The Wine List as an Act of Hospitality

Recently, while listening to a podcast about a local chef whose restaurant holds one Michelin star, I went online to look at the menu. Along with that, I took a peek at the wine list.

The chef, who said on the podcast that less is more, gave me a one-page menu. The wine list was a tome. Let’s dig in and see how the wine list—at 56 pages—at first blush and seemingly at odds with the food menu, corresponds to the spirit of the restaurant at large and the overarching theme of hospitality.

What’s going on here?

I’m not a stranger to poring over biblically sized wine lists. It was my job, for many years, to find the opportunities to insert a wine here and there. As well, when dining, there were always one or two wines that would be sleepers—wines that would be overlooked by the masses on their way to the Silver Oak or Miraval section.

I would probably not be the guy to order a Chevalier-Montrachet in a restaurant setting, but that’s not to say there aren’t people out there for whom spending $3,000 for a bottle of wine is like the rest of us ponying up a Benjamin. I sold those wines into French, continental, steakhouse, and Italian restaurants for years in Dallas and in Texas at large. And there have been eras when the wine flowed faster than a West Texas wildcat oil well, and the folks weren’t ordering a carafe of the house red. So, I get it.

I’d love to be at a table and have someone order a bottle of DRC red (or white) or at the very least a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet, which currently I seem to be jonesing for.

Let’s look at the list. The restaurant is Mamani. The chef is Christophe De Lellis, who is French with Italian grandparents. So he has influences from two great countries for food and wine.

The wine list was originally built by Allie Nault, who recently left and went to another hospitality group to ramp up their wine program. She has a good eye for great wine, but also for good values and the occasional “sleeper” wines folks like me love to find on a list. So, as far as treasure hunts go, one can find them on the list, high and low. And that’s a good thing.

One concern I might have—and this post is not intended to criticize the list (it’s a great list—it will win awards and also keep the Michelin inspectors happy)—is for some of the older wines on the list. I say this as someone whose own collection has more than 40% of its bottles at 25 years or older. The concern is that as wines age, like people, they develop eccentricities and irregularities that, for the average wine list shopper, might be sensed as “off.” And for a $12,000 bottle of Hermitage, once the cork is popped, there’s no putting the genie back in the bottle. I had my experiences with this when I was a server in Hollywood back in the day, and there would be the occasional douche-nozzle ordering an expensive bottle of wine only to send it back as “off” for effect. It wasn’t cool then, and it isn’t cool now. So, the discerning sommelier has to be extra careful when fording those streams. Older wines can be a challenge for any floor. The Mamani list has a little more than 15% of its wines (according to the most recent list that can be found on its website) over 20 years old. Hopefully the staff is well trained to guide the guests through the nuances of aging—wine, that is. I’m glad it ain’t me, babe.

I have titled this piece “The Wine List as an Act of Hospitality” because I have been obsessed with the idea of hospitality for the last month or so. The recent posts attest to that. But rather than writing a screed or putting on my curmudgeon costume, I want to elucidate how a place like this, with a one-page food menu, utilizes a wine list, which is 56 pages long, as an embodiment of the word. It is something countries like France and Italy hold dear to their hearts.

Would I need a sommelier to navigate this list? Probably not. But if they were to come to my table and offer their guidance, I’d be interested in what they have to say. I was once in their shoes, so I know a little of their journey. And let’s face it, they are probably the age of a grandchild for someone of my generation, and I like talking to that generation a lot.

I kinda know what wines I would order were I to dine there—and I plan on it. But it would depend on what the table was ordering and who was at the table and whether they were drinking alcohol or not. Yeah, we are in that age now. There are folks for whom alcohol is no longer de rigueur. The sun has set on that part of their life. And I have friends and family in that category. For myself, I probably cannot, and should not, drink more than two glasses of wine at the dining table. The good news is that post-pandemic laws were passed in our state to allow unfinished bottles to be “doggy-bagged” to take home. So I could order that bottle of Saint-Aubin (almost Puligny!).

Looking at the current menu online, there are dishes I’d like to order (black cod, the caviar tartlet, grilled whole branzino, and the wild Dover sole, which I really want to try) with ingredients that make wine pairing tricky: asparagus, olives, and lemon, among them. So I might need another set of eyes (or palates) to steer me through the list, as they’ve probably encountered this predicament a time or two.

I really am interested in the 10-year-old Rossese di Dolceacqua on the list. It’s a 2016 from Anfosso, from vineyards in Liguria a short drive from the Monaco border, and it costs $65. It sits a few pages after the Monfortinos and the DRC. Most people will skip right past it. I home in on it. I’ve been to Dolceacqua. This is a favorite find of mine.

The chef’s grandmother was Italian. The menu leans on the Riviera, with barbajuan, Taggiasca olives, and branzino. And somewhere in that 56-page tome, someone put a light, savory, mature red from the exact strip of coast the food comes from, and priced it for a two-top on a Tuesday. Was that an accident? I’d like to think someone was thinking about the guest. That’s a hospitable gesture, in my book.

There’s a 2024 Grignolino on the list too, at $65. Fifteen years ago, at a little place by the Turin airport, two old pros poured me a half bottle of Grignolino and showed me what hospitality was. I didn’t expect to find that grape waiting for me in a one-Michelin-star spot in Uptown Dallas, but there it is.

So here is where I’ve landed. A big list isn’t the problem. A big list with nobody to walk you through it is. The Michelin inspectors will note the Rousseau and the Moutons. The couple celebrating an anniversary might need help finding the Rossese. If the young sommelier on the floor can do that—ask a couple of questions, read the table, and point the way—then 56 pages and a one-page menu turn out to be the same idea after all, when hospitality is paramount.

I’ll report back after dinner. I’ll be le bonhomme asking about the Rossese. Or maybe I will go for the Saint-Aubin. I hear it’s good with Dover sole. 

 

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