Breakfast in Burgundy, page 22
Not if the manager in the Clos du Cailleret vineyard close to Chassagne had his way. “Écoutez-moi!” he barked as a dozy worker, with cigarette in one hand and phone in the other, failed to respond quickly to instructions. A low-volume, intense harangue followed, making me glad there was a wall between us, and after a minute he was sent on his way, cigarette extinguished and phone pocketed. Harvest is a serious business.
Watching the steady creep of the pickers through a vineyard emphasizes the timelessness of a scene whose essentials haven’t changed for a thousand years. Grapes are grown, harvested, and fermented to make wine. To call it the lifeblood of Burgundy sounds fanciful, but it is precisely that, and over the centuries it has attracted devotees who manifest an intense devotion to burgundy while trying to appear like normal wine lovers. Feigning an interest in other wine styles is a favorite ruse. In my experience, it is better to yield to the twin sirens of Pinot and Chardonnay at an early stage. The burgundy fanatic is a spirited character who seeks out fellow disciples with the zeal of a bounty hunter. See them talking on their favorite topic and watch the eyes sparkle. Reasoned judgement is only resorted to occasionally; sensual delight rules the roost.
Ray Walker is a happy victim of the Burgundy bug, big time. He looks like a tall, slim, youthful version of the great boxer Sugar Ray Leonard; the bright, boyish eyes are the giveaway. He’s a Californian who admits he once associated wine with people getting drunk and didn’t like it at all. His wife cured him of this by insisting he try it with food while on holiday in Italy. He was hooked. He tried Bordeaux but wasn’t sure: “I could trick myself into liking it, but then I went to a Burgundy tasting and fell head over heels.” Together they visited the Côte d’Or, in low season to appear less like tourists, and snooped around a bit. The addiction was now acute. He returned for the 2009 harvest, managed to buy some grapes, and made his wine in a corner of cellar space in Saint Aubin.
There is almost a religious zeal to Walker; he is like a believer being drawn along a path, happy to go where he is taken. That, allied to an engaging serenity, is surely what sees him through the labyrinth of French bureaucracy with sanity intact and no loss of limb. France’s bureaucracy is not one of her glories, though it could probably qualify for UNESCO intangible cultural heritage status, like her cuisine, one glorious, the other useless. How does he find the bureaucracy? A whooshing exhalation of air. “Takes the wind out of you, but once you are in you are in.”
By 2010 he had moved to a tiny rented cellar in Nuits-Saint-Georges where each barrel is nurtured like a child. Their metal hoops have been painted red by Walker for no other reason than it appears to make him feel good. “I feel relaxed and tranquil here. Seeing the red hoops makes me happier . . . It’s silly, but sometimes I have my lunch here; I like to be beside the barrels.” There’s a temptation to look askance at all this—until the wines are sampled. Running through each is a rush of succulent fruit that banishes any doubts about this neophyte’s competence. Walker says he is doing everything completely by intuition: “God willing, all I am doing is not screwing it up.” He’s not.
They are not screwing up at Domaine Mugneret-Gibourg either, where mother, Jacqueline, and daughters, Marie-Christine and Marie-Andrée, turn out a compelling range of wines. Marie-Andrée shows me around, out into the vineyards that lie between the winery and the main road. There’s a slight declivity, hardly more than a few meters’ drop, but enough to let freezing winter air settle and threaten the vines. It settled with venom early in 2010 and killed a plot planted in 1985, necessitating the tedious business of uprooting and replanting. It’s a reminder of how dependant winemaking is on the weather, virtually helpless in the face of its worst depredations. Spring frost may severely curtail a vintage, whereas winter frost, if the temperature dips to -4° F (-20° C), can wipe out a vineyard and at least a handful of vintages. Despite the setback, Marie-Andrée is sanguine: “I like this moment when all the grapes are picked; it is now in our hands. When it is not in the vat you are not sure of anything. I like autumn, the quiet.”
Mugneret-Gibourg is found at 5, Rue des Communes in Vosne-Romanée, but perhaps the street should be re-named Rue des Femmes, for a stone’s throw away at No 11, Anne Gros makes magnificent wine, including a stunning Richebourg, while even closer at No 9 the Lamarche cousins, Nathalie and Nicole, produce a beauty of their own in the form of the monopole La Grande Rue. Three top domaines, all run by women and all on the one street—it’s not a situation I know of anywhere else on the Côte d’Or.
Monopole vineyards, those in single ownership, are rare in Burgundy and have an allure all their own. It’s not like the multiplicity of ownership in Richebourg or Chambertin, for example, where different owners have different approaches to winemaking, some content to rest on the exalted name, others keen to get the best from their vines. The monopole answers to one winemaking philosophy, and none is more exalted than Romanée-Conti, though its neighbor, La Tâche, runs it close. Both are owned by the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, presided over by the soft-spoken Aubert de Villaine.
When I caught up with him he was stationed atop a trailer beside the vineyards, casting a gimlet eye over the trays of grapes as they were loaded, frequently intervening with secateurs to snip out anything that was substandard. After that, it was to the winery to watch Burgundy’s A-team of sorters, 16 in all, reject a sizable portion of the crop before the lucky survivors, deemed good enough to carry the DRC stamp, were consigned to the fermentation vat.
Lunch is an international affair, with a group of executives from Suntory, a journalist from the United States, some French guests, and me flying the flag for Ireland. De Villaine is alert to see that all are included in the multi-lingual conversation, smoothed along by a magnum of Romanée-Saint-Vivant 2002. To eat, there is carrot and beetroot salad, stuffed tomatoes and rice, cheese, and île flottante. Everything is done simply, but nobody forgets where they are—the center of the known world.
After lunch I walk with Jean-Charles Cuvelier up past the Romanée-Saint-Vivant vineyard, and at the top of the road we part; he goes right towards Richebourg and I go left past Romanée-Conti, wondering if anybody would notice if I genuflected, but I abandon the thought as a team of pickers passes. Further on and up I pause to look back over the vineyards towards Vosne. Knots of harvesters move methodically. This is storied country, a fabled patch of ground that feels smugly at ease with itself. The sun helps. Then back to the village to collect the car, crossing the street as I pass Liger-Belair to avoid a conker shower whipped from the chestnut trees by the wind.
De Villaine is more relaxed at his own domaine in Bouzeron, co-owned with his charming American wife, Pamela, and now run by their nephew, Pierre de Benoist. Here, they champion the cause of Aligoté, always cast as plebeian to patrician Chardonnay. De Benoist wants the wine to be “bright and fresh,” and it is, with a pin-sharp, tingly flavor that delivers a wake-up call for jaded palates. He’s happy to talk at length, but further conversation is fractured, for a bell is rung and a United Nations of harvesters dribbles in from Italy, Poland, the Czech Republic, Spain, Canada, Portugal, France . . . They’re mainly young, though Tom from Canada who lives in Paris first came here in 1978 and has done over 20 harvests. The team is about 50 in all, with 20 boarding as per traditional practice. Dinner awaits: potage of white beans with potato and carrot, tarte aux girolles and roast pork, salad, fromage, ice cream, and chocolate sauce. Throughout, Pamela flips from French to English and back with the ease of a born hostess.
She is not the only American wife in Burgundy. At Domaine Dujac Rosalind from California is married to the founder, Jacques, and their son Jeremy is married to Diana, a winemaker in her own right at her family’s Snowden Vineyards in Napa Valley, a role that she juggles with her duties at Dujac. Their young son, Aubert, has already leant a hand at harvest, and on the day I called he was waiting impatiently for his father to finish crafting a small wooden dagger. Once finished it was returned as unsatisfactory; the grip was not right. Father bent to his task again. Modifications complete, Aubert took up station at the grape reception area where, all being well, he will be found for another half-century or more.
Such length of service is not unusual; in Volnay, Michel Lafarge started helping his father in 1946 and is now partnered by his son Frédéric. Volnay was my final stop at the end of a looping drive as the end of harvest approached. I started at sunrise, through Chassagne and on towards Puligny on the tiny road that runs snug by Montrachet. Cresting the rise, the colors changed from muted greys to opulent pinks and oranges, with the sun looking like a glowing marshmallow. I rolled through Puligny shortly after 7:00 am as the harvest teams waited for transport to the vineyards, tearing at croissants and pulling on cigarettes.
I continued into Beaune, along busy roads crisscrossed by scores of mini vans, sardine-packed with harvesters. Over a coffee and croissant in Place de la Halle I got talking to visitors from Australia, Norway, and the United States, all in town for harvest. Savigny-lès-Beaune was less cosmopolitan though no less photogenic, and the day passed in a series of stop-start journeys as I snapped at anything that moved and plenty that didn’t, then retreated to the car to delete most of the results.
Getting to Volnay by late afternoon, my attention was caught by a great hallooing and blowing of car horns. Tractors roared and people too; raucous chants rose and fell. An end-of-harvest party got into full swing as a convoy of minivans entered the village with exultant vendangeurs hanging out of windows and open doors. Heads garlanded, they bashed the panels of the vans, before breaking off to hurl grapes at hapless onlookers and photographers. They came to a stop outside the church, where a good-natured riot took place. Bunches of grapes and buckets of water were hurled all over the place and the odd shrieking girl got a dunking. Outbursts of scattered faux fighting died away quickly as each exertion reminded the pickers how weary they were.
I got talking to a dreadlocked young harvester, grimed in mud, spattered by grapeshot, and pulling on a cigarette. He was Parisian, “from the banlieue,” and had been there for a week. “You will be partying tonight?” I asked. “It’s a party every night.”
Meanwhile an older cellar hand, oozing seen-it-all-before insouciance, blasted away at a stack of empty grape boxes with a power washer. Whatever did they do before the advent of the Kärcher with its yellow-and-black, bumblebee livery? Did they miss them in medieval times? They hardly missed the noise—the whine of the motor and the whoosh-thump of the pressurized water is not one of the world’s great soundtracks. I took more photos and snuck away before I was used for target practice again.
Conversation, usually speculative, is the great adjunct to harvest. In Santenay, Jean-Marc Vincent is never short of a cheery assessment of progress; no matter what the weather gods have thrown at him, visitors are greeted with a smile; he doesn’t do taciturn. It is hard to keep up as the talk skates from barrels to yeasts to Celtic music, the world economy, the price of fuel, the weak Euro . . . and the harvest? “A very difficult year, 2010. There will be just enough to pay the banker this year and the workers. It will be difficult for many people. It could have been much worse. That’s life; we are not dead.”
Unlike the poor soul whose funeral was taking place in the nearby church as we spoke. A group in Sunday best shuffled past. A gnarled hand held a bunch of flowers. The bell tolled. Harvest over.
15
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon on July 21, 1969, and exactly forty years later I saluted that achievement with a bottle of Ramonet, Chassagne-Montrachet, Clos Saint Jean rouge 1969. It shimmered crimson in the glass and gave off scents of fruit and earth. The flavor was vibrant, the texture lacy, it tingled fresh and juicy on the palate and departed soft on the finish. I stood in the garden and raised my glass moonward before draining the last drops.
I believe in wine. It is more than the sum of its parts. Sure, you can dissect it and analyze it, send it off to a laboratory and hear back that it is composed mainly of water, some alcohol, and a few other bits and pieces. “Nothing very remarkable,” the analytical chemist might add. Nothing very remarkable! All that whizz-bang equipment and he failed to spot the message in the bottle. It’s so often the case, the harder you look the less you see. I am always searching for the message, the genie, the un-measurable extra that lifts wine above being just another beverage.
That 1969 delivered the most evocative message so far and prompted me to wonder what might be drunk to celebrate a Mars landing. There have been other great bottles and we look forward to more, thanks to our house, nay, our home in Burgundy. One small step for Armstrong, one giant leap for us.
A symphony is more than a collection of notes, a novel is more than a succession of words, and a wine is more than water, some alcohol, and a few other bits and pieces. Nowhere is that more evident than in Burgundy. Burgundy: a name that rings resonantly of all that is good in life. Say it with a flourish and relish it like a good boeuf Bourguignon with a glass of Chambertin—one bottle in the dish and two on the table is ideal. This is bountiful country, where the fields give sustenance to Charolais cattle, Bresse chickens, and millions of vines whose grapes have been transmuted for a thousand years into the world’s loveliest wines. People without number have been captivated by everything the word “Burgundy” represents, and over the years it has winkled itself under my skin, where it weaves its magic in the most seductive way possible.
Flying from Ireland we land in Lyon, France’s gastronomic capital, and hire a car for the drive north to the Côte d’Or. But first we explore the city. Lyon’s old city enjoys UNESCO World Heritage status, and once you leave the motorway’s maelstrom you slip back a few centuries into a warren of twisting, narrow streets. Ochre walls and russet roofs lend a Mediterranean feel. Secret passageways and dim courtyards abound, and as you wander the streets the outside world seems far away; there’s a sense of dislocation, a desire to leave off the wristwatch, perhaps even—heaven forbid!—turn off the mobile phone.
Rue du Boeuf is the spine of the old city, a melange of old shop fronts and enticing restaurants, with a carved stone bull above the street sign, in case you didn’t get the message. This city is built on the joys of the table, restaurant after restaurant, cheek-by-jowl, and all doing good business. Les bouchons are traditional, casual eating places where the emphasis is on meat, much of it offal. Cut loose at lunch and you’ll struggle to eat dinner. Wine lovers are spoiled for choice: from the south come all the treasures of the Rhône Valley and from the north those of Burgundy.
Old Lyon exerts an inexplicable pull on any who visit, drawing them back for repeat doses of her magic. There’s a self-possessed feel to the city; it doesn’t turn its back on the world but it doesn’t greet it with a come-hither look either. At first this is disconcerting, especially if you are accustomed to cities that fall over themselves to woo visitors. Lyon isn’t like that. You are welcome, but nobody is going to make a fuss; tourists come and go and Lyon’s denizens get on with their life, their way. Witness the number of shops and businesses, including restaurants, that close for a few weeks congé annuel at the height of the tourist season in August. C’est Lyon.
The drive to our house takes less than two hours, passing wine country all the way. First comes Beaujolais, home to the world’s most misunderstood and maligned wine, which is also one of its most delicious. Beaujolais’s woes are self-inflicted and can be laid at the feet of Beaujolais nouveau, the marketing campaign that raised the image of Beaujolais to dizzying heights while plunging its reputation into the depths. Nouveau is just-made wine and traditionally Lyon’s bouchons were deluged with it every November.
It is easy-drinking stuff, and the world took to it with such gusto that it obliterated all knowledge of any other style of Beaujolais, which was all lumped into the cheap ‘n’ cheerful pigeon hole. But the conscientious producers of village and cru wines battled on, and their efforts are finally gaining some recognition today.
No wine is more immediately likeable than good Beaujolais. Its appeal is direct and simple—it won’t inspire you to pen a sonnet, but you will call for another glass. To appreciate Beaujolais, it is necessary to move one’s parameters of judgement away from the muscle-bound red wines with which the world is awash. Where they march across the palate, Beaujolais skips and dances. Above all, it is about fruit, vibrant and dashing. Good Beaujolais brings a smile to the lips and a tingle to the palate. Technically the region is part of Burgundy, but its identity is entirely different and is shaped by the Gamay grape and the granite soils that make up the hilly landscape.
Burgundy proper begins once we pass the Vous êtes en Bourgogne road sign, with its evocative images of an arched cloister, a chef’s hat, and a bunch of grapes, and me whooping at the wheel. Off to the left is the Mâconnais, dominated by the Roche de Solutré, a massive rock formation that towers over the vineyards like the prow of a battleship.
Once that is behind us I start to get restless, stamping fruitlessly on the accelerator as even the gentlest incline slows progress in our modest hire car. The choice of car is critical. The top of the range chariots are out of the question but, after one experience with a sewing machine disguised as a motorcar, so are the ultra-budget options. On that occasion I glanced to left and right as we slipped backwards through the traffic, expecting to be passed by a pensioner on a bicycle.
I delight in the approach to our village: roll between vineyard and orchard, swing left and then right across the stream, over the railway line and up the gentle incline and into the Place du Jet d’Eau. High summer sees a blaze of flowers from beds and baskets, winter is brightened by a dazzle of Christmas lights on lampposts and houses, and an elaborate “fountain” of lights is in the fountain itself, shut down for the winter months.
