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.