Cava and Calçots

I have a propensity for taking on jobs for which I have absolutely no experience.  Take, for example, the time when I was in high school and got a job teaching aerobics at a local health club.  It was 1982—the height of the Jane Fonda era.  Not only had I never taught an aerobics class, I had never even taken one.  Then there was the job I got as a financial analyst at an investment banking arm of a commercial bank in Philadelphia when I graduated from college.  I had very big college loans to pay off, and I needed the money. I reported to work on the first day and one of the associates poked his head into my cubicle and said, “Grab your calculator, Lisa, and meet us in the conference room.”  “Calculator?” I replied.  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Somebody go down and get Lisa an HP 12C,” he called out.  At the end of the day he gave me a copy of his Brealey and Myers corporate finance textbook from business school.   Some might argue that my deanship follows the same pattern, although I would argue that in that case I was asked by colleagues and my boss to do the job.  Still, I did agree to take it on.

All of this begins to explain how I found myself at a winery that produces cava (Spanish champagne) yesterday, interviewing the producers for a piece I’m writing for another blog.  Here’s how it happened.  One of Alec’s mentors—a man who sat on Alec’s dissertation committee and for whom Alec worked at the World Bank—is also a true oenophile.  Indeed, we have shared many a fine bottle at his table. As he transitioned from the Bank to consulting, he also started a very serious wine blog, the i-wine review.  When Don found out Alec and I would be spending the year in Barcelona, he asked us to be stringers for his blog and to write about our finds this year.  We currently have three pieces in the works.

So we agreed, even though food and wine are clearly a hobby for us and, for me at least, I’m not exactly on terra firma when it comes to going in-depth on the wine part.  I do eat a lot, and variously, so I suppose that’s my primary qualification.  I’m smart, I know how to interview people and do research and, for better or for worse, I’m not afraid of exposing what I don’t know.

Don had been to a tasting in DC at which he fell hard for the cavas produced by Canals I Munne.  I asked him whether he thought it would be a good idea to visit, and he liked the idea.  So he introduced me, via email, to Carmen, who is head of exportation at Canals I Munne.  After a bit of back and forth, she picked me up yesterday morning in a Canals I Munne minivan and we headed out of the city.  Carmen is little firecracker of a woman, with bright red hair (which can only come from one place) to match her personality.  We connected instantly, and she couldn’t believe I’d been living in Barcelona for so long without having been introduced to her earlier.  Before we were halfway to the winery she had offered me the keys to her country house in Teruel.

Much of Spain’s cava is made in Catalunya, in or near Sant Sadurní d'Anoia, about 40 minutes’ drive from Barcelona.  It’s amazing how quickly the transition from city to country occurs; before you know it, you’re driving through rolling fields covered with neat rows of grapevines.  As soon as we exited the highway, signs for Freixenet, Codorniu and other, smaller cava producers began to appear at every turn.

We pulled up at the Canals I Munne building and went inside, where I met Oscar, the fourth generation winemaker—Canals was his grandmother’s name and Munne his grandfather’s.  He greeted me warmly and we went into a side room where he talked about the history of the place, the philosophy of the business (quality over quantity), and the difference between cava and champagne.  In answer to the latter, there is none, at least in the process of making it.  About thirty years ago, the French decided that the “champagne” moniker could only be used for products that came from the champagne region.  As a result, everyone else had to come up with a new name.  In Spain, we have cava.  In the US, sparkling wine.  In Italy, prosecco.  Spain, at least, took a hit as a result, because most people believe champagne is a superior product.  But I’d put Canals I Munne cava next to French champagne any day and wager that the cava is at least as good, and that you probably couldn’t distinguish one from the other.  The two regions are quite different, climate-wise.  Champagne is in the north of France, and is rainy and cold, which results in more acidic grapes; sugar is often added to achieve a better balance in the final product.  The Catalan Mediterranean, where cava is produced, is sunny and drier, and so the grapes are less acidic, and sugar is added much less frequently.

Oscar—who, like the cava, sparkles with excitement about his work—is animated, passionate, larger than life. We walked through the entire production process, stopping to fill our glasses with a rosé cava from a spigot attached to a hose—it was to be bottled the next day.  The cellars had a lovely, musty-sour smell, and were filled top to bottom with racks and racks of green bottles.

After our tour we tasted four of the cavas—three that have begun to be distributed in the US—and the Grand Duc, bottled in a special bottle (second from the left in the photo below)—to increase the intensity of the flavor and aroma.  All were terrific—beautifully sparkling with the tiniest of bubbles—but I especially liked the Grand Duc and the rosé.  It was a gorgeous spring day and seemed to be just the right thing to be drinking.  Carmen had rejoined us by this point and confided that she drinks about a half a glass every day at noon.  “Let me tell you something,” she said, looking at me intently and rubbing her stomach, “there is nothing better for the digestion.”

We piled into Oscar’s car to go get lunch at Restaurant la Garrofa, which is run by a good friend of Oscar’s mother.   We all had the menu del dia—I started with spinach cannelloni which, on its own, was more than I usually eat for lunch.  When I saw the grilled vegetable plate Carmen had, I wished I had ordered it.  It included an entire artichoke, eggplant, peppers, a whole potato and . . . calçots.  Calçots are spring onions, their size midway between a regular onion and a scallion, and this is their season.   Catalonians go crazy for them and there is only one way to eat them—chargrilled until black, with romesco sauce.  Romesco is typically made from nuts, roasted garlic, olive oil, and nyora peppers.  Sometimes it has tomato in it as well.  I asked someone once where I could get them in Barcelona and was told “Nowhere.  You have to go outside the city.”  I’m not sure why—maybe it’s the grilling thing.  Apparently, people make reservations at these calçot places and have long, leisurely, messy lunches on Saturdays and Sundays while the calçots are available.  I meant to get myself to one, but somehow I never made it.  So I was glad to see them at La Garrofa, and even gladder that Carmen did not want hers, which meant that I got them.  The waitress gave us thin plastic gloves—the kind deli counter workers wear in the US (I have never seen a deli worker wearing gloves here in Spain).  Oscar showed me how to hold the calçot by its leafy end, pull off the outermost layer of charred leaves, and end up with a beautifully roasted onion stalk.  You take it for a swim in the romesco, hold it up high, position your mouth below it, and chomp.  Now I know what the fuss is all about, and I’m hoping I can get my mouth around some more of them before the season ends, around Easter.

I had already missed the train I meant to take, and we had not even had coffee or dessert.  Once we finished our turron ice cream with chocolate sauce, and drank our cortados, the gang zipped me to the train and packed me off with a couple of bottles of cava.  I got back just in time for a focus group I needed to attend, and hoped I’d be able to stay alert given all the digestion my body was engaged in. 

So, here are two handy facts I learned about cava yesterday, which you might find useful:

1.     Always chill your sparkling wine for 24 hours in the refrigerator before you drink it.  I fessed up to having shoved a bottle in my freezer on numerous occasions when I needed to get it cold fast.  Oscar forgave me, but encouraged me to change my ways.

2.     Contrary to popular belief, sparkling wine will not give you a morning after headache if it is of good quality and not too young.  If it is young and cheap, with big bubbles, you are in for a headache to beat the band.  The bigger the bubbles, the bigger the headache.