Gamay, the underdog of the wine world has been in the work, deadline is Tuesday. To plumb the depths of its slacker reputation I had an emergency gamay tasting in my living room, the Sunday before I packed off to France. I bundled up about 28 gamays or so; Beaujos, Loires, New York States, Oregonians and Californians. They were grown on a variety of soils; limestone, some from granite and some from who the hell knows, which might be why some were gaseous and vile examples of a grape disabused. If you'd like to see what happened, Kelli White wrote a spirited blog about the event for the The Organic Wine Journal. I still had Gamay on my brain on a recent visit to Burgundy, only an hour from gamay central, Beaujolais. I was staying with wine importer Becky Wasserman in the farmhouse she shares with her husband Russell Hone. Over lentil soup and some fine local cheeses, I asked them about Gamay. This is a house that is filled with Bonnes Mares, Chambolle, Richebourg, sublime wines for sure but when I mentioned Gamay that just put a smile on her face. She asked. “Shall we have some?” As we went into her cellar to collect some 13-year -old Beaujolais, she explained her enthusiasm, “Maybe it’s that I always had a spot for the under dog, but that’s not the whole story. I really do love them.” The 1995 Moulin a Vent from the producer Jacky Janodet was superb. It had a cherry chewiness, a firm meaty wine that outshone the Burgundy, a 2002 Pommard we had alongside of it. The next night, though, Becky pulled out a real surprise. A 1947 Julienas. “We bought it at a local auction a few years back. No one wanted it.” No one wanted a 1947? A wine that went for a song from one of the most famous vintages of the last century? She flashed her brown/grey eyes and said, “You see? No respect.” After tossing the head-on dover sole into the oven, (nestled together in their pan, cute as puppies) and mashing emerald parsley into the biodynamic potatoes, Russell polished off the bottle dust. We noted the extremely deep punt. The label said Maitre Miret, Hussiere a Macon, he was something like a Rabbi going around giving an OU to kosher food. Russell stuck in a corkscrew, the cork, which had dried up, fell in. No problem. He poured anyway. The color was only slightly bricked, the wine had some floating sediment. He took a sniff, took a sip. Passed me the glass, 'Brilliant,' he said. He was so nonchalant I thought he was kidding. The perfume jumped. Delicate yet masculine and extremely sensual. Not exactly the roses of pinot. more like fresh red currant, blueberry and extremely firm. Yes, firm. Sturdy. Youthful. Spicy. Delicious. Easy to taste the heat of 1947. Something about the ginger and delicacy in the wine reminded me of an older red Meursault. There was no trouble polishing it off all too quickly. I slept that night without sleep aids to ward off jet lag and woke up to the mooing of the Charolais cows.