The Feiring Line

Found the Jura Twinkle

When I returned to the Jura, I found its beauty. I'm not sure why the exquisite rurality of the Jura escaped me when I came here last week with Russell Hone, maybe because we didn't actually climb up the best road to Chateau Chalone or find the correct windy roads in Poligny or Arlay, or Etoile? The Jura is rare. True are the fossils, the land is raffled with them. When have I seen cows strolling through vineyards, grazing as if nuzzling the earth? Last night, most memorable Bonard Chamonard Poulsard. 1990 Dugois Savignin. And after five days, the Puffeney Poulsard still ruled. More from the next stop. (more soon)

Found the Jura Twinkle

When I returned to the Jura, I found its beauty. I'm not sure why the exquisite rurality of the Jura escaped me when I came here last week with Russell Hone, maybe because we didn't actually climb up the best road to Chateau Chalone or find the correct windy roads in Poligny or Arlay, or Etoile? The Jura is rare. True are the fossils, the land is raffled with them. When have I seen cows strolling through vineyards, grazing as if nuzzling the earth? Last night, most memorable Bonard Chamonard Poulsard. 1990 Dugois Savignin. And after five days, the Puffeney Poulsard still ruled. More from the next stop. (more soon)

Pacalet, Life and First Look at his '08s....

After purchasing some train tickets at the Beaune Gare around the corner, I walked the short blocks to see Philippe Pacalet. He stood, in all of his curliness on the receiving bay, talking on his cell, looking very contented. I waved wildly to him, big grin on my face. "Life sends you on paths you don't and can't expect," he says to me, folding up his phone. I can't remember if he always greets me with a piece of life this way. I am not adverse. But I wasn't really into the early morning spiral down into my own nautilus. And so while we caught up, I found myself wondering if my life been too controlled? I can't remember when a life changing choice has been presented to me. Or have I had those life changing moments and just not seen there was a door in the room. Perhaps the door was a tree and I didn't see the knob, mistaking it for a knot? Have I been too myopic, or has that kind of adventure never dropped deus ex machina from the sky? But enough. I am now in the Jura, where the pendant-like pears are dripping in erotica on the tree. Equally distracting. Did a pear ever beckon so? And yet they were all wrapped up behind barbed wire. Metaphor is everywhere. Back to Philippe and the 09s and '08s. It's all connected, afterall. Philippe Pacalet and Monica He confides in me that 2009 was weird ass. "Many of the malos went before the alcoholic. It makes me nervous," he says. (note: two fermentations in wine making: the sugar into alcohol is the alcoholic. Malic acid into lactic acid is the malo. One starts with yeast the other with bacteria.) But sometimes like life, the vintage throws curveballs as well. Maria Jose Lopez de Heredia told me that when this happens, as it does at times, a UC Davis winemaker would drop dead on the spot, and goes through all sorts of controlled machinations to prevent it. But she's survived it and so have plenty of other winemakers. Philippe's approach was that he was going to hope it was nature's way of dealing with an odd vintage, he was going to get on the bronco and go for a ride. When I was staying with Becky Wasserman, she shared with me Fred Mugnier's impressions of '09. "He made Chateauneuf and not Chambolle. He was not happy and hopes his first impressions of the vintage, which seems massive, was wrong." Tasting PP's 2009, Gevrey Village, I could see where Fred was coming from. The wine, not really even a month old, didn't have that telltale newness about it. That just born baby head feel and aroma to it. It seemed to have popped out of the womb fully formed. In the cellar we tasted through the 08s. These are my first, and of course it's only Pacalet, but there seems to be some similarity with the 98s which actually was a vintage I liked (in the minority here). The tannins are terse and argumentative. The fruit is there, though, and there's some time before the whole story is revealed. At this early stage, the most charming to me were: Pommard (perfume, rustic, tannic), NSG village (add to the Pommard description a blast of red fruit and a long finish). Chambolle--(touches of cinnamon) C-M, 1er Cru (powerful powder) G-C 1er Cru Les Perriers (yummy) Charmes-Chambertin (for some reason I starred this one a few times. Did Alice like? Pretty. Tannic. Fruit and powder.) What amazes me is that his Bel Air (Gevrey) is always backward and here as well. And if you happen to see his Nuits St. George Blanc which is actually pinot blanc, pounce on it. (tangerine, lingering minerality, very flirty wine.)

Pacalet, Life and First Look at his '08s....

After purchasing some train tickets at the Beaune Gare around the corner, I walked the short blocks to see Philippe Pacalet. He stood, in all of his curliness on the receiving bay, talking on his cell, looking very contented. I waved wildly to him, big grin on my face. "Life sends you on paths you don't and can't expect," he says to me, folding up his phone. I can't remember if he always greets me with a piece of life this way. I am not adverse. But I wasn't really into the early morning spiral down into my own nautilus. And so while we caught up, I found myself wondering if my life been too controlled? I can't remember when a life changing choice has been presented to me. Or have I had those life changing moments and just not seen there was a door in the room. Perhaps the door was a tree and I didn't see the knob, mistaking it for a knot? Have I been too myopic, or has that kind of adventure never dropped deus ex machina from the sky? But enough. I am now in the Jura, where the pendant-like pears are dripping in erotica on the tree. Equally distracting. Did a pear ever beckon so? And yet they were all wrapped up behind barbed wire. Metaphor is everywhere. Back to Philippe and the 09s and '08s. It's all connected, afterall. Philippe Pacalet and Monica He confides in me that 2009 was weird ass. "Many of the malos went before the alcoholic. It makes me nervous," he says. (note: two fermentations in wine making: the sugar into alcohol is the alcoholic. Malic acid into lactic acid is the malo. One starts with yeast the other with bacteria.) But sometimes like life, the vintage throws curveballs as well. Maria Jose Lopez de Heredia told me that when this happens, as it does at times, a UC Davis winemaker would drop dead on the spot, and goes through all sorts of controlled machinations to prevent it. But she's survived it and so have plenty of other winemakers. Philippe's approach was that he was going to hope it was nature's way of dealing with an odd vintage, he was going to get on the bronco and go for a ride. When I was staying with Becky Wasserman, she shared with me Fred Mugnier's impressions of '09. "He made Chateauneuf and not Chambolle. He was not happy and hopes his first impressions of the vintage, which seems massive, was wrong." Tasting PP's 2009, Gevrey Village, I could see where Fred was coming from. The wine, not really even a month old, didn't have that telltale newness about it. That just born baby head feel and aroma to it. It seemed to have popped out of the womb fully formed. In the cellar we tasted through the 08s. These are my first, and of course it's only Pacalet, but there seems to be some similarity with the 98s which actually was a vintage I liked (in the minority here). The tannins are terse and argumentative. The fruit is there, though, and there's some time before the whole story is revealed. At this early stage, the most charming to me were: Pommard (perfume, rustic, tannic), NSG village (add to the Pommard description a blast of red fruit and a long finish). Chambolle--(touches of cinnamon) C-M, 1er Cru (powerful powder) G-C 1er Cru Les Perriers (yummy) Charmes-Chambertin (for some reason I starred this one a few times. Did Alice like? Pretty. Tannic. Fruit and powder.) What amazes me is that his Bel Air (Gevrey) is always backward and here as well. And if you happen to see his Nuits St. George Blanc which is actually pinot blanc, pounce on it. (tangerine, lingering minerality, very flirty wine.)

Mr. O'vernoy de Pupillon, Jura

With his tanned legs, (my legs should look so good) his worn hiking boots M. Pierre Overnoy, ushered us into his long table, the meal for workers just having been cleaned up. Even though he said the Overnoys came from Ireland as O'vernoy, he seems to me to look more derivative of my distant cousin I.B. Singer. Overnoy refers to himself as a bachelor. ("The man governs, but the woman commands," he said laughing. Still scratching my head on that one.) No matter what he says it is with enthusiasm and a twinkle. Here is an innocence not lost. He was kind enough to talk slow enough to make understanding him rather easy, even for my rustique French. When I asked him about M. Chauvet his eyes lit up and proceeded to talk about wine and sulfur. Unfortunately JUST as he was getting to the juicy bits, my FLIP froze. We tasted two wines. 2007 Chardonnay: The aromas are leapingly vibrant. Taste chalky. Long finish and sparks the tongue with gentle caramel and salt water. 2000 Savagnin: Salty, water and brine. A turkey being brined. Apple cider threads. Life and alive. Delicate on the finish, as if its brakes had just been tuned. Compelling aromas of roasted hazelnuts. With the Savagnin in our glass he insisted Russell (Becky's husband, who offered his company and chauffeur services for our day adventure, and he absolutely fell in love with Pierre) and I take our glasses outside to smell and taste. This, was the way Chauvet tasted, after all. Pedantically, Pierre instructed: "A taste is like a wave. You must capture the first sniff and watch the evolution. Look for not the wine's length but how pretty it is." So we stood in his overgrown yard, where all of the conflicting smells rushed into our glass and the wind whipped away the perfume. And yes, it was a sweet sentiment, but I'm not sure I agree. Nature can be very distracting when taking a tasting note. And he has the biggest egg I ever saw. A great big grey orb of concrete. He's loving it. Had no flash to snap away with. Sorry. But trust me.

Mr. O'vernoy de Pupillin, Jura

With his tanned legs, (my legs should look so good) his worn hiking boots M. Pierre Overnoy, ushered us into his long table, the meal for workers just having been cleaned up. Even though he said the Overnoys came from Ireland as O'vernoy, he seems to me to look more derivative of my distant cousin I.B. Singer. Overnoy refers to himself as a bachelor. ("The man governs, but the woman commands," he said laughing. Still scratching my head on that one.) No matter what he says it is with enthusiasm and a twinkle. Here is an innocence not lost. He was kind enough to talk slow enough to make understanding him rather easy, even for my rustique French. When I asked him about M. Chauvet his eyes lit up and proceeded to talk about wine and sulfur. Unfortunately JUST as he was getting to the juicy bits, my FLIP froze. We tasted two wines. 2007 Chardonnay: The aromas are leapingly vibrant. Taste chalky. Long finish and sparks the tongue with gentle caramel and salt water. 2000 Savagnin: Salty, water and brine. A turkey being brined. Apple cider threads. Life and alive. Delicate on the finish, as if its brakes had just been tuned. Compelling aromas of roasted hazelnuts. With the Savagnin in our glass he insisted Russell (Becky's husband, who offered his company and chauffeur services for our day adventure, and he absolutely fell in love with Pierre) and I take our glasses outside to smell and taste. This, was the way Chauvet tasted, after all. Pedantically, Pierre instructed: "A taste is like a wave. You must capture the first sniff and watch the evolution. Look for not the wine's length but how pretty it is." So we stood in his overgrown yard, where all of the conflicting smells rushed into our glass and the wind whipped away the perfume. And yes, it was a sweet sentiment, but I'm not sure I agree. Nature can be very distracting when taking a tasting note. And he has the biggest egg I ever saw. A great big grey orb of concrete. He's loving it. Had no flash to snap away with. Sorry. But trust me.

France So Far

On plane, the three vials of CRB pineau d'aunis went down with the ambien. Arrival in Beaune, Russell fetched me at the train, and spirited me off to Bouilland, seven km above Savigny. The Queen Before the guests arrived, Becky and I did some dueling computering, I, sipping at something like a Gagnard C-M. Dinner was had with some honeymooners, cucumber soup and some vegetable thing in my honor while they snaffed down the lamb. 1989 Lafarge. For that moment, joyful. yum After honeymooners taxied back down to Beaune, I knocked back 10mg of Ambien and sent screwy texts to too many people. Got one email from a friend, "I will assume your phone is broken?" Another suggested I was drunk. Neither was true. The result, however, was being shamed off of the stuff, unless absolutely necessary Happy I did not email any editors or engage in Twittering. My iPhone did not sing me out of slumber. Russell wakes me up. He tended to my toast, coffee and we race to the Jura. The landscape. I am slightly disappointed. God knows what I had hoped for/ A jig, perhaps? Did I expect the soil to stand up and dance The Nutting Girl for me? And then, then, then we met Jean Francois! J-F Ganevat, for several years, a biodynamist, and his high tech destemmer. (hint: Think washing clothes on stones in a river bed.) Ganevat has a dog named Schist, a sweet and skinny Weimaraner. The pooch welcomed me with enthusiastic sniffs while Ganevat, racing off to Alsace, put me through my paces in about twenty minutes. Speed tasting in a Speedo. Gorgeous. No time to ponder the twinkle in the glasses. But twinkle there was. He makes 35 cuvees, I tasted a third. Let me just say this, 1999 Les Vignes de mon Pere. (I lied. More words, meyer lemon tart. Can't stop drinking) Lunch? Tout smothered in morels that were oddly tasteless, overlooking a creek about two inches deeo. Then out of Arbois and into ......... J. Puffeney Jacques was not that happy to see me. He seemed put upon, oh god, another American who wants to taste these wines, I'm tired and what the hell does it get me. ( I could hear him think, understanding his telepathic French perfectly.) Things picked up a little when we went to the vines and he showed me a Ploussard leaf, as distinct as a Victorian cutout. Did someone say Pierre Overnoy? M. Overnoy needs his own entry. Coming. The day was sandwiched in greatness. Pierre Overnoy! An hour later, Russell and I rolled into Bouilland. Here I am referred to as the famous authoress. I like that. Russell popped a 2007 Pataille Marsannay rose. Followed by a way too oaky Dujac Clos St. Denis 2001. I felt guilty. Could not drink. Russell plies me with Armagnac. I brave the cold night without potion. It works. And then there were the limestone cliffs reflecting the harvest moon, and somewhere over Montrachet, sparkling like the Hope Diamond, Jupiter. I'll miss him when he leaves, but right now, let's not think about it.

France So Far

On plane, the three vials of CRB pineau d'aunis went down with the ambien. Arrival in Beaune, Russell fetched me at the train, and spirited me off to Bouilland, seven km above Savigny. The Queen Before the guests arrived, Becky and I did some dueling computering, I, sipping at something like a Gagnard C-M. Dinner was had with some honeymooners, cucumber soup and some vegetable thing in my honor while they snaffed down the lamb. 1989 Lafarge. For that moment, joyful. yum After honeymooners taxied back down to Beaune, I knocked back 10mg of Ambien and sent screwy texts to too many people. Got one email from a friend, "I will assume your phone is broken?" Another suggested I was drunk. Neither was true. The result, however, was being shamed off of the stuff, unless absolutely necessary Happy I did not email any editors or engage in Twittering. My iPhone did not sing me out of slumber. Russell wakes me up. He tended to my toast, coffee and we race to the Jura. The landscape. I am slightly disappointed. God knows what I had hoped for/ A jig, perhaps? Did I expect the soil to stand up and dance The Nutting Girl for me? And then, then, then we met Jean Francois! J-F Ganevat, for several years, a biodynamist, and his high tech destemmer. (hint: Think washing clothes on stones in a river bed.) Ganevat has a dog named Schist, a sweet and skinny Weimaraner. The pooch welcomed me with enthusiastic sniffs while Ganevat, racing off to Alsace, put me through my paces in about twenty minutes. Speed tasting in a Speedo. Gorgeous. No time to ponder the twinkle in the glasses. But twinkle there was. He makes 35 cuvees, I tasted a third. Let me just say this, 1999 Les Vignes de mon Pere. (I lied. More words, meyer lemon tart. Can't stop drinking) Lunch? Tout smothered in morels that were oddly tasteless, overlooking a creek about two inches deeo. Then out of Arbois and into ......... J. Puffeney Jacques was not that happy to see me. He seemed put upon, oh god, another American who wants to taste these wines, I'm tired and what the hell does it get me. ( I could hear him think, understanding his telepathic French perfectly.) Things picked up a little when we went to the vines and he showed me a Ploussard leaf, as distinct as a Victorian cutout. Did someone say Pierre Overnoy? M. Overnoy needs his own entry. Coming. The day was sandwiched in greatness. Pierre Overnoy! An hour later, Russell and I rolled into Bouilland. Here I am referred to as the famous authoress. I like that. Russell popped a 2007 Pataille Marsannay rose. Followed by a way too oaky Dujac Clos St. Denis 2001. I felt guilty. Could not drink. Russell plies me with Armagnac. I brave the cold night without potion. It works. And then there were the limestone cliffs reflecting the harvest moon, and somewhere over Montrachet, sparkling like the Hope Diamond, Jupiter. I'll miss him when he leaves, but right now, let's not think about it.