B.O.D.

This post has nothing to do with wine. It's all about the day I stopped trusting young Cypriot men returning from their summer holidays in Phuket sporting ridiculously-looking conical straw hats, balmy eyes and tattoos of reggae legends smoking doobies the size of Pafos bananas on their shaved calves. Please keep in mind that this is a fictionalized (but only very slightly) version of the events.

I've had some bad flights in my life but few were worse than Etihad's ETD093 from Abu Dhabi to Larnaca on Friday, August 26th. Last time I felt this queasy on a plane was back in 1998: I still owned a portable CD player, rarely needed a shave and hadn't yet discovered Pinot Noir. I was en route to Quito from Miami on an American Airlines flight that had to twice maneuver its way back to the airport through one of those budding Floridian thunderstorms thanks to a flaps malfunction. Suddenly a four-hour flight became a twenty-four hour nightmare and a vow on my part to never again fly on AA. Honestly, I'd rather attend AA meetings and shut down this blog than set foot on another one of their planes.

I've always been apprehensive about flying, maybe because I associate it to certain traumatic events of my childhood. I was eleven years old living through Colombia's darkest years when Pablo Escobar blew up Avianca flight 203 hoping he'd take out promising presidential candidate Cesar Gaviria. He was not on board but one hundred and seven people perished on that flight including the parents of a boy who attended my school. I remember that day just like I remember all of the previous years. The guerrillas seizing the Ministry of Justice and battling it out with the military—you still see bullet holes in the surrounding buildings' facades and on a gloomy day the main square feels haunted by the ghosts of the fallen. The assassination of the prominent Minister of Justice Rodrigo Lara Bonilla at the mercy of the trigger-happy fingers of handsomely-paid sicarios. The random bombs detonating in malls and out on the streets. Pick up a copy of Juan Gabriel Vasquez's stunning new novel, El ruido de las cosas al caer, and you might then begin to comprehend what this all means to me.

In any case, The Wife, Ph.D., and I boarded ETD093 in Abu Dhabi at around 9:25 a.m. after a thirteen-hour flight from Melbourne. For a change, I was looking forward to our return to The Rock because I desperately wanted to whet my lips with the bottles of 2010 Oakridge Chardonnay, 2010 Giant Steps Applejack Vineyard Pinot Noir and 2010 Innocent Bystander Cordon Cut Viognier stuffed in my suitcase. But twenty minutes into the flight—I had just decided on the chicken tandoori for lunch—the captain announced that, "due to technical issues and for the safety of the passengers," the flight would have to land in Doha, Qatar. My palms got sweaty. From across the aisle, The Wife, Ph.D., looked pale. Behind me, a woman, just a few seconds of turbulence removed from an out-and-out panic attack, wheezed. Even the flight attendants, who are trained to be bastions of confidence and calm in moments such as these, seemed on the verge of tears. For a few minutes, I resigned myself to death. But I remembered that if I had survived AA's incompetence thirteen years ago, then I'd be fine on what is considered to be one of the world's best airlines. The Wife, Ph.D., who had been paying attention to the commotion around us, briefly came to life and told me that she had overheard some Cypriot guys in the back talking about bombs and how it was all a ha-ha joke. One of the guys said that if this was a Cypriot airline with Cypriot crew members, the man-in-charge would have laughed it off and offered him a beer and a blanket. Another one mockingly practiced his statement for the Qatari authorities: "My friend, I am Cypriot, land of Aphrodite, tasty grilled ambelopoulia (blackcaps) and Trikkis Palace, I go to Thailand for holiday and slowly slowly I go back to Limassol." I just shook my head in disgust at the youth's arrogance and misguided sense of invincibility. Some seedy girl on our aisle, though, was convinced the turbines had gone kaput and that we were somehow gliding to safety like dry foliage in November or plunging straight into the Persian Gulf, an errant Scud missile of sorts. The Wife, Ph.D., went from pale to an unflattering shade of green.

As soon as we landed—in an isolated runway, acres of desert between us and the main terminal, several fire trucks on standby—the captain informed us about the bomb threat. The doors opened and a Qatari police officer, his hands waving frantically and sweat dousing his face, barked at us to quickly disembark without our personal belongings. We ran into a wall of heat and onto a large patch of sand and as far away as possible from the aircraft. If it exploded, I guess, the authorities wanted to prevent any loose wreckage from flapping us on the side of the head and decapitating knocking us unconscious. Rumor has it that one passenger, having little time to slip on his footwear, braved the mid-forties degree heat barefoot. Imagine, burn blisters and war stories as souvenirs. Marvelous. At the foot of the mobile escalator, a young Cypriot, who I had earlier spotted wearing a traditional conical Asian hat, was being handcuffed and tossed in the trunk of a white jeep, probably bound for a lengthy stint in a ruthless Middle Eastern prison and/or a hefty fine for disrupting our travel plans. A little bit later, the same police officers, now furious and beyond strict, escorted the main culprit's friends to whichever dingy interrogation room was going to be used to break them down.

The Qatari police and airport authorities must have mobilized at least one hundred people to deal with the perpetrators, crew members and passengers. Given the sense of urgency and unpredictable nature of a bomb threat, I was truly impressed by Qatari officials' efficient, responsible and respectful handling of the situation. They loaded us onto three buses and took us to a satellite terminal in the middle of nowhere where we were handed bottles of water and I was allowed to use a bathroom where I discretely wiped clean my slightly soiled underwear. The Wife, Ph.D., and I were lucky enough to receive a boxed lunch and, once the airplane was deemed safe, we were carted off to identify our luggage, pick up our carry-on bags and board the plane back to Abu Dhabi, where we would change air-crafts and relieve the nervous crew of their duties. As I lodged our hand luggage in the overhead compartment, I heard a Cypriot girl, also on her way back from Bong-kok with some of her friends, screaming at one of the exhausted flight attendants for having left her Toblerone chocolate bars out in the heat. Of course, the chocolates became ganache and went to waste, but, as I told The Wife, Ph.D., within earshot of the girl's friends, that "should be the least of her fucking worries." She bitched and moaned and demanded a full refund from the airline for its negligent treatment of edible produce under subhuman temperatures. Out of nowhere, the flight attendant snapped and threatened to knock her off the flight if she didn't drop the attitude. That's that, I thought, until one of the girl's friends told her not to worry—he had traveler's insurance and they'd better right all wrongs. Stay classy, Cyprus.

For a less...uhm...bombastic tale of the flight, click here.

Venice On The Rock

This article originally appeared in Cyprus Gourmet eNewsletter 50 and The Financial Mirror issue of  July 6 - 12, 2011.

A few years ago while on holidays in Italy, my wife suggested visiting Venice, a city which, to be honest, never appealed to me given the hype. Being a good husband, though, I caved and booked a pair of train tickets from Rome to Serenissima for a three-day sojourn on our way back to Cyprus. I must admit that love is a word I sparsely use. However, that is the first thing that crossed my mind as we walked down the stairs outside the Stazione di Santa Lucia and witnessed Venice’s waterways unfolding before us like long wrinkled bed sheets being hung out to dry. The ornate edifications, the snail-paced gondolas, the blue sky and its streaky clouds reflected on the shimmering water, tourists sitting on the sidewalks dangling their playful feet over the ripples, and a lingering breeze all awoke us to the city’s majesty after the long journey. We spent our time avoiding Piazza San Marco and the throngs and losing ourselves in Santa Croce, San Polo and Dorsoduro where rich foods, local wines and espressos in casual osterias recharged our batteries for our next labyrinthine wander of the city.

To our surprise, we recently came across a pleasant reminder of Venice in Nicosia. Inaugurated a few months ago, Il Bàcaro is a traditional Venetian eatery close to Avlaia on Prodromou Avenue. The restaurant is housed in a cozy corner shop with ample outdoor seating, a gorgeous wooden bar inside and an overall rustic, somewhat French Country sensibility. According to its owners, Zenios Tselepis and his Italian wife, Manuela Migotto, the main idea behind Il Bàcaro is to focus on a limited selection of small dishes and snacks (cicchetti) instead of full-course meals. Additionally, he mentioned during our brief chat, the restaurant strives to change its lunch and dinner menu on a daily basis, a practice which certainly adds a refreshing element of surprise to each visit.

On our night there, we sampled most of the dishes listed on the chalkboard behind the bar. The chicken liver pâté was deliciously creamy and matched perfectly with the sweetness of the raisins sprinkled on the plate. The cheese platter was stacked with wedges of Le Moulis, Asiago and Cumin Tomme, black olives, roasted almonds and red grapes. We had pesto, fresh mozzarella and tomato tramezzini (triangular sandwiches with the crust removed), an Italian sausage with a mild sweet flavor, and a well-executed melanzane alla Parmigianna. Personally, the highlight was the baccalà alla Vicentina (dried salted cod, Vicenza-style), slow-cooked in milk and quite delicate in flavor. I could’ve easily had a large bowl of the fish, mopped up its creamy, oily sauce with some fresh bread, and dropped my head on the wooden table for a long nap. Keep in mind that for those customers with larger appetites, two penne pastas—that night, one with pesto and another topped with zucchini and pancetta—are on offer. For dessert, we split a torta di pesche e amaretti, which we agreed was too doughy and could have benefited from more fresh peach slices.

Il Bàcaro also functions as a wine bar, providing its patrons with exclusive wines from the Veneto and Friuli Venezia Giulia regions of northeastern Italy. Many customers have asked Zenios to expand the wine list to include other areas, but he is adamant in his desire to focus solely on the Venetian. Prosecco, Venice’s more affordable answer to France’s Champagne, stars alongside several reds and whites that are available either by the glass or the bottle. Prices are reasonable, ranging from €20 to €35 for a bottle or about €5 for a glass. That night, I drank a couple glasses of the 2009 Casa Geretto ‘Confidenza’ Refosco, a decent wine with notes of dark cherries that was unfortunately served too chilled for my taste. Regardless of this, I can picture the wife and me sitting on Il Bàcaro’s patio, sipping on a glass of Venetian bubbly, nibbling on the bite-sized portions and shutting our eyes with the dear hope that when they open again we find ourselves observing the city from a vaporetti chugging slowly along the Grand Canal. 

Il Bàcaro – Vini E Piattini, 131 D Prodromou Avenue, 2065 Nicosia. Tel: 22 676969 or 99 143980. www.bacaro.com.cy. Lunch Tuesday to Saturday 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Dinner Wednesday to Saturday from 7 p.m. to about 1 a.m. €20 per person with a glass of wine.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

The Amazing Adventures Of R.O.I. and The Duke of Ducati

The outside

It's worthwhile to invest time on your friends. Once a week—generally on Wednesdays—Return On Investment (R.O.I.) breaks free from his wife and daughter and heads out for beers and cholesterol-on-a-plate with The Duke of Ducati and a few other of his boys. I tag along only every two weeks or so because my return on investment is greater when I spend my hours with The Wife, Ph.D., who with a phone call or two can have me dispossessed of all those things that are near and dear to my heart. However, I do guarantee myself one thing when I go out with R.O.I. and The Duke of Ducati: a slew of totally inappropriate jokes involving gender, race, sex, weight, religion, politics, hair color, culinary preferences, musical tastes and Chuck Norris. You see, R.O.I. is one of those guys who has an encyclopedic collection of jokes hanging onto his memory like stubborn fleas and he loves to share them with an audience as long as there are ice-cold brews flowing through his veins.

The inside

Since The Duke of Ducati is somewhere in central France (hopefully) cavorting with plenty of refined and distinguished ladies, two nights ago I chose to accompany R.O.I. on his weekly getaway to Brewfellas, our newest hangout and home to what I consider The Rock's most eclectic beer selection. Wedged between several abandoned stores at the end of Ledras Street, this tiny bar is unpretentious yet cool. A few wooden tables and benches nestled on the sidewalk provide visitors with decent sitting room, while inside, a small rounded bar serves as sales counter and rustic wooden shelves leaning against the exposed brick walls stock craft bottled beers from the USA, Belgium, England and Scotland, among others. Besides its attitude, what I love the most about this joint is their passion for India Pale Ales, something I obsess with as regularly as The Wife, PhD., refers to me as a loser. In case you ask, that'd be a lot. Brewfellas carries at least seven IPAs, four of which I sampled that night with R.O.I.: Flying Dog's Snake Dog IPA and Raging Bitch Belgian-Style IPA (MD, USA); Anderson Valley Brewing Company Hop' Ottin IPA (CA, USA), and; Great Divide Brewing Company Hercules Double IPA (CO, USA). They also sell San Francisco's iconic Anchor Steam, Scotland's Brew Dog (which produces my latest mistress Punk IPA) and Harviestoun Brewery's Old Engine Oil Porter, and Belgium's Gulden Draak, a wonderful dark sweet beer we shared that evening as a sort of nightcap.

Who thought this was possible on The Rock?

"Alcohol is like love, " he said. "The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl's clothes off."

- Raymond Chandler, The Long Good-Bye

The only good kind of Raging Bitch

Brewfellas plans to expand into one of the adjacent stores to offer more seating to Nicosia's beer lovers. Once they have the extra space, I hope they add a few edible items to their menu; the bar is the perfect place to unwind after a tough day at work on this blog (cough, cough) with a bottle in hand and maybe a charcoal grilled cheeseburger or assorted sausage platter. For now, though, management allows Brewfellas' patrons to bring their own food as long as it's not too messy, stinky or plain bizarre. My guess is that if management asks nicely, R.O.I., The Duke of Ducati and the rest of the boys wouldn't mind chipping in a few hundred Euros each as silent (drunk) partners for a large Weber gas grill with the necessary burger-flippin' tools, a set of plastic IKEA plates and cutlery, some beer-themed napkins and jars of spicy English mustard, and the hiring of a couple of colorful waitresses dressed to the nines in scant Brewfellas (the devilish logo is great) halter-tops and Daisy Dukes. I bet R.O.I. will even throw in a few sausage casings gratis. Hell, if all that ever happens, I might just start investing those wasted hours on Wednesday evenings with my friends. Joke anyone?

Whine On The Rocks' Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

The Frugal Traveler On The Rock

My Zolpidem Supplier must really miss America and its people. She jumped at the chance of meeting up with The New York Times' Frugal Traveler during his one-week sojourn on The Rock. About a month ago, she emailed him, offering her services as tour guide and interpreter and several suggestions (seconded by The Wife, Ph.D., and me) on cheap yet compelling tourist attractions, foods and beverages including Avo's Lahmajoun, Sawa's €8 lunch buffet, bakery savories, pints of KEO (Carslberg sucks), the Pafos Mosaics, the painted churches of Troodos, pittas of souvlaki, the Akamas Peninsula, Jar in Kato Drys and street cat orgies. He must have found the email relatively amusing because on the night of his arrival we met up in Nicosia for kontosouvli, large bottles of KEO, anti-establishment protests and The Rock's finest. Of course, I picked the wine. Here's his account of our night out:

"Joanna gathered her friends to take me for my first Cypriot meal, a feast of salads, skewered meats and raw onions served at an outdoor table at To Kontosouvli (2E Kallipoleos Avenue). The highlights: shieftalies, crumbly ground pork wrapped in stomach membrane, and  kontosouvli, skewered chunks of pork butt. All that was just 10 euros each, with beer. Then it was off for Cypriot wine at a chic-looking but affordable wine bar, Academy 32."

For the full article (a mixed review of our beloved Rock that has elicited all sorts of catty comments), go here. And, in case anyone is wondering, the Baths of Aphrodite near Latsi do indeed blow disappoint.

2010 Zambartas Semillon Sauvignon Blanc - Honey, lemon peel, white flowers and red apples on the nose. Red apples on the palate with an appealing peach fuzz and minty finish. Perfect for a hot summer day, this wine was commended in the 2011 Decanter World Wine Awards. 87/100.

Condors, Cosmeticians And Ticking Clocks

Turning back the clock ain't easy. At the very least, you need to diet and spend endless hours at a gym or yoga studio toning a body that sags with every passing second. Add to that a modern coloring job, a close shave and/or some heavy waxing and you might be lucky to drop your age by seven years. If you have the capital, you can then head to Tijuana or Los Angeles where some renowned cosmetician can puff up your lips like a blowfish, tighten your skin so that it moves less than escargot on a plate, or, if you favor the X chromosome and have exes for boobs, build you a nice rack that can be used either as flotation devices or magnets for younger gentlemen with chronic mommy issues. Since I have learned to accept my flab and whitening beard, I chose this year to stand up to aging by attending the 24th EDON Festival, a massive concert and breeding ground for pseudo-socialists staged annually by the "communist" party's youth organization.

I always thought AKEL, the Progressive Party of Working People, was a far cry from a traditional communist party. Logic states that in this day and age, with the crumbling of the last socialist experiments, communist parties specially in a united Europe would only be that in name. However, as I walked through the Famagusta Gate and into the moats, I was magically transported back to the height of the Cold War. Booths upon booths spread party propaganda. Posters of Marx and Lenin and radical slogans printed on gigantic banners hung everywhere. Representatives from other European communist youth groups manned their stations and spoke to the impressionable attendees. Che Guevara, hammer and sickle, and EDON t-shirts sold like pints at a pub. If it weren't for all the designer jeans and handbags, American sneakers, iPhones, keys to German luxury sedans, colorful mohawks and tattoos, and spoken Greek in attendance, I would have seriously thought I was somewhere in La Habana circa 1964 witnessing a pro-Soviet rally. It felt so prehistoric I loved it.

Led by the Disney-Obsessed Man-Child and his brother, we pushed our way to within five meters of the stage. Last time I was this close to a band, I was sixteen years old and spent most of the Aerosmith concert in Buenos Aires making out with my then girlfriend instead of paying attention to Steve Tyler's tonguing of "Love In An Elevator." The average age of the crowd that night in the Nicosia moat was seventeen. The older fans stayed away and sat towards the back of the field where plastic chairs were lined up for the occasion. What's most admirable is that the performers—Thanos Mikroutsikos and Christos Thiveos as openers and Vassilis Papakonstantinou as the headliner—have been part of Greece's music scene for more than thirty years, yet year after year they manage to maintain a rabid following among teenagers, particularly in the case of Papakonstantinou, Greece's greatest rock star. The young crowd erupted in excitement as soon as Vassilis—yes, we are now on a first-name basis—took to the stage and began rocking with his deep, powerful voice. A mosh pit of shirtless sweaty teens broke out next to us. Those who refused to partake in the violence nevertheless pumped their fists, banged their heads and pogoed to the beat of the drums. To my left, a couple of girls—they couldn't have been older than eleven—got on their tiptoes and stretched their necks like giraffes hoping to get a short glimpse of the stage while passionately belting out the same songs that were sung by their parents in the past. Between songs, the crowd chanted in unison, "Vassili, we live to listen to you," a saying that rhymes in Greek and extols the God-like status of the artist. Nowhere else have I seen such passion for an established legend; I don't think sixteen year old Americans attend Neil Young or Bruce Springsteen concerts, let alone memorize their songs' lyrics. Maybe this is explained by the Greek population's pride in their heritage. Just like many people hark back to the apogee of Ancient Greece, maybe teenagers see in Papakonstantinou the remnants of a better time. Who the hell knows.

Then again, maybe he just makes people laugh. I cannot help but crack up whenever he appears on stage dressed in washed-up rocker attire (an Ann Taylor white t-shirt and shiny black cargo pants on this occasion) and resembling Sam The Eagle's long-lost Greek cousin but with a humongous grin painted across his ugly mug. All attention obviously falls on his nose—it extends flat like a plateau from the bottom of his forehead, then suddenly drops at least three centimeters away from his face and curls back in like a condor's beak. His stringy hair, which has probably never met a flattening iron or a comb-over, adds to his unattractiveness, while his thin lips and crooked teeth spread out in a smile that give his persona an uneasy, mischievous aura. Despite his physical shortcomings and old age, Vassilis knows how to captivate an audience; for more than two hours that night, he led us in passionate singalongs and spoke to our inner child. Maybe once Greece pulls out of its current financial predicament, it's time for the populace to chip in, send the man on the first flight bound for Sao Paulo and buy him a handsome nose job.

War Stories and Heartburn

Hole in the walls are fun. Specially if there is nowhere to sit and you are forced to eat with your paws. You know how it is. Pretension or comfort isn't part of the script when you chug a cold beer while standing or drop a blob of grease, ketchup, mayo and mustard on the sidewalk a few milliseconds into biting into a bloody burger. Once you are done, drunk and suffering from digestive ailments, you stumble along the road with plenty of new war stories to pass on to the children, a stinging heartburn, and food stains like battle wounds spotting your clothes.

To my surprise, a Friday night a few weeks ago, The Wife, Ph.D., asked me to take her to what is rapidly becoming my favorite Cyprus dive eatery, Avo's Lahmajoun, practically a small counter on Onasagorou Street that sells, in my opinion, the best Armenian lahmajoun and halloumi pies in Nicosia. Yes, there are two or three tables next door for those who want to stuff their faces in situ, but using them would take away from the fun of wrapping your upper and lower incisors around those pies while risking loitering charges from the restaurants nearby. Yes, the service is slow, but only because the pies are made to order and the joint is so damn popular people twirl their thumbs or thumb through their phones for thirty minutes while waiting for their grub. Yes, Avo's team of Armenian Acrobats also make kebab, but who really wants chunks of meat when it can be ground and mixed with tomatoes and spread like lukewarm butter or Nutella or Beluga caviar or Jennifer Connelly on perfectly baked dough? And, yes, it is dirt cheap (€1.30 per largish lahmajoun) to boot.

Armenian pie, Ecuadorian beer belly.

For those of you in the dark, here's the gist of it all. Lahmajoun is a thin, pizza-like dough topped with minced lamb or beef, onions and tomato puree and baked for a few minutes in a brick oven. Once its cooked, you can add chopped parsley and/or hot peppers and squeeze some lemon juice on top. Then, if preferred for the purpose of cleanliness, you can fold it like a poor man's version of a crepe and hope for the best. The dough at Avo's is light and malleable, and it is removed from the fire before it becomes too crunchy. The savory topping is packed with flavor but remains easy to digest. For the sake of this blog, I already envision myself hosting the First Annual Lahmajoun Eating Contest and anointing one of my fancy friends as the Cypriot illiterate beggar version of Takeru Kobayashi, a sensei to all of us who love food but hate putting on the kilos.

Unfortunately, we could not find a bench to call our dining table that night, and The Wife, Ph.D., refused to sit on the dirty sidewalk (my suggestion) like a couple of youthful gypsies out on a second date. Depressed, we headed home and uncorked a bottle of island wine. A week later, though, I was back at Avo's with the boys who couldn't care less where we rested our bums.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

2010 Hadjiantonas Rose (100% Cabernet Sauvignon) - Beautiful cranberry color. Luscious bouquet reminiscent of candied strawberries and cherries and rose petals. An explosion of candied strawberries and raspberries in the mouth with a tangy, medium-length finish. Off-dry. 88/100.

Off The Rock: Prague

Pra(lo)gue

Welcome to my latest experiment. I have decided to (occasionally) take this blog off the rocks and onto the mainland.Wine, of course, will be paramount to this new column's content, whereas the strict geographic or topographic limitations I have set for Whine On The Rocks (read here) will be temporarily set aside. Kind of like when The Wife, Ph.D., ignores my nightly pleas for a glass of wine with dinner. With that in mind, two weekends ago, The Wife, Ph.D., Double Trouble, My Zolpidem Supplier, Tbilisi Is My Capital and I headed to Prague for some much-needed R&R and a simple mission—tracking down and tasting four bottles of Czech dry wines (two red and two white) that received Silver medals at Decanter's 2011 World Wine Awards. Of course, we decided that we wouldn't go too out of our way in search of the bottles. Here's the list and a daily diary of the hunt:

2008 Habanske Sklepy Cuvee 1614 Zweigeltrebe Pinot Noir

2009 Spielberg Ryzlink Rynsky (Riesling) Austerlitz Pozdni Sber

2007 Vinarstvi Josef Valihrach Merlot Cabernet Franc

2010 Vinarstvi Mikrosvin Mikulov Kerner

Day One: Sleep Deprivation

Charles Bridge, the Prague Castle and Vltava River

We landed in Prague at six a.m. desperate for a shower, a tub of toothpaste and some shuteye. However, when you buy dirt-cheap tourist packages (flight + hotel + breakfast + tours + transportation + a Greek guide who suffers from verbal diarrhea) from The Rock, beggars can't be choosers. So off we went on a way-too-early half-day tour of the Old Town. My mother has this theory that cities near or by water are more beautiful than those like Nicosia that are completely dry. After visiting Oslo and Prague, I must concur. Rivers, lakes, the sea or the ocean lend a je ne sais quoi to a city; a kind of serenity is proffered to visitors by that salty breeze, a touch of humidity, and all those shades of blue and green and brown of the multifaceted waters. Split by the Vltava river, Prague belongs in a high fantasy novel. Besides being sleep deprived, we were in such awe of our surroundings that we did little that day to find our precious foursome. Prague 1 - Whine On The Rocks 0.

Day Two: Absinthe and Allegro

We planned on treating ourselves to one fantastic meal during our short trip. I did some research and found out that the Four Seasons Hotel's Allegro is the only Michelin-rated restaurant (one star) in all of the Czech Republic and year in, year out, is voted Prague's best eatery. After conferring with my sexy harem, I booked a table for five for lunch. I looked for our precious foursome on the wine menu but they were nowhere to be found. So I ordered a Moravian white blend that once savored confirmed to all of us that we were in for a treat. An amuse bouche of guinea-fowl. Tortellini stuffed with fresh herbs and ricotta. Lamb soft like melting butter with a simple parsley potato mash. Grilled salmon filets. Tonka bean gelatto. Cannoli stuffed with clementine compote and Greek yoghurt ice cream. Glasses of Moscato d'Asti and Pinot Noir. Multiple espressos. All quite simple but executed to absolute perfection. We ended that rainy day sequestered in the bohemian Blue Light Bar just below the Prague Castle laughing and chasing shots of St. Antonie absinthe with pints of Kozel dark beer. Even The Wife, Ph.D., partook in the beer drinking. Let's just say I wasn't looking forward to our flight back Monday evening.

2010 Gala Vinarstvi Chardonnay Pinot Noir - Wonderful aromas of lemon peel, grapefruit, melon, rosemary and a hint of guava. Very refreshing, well-balanced wine that hits your palate first with flavors of pineapple followed by good minerality and a tangy, citrus finish. Delicious. 91/100.

Day Three: Close Call

Shopping, specially at Sephora, became my sexy harem's preferred source of relaxation after endless hours walking the cobble-stoned streets of the Old City in high heels. Actually, they wore flats most of the time but I am sure they wished they had worn heels just to measure up to the sculptural Czech women. In any case, during one of those breaks, we stumbled across a small wine shop hidden in the ground floor of the shopping center next to our hotel. "This was it," I thought, "my one chance to find the bloody wines and legitimate the column." I unfolded my list and sauntered in. An older woman, whose English was as good as my command of Swahili, read the list and mumbled unintelligibly. At one point, I surmised she was informing me that one of the bottles was crap because she pointed at it and shook her head in disgust. In a matter of seconds, though, I had before me bottles of the 2010 Spielberg Ryzlink Rynsky and the 2006 Vinarstvi Josef Valihrach Merlot Cabernet Franc. Yes, wrong vintages but my guess was I wouldn't get any closer. Unfortunately, The Wife, Ph.D., put her foot down and said no to the purchase of the €35 Merlot Cabernet Franc blend since it would cut into her funds for cellulite scrubbers, papaya-scented body lotion and perfume atomizers.

2010 Spielberg Ryzlink Rynsky (Riesling) Austerlitz Pozdni Sber - Green apples, lemon peel and peaches to what is not a very aromatic wine. Pear and pineapple to the mouth with a very intriguing aniseed finish. Long lasting and bone-dry. 89/100. 

Day Four: Karlovy Vary

Frankovka!

A rainy day in Karlovy Vary and my last chance to score one of the precious foursome. However, no wine shops in sight; only a busload of chattering Cypriots following our hipster Greek guide through the two main streets of the quaint spa resort town. The Rock's tourists, particularly those who move around like herded sheep, stick out like a sore thumb. They speak several decibels louder than any other group nearby and many of them will take their time to buy everything onsite, be it porcelain figurines, handcrafted jewelry, cheapish art and local liqueurs. Above all, after an hour of walking, they need to stop for coffee, many of them settling there for the remainder of the visit and doing nothing too different from what they would do every Saturday morning on The Rock. In a way, they are like us Latino tourists without the drinking problem but with much cooler mustaches. My sexy harem and I pick a restaurant far from the Cypriot commotion. I flip through the wine list and drop my head in shame. Prague 4 - Whine On The Rocks 0.

2009 Arte Vini Moravske Zemske Frankovka - At a first glance, resembles a Pinot Noir. However, it is much fuller with blackberries, dark cherries, plums and plenty of pepper and spice on the nose. Alcohol spikes towards the tail-end. 87/100.

Epilogue: I Will Buy You A Beer

Masterful beers at the Prague Airport

Beer is cheaper than water in the Czech Republic. And traveling with a group leads to all sorts of imbroglios regarding money, particularly when splitting restaurant bills, paying for transportation or bribing a burly police officer after being caught relieving one's bladder on a 14th century wall. Okay, that last one did not happen but you get the point. To avoid any confusion or resentment, we settled our accounts by buying each other pints, bottles and cans of beer. On our way back, Tbilisi Is My Capital, preoccupied by her Prague balance sheet, bought My Zolpidem Supplier and me three Master beers which we happily shared with her for an impromptu airport tasting. A light buzz goes a long way towards appeasing people's wallets.

Master Polotmavy 13° - Light, nutty, chocolaty, low hops.

Master Zlaty 15° - Bitter yet much fruitier, best of the lot. Tbilisi Is My Capital and I brought back four each. No, you are not invited to have one.

Master Tmavy 18° - Coffee, leathery, very smooth yet earthy.

Do The Logo-Motion!

Three days ago was the one-year anniversary (applause!) of this blog and The Wife, Ph.D., couldn't be happier. At first, she doubted my dedication to the project since she's scared to death of my torrid extramarital romance with Princess Procrastination. But, today, after countless drunken nights, thousands of embarrassing words, and one worrying rendezvous with local immigration authorities, she can rest assured that we're here to stay. So there couldn't be a better time to unveil the Whine On The Rocks logo, courtesy of The Graphic Designer who provided me with twelve different options, eleven of which had to be voted off The Rock by the tribal council. Actually, they were all great but this one seemed like the best one to tattoo onto my left pectoral. Branding they call it these days.

On another note, Decanter Magazine (July 2011) issued its "2011 Power List" in the wine world and "the amateur wine blogger" came in at number 16. Obviously, blogs wouldn't exist without readership, so thank you, dear readers, for paying even the slightest of attention to my ramblings. Please keep the comments coming and let us know how we can improve. Just in case you're interested, here's Decanter's text on our club:

"As social media continues its relentless online spread, everyone is now a critic. Or, at least, anyone with basic computer literacy. The ease both of setting up blogs and joining online conversations about wine means that consumers are now able to share information and opinions with each other as never before - all the time diluting the importance of the professional critic. As wine markets such as the US continue to mature, so consumers will come to better trust their own judgment - and that of their peers. Online commentary has empowered consumers in a way that print media struggles to, and the upshot is a world of rapidly evolving views and insights which are increasingly becoming a key reference point - a forum - with which winemakers and producers can engage."