Spilt Wine

13. Riverside Reminiscences

After nearly three hours at la Pyramide, Etienne and I had gone back to Ampuis to formalise the wine order. In the process, Etienne found another fifteen cases of both the Blonde and the Brune to add to it – both the 1985 and 84.

It was late afternoon when I drove south out of town. Only six kilometres along, just beyond the old suspension bridge leading across the Rhône to Les-Roches-de-Condrieu, I pulled into the courtyard of Hôtel Beau Rivage, where I had reserved a room for two nights. My next appointment wasn't until Monday morning in Tain.

Beau Rivage sits on the banks of the river on a narrow strip of flats at the base of the steep vineyards of Condrieu. It's an upper-end four-star hotel with views out over the river from the terrace and the dining room, as well as from my favourite suite. I've stayed here many times before, and my preference is the top floor corner, where I can sit on my broad veranda and see up and down the river.

The hotel sits midway along the outside bank of a tight curve in the Rhône. The curve is the middle of a series of three bends in quick succession, which in the days before the river was tamed through here by dams and locks downstream, was one of the most treacherous stretches of navigation along its course. From my vantage point, I can see both upstream and down without turning my head, and I did that now, reminiscing.

I thought about the events which had brought me here. Discovering wine in 1966 was the beginning of this trip. While on a NATO posting in northern France, I grew increasingly curious about the wines in the bins at the base exchange. There was a wide range of prices, and my analytical mind needed to know why, and what a fair price might be. I asked for help in making a selection, but the staff knew as little as I did.

One of them pointed to a book among the offerings on the shelf. "I use that one, Frank Schoonmaker's Encyclopedia of Wine." Then pointing to a slimmer book, she added, "But this one is good too, The Wines of France, by Lichine."

I bought both books and the following few days, I devoured them, cover to cover, then repeatedly reread sections of greatest interest. I recalled going back and forth between my room in the barracks and the bins in the exchange, comparing labels to what I was reading. Finally, tired of theory, I decided to buy a bottle. The Burgundy region intrigued me, and there was a large selection of it from Louis Jadot. To prevent starting with a dud, I chose a wine highly praised in the books, a 1961 Chambertin Clos de Bèze. I'm still amazed this was my first wine.

My first real wine, I chuckled. There was the sip I snuck as an altar boy one day when filling the cruets in the sanctuary before Mass. God! I still remember the rancid and oxidised taste. Turned me away from trying wine again. Until that day in 1966.

I also selected some cheeses, though I can't remember now what they were. Likely recommendations from Schoonmaker or Lichine or both on what goes best with a red Burgundy. Sitting in my room with a glass, a corkscrew and one of the greatest of all Burgundies, one of the world's greatest wines, I began my tasting adventures. This all seems so fresh and recent, but nearly twenty years have passed since then.

Shivering, I looked up from my thoughts. The sun had sunk below the ridge, and the late afternoon breeze brought a chill. I moved inside, closed the door and lay on the bed to continue reeling reminiscences through my mind.

The following week, on a bleak November day, I drove southward a third of the way across France from the airbase in Marville. I was on a seven-three, seven-four shift on the flight line, which gave me three or four days off at a time. My first trip to the Burgundy was on one of the three-day breaks.

Grinning to myself, I recalled the drive. It was before the expansion of the grid of Autoroutes, and every National and Departmental road in France led into the centre of every town and village along the way. Every signpost showed the direction and distance to Paris, and there were no bypasses. Not only was it necessary to crawl through the centres of each community, but in many of them, the route seemed to twist and turn past every business on the way through.

To make matters worse, the Lucas fuel pump in my ageing Healey didn't like prolonged slow speed. Reaching behind the seat to jiggle the external lever got things going again, but it was not a cure. The three hundred kilometres took me nearly seven hours – today, it can easily be done in less than three.

After an early start, I arrived in Gevrey-Chambertin mid-afternoon. Then, through town, I drove out its south side to where the book's map showed Clos de Bèze. I remember thinking how bleak the vineyards looked – like rows of skeletons leading up the shallow slopes and into the mist.

Then I saw Clos de Bèze painted on the whitewashed side of a vineyard hut. I still remember my initial reaction. So this is it? Not as interesting as the wine. So, what now? I'm here, but why? For what?

Seeing a man in the vineyard, I got out of the car and walked through a gap in the low stone wall. The ground was wet from recent rain, and the mud stuck to my soles as I walked. It gathered and clumped, and when the clods became too thick, they sloughed off, and the building began again.

I stopped short of a man who appeared to be binding a split vine stem with soft wire. Rekindling my rusty French, I said, "Bonjour, Monsieur." I told him I had enjoyed a wonderful bottle of Clos de Bèze the previous week and wanted to learn more about it. And to buy some.

The old man said, "J'en ai un peu ... I have some; these are my vines, but I am busy now ..." He paused for a few moments, then continued, "Busy for a little half-hour." Raising an arm, he turned and pointed, "You come later over there, the first house in Morey-Saint-Denis." And thus, I had met Louis ...