Once, while browsing through the Green Market in Union Square, I was told by a honey vendor that a particular honey—twice as expensive as the others—was the champagne of honeys. Like magic, his words seemed to illuminate the precious contents from within, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. Not that I didn't appreciate honey before—I've always revered honey as the heart and soul of the kitchen cupboard, but my appreciation, while deep, was limited in scope. There were no kinds of honey, as I saw it, there was just honey.
Through the simple device of a sales pitch, a whole new world opened up to me, a gorgeously bright and meticulous world where fields of flowers are like vineyards ripening in the sun. Why hadn't I ever made the connection? How dumb and blind I've been all these years merely tolerating honey as a healthy sweetner for oatmeal, tea, and the occasional glass of warm milk. I began to fathom the existence of a vast variety of honeys out there, each to be enjoyed and savored for its origin and distinct flavors. Both honey and champagne involve labor-intensive processes—by bee and by man respectively— for the purpose of producing something tasty and wonderful. Both capture the essence of nature at its most exquisite. It's all there in each drop of honey—the beauty, the sweetness, the light—nature's bounty distilled in a golden concentration that drips and pours in languorously slow motion, like a vision of love.
Unlike champagne, honey is literally a key ingredient to enjoying quiet time. Maybe honey is nature's way of telling us to take things slowly, now and then, to savor those magical turns of life's merry-go-round, even when they've disappeared from view.
In the midst of this great honey epiphany was a tiny, tangible spoonful to be sampled. I could only imagine how incredible this honey would taste. The champagne of honeys. No doubt the edible result of the perfect storm of flowers, soil and sunlight. A true nectar of the gods. I braced myself for something wonderful.
Well, let's just say that this locally produced, so-called champagne of honeys, failed to pop my cork. A little too sour of an aftertaste for me. Slightly rank, too. Where are these Brooklyn bees foraging nectar anyway? What sort of control do rooftop apiarists have over their bees' wherabouts? Maybe their bees are dumpster diving on the side, like little winged freegans. Concealing my distaste, I said thank you to the honey vendor and pretended to browse a little longer before making a beeline home.
But the experience wasn't a total loss, I walked away with a newfound appreciation for honey as an inherently opulent food with countless variations. And while I had thus far only tasted the standard table wine version, if there was a champagne version, I knew exactly where I'd find it.
To be continued...
