Montgueux, about 100 km's south of Epernay, not far from the Burgundy border, is a region of the Aube that has more in common with the mid-west than what we think of Champagne. Mile follows mile of eye numbing non-viticulture agriculture. The treat after the crepe-like flatness is the charming medieval town of Troyes which springs forth from the wheat and Bricomats. And, of in the distance is the hill.
It is a BIG hill. There are vines on the south eastern slope. This miracle is the hill of Montgueux.
Who knew?
Though the people up north barely consider the Cote de Bar a contender for terroir, this remarkable carbuncle-like hill has a different reputation. The late Daniel Thibaut who had been the winemaker at Charles Heidsieck described Montgueux, with 446 acres of vines planted to 85% Chardonnay, as theMontrachet of Champagne. The reason, is that this hill is one big pile of chalk.
As usual, the weather in Champagne was a stormy, freezing mess. My cute red Citroen climbed the hill trying to see how there were 446 acres planted. It seemed half as much.
I arrived at the top and saw that most of the town was made up of the Lassaigne clan. The Lassaigne I was looking for was right near the cemetery. I was grateful for the clue because this was the first day in three that I didnt get lost.
I made the turn at the headstones and stepped on the brakes. I had to because splayed out before me were text book illustrations of three different kinds of farming. Perfect.
Even though my shoes were not mud worthy, I got out to walk the vines. The first one was a version of lutte raisone which means 'rational farming.' It seems as if you can rationally spray as many chemicals and synthetic fertilizers as you want and say proudly you use lutte raisone. Funny to think that these people often think biodynamic is a marketing tool as these lutte folk often say they are almost organic.
Mr. Rational's vineyard was bordered by a few red pumpkins. This farmer had some patches of green in his vines. He hadn't killed off everything. Right past the pumpkins was classic traditional farming. This was scorched earth tortured by chemicals. The scorching was in a straight line through the vines up to the grass. Not only was the grass dead as well as the soil, but the vines were practically totally defoliated. The two flanking vineyards were a little damaged on the edges because of the proximity to the major offender. I was told later that Nicolas Feuillate buys all of this farmers grapes.
(you might want to click on the picture for the full effect)
Wow! This was common place not too long ago. I didnt know anyone had the nerve to farm this way anymore. What a throw back. It was so Chernobylized. There was nothing in that soil and most of the vines were defoliated.
The day before the CIVC proudly told me that they reduced chemicals in the region by 45%. Of course, when this was the norm, they were the worst offenders in France, they had the furtherst to go in reformation.
Now, look at the photo again, just past the disaster.... see the bright Ireland lush green? Emmanuel Lassaigne's.
A few minutes later I interrupted Emmanuels parents lunch in their enclosed patio and traipsed manure-like mud all over their white tile.
(you might want to click on the picture for the full effect)
Wow! This was common place not too long ago. I didnt know anyone had the nerve to farm this way anymore. What a throw back. It was so Chernobylized. There was nothing in that soil and most of the vines were defoliated.
The day before the CIVC proudly told me that they reduced chemicals in the region by 45%. Of course, when this was the norm, they were the worst offenders in France, they had the furtherst to go in reformation.
Now, look at the photo again, just past the disaster.... see the bright Ireland lush green? Emmanuel Lassaigne's.
A few minutes later I interrupted Emmanuels parents lunch in their enclosed patio and traipsed manure-like mud all over their white tile.
This is not my mother. These are not the world's best latkes. Read on for the full story.
My mother sells jewelry on the Bowery. Unless it's some lovely vintage piece, I ain't into it. But other people like the glitter stuff, like the Olsen twins. Mary Kate and her sister Ashley were in "the place," the other day, their limo parked outside, they were pouring over diamonds inside.
What were 
doing in 82 Bowery? Good question but Mom needs more customers like them, so go visit her! (Email me if you want details. You really have to go before she retires.)
But, today, I'm not here to talk about diamonds, I'm here to talk about potatoes.
Last winter, with frequency, I'd get a call from Ethel who said, "Come. I've got some." She wasn't talking about some gold or some fancy pants watch, she was talking about the world's finest potato latkes imported from the land of her competitors, the uptown diamond exchange. These are the ne plus ultra of latkes.
Today, my brother, the cardiologist, was in town for a rare visit. I love my brother and rarely get to see him, so it didnt take much to get me to play hooky. After a long morning in MOMA I took us on a mission. I wanted to find the latkes.
We walked along 47th Street. Shills lurk outside, trying to lure in the jewel hunting. After the second person asked if I was looking for something special that day I said, "Yes, I am looking for a latke place inside of an Arcade."
The young, shill, no more than 19 I imagine, really wanted to hear I was looking for a 4 carat vvs2, yet he sent me in the right direction.
There it was, as advertised. A stall, at the end of the Arcade on 48th Street. The House of Pita. As it was mid-town, 1pm: we stood on line. When it was our turn I said triumphantly, "Four latkes."
The man said we don't make them anymore.
I did not want to believe him and pointed to the sign that said, latkes, house specialty. "Theyre there! On the board! The best ever. You can't do this. This is criminal.
Sorry. He took his time with me even though the line was building.
You will rot in hell for this!" I said. Ok, I didnt say it. I was getting carried away.
He merely said they were indeed very good.
Not very good, incomparable! Godly!
"People thought they were too unhealthy, too oily," he explained. We didnt sell many.
"They know nothing! These people ordering falafel, said looking around, mentioning their most requested item, think they are too unhealthy?" I was drooling outraged spittle. I wanted to cry.
These latkes were at least 1.5 inches thick. Not a raw potato in the shredded bunch. Onioned, densely crusted, moist and flakey inside, it was like the crunchy potato tortilla I always wanted---the way of Krakow. You have not lived in latkedom until you tasted thesewho knew you could get a crust like that without using shmaltz? They worked wonders with the potato, and being a peasant girl, I know from potatoes.
He urged me take a potato boreka instead. "These are good too," he said. He was a kind man. Slight Israeli accent. He understood.
But a boreka is NOT a latke," I pouted. "What about Chanukka? Will you make them then?" I pleaded.
"Maybe, " he said in a way that made me feel hopeful.
You know what? The potato boreka-very flakey pastry, nice touches of sesame, beautifully seasoned potates, was actually the best potato knish I ever had.
But it was not a latke.
That with some Cazin Cour-Cheverny? Yum.
Handcrafted item as seen on Ebay
The words crafted and handcrafted are being waved around like flags on Labor Day. I've been mulling these wine qualifiers, rolling it between my gray matter like a ball bearing in my wheel, for a year or so. Every one wants a wine made by human hands and a handcrafted wine means hand built. What's not to like?
You build color, you build character, you build a building, you craft a sweater and barrels. But I do wonder who the marketers have in mind when they use it in connection to wine.
Last week at the Skurnik tasting the word popped up here and there. The Downing Family Vineyards, use a handcrafted approach. There is praise for their prices. "Fair," they write. Between $280 and $496 a case wholesale. ($35-$60 retail.)
The Downing's crafted their wine concept in 1998. The wines are made by a hired hand from purchased grapes. On the Downing site you can read about the Downing passion: "The labels represent things about which John and Tracy Downing are passionateflying, fly fishing, sailing and cycling."
Wine was not one of them.
Admittedly, mine is a sloppy, uncrafted entry. Im blaming distraction by divorce. Not mine.
Last month people were breaking bones. I had my own "piss break," in fact. Then they were getting colds. Now heartbreak is randomly taking hostages. Too many people I know have been struck down. Regrettably some of their endings are quite crafty indeed.
Recent Comments