We eat a parfait of pig's ear, drizzled with balsamic vinegar from Modena and accompanied by tiny bits of duck liver. Alongside is a ceramic spoon filled with lamb's fingers sitting in a rich sauce tasting of olives. We have ravioli stuffed with veal cheek and suffused in vanilla oil. As the dinner progresses, Mercedes becomes increasingly agitated. "Who would want this?" she whispers.
I haven't the heart to tell her that, indeed, much of the world wants exactly this. Such food is coming to the Rioja whether Mercedes wants it or not. Francis is merely the advance guard.
The next afternoon, we gather to celebrate Mercedes's 31st birthday at López de Aguileta, in Labastida, which is as traditional as Rioja restaurants get. Luis Aguileta and his wife, Esperanza Perez, run an asador, a restaurant built around an oven and decorated like someone's comfortable dining room, in this small town in the Basque part of the Rioja. Ten wooden tables are set on a tiled floor, and the menu is simple—six fish and five meat entrées. Aguileta has cooked in Madrid, Barcelona, and Marbella. He returned to the Rioja in 1992 to open a restaurant in a 19th-century house five minutes from his birthplace. He serves us grilled sausage and Patanegra ham. Then leeks in white vinegar, shrimp croquettes, peppers from Guernica sautéed in hot oil. Mercedes is exultant. "This is Spanish cuisine," she says, resplendent in her black top and a silver necklace. "At Arzak, they give you anchovies in chocolate. I will never eat anchovies in chocolate."
Her two brothers are here, and her parents, and Maria José, and they've brought López de Heredia wines from recent vintages. We eat sea bream grilled with garlic and parsley and a bit of red pepper, and then slices of beef, cooked rare and salted perfectly. "I always say, 'Honey was not meant for the mouth of a donkey,' " Maria José says, repeating a Spanish proverb. In many ways, she's as sophisticated as anyone I know, but her comment rings true. The charm of the López de Heredia wines, like the charm of the Rioja region, lies in a lack of artifice.
Nevertheless, I'm determined to experiment. Toward the end of the meal, I order several of the new-style Riojas from the wine list, since even the most traditional restaurants carry them these days. I want Pedro López de Heredia, the patriarch of the family and the man responsible for the continued philosophy of the winery, to try one. I pour a glass and set it in front of him. He swirls it and sniffs it, looks at it from one angle and then another, moves it to the right side of his plate and then the left. Like a child determined not to eat his vegetables, he does everything but put it to his lips. Finally, he takes a sip, then another. I ask his opinion, but he offers platitudes. I know there are strong opinions running through his head, percolating around a wisdom that has mitigated the difficulties of several dozen vintages, but I can't get at them. He's hiding behind a genial, almost courtly, demeanor.
When we leave the restaurant, Pedro asks me to ride with him. On the way back to the winery, we make an unannounced detour to his vineyards. We drive up one row and down another. Like a guide on a tourist bus, Pedro announces to me which grapes are grown where, and what each patch of soil contributes to the finished wine. It dawns on me that this is his way of saying that a great wine is made in the vineyard, not the winery. Modern winemaking techniques can smooth out rough edges, but only the land can impart true character. What did he think of the wine I'd given him at lunch? I have my answer.
That evening, from a watchtower in the walls of old Laguardia, I look out on the Castilian plain. Before me is Calatrava's Ysios winery, undulating like an ocean wave, its silver panels glinting in the setting sun. It is a remarkable building, breathtaking in its ultramodern splendor. Still, I'm feeling wistful, and not just because of the quiet dusk. Honey wasn't meant for the mouths of donkeys, and an area so genuine isn't made for such frippery as world-famous architecture and television chefs.
Standing there, high above the Spanish landscape, I recall that 1968 Bosconia I'd tasted at The Cemetery, then tasted again during one of my meals here. It had ripe cherry fruit and an enveloping elegance, and it promised another 40 years of life. It was the conceptual opposite of the meals of tiny appetizers that will be all the rage here any day. The armies of the night are coming, I see clearly, with their made-to-order wines and amuse-bouches and vertical appetizers that look like Gehry designs. It is only a matter of time. For now, I have the taste of Bosconia on my tongue. As darkness falls, its finish lingers on.
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