A very old story, probably originally from WLDG, though I can't seem to find it there anymore. But early 2001 maybe? On we go, and you're on your own with the inside jokes...
Apologies in advance--it has been a packed few weeks since these events, and my memory isn't much at the best of times. I wouldn't take my impressions of the wines too seriously if I were you. Maybe I'll just give them numbers
As I said, it was just a few weeks ago. I had the excellent fortune to attend the storied jeebus at the global HQ of wine impresario Joe Dressner and his consort Denyse. They plied a group of mostly East Coast wine geeks with a vast assortment of the best terroir-driven wines from France and Portugal. They did this not as you might think out of kindness, generosity, or a spirit of good fellowship, but, as I have learned since, out of a crass commercial desire to have the wines hyped by the various Internet scribes in attendance. This goal was reasonably well accomplished, as we have seen. Me, I knew better than to hype those wines. It's hard enough to get ahold of those gems without having to elbow aside every lurker on the Web. I'll keep any kind thoughts about the Louis/Dressner portfolio to myself, thank you very much, until I've managed to score my fill of Luneau-Papin Muscadet and maybe sent some to my sister.
In any case, the talk of the tasting was France: regions, weather, the inhabitants, their amusing folk customs, their colorful native garb, their quaint political arrangements, the works. I found this more than usually compelling, since I was headed there myself a week later. I mentioned this plan to Impresario Dressner when I managed to have a quiet moment with the great man. I also mentioned that I was refusing to work the American holiday that happened during my trip (they have better working conditions in France), and that I'd have an uncommitted day or two in Paris and environs during the "weekend" (as I believe they say) I would be there. At this, the great man leapt into action (an impressive sight, if you haven't seen it for yourself--not bad for a cardiac patient). "But you must visit some of my growers," he said. I allowed as how it had been a lifelong dream of mine, but that I knew his terroir-machers were busy, busy, busy, making the terroir and jamming it into bottles, making the terroir... "Pshaw," he said, surprising me with the pronunciation of that little-used word. "Denyse and I will call them. They will see you. But it is very far from Paris to Touraine and Bourgueil and so on" "I will rent a fast car," I assured them, "a very fast car."
As the week sped by, various cryptic communications reached me by electronic means. Some of them were sensible--Sunday was propitious, some growers might see me. Others were puzzling--one that reached me after I'd left home insisted, "bring your boots!" What could this mean? In any case, it was far too late for boots. I was off to be tortured in London by sell-side pharmaceutical analysts from around the world.
The worldwide conspirators were merciless, but they released me late on Friday, and I went drinking with the amusing Irishmen. We drank many things in many picturesque places in London, but I won't bore you. Well, OK, if you have occasion to drink after hours, the bar at Claridge's has a splendid Armagnac selection, particularly if you can get the Irish to pick up the tab.
The next morning I left London with a light heart and a throbbing head and hopped the train to Paris. I arrived at my hotel and immediately began badgering the staff--a room change, faxes, packages to send, how soon could they return laundry?, and so on. They were used to such antics. A fistful of quatloos to the concierge and all was well. That night, the car rental place dropped off my very fast car, which looked most stylish curbside near the hotel when I returned from a dinner memorable only for a Clos Rougeard Saumur-Champigny.
Somewhat behind schedule, I awoke the next morning, filled the trunk (a 2 bouquet capacity) of the VFC with flowers (purchased the day before at the local market and refrigerated in the bathroom of my hotel with the window open to the winter chill), and raced off to my first appointment at Clos Roche Blanche. Fortunately, the Peripherique was uncrowded, and once through the Porte du Orleans the roads were almost empty that Sunday morning. The VFC was good for a steady 210 down the highway, but I was wary of the left lane as I drove south. It was shaded by the central divider from the weak rays of the rising winter sun in the east, and seemed still to be decorated by frost. Dressner's myrmidons had used their devilishly clever technology to provide me with computer-generated directions that frequently led me to the correct road.
At last, I arrived at the appointed spot, the "strange white limestone house perched on a hillside on your left," in the most accurate words of the directions. And quite a magical spot it is. I was still putting away my Dave Grissman CD ("Dawganova" is great company for the Loire countryside) and reaching for my coat when Catherine appeared. I delivered half the flowers in the trunk to her, and we set off on a walk through her vineyards and woods. This was the walk for which I was to have brought boots, as it appeared. Fortunately, the frost that had me concerned on the road had seized the mud in the fields and woods, and my new Gore-Tex shoes were well up to the task.
We walked only the hill just behind the house and winery. This included the 107-year-old Cot vines and an assortment of others. The Cot vines were as gnarly as my previous standard, old California Zinfandel, but they were set much lower to the ground. Catherine explained that they were at the northern limit of viticulture in France, and that the grapes required reflected heat from the ground to reach full ripeness. Even at 1130 AM, the frost was still white on the fields. Catherine was delighted by the cold, saying that she had missed winter. It had been very warm all fall, and she was worried about the vines getting a proper chill for their vegetative cycle.
As we walked, we talked mushrooms. No one will be surprised, I suppose. Denyse had told Catherine some wild tale about my mycophagy, and she had taken it to heart. We spoke of "chanterelles," which was a category that locally included, but was not limited to, "girolles." I mentioned San Francisco chanterelles that were as big as a soccer ball and she politely pretended to credit my traveller's tale. She showed me the spot where the day before she had picked chanterelles for the lunch we were to have. A few frozen Cantharellus infundibuloformis and cut stems still marked the place. I said that I had picked the same mushrooms two weeks before on the Mendocino coast in California, but that I preferred black chanterelles, which grew at the same time.
It gradually became clear to me what a difference there was between my notion of mushrooms and hers. My fungal world is one of sudden, arbitrary abundance and long hoarding. I only get a few opportunities to pick each year, and I must stretch the result through a series of opulent dinner parties for discriminating and outspoken New York wine geeks. Catherine, OTOH, eats mushrooms only in season (she doesn't preserve one season's bounty for later use). When I want black chanterelles, I fly to San Francisco, rent a car, drive 2 1/2 hours north, pick as many as I can in a day, dry them, and carry them home for future use. When Catherine wants them, she walks 5 minutes up the hill behind her house and picks what she needs for that meal.
We walked back and toured the rather fancy gravity-fed winery that leads down from the vineyard at the top of the hill. As you would expect, it is all the most gentle and organic of joints.
Back into the house we went, to meet up with Didier and an assortment of relatives. Some of these were fluent in English and able to converse with me, and others were shy. These delightful people brought me into their family Sunday dinner, and were as open and hospitable as they could possibly have been. Catherine showed me a bowl of wild greens that she had picked from her organic vineyard. "We call these "mache," she said. "Funny, so do we," I reported. I described how, in New York, mache was grown hydroponically (try to translate *that*), and was extremely expensive. The guests were very amused. Didier opened a bottle of CRB Sauvignon Blanc 1999. As with many wines from CRB, it tasted more of the neighborhood than the grapes. A fine effort from a sub-thrilling vintage (if one were prone to generalization), it had guts, grip, and fruit, and was a dandy start to an afternoon's drinking. It also had the typical CRB minerality in spades, or perhaps crystals. The wine spent 1-2 days on the skins, and then a day after pressing at 4*, rising to 18* for the fermentation.
The pork pot roast with C. infundibuloformis and potatoes was deelish, and was well complemented by two older wines that Didier opened. (When he saw me taking a brief note, he thought that I might be taking notes on his English. I replied that there were no notes worth taking on my French). The 1988 Assemblage (Cot, Cab, Gamay) was still a young wine, with little bricking and no brown at all. Surprisingly, Gamay fruit was still evident on the nose. The wine was firm, with significant acids and some tannin.
Later, Didier opened the 1993 Assemblage. He ferments all the grapes together, leading sometimes to very ripe gamay, for instance. He believes that the different grapes bring different indigenous yeasts, adding complexity to the wine. The 1993 was even younger, although less acidic and fuller than the 1988. Both were delicious and obviously had room to run.
Other differences between their traditional notions of mushrooms and mine became apparent when I told them that black chanterelles were great with fish. They smiled politely, but their exchanged glances made it obvious that the thought balloons over their heads had circling fingers pointed at their temples.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, and I wanted to reach Chez Breton before dark, so I hopped in the VFC and headed out. Catherine reported to me that her college-age daughter described the VFC as "pure," a hipster French expression of approval.
Apologies in advance--it has been a packed few weeks since these events, and my memory isn't much at the best of times. I wouldn't take my impressions of the wines too seriously if I were you. Maybe I'll just give them numbers
As I said, it was just a few weeks ago. I had the excellent fortune to attend the storied jeebus at the global HQ of wine impresario Joe Dressner and his consort Denyse. They plied a group of mostly East Coast wine geeks with a vast assortment of the best terroir-driven wines from France and Portugal. They did this not as you might think out of kindness, generosity, or a spirit of good fellowship, but, as I have learned since, out of a crass commercial desire to have the wines hyped by the various Internet scribes in attendance. This goal was reasonably well accomplished, as we have seen. Me, I knew better than to hype those wines. It's hard enough to get ahold of those gems without having to elbow aside every lurker on the Web. I'll keep any kind thoughts about the Louis/Dressner portfolio to myself, thank you very much, until I've managed to score my fill of Luneau-Papin Muscadet and maybe sent some to my sister.
In any case, the talk of the tasting was France: regions, weather, the inhabitants, their amusing folk customs, their colorful native garb, their quaint political arrangements, the works. I found this more than usually compelling, since I was headed there myself a week later. I mentioned this plan to Impresario Dressner when I managed to have a quiet moment with the great man. I also mentioned that I was refusing to work the American holiday that happened during my trip (they have better working conditions in France), and that I'd have an uncommitted day or two in Paris and environs during the "weekend" (as I believe they say) I would be there. At this, the great man leapt into action (an impressive sight, if you haven't seen it for yourself--not bad for a cardiac patient). "But you must visit some of my growers," he said. I allowed as how it had been a lifelong dream of mine, but that I knew his terroir-machers were busy, busy, busy, making the terroir and jamming it into bottles, making the terroir... "Pshaw," he said, surprising me with the pronunciation of that little-used word. "Denyse and I will call them. They will see you. But it is very far from Paris to Touraine and Bourgueil and so on" "I will rent a fast car," I assured them, "a very fast car."
As the week sped by, various cryptic communications reached me by electronic means. Some of them were sensible--Sunday was propitious, some growers might see me. Others were puzzling--one that reached me after I'd left home insisted, "bring your boots!" What could this mean? In any case, it was far too late for boots. I was off to be tortured in London by sell-side pharmaceutical analysts from around the world.
The worldwide conspirators were merciless, but they released me late on Friday, and I went drinking with the amusing Irishmen. We drank many things in many picturesque places in London, but I won't bore you. Well, OK, if you have occasion to drink after hours, the bar at Claridge's has a splendid Armagnac selection, particularly if you can get the Irish to pick up the tab.
The next morning I left London with a light heart and a throbbing head and hopped the train to Paris. I arrived at my hotel and immediately began badgering the staff--a room change, faxes, packages to send, how soon could they return laundry?, and so on. They were used to such antics. A fistful of quatloos to the concierge and all was well. That night, the car rental place dropped off my very fast car, which looked most stylish curbside near the hotel when I returned from a dinner memorable only for a Clos Rougeard Saumur-Champigny.
Somewhat behind schedule, I awoke the next morning, filled the trunk (a 2 bouquet capacity) of the VFC with flowers (purchased the day before at the local market and refrigerated in the bathroom of my hotel with the window open to the winter chill), and raced off to my first appointment at Clos Roche Blanche. Fortunately, the Peripherique was uncrowded, and once through the Porte du Orleans the roads were almost empty that Sunday morning. The VFC was good for a steady 210 down the highway, but I was wary of the left lane as I drove south. It was shaded by the central divider from the weak rays of the rising winter sun in the east, and seemed still to be decorated by frost. Dressner's myrmidons had used their devilishly clever technology to provide me with computer-generated directions that frequently led me to the correct road.
At last, I arrived at the appointed spot, the "strange white limestone house perched on a hillside on your left," in the most accurate words of the directions. And quite a magical spot it is. I was still putting away my Dave Grissman CD ("Dawganova" is great company for the Loire countryside) and reaching for my coat when Catherine appeared. I delivered half the flowers in the trunk to her, and we set off on a walk through her vineyards and woods. This was the walk for which I was to have brought boots, as it appeared. Fortunately, the frost that had me concerned on the road had seized the mud in the fields and woods, and my new Gore-Tex shoes were well up to the task.
We walked only the hill just behind the house and winery. This included the 107-year-old Cot vines and an assortment of others. The Cot vines were as gnarly as my previous standard, old California Zinfandel, but they were set much lower to the ground. Catherine explained that they were at the northern limit of viticulture in France, and that the grapes required reflected heat from the ground to reach full ripeness. Even at 1130 AM, the frost was still white on the fields. Catherine was delighted by the cold, saying that she had missed winter. It had been very warm all fall, and she was worried about the vines getting a proper chill for their vegetative cycle.
As we walked, we talked mushrooms. No one will be surprised, I suppose. Denyse had told Catherine some wild tale about my mycophagy, and she had taken it to heart. We spoke of "chanterelles," which was a category that locally included, but was not limited to, "girolles." I mentioned San Francisco chanterelles that were as big as a soccer ball and she politely pretended to credit my traveller's tale. She showed me the spot where the day before she had picked chanterelles for the lunch we were to have. A few frozen Cantharellus infundibuloformis and cut stems still marked the place. I said that I had picked the same mushrooms two weeks before on the Mendocino coast in California, but that I preferred black chanterelles, which grew at the same time.
It gradually became clear to me what a difference there was between my notion of mushrooms and hers. My fungal world is one of sudden, arbitrary abundance and long hoarding. I only get a few opportunities to pick each year, and I must stretch the result through a series of opulent dinner parties for discriminating and outspoken New York wine geeks. Catherine, OTOH, eats mushrooms only in season (she doesn't preserve one season's bounty for later use). When I want black chanterelles, I fly to San Francisco, rent a car, drive 2 1/2 hours north, pick as many as I can in a day, dry them, and carry them home for future use. When Catherine wants them, she walks 5 minutes up the hill behind her house and picks what she needs for that meal.
We walked back and toured the rather fancy gravity-fed winery that leads down from the vineyard at the top of the hill. As you would expect, it is all the most gentle and organic of joints.
Back into the house we went, to meet up with Didier and an assortment of relatives. Some of these were fluent in English and able to converse with me, and others were shy. These delightful people brought me into their family Sunday dinner, and were as open and hospitable as they could possibly have been. Catherine showed me a bowl of wild greens that she had picked from her organic vineyard. "We call these "mache," she said. "Funny, so do we," I reported. I described how, in New York, mache was grown hydroponically (try to translate *that*), and was extremely expensive. The guests were very amused. Didier opened a bottle of CRB Sauvignon Blanc 1999. As with many wines from CRB, it tasted more of the neighborhood than the grapes. A fine effort from a sub-thrilling vintage (if one were prone to generalization), it had guts, grip, and fruit, and was a dandy start to an afternoon's drinking. It also had the typical CRB minerality in spades, or perhaps crystals. The wine spent 1-2 days on the skins, and then a day after pressing at 4*, rising to 18* for the fermentation.
The pork pot roast with C. infundibuloformis and potatoes was deelish, and was well complemented by two older wines that Didier opened. (When he saw me taking a brief note, he thought that I might be taking notes on his English. I replied that there were no notes worth taking on my French). The 1988 Assemblage (Cot, Cab, Gamay) was still a young wine, with little bricking and no brown at all. Surprisingly, Gamay fruit was still evident on the nose. The wine was firm, with significant acids and some tannin.
Later, Didier opened the 1993 Assemblage. He ferments all the grapes together, leading sometimes to very ripe gamay, for instance. He believes that the different grapes bring different indigenous yeasts, adding complexity to the wine. The 1993 was even younger, although less acidic and fuller than the 1988. Both were delicious and obviously had room to run.
Other differences between their traditional notions of mushrooms and mine became apparent when I told them that black chanterelles were great with fish. They smiled politely, but their exchanged glances made it obvious that the thought balloons over their heads had circling fingers pointed at their temples.
The sun was getting lower in the sky, and I wanted to reach Chez Breton before dark, so I hopped in the VFC and headed out. Catherine reported to me that her college-age daughter described the VFC as "pure," a hipster French expression of approval.