A Day Visiting Wineries in the Basque Country (and an accidental, quickie pop into Spain)

The next day dawned cloudy and cool, to the point where I actually put on a T-shirt and sweater. I was looking forward to try the wines of this wild-looking land, where terraced vineyards clinging precariously to the sheer sides of the mountains were the norm. I had never really tried the wines of the region, whose Appelation d’Origine Controlée is known as Irouleguy. Here they grow mainly Tannat, as in the South-Central part of France, though here it traditionally made an even darker, more tannic beast of a wine. Lately, winemakers had managed to tame its aggressive aspects and were turning out interesting examples by blending Tannat with the two other reds of the area, Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc.

So, I was looking forward to learning some new things.

Terraced Vineyards on the Sides of the Mountains

With Patrice’s list of wineries to visit in hand, I jumped in the car and roared out of town, ready to tackle the winding, mountainous roads. Only to discover that the first town on my list, Ispoure, butted up against Saint Jean Pied de Port. Within 3 minutes, I was in the small town and following signs uphill for the first producer I was planning on visiting, Domaine Abotia.

The car crested the top of a steep hill with vistas of the Pyrénées and there sat the house of Domaine Abotia. They were in full construction mode and wouldn’t be open for a while, so I looked at my list and took off for the biggest producer in the area, Domaine Brana (the one that had made the fabulous eau de vie de poire that had helped me sleep well…). After driving down into the main square of Ispoure, the road took off up another steep incline, with numerous switchbacks which kept me awake and my senses on the lookout. I did mention these were steep inclines, no?

After climbing high up the side of the mountain, I finally arrived at Domaine Etienne Brana. I was the only person there, and I was greeted by a nice-enough young lady who proceeded to taste me on all their wines. While I found all their wines technically correct, I wasn’t impressed overall by the quality, though one of the whites was quite nice and had nice acidity (something that the others lacked in spades). Yet the wines, for lack of a better term, had no soul. They were well-made, but there was nothing special, no oomph, nothing that made me go “hmmm”. I had been looking forward to this tasting, as I’d expected great things after tasting their eau de vie, but alas, it was not to be. I did, however, snag a bottle of that wicked pear liqueur…

My next stop, after making sure to drink several large glasses of water, was back down the hill, at Domaine Mourguy. Smack dab in the center of town, this cute little house offered views of the surrounding mountains, as well as several donkeys for the tourists. The winemaker, Florence Mourguy, greeted me and proceeded to show me around their immaculate winery. We eventually got to the tasting part of the visit, where we went through several vintages. The wines were very nice, well-made, approachable and, frankly, impressive. The use of oak was minimal, and the wines smooth despite the heavy grapes used.

Mourguy's Donkeys

Next, I went back to Domaine Abotia, where they had finally opened the tasting room and I was met by the winemaker’s mother. Got to love these small places! I was ready to go through their wines quickly as it was almost noon and I was hungry. However, the moment I tasted their white (their first vintage of the white, a blend of Gros Manseng, Petit Manseng and Courbu) I was fascinated. Whereas most of the whites in the area are fat and lack the acidity I like in my whites, this one had plenty to spare. This helped balance out the fat, thick mouthfeel of the fruit. Lovely!

The reds, however, while nicely fruity, were far too oaky for my tastes, so I thanked Mom and quickly left, driving back to Saint Jean Pied de Port for lunch. I had been told about a very good restaurant, Iratze Ostatua, which was on the main drag in town. I got there just as they opened to find a long room, open to a backyard with tables that was bordered by the town’s walls. Quite a nice view!

At 14 Euros, my Assiète Complète de Porc (complete dish of pork) was delicious, a big plate covered in various pork preparations, including pork rib confit (oh God, that was good!). The wine list was interesting and well-priced, with many of the better local producers showcased. I had a glass of the 2005 Ilarria for 5 Euros which was delicious with my dish.

Properly sated, I waddled back to the car, heading out of town towards Irouleguy. But as I made my way deeper into the brooding, misty mountains, I began to notice less and less traffic. After many twists and turns, I discovered a tiny town, where all the signs were in Spanish and Basque. What the…?

Oops! I was in Spain!

I quickly veered around the traffic circle and headed back the way I came, passing a large sign explaining, in Spanish, the various French speed limits. Yep, wrong turn.

I finally found Irouleguy, a lovely mountain town, with a flower-filled main square and many small streets. My first stop here would be Domaine Ilarria, a biodynamic producer whose wines were gaining renown. I met up with the winemaker, who proceeded to taste me on their entire selection of wines. They were delicious, showing a significant attention to quality.

After this, I hopped across the street to Domaine Arretxea, but sadly they were closed. As the great philosopher Homer once said, “D’oh!” From there I took a small back road that wound its way through the steep mountains to the next stop, Domaine Etxegarya. It was perched atop a foothill, surrounded by vines and mountains and nothing else. Two lovely young ladies greeted me, offering me their wines and a seat at an outdoor table. I accepted the invitation (it would be rude to do otherwise, non?) and spent the better part of an hour chatting with them, with views of the valleys and peaks. Oh, and the wines were pretty good too.

God, I love this business.

One of the daughters took me for a walk in the fields near the house, where ungrafted 125-year old Tannat vines clung to the sides of the hill with snaky roots. How cool to see ungrafted vines!

125-Year Old Ungrafted Vines

It was getting late at this point so I bade them a hearty farewell and an appreciative merci. Rolling down the mountain, I passed sheep and cows and pastures, with awesome views of the misty summits and the terraced vineyards around me. I finally arrived in the town of Saint Etienne de Baigorry, where the Cave des Vignerons de Baigorry, a cooperative, awaited me. While I’m not too keen on coops, sometimes they can surprise you with their quality. And I am happy to say that I was pleasantly surprised, as (in general) the wines were well-made, and the prices quite soft on the wallet.

I left Saint Etienne de Baigorry and headed back to Saint Jean Pied de Port. This was to be my last night in the region and I figured I’d spend it at the wine bar, La Cave des Etats de Navarre. Once again, I was greeted by Patrice and his lovely bartenders, who prepared a tasting plate of all the local cured meats and sausages, ribbons of aged ham interspersed with slices of reddish-orange chorizo and a basket of fresh bread. Oh, and of course, several glasses of the local wines. What a way to end my first visit to the region, with delicious food, good wines and beautiful bartenders!

When the bill came, I almost fell off my chair: 17 Euros.

I really enjoyed the Basque Country. The people are warm and friendly, the food is delicious, the wines getting better (in general), and the countryside quite beautiful. For me, it was one of those little discoveries that means I’ll probably be back someday.

HERE are some pictures of the Basque region.

Next, the Languedoc, from Carcassonne to Montpellier.

Cheers!

The Basque Country: Land of Fantastic Food, Beautiful Vistas and Unpronounceable Words

I left my family’s mas early in the morning (well, early for me, around 10am), as I had a good 4 hour drive ahead of me. The Basque Country was some 300 kilometers from their farm, and the entire trip would be on back roads. Indeed, most of it would take place on the smaller Départementales and Nationales roads, as the closest autoroute was near Bordeaux. Then again, I much prefer driving on the smaller roads. There’s less traffic, less police, and one gets to see the beautiful countryside (for make no mistake, as I’ve said before, driving in France is one of life’s little pleasures). Oh, and of course, if you’re like me, you can abuse the crap out of your little car’s engine and look at the speed limit signs as cute, quaint suggestions. Let’s just say that the 4-hour drive I was looking forward to ended up being a bit over 3 hours…

As I drove south, the weather warmed up, the sun became more apparent, and the scenery went from a semi-dry, temperate landscape to a lush green carpet of trees and oceanic grasses. Soon I began to see the misty, brooding tips of the Western Pyrénées, the mountain range that separates France from Spain. I also began seeing more and more signs spelled out in French and Basque, a strange language with very few modern equivalents. In fact, few folks seem to know its roots, though it does seem to have some linguistic comparisons to some Eastern European tongues. More information can be found here. To someone raised with the Romance Languages of French, Spanish or Italian, or even the Anglo-Saxon English and German, Basque is a strange mash of tongue-twisting sounds.

I arrived in Saint Jean Pied de Port, or Donibane Garazi in Basque, the center of the region and the stopping point for many pilgrims following the road of Saint Jean de Compostelle (the Way of St. James). This is the last stop before they start an arduous trek south through the Ronceveaux Pass into Spain and then to the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela where St. James’ remains are supposedly buried. To my surprise, there are still many people who follow this route, traditionally on foot (though my hosts made some sneering remarks about the bus-loads of German pilgrims appearing regularly).

The main street of Saint Jean Pied de Port

The old town, on the side of a hill, is basically one long cobble-stoned street with buildings to either side, encircled by a medieval wall and straddling the river Nive. Looming over the town sits an ancient citadel (what a surprise, an ancient fortress in France!) that had been designed by the famed French architech Vauban in the 17th century. Inside the walls, numerous buildings have small scallop shells affixed over their doorways to advertise their welcome to tired pilgrims. These are refuges, where travelers can find a warm meal, a cool shower and a snug bed for the night for a few Euros.

The scallop sign on the wall of a building

I walked around for a bit, getting my bearings, marveling at the strange architecture. It looked like a Spanish version of Switzerland but where everyone and everything was French but also spoke Basque. To say the least, it’s a rather interesting blend. Soon I found the one wine bar in the city within walking/stumbling distance of my hotel. What a surprise, me finding a wine bar…! The Cave des Etats de Navarre advertised its presence with high bar stools set around barrels and a huge mobile sign in a small courtyard.

Thirsty and tired, I wandered in, only to be greeted by two lovely bartenders and a gruff-looking gentleman, who turned out to be the owner of the place, Patrice. I told them I didn’t know anything about the wines of the area and had a very curious, enquiring palate. Immediately, Patrice lined up about 15 glasses on the counter and grabbed a basket of sliced baguettes. “You’ll need that,” he advised. He then proceeded to pop and pour bottles, tasting me on all the wines on his list. Once he had figured out what kind of wines I preferred, he wrote down a list of wineries he thought I should visit during my stay, instructing me to inform them that “Patrice from Saint Jean Pied de Port” had sent me (or not to tell them he’d sent me, in several cases…).

Patrice, owner/bartender at La Cave des Etats de Navarre

With my list in hand, I had dinner at my hotel, the Maison Bernat, where my friendly hosts generously offered me a glass of the local eau de vie de poire (pear). Made by the Brana winery, a local producer, it was reputed to be the best in France, if not Europe. While I’m not a big fan of eau de vie in general, this one was fantastic, well-balanced, with the essence of pears but without the searing alcohol I usually associate with the stuff. Rather, I should say, the alcohol was definitely there, but it wasn’t as offensive as it usually is and was rather well-hidden. That said, I did need to take a LONG walk around town after that glass, drunkenly texting my friends in the US and in Europe…

To say the least, I slept well that night...

Next, a day on the twisty roads of the Pyrenees, including an inadvertent pop into Spain and many, many interesting wines and great foods.

Cheers!

South-Central France

I left Pouilly-sur-Loire early in the morning to take advantage of the cool, crisp air and the (hopefully) empty highways. But that plan was quickly thwarted the moment I got to the autoroute: I hadn’t counted on being accompanied by caravans of mobile homes (there’s an RV culture in Europe????) and towed trailers, most bearing the NL or B stickers for the Netherlands or Belgium. It seemed that those entire nations had emptied and headed south for the summer (isn’t it usually the other way around?). Still, I managed to zip my way through the Nordic hordes in my little hamster-powered car, the motor screaming as I downshifted at 140 kph on an upward incline.

Luckily, the miserably cool summer of 2007 kept its temperatures on low, so I never had to turn on the AC. And anyway, I don’t think the engine could have taken that added stress. With the windows down, the IPod volume up, I roared south from the Loire, heading deep into the heart of France.

My family has a mas, a renovated farmhouse, just north of the small fortified city of Montflanquin. You can find a virtual visit of the Old Town in French here. For decades, it managed to fend off the British invasions of the Hundred Years Wars, but now it finds itself surrounded and besieged by the Anglo-Saxons again. You see, the English have bought up most of the houses and farms in the area. As my friend François says, “Zey could not win La France in ze Hundred Years War, so now zey are buying her.”

Indeed.

Anyway, as I was saying, the French side of my family has a renovated farmhouse just north of the city of Montflanquin. My uncle is quite the handyman and basically rebuilt a decrepit old barn into a lovely, warm, inviting house. After the long drive (including a wrong turn that cost me an hour) from the Loire Valley, this was quite a relief. But I wasn’t here just to see them. I had come to visit a domaine which had impressed me with its quality and pricing, Chateau Gaudou. In addition, I had leads on several other wineries making interesting wines in the area.

Chateau Gaudou

Located a few hundred kilometers east of Bordeaux, the Cahors region of south-central France was previously known more for “black wine” - tough, tannic reds that took forever to come around and stained the teeth - than for elegant, balanced wines. Advances in winemaking and adaptations to the market had forced the local winemakers to tame their workhorse grapes, Malbec (also called Côt) and Tannat. These could be robust, unruly beasts unless well-treated, as some of the examples I tasted proved. But a new generation of winemakers is making lovely wines out of these monsters, soothing their fierce tannins and softening their harsher characteristics.

My visit at Chateau Gaudou proved this point. Here, centuries of winemaking tradition were being updated by the talented vigneron Fabrice Durou. His wines were clean, lovely, not too extracted and nicely balanced, a sharp change from others’ wines, which had stained my teeth and left me gasping for water. The beautiful chateau overlooks the region, a stunning vista of rolling hills shimmering in the summer heat. His vines are planted on hillsides to take advantage of the wind and the exposure, and grass is allowed to grow between the rows to ensure maximum stress. The chai (winery) is spotless, a clean environment where he has control over as much of the winemaking process as possible. Yet despite all the modern equipment, the wines are not technical, they are soulful expressions of both the vineyard and the winemaker.

After several hours of walking the fields, visiting the chai and tasting the wines, my uncle and I left Fabrice, driving down the hills and back into the valley. My uncle had told me about a winery he’d been to where the wines were fabulous and cheap. When I asked where it was, he replied that it had been a while since he’d been there.

“Oh? How long?” I asked.

“Twenty five years ago,” he replied. I rolled my eyes. But we started asking questions and looking around, and in the process found ourselves lost in the hills in the middle of nowhere. We were surrounded by deep, dark forests, ruined farmhouses, and the occasional Dutch RV, on narrow roads. After several stops to ask for directions, we finally found the winery, the Clos de l’Auvergne. It was a small house set atop a steep hill, where an older gentleman and two beautiful, excited dogs came out to greet us.

Clos de l'Auvergne's vineyard

This was Mr. Lavouroux, the father, a barrel-maker extraordinaire, who extended a calloused and scarred hand to us. I immediately noticed there were a few fingertips missing. Seeing this, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Every once in a while, I wasn’t paying attention…”, trailing off and leaving me to imagine what would happen to someone working with a circular saw. Yikes!

Without telling him what I was doing there, we started tasting the wines. To my surprise (I will admit I’d never thought of my uncle has having a good palate), the wines were fantastic, lovely balanced wines that softened the monster Malbec with some Merlot. In addition, he tasted us on his 1995, a beautiful, dark, truffly wine that seemed almost like an older Bordeaux. Yum!

His son was making the wines, and we finally got to meet Jean-Luc. He was a strapping fellow wearing overalls and looking like the down-to-earth winemaker that everyone thinks of when they imagine winemakers. We followed him into the field atop the hill, where row after row of Malbec sat in the sun, the vineyard buzzing with life. Grass grew between the vines, as he was treating them as organically as possible. But what really got my attention, aside from the quality of the wines, was the fact that he didn’t use any oak barrels. Yet his father is a barrel-maker!

Calling Dr. Freud…

In any case, the wines were fantastic and well-priced, so after some discussions we struck a deal and I went back to the family mas rather satisfied with my day in the Cahors region. That night we celebrated my aunt and uncle’s wedding anniversary with a wonderful meal sitting outside under the stars, drinking a truffly bottle of the 1995 Clos de l’Auvergne and a bottle of NV Nicolas Feuillate Champagne.

Sitting there, the sun slowly setting, stars starting to twinkle, with great wine, hearty food, and a loving family, made me thankful that I’d decided to follow my passion and my heart into the wine business. These are the moments we live for.

I went to sleep around midnight, knowing that I needed to rest up as the next day I’d be driving to the Basque Country.

Here are some pictures of the South-Central area of France, again just click on the picture, no need to sign in.

Cheers!

Two Days in the Loire Valley

My first appointment during my stay in the Loire Valley was in the small town of Reuilly, about an hour and a quarter from my hotel in Pouilly-sur-Loire. As I drove there, the landscape changed from sharply hilly to a gently rolling countryside of yellow fields, reminiscent of the American Midwest. Every now and then, scattered amongst the wheat and maize, I could see plots of vineyards, the Sauvignon Blanc vines reaching straight up into the sky (Sauvignon Blanc tends to grow vertically whereas most other varietals tend to spread out).

A Typical Chateau in the Loire Valley

This was unlike anything I’d ever seen in wine country. In Napa, vines hug the steep flanks of the mountains, then spread out on the valley floor like the headwaters of a massive flood. In Burgundy, vines are splayed out from Dijon to Lyon over the hills and on the plains, a carpet of trellises linking the north to the south. In the Rhone, vines crawl out of the ground like alien creatures escaping a Martian landscape covered in stones and pebbles. But this? This was like planting vineyards in Iowa. Nothing had prepared me for Reuilly and its neighboring town of Quincy.

I arrived a bit late after getting somewhat lost (again, one of the pleasures/pains of driving in France is the lackluster signage, meaning every turn might produce a lovely discovery or an annoying dead-end). The wines were so-so, nothing to get too excited about, but what really surprised and frustrated me were the prices. Apparently, being close to their more famous cousins of Sancerre and Pouilly Fumé had gone to these wineries’ heads as well. No one in their right mind would pay for the quality they were offering.

And while it might sound like I’m a cheap bastard (and, by all means, I am), I am looking for something that offers a good quality-to-price ratio (QPR, in professional terms). Making a so-so wine at high prices just doesn’t work in my equation.

So I slowly made my way back to the Pouilly region, stopping at various wineries where I’d made appointments, only to find again and again that prices had become stratospheric while quality had not. My last stop of the day was at a winery on a hill next to Sancerre, where I found excellent quality (finally!) but similar prices. In my head, I did the math to see if I could make this work, but alas, it was not to be. That said, the winemaker and his son could not have been more understanding, even giving me the name of one of their friends who was making good wines across the river (north of Pouilly-sur-Loire).

I quickly jumped into the car and raced back to the area. Again, I discovered an excellent wine and a capable winemaker, but the cost, especially with the Euro climbing to the heavens, was just unacceptable. I sighed in defeat and ate a lovely dinner that night, sitting outside at my hotel’s restaurant with a nice bottle of Sancerre.

The next day dawned bright and sunny (enfin!), and I jumped into my rental car and once again abused its little engine, racing from appointment to appointment, screeching around surprising bends in the roads and trying at all costs to avoid the ever-present ditches on their sides. This day was slightly more productive, though not by much. I did find some excellent quality wines being made but they too were far too expensive.

I ate a lovely (and cheap!) lunch at the Bistrot des Vignerons, near the town of Sury-en-Vaux, a wonderful 3-course affair with a bottle of Badoit water that cost me less than 20 Euros. Then it was back to the grindstone (or wine press, as it was).

At this point, I would like to mention one interesting winemaker making Sauvignon Blancs unlike any I’ve ever tasted. I don’t know if I liked them, but I do know they were interesting and made me go “hmmmm”. Not something I find nearly enough these days. These Sauvignon Blancs are not for the everyday-consumer, they are weird, unique expressions of the grape from a winemaker who’s not afraid to (really) push the envelope.

Sebastien Riffault (Sebastien's website) is his name, and he and his father share a winery. The father makes traditional Sancerres, crisp, elegant, beautifully expressive wines. But Sebastien, well, his wines can be found only in limited quantities in the US. And there’s a reason for this: 1) he has only 2 hectares and practices extremely rigorous biodynamic treatments of the vines, meaning a very small production; and 2) they are, as I mentioned previously (and you’d have known had you been paying attention), weird. He allows his grapes to reach a very high level of maturity, so the sugar levels are very high. Then he ferments the wine to the point where there are almost no grams of residual sugar. Unlike other producers, he makes the wine go through its malolactic fermentation, where the malic acid is transformed into lactic acid. This has a tendency to tone down the wine’s mouthfeel and make it plusher, almost softer. Most Sancerres and Pouilly Fumés are not treated this way, which is why they taste leaner. What you get with Sebastien's bottles is a fat wine that smells like a late-harvest dessert wine but has no sugar on the palate and ends with some bracing acidity.

In addition, he uses Lithuanian names for his two cuvées, making for some very un-French sounding wines. In case you were curious, they are named for his Lithuanian wife. Lastly, he was written up on a blog I enjoy reading, Wine Terroirs (by all means, feel free to click, I won't consider it cheating).

Not your everyday bistrot wine, as I’ve been saying.

Thus ended my two-day visit to the eastern Loire. I hadn’t found anything I liked at the price points I needed, but I was looking forward to my next step: the Cahors region of South-Central France. My aunt and uncle awaited me at their rebuilt farmhouse (mas in French) just north of the adorable fortified city of Montflanquin.

Next, a long drive south into the sun and warmth.

Pictures of the Loire can be found here, just click on the picture, no need to sign in.

Cheers!

Intermezzo

After a week of hard work, swirling, sniffing, tasting, spitting and trying not to make choking sounds when I found a rather noxious wine that was offered with a warm, expecting smile, I decided to treat myself. I had been making dinner every night at my rented apartment in Beaune, which was just lovely (there’s nothing like shopping for fresh ingredients everyday; for some reason I don’t do this in New York, but that will change), but this last night I wanted to try the new bistrot at l’Hotel de Beaune. For those of you who don’t know, l’Hotel de Beaune is a small hotel located in Louis Jadot (yes, that Louis Jadot)’s old home. With seven rooms, it’s a luxury retreat with a cellar to die for at easy prices (and I make sure to raid it every visit).

The owner had recently opened a small restaurant in the building next door, and the care and love (and money) put into it were quite evident. The ever-beautiful Marie-Aurelie, concierge at the Hotel, took my reservation, making sure that the chef, Yohann, was aware that I would be stopping by. When I arrived he came out and sat with me a bit, making me feel quite welcome. He shopped everyday for the freshest ingredients at all the markets up and down the Côte d’Or, ensuring a market menu that outshone most of what was offered in Beaune’s establishments (which has a pretty nice restaurant scene for a 20,000 inhabitant town).

I ordered a fricassée de girolles et trompettes de la mort avec herbes fines (sautéed girolles and horn of plenty mushrooms with fresh herbs) and a ris de veau a la Dijonnaise (veal sweetbreads in a Dijon mustard sauce). Alongside, I picked a 1997 Mommessin Clos de Tart, a great wine from a ripe year that should be showing well.

The mushrooms arrived and I inhaled their amazingly fresh earthy, herbal fragrance: as my friend Drew says, C’est super bon! The mushrooms were cooked to perfection, not too soft and not too hard, and the excellent olive oil added a lovely earthy-olive note to the dish. The wine was poured, and I slowly inhaled, letting a long, deliberate, sly smile cross my lips: I had chosen well.

Musky, earthy cherries filled the air above the glass, with hints of sous-bois (undergrowth) and a slight suggestion of oak that just seemed to dance and glide with each other through the air. Oh man, I could snort lines of this all night! I swirled and tasted, letting the dark liquid expand over my palate and fill every nook and cranny of my mouth: no way was any of this going to waste! Absolutely fantastic, with tons more of ripe, dark cherries and earthy, musky accents, the wine tasted much fresher than it smelled. This was like dating an older woman and discovering she had the body of a young lady. The finish was extremely long-lasting, giving me tiny tremors of excitement knowing that the wine, just opened, would take time to really begin strutting its stuff.

Then came the moment all wine and food geeks seek: the marriage of food and wine. When done incorrectly, it can ruin a meal, leaving your taste buds rebelling and wondering at the injustice that was done to them. When done correctly, it can send one into fits of orgasmic, gustatory delights. One and one become four, five and even six if done correctly. The solid and the liquid mesh in the mouth, transcending each other’s qualities and opening the door to another universe of perverse pleasure. It is a moment that is more exciting than Viagra and more exhilarating then cocaine. Aside from sex itself, it is Heaven on Earth.

And this is where I found myself as I sipped the wine and ate the mushrooms.

The two just went so well together that I sat there for a very, very long time, sipping the wine, taking a small bite of the mushrooms, and just enjoying the orgy of flavors that I was experiencing. In fact, I was sitting there so long that Yohann came out to make sure everything was OK. “Why do you ask?” I said. “Because you’ve been sitting there for an hour eating your first course,” was the reply. “I wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

Oh man, yes.

After the fireworks of the first course, the veal sweetbreads were a bit of a letdown. But that’s being relative, of course. It was a fantastic preparation, a delicious dish cooked exactly as it needed to be. And the wine went quite well with this too. But nothing like that first course. Sigh…

Then came the cheese course, of course, a massive cart showcasing the fermented, smelly, curdled beauties of the region. It’s funny how that lovely stink doesn’t bother a cheese-lover like me, but instead makes my heart beat faster and faster (and no, it’s not a cholesterol-induced heart attack). I swooned in delight over the choices, so many to pick from, which ones to grab? For have no doubt about it, I was going to choose more than one!

And thus I ended my meal with four fantastic cheeses, each one smellier, nastier than the one before it, each one trying to outdo the other, yet holding its own with typical Gallic pride.

And folks wonder why I love Beaune so much…

OK, off to the Loire.

Cheers!

The Macon and the Tour de France

I visited the Macon region the other day, an area lying between the fruity softness of Beaujolais and the majestic soul-stirring beauty of Burgundy. This is a land of low-lying hills that surprise the traveler with sudden steep curves and angles. Spitting is de rigueur around here, lest one end up upside down amidst the vines.

A Chateau plays peek-a-boo in the vines

Still, there is a certain loveliness to the area, with quaint towns surrounded by rows and rows of vines crawling up the sides of the hills. However, one doesn’t get the same sense of history that Burgundy offers. There are no old monasteries hugging the sides of steep hills, no thousand year-old walls delineating different parcels of land, only the standard Gothic church which dominates most of the French landscape.

I was here in search of a nice, inexpensive, simple white wine, something I could offer cheaply, something that would be an easy sell. What I found surprised me: oceans of whites were indeed being made, but they lacked the character, the qualities, the je ne sais quoi I was seeking. And they weren’t cheap! How did this happen? Was it lack of skills? A prototypical French unwillingness to fight the market forces to create something unique? Or was it just plain laziness?

I knew the Macon was a warmer region than Burgundy, where the highest quality of Chardonnay is reached, but still, this was almost like California light. And it’s only an hour south of Beaune! With warmer conditions, one tends to get more tropical fruits from the Chardonnay grape (think sweet banana and pineapple instead of green apple and lemony hazelnuts), and this can be seen in extreme, almost absurd examples from California and Australia. Where was the minerality? Where was the acidity? Where was the balance? How did these fat wines waddle their way into this world? Was there a nefarious conspiracy of CA Chardonnay winemakers trying to turn the lovely white that I was looking for into a caricature of itself?

Despairing, I followed the twist and turns of the narrow roads, praying that the next stop would deliver me unto a good winemaker. But I hadn’t counted on two things: 1) most of the wineries that I did like were already taken by other importers, which was frustrating to say the least; and 2) the Tour de France. The Tour was wending its way through the region like a long Chinese New Year dragon, bouncing around from village to village and over hills and through dales. This, of course, meant that most of the adult population (ie the people I was here to meet) was either watching it live and thus not able to pour, or were in villages whose roads were closed by the Tour.

Gritting my teeth, I cancelled a few meetings and headed to my next appointments.

As in most businesses, it’s all about who you know, but probably nowhere is this more evident than in the wine industry. Especially in the hinterlands of Europe, where the Internet is still a new phenomenon or where getting a cell phone is still an amazing experience (how blazé have we in the urbanized West become?). So my find in the Macon, Didier Tripoz, was due to this principle. A friendly wine shop-owner in Beaune (Mon Millesime, for you Burgheads) had told me about a delicious white being made by someone in a small town called Charnay. I looked on the map, and finally found the dot that was Charnay. As it turned out, he was on the outskirts of the picturesque town, clinging to the side of a steep hill overlooking the region.

Didier Tripoz makes some good wines, some interesting wines, and some so-so wines (mainly the reds, though truth be told I’m not a fan of Maconnais reds). His lowest-priced white was a lovely expression of the terroir, a ripe yet balanced Chardonnay that wasn’t smothered in oak and wasn’t sweet. But what really impressed me was his attitude, which was much more open than some of the old-timers I’d met. He was willing to try new things, even, sacré bleue, screw caps! And he was still capable of getting genuinely excited about it, not just doing it for the sake of the market, but just for the good old-fashioned Hell of it.

This attitude is very, very hard to come by in rural Europe, and even more so in France. For a nation that’s dying to change, they are just terrified of that very change. So to find someone making a good wine, at a decent price, and willing to remain open to new ideas, well, let’s just say that this particular tasting had a happy ending.

I have to say I was a bit disappointed in the Macon. I had expected more diversity and more interesting wines, but very few really stuck out as having that “hook” I was looking for. The fact that I only found one, out of all the wines I tasted, says a lot I think. It probably says a whole lot about me, but that’s a different story for a different time. Perhaps I’ve become too picky, but I do know one thing: I can’t represent it if I don’t like it.

Here's the full gallery of pictures (click on the photo, no need to register):

Pictures of the Maconnais region

Next, off to the Loire Valley.

Cheers!

The Jura: land of Comte cheese and wildly wonderfully weird, wacky wines

So I found myself in the Jura the other day, one of the more obscure, unknown, and, dare I say it, under-appreciated winegrowing regions of the world. Indeed, even in its own country, the wines of the Jura are unknown, ignored or at best relegated to curiosities. But these wines are quite complex and delicious, and shrugging them off would leave one's life devoid of a singularly unique experience (and, I might add, pleasure).

Only an hour away from Beaune, centered on the city (town, really) of Arbois, this area is composed of rolling hills covered in leafy vines that seem to undulate as the eye wanders over the landscape. It's quite beautiful in an almost poetic, visually sing-song way.

Looking out over the rolling hills

Some of the grapes planted here are unlike anything else in France, or the world for that matter. They grow five varieties here: Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, as in Burgundy, then three other unique types only found here, Trousseau and Plousard for reds, and Savagnin for white (this makes the famous Vin Jaune). The region's wines have been known for their quality since the time of Pliny, yet somehow they rarely get much mention these days in any wine publications (though Eric Asimov does a great job of trying to get folks to pay attention to them, both on his blog The Pour and in various articles in the New York Times). Yet they remain under the radar for most wine lovers.

More Rolling Hills

Different terroirs accomodate different grapes, and geologic upheaval has given the area many different strata for growers to choose from. As in Burgundy, over the millenia, people discovered that some soils were better suited to a specific type of grape than others.

An example of terroir

The wines made here have a unique taste quality that can not really be compared to anything else. The reds, even when young, are somewhat like older Pinot Noir or older Nebbiolo, with a light, almost rose color, hints of tea and red flowers and fruits buttressed by a lovely smokiness in some cases, and bracing acidity. The Chardonnays have a nuttiness that's completely different from CA fruit bombs, the minerally steeliness of Chablis or the honeyed complexity of Cote d'Or Chards. And the Vin Jaune, well that's just a beast in and of itself. To make it, the Savagnin is held in casks for a minimum of 6 1/2 years, and are never topped off. What does this mean? Well, as the wine evaporates slowly (a normal process, this loss is called La Part des Anges, or the Angel's Share), a yeast settles onto the surface and forms an airtight film, known here as La Voile (the Veil). The interesting part about this is that while it's pretty airtight, reducing the oxydation of the wine, this veil does allow water molecules to escape, concentrating the alcohol content. So, what does this mean?

The Town of Arbois' main clock tower

Well, this means that what you end up with is a deeply yellowed wine that tastes almost like a super dry Sherry, but saying this in front of a winemaker will most likely get you tossed out onto your ass. I might add he'll then send his dogs after you. And, to be sure you get the point, he'll grab his rifle (many people in the area are avid hunters). So, dear reader, be sure to observe, sniff and taste in silence. Jura winemakers bristle at this comparison because Sherry is fortified wine, while theirs was made naturally, by the combined action of La Voile and time. In addition, it has a bracing acidity that makes your mouth pucker in surprise. This is not your average white wine, for certain. That said, the wine does have a very Sherried aspect to it, no matter what the winemakers want to think. Such a quaintly French way to look at the world.

So this was my first time in the region, I had come to learn about the wines and the people making them. I visited a few cellars, realizing quite rapidly that as usual there was a lot of bad wine being made (I still can't fathom why, with all the advances in winemaking, one would be so lazy as to make bad wine, but that's just me). I had researched the wines of the area while still in New York (ie I drank them with friends in Central Park) and found them to be to my liking. And, if you know me at all, you know that if my interest is piqued by something, well, then nothing short of Armaggedon will stand in the way of my finding out more about it. And so I found myself tasting various Chards, Trousseaus and Plousards (also spelled Poulsard), as well of course as everyone's Vin Jaune. They're all very proud of that wine, which is really what the Jura is known for, but frankly few wineries have both the means and patience to make it correctly. So after several hours of biting my tongue to make it forget what it just tasted, only two wineries really stood out: Domaine Rolet and Lucien Aviet.

Both could not be more different. Rolet is a large firm, owning 60 hectares (148.26 acres), with a large facility with stainless steel vats and modern equipment. Still, it had a nice family feel and attitude to it. Lucien Aviet, on the other hand, is a tiny winery, owning only 6.5 hectares (16.06 acres). All of Mr. Aviet's work is done in a converted barn, in old wooden casks in which the wines are fermented (very little if any wood notes are passed on to the wine due to the age of the casks). Yet both managed to make lovely wines, with personalities of their own, reflecting where they're from and who made them.

My tip of the hat would go to Mr. Aviet, however. His wines had an extra "oomph", a je ne sais quoi that made me want to keep revisiting them. The highlight of my visit there was when he showed me the cask where his 2005 Savagnin was still fermenting. The wine was still sweet from the grape sugars, with a bracing acidity and lovely freshness, and almost none of that nuttiness one associates with Savagnin. There was even the taste of the yeast! All of his Vin Jaunes were amazingly complex, just lovely and for me a surprising discovery.

Needless to say, I'm going to do everything possible to bring him into the US.

Yum, 24-month Comte cheese

Before heading up to see Mr. Aviet and after my visit chez Rolet, I stopped at a local cheesemonger to pick up the region's signature cheese, Comte. Fresh and lively when young, aged Comte takes on a nuttiness that's just fantastic when paired with Vin Jaune. As it ages, it gains minerally grains of deposits from the dehydration process, adding a slightly salty tang to its nuttiness.

24-month old Comte is difficult to come by anywhere, so I took advantage of my situation and grabbed a huge chunk. Guaranteed, it will be gone within a few days, I tend to munch on this stuff the way others reach for potato chips.

Here's the full gallery of pictures (click on the photo, no need to register):

Jura pics

Tomorrow, the Maconnais.

Cheers!

PS: HAPPY BASTILLE DAY!

First Day Visiting My Wineries

WARNING: Shamelessly embarassing plugs for my wines below.

"My wineries." How cool is that? I giggled several times thinking about that on my way to the Rhone to visit the two domaines who've accepted me as their representative in the US. And then, when we were traipsing through the stone-filled rows, I couldn't stop a huge smile from just crossing my face. These are "my" guys! I've been dreaming of this for so long!

In any case, all immature musings aside, Monday was my first full day of visiting wineries that I'm representing in the US as well as visiting some potential others. Well, let's just say they're going to stay "potential" (and nameless). Yuck. I did say somewhere that I had to taste a lot swill before finding some gems, right? But stopping by to see "my" guys was absolutely necessary, the wine business is a relationship affair and I knew they'd appreciate the effort I made to come down to see them (though 3 hours each way is nothing for me, I've done more for women... but that's another story...). I have to say, they weren't just impressed with the effort, but with the time it took to get there. Hopefully they don't know anyone in the Gendarmerie Nationale...

So I found myself in the Rhone Valley, a long narrow strip of wine-growing land that stretches almost from the Mediterranean at Marseille all the way up to just south of the city of Lyon, the gastronomic capital of France (and frankly most of the world). More Michelin-starred chefs have started in Lyon than anywhere that I know of.

So what's the Rhone like? Well, for starters, it's hot during most of the growing season. Real hot, I mean so hot that in summer that you just can't be outside or you'll feel your brain baking. This summer happens to be cooler than most, but that's the beauty of vintages: each one's different in its own way and leaves that imprint on the wines of that year. The Rhone is also full of small to medium-sized pebbles left over from the last Ice Age, carpeting the area and absorbing all that sunlight. During the day, some of them are event too hot to the touch! But at night, that's when they work their magic: radiating all that heat back to the vines, allowing them to maintain a cradle of warmth through the cool night air. And, lastly, let's not forget the work of the region's wind, the Mistral. A devilish blowtorch of air that howls down the valley for over 300 days a year virtually non-stop, not even to catch its breath. It has been known to drive men mad. Yet this same wind dries the grapes when it's humid or rainy, cleaning them and keeping them safe from mildew, oidium and most other plant diseases.

So, leaving cold and grey Beaune (the summer of 2007 is the summer that wasn't), I drove straight south for 3 hours, averaging probably around 150kph (yes, you read that right, I make that little hamster in the engine work for his food). My first stop was at Chateau Haut-Musiel, which isn't really a fancy-schmancy chateau at all but a renovated building on the side of the road next to an antiques shop. Jean-Marie Popelin makes some fantastic, small-production stuff here, wines that are redolent of their terroir (where they're from) and the grape varieties used. Before doing anything, we tasted a variety of his 2005s and they were absolutely fantastic, making me happy that I'd chosen to add him to my portfolio. Heck, even the 2006 rose wasn't bad. And I'm not a fan of rose!

Jean-Marie is young and energetic, and always ready to try something new to improve the quality of his wines. He isn't byodynamic, which can be limiting as well as inefficient, but instead uses a lutte raisonee (knowledgeable agriculture) approach, taking the best of all the different approaches to grape-growing. The results speak for themselves. His soils are dynamic and full of life, especially in the soils between the stones (see pic).

His philosophy is to ensure that the ground is taken care of, so that all his vintages can show well. So we hopped into his rugged, old little quasi-minivan (Euro style, not the US soccer-Mom thing) and began beating our way over rounded stones and thick scruffy cover. The poor vehicle nearly tipped over a few times as he took some steep turns, but, surprisingly, despite the bouncy ride, managed to hold its own. Who knew?

As it turned out we were driving a spiral around the town of Domazan, near the famous Pont de Gard (the huge Roman viaduc that's still standing). We stopped at various vines, checking their progress in this most miserable summer of 2007. Most were chugging along, some starting the veraison process whereby they turn from light green to purple. The rows were planted parallel to the Mistral, the wind from the North that blows constantly for over 300 days straight. As we stood on top of the plateau, the wind kept up its pressure, a howling, whipping presence that just never stopped, seeming to mock us little mortals. It doesn't surprise me that some people go nuts. It never stops once it starts blowing!

I stopped at a few nondescript other wineries before coming to my other find, a gem called Montfaucon. I had met Rodolphe de Pins and his wife Mari back in February and all of us had been absolutely amazed at the quality, elegance and balance of his wines. When I'd asked to taste older vintages, he didn't bat an eye and opened a 2003, possibly one of the hardest vintages aside 2002 (very rainy) in a while. The wine was lovely, balanced and well-made, shocking everyone present. Most 2003s are burnt and over-extracted due to the high heat and dry weather of that year. Not chez Montfaucon.

Once again, we hopped into the European equivalent of a mini-van and started bouncing over stones and galets, huge rounded pebbles left over from the last Ice Age. Rodolphe took me to some of his favorite plots, and we got out and he began explaining his philosophy of grape-growing to me (funny how that seems to happen a lot with all the winemakers I know - do I just look like a skeptic?).

Rodolphe is passionate about maintaining the land, like Jean-Marie, and keeping it as healthy and as ecologically varied as possible. He knows that's the best way to ensure quality vintages one after another. And while he's not byodynamic, he's an engineer and learns from observations, rarely relying on blind faith (as some byodynamic precepts want you to do). I have to say, in these days of industrial plonk like Two Buck Chuck and Yellow Tail, it was refreshing to see someone who's that passionate about the quality of his vines and wines. Picking ONLY by hand , he ensures that his wines will be up to his standards of quality (which are high, so God knows how drunk he was the day he accepted me as his rep...).

We then hung out in his garden where his kids fed me cherry tomatoes (I am a tomato addict and can't find a good one in the US, despite my friend Drew's attempts to distract me with crappy Jersey tomatoes). These cherry tomatoes were so ripe I can still taste them a day later... Wow.

A lovely couple, Rodolphe and his wife sent me on my 3-hour way with a case of wines, some tomatoes and a bottle of water.

Oh, here are the full galleries of pictures:
Haut-Musiel
Montfaucon

Tomorrow, the Jura, in the far East of France.

Cheers!

So, What Exactly Do I Do?

I get that question quite a lot. While the answer's quite simple, it's a bit more convoluted than one would think. It's also a lot more hard work. And it's certainly not as glamorous as one would think.

First, we have to parse the two parts as what I've created in Vinotas Selections is a hybrid, a nasty, smelly mutation with a thirsty palate seeking out the wine world's best wines at approachable prices.

The wine broker part travels the wine universe, swirling, sniffing, tasting, spitting, suffering through vast amount of plonk in the eternal search for a good producer. And trust me, there is a LOT of bad wine being made. Still. It could make your head spin (especially if you drink it). Once he chooses a winery, he markets the crap out of it to distributors and importers within the US and other countries, who pick it up at the cellar, charge up the wazoo for it, and sell it to stores, who then eventually sell it to you, the final consumer.

A wine importer does the same but adds an extra level of work, handling all the logistics and paperwork to get the pallets to the US in good shape and in time. The amount of bureaucracy involved is massive, as you can imagine, as we are dealing with a deadly, controlled substance, practically WMDs. Shockingly, no wine was found in Iraq.

A wine broker/importer does both at the same time, charging different margins for each, depending on the amount of work necessary to get the wine to the client (the distributor). Obviously, there's a lot less work in being a broker, but there's also less money. So I decided to be flexible and make Vinotas Selections a sort of hybrid monster.

Oh sure, we get to visit some of the most beautiful areas of the world, eat the greatest meals of our lives, and meet with people who are passionate about what they do. But it's still hard work. Yet somehow, waking up at 6am to drive three hours to visit a guy making a great wine doesn't bother me at all. Weird, eh?

So I write these words while in Beaune, the capital of Burgundy, where some of the greatest wines are made. I am visiting my producers as well as some potential new ones, so I'll be updating this as I go along.

Cheers!

Champagne - it's what should be for dinner

There are many myths and legends in the wine world that drive me up the wall. But the one that really makes me insane (granted, not too difficult a thing to do) is the persistent insistence that Champagne is to be opened only for celebratory occasions. The Champagne houses have done such a fantastic job of educating (ie brainwashing) the masses that many people can't even fathom the thought of having bubbly with anything but a birthday cake or a New Year noisemaker.

Let's think about this.

Champagne is a wine that happens to have bubbles in it via its secondary fermentation. It comes from northeastern France, where the ground is chalky and the weather foul. This means the grapes have a hard time reaching the ripeness they'd need to make still wines. This also means they're full of acidity, just what is needed to match many types of food. Without the ripe fruit to balance that acidity, you're looking at some pretty mouth-puckering wines that would strip the enamel off your teeth. This acidity is the key. It survives the fermentations and is what balances the fruit and sugar that remain. It also allows Champagne to match and stand up to food, a perfect foil for most meals.

So why do most people refuse to believe or even comprehend this? Again, the Champagne houses are to blame. And when one says that they drink Champagne often (as I do), many folks look at me as if I'm nuts (granted, I probably am, but for many different reasons). The terms "decadent", "hedonistic" (admittedly a label I embrace), and "indulgent" are the usual reactions. How is it that one can drink a bottle of $20-40 still wine with dinner but if I were to drink a bottle of $30 Champagne I'm "indulgent"? Has the brain-washing come so far?!

Well, I am on a one-man crusade to fix this.

Champagne should be enjoyed like any other wine, for it is exactly that. A wine. It goes well with a variety of foods from a plethora of ethnicities. Sushi, warm fish dishes, chicken, duck, ice cream, sorbet, even filet mignon are all complimented by different Champagnes. It's just a matter of finding the right style to match the food.

For example, most styles (Brut, Blanc de Blancs, Blanc de Noirs) go with sushi. Blanc de Blancs (made from 100% Chardonnay) go well with lighter meats and fish, while Blanc de Noirs (100% Pinot Noir) are great with heartier dishes. Roses are great with appetizers, as they're dryly fruity with some nice crisp acidity to back them up. And sweeter styles are wonderful with many desserts, especially fruity ones (OK, maybe not chocolate).

In the interest of science and my own thirst, I tasted a selection of Champagnes that I could find in NYC for around $30. That's my cut-off for "house" Champagne, meaning something non-vintage that I can open without feeling guilty. Or indulgent.

And if you're wondering why you've never heard of any of these, let me explain. Most of these are what's euphemistically called "farmer fizz", or small producer Champagnes. These are wines that reflect not only where they're from but most importantly who made them. They're not from some big faceless corporation which puts more money into marketing than quality control. These guys are focusing on what they do well, ie grow grapes and make wine. They let the product speak for themselves, and boy do they have a lot to say!

So herein are my tasting notes from this admittedly pleasant ordeal:

-NV Champagne Ellner Brut Reserve
On the nose, this had some slight yeast and toast, with honey, light red fruits and even a slight herbal note. The palate had similar aspects, on a tart and nervous frame with fine bubbles. As it sat in the glass it seemed to gain weight and rondeur, the structure filling out ever so slightly and seeming to thicken somewhat.
Nice, but I was hoping for more.

-NV Bellefond de Besserat Cuvee des Moines Brut
Another night, another NV Champagne. Beautiful golden color, leading to soft aromas of white flowers and peach and even some honeyed notes after a while. On the palate, this showed a creamy, slightly sweet structure with more of the same notes, some light red fruits, and a long nutty finish.
Far too softly sweet for my tastes, I prefer more acidity in my bubbly. Still, for a newbie to the stuff, this might be adequate.

-NV Champagne Ployez-Jacquemart Brut
After the soft sweetness of the Bellefond de Besserat, this was a pleasant change of pace, and much more to my liking. On the nose, this was full of toast, yeast, coffee, lime, citrus and white flowery notes, with some green apple and bread dough. The palate was super tart and crisp, exactly what I look for in a NV Brut. Gorgeously balanced, with tons of yeast, toast, bread dough, cafe au lait, citrus, and even some melon, it led to a wonderfully tart finish that went on and on and on.
I was really surprised at how deep and complex this was, it was quite impressive.
Very good, especially at the price point (approx. $30).

-NV Diebolt Vallois Blanc de Blancs
Lovely and crisp, with nice lemon, pears and almonds on a tight, nervous frame that ends in a long, tart finish. Great mouthfeel, lovely length, just absolutely delicious.

See, it's easy, go ahead and try it. Pop a cork, amaze, horrify and stupify your friends, and when they make some snooty comment, tell them they can't have any. Ask a local store to find some Champagnes at a price point you feel comfortable with and see what happens. You just might be (pleasantly) surprised... And of course, it never hurts to be indulgent sometimes...

Cheers!