Best Wine Guy

On a recent Monday afternoon in Burgundy, the Best Sommelier in France contest was concluding in Beaune. Figuring that, as far as spectator sports in France go, this had to be better than handball or fencing, I hopped in the car.

A grape vibe asserted itself from the very beginning: the finals took place in a wine cellar more than a century old, retrofitted for stadium seating. On the stage, experts were assembled, ready to judge four contestants. The finalists had been winnowed down from a larger group of 10 semi-finalists from all over the country, all of whom had passed a preliminary exam in Paris in March. The four, all in their twenties, were dressed in black suits and white shirts of service. They looked more likely to discuss prom dates than Chardonnay, and one had to wonder how they were competing for the title of “best in France” when they had only had the right to drink wine for a few years. Surely a more experienced master could run away with the title?

A contestant considers his first wine

The contest was divided into several parts. First, the sommeliers did a blind tasting of five wines, one white and four reds. Each young man took a full two or three minutes with the white, offering an avalanche of adjectives to describe its appearance, smell, and taste. That is a long time to talk about a few ounces of liquid, but these were pros, and they had no difficulty finding words. The vocabulary was beautiful and rich, helping to bring the 500 audience members inside the wineglass. The white had harmony, structure, maturity, elegance, finesse, suppleness, and pronounced acidity. It was golden, thick, intense, expressive, ephemeral, luxurious, and spicy, with hints of apricots, pears, and peaches.

Frankly, it sounded like a woman every man would like to meet.

The four men each had a different conclusion: a 1995 Alsatian Pinot gris, a Vouvray from 2001, a 2000 Alsatian Grand Cru Reisling, a Chenin Blanc from 1988. This being the contest for the best sommelier in France, surely one of them would have it approximately right. If a Frenchman fighting to be the preeminent sommelier in the Land of Vines and Corkscrews doesn’t know, who would?

The finalists awaiting the Big Announcement

Well, they weren’t even close. The wine was a Vouvray Demi-Sec from 1971, a bottle that most likely no one in the audience had ever tasted or ever would. The guys did better identifying the pinot noir grape in three of the four reds, but all were tricked by a Gamay masquerading as pinot. The reds were from Burgundy, which, in this region of maniacally prideful oenophiles, was far from shocking. (Many a local has explained that Burgundy people drink Burgundy wines “because, well, ours are the best in the world. Why look elsewhere?”)

The second test was to serve three different sets of “customers” (really expert judges) who were assembled at tables on the stage. A couple of gentlemen greeted each contestant in heavily French-accented English (I was tempted to offer my skills to provide a more authentic experience), asking to be served a bottle of Burgundy crémant, the local sparkling wine. The sommelier served and discussed the wine in English, a mandatory talent in today’s high-end restaurant world.

Next, back in their native tongue, they poured a half bottle (about 12 ounces) of red 1996 Pommard to a group of six diners who were on their cheese course. Here, the eventual winner (Jonathan Bauer-Monneret, a 29-year-old sommelier at Spring, a Parisian restaurant owned by -- gasp! -- an American chef!) put the bottle in a wire basket, and, in a neat little display of cinema, used a long match to light a tall candle, which he placed under the bottle while he decanted the wine. This is a traditional sommelier tactic to illuminate the sediment in the bottle so it doesn’t get poured into the decanter. The audience later learned that the main challenge of this stage was to assess the candidates’ ability to pour six equal glasses from a half bottle, no easy feat.

Maman! Papa! I am really good at sniffing wine!

At the last table, the men answered questions about the difference between two local digestifs, marc de Bourgogne and fine de Bourgogne, the former made by distilling liquid made from the skins and stems left over from the grape pressing; the latter made from distilling the wine itself.

Finally, the contestants sat with a family to help match wines with their elaborate wedding menu featuring dishes by some of the most famous chefs in Burgundy: oysters in gelée; frog legs in garlic cream sauce (the French are not called “Frogs” by accident); beef with foie gras; and a cassis dessert. The candidates suggested wines to accompany each course, and provided estimates of quantity and price for the family. When one candidate suggested 15 bottles of Champagne at 130 euros a pop -- about $160 -- the heretofore silent and respectful crowd let forth a tidal wave of gasps and chatter, clearly appalled at the mere thought of pouring that much money down their guests’ throats. (He didn’t win.)

Throughout the examinations, the young men vividly demonstrated the intricate relationship between wine and food in France. They laid an audible table in front of us, conjuring aromas and tastes of gougères (a local cheese puff), or a sea bass tartar, that would marry the crémant; suggesting the Vouvray go with either roasted foie gras in lychee syrup or a veal chop; and musing that perhaps the Pommard would accompany a powerful blue cheese with a raisin fig bread. Occasionally, the public sighed in appreciation of the imaginary feast in front of them.

What did you think the prize would be?

After the winner was announced -- he raised his fist in emphatic satisfaction -- the spectators made their way to a tasting of the different climates of Burgundy, which are currently being considered for inclusion on the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites. Naively, I thought perhaps we would be entitled to a glass of red or a splash of white. Instead, eight tables greeted us, each groaning under dozens of bottles. In all, there were more than 300 wines from every corner of the region for us to taste: humble Aligoté mingled with grand crus from Corton, Vougeout, and Gevrey-Chambertin. Beaune premier cru hung out respectfully with Pommard, Nuits Saint Georges, Saint Aubain, and Chassagne-Montrachet. After I gulped my first taste of mineral-laden Chablis, I recognized that everyone in the room was swirling and swishing and…spitting. This was not a crowd looking for a buzz, but rather looking to thrill their taste buds. I joined them in the theater, coating my tongue, cheeks, and gums with some of the finest wines in the world and then leaning over a barrel to spit down the hole. It is a wonderful combination of sophistication and vulgarity.

What I had thought was a wine tasting competition was in fact a quintessential display of French pride. One can mistakenly think that the French only brag about their food and wine talents in front of foreigners, but their passion is day-to-day, interwoven into their discussions, rituals, and stories. These shows of Gallic DNA happen all over the country, in moments extraordinary and banal, and, when one witnesses them, one cannot help but feel lucky and enchanted in this land.

Radio Week Part 2: Party Like it's 1621

Thanksgiving in France is more commonly referred to as "Thursday." No lining up at Wal-Mart, no turkey that hasn't defrosted, no hectic travel, no last-minute runs to the store for extra butter, no teeth-gnashing over the seating chart, no worrying about who was going to be drunkest.

For this Yankee, it seemed a good opportunity to bring a little Americana to the masses here in Burgundy, so I wrote to the local radio station offering to appear in studio to discuss this most American of holidays.

To my mild amazement, they accepted, and I found myself at ten of six in the evening in the colorful lobby of France Bleu Bourgogne in the center of Dijon. It was a beehive of activity as producers and on-air talent were gathered around a large table dotted with laptops, busily preparing the next half-hour's news update or the next day's morning show.

I was going to appear during a segment of the evening drive time called "La Bouffe Ensemble," translated roughly as "Food Together." The feed was piped into the lobby, and I could hear the hosts (a woman, Florence, and a man, Stéphane) teasing my appearance, talking about turkey and saying thanks.  

Florence came out to greet me and I realized I needn't have worried about the dress code. We were firmly in "radioworld," and casual attire ruled the roost. Stéphane, to my horror and repulsion, was rocking a New York Yankees hat, a t-shirt, and jeans. He talked faster than a hummingbird's wings. We did a super quick briefing (what questions they might ask, where I should sit, how do you pronounce your last name?, wave to the man behind the glass, you don't need headphones, talk into the mic, etc.), and bam! we were live on the air. After some pleasantries (and an extremely nice compliment from Florence on my French), I gave a quick rundown of the history of Thanksgiving: the first repast in Plymouth in 1621, Lincoln's Proclamation of 1863, and the 1941 law that established Thanksgiving as an annual national holiday on the fourth Thursday of November. I was done in two minutes. The hosts then called a French woman and asked her what she was having for dinner (she didn't know; her 23-year old son was preparing it for her; it would be a surprise), and then they played "Born in the USA" for the guest, a nice touch.

When the song ended, we were back live and I gave a rundown of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner: turkey (46 million of 'em on tables across America), stuffing (when I said that some people liked to put oysters in their stuffing, Stéphane interjected, his face going white with disgust, and asked if he had understood me correctly. Clearly, his French palate was more that a little troubled by the idea of oysters inside stuffing inside turkey), cranberry sauce, gravy, mashed potatoes, peas, green beans, sweet potatoes, and apple, pecan, or pumpkin pie. While I tried to concentrate (it is a wild experience being on live radio  in a foreign language), I couldn't help being a little distracted by my hosts. Their eyes were constantly darting to the clock, checking the time. Stéphane looked at his phone a lot. Both of them would sporadically raise a hand or point to the producer behind the glass, the cue for a sound effect or some other trick of the radio trade. The five minute segment went by in a flash, and, after nice handshakes, some assurances that it had been "super," an offer to be a local events reporter in Arnay le Duc for the station (on a volunteer basis, of course), and a free pen, I was out the door.

After I left the station, I realized that I had forgotten to do the one thing I had been preparing for the whole day. On the streets of Dijon, people were headed home after work, perhaps thinking ahead to their meal at home that evening (blanquette de veau? duck breast with potatoes au gratin? lentil soup studded with cubes of pork? cod filet on a bed of creamed spinach?), all oblivious to the American in their midst. 

It felt, for a minute, very far away from home. While it is true that Thanksgiving in France does not have any of the unpleasant aspects of the holiday, it also lacks football, stuffing, crisp skin, the Snoopy float, the thick smell of roasting flesh, laughter, and, most of all, family.

Contemplating the distance between Burgundy and the Vermont table where my family was congregating, I realized with shame that I had forgotten my most important line for my cross-Atlantic listeners during my radio appearance: "Hi, Mom and Dad. Happy Thanksgiving. I love you and I miss you."

Differences:Part 1 of a series

We were at our 4 year old son's friend's house for an apéritif when I commented that Luke was generally exhausted at 7:30 each night. "He spends his day in French preschool, living by French rules, and then he comes home to a completely different set of rules and customs at home."

My host looked at me quizzically and said, "Are there really such big differences between the two cultures?"

The question has stuck with me for several days now. It is an innocent enough question. We share many of the same commitments to freedom, the separation of church and state, a belief in equality. Over time, the French have absorbed so much of American culture into their lives (Coke, NCIS, Michael Jackson, George Clooney movies, menus translated into English, Sue Grafton books) that, seen through the French lens, I can buy that maybe they think that the cultures are similar.

Seen through the American lens, however, there are differences at every juncture, at seemingly every moment of every day. 

Want to have eggs for breakfast? You are a freak. 

You would like the pre-school teacher's email address? 50 euro fine just for asking. 

Thought maybe you would ask the neighbor -- who you see approximately 50 times a month -- what her name is after a year of living next to her? That is uncouth and just plain ridiculous. 

Looking for aspirin at the grocery store or Kleenex at the pharmacy? You should be publicly stoned.

What? You don't turn off your car engine when at a red light? Weird-o.

And much, much more...

Radio Week Part 1

This morning, I was a guest on a Radio Cultures Dijon. I was invited by an American woman who teaches English at the local university and a professor from an American college who shepherds his students through a term in Dijon. The show, which is taped entirely in French, before airing in a week or two, is dedicated to comparing and contrasting North American and French cultures and current events. I am not sure what segment of the population tunes in to hear Anglophones speaking French (safe to say not everyone), but I was nonetheless surprised to find my heart beating a little too fast when I slipped the headphones on and leaned into the mic for the first time. Things soon settled down, however, and we were discussing how my family and I moved to France, where we currently live, what I do to fill my days (other than being on the radio?), and the differences I note between French and American culture, how we raise our children, and, of course, the food of this region.

My hosts could not have been more lovely with this neophyte, and they assured me all had gone well, though I of course felt like I could use a mulligan on most of it. There were definitely a few highlights, however, including making the engineers laugh when I said that I was here to explore the gastronomy and wine of the region...and that there are worse places to do it.

All in all, it was a worthwhile experience and I hope my hosts follow through on the threat to invite me back for another show down the line. It was also excellent warm-up for Thursday, when I will appear live on the largest radio station in this part of Burgundy to talk food with two French co-hosts. We will be discussing American Thanksgiving food and traditions.

Local or stranger?

Is this the most or the least intimate country in human history? Tough to know. For almost a year, many of the 1500+ citizens of our small town have categorically refused to acknowledge me. No waves, no hellos, no nods of friendship. It's not a problem, just an observation. 

And then there are days like yesterday, where you enter in the local café and stand at the bar with your drink with three other guys. Suddenly, a young woman comes in, trailed by two middle-aged females. I had never seen any of them before.

They gave les bises, the double kisses, one on each cheek, to the assembled clientele, using the first name and the informal "tu" with each person they encountered. That is, until they encountered me. I stared down at my glass, sure they would understand that there was no need to share my personal space...and felt the presence of Woman near me. 

Glancing up, the youngest was halfway in for les bises. I happily reciprocated, uttering "Bonjour." The next woman danced the dance with me as well, and the third, shrugging her shoulders and saying, "Ma foi," or "Well, why not!" made the smooching sounds in each of my ears. While I prefer the female version, it is also common to be in a café when a man enters and walks the entire room, shaking the hand of every other client in the joint.

And the best part? When you see any of these people outside the café, we are right back to no recognition: no hello, no handshake, and, ma foi, no little kisses from the pretty ladies. Good luck figuring out the rules.

Hunt Part 2

As the wine flowed and our jaws worked their way through the meat, a white-haired French Senator (Fren-ator) arrived. He was a bit late (deliberately, I guessed) and, judging from his outfit -- sky blue sweater, bright orange scarf knotted around his neck -- this was not someone who was afraid of a little attention. Quickly, the sole bottle of red on the table -- opened expressly for him -- was passed his way. He installed himself at the head of the table.

Politicians the world over share certain character traits, and our friend from the Senate was no different. Eager to meet new people? Yessir. Quick to smile? Yep. Happy with some attention? Check. Good storyteller? Among the best. Remarkable precision with words? Yup. The Fren-ator was obviously in high spirits, happy to be away from the capital with some old friends in a hunting cabin. He spun yarns about broken promises from his supporters ("I'm going to vote for you" said to his face, followed by the same "supporter" mistakenly calling the Fren-ator's cellphone, thinking it was in fact his opponent and saying, "I just told the Fren-ator I was voting for him, but don't worry, I'm with you"); told tales about requests from the Prime Minister to accommodate Chinese tourists looking to drop serious coin on Burgundy wines; and let forth an avalanche of political/hunting/manly slang that had me racing to keep up. His glass, like everyone else's, was rarely empty, though professional responsibility did require him to cover his glass -- with both hands layered, one on top of the other, a sign that he could not be moved from his position -- when over-zealous pourers made the rounds.

Eventually, the laughter began to wane and the collective shuffle of a group on a mission began. I recognized this shift from my time at the lunch table during harvest; while it was wonderful to be relaxing with food and wine, there was serious business to be taken care of. It was the same at the hunting lodge.

We had officially squandered the only dry part of the day by sitting cooped up in a trailer filled with booze, smoke, flesh, and hot air. Now, it was pouring rain. 

As the crew put on rain gear (I was loaned an authentic hunting jacket and sweet orange vest), Paul informed me that each week, a farmer brings 90 birds -- pheasants and partridge, primarily -- to this little spot of Burgundy and releases them for the hunter's pleasure. (The crates behind the lodge were the evidence of this set up.) In classic good-little-American-boy fashion, I nodded and waited expectantly for a preview of the day's events and a gun/hunting safety primer. 

The first crack of a shotgun 25 feet away made me realize that neither of these things would be forthcoming. I affixed myself to Paul's flank, and off we walked. He talked a little to his dogs, and gave some instructions to a few other members of the hunting party, coaching them behind hedges or around a flank of woods. What had been a peaceful field surrounded by vegetation suddenly sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies: snap, crackle, and pop. Dogs were flushing birds every minute, and my new friends had quick trigger fingers. 

Within three minutes of starting, I saw my first pheasant meeting its demise. The dog flushed it, a man shot it, the dog carried it to the man, and the man brought it in my direction, muttering, as he wrung the neck of the fowl, relieving it of the pressures of life, "They always give me shit for being a lousy shot. Well, today, I got the first one." He shoved the bird into the big pocket in the back of his jacket, the corpse making a little hump in the small of his back. I liked this guy, and decided to tag along behind him.

About ten minutes later, I realized I wasn't quite close enough to him. As a bird flew out of the brush to my right, I watched the prey fly quickly on a diagonal, going from my original 3 o'clock to my 6 o'clock. My "friend" was at my original 12 o'clock...putting me squarely in between the barrel of his gun and the flying dinner. He yelled, "Get down!" and down I went, faster than you can say "Dick Cheney." Gunfire crackled and then subsided. Another member of our party, who had me nowhere near his firing line, had gunned down the bird. As he put it in his coat, my buddy, none too pleased with me for wrecking his shot, said, "I wasn't going to shoot you, but you really need to stay glued to a hunter while you're out here."

Rain trickled into my earlobes at the same pace that sweat puddled in strange places on my body. A break sounded like a good idea, and a group of us trudged back into the trailer in silent agreement, where wine and food awaited. Thirst for fermented grape juice never seemed more appropriate for 10:30am.

On the Hunt

"You can take pictures," he told me.

The man was asking me if I would like to come hunting with his club sometime in the fall.

I nodded, my body language squarely in between "neutral" and "non-committal." He insisted that I was going to love it, and asked me several more times if I wanted to go. I moved the needle a little towards "OK," and obviously pleasing him.

Frankly, I thought the offer was fueled more by good wine, high spirits, and a tasty meal with the Arnay-le-Duc Rotary Club, the type of invite one extends to strangers at a holiday cocktail party, only to realize the next morning (with relief) that you don't have the contact information for the person you invited. I quickly forgot about it.

Then, last week, Benoît, who wasn't even at the dinner (whom I know, however; we were staying in his house at the time), emailed inviting me to join the group for the hunt on Sunday. It was no-nonsense, very guy-like: no details other than he would pick me up at 8 and we would be going to an area about 20 minutes away. 

Butbutbutbutbut...what would we be hunting? Who else would be there? How many would we be? Did I need to buy/borrow special clothes? Did everyone understand that I was not licensed to hunt in this country? That I would only be a spectator? What time would we get home? What should I bring? Would it cost me anything? 

Or, at least, that's what I might have asked at home. My local self just replied, "OK, great. See you at 8 on Sunday." (It's a subject for another time, but I have learned that invites here are typically void of detail or previews; you just say "yes" and show up, open to any and everything.)

Benoît arrived before 8 and quickly ducked into his cave for a couple of bottles for the hunt. Promising.

We drove to Pouilly-en-Auxois, where we met a few other hunters for a quick coffee (the only non-alcoholic liquid I would see before my return home) before driving off to the hunt. We parked in a big field amongst woods and hedges. On the grounds was a ramshackle hunting cabin, like a camping trailer. Men in high-spirits climbed out of BMWs, Mercedes, and Land Rovers donning the gentleman's green of the hunter. Laughter rippled across the plain, chasing cigarette smoke and the hyper barking of a ragtag assemblage of hunting dogs. 

The group made its way into the cabin via the narrow end. The room contained a long table with chairs on one side, a bench on the other, and a stove and prep table at the end opposite the door. I sat in the middle of the bench, feeling awkward in my jeans and blue sweater (definitely not hunting gear), but lucky to be invited. I quickly realized that I was the only one without a hunting knife. Every man was hacking chunks of jambon persillé, slicing sausages, cutting hunks of lard (which is pretty much exactly hat it sounds like...lard...we were firmly in Guytown), cracking fresh walnuts, and decimating baguettes with the tool of the trade. Plates and napkins were neither offered nor seen.

All this activity generated an extraordinary thirst among the assembled. While I am not a hunter, I am also not a fool. I know full well that American men in hunting lodges drink booze before and after they take aim. They drink beer of course, preferably cheap, copious, and consumed directly from the can or bottle. 

In France, it's a little different. Interspersed with storytelling, jocular ribbing, and incessant dog barking was the sweet sound of corks popping. It would be a part of the soundtrack of the day from 8:30 until we departed. Every man had a fine-stemmed wine glass. The table soon sagged with a dozen bottles of white (it was morning, after all, a good time for something refreshing), some of them sporting names one normally sees in restaurants. Here's a magnum of Puligny-Montrachet. Or perhaps some vintage Champagne. Maybe some Meursault or Pernand-Vergelesses would be to your liking. The wines flowed without ceremony, but with great rapidity. Emptying one's glass was an open invitation to the assembled to promptly refill it. While it may have been tempting to continue to drain the contents, the stimuli for day's activities were everywhere: smelly men, yapping dogs, orange blazes and camouflage vests, and, of course, guns. It was time to take it slow.


Up next: the Hunt (plus more wine)