Sharon Bowman
Sharon Bowman
Stumbled into a restaurant this evening (OK, wasn't stumbling yet), and eight were at the table. Guy had already ordered the "apritif" wine. It seems a Parisienne of the party is white-wine averse, so the apro was a red. But Guy, knowing or thinking I like untraditional fodder, had ordered a Courtois Cailloux du Paradis "Racines."
I laughed and tapped Guy on the shoulder. "You're in for it, good fellow." Soon after, the wine arrived.
General disarray. What could be this thing?
Yet, the final consensus (we moved on to more consensual fare; still wino-y, fortunately, but less extravagantly militant) was that Courtois had looped back: a bid for artiste terroir had landed him right back in the fibery green vin de pays he had sought to upstream. Anne, from Sologne, said, "Oh... what an... agreeable little country wine." Yes.
It may be a truism here, but this was proof in the pudding that extremes are for extremists, perhaps exclusively.
I laughed and tapped Guy on the shoulder. "You're in for it, good fellow." Soon after, the wine arrived.
General disarray. What could be this thing?
Yet, the final consensus (we moved on to more consensual fare; still wino-y, fortunately, but less extravagantly militant) was that Courtois had looped back: a bid for artiste terroir had landed him right back in the fibery green vin de pays he had sought to upstream. Anne, from Sologne, said, "Oh... what an... agreeable little country wine." Yes.
It may be a truism here, but this was proof in the pudding that extremes are for extremists, perhaps exclusively.