The Feiring Line

On the way to La Remise

The next day, I headed south and stayed the night with Matt Kling and Amy Lillard of La Gramiere, ex-pats who became accidental vigneron, because as Amy said, "We do everything on impulse." Amy laughed a particular kind of laugh, a good-natured, self-effacing laugh that seems to say, "The joke is on me!" Earlier that evening, close to sunset, she picked me up in a near by town next to the church. This being Sunday, the town was silent, except for the cats. At the cafe adjacent to the church a man stood in the window, picking his nose without apology. She arrive with husband Matt. Dogs barking in the car. Quick, to the vines before night fell. This is Lauzette, her favorite, "It makes such gorgeous grenache," she said. Then, onto their farmhouse in St. Quentin la Poterie where Matt stuffed the ravioli . Meanwhile, excellent hostess, she fetched a Cyril Bouchard Inflorescence Blanc de Noirs. She took that first sip with such glee I swear she was saying, "Oh goodie!" The champagne deserved the enthusiasm and Amy deserved applause for such graciousness. The wine is all pinot noir, not dosed up, sky meets earth. Too hard to talk and sip at the same time, I left for my bedroom to retrieve my notebook. Mounting the stairs, I heard the dog bark at the wind. I flicked the light and there on the wall, over past the bed but in jumping distance to it, I saw something dark. It was an odd shape, like an embryo with a cleft palate. When I snuck up on the critter to investigate I saw a smaller version of this: I knew it wasn't my mother. She was safely on the other side of the Atlantic. "Uh, Amy?" I called down, knowing I was interrupting her bubbly. "Could you, um, come here?" The moral of the story is if it looks like a scorpion and it's not your mother who is a Scorpio, then it is a scorpion. Yes, it is the Rhone and there are scorpions but hell, it was January! She claims she is not living a Peter Mayle fantasy but I think its possible she protests too much. The next day, after a tasting of her 2009s Amy and I went off to La Remise, a tasting of the hyper naturals.

From 2 Anes to Toulouse

I should start at the beginning, but I need to tell you about something that happened in the middle. The punishing wind, the sweet asses, Millesime Bio and Domaine des 2 Anes behind us we Jenny, Francois (of the selections) and Kate, the lasagna maker and crack sales chick, took the road for the seven -hour drive up north. One hour into it, I saw the Toulouse signs. "Hey! Anthony said there was a great wine bar around here." I quickly scanned my old texts, and sure enough there it was, Le Temps des Vendange. Francois' iPhone GPS guided us through the most visually unusual French city I'd ever been. I'm used to Frenchly white and yellow and bone tinted cities. Limestone cities. Cement cities. But this one could have been Lowell, Massachussets, with its landscape of oxidized red-colored brick buildings. "All the same labels," Jenny whispered to me. At first blush, yes, but then under more careful scrutiny others popped from the shelves. Neither one of use had seen or or ............ and I was delighted to see ... ....a wine Jenny had pointed out to me at the La Remise tasting a few days back, from the barbated, Cafe de la Nouvelle Mairie past owner who turned vigneron. There was also a selection of two vintages of Peyra and a string of vintages of Overnoy. After that I couldn't concentrate on nutrition as I plotted how to cope with my dread of ferrying bottles back to the states. Lunch for non-meat eaters was challenging, but the others had a soothing meal with which to prepare for the next stretch up to Anjou I dug into the butter and a crispy and greasless twist of phyllo encased spinach and chevre and stared at the 1999 Ploussard. ++++..TBC

Leon Barral in Flight Entertainment

Will report from the road! Be good. Drink well. Support random acts of kindness.

Into My Fifth Year as a Wine Blogger? From the Archives

How did this happen without me seeing it? But out of nostalgia I thought I'd repost my very first before this grew into something else, bigger than myself. First posted December 12, 2004, and I refer to the cataclysmic summer that had just past. That's me this summer in Tain Hermitage. I was roasting in the Rhone, looking upward, wondering just how hot it was going to get in an hour. Or maybe I was thinking about the beautiful blushed apricots that grew all over the region, plump and firm at the same time, utterly sweet with just a dash of luscious tart. I'd come to France to work on several wine stories. The one in the Northern Rhone was about syrah. Later on that day, I would have lunch smack in the vineyard of Hermitage. Later I'd discuss native yeast fermentation with winemakers whom I deeply respected. I'd taste some remarkable older Hermitage and Cornas (which just doesn't get enough respect), get a huge crush on wine maker deity, Thierry Allemand, I'd walk across the river at sunset. I would end up across the street from my dive hotel- until the wee hours of the night with some friends at "George the Greek's" wine store/ wine bar. a makeshift affair set up gutterside. This, a nightly summer soiree, with a rotating crew of cronies; winemakers and their wives. George was very accommodating; he kicked off the evening with Jacques Selosse champagne. At 3 in the morning, I crawled across the street and tucked myself in between into the bad sheets. It was too late to read any of the Philip Roth I was rereading. Tomorrow, I said. In the morning, we show up at George;s for breakfast and are forced to drink a bit of the Vin de Paille Jean Louis Chave had given us to give to George. We try it before the espresso. It is nectar with razor edge acidity. All good. George's nephew had secured a whole crate of apricots from one of best winemaker's property. Such sweet hospitality is so touching. Apricots installed in the back of the car, I was headed south, to the giant white stones of Chateauneuf. The cicada cacophony was fierce, I thought there something wrong with my engine. This has become my life. What the hell was I thinking, coming to the Rhone to drink big reds in July. Crazy. ˜˜

The Year in Pictures

One of the best new restaurants I went to in Paris, though I can't quite believe it, but true; 114 Faubourg, in the Hotel le Bristol. Room like the inside of a Klimt painting. Food clean, expensive, but I almost think worth it? Fun and pure. High % of plastic surgery and stunning jewelry. Wonderful cepe soup and a stunning bass wrapped in fennel stalks like a sweet poisson package. There was one wine worth drinking, 2002 Pibarnon. Thank goodness for it on this mostly crappy international wine list. And, ah, that mad and crazy Polish vigneron, Andrea If you can't read my writing; This is the 2007 version of Babiole, a blend of grenache, carignan,syrah, Can't believe this is the 'methode chauvet,' because I can't detect carbonic. There is a hi-ink tone and floral exotica with hefty licorice. I lusted after shoes.True. I saw these hand made doojobs in Paris, taunting me in the shop right next to Marriage Freres in the Marais where I bought my extra tarry Lapsang and these too, not far from Invalides From my friend Stephen, the place you want to stay while in Fes. My wildly talented friend collects the King.

Alice Gets Saved (from switching)

"Boots is not going to be a switcher!" a friend said about her charmer of a daughter. It took a few beats for me to understand that we weren't addressing Boots' sexuality, but proper utensil strategy. Under penalty of spanking, the child would eventually (she was still on the bottle) feed herself with the same hand she pierced the morsel of foie and never, ever 'switch' that fork to her more dominant hand to eat. I blushed, because I was harboring a shameful secret. I was raised by wolves. As a result I was switcher, fork went from left to right and then into mouth. I then realized I spent my life eating at the table as if it were the trough and my regrettable habits had been impediments to my getting ahead in life. God is great (though a little too late) and opportunity came my way last year when I was putting the sagrantino to bed. Conveniently already on the west coast, I was invited to the Meadowood resort ostensibly to get a file applied to those rough edges. This was a test drive for some 'Wine Etiquette" weekends they were going to offer (do not know if they still do.). Their target audience was not the bull in the Lalique shop journalist, but those newly in love with wine, looking for Napa in other countries and needed to know how to fold their napkin, to make small conversation ( I should have listened harder) to flirt with their neighbors wife, how to eat in a way that would not provoke snickers and how not to switch, (should they choose.) Because it seems when you 'switch' you broadcast a class and breeding or lack of. I have Deborah King to thank. She not only helped me use my fork with the dexterity of a violin bow, (tines and horsehair DOWN please) AND with my left hand, no switching from right to left, but I also learned a handy trick for walk around tasting, eating events. I suggest you try this in the privacy of your own home before you chance an accident in public.

Sold! Racines. Paris. And Au Revoir to All of That

Last week I was at Verre Vole, the wine bar near the Canal St. Martin when my publisher, Jean Paul Rocher said, "PIerre Jancou sold Racines." The last to know, I thought. The last to know. Why when I emailed Pierre a few days ago to tell him I'd see him the next time I was in Paris did he not tell me this was my last chance? Ironically, the first time we met, he practically threw me out of his bar a vin, Le Cremerie. Somehow we overcame that blip and forged a connection. This morning Pierre sent an email around to some of his fans, admirers and friends to come and take a glass at Racines on the 22nd of October as he was headed to the Drome to his family. Bonjour a tous, finalement Racines sera vendu vendredi prochain et je vais aller vers de nouvelles aventures plus proche de ma famille dans la Drome. The last time I was in was with my friend Jeremy ParzenTracie B Pierre in back of Alice, Pat 'Griottes,' Pascaline, and to Pascalines left, Julien Courtois I don't know who the new owners are for the teensy resto in the Passage des Panoramas, and they have a hard act to follow. Pierre is a restless creative. He'll be back in some form, he will reinvent himself and another space once again.

Sold! Racines. Paris. And Au Revoir to All of That

Last week I was at Verre Vole, the wine bar near the Canal St. Martin when my publisher, Jean Paul Rocher said, "PIerre Jancou sold Racines." The last to know, I thought. The last to know. Why when I emailed Pierre a few days ago to tell him I'd see him the next time I was in Paris did he not tell me this was my last chance? Ironically, the first time we met, he practically threw me out of his bar a vin, Le Cremerie. Somehow we overcame that blip and forged a connection. This morning Pierre sent an email around to some of his fans, admirers and friends to come and take a glass at Racines on the 22nd of October as he was headed to the Drome to his family. Bonjour a tous, finalement Racines sera vendu vendredi prochain et je vais aller vers de nouvelles aventures plus proche de ma famille dans la Drome. The last time I was in was with my friend Jeremy ParzenTracie B Pierre in back of Alice, Pat 'Griottes,' Pascaline, and to Pascalines left, Julien Courtois I don't know who the new owners are for the teensy resto in the Passage des Panoramas, and they have a hard act to follow. Pierre is a restless creative. He'll be back in some form, he will reinvent himself and another space once again.

My Jura Disclaimer

I accepted a press trip to a region I was nosebleeding to visit. This is a confession worthy of the new 12-step meeting, AWA: Addicted to Writing Anonymous. With no magazines paying expenses, with no trust fund in my past or future, or juicy divorce settlement, there was also no room to be holier than thou so I said, yes, please and thank you. Here's the pickle. Many of the publications I write for forbid sponsored trips. I find them uncomfortable but paradoxically, as a freelancer, especially in these times, I find them useful... for research. For some background. But get a story out of it that is suitable for one of my publications...for me that is like draining a lake with a slotted spoon. No, a return trip is always necessary. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. The trip was five days and in order to squeeze everything I could out of the opportunity, I spent two, very happy weeks over in France and Switzerland. I loved being there and did not want to come back. I bounced around a lot and did not rent a car. Instead, I hopped around on an easy Rail Europe passGanevat, Puffeney and Overnoy Gorgeous Trousseau, by the way. Bistro de la Tournelle 5 Petite Place teL 03 84 66 25 76 Other benefits? For sure. You know, at a tasting, unless I try not to, I self-select and limit my experience to wines within my comfort zone. In the Jura, I'd only have gone to vin naturelia. Sad, but true. That would have meant I wouldn't have understood the gestalt of the area, just the naturel impact. (I would have believed that everyone made wines of life and transparency and no one wanted to compete for international flavors). The biggest crime, however, would have been missing those wine-guys who do gorgeous work and not on my radar. It would have been such a loss not to have had drunk those of Bourdy. The 1952 Arbois rouge? My heart, be still. Or would I have had such a range of Vin Jaune vs. Chateau Chalon? Would I have ever known that there was a Ludwig Bindernagel? And for the next Jura posts, please know that everything I wrote was experienced while I was the guest of the lovely people of the region. Yes, contradictions exist in the world. Even though I wanted to run away, I was also very happy to be there. And I thank them very much for including me.

My Jura Disclaimer

I accepted a press trip to a region I was nosebleeding to visit. This is a confession worthy of the new 12-step meeting, AWA: Addicted to Writing Anonymous. With no magazines paying expenses, with no trust fund in my past or future, or juicy divorce settlement, there was also no room to be holier than thou so I said, yes, please and thank you. Here's the pickle. Many of the publications I write for forbid sponsored trips. I find them uncomfortable but paradoxically, as a freelancer, especially in these times, I find them useful... for research. For some background. But get a story out of it that is suitable for one of my publications...for me that is like draining a lake with a slotted spoon. No, a return trip is always necessary. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. The trip was five days and in order to squeeze everything I could out of the opportunity, I spent two, very happy weeks over in France and Switzerland. I loved being there and did not want to come back. I bounced around a lot and did not rent a car. Instead, I hopped around on an easy Rail Europe passGanevat, Puffeney and Overnoy Gorgeous Trousseau, by the way. Bistro de la Tournelle 5 Petite Place teL 03 84 66 25 76 Other benefits? For sure. You know, at a tasting, unless I try not to, I self-select and limit my experience to wines within my comfort zone. In the Jura, I'd only have gone to vin naturelia. Sad, but true. That would have meant I wouldn't have understood the gestalt of the area, just the naturel impact. (I would have believed that everyone made wines of life and transparency and no one wanted to compete for international flavors). The biggest crime, however, would have been missing those wine-guys who do gorgeous work and not on my radar. It would have been such a loss not to have had drunk those of Bourdy. The 1952 Arbois rouge? My heart, be still. Or would I have had such a range of Vin Jaune vs. Chateau Chalon? Would I have ever known that there was a Ludwig Bindernagel? And for the next Jura posts, please know that everything I wrote was experienced while I was the guest of the lovely people of the region. Yes, contradictions exist in the world. Even though I wanted to run away, I was also very happy to be there. And I thank them very much for including me.