White Zinfandel Wine.
The other night we were invited over to the other side of the bay in Oakland to have dinner with Martin, a local artist, jazz drummer and magician who also happens to be a big fan of the circus and has notched up an impressive, though also worrying, 130 visits. I have to confess I watched him the other night and he still laughs at every joke.
I got lost following the handwritten directions to his house and ended up in a decidedly risky neighborhood which offered a last chance to buy some ice cream, requested by our host, and a bottle of wine.
There was a liquor and grocery store on the corner, heavily defended by an iron grill over the windows and door, so I parked as close as legally entitled and ran the few yards to gain access. This did not look like a place to loiter, nor to find a bottle of wine. But there in the bottom corner of the floor to ceiling fridges that ran the length of the back wall, I found a bottle, a jug really, of White Zinfandel.
Zinfandel wine (which I would have used for Z if needed) is a Californian wine. Apparently it was once believed that the grape originated here but in fact it was at the outset an Italian grape. Its one of those “hearty red wines, with a hint of pepper and cherry”, so imagine my surprise when my jug of White Zinfandel turned out to be a hearty rose colour. Assuming from the surroundings that the owner may well have made the brew in his basement with engine oil and disinfectant I paid the money and ran, not wanting to seem aggressive by questioning.
Martin, who lives at the better end of the street, seemed unfazed when I offered him the bottle, in fact red white wine seemed perfectly acceptable to him. The fact that it was ice cold passed without comment too, though to my friends in France this would have been heresy. In fact our early conversation centered on the three tubs of Hagen daz ice cream, one of which was new to both of us, banana split flavour. Martin showed me his tub of black, raspberry chocolate, which he considers to be the best and we discussed the new “Special Reserve “ series of flavours, before settling down to look at some of his artwork.
Well he is a very talented man, obviously obsessive (how else could you explain those 130 visits) shamingly energetic and productive.
Apparently when he first arrived in California and being a fan of Chaplin (whose film the Goldrush features a boot eating scene using a giant shoe constructed especially by a liquorice factory in San Francisco) he organized a party and invited all the people still alive who had worked with the great man.
Anyway, next to the framed signed photo of Chaplin is one of Martin's most interesting works. It is part of a series of Trompe d’oeil pictures that he created for an exhibition, and at first look seems to be a letter that is attached to a framed piece of wall. As you try to pick it up you realize that not only is it a painting but that the letter is written backwards and needs to be viewed through a mirror to be understood. The mirror is in the drawer under the painting and has the same monogrammed name as the solicitors to whom the letter is addressed. The letter is from Harry Houdini and requests that on his death his coffin should be lined with pillows stuffed with letters sent to him by his mother. It is apparently a reproduction of a real letter that Harry Houdini wrote to his solicitor, and should be seen as indicative of the detail Martin puts into everything, his painting, his jazz, his magic and his hosting.
The necessity of which seems to have escaped the makers of White Zinfandel wine, which is in fact dark pink, and uses the same grape as Red Zinfandel, only with the skin removed.
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