street Wines, who gave us his card. What a strange coincidence.

I find it hard to fathom why anyone in their right mind would deign to to live in Manhattan; yet I still have strong feelings for New York and a subtle connection to it. I am not sure I project a specific terroir and  I think my sense of place has been muddled over time. I don't have an accent, or at least not any specific regional accent. My sarcastic nature generally draws bewildered stares from true New Englanders, yet they are still very surprised when I say I am originally from Queens. This is all fine. Manhattan, though, most certainly has its own terroir and it's own micro-climates of terroir. I think there is also a polluted nature to Manhattan's terroir; the air, the water, the ground and even the psyche of those who blithely inhabit or wander the streets are complicit and seemingly complacent to the filth and squalor around them. Despite that, I still view Manhattan as a magical, wondrous and thriving city; and what I think makes it so are the many oases like Terroir, planted or germinated in the compost of the sense of place in which they exist. I am very much looking forward to my next visit.