And I do mean everything. My friend and colleague, Jeremy Iggers, is successful, well-traveled, profoundly ethical, and endlessly curious about food, culture, and life. He has a lovely house, a huge following, and an absolutely beautiful wife, Carol, who’s wickedly smart to boot. So what does one get a fortunate man like this on the event of his 56th birthday?
Why, a bottle of Hungarian Bull’s Blood, of course!
He said no gifts. But this is hardly a gift, more like a portent. First of all, it comes from “Eger,” which I — and many others — translate to be an early form of “Iggers.” After all, Jeremy has a robust, Hungarian look. But also, I like the story behind this wine. Actually, there are a few versions, but my favorite goes like this:
In 1552, a fortress in the ancient Eger was under attack and its defenders were outnumbered. To give themselves courage, they drank this thick, locally-made red wine and spilled it on their chests. When the enemy approached, they saw these warriors with what they thought was bull’s blood dripping from their mouths and coats. And they turned and fled before the battle could even begin.
Bull’s Blood isn’t a wine to savor. It’s a haphazard blend of, well, whatever grapes happen to be cropping up in Hungary during any given year: Kadarka, Kekfrankos, Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Kekoporto. The 2003, which we drank last night, had a metallic, slightly sour grape foretaste, then a strange, empty pause, and a finish that was pure funk and barnyard. The first sip was hard to take, but I swear, it got more and more drinkable as the night went on.
By the time Carol served the cake, we all felt fully fortified. Capable of turning back a horde of thieving Turks. Luckily, none appeared under the arbor at Jeremy and Carol’s Minneapolis home, and we ended the night invigorated but peaceable, full of warriors’ wine and an exquisite chocolate cream.
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