Progressing from Provence to Piedmont

The late-planned meeting with Screwtop and Grigio in Grasse almost didn't happen. It took nine hours and 100 euros more than expected to get there from Vancouver, and the great laid plans to wallow in perfume for an evening were substituted by a rosé nightcap.

Still, it's the south of France, and all was forgotten when we languished on the Cote D'Azur. The main stop was Cannes, which was gearing up for the film festival. A winery has issued a rose in honour of the 60th festival year this year, so we had to order it at lunch. The label was a faceless anime woman, and we were told it was from eastern provence. Not much else to say, I'm afraid.

It was this alcoholic fortification that allowed Grigio to tackle the grand prix circuit in Monaco. The track and bleachers were up and ready for the race at the end of the month, but the roads had not been closed yet, which gave us the opportunity to test out the circuit. A bit of nifty manouvering at the eastern hairpin allowed us to pass the German tour bus and we made it around in 17 minutes 44.257 seconds. This would have placed us about 16 and a half minutes off pole position pace, but it was exhilarating nonetheless.

And then it was on to rally stage one. Screwtop really wanted to get to Alba by nightfall, but we figured we would get as far as we could before darkness so we could find a place to stay. E74 heading north from Ventimilia is quite a driver's road, with narrow twists and switchbacks and villages clinging to the edges of mountains. Alba was a bit far off, so we set our sights on Cuneo, the first city on the edge of the Piedmont plains.

Our plan was to ride into town, unholster our corkscrew and take on any Barolo that would dare challenge us. But that's not Cuneo. We should have known with the proliferation of Italian flags from every window, but the whole area seemed a nationalist's dream. The town architecture was more Swiss or Austrian than regional Italian, with its six storied blocks and arcades. The extra wide boulevard leading up to a huge town square seemed ideal for a few fascist rallies and marches. Our short trip from Cannes landed us more in Riefenstahl than in Fellini. The town seems to be the hub of the industrial region of Piedmont, and one would expect a little conservative flavour. But I would not have been surprised, in the post-culinary stroll, to run into Mussolini, or Fini, or at least the heels of their boots.

And so we decided to trek the extra 30k to Fonsetta.

As much as I may recommend you ride through Cuneo, I would urge you to stay in Fonsetta. More specifically, in a small 3 star place called Regis Hotel. What we didn't know at the time was that it was connected to a winery of the same name. What we discovered first, was a very charming courtyard of what seems like a farmhouse, with mature vines overhanging the outside tables, a few dusty pre-WWII Fiats and Bentleys in the barn, and restaurant and room decor sui generis, or at least Italian. Once we sat down at the restaurant, which seemed (typically) overly formal, we were presented with our first bottle of wine. We were hoping for a wine list, but they only serve their own wine. Since our Italian language skills are as well developed as democracy in Cuneo, it would have been pointless to tell us this from the outset, but we did piece it together from a series of familiar syllables, grunts and gestures. The kitchen turned out a fairly respectable set of veal dishes (ravioli and scallopini, although my veal barolo could have done with a bit more of Mussolini's heel), and our second bottle of wine we convinced our server to upgrade us from their stock 2006 Dulcetta D'Alba to their more enjoyable 2004 Langhe Nebbiolo. This second bottle was exponentially more enjoyable, although the tannins were still very much a presence which was not a good mixture with my cold. I will leave the description of the wines and the winery to a more able Screwtop, although from his clipped New York Times article on the Piedmont wines I would have to agree with the description of the Langhe's tannins as being 'racy'.

The true enjoyment came when we decided to retire with a final bottle of wine. Our questions and note-taking (by the pretentious moi) might have convinced our hosts that we were experienced enough to take on responsibility of their more developed stock. As I pleaded for another bottle of Langhe, the proprietor pointed at the bottle and said "good", gestured for me to hold on, and said "very good". And he returned a few moments later with another bottle.

And it was then that our day was finally crowned. Our miles of driving, of Cote D'Azur traffic, of endless bridges and tunnels, of near misses while being passed by Fiat Punto's in blind corners, of anxious kilometers at dusk, of confusing menus, had finally come to fruition. I suppose part of us wanted to like it so much because our expectations were lowered by our earlier journey through Piedmont. And in fact Screwtop had asked for it at the outset of our meal, but we had not garnered their respect as yet. But into my hands were thrust three glasses, a corkscrew and a bottle of 2003 Barolo. I actually think they were discussing the year to give us, and I heard 2004, but it ended up as a 2003. The tannins were pretty well gone, I forgot about my cold, Grigio was seduced into staying up another half hour and a few glasses, and Screwtop almost offered to throw out his brown shirt for another bottle.

We have no idea what the bill will be, and I expect Screwtop will outline some of the prices. For the record, he figured, in euros, 10 for the first, 30 for the second and 50 for the third. Grigio concurred. While this was going on, I snuck in an extra glass.

Bon voyage!

Corked and Screwtop are fortunate enough to be meandering up the Rhône Valley - oh happy day. They should make 'La Pyramide Fernand Point' in Vienne their final destination, if they fancy some seriously posh nosh. Fernand Point was one of the fathers of modern French cuisine and quite a character. The first chef ever to receive three Michelin stars in back 1933, he closed his restaurant during the war rather than serve the Nazi invaders. Paul Bocuse served under him as did many others. Fernand passed away in 1955, but the current chef does not disappoint. We spent a very memorable evening there some seven or eight years ago...
En route up, check out Château Mont Redon - www.chateaumontredon.fr - one of my favourite Châteauneuf du pape. Further up, around Ampuis in Condrieu country, check out René Rostaing's offerings. In a former life, I had six bottles of his Côte Rôtie, can't remember the vintage. I wonder where they are now? Château du Rozay is beautifully situated and the Condrieu does not disappoint. Cuilleron is another rising star. For a little daytrip and a bit of history head off to Malleval in the Parc du Pilat and drink in the patina of old age.

What's in a Vintage?

I had the happy fortune of being young(ish) and single and therefore with a sizeable amount of disposable income in the early 1990's. Politically it was not the most encouraging of times - Major's Britain - highway cone hotlines and the Citizen's Charter come to mind. Therefore heavy drinking was, by necessity, the order of the day. My parents had moved to France in the late 1980's and, surprise, surprise, had chosen Bordeaux as the region to settle in. They bought me a mixed case of mainly reds from the area including a few Grand Crus and told me to put it aside - lay it down. All the ingedients were now set for the discovery of 1990.

Upto that point I had consumed wine much as any twenty something lad about town would - namely how to maximise one's consumption as often as possible. But when I started to drink some of the Graves and Medocs and even St.Juliens my parents had proferred it was like entering a different realm. The Medoc reds I was drinking and buying were from very good years -1988 and 89 - still affordable in the early 90's - although of course I was drinking them way too young. But I had stumbled on a crucial lesson in drinking wine very early on - the importance of the year. Then came the 1990 vintage. Everything was good. You could'nt produce a bad bottle of red wine in the Bordeaux region that year unless you were actively trying to sabotage your own production. And of course the further up the scale you went...the Crus Bourgeios had the depth and complexity of the Crus Classes and the Crus Classes themselves.....well I managed to buy some Chateau Leoville Las Cases, St Julien ( i still have a couple of bottles stashed away) that were simply the best I've ever tasted. And once the trick was learn't I bought up every decent 1990 bottle that crossed my path and was just about affordable (from a single bottle of Leoville Barton discovered in a Noth East Co-Op to just about everything from the Medoc in 1990 that Majestic in Chalk Farm stocked).

Looking back (and alas all my 1990's have now been drunk) on a vintage that is now 17 years old (and some will argue only now starting to deliver up the full complexities of its top wines) I feel very fortunate. I got to know some of the greatest wines in the world at a time when I could still afford them and from a year some claim as the best in the 20th century. My taste changed for ever. I'm not saying you must drink a Paulliac or St Estephe from a good year with every meal (not unless you're a Russian gangster). But you know how good wine can be. In the right year, in the right place and in the right skilled hands.

And the other lesson gleaned from a decade's pursuit of a great vintage? That of the humble agricultural one - at one level wine is just a crop and as such subject to the complete vagaries and variables of the farming year. Yes, the mark of great viticuleurs is their ability to produce top quality wine despite dfficult conditions - to achieve a consistency over the years. But what matters as much is what the winemaker can never control - a heat wave all summer, no early frosts, no heavy rain during the 'vendage', enough rain at other times. In short a real vintage

What's in an umlaut?

Corked very graciously offered a British Columbia Gewürztraminer selection to accompany some fairly spicy dishes last weekend. All from 2006. Of particular interest to me was the use of the umlaut, or rather the lack of it.
Blasted Church offered a highly acidic number and couldn't quite decide whether to go with the umlaut or not on the label, so plumped for both versions. An interesting approach perhaps, but sadly the wine was equally undecided.

The Kettle Valley winery - whose Viognier I do have some time for- promised me 'pink grapefruit, rose petal and lychee'. The 2006 Gewurztraminer was frighteningly colourless and delivered none of these. Kettle Valley ditched that umlaut along with the spice.

Pentâge, whose name, I suspect, should sound like dressage and not bondage, furnished a very respectable Gewürz, good nose, nicely spicy and long on the palate. This was by far and away the best of the three. I strongly suspect that the superfluous circumflex played a major part in the vinification.