Orchard Hill also plans on releasing an apple liqueur in the style of Pommeau, the French blend of Calvados and fresh apple juice often consumed in Normandy as an aperitif. Orchard Hill’s test batch, with its syrupy richness, is almost certainly the only product of its sort being made in the United States.
As Soons showed us his apple storage bins and cider press, he emphasized that the business has a long way to go. Its license is pending, and production won’t really get underway until next year. Then there are the apples themselves: The best hard cider isn’t made from the standard varieties he’s using now but from cider apples, often centuries-old English and French cultivars dense with complex flavors and tannins.
Soons intends to graft several acres’ worth next year, but bringing Europe to New York isn’t quite the point. “I think that’s the progressive thinking among all us budding cidermakers — to make a product that’s distinct to the region,” he said.
The non-cider products are distinctive, too. My mother and I snacked on a chewy, almost caramelized chocolate chip cookie and a rich brownie so good that when we shared it, we let out simultaneous sighs.
Regional identity became the day’s theme. At Tuthilltown, Erenzo told us that the distillery’s long-term goal is to make a softer version of Calvados, without the harsh, volatile flavors that can linger in French brandies until they’ve sat for decades. “I like Calvados,” he said, “but you have to age the hell out of it.”
Farther north, in Annandale-on-Hudson, Adam Fincke gave us a tour of Montgomery Place Orchards and Annandale Cidery. “We’ve got a lot of books printed in the late 1700s that talk about Jefferson’s and George Washington’s favorite cider apples,” he said. Many of the orchard’s more than 60 kinds of apples are heirloom American varieties. The cider — sweet, complex, extracted in two-gallon bursts on a tiny press — is packaged not in wine bottles but in Mason jars.
Still, as the sun sank behind the earthy fall foliage and dusk settled over the orchard, it was hard to forget about France. An hour or so later, we parked on a quiet street in the town of Hudson, where the manager of Cafe Le Perche was outside, preparing to lock the door.
“We haven’t had anyone here since 2,” he said; he had sent the staff home early. Would he still serve us? Yes, he would.
Past a long zinc bar, in a high-ceilinged room filled with rustic wood furniture, I ate a sandwich of Dijon-crusted pork loin with onion jam and caramelized apples. But it didn’t taste French. It tasted, I think, like New York.
Hudson River Valley, N.Y.: How to get there, where to stay, what to do
Fromson is a Washington-based freelance writer and a beer columnist for The Washington Post’s Food section. Follow him on Twitter: @dfroms.
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