It was Day #10 of our trip, the second to the last, and I was back at the Festival again.

A never-ending series of differently shaped clouds coasted across the building tops on a light breeze.  Each seemed to pause in turn for their moment in the spotlight of a late afternoon sun.  A glowing sky parade, I had thought, pausing to snap a shot.  Yet another of Disney’s sideshow entertainments.

Now with something like an air of familiarity, I strolled around Epcot’s World Showcase looking for tasting booths I hadn’t been to yet.

Someone walked by me carrying a plate upon which sat a powdered confection of unknown origin.  What was this?

It was round and clearly bread-like, about the size of a tennis ball.  No mere dinner roll this, as a snowcap dusting of fine, white sugar spoke more of meal’s end than its beginning.  What could this bulbous baked good be?

With mystery afoot, your Inspector inspected.  I moved through the crowd and found one more, then another.  Going this way and that, I traced the paths of unsuspecting festival-goers back to their source…

At last, the booth responsible for dispensing my quarry.  And as it turned out?  A little more Inspector Clouseau than Inspector Vino, perhaps, for I had been on the trail of a Polish doughnut.

I stayed authentic with that amber dram you see in the glass: Kasztelanski Polish Mead.  That’s honey wine to you and me.

The mead had an oaky, burnt honey nose and was sweet as syrup on the palate.  And as far as the ‘doughnut’ went?  It had a crust like French bread, but the guts of the thing were stuck together with an apricot glue.

Missing was any of the trademark tartness my Californian sensibilities expect from an apricot filling.  This was pure sugar with orange coloring.  It landed in my stomach like a gastronomical grenade in a foxhole, immediately upon which my pancreas dove, sacrificing itself to save the other organs.  Bring your insulin, folks.  That’s all I’m saying.

Suddenly, I had developed this near irrational desire for something salty.  Help laid across the border.  I had but to step over a line on the map from Eastern Europe to Western.

Germany is not only the land of my ancestors, but in Epcot it is home to its own pavillion in the World Showcase.  With a little Disney magic, it’s always Oktoberfest here.

While St. George dutifully skewered genetically improbable reptiles for the presumed entertainment of a jovial throng of beer drinkers, I slipped away for some of what the festival booth had to offer.

Riesling and more Riesling!  Germany’s most famous wine.

Riesling has easily become my most favorite white.  It pairs with a tremendous range of cuisines, is made in styles from bone dry to dessert sweet, and chills down for the perfect summer sipper.  I’ve enjoyed Riesling with everything from paninis to sushi.  Well, what about with Spaetzle?  I’m glad you asked…

Flour, milk, eggs, and salt poured through a coarse collander directly into boiling water?  It’s German pasta, liebchen.  Drain it, butter it, add a creamy mushroom ragout and you’re ready to eat.

Disney’s sommeliers suggested a pairing of S.A. Prüm Blue Slate Riesling Kabinett.  It was a crisp incarnation of yellow citrus, with a German Riesling’s signature minerality recalling the slate-rich soil in which the grapes were grown.  The stuff cut through a spoon-standing cream sauce like Windex for your palate.  So refreshing.

If for no other reason than to try another Riesling, I went back to the booth for more.  Do your wurst, I cried and was, indeed, obliged…

This Debrizner Sausage with Sauerkraut on a Pretzel Roll was accompanied by an S.A. Prüm Essence Riesling that evoked more peach and apricot than lemon, with white florals on the nose.  Slightly off-dry, just a touch of sweetness in the wine complimented the salty sour of the food in a way similar to, but somewhat more sophisticatedly than the much-loved classic of burgers and Coke.

Damn it.  I just knew that if I wrote about wine often enough, I’d eventually say something pretentious.  And there it is.  But I was having wine with hot dogs, people.  That’s like asking a football player to talk about his game without saying “a hundred and ten percent.”  I think I deserve a pass on this one.

Besides, there’d be plenty of opportunities to engage in snobbery during the upcoming Dinner #10…

-inspector vino