Voila another video from Cyprien, who, I gotta tell ya, is impressively making a real name for himself with his video blog. This month he and a few of his equally successful “vlogger” friends put on a live show at the largest cinema, theater, and music complex in Paris and it sold out just days after they announced the Janauary 12 date. He’s famous and he’s never paid a centime to market himself. Pretty cool times we’re living in.

I’m posting this latest installment because coffee, a drink that has always had cultural significance, has taken on new meaning in France. In the last few years especially there has been quite a bit of buzz (pun intended) caused by 21st century home espresso machines, especially the Nespresso model, which has been everlastingly linked to the sexy, smooth talking American actor George Clooney.

(You’ll hear Cyprien give his best shot at Clooney’s salesmanship 29 seconds into the video, with the very sexy blare of the machine in the foreground.)

As Cyprien says, “I was obligated to buy a coffee machine, in order to be classy. You can’t be classy with soluble coffee, for example.”

Soluble, or dissolvable, coffee is a French cultural enigma. I just don’t think they could market that kind of thing in America. But it’s really popular in France, and it’s much faster than a coffee maker, and I have to admit that I used to drink it every morning in my little studio in Dijon. It’s not that bad, but it’s certainly not classy. Not like Nespresso.

Cyprien pokes fun at the marketing strategy behind the “capsules” you can buy to make different kinds of espresso. They all have names you can’t remember, which means they all end up being referenced by color. “It’s a brown capsule,” he says, after reading the name “Livanto.”

“And they all have more or less the same taste,” he adds. “At a certain point you have to be honest.” He reads some of the distinguishing characteristics, like “complex and balanced” and — his favorite — “mild and liquid.”

“A liquid coffee,” he says. “They take us for idiots, huh?”

(Of course, the word “moelleux” can also mean smooth, which is surely  Nespresso’s intent, but the potential misreading is funny nonetheless.)

“Coffee connoisseurs” don’t make it out of Cyprien’s video un-poked either. It’s easy to feign recognition of the “complex and balanced” aspects of an espresso, but only if you know what specific characteristics go with the names of the capsules. (He serves a shot of Coca Cola to call the imaginary connoisseur’s bluff.)

The real test, though, is whether someone can drink his coffee without sugar. “I drink it without sugar,” Cyprien’s character says. But what he’s thinking as he takes a sip is, “it’s bitter, it’s disgusting, it’s bitter, it needs sugar, it’s bitter.”

Love it!

Yesterday I couldn’t help but laugh every time a car passed me on my short little three mile run. Armed with multiple layers and ski gloves, I had pulled the drawstrings of my sweatshirt around my chin so tightly that only my eyes and nose managed to peek out from the tight hole. Yes, I would be back in 28 minutes, and yes, this was Kentucky, where it never gets cold enough to warrant such ridiculousness. I’ll blame it on my West Coast roots.

All this to say that while I was running my measly three miles I remembered that one year ago at this time, I was training for a semi-marathon and running ten to twelve miles on a regular basis.

My friend Val, who was studying abroad in France while I was doing my teaching assistantship, and I had decided to train together to combat the effects of all the delicious French food we had become so used to eating. We were both runners, but had never done long distances. When we found out about the Nuits Saint Georges semi-marathon, however, our interest was piqued.

13.1 miles through the gorgeous vineyards of Burgundy seemed appealing, but neither of us could deny the real draw: talk of “wine tastings” along the way. At first we thought it must be an oral legend, a bit of Burgundian mythology that had spread over the years. We imagined a few runners nearing the end of their course and being rejuvenated by a winemaker with a beret and a sparkle in his eye. Years passed and word traveled; runners began knocking on the winemaker’s door for a little kick when their fuel ran low.

These are the kinds of things we hypothesized during long runs anyway. Laughing, and sometimes grunting, Val and I got to know each other over the miles. She was the faster runner, but I brought a strong dose of competition, so most of the time we stayed neck and neck. Once on our third tour of the Parc de la Colombière in Dijon, having just beaten our two previous 400m interval times, I pleaded for mercy, saying we should be careful not to injure ourselves beating the time on our third effort.

“We’re already going faster than planned for today,” I reminded her between gasps on the rest interval. “Let’s try to relax a little.”

Nearing the starting point, Val fingered her watch. I sucked in one last deep breath.

I don’t remember much but pain and the desire for oxygen when the timer was ticking. The big, shady chestnut trees that seemed so pleasantly encompassing on regular runs became a blurred tunnel as we whizzed by. I detested their solidity and I yearned for their stillness.

We beat our time again.

You can cover a lot more ground if you run instead of walk, and Val and I got to know Dijon and its environs pretty well. When we weren’t at Colombière, we ran down the Burgundy canal or around Lac Kir, dodging geese and arm-linked lovers, and on one occasion even receiving running critiques. (The lake’s 2km circumference made it conducive to multiple tours as we neared the end of our training, so sometimes we would lap Sunday strollers. One day a girl walking casually in high heels and black leather pants, her tapered Fergie ponytail whipping from side to side, told us that if we brought our knees up a little straighter we’d be faster. She repeated this comment each of the three times we lapped her.)

Needless to say, training was an experience. So much so that when the day of the race finally arrived toeing the starting line turned bittersweet.

The race is only so long, and once it’s over you realize it was never really about those two hours.

Race day was a cold and dreary one. We were ready and we were pumped, but conditions could have been better. The gravel path was muddy and slick thanks to rain and the hundreds of feet that passed before us. It was hard to enjoy the vineyard scenery because our attention was focused on the dense traffic along the trail and the numerous bottomless puddles that threatened to swallow our shoes. And, I had eaten dried apricots before the race. Never do that. Ever.

But there was wine tasting! After turning the loop around Clos de Vougeot, a little past the halfway mark, tables of wine and cheese and foie gras started cropping up in the villages en route. Yes, I said foie gras. How anyone could eat that stuff during a workout is beyond me, but hey, this was France!

Val and I took the more American route and gulped some water. That didn’t stop us from getting a real kick out of seeing people try to eat and run!

At the end of the race we came in right where we wanted to be, finishing a whole twenty minutes before the average rookie’s run time. Instead of medals we got bottles of Burgundy, which, we decided, were fitting for the occasion.

Last weekend, Val came for a visit to Kentucky, the first time I’d seen her since she left France. It was so good to run together again although it made me miss our Burgundy bouts. It’s not easy finding such a perfect running buddy, and Val really is second to none.

For never backing off when I said, “relax,” Thanks, Val. Miss you!

It’s not true! It’s not true!

Oh, come on, you know it is. That’s what’s so great about a cliché…there’s always that bit of truth you just can’t deny, however exaggerated the joke may be.

Tonight at my little hometown French meetup group, the subject of living a multicultural life came up and immediately opened the door to one stereotype after another.

Brigitte, who’s been here over ten years, said she’ll never forget that when she arrived in America someone asked her if she had driven all the way from France.

“My family asked me if there was running water here in the States!” Pierre joked in response.

Brigitte dabbed a tear from her eye. “An American asked me if we celebrated Christmas in France!”

Needless to say, we goodhearted Americans were giggling and rolling our eyes right along with them. This served as a diversion while I searched my memory for a similar experience I know I must have had as a foreigner in France.

Sara beat me to the punch.

“Well, we all know you guys only use one bar of soap a year. That’s why you produce so much perfume!”

As they may or may not say in France, touché, Sara. Touché.

Below is the video that inspired Sara’s response. I’m posting it in both its French and English versions. Hope you like it!

TRADUCTION A LA MELIE:

Cliché ! une vidéo sur les stéréotypes

C’est pas vrai ! c’est pas vrai !

Allez, vous savez bien que si. C’est ça qui est bien avec les clichés … il y a toujours cette petite part de vérité que vous ne pouvez pas nier, même si la blague est exagérée.

Ce soir, avec mon petit groupe local de conversation français, nous en sommes venus à parler de la vie multiculturelle, ce qui a tout de suite ouvert la porte à tous les stéréotypes.

Brigitte, qui vit ici depuis plus de dix ans, nous a raconté qu’elle n’oublierait jamais qu’à son arrivée en Amérique, quelqu’un lui avait demandé si elle avait conduit tout le trajet pour venir de France.

« Ma famille m’a demandé s’il y avait l’eau courante ici aux Etats-Unis ! » a plaisanté Pierre en guise de réponse.

Brigitte a essuyé une larme « Un Américain m’a demandé si nous fêtions Noel en France ! »

Pas besoin de dire que nous bons Américains avons pouffé de rire et roulé des yeux avec eux. Cela m’a laissé le temps de chercher dans ma mémoire une expérience similaire que j’avais du avoir en tant qu’étrangère en France.

Sara m’a coiffée au poteau.

« Et, vous savez bien vous que vous n’utilisez qu’un savon par an. C’est pour ça que vous fabriquez autant de parfum ! »

Comme on dit en France (ou pas), touché Sara. Touché.

Ci-dessous la vidéo qui a inspiré la réponse de Sara. Je la publie dans les deux versions, française et anglaise. J’espère que vous apprécierez. !

Sticking with the French theme meant we would already have some potentially unfamiliar labels and varietals, especially since we anticipated buying from less popular regions than Bordeaux and Burgundy. (Hint: for a large party that will require a couple cases or more, buying outside of the big B’s can save you a pretty penny without sacrificing satisfaction.)

Unfamiliar is good, and encourages people to go out on a limb and try something new, but most people seek to be true to their innate preferences, so we wanted to make sure we included both red and white, with varying aromas and good balance. One of our whites was a little sweeter than the other, and one of the reds a little spicier than its smooth counterpart. As you already know from my previous post about the party, the diversity of wine choices sparked conversation and curiosity. Perfect for a party, don’t you think?

Check out my article on E-Romantic Hotels’ website for the story about how we chose our wines, along with tips that I learned along the way.

TRADUCTION A LA MELIE:

Achats malins pour amateurs de vin sur E-Romantic Hotels

Mon dernier apprentissage à propos du vin concernait un saut au magasin en vue de choisir les bouteilles appropriées pour une soirée. Je commence de plus en plus à savoir ce que je j’aime, mais quand vous organisez une soirée, il est important de prendre en compte ce que vos invités pourraient aimer aussi.

Le fait de coller au thème Français signifiait que nous devions partir sur des appellations et des variétés potentiellement moins connues, plus particulièrement parce que nous envisagions d’acquérir des crus de régions moins populaires que Bordeaux ou Bourgogne. (le but : pour une soirée assez importante qui requiert un peu plus de deux cartons, sortir des grands B peut vous faire économiser pas mal d’argent sans déroger à la satisfaction.)

L’inconnu, c’est bien, cela encourage les gens à sortir des sentiers battus et à essayer quelque chose de nouveau, mais la plupart des gens cherchent à être fidèles à leurs préférences naturelles, c’est pourquoi nous avons tenu à proposer du blanc et du rouge, avec des arômes variés et un bon équilibre. L’un de nos blancs était un peu plus sucré que l’autre, et l’un des rouges un peu plus épicé que son binôme onctueux. Comme vous le savez déjà depuis mon article précédent au sujet de la soirée, la diversité des vins a piqué la curiosité et les conversations. Parfait pour une fête, non ?

Allez voir mon article sur E Romantic Hotels pour savoir comment nous avons choisi nos vins, ainsi que des petits trucs que j’ai appris à l’occasion.

Emily, that’s perfect! I have always found that it’s the interesting tidbits, like “lip stinger” or the detail of your driving time, that people remember the most when trying to recall a wine. When you can put the wines together with interesting food for friends and family, then people have a story to share days, weeks, and months later. At some future dinner, your friend will be pouring a Vouvray for someone and the wine will transport her back (like the food critic tasting ratatouille) and she will tell them about YOUR dinner. When I drink Vouvray, I am always reminded of meeting Phillipe Foreau and, if the audience allows, I tell of my stumbling attempt to ask for a ‘degustation’. -Dave

I don’t know about you, but that last sentence made me want to hear about longtime reader Dave Navarre’s meeting with the Monsieur Philippe Foreau. The Loire Valley winemaker is reputed for the great care he takes in producing fine Vouvray wines, using as little interference with the natural process as possible.

I asked Dave if he would mind sharing his story with this audience and he enthusiastically accepted. (Thanks, Dave!) Cheers!

One of the first trips my wife and I took when we were dating was to the Sonoma Valley, so wine tourism has always been at the top of our lists. She was able to go to France in 2005, but since it was on business, without me. So, we decided to go to France for our honeymoon.

I plotted our trip, and as a lover of history, included Normandy and the Loire Valley. Since it was my first experience, I chose the wrong order for the trip, finishing in the wine region instead of starting there. Now we start our trips in a wine region and enjoy the fruits of that labor in Normandy.

We discussed our trip in advance with a friend in the wine business, and knew that we wanted to meet with and taste the wines of Philippe Foreau. Having only experienced wine-tasting in the US, we went without prior introductions or appointments.

As we pulled into the beautiful commune of Vouvray, we squinted at the signs indicating the locations of the various vignerons. As we snaked through the twisty lanes of the small town, we could find no mention of Clos Naudin or of Philippe Foreau. Nearly dejected, our hearts leapt when we found the tourist office. Malheureusement, the tourist office is closed for 2 hours in the middle of the day. So, my lovely bride and I decided to break out our baguettes, pâté and wine for a picnic lunch in the back of the hatchback. It was a rainy day in Vouvray and the garbage men were collecting. We were thrilled to realize that even the garbage men in France dress stylishly!

After the tourist office re-opened, we drove off, directions clutched in my hands. As we pulled up to the address, I couldn’t believe my eyes. On one side of the road was a nice little house, with the correct number, and on the other was what seemed like a nondescript little warehouse. Assuredly, the maker of the best wines in Vouvray couldn’t live or work in such a simple setting.

Nonetheless, we got out of the car and wandered over. Looking inside, we could tell that it must be the right place, but no one seemed to be there. After a plaintive bonjour, and no sign of any stirring, we again lost hope. No sooner had we put our seat belts back on in the rental car than a Frenchman emerged from the doorway. I stepped out of the car and tried my tourist French. Je voudrais une degustation. Monsieur Foreau asked a question. I had no idea what he said and only replied Je ne comprends pas. He turned and my heart sank as he walked across the road to house. We’d come so far, and on our honeymoon; we’d found the great winemaker and now we would go away because I could not speak French. Then, he looked over his shoulder and waved for us to follow.

He took us inside and his assistant explained that Monsieur Foreau was very busy, but if we were interested in buying some wines, he would allow her to have us taste them. This must have been what he asked me. We were again at a loss. We would be getting on a train for Paris and flying home soon. She asked, “Not even one bottle?” Of course, we would buy one! So, the great man headed into the interior of the house, his assistant poured us tastes of several of his wines and we purchased a bottle.

We marveled, as we sat on our hotel room’s balcony in Paris enjoying his handiwork, that a man so accomplished, whose reputation was intimidating and whose wines were so elegant and expressive was still a simple, nondescript Frenchman in a small town.

Photo Credits: Photo 1: Pinterest; Photo 3: Google

To read the French translation:
Invitation : Je voudrais du Vouvray : rencontre avec Philippe Foreau

J’ai été ravie et flattée par la réponse à l’article de la semaine dernière à propos de notre réception pendant les vacances et le vin que nous avons partagé. Je ne pouvais passer à côté d’un commentaire en particulier.

‘’Emily, c’est parfait ! j’ai toujours trouvé que ce sont les descriptions intéressantes, comme ‘’ piquer la lèvre ‘’ ou la précision du temps de trajet dont les gens se souviennent le plus quand ils tentent de se rappeler d’un vin. Quand vous pouvez associer un vin à de la bonne nourriture ou à de la famille et des amis, alors les gens ont une histoire à partager des jours, des semaines et des mois plus tard. Dans un prochain dîner, ton amie versera du Vouvray à quelqu’un et le vin la transportera (comme le critique gastronomique de Ratatouille) et elle leur racontera TON dîner. Quand je bois du Vouvray, je me souviens toujours de ma rencontre avec Philippe Foreau, et si l’auditoire le permet, je leur parle de ma tentative hésitante de demande de ‘’dégustation’’. – Dave.’’

Je ne sais pas ce que vous en pensez, mais cette dernière phrase m’a donné envie d’en savoir plus sur la rencontre de ce fidèle lecteur Dave Navarre avec le Philippe Foreau. Le vigneron de la Vallée de la Loire est réputé pour le grand soin qu’il porte à la production de grands vins de Vouvray, utilisant un procédé le plus naturel possible.

J’ai demandé à Dave s’il acceptait de partager son histoire avec mon auditoire, et il a accepté avec enthousiasme. (Merci Dave !). Santé !

L’un des premiers voyages que ma femme et moi avons fait quand nous sortions ensemble était la Sonoma Valley (région viticole Californienne NdlTr), on peut donc dire que le tourisme œnologique a toujours été notre priorité. Elle a eu l’occasion d’aller en France en 2005, mais puisque c’était pour le travail, sans moi. Nous avons donc décidé de nous rendre en France pour notre lune de miel.

J’ai programmé notre voyage, et en amoureux de l’histoire, y ai inclus la Normandie et la Vallée de la Loire. Comme il s’agissait de ma première expérience, j’ai choisi le mauvais sens pour notre voyage, finissant par la région vinicole au lieu de commencer par là. Maintenant nous commençons nos séjours dans une région vinicole et nous profitons du fruit de ce labeur en Normandie.

Nous avions discuté de notre voyage avec un ami travaillant dans le vin et savions que nous voulions rencontrer Philippe Foreau et goûter ses vins. Ayant seulement expérimenté des dégustations aux Etats-Unis, nous sommes arrivés sans référence ni rendez-vous.

En arrivant dans la magnifique commune de Vouvray, nous avons scruté les panneaux indiquant les différents vignerons. En serpentant dans les ruelles sinueuses de la petite ville, nous n’avons trouvé aucune mention du Clos Naudin ou de Philippe Foreau. Presque découragés, nos cœurs ont fait un bond lorsque nous avons trouvé l’office du tourisme. Malheureusement, l’office du tourisme est fermé entre midi et deux. Donc ma chère épouse et moi avons décidé de sortir nos baguettes, pâté et vin pour un pique-nique assis dans le coffre de la voiture. C’était un jour de pluie à Vouvray et les éboueurs étaient en pleine action. Nous étions ravis de constater qu’en France, même les éboueurs sont vêtus avec style !

Après la réouverture de l’office du tourisme, nous avons repris la voiture, serrant les instructions dans mes mains. En arrivant à l’adresse indiquée, je n’en ai pas cru mes yeux. D’un côté de la route une jolie petite maison, portant le numéro correspondant, et de l’autre ce qui ressemblait à un petit entrepôt quelconque. Assurément, le producteur des meilleurs vins de Vouvray ne pouvait pas vivre ou travailler dans un endroit aussi banal.

Néanmoins, nous sommes descendus de voiture et avons fait le tour. Jetant un œil à l’intérieur, nous nous sommes dits que nous devions être au bon endroit, mais il semblait n’y avoir personne. Après un bonjour plaintif et aucun signe de vie, nous avons à nouveau perdu espoir. Au moment où nous attachions notre ceinture dans la voiture de location, un Français est sorti sur le pas de la porte. Je suis descendu de voiture et ai essayé mon français touristique ‘’ Je voudrais une dégustation’’. Monsieur Foreau m’a posé une question. Je n’avais aucune idée de ce qu’il m’avait demandé et ai seulement répondu ‘’Je ne comprends pas’’. Il a fait demi-tour et mon cœur a sombré lorsqu’il a traversé la route jusqu’à la maison. Nous étions venus de si loin, pendant notre lune de miel, nous avions trouvé le meilleur producteur de vin et maintenant nous devions partir parce que je ne parlais pas Français. Puis, il a regardé par-dessus son épaule et nous a fait signe de le suivre.

Il nous a conduit à l’intérieur et son assistante nous a expliqué que Monsieur Foreau était très occupé, mais qui nous désirions acheter du vin, il lui permettait de nous les faire goûter. Cela devait être ce qu’il m’avait demandé. Nous étions à nouveau embarrassés. Nous reprenions le train pour Paris et l’avion peu après. Elle nous a demandé ‘’Même pas une bouteille ?’’ Bien sûr nous en achèterions une ! Donc, le grand homme s’est dirigé vers l’intérieur de la maison, son assistante nous a fait faire une dégustation de plusieurs de ses vins et nous avons fait l’acquisition d’une bouteille.

Nous nous sommes émerveillés, assis sur le balcon de notre chambre d’hôtel à Paris, dégustant le fruit de son travail, qu’un homme aussi accompli, avec une réputation intimidante et dont les vins étaient si élégants et expressifs soit resté un Français simple et quelconque dans une petite ville.

I grew up on the back of a horse. There was a time when neighbors who spotted me on foot would ask if my horse was lame or sick. They expected me to be on a horse or beside a horse but never without a horse. It’s surprising to some of these neighbors and friends when I tell them my life in France doesn’t include much riding. I guess I’m not the type they’d expect to have grown out of it.

And I haven’t.

Each time I’m home I’m reminded of the thrill of galloping over cross-country fences and winding through the trees or splashing into the creek. Although I don’t ride daily, my love for horses remains. When I have the time and the means, one day I’ll gather the passion and will to ride and pack them up with me. I’ll take them wherever I am living at that time and plant them there. For now though, I’m content to find them safe where I left them a few years back: at my old Kentucky home.

{Rêve: “In the winter we gals let it all hang out.”}

{George, feeling good}

TRADUCTION A LA MELIE:

J’ai grandi sur le dos d’un cheval. A une époque, les gens qui me croisaient à pied me demandaient si mon cheval était blessé ou malade. Ils s’attendaient à me voir à cheval, ou à côté d’un cheval mais jamais sans cheval. Cela étonne certains de ces voisins et amis à qui je raconte que je ne monte pas beaucoup à cheval en France. Je pense qu’ils ne s’attendaient pas à ce que je puisse m’en passer.

Et je ne m’en passe pas.

A chaque retour à la maison je retrouve le frisson du galop par-dessus les clôtures, les slaloms dans les arbres ou les plongeons dans la crique. Même si je ne monte pas tous les jours, mon amour des chevaux persiste. Quand j’en aurai le temps et les moyens, un jour, je regrouperai ma passion et ma volonté de monter à cheval et je les embarquerai avec moi. Je les emmènerai où que je vive à ce moment-là et je les installerai là. Mais pour l’instant, je me contente de les retrouver sains et sauf à l’endroit où je les ai laissés il y a quelques années : dans ma vieille maison du Kentucky.

But nevermind the food. What about the wine? Comical as it is, we received more compliments and inquiries about our wine selection than about our decorative array of Frenchie hors d’oeuvres. To be honest, I couldn’t be more delighted. Dad, Nicolas, and I had devoted quite a bit of time — and two trips to the wine store — to our reds and whites, and we wanted them to be special.

Of course they had to be French.

We had chosen two whites, a Vouvray and a Picpoul, and two reds, both Grenache blends from southern France. Dad encouraged me to write little identification cards for each wine as I had for the food.

And that’s how the wine stole the show from our mini macarons and baked brie.

As you can see, I had a lot of fun. How did I know “picpoul” meant “lip stinger?” I looked it up! I looked up all four of the wines and was just squirming with excitement to share what I learned. I had to take notes and narrow down the choices of what I wanted to share in order to fit a few short tidbits onto the cards. At the bottom of each, to bring it closer to home, I wrote the time it would take by car to travel from each vineyard to Dijon.

The cards not only helped people choose which wine to try, they also became conversation starters. (“Five hours and twenty-three minutes from Dijon? I love it!”) Some people told me they had never heard of Pigeoulet before, but they liked it. One friend said she felt compelled to taste all four. Most flattering was the elegant lady who was still talking about the wine days after the party. Calling to ask the name of the Vouvray, she gushed, “It’s the best wine I’ve had in my life.”

Wow! What a compliment!

I should note that the food was well appreciated too. After all, many more hours were spent creating Mom’s beautiful spread than on our well-researched wine selection. But sheesh, it seems with the wine as center of attention we might simply have served mixed nuts and gougères and everyone would have been just as happy.

A lesson for future celebrations?

Hoping these images will get you all caught up (if a picture’s worth a thousand words…). Happy New Year, readers! Special thanks to everyone for your support and encouragement in 2011. I relished each comment and delighted in hearing that you appreciate my writing. Honestly, you’ve inspired me in so many ways. Writing this blog and hearing from you has brought much clarity to me in terms of where I am going and what I do best. So, thanks for launching me into a brand new year with lots of hope!

{Had to include this USA Santa from a visit with Erin’s family}

{“Sisters” + Oliver}

{Rufio}

{Christmas Dinner and Lucien Boillot wine}

{Boxing Day Hunt}

The very first time we drove up this drive together was after dark, and I remember the dim light from the kitchen as the first welcome I received, even before entering and reading the sweet note from Françoise:

Warm some water and prepare a tea for Emily. We can’t wait to meet her!

On this night, like so many evenings I have become used to spending at Froidvent, the lady herself greets us as we climb the stairs from the salle de jeux–the ground floor “game room” that serves as familial entryway. The smell of squash and chestnuts envelopes us as we rush to Françoise’s side, receiving a quick kiss while she tends her soup.

Ca va, mes chéris?

With grandiose gestures I present my bottle of Chinon for Françoise’s approval. In like manner, her eyebrows rise and fall, as if this will be the tasting of the day!

“Hurry and put it in the decanter,” she instructs. “And the glasses will need to be rinsed.”

I scurry into the dining room in search of the glasses and find the table dressed for the occasion. A pressed linen tablecloth lies beneath festive gold rimmed plates, and crystal water glasses accompany exceptionally round Burgundian tasting glasses. Lifting two such receptacles from the center of the table, I head back toward the kitchen, shaking my head.

“You’ve trop préparé, Françoise!” I say, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze. She continues her preparations at the stove and humbly mentions that it isn’t every day one gets to taste such special wine. Imagine that! An American girl brings a bottle of wine to a Frenchwoman, who prepares an entire meal in its — or rather, her — honor. In my heart I know it’s not about the wine. The unspoken understanding is that I will be leaving for America in just a few days, and this may be the last grand meal we have together for some time.

The lady of the house has prepared chevreuil, or roe-buck, and chestnut purée to accompany my wine. But first we’ll have soup and of course after there will be cheese, and on the kitchen table the plates of partially prepared dessert lie hidden beneath overturned bowls. A four course meal. “Normal,” she might say with characteristic modesty. Extraordinary is more like it.

When we sit down, the ceremony begins. Nicolas conscientiously pours each of us a glass. We sniff. We swirl. We talk about first impressions. “Un bon nez”  is the general consensus. (This one has a promising nose: spicy and complex.) The purple color is astonishingly different from Burgundian pinot noir, especially noticeable when being poured.

To taste, the first thing we all agree upon is that it isn’t as powerful as we anticipated. (In hindsight, perhaps it should have been drunk a little sooner: Charles Joguet recommends 5-6 years max in bottle for the 2005 cuvée, having hypothesized that 2009 might have been its peak year.) But the fruit flavors are still explosive. Nicolas is convinced of raspberries, while Françoise and Bruno taste black currant. I am hooked on the hint of cherry. One thing is certain: its slight tartness and seasonally appropriate spice marry perfectly with our chevreuil and chestnut dinner.

“It has a fine finish,” Nicolas says, smacking his lips.

“But not like the Birthday Nuits-Saint-Georges,” I counter. Once uttered, the words ring reminiscently in my ears. Will I from this day forth compare wine to that remarkable bottle? Will I ever find a wine so  magical?

Nicolas agrees. His hand darts into the air, miming a bell-curve with an extremely wide peak. “This was the Nuits-Saint-Georges Les Vaucrains,” he specifies, before demonstrating another curve with a shorter, but more dramatic peak. “And this is the Chinon.”

A good, no, great wine, to be sure.

Dinner finished, cheese dispensed, there is still a little wine left in our glasses at dessert. Françoise presents a beautiful assortment of fruit and sorbet to cleanse the palate, topped by a bit of chantilly and glittering red currants. The last sips of wine do not compete with but complement the fruits’ gentle sweetness.

François Rabelais claimed he did not drink “more than a sponge.” Although I certainly cannot compete with that (nor would I want to) I like to think that at moments like these, a good bottle of wine can indeed make one more like a sponge: soaking up the flavors, not only of the wine, but of the atmosphere in general. The flavors of family and friends, of love and good cheer. The aroma of the holidays. The bouquet of what is and that wonderful perfume of what is to come.

I have to admit, as Monsieur Jacquey closed the iron gate behind me and motioned toward his secluded front door, I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t locking the latch.

“Le Nez de Saint Pierre,” he called himself.  St. Peter’s nose.  He was nice enough, although he blinked a little too curiously at me through his yellow tinted glasses. “I didn’t expect a young lady,” he said. I gripped my cell phone and followed him up a path to his “office.”

Monsieur Jacquey sells wine from his own collection, right out of his home, which is why I was a little wary. But he’s the only one in Dijon who had the wine I was looking for — a 2005 Charles Joguet Chinon Cabernet Franc — so, after supplying Nico with the name, address, and phone number,  I had rung the “nose’s” doorbell and hoped for the best.

His office was a converted patio adjacent to the kitchen. It had its own entrance, marked by an oak barrel. Inside, papers and books covered a giant desk, which was lit only by a computer screen. I took a seat opposite Monsieur Jacquey and he poured me a taste of a 2006 Braucol from Gaillac, a town “not far from Toulouse,” he said. Ever vigilant, I took a calculated sip.

“How does a young woman like you become interested in wine?” he asked, an eyebrow arched over one oval lens.

Was that a trick question?

“I came to France,” I said.

“Thought I heard an accent.”

Yes. Yes you did, I thought. But I said, “Yes, and I still have trouble finding my words.”

He excused himself for seeming nosy (“Forgive me for sounding indiscreet”) and went right ahead with his questions. “Did you come to France for love? Do you live here in Dijon? What are your plans?” etc. I did my best to answer politely, and discreetly, then, glancing at my watch, I searched for the infamous bottle.

“Oh, one moment,” he said, taking the hint. Scrounging around behind a cotton curtain, he emerged with a dark bottle, almost black. I smiled when I recognized the familiar label, adorned with beloved French humorist Francois Rabelais’ portrait. (“Drink constantly,” he said once. “You will never die.”)

Jacquey placed the bottle between us. On the label, the name of the vineyard forfeits the spotlight to a vibrant red diagonal band announcing “Cabernet Franc de Pied.”  My host underlined it with his finger. “This is a special wine,” he said.

“Cabernet Franc is the grape of Chinon. When the phylloxera came in the 1800′s, it wiped out most of the vineyards in France, Chinon included.” He tipped his chin. “The insect came from America, but then so did the cure. American vines were immune to the phylloxera, so after a while, when all other remedies failed, someone thought to plant American roots and to graft French vines onto them, to save French wine. According to purists, something was irreparably lost, even though the rootstock doesn’t interfere with the development of the wine grape.”

Oh, the joys of French-American sibling rivalry.

“Well,” he continued, arching an eyebrow. “Some of the vines were saved. And that’s why they’re called franc de pied. They’re 100% French, and proud of it. Like I said, this wine’s special.”

After paying for the wine and thanking Monsieur Jacquey, I practically skipped away with my new bottle. When would I taste it, and with whom? Would I lay it down for a while, or decant it and taste it now? With what meal would I pair it? These questions brought a smile to my face as I made my way back toward centre ville.

For the answers, tune in to tomorrow’s post!