At Angelus, one of the area’s better-known chateaus, the talk was all about money. Our little group of eleven researchers and one driver (Anne) was still waking up (the TGV makes these places accessible from Paris in under three hours and it was still only mid-morning). While the owner Hubert de Boüard floated around with a huge glass, sipping and spitting the day-old juices, Jean-Bernard Grenié, his brother in law and co-manager took us around their extraordinarily expensive set up, doing quite well given that he’d got into a bit of “abuse” the previous evening at the end of the vendanges. Apparently, there’s been such a run on top wine, especially from the recently booming Americans, that prices have gone into space; which has encouraged speculation, which brings better equipment, better wine and, again, higher prices. Indeed, in parts of Bordeaux land is worth – metre for metre - as much as in the centre of Paris. And since taxes are levied on the market value of these places, they are also going through the roof. So, it’s a spiral towards the heavens. Who gains? The rich chateaus, speculators and the French treasury. And who pays? Angelus has lost 90% of its French market in the last few years, but they still can’t make enough of the stuff. Apart from the Americans, Hong Kong is weighing in, and so too, at the top end, is China. That made us think.

Nothing is too good for these wines. Angelus uses new oak barrels each year. “But which oak?” we asked. He balked. “French oak of course!” A long discussion followed about which French oak was best. We asked: “What about those Aussies who put oak shavings directly into the wine?” A shudder. “Why not?” we asked. “Well, sure, it works….but it’s…. forbidden.” He paused as if wondering whether he should discuss it. “Mind you, it should be allowed for the cheap wines, les petits vins. The rules are too strict, and it means the Aussies can gnaw away at French exports at the bottom end.” The moral? The French should be able to louse up their cheaper wines to get back at the impostors. But God forbid, not these! It costs them 150,000 euros a year, anyway, just in barrels.

The French delight in their diversity, but no one could be less like that first fellow than Francois des Ligneris, owner of Château Soutard, our next stop. Although not particularly big, he’s a solid guy who stands firmly on the Earth: a spiritual fellow and more than happy to talk about it. “Nature does its miracles. My wine is just a witness of what it throws at us in a particular year.” Yes, from the commercial to the sublime; the fact-giver to the mystic. “Why push your wine towards the norm? If years are different, so should be the wine,” he said, and: “There are two great stories happening here: the story of the sky - the wind, hail, sun, light - and that of the earth. The winemaker is the hinge between the two.”

After lunch in the village we dropped back to conventionality at Le Grand Mayne, a lovingly restored chateau. A 23-year-old boy, who now runs that huge place with his mother, took us around. Both his grand vin (2000) and his second (1998) were exceptional for their young age. It was all a bit sad; something was clearly missing. As we were leaving, she was closing the upstairs shutters from the inside, going from window to window in that wonderful vast place. Her husband had died only months before.

Towards nightfall now, and as we watched shadows forming in the gentle valleys from the edge of the vines at Berdiquet, which was first planted by the Romans in the second century, we were treated to a major discourse on fruit. He was a hotshot Chilean consultant with interests all over the world, Patrick Vallette, son of the former owner of Château Pavie. “We want our customers to taste the fruit,” he said. “We pick them just at the last moment. Sometimes we really have to rush around getting the grapes off before its too late.” He made us pick some grapes that were not quite ready. True, they tasted full and rich, but as he said, they did not quite “explode in the mouth.” We did our proper tasting in a large cellar hacked into a cliff; peering, swirling, pouting, sipping and spitting. It’s the last bit I find so bizarre. What can be as undignified after you have gone through all that palaver than sploshing the stuff into a bowl? Especially as the 2000 he threw at us was simply sublime.

We saw those old stones in St-Emilion the next morning, waddling around under the influence of croissants and jam. Though the famous underground “monolithic” church was closed for repairs, we tagged onto a group of Americans to be let into a small oratory, the Hermitage of Saint Emilion himself, cut into the rock, and with a spring flowing into it. As sublime as the Berdiquet 2000 and just as spiritual, in its way.

According to the experts, the wine from Château Figeac, on the edge of the appellation, is more like a Medoc than a St-Emilion. Whatever. We talked about the world with our guide, the Count d'Aramon; he’d been a marketer before he married into this plum job and had launched Yoplait in Japan. We knew all about grapes now. “When do you pick the grapes?” someone asked. “When they’re perfect,” he replied, as if it was the silliest issue. So much for our fruit-loving mate over at Berdiquet.

After lunch, we re-discovered the real world for our last tasting. Eric Bordas might call his place Château Patarabet, but we stepped into a modern suburban “pavilion”. It suddenly dawned on us that this old smiling fellow in a beret, unlike the debonair milk marketers and Chilean consultants, was the only vigneron we’d met the whole weekend who spoke with a local accent. The others had skipped straight across the career red carpet, but Eric had walked its entire length; he’d been a part of it since he was 13.

He led us into his garage and through his summer kitchen through to the cellar. I have never seen so many bottles. We wove through walls of them as if in one of those snakes you make at parties. “My accountant is hassling me to sell it,” he said with a shrug. “You won’t die of thirst, we quipped. “Not me, but the older I get, the less I drink.” His voice trailed off. “What’s your favourite wine, then?” Daniel asked. “The ’49 is not bad,” he replied. “You’ve got to get close to the table to drink it, though; My father-in-law thought that the older the barrels and the longer it stayed in there the better the wine got. Stuff gets caught in your throat.”

Eric taught us a lot about the art of wine tasting. Instead of tactfully shuffling around on immaculate Italian tiles, we sat comfortably around a table in a plain room with a lino floor. Rather than full-colour booklets full of perfect photos of sun dappled vines and wood grain, Eric handed over a photocopied tasting sheet. We’d been drinking from things the size of soup bowls at the other places, but Eric passed us the sort of glasses from which human beings drink. This was more like home. He handed the notes to all the men and asked: “any of you ladies like one, too?” As he was pouring a glass for our neighbour Anne, she motioned, hand palm down, that it was enough. “I’m the one who’s pouring,” he said, as he filled it up. Pity we had to rush for the train home, as old Eric was winding himself up to take us through his whole range.

Since his vineyards straddle the St-Emilion boundary, his plonk from the other side, made from the same grapes in the same soil with the same sun and rain as his St Emilions, has to be sold as normal Bordeaux Superior, which means it’s sells for less, so he cannot afford to barrel it. We tasted one after the other, a glass in each hand, the others nodding sagely at the subtle differences as I swallowed both.

Funny thing about the old fellow. He doesn’t need the money and seemed delightfully relaxed. He doesn’t even show up in the guidebooks. His place was in good nick, but he didn’t need to show us spit polished oak barrels and lots of expensive pumps. He doubtless has no debts, just too much stock. So, we could afford his wine. He only sells about three or four percent overseas. The rest goes to a hundred shops and 8,000 personal clients. We took a heap of papers with us. I’m glad to report that Daniel has passed on our orders, and that the cartons will be delivered here at Château Rennes, so we can reunite over a good nosh and rip into a bit of Eric’s oldest and best. Hope we don’t have to get too close to the table to drink it.

Lincoln Siliakus, Nov. 2001

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