Concrete Vats – Pure Perfection

I see concrete vats in the cellars of the vignerons whom I respect and whose wines I love. Matthieu and his father Bernard Baudry have concrete vats in their chai; Thierry Puzelat and his brother Jean-Marie have them; and Jean Maupertuis has them, too. There is something supremely pure about fermenting and aging wine in concrete vats. They are neutral. They do not take away or add anything. The thermal inertia of concrete vats is enormous. Thus, allowing the wines at a steady temperature. Concrete vats breath. The wines that see concrete vats are not as 'square' as, say. from those wines that see stainless steel vats.

There is wonderment of energy and purity about the wines that see concrete vats. I especially like wines that spend their time in the traditional concrete vats. Jean Maupertuis, for example, has concrete vats that are probably made before WWII. Jean Maupertuis himself does not know when his concrete vats were made.  The picture above is Jean Maupertuis in front of his concrete vat. Oh heck, Jean Maupertuis' vats are not even ergonomic. When I visited him in the tiny village of Saint-Georges-sur-Allier in Auvergne, he chuckled as he was explaining the concrete vats in his cellar.  The draining sprouts are located about a couple feet above the bottom of the vats rather than at the bottom.  So, he has to take a bucket and scoop out the remaining juice after fermentation.  Despite the extra labour and hassle, Jean Maupertuis keeps the concrete vats for a reason.  I can taste the freshness and purity that is rare in wines.

My Summer Reading - 'Between Meals’ by A.J. Liebling

A.J. Liebling, a journalist by trade, is perhaps best known for his seminal book about French foods and wines: ‘Between Meals – An Appetite for Paris’. The book takes place in the early 1900’s when he was stationed in London and travelled often to Paris. The book is full of colourful characters, punctuated by his personal stories centred on the Parisian restaurants and their wines at the time.

In the book, A.J. Liebling even has a conversation about Champagne with M. Clicquot when the Champagne houses were very different. ‘Between Meals – An Appetite for Paris’ is like no other book that I have read about foods and wines. There are no clinical descriptions or critical reviews.  The book is all about pleasures of dining. 

Jean Maupertuis in Auvergne et Boudin Noir

A great Boudin Noir, to me, as strange as it sounds, is like a young punk singer in a black Chanel dress: f***-you-attitude inside barely contained by a proper outside casing.

Boudin Noir, of course, is a peasant French food. Boudin Noir is made with humblest of ingredients – essentially remains of pork and blood.  If necessity is mother of invention, then Boudin Noir fits the bill. I can only imagine a farmer, who first created Boudin Noir. Looking at the remains of a sacrificed pig for winter, the farmer thinks: “Well, there are some fat, blood and intestines left. Eh voila!”

There are only two types of Boudin Noir: Great and Shitty. There is no middle ground. The shitty one should be thrown out immediately. The great ones have a balanced flavour and silken texture with crispy outer layer from pan-frying in butter.  In France, some fried apples and generous portions of green salad are served often with Boudin Noir to cut its richness.  When I visited Jean Maupertuis in Auvergne, that is exactly what he and his wife made generously for me.

In Paris, whenever I see Boudin Noir on a menu, I order the dish – provided that I trust the restaurant. L’Avant Comtoir in Paris has a bite-size Boudin Noir between a macaron with a sweet-pepper jelly.  It goes down like a praise with a chilled glass of Beaujolais or Loire. Le Verre Volé in Paris often has Boudin Noir on the chalkboard menu. The last time I was at the restaurant, a fellow Canadian from Quebec ordered the humble dish. We struck instant friendship over the dish.  It is like we struck some kind of a secret code of great French bistro foods.

Vignerons and Vigneronnes, not Wines

At a certain point, I stopped buying wines and started paying attention to vine growers. In France, a vine grower is called vigneron or vigneronne (female).  I began to realize that an honest and great vigneron always made wines in the way that resonated with me.

When in restaurants in France, I used to order a bottle of wine by the name of the bottle. I noticed the sommeliers said “Oui”.  Then, they always stated the name of vigneron/ vigneronne.  That simple gesture says a lot about the approach to wines.  I now have learned to order by a vigneron or vigneronne, followed by the name of cuvée. 

Above is a photo of the chalk board at Le Chateaubriand in Paris – perhaps, one of the most compelling restaurants in that city.  The chalkboard simply lists all vignerons and vigneronnes - not a single name of bottles is mentioned.

PS: The photo is a courtesy of Bertrand Celce of Wine Terroirs.  I highly recommend the website. 

Beauty

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” – that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.      John Keats (1820)

I found myself looking for a bouquet of flowers on a rainy Saturday recently.  As I was leaving the flower shop, I paused and pondered why I would go through the trouble of walking in the pouring rain to purchase flowers.  It wasn't a birthday or party evening.  Beauty has a way with attraction.

Beauty rarely appears in wine writing.  Perhaps, seeking truth in wine is seeking beauty.   And perhaps, that is what John Keats was writing about.  

In France, some vineyards are still planted with roses at the beginning of each row of vines.  Some historians believe roses are planted because when horses used to till vineyards, the roses at the start of each row would signal the horses to turn around for the next row of vines.

Some enologists believe roses are planted to indicate health of vines. Since roses are sensitive to diseases, the roses would be an early detector of potential ills of vines.

Some wine lovers believe roses are planted at the beginning of each row of vines because the roses are beautiful.

Beauty of French Copper Cookware

While waiting to catch my plane at the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris on a return trip from meeting the vigneron a few years back, I met an American gentleman.  He was carrying a carefully packaged bag of something.  On a side of the bag, there was a green tag that read ‘E. DEHILLERIN’ with a picture of a rooster. The gentleman sat beside where I was sitting.  So, we ended up having a pleasant conversion.  He said, “I come to Paris on a business trip every year.  And I buy a copper pot or pan at E. DEHILLERIN on every trip.  My wife and I like cooking.”

Ever since that moment at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, I now, too, buy a a copper pot or pan at E. DEHILLERIN every time I visit Paris on my wine buying trip.

French, rich in all things related to cooking, has an array of copper cookware.  If you have visited E. DEHILLERIN, you will know what I am talking about it.  And when the copper pans and pots get brown after use, they are easy to restore to their beautiful copper patina.  Simply use one egg white, ¼ cup of regular vinegar, 2-3 tablespoon of course salt, and some flour to bind into a paste.  Then, use a non-scratch sponge to clean with the paste. It will only take a few minutes.

If you like cooking, it is worthwhile investing in French copper pots and pans.  There is no equal to great copper pans.  Cooking with them is one of great life compensations.  

Mystery of Clos

It is not intentional.  I just noticed two of our vignerons have the word Clos in their domain names: Le Clos du-Tue Boeuf from Thierry and Jean Marie Puzelat and Clos Roche Blanche from Catherine Roussel and Didier Barrouillet.  Well, Noëlla Morantin farms half of Clos Roche Blanche.  So, Noella really belongs to the ‘Clos Club’.   There are no usual Clos in the Le Clos du-Tue Boeuf and Clos Roche Blanche.  The Clos is actually the stunning forest.  There are no neighbouring vineyards.  A huge insurance when you are farming with no pesticides and herbicides.

Then, there is the magnificent ‘Le Clos Guillot’ vineyard in Chinon from Bernard Baudry.  Although when I visited the vineyard with Matthieu Baudry multiple times, I could not see the Clos in ‘Le Clos Guillot’.  I was so mesmerized by the beauty and taste of the wine of the vineyard that I probably forgot to take notes about the historical context of the vineyard. ‘Le Clos Guillot’ is on a hill with a beautiful view. The vineyard has the unique feature of constant winds.  I think Matthieu told me the area of ‘Le Clos Guillot’ was once referred to as ‘Belles Vents’, meaning ‘Beautiful Winds’.  I was there in the early spring and I can almost taste the wind in a bottle of ‘Le Clos Guillot’ in a form of fragrance.  It is a fleeting experience to translate.  Every time I drink a bottle, I am instantly transported to that vineyard, with Matthieu being there, pouring me another glass.

Then, there is the most striking Clos Sénéchal in Bourgueil from Catherine & Pierre Breton.  There is actually the Clos in Clos Sénéchal. For a reason that is difficult for me to explain, Clos Sénéchal has a singular taste like no other.  When I am dead, I want to be buried near Clos Sénéchal.  I love Catherine & Pierre Breton ‘Clos Sénéchal’. Pictured left is Pierre Breton in his car entering the ‘Clos Sénéchal’ when I visited him.  You can see the Clos just the right the rear-view mirror.

Clos, of course, means wall in French.  Some wine texts say that Clos vineyards are the most prized.  Some wine texts say Clos was manually made so as to minimize the exposure of vines from natural elements of weather extremes, thereby leading to healthier vines and grapes.  What ever the case may be, I like to let the mystery be.  I no longer believe in demystifying wines.