You don’t often get to call out Thomas Keller, but I would’ve thought that Bouchon — of all places in the Napa Valley — would’ve been pouring some 2008 Beaujolais Nouveau today. Perhaps there just hasn’t been an audience for it here in Napa, but I really can’t accept that as an excuse. Honestly, as cheap as the stuff is, it couldn’t cost a restaurant that much to keep one case on hand for the third Thursday of November (the wine’s annual day of release).

Sure, I understand that we are not in Lyon, but Bouchon is based specifically upon a Lyonnaise bistro, and last time I checked, this is still wine country. Maybe I have just degenerated into that much of a wine nerd; it’s possible — I’m pretty far gone. Or maybe Beaujolais Nouveau has just become passé these days — too simple to be taken seriously, especially in this era of pricey cult wines. Or maybe it was just an oversight, a small detail that was accidentally neglected this year (I’m told that they did have it last year).

Either way, Bistro Jeanty happened to have plenty of Beaujolais Nouveau on hand, and so that’s where I ended up tonight. I drank the 2008 Georges Deboeuf Beaujolais-Villages (chilled to perfection) with cured pork belly, coq au vin, and rum-raisin bread pudding. Say what you want about the quality of Beaujolais in general, but tradition is tradition, and it’s an easy excuse to go out to dinner.

Of course, I probably won’t drink any more Nouveau until next year. Not that I’m against the idea, but it probably just won’t happen. The reason being, I’m already swimming in Napa wine as it is, and the holidays are the time to bring out the heavyweights. But I will always view the Beaujolais release as my annual tune-up for Thanksgiving. As such, I am full to the point of being uncomfortable. Gluttony is its own punishment.

I sincerely hope that the Obamas plant a vegetable garden at the White House. Frankly, I’m a little appalled that there isn’t one already on the property, and I view this as a tremendous shortcoming on many different levels. Without a doubt, I place a lot of the blame on the White House executive chef, whom I felt should have been lobbying for this resource all along.

I first heard about the movement to create a White House vegetable garden during an NPR interview with Alice Waters. She had mentioned this cause alongside her own Edible Schoolyard program, which shares a similar ideology: that people will tend to eat better when they develop a connection to their food. Waters often cites the fact that kids will eat vegetables more readily when they have grown them themselves, which makes perfect sense.

It is extremely easy to view food as a common commodity these days, with so many products pre-packaged and overly processed. Thanks to supermarkets, very few people in America consider where their food comes from, which is an alarming trend. It has allowed many of the large agricultural corporations to commit various crimes against nature, such as turning cattle into carnivores (which, in turn, has led to Mad Cow Disease). The meat industry, in particular, is one horror show after another.

Granted, a White House vegetable garden will not solve the agro-industrial problems that have begun to plague this country over the last several decades. But it would at least shed some light on the importance of eating well, and it would set a good example for the public. The way I see it, any house that has a bowling alley should also have a vegetable garden — it’s really not too much to ask.

I ate at McDonald’s for the first time in years today. Of course, people who know my eating habits will undoubtedly realize that there must be some sort of backstory here. I generally hate McDonald’s, although this was not always the case. Back in my early days in Los Angeles, the Golden Arches was a staple of my post-collegiate diet, since fast food was all that I could afford. I would go on regular drive-thru benders, fueled by dollar menus and the need for cheap calories.

I have memories of being especially destitute, writing embarrassingly bad screenplays, and scrounging all of my loose change on Wednesdays, when the McDonald’s near Wilshire and Bundy would offer 29-cent cheeseburgers. I would take home a dozen or so, refrigerate them, and microwave them in my West LA studio apartment throughout the day. As revolting as this practice sounds, it was my weekly ritual (this same McDonald’s would also offer the Super Scoop, a 32-oz cup filled with fries).

Ultimately, things improved for me once I stopped writing. I was lucky enough to have made some connections in the entertainment industry, and once I got swept up in the dot-com boom, my long work weeks did not allow much time for screenplays. Plus, the frustration of writing abysmal scripts had finally worn me down — I just didn’t have the chops to make a career of it. To be sure, my over-funded dot-com salary ensured that my weekly sojourns to McDonald’s would soon become a thing of the past.

Of course, my change in eating habits was more of a factor of economy than education or enlightenment. I was still putting away lots of burgers — just better ones. I was taking long lunches at Carney’s on Sunset Boulevard, which I will defend to this day as the absolute quintessential chili-cheeseburger (anywhere). Somehow along the way, without necessarily trying, I had successfully phased out fast food. It wasn’t until much later, when I was in culinary school, that I realized how important this decision was.

These days, it has become increasingly easy to side against corporate fast food. In particular, many recent arguments against McDonald’s have been issued, whether it’s Eric Schlosser’s “Fast Food Nation,” Morgan Spurlock’s “Super Size Me,” or the efforts of Carlo Petrini’s Slow Food movement or Alice Waters’ Edible Schoolyard program. There are times when I get so disillusioned with American eating habits that I feel like I need to make nutritional awareness my life’s work. I feel pity on the people who eat fries and a Coke with every meal.

Which brings me back to my original point: why, exactly, did I inhale a Sausage McMuffin with Egg with that so-called “hash brown” this morning? It’s simple, really: I had spent the previous night at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, after being fed crummy little bags of airline pretzels, while my flight was being diverted all over the Lone Star State. Sometime while being parked on a San Antonio runway for refueling, I had missed my connector back to the Bay Area, and the Dallas airport (including its eateries) was already closed down by the time the plane finally arrived.

Sleeping in a public place is always a little shameful, even if the terminal did look like a refugee camp last night. I certainly wasn’t the only one who had been stranded, but what comfort is a room full of strangers, anyway? For me, time spent in airports is pretty much the opposite of vacation, which is the great irony of traveling internationally — when you have to deal with the airlines, there is a good chance that it can all go to hell at any time. I woke up dazed, confused, unrested, and maybe still a little hung-over from a week’s worth of Belizean rum. Most of all, I was famished from not really eating for the last 18 hours. Coincidentally, the airport McDonald’s was close by; I could smell it from across the terminal.

My breakfast was salty, fatty and familiar — I scarfed it down, and ended up gnawing that fluorescent yellow cheese off of the wax paper, an instinctive move from way back when. I realize that portrays a rather crude picture — very ungourmand of me, I know — but after spending the night using my dirty beach-worn clothes for a pillow, I had no real sense of dignity. Plus, I still wasn’t even halfway home. I contemplated ordering even more food, as I could’ve easily eaten that meal all over again. But a little voice told me not to, and that enough was enough.

Instead, I stuffed my bag of ravaged McDonald’s wrappers into a trash can that — even at six o’clock in the morning — was already brimming with more of the same. I had been desperate, yet I was fairly certain that those before me had simply been following their regular routine. Welcome to America.

As I’ve added more administrative features to this blog, I’ve been able to view some of the searches that drive readers to this site. One such search was “cliff lede pronunciation,” which I thought was funny, since I’ve heard this label pronounced several different ways over the years. And in truth, the name “Lede” offers no phonetic clues. It is, in fact, pronounced LAY-dee, like lady.

And if anyone is curious about the pronunciation of Riedel glassware, it’s REE-dle, like needle.

As the former employee of a BioDynamic winery, I’ve had dozens of opportunities to promote the theories of BioDynamic farming. Unfortunately, the vagaries of BioDynamics are founded upon some very challenging ideas. For this reason, and despite my rhetoric on the subject, I feel that the BioDynamic movement remains largely misunderstood. At worst, BioDynamics is labeled as mere superstition. And while this dismissal is entirely unfair, I will admit that the underlying principles of BioDynamics are indeed strange and esoteric. I will also admit that, honestly, I don’t even understand many of the theories that surround BioDynamics — some appear intuitive, while others seem outlandish.

With its roots in cosmic energies, BioDynamics must seem like a big step backwards to many, a movement away from the hard realities of scientific fact and investigation. Inevitably, any deep discussion of BioDynamics requires an explanation of such things as planetary cycles and constellatory alignments. At this point, once the conversation turns cosmic, most people begin to roll their eyes, which is why I rarely ever delved into the real, core principles of BioDynamic farming. Before long, my dumbed-down explanation of BioDynamics became: “BioDynamic farming is basically über-organic farming.” And that was it.

But even though this statement is both true and easy to grasp, there is clearly much more to BioDynamics than the simple tenets of organic farming. Unfortunately, I’m not going to launch into my own explanation here. After all, in spite my own reading and research, I am still largely baffled by much of the “science” behind BioDynamics. When it comes to this growing agricultural movement — even though I’ve definitely been sipping the Kool-Aid — I still only half get it. As a result, having recently finished “BioDynamic Wine, Demystified” by Nicolas Joly, I cannot say that the book’s title is entirely accurate.

Of course, I never expected “BioDynamic Wine, Demystified” to answer all of my BioDynamic questions. At just 150 pages, this essay could really only scratch the surface, with Joly himself deflecting many of the specific explanations to his bibliographical sources (another reason why I don’t dare offer my own take on the subject). Often, the book must be taken with a significant grain of salt, as many unfounded statements are offered as fact. Ultimately, too many of these statements may coalesce into doubts for the reader, spawning more and more questions along the way.

In all fairness, “BioDynamic Wine, Demystified” does deepen one’s understanding of BioDynamic farming, even though it fails to offer any satisfying explanations. Instead, it offers a philosophy of farming, complete with a heady world view. Nonetheless, practicing BioDynamics does appear to have its merits, especially considering its strict rules against pesticides and other chemicals (BioDynamic farming is far more regulated than any form of organic farming). I have also heard many first-hand accounts about the successful results of BioDynamic farming, so I realize that the empirical evidence does exist. However, the actual science behind BioDynamics remains a large gray area: I certainly acknowledge the theories and the results, but the cause-and-effect connection between the two is still shrouded in archaic farming traditions.

As it is, “BioDynamic Wine, Demystified” will not be the last book that I consult on this particular topic. I am still searching for any book that can align some truly scientific data with this uniquely metaphysical approach to farming. At this point, I suspect that such a text may not even exist. Until then, books such as these can only be as convincing as the actual science behind them.

I had the opportunity to taste up at Newton Vineyard today, where I purchased a couple bottles of the 2006 Newton Claret. Wines like these are satisfying to discover, since they represent tremendous values at their price point. The Newton Claret retails for $25, which is practically unheard of here in Napa. Honestly, you can expect to pay that much — or more — for Sauvignon Blanc or Rosé.

The 2006 Newton Claret is definitely a wine to include alongside Chappellet’s 2005 Mountain Cuvee, also a fantastic wine at just $26. These two wines are neither life-changing nor are they flawed; quite simply, they are well-crafted, exhibiting pleasant flavors and just enough complexity, with soft enough tannins to drink tonight. Call them what you will — daily drinkers, pizza wines, patio pounders — they are essential to have on hand.

Of course, I should mention that the entire Newton portfolio was noteworthy. I tasted the 2002 Newton Unfiltered Merlot, which exhibited a Syrah-like gaminess, perhaps in part to its substantial dose of Petit Verdot. Additionally, the 2005 Newton Unfiltered Cabernet Sauvignon was also quite good, a combination of delicacy and depth that proved a bit more enjoyable than the Merlot. Still, at $60 per bottle for each, I was not compelled to buy either wine (I’m cutting back during these tough times), although I did come awfully close to purchasing the Cabernet.

I’ve been remiss in posting this past week because I’ve had company in town. My former roommate from culinary school had been here in Napa for a few days, having taken time off from his sous chef duties in New York City. I hadn’t seen Dave in three years, and we’ve taken very divergent paths since graduation. Still, it was interesting to discover how like-minded we were about food. For one thing, we’ve both become dismissive of tasting menus. After all, few restaurants, whether in Napa or NYC, warrant a four-hour marathon dinner. It’s a bit much. At some point, I think that anyone who cooks at the fine-dining level will eventually come to adopt a renewed appreciation for the simpler things, if only because they’re different.

Although I’ve never wanted this blog to degenerate into some narcissistic diary (there are enough of those already), I will offer a brief run-down of where and what we ate. At the very least, this entry will answer the question that I am often asked: if you were visiting Napa, where would you eat? The answers may be somewhat surprising, since many people might assume that we would’ve tried to finagle a reservation at the French Laundry. But for people who take a serious interest in food, the obvious choices are often the least interesting. Besides, Dave had just been to Per Se in NYC. Therefore, this was a chance to assemble a short list of affordable favorites, and to share my own local perspective. Fine dining, therefore, was nixed from our plans. Here are a few of the highlights:

• The bar menu at Redd. The strength of Redd’s bar menu lies within its crisp chicken wings in Thai chili sauce and its glazed pork belly on apple puree (the latter was not officially on the bar menu during our visit, but available nonetheless). I noticed that the bar menu at Redd is looking especially Asian these days, with potstickers, lettuce cups, pork buns, and bahn mi (a Vietnamese sandwich). The only thing missing is spring rolls. I’ve had Redd’s potstickers before, and was not overly impressed. Besides, Dave is about to spend four months eating his way through Southeast Asia — so why bother eating gyoza in the Napa Valley?

• Katana-ya in San Francisco. Independent of my own recent fixation with Asian soups, Dave has also been on a ramen kick these last few months. I thought that was interesting. Naturally, we went to my favorite ramen spot in the Bay Area, Katana-ya, where we each had the fried chicken ramen with light soy broth. Afterward, we killed some time at the Cartoon Art Museum, which currently has a terrific Totoro exhibition. Then, it was down to the Mission District for an obligatory burrito at El Farolito. Before heading back to Napa, we ended up slurping down some oysters at Waterbar.

• Kobe burgers at Martini House. Although I have already claimed that the cheeseburger at Rutherford Grill is the best burger in Napa Valley, the Kobe burger at Martini House deserves special recognition as a hedonistic affair (at $17 for a burger, it damn well better be). Eating the Kobe burger requires folding and re-folding your napkin, as you search for a new clean spot to wipe your face. By the end, the napkin will look as if it has been tie-dyed in burger drippings, which is fine. Almost too rich to finish, the Kobe burger is served alongside a tower of crispy onion rings, and can be paired with an $8 glass of L’uvaggio Barbera from Lodi. It’s a great way to enjoy the ambiance of the Martini House bar.

• Dinner at Bistro Jeanty. This restaurant has fast become my favorite spot in the Napa Valley. It is classic bistro fare in the old-school sense, with a menu full of terrific comfort foods. I enjoy the cassoulet, especially when the weather gets cool. I revisited this dish again last week: the sausage had a delicate texture and a delicious hint of fennel, while the duck confit was amazingly tender. Dave had the pork chop, which I had ordered during my previous visit. I loved the pork chop when I had it, although I warned Dave that it was not a true “double” cut, as the menu states (it’s definitely a single cut, but it is also priced accordingly, so there’s not much room to complain). The chop is served with a terrific carmelized onion sauce, and brining has imparted the subtle flavor of juniper berries. Grilled to medium, it’s quite tasty. We downed a cheap bottle of Bourgeil with dinner, thus completing the true bistro experience.

Although many travel writers may rely upon their role as “the outsider” for either a comedic or a dramatic crutch, the most valuable travelogues are the ones that can accurately portray the local point of view. After all, once the narrator becomes a character — rather than a conduit — the fundamental purpose of a travelogue can become muddled. The challenge, of course, is to provide enough detailed perspective to maintain interest and insight, without delving too much into the ordinary and mundane. In Steve Heimoff’s “A Wine Journey along the Russian River,” the author strikes a terrific balance between what we ought to know and what we want to know, delivering a compelling and informative narrative along the way.

Heimoff begins his book at the upper limits of Sonoma County, as he traces the Russian River’s southern descent into Alexander Valley. As “Wine Journey” develops, the text shifts comfortably back and forth between several topics, including history, geology, and of course, winemaking. As the river flows, so does the narrative: Heimoff explores the Russian River as it twists through Healdsburg, the Russian River Valley, and ultimately, the Sonoma Coast appellation. Each section of the river provides insight into a different set of varietals, with Heimoff discussing the relative strengths and weaknesses of each grape-growing region.

But even as the narrative manages to keep the reader engaged, the true merit of “Wine Journey” is in its research. Heimoff, who also serves as the West Coast Editor for Wine Enthusiast Magazine, offers a book that addresses the really geeky wine questions, but with impressive clarity. The author’s explanation of Sonoma geology, for instance, is particularly strong, providing a concise history of the valley’s formation and development. Throughout the text, Heimoff seems to place as much focus on science as he does on scenery. From a vinophile’s perspective, “Wine Journey” is travel writing of the highest order.

Every time I receive a new issue of Wine Spectator, my ritual is always the same. First, I always flip to the back of the magazine to ogle the point rankings. I suppose I’m like most people — I have a strange fascination with the very things that I rally against — but I must admit that I do enjoy reading the scores. I am always eager to see which wineries are anointed with high marks, and likewise, I’m always interested to see how I might agree or disagree with the magazine’s assessments. But shortly after thumbing through the rankings — once I’ve had the opportunity to shake my head in mock disgust — my second step remains instinctive: I flip to the front of the magazine to read Matt Kramer’s column.

For me, Kramer is by far the most redeeming fixture at Wine Spectator. His columns are clever in ways that often transcend the work of most other wine writers, and I compare Kramer’s output to the wonderful food writing of Jonathan Gold and to the legendary sports writing of the late Jim Murray. For that, wine drinkers are fortunate that Kramer has offered to share his expertise outside the pages of Wine Spectator. Over the years, Kramer has authored several great books, but none is more critical than 1989’s “Making Sense of Wine.” Nearly two decades since its release, this book remains an indispensable reference guide, answering the questions that other books seem to miss.

In many ways, “Making Sense of Wine” — much like Kermit Lynch’s “Adventures on the Wine Route” — presents readers with a philosophical overview. And while neither one of these books is going to help wine drinkers memorize things like vintages or the five First Growths of Bordeaux, there are scads of wine encyclopedias that already fill that need. What makes Kramer’s book unique is that it addresses many of the grey areas surrounding wine, such as cellaring and food pairing, while it also helps to demystify some of the other areas, such as the chemistry of winemaking. Throughout the text, Kramer’s explanations remain clear, concise and approachable — never lofty or overly abstract.

“Making Sense of Wine” is a terrific book to revisit from time to time, as I have done recently. Kramer’s style is engaging, and it soons become clear why this book is now in its second edition. As wine increases in popularity, it seems as though the basic wine-related questions will always need to be answered. To be sure, a legion of would-be wine aficionados will continue to come of age, each wondering how long to age their wine, whether or not to decant, and what type of stemware to use. Kramer addresses each of these topics, and then some. “Making Sense of Wine” is the first book that any wine drinker should read.

Ten years ago, successfully naming five of the red Bordeaux varietals was enough to establish your wine-drinking credibility. Twenty years ago, this may have qualified you as an expert. Of course, back in the heyday of Hearty Burgundy, times were much simpler. These days, as wine has gained popularity in the United States, the stakes have increased dramatically. To a certain extent, the French word terroir seems to have become the American wine drinker’s buzzword of the moment — perhaps the secret handshake for some — as U.S. consumers attempt to develop and demonstrate their oenological knowledge.

In many instances, mentioning terroir almost smacks of elitism, as if uttering a bit of French might invoke some sort of Old World insight. But as much as I would enjoy taking the term terroir to task, there is no denying that this concept has a profound significance in relation to wine. From the American perspective, the word terroir is usually a convenient, one-word synonym for “soil and climate,” since these two factors seem to exert the greatest influence on a wine’s sense of origin. But while these two attributes are certainly key components of terroir, the actual French meaning of the word transcends these two physical elements. As Amy Trubek points out in her terrific book, “The Taste of Place,” the true nature of terroir is embedded deep within French culture itself.

Trubek begins her book from the French perspective, illustrating the ways that terroir can provide a nostalgic connection to France’s past. In this era of increased industrialization, Trubek argues that nostalgia trades at an all-time premium, and that the French take extreme pride in their culinary traditions. Trubek describes France’s idealized notion of the peasant farmer, an iconic symbol which — in 2008 — mostly exists within the French national conscience. But even though the peasant farmer has already become a quaint anachronism, France continues to embrace its agrarian roots: eating well remains a hallmark of the French identity, and as a result, terroir encompasses culinary traditions as much as it encompasses taste.

Beyond the early chapters, Trubek ultimately shifts her focus to the United States, detailing many aspects of our own culinary history. Although we do not have the time-honored culinary traditions that can match those of our French counterparts, Trubek does argue that the United States is developing its own culinary practices and ideals. “A Taste of Place” explores many facets of the American culinary landscape, including a spotlight on Bonny Doon winemaker Randall Grahm and a history of the farmer’s market in the San Francisco Ferry Plaza. After her foray into California, Trubek continues east throughout her book, highlighting chef Odessa Piper in Wisconsin, and finally ending up with a history of the Vermont Fresh Network.

As an overview, “A Taste of Place” proves extremely insightful. To her credit, Trubek only uses California as her point of introduction, quickly expanding her focus to the national level. Along the way, “A Taste of Place” fleshes out the complete meaning of terroir, placing it within a uniquely American perspective, and uncovering its many cultural implications. In doing so, Trubek explains that the notion of terroir should not simply be limited to its tangible elements, such as weather and terrain. Likewise, the reader also learns that the discussion of terroir should not simply be limited to wine.