Lettre aux amis du monde entier buveurs de bon vin de Bordeaux... et
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Sipping it up in Bordeaux Lincoln Siliakus |
| What did we say when our good friend Daniel invited
us for a discreet peek at some leading Bordeaux vineyards? Twist our
arms, mate. But we went anyway. A dawn start, a good strut to the Montparnasse station up the road, into the blue monster and then - zip - three hours later we're in Bordeaux in the south-west of the country. As Anne and Dominique were the only authorised drivers, Dominique's husband Pierre was at the wheel. Don't ask... The first impression down there is disappointing; those world-renowned vineyards just north of the city are in flat and dull country, a dense development of concrete warehouses and bland houses in sloppy gardens. That all changes once you step into one of the great wineries; it's all gleaming equipment in award-winning architect-designed sheds, and the sweet smell of thousands of barrels of the world's best wine settling in for its final stretch towards perfection before being bottled. The owner of our first Chateau, a small, dark, energetic, and passionate woman in her thirties - she had inherited it - rapped about all that blending, creativity, knowledge and history. A good Aussie would have been rolling his eyes; what's wrong with shoving a handful of wood shavings into a stainless steel barrel full of plonk? The oak barrels cost a fortune but you need the taste of wood. Hey, just do it! Unimaginable! Daniel, driving us to Henry's for dinner, got it all delightfully wrong and drove into a driveway on the opposite side of the road, just missing a deep ditch full of the days' runoff, and found himself in a tight spot. French communication #1. As he drove back and forward in a vain attempt to extricate himself, there were suddenly seven drivers; poor Daniel behind the wheel and the others walking around and shouting over each other: "Stop", "No, it's fine", "Come straight" and "Turn the wheel, TURN IT!" "Which way?" he sighed. I stayed inside and only yelled "Stop!" once. But that was when a truck bore down on us as Daniel was backing quickly onto the road. Henry's was a major museum masquerading as a private house. During a long, perfect dinner, Henry did some major archeology in his cellar. Funny thing about these folk, especially the women. Even if they are approaching grandparenthood, they have the little thin bodies, vigour and sense of mischief of students. At one point Henry slipped a couple of open bottles over, stuff he hadn't opened before. It tasted pretty good to me, but the others were glinting at each other. "I'm getting something else," Henry insisted. "No, no, shit no... Oh OK, if you really have to," they all protested. He came up with a few Chateau Bel Air Marquis d'Aligre Grand Cru Exceptionnel Margaux 1986. I'm not kidding. That shut them up. We finished with a sort of nougat glace meringue a l'orange. Not only did I get away with two serves, but the recipe as well. French communication #2. We'd been moaning about not having a map all that first day. OK, we're now on the second day, heading north towards Saint Estephe without the slightest idea of the lay of the land, so everyone is talking about getting the map again. "We're on the right side of the Gironde," someone said. "Hmmph? How can that be? We crossed a bridge back there." "Yeah, but that's not the bridge you thought it was..." And there I was, sitting in the back thinking: "Maybe I'm only being a simplistic Anglo-Saxon git, but we could stop at the next servo to buy a map, huh?" Some time later, we've hit the coast, but no-one knows which coast and, while the others stretch their legs, Anne and I rush off to the servo. A blank look. "Sure, we are a service station, but we don't sell maps, Monsieur." How silly of me! "Try at the newsagents up the road," he suggests. "Good," everyone says when we tell them back in the car. "Is it open?" someone asks as we approached. "No," someone answers. "Sure it is," I say, looking at the people inside. We drove straight past. Huh? Sometimes I just don't get it! It didn't matter. Soon after that the landscape improved into something more like the standard French breathtaking, we hit the chateau Phelan-Ségur and were received by the proprietaire, Xavier Gardinier. Phelan-Ségur; good name, but if I were to tell you that Xavier sold both Lanson and Pommery vineyards in Champagne to buy this place, you might have a better idea of the sort of experience we were about to endure. We did a quick tour, said our "ahs" and "oohs" at his polished set up, and retreated for a bit of delicate sipping and spitting. Then it was over to the residential wing of the chateau, a slightly modest version of Versailles, where we were given a glass of Pommery 1989 and encouraged to float around a bit amongst the period furniture, draperies and artwork. From tall windows typical of early 18th century places, we overlooked a huge lawn - regrettably with fewer trees since that famous storm - and further across to another field which hadn't been turned into vines, presumably for the sake of aesthetics. Xavier treated us to a simple lunch thrown together by his personal cook; foie gras and truffle salad, delicate pockets of veal, then cheese and dessert. The wines started brilliantly enough with a so-called "second" wine, then we dropped back into a Chateau 1993 and then 1988, one of the better years. Xavier sat right in the middle, laying down his commentary on life. As he leaves the running of this place to his sons and all the bevvies of experts they employ, he has time to trifle with the big issues, like the relation between wine and joy. It was all over too soon. An hour or so later we were back on the TGV hammering back to Paris at over 300 km/hr. Twist my arm, Daniel. Whenever you want. Lincoln Siliakus 11/00 |