No Sour Grapes

Charming, to say the least

2011-12-07T06:42:00.001-08:00

I survived my post-harvest depression, andnow am even filled with anticipation and excitement when I see the 2011 babywines all cozied up in barrels throughout the cellars of Burgundy. However, I never thought mere tastingexperiences could evoke that similar melancholic nostalgia. What brought on my most recent episode ofpost-dégustation depression? Ironically, the incredible honorof tasting a vertical of Charmes Chambertin chez Denis Bachelet.

20 bottles, with ever-increasing coatingsof gnarly black cellar mold, lined Denis’ table: from 2006 dating back to the year beforemy birth. The mood was subdued, inrespect of the incredible wines that lay before us, and yet joyful as fellowwinemakers couldn’t help but smile and be moved by such beautiful expressionsfrom years past. And while remainingloyal to its profound terroir, each vintage was surprisingly unique. Some fresh and still full of fruit, somedisplaying pleasant undergrowth and woodsy notes, and yet others with hints ofdark cocoa and roasted nuts.

Fellow charmed tasters surround the table.

After thanking Denis (and nearly bowingdown to kiss his talented vigneron feet), I walked out of the dark cellar andinto a beautiful and rare December Burgundy sunshine. And I felt very strange. His wines have always been veryemotional for me. I must havebeen kidding myself to think I could handle such a soulful lineup and thenreturn to the workday as normal. Howdoes one return to present day after taking such a sensory-liberating leap back intothe past? Does life go on after yoursoul has been charmed by the Charmes of the even-more-charming Denis?

Stepping back in time, sip by sip...

I wonder if I will ever get used tosuch life-changing experiences, which seem to come and go surprisinglyfrequently here in Burgundy. I don’tknow how the others do it. Thejournalists who know every vintage of each great domaine’s most prestigiouswines. The sommeliers at top restaurantswhose hands grace across so many mind-blowing bottles in an average night. Those in the “biz” who come for a week, packin as many tastings as their livers can handle and jet off again. I admire such stamina, and yet I prefer to discover this passionate region by unfolding its complexityslowly and sensually, savoring each sip and sharing it with others.

And that’s what is so beautiful aboutwine. It is meant to be shared, andthere is nothing like the sharing of a special bottle to appreciate the momentand put everything back into perspective. Like cheers-ing Denis’ son while tasting an evolved salted almond toffeeversion of the 1988 Charmes, from the year of his birth.

How Burgundians get their party on

2011-12-07T06:28:00.001-08:00

It seems the blog-worthy occasions come andgo faster than I can process and transcribe them!

So, let’s start off with a bang, shallwe? La Paulée de Meursault. I have been led to believe that mosttwenty-somethings get their kicks bar-hopping or dancing away at nightclubs. Apparently, 7-hour long, sixcourse lunches on a Monday is my idea of a good time. And it is quite the party, indeed, whenyou’re gathered around long, wooden communal tables with Meursault winemakersand their 600 invitées…and did I mention it’s BYOB?

Strategy is key. You have 3 glasses in front of you and a singledump bucket within reach. On average,you have about five minutes to assess a wine, taste, jot down a couple notes ifyou’re lucky, and decide whether to play or pass when another jolly vigneronoffers you a pour of his special bottle. A couple hours in, you are seeing only Crus, and older vintages I mightadd, and the decision-making becomes heart-breaking. If only I could have just sat with that glassof 1991 Montrachet, breathing in its pure aromas, all afternoon!

To set the scene.

With pacing myself, I still managed to notea whopping 51 wines: 26 white and 25 red. Not so bad for my first, and likely only, Paulée. It’s not every day that one déjeunes in thecompany of such winemaking rock stars, and I feel infinitely lucky and graciousfor the opportunity.

The white blobs flying through the air are "napkin lassos."

Even writing about it now seems todevalorise the occasion. Thatspecial Monday there was an emotional, romantic buzz filling the château,uniting passionnées of the grape, that is difficult to describe in words. An enlightened energy that can only beexpressed by belting traditional Burgundian songs and standing on chairs,swirling napkins around like lassos (apparently also part of thetradition). The Burgundy bug seems tohave bit a very young, unsuspecting victim, and I’m afraid the effects arepermanent.

The Goat Coat Goes to Russia

2011-11-06T07:14:00.000-08:00

Saint Basil's en vrai.

Last week I experienced a lot of firsts. First business trip I’ve ever done. First visit to Russia. First time wearing a goat coat.

No, this was not the old backpacker-run-free-and-frolic-amongst-the-beautiful-ancient-architecture-and-stunning-countrysides travel like I’ve comfortably gotten used to. Here’s a rough idea of my itinerary:
Day 1: Serve thirsty Russian wine professionals in Moscow while communicating through gestures and remedial English, ignoring jetlag and sufficing on only three hours of sleep.
Day 2: Jam-pack the tourist highlights (Kremlin, Red Square, Saint Basil's Cathedral) into one morning before hopping on a plane to Ekaterinbourg and embracing yet another time zone change.
Day 3: Watching the first snow blanket the industrial city outside, while again pouring Burgundies to excited Russian francophiles.
Day 4: Resisting zombie-like fatigue while boarding three different planes to get me home to Lyon in one piece.

Clock tower at the Red Square

So, it’s only now, restored by affordable champagne, local cheese, and a few good nights’ sleep that I am realizing the experience’s personal effect on me, all business aside. I feel so lucky to have stumbled upon such an exciting opportunity and thoroughly enjoyed my brief glimpse at Russian culture. The most curious discovery was seeing why exporting French wine to this otherwise vodka-loving country is an interesting proposition. Russia relies heavily on its imports…produce, meat, wine, you name it. The money is there, but the comfortable climatic conditions permitting the “essentials” of daily life are not. Thus, the country’s charming notoriety for making the best of the hand nature has dealt (case in point…borsch!)

Saint Basil's glowing interior.

Conversely, it seems likely that these cold dark winters, a tough historical past, and uncertainty on the world’s political stage foster some sense of patriotic conviviality. As an American in love with the French way of life, it was heartwarming to spend the trip with a forty-something French man who adores Russia and its people. Strolling around his old favorite hangouts, and seeing his eyes light up during his first visit inside the ornate Saint Basil’s Cathedral (it had been closed for renovation during his years as a student in Moscow) was inspiring. This was, I can only assume, his equivalent of my magical bike rides through the vines of the Cote d’Or.

True, I am wary of how risky the Russia wine market is. There is a lifetime of terroir and wine culture education to catch up on, not too mention the bribing and illegal negotiations that hallmark their business. But seeing my colleague’s thirst to bring a piece of his homeland culture into the country that has touched his soul is inspiring. If anyone knows how to turn the Russians on to the elegant power of Burgundy, I think he’s the one.

Another very important first? My first time leaving France’s borders in over a year! And witnessing one Russian dude sneak some miniature bottles of crap airline wine into his carry-on on the way back to Lyon made me feel so lucky to be going home to the land of 400 cheeses, rolling vineyards, and temperate weather. Yikes, did I just call France home?!

The homecoming is so sweet, particularly passing by Pouilly-Fuissé in autumn.

Post-Harvest Depression

2011-09-18T10:31:00.000-07:00

Step 1: ripe grapes on the vine

Back in my ultimate frisbee days, my teammates and I suffered from a serious condition called post-tournment depression. It's that exhausted, nostalgic crash you feel after the event you have aniticipated and worked so hard for has past. You just had an epic weekend of giving your all and feeling the "flow" with your teammates, and suddenly it's over and time to return to life as usual. While these reminiscent blues are a downer, the come down is small price to pay for that pure adrenaline that carried you through the weekend. And luckily, with sports, there is always another training period and competition to look forward to.

Step 2: grapes, picked and sorted

Post-harvest depression is a bit more difficult to overcome, especially this year for me. For the first time, I had the privilege of following the viticultural cycle from winter pruning of the vines to their final picking. And by finally working with a vigneron trusting enough and a domaine small enough, I got to try my little, pinot noir stained hands to work at every task, from driving the tractor to rolling barrels to performing lab analysis of the fermenting juice. It was a non-stop two weeks of working from before sunrise to after sunset with sticky grape sugars permanently plastered to my hair. And I loved every minute of it!

And the most important step of all? Tasting!

While the sane side of me knows working like this is unsustainable, my heart yearns for it to never end. We had worked tediously all year in the vines, tending to each cep from root to canopy, and suddenly in one crazy week, the fruits of our labor were already resting in tanks and barrels, just waiting for nature to nurture it into wine. In Burgundy, making wine takes at least a year and a half from start to finish, but clearly the most exciting and crucial time is the grapes big move from the big world outside to the cool, closed cellar. As a result, it was a very emotional time for me. As cheesy as it sounds (and is) I felt a special connection with these mature, finally adult grapes. We had both grown up a lot together in the past year. They had endured violent summer storms and thrived under beautiful Burgundy sunshine. I had faced visa complications and language barriers and been enlightened by several mind-altering wines. So during harvest, I just wanted to sample each appelation, sort every bunch with my hands, taste each day as the juice quickly transformed, and really experience every moment. Luckily, I was in the hands of vigneron who put up with and even encouraged my grape geekiness... because he is just as infatuated with the fruit of the vine.

I realize now that the lack of emotions I felt on the actual date of my one year anniversary in France were just waiting to explode like the red fermenting juice during piegage. The calendar of the 2011 vintage resonates with me more than my physical arrival in Paris back in August 2010. I am officially a wine nerd now, and I am afraid there is no turning back.

Gray complexity

2011-09-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

*Written August 26, but no time to post!*

As Burgundy’s grapes are fighting the acid vs. sugar tug of war, I am mentally preparing myself for harvest 2011. I find myself as nervous as ever. Have I fallen out of shape, sitting on my butt and eating Russell’s yummy baked tarts at the office every day? Have I already lost my grasp on all those small yet crucial enological facts I learned in the past year? Have I become a comfy, cozy office chick?

But maybe we don’t have to make that division between working inside or out in nature. As I rediscovered after spending another lovely weekend chez les Texiers, the world is not black or white.

Eric, Jane, and I entered this philosophical debate after reading Marcassin’s outrageous newsletter article, claiming that the Domaine de la Romanée Conti wines are simply terrible because the grapes harvested are “unripe”. This conclusion was deducted after a tasting organized by and among the Marcassin team (completely unbiased, you see), who unsurprisingly decided their own wines were “ripe” and thus, delicious. Us versus them. I’ll refrain from opening that can of worms any further and instead just tell you that we all had a great laugh while reading aloud and realizing that wine is becoming more talk and less drink. That is, more gossip and passing trends than sharing and appreciating any individual wine in its context. Wine with added sulfur = bad. The 2003 vintage = disaster. Languedoc Rousillon = cheap table wine. I know I’m not the only one who has experienced plenty of exceptions to these demeaning generalizations.

I assume Mr. Marcassin might be opposed to the ripeness of these tasty, unpasteurized rounds of chevre as well.

Yes, as I learned in Psych, categorizing is the easiest, safest way to navigate in a complex and potentially dangerous world. But it also creates the same kind of mentality that fosters racism, conformism, and just plain old, boring routine. Conversely, the great of feasts of life are always served with a side of risk, in my experience.

Now how would you categorize this wild, biodiverse habitat of blackberries and grapes growing together?

That same weekend in Charnay, blackberry picking with little Miss Jane on our way to pick up some fresh goat cheese at the neighbor’s farm provided a more colorful example of seeking diversity. We started out going for the big, dark, juicy, sun-exposed ones but then realized the smaller, hidden berries had some nice acidity and zing to offer. I think it’s precisely the overall variety of flavors that made Grandma Texier’s resulting blackberry crumble so tasty…and balanced.

Nom nom nom...fresh blackberry crumble!

When we remember the world isn’t black or white, we can begin to see the rainbow again. And to appreciate that we don’t have to resign ourselves to the office versus the vineyards (in my case) or to one professional specialty. Rather, we can follow our passion wherever it leads us…the office in Beaune, the vines in Meursault, Russia (?!)…

A Year as a Beaune Vivante

2011-08-07T01:05:00.000-07:00

Just over a year ago, this California girl was putting her long, awkward limbs to work, hauling a year's worth of luggage through the maze of the Paris underground metro system. I had no clue what started out as a one year crash course in French wine could so easily become Home. Last night, spoiled with another house-sitting opportunity in Orches, I finally had a night to myself to celebrate this important one-year anniversary. So what did I do? Baked my Nana's good ole American oatmeal cookies, of course! As I danced around the kitchen, ingredient-searching, I couldn't help but wondering: how can I explain my addiction to this country?

And I had plenty of time to reflect, as what usually consists of a simple hour baking-session required at least double the time...and double the effort. For starters, I needed a calculator to convert the oven temperature and measurements. With no electric beater, I gave my bicep and forearm quite the workout while creaming the eggs, butter, and sugar by hand. No ground cinnamon?! Merde. Let's hope some some pumpkin pie spice will do the trick. And because chocolate chips don't exist in France, I had to smash up candy bars with last night's empty bottle of German riesling.

Nothing like deformed cookies...nom nom nom!

So not only did the cookies necessitate more time and effort, but also some improvisation. And then it struck me: this baking experience was evolving into a metaphor for my life here in France. Not to sound like a cliché, but everything here does seem more petit and slower than in the motherland USA. This can certainly be the source of headaches and frustration, like while standing in ridiculously long lines to do anything administrative as there is one window open, Tuesday mornings only--certainly never extending into the sacred lunch break--and just forget about trying in the month of August when everyone is on vacation. Plus, though I like to think my French has improved enormously, I still find myself talking in circles at times in order to get my point across. And all the quick, efficient, modern (and decidedly handy) "zapping" machines like microwaves, clothes dryers, dish washers, elevators, etc. are hard to come by in these parts.

On the other hand, tastings with a winemaker in his or her cellar can easily turn into hours of heated discussion, the sharing of older bottles, and even an apéro together. Meals linger on into the wee hours of the morning as courses are introduced slowly and gently (enabling digestion time). Even the Burgundy summer sunlight that shyly peeps through the windows bright and early endures well until ten at night. Some things may take longer, but they are certainly worth the wait. "Delay of gratification," I believe, is the term we learned in Psychology.

One of my major realisations this year was just how quickly time does fly. And if life is short, shouldn't we make its indulgences last as long as possible? Each day can offer a new surprise for the senses: watching the sunset over the côte, smelling the aromas wafting out of the boulangerie next door, tasting the subtle changes as a wine evolves in the glass, feeling the vine shoots bend in my hands, and listening to the fluidity of the French accent. For better or worse, I've found that every day of the past year has been a completely different experience. And that's not to say I can't find ever that feeling elsewhere, but for now it's so satisfying right here. So why not stay a little longer?

If this little guy can thrive here on his American roots, can't I too?

As for my cookies? A bit disfigured, but still délicieux. I guess a foreign recipe can succeed in a French kitchen. I only hope I can say the same for myself over the next year...

Sometimes History is Worth Repeating

2011-07-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

As deafening roars of thunder echoed above Burgundy Tuesday night, I consoled my fears by figuring that this was at least an admirable way to die: lingering over dinner in Becky and Russell’s old farmhouse, drinking a Port from the 1800s.

And the Port was but the grande finalé of our decadent travel back through time. Because wines with such age evolve immensely with slow consumption from the glass, my notes can hardly translate the sensations I felt. So instead, I thought it might be more interesting to take a look back at what was happening historically the years these grapes were slowly ripening on the vine. Granted, even the youngest on the list as twice as old as me!

1964 Champagne (Pommery): The surprisingly perseverant bubbles seemed to match the craziness of the sixties: the Vietnam War, hippies, drugs, protests, rock n’ roll. One might even go as far as to say that the nutty, open aromas reflect the final acceptance of the Civil Rights Act. A groovy sparkler indeed.

1937 Corton Charlemagne (producer unknown): A dramatic Grand Cru for dramatic times: the Great Depression hits the world hard, our hero Amelia Earhart vanishes, and the Nazi party rises to power. And I find it more than a coincidence that the wine’s color almost perfectly matches my Bay Area’s own Golden Gate bridge, which opened the very same year.

1926 Le Chambertin (Baron Léon Christophe): A sweet, yet savory toast to an era just as complex. A cultural explosion marks the late 20s, including the jazz movement, the Lost Generation writers, the first films with sound, and the growing popularity of artists like Picasso, Dali, and (my all-time favorite) Matisse. Oh so sensual.

1921 Coteaux du Layon (Chateau du Breuil): Ironic that such a shyly sweet crowd-pleaser was harvested in the Loire just as Prohibition began in America. But perhaps this spicy concoction is just as enticingly revolutionary as women finally enacting their civil rights, including those to vote and work.

Amazing that this 90-year-old cork remained intact!

1886 Port (producer unknown): Concrete descriptions for the port are just as out of my reach as my conception of life during the 19^th century. How could such a cultural drink be made before coca cola, the automobile, and even the construction of the Statue of Liberty? A humbling glass proving the sophisticated marriage between man and nature that has persevered for centuries.

A colorful historical timeline: 1926 Chambertin, 1921 Coteaux du Layon, 1886 Port

Over the course of slowly savoring these sensory pieces of history, I contemplated hurling myself into the threatening storm outside because my life seemed to already be climaxing at such a young age. But just as wine of any age has its own unique aromas, tastes, and sensations to offer, each year of my life will hopefully unfold with new discoveries, experiences, and of course wines to taste.

Learning on the Job

2011-06-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

My blossoming obsession with the winemaker Olivier Lamy began with his honeyed but hauntingly mineral 1996 Clos de la Chatenière. Served by the man himself with a generous smile at a dinner party, this spectacular wine came from his first vintage after taking the reins from his father. Not bad for a first go around.

Three days later, on a field trip from work with my colleague Caro, I realized that luck had nothing to do with it. Olivier speaks a mile a minute when explaining his passion for vine-growing, meaning his brain must somehow work even faster! While many growers struggle just to keep up with all the necessary work in the vines, he envisions the future and launches ahead with ideas to improve upon his already stellar vineyards.

Case in point, our field trip site: Derrière Chez Edouard, a Saint Aubin 1er Cru creeping up a hillside of mostly limestone soil, with almost Chablis-like chalkiness. In 2000, Olivier replanted the parcel with haute densité (high density) vines. Meaning 30,000 vine feet per hectare as compared to the already high Burgundian standard of 10,000 vine feet per hectare. This also means about three times as much manual effort must go into tending the vines. En plus, because it is on such a steep slope, he must plough with a heavy charrue, pushing it up the hill like a lawnmower, instead of cruising leisurely in a standard tractor. Talk about a workout! Good thing little Olivier is just about bursting at the seams with energy.

I think Olivier may have invited us just to put us to work!

The result of this bold innovation? Visually, he has two or three modest grape bunches with small, aerated berries as opposed to his neighbor’s 5 or 6 bursting five or six bunches. However, as always, the real proof is in the glass, and we were lucky enough to quench our thirst with a vertical tasting of this unique cuvee dating back to its début in 2006. I’ll remain succinct: juicily ripe peaches supported by an immortal mineral backbone. And this kind of fruit concentration already coming from mere baby vines? I only hope I may be lucky enough to re-taste once the vines have plunged their roots down in the soil over the years. Which is why Olivier does not hesitate to add that he isn’t investing in this kind of work for himself; he’s literally founding the roots for the generations of Lamys to come.

Cozy vines, spaced only 0.35 m apart. Notice the beautiful little grape.bunches!

And yes, luck, is the feeling I have when I walk down the cobbled streets of Beaune to work with the team at Becky Wasserman Selections each day. If I can’t realistically dive right into my passion for making wine today, what better way to content myself than to take care of the precious wine babies of rock stars like Monsieur Lamy in the meantime and continue to live in this remarkable region?

Caro and I, displaying the necessary tools for the day.

Millésime 2001: What happened in Burgundy while I was being an awkward high schooler

2011-06-16T12:09:00.000-07:00

One long table. Endless rows of glasses. One hundred and something wines to taste. How did I find myself in such Robert Parker situation? However the Ten Year On dégustation celebrating the 2001 vintage at Becky Wasserman’s lovely farmhouse last Sunday wasn’t at all that kind of a tasting, and for many reasons:

First and foremost, in between flights of Vosne Romanée and Chambolle Musigny, I was busy chucking out the colorful contents of spit buckets and ripping open fresh bottles of Grand Cru. So yes, it was essentially another day at “work.”
My personal notes were quite different than those of such famous (or infamous) tasters. I wasn’t giving scores; rather, my sprawled-out phrases and sometimes even sketches, I think, would only make sense to my palette and I.
I took the liberty of going back to re-taste and re-evaluate the evolution of certain intriguing wines. Like with anything, first impressions can be a good guide, but it takes time to figure out what it is you love about something (or someone). I even--gasp!--sat down with a glass of one of my favorites* to enjoy it in the best setting of all: at the table with dinner.
And the most important aspect of the tasting was that it was a friendly, non-competitive environment in which only the winemakers themselves were invited. We were all students together, reflecting on how the numerous factors (location, soil compostion, weather conditions, vine health, winemaking techniques, etc.) unfolding over one year’s time influenced the grapes growing in one small region of the world, albeit Burgundy.

Furthermore, an honest environment developed because no one was being rated or trying to sell his or her wines. Trying, discovering, and appreciating together…isn’t that what sharing decent wines is all about?

In case this isn’t already clear, the event was an unforgettable experience for me. I left feeling humbled by how mind-blowing wine can be, optimistic about continuing my path here, and inspired by the amazing winemakers who have made their mark in this incredible region. But most of all I felt extremely lucky to find myself among such great company, both in human and in bottle form.

*Le Musigny 2001 from Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier, if you must know.

A visit to Chablis? Not too Chabby.

2011-06-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

*Credit for this title should given to the witty Jane Berg. Please direct any groans at her, not me.

A Chabulous view...

With school finally finished, a self-organized field trip to visit a classmate’s estate in Chablis confirmed my faith that there is so much more to learn outside of the classroom. I can compare my growing affinity for the region's wine with my newly developed taste for raw tomatoes: initial misunderstanding--and thus dislike--has blossomed into appreciation and near addiction. Plus, there’s that tongue-stimulating acid component they both have going for them. But as with any wine-producing region, it really takes stepping on the soil, breathing in the local air, and meeting the vines face-to-face to experience a primal connection with the terroir.

These such learning processes were strictly enforced by the winemaker in question. He literally obliged us to dig our noses not only into a fragrant heap of his biodynamic manure, but also to note the different aromas emitted from his soil as compared to his organic and conventional farming neighbors. Let’s just say the lovely, herbal muskiness wafting from his own soil proved for me what page after page of Nicolas Joly’s prose simply cannot.

Back in the cellar, Monsieur Chab continued by showing us the end result in the glass (always my favorite part). While the horizontal tastings of 2009 demonstrated geographical influences on taste, his generous sharing of older vintages highlighted the differences in climactic conditions from one year to the next. And he recounted these weather patterns of 25 and 26 years ago by heart, which was impressive to say the least for a girl who has a hard time remembering whether it rained just yesterday. This was clearly a man who lives and breathes with his vines, and is just as sensitive as they are toward environmental influences.

And yet all of this wine geekiness came from a guy lax enough to attribute the elevated vine yields in Chablis over the Côte d’Or to the fact that “A Chablis, on aime boire!” Yes sir, in Chablis I now like to drink, too.

Bud Break!

2011-04-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

Finally, the crucial moment I have been studying, reading about, and anticipating with bated breath has arrived. Bud break! And it’s beautiful. Now I understand my mother’s excitement when the first flowers in her garden start to bloom.

Débourrement in Meursault...

...and Chambolle Musigny...


...and woah! Too much on this parcel in Savigny. It's wildness is pretty, but also illegal in Burgundy. Too much product makes for watered-down grapes. In vine training, less is definitely more.

It’s fascinating to notice the differences in the development of the vine from one appellation to the next, one parcel to the next, and even between two neighboring plants! Again, these visual disparities are proof of the individuality of each vine foot based on the factors of age, health, energy, nutrition, and exposure to environmental factors. And then there are those inexplicable natural forces. Just like you and I are different because of tangible reasons, but also because of certain personal qualities and experiences that are more difficult to explain...

In both cases, mysterious Mother Nature is at work again.

Passed Gas in a Glass

2011-04-02T01:28:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I studied for a test by tasting assorted glasses of wine. Sounds like a dream, right? Not exactly. These samples seemed innocent enough from a distance, but the putrid smells and offensive flavors dissipating from the glass revealed otherwise. Turns out the test was nothing more than an intensified round of Name That Default.

But insulting my palette in such a deliberate fashion was probably one of the more valuable lessons I will take away from my studies this year. As a winemaker, you better be able to recognize if your wine is quickly turning to vinegar and what, if anything, you can do about it. So, while everyone’s sensory interpretation is unique, I’ll try to paint a colorful picture for you of some troubled wines and which absurd qualities they take on for me. But I'm not trying to be the Robert Parker of faulty wines here, so don't take my word for it. Go ahead and try these tempting results of wine chemistry yourself!

1. Bend down and inhale the heat emitting from the pavement on a hot summer day. Blech. For me, that cooked taste is severe oxidation.

2. You sniff the glass and are suddenly transported to a cheap nail salon. That intoxicating nail polish remover smell is a clear sign of ethyl acetate, which may result from grapes drying out in the tank during fermentation.

3. Mmmm, looks like wine but tastes like salad dressing. That vinegar flavor means your wine has perceptible levels of volatile acidity.

4. Okay, who farted in my Syrah? The forgotten Easter egg smell indicates that the wine is seriously reduced, perhaps even to the point of suffering from the illness known as mercaptan.

5. This tasting room smells an awful lot like a barnyard. Or maybe someone forgot to swipe on some Old Spice this morning? Nope, but unfortunately your wine has been tainted by the dreaded Brettanomyces yeasts.

I hope these tasty images have whetted your appetite. Just another reminder to appreciate each and every well-crafted vino that passes your lips. The winemakers must be hyper-vigilant against these villains so that we don’t have to be.

Let’s just hope I passed. I’d really rather not drink fart wine again.

Heard it Through the Grapevine

2011-03-09T12:12:00.000-08:00

Wine isn't all alone in the human metaphor. Brace yourself, the American suburban-raised twenty-something is about to recount her epiphany with Mother Nature. Big whoop. I'm sure anyone who has always lived close to the land will soon be rolling his or her eyes at my new-found fascination with the life of the grapevine. But after spending a week hunched over the vineyards of Meursault with pruning shears in hand, I had a lot of time to think about the curious little vine feet before me.

What struck me was how the age of the plant shapes its personality. Like us, the vine will always maintain a firm foundation on its roots, but its energy level and ambitions will change with age.

Baby

Above is a baby vine, in its second year. Like an infant, its development depends highly on its caretakers. We want to be sure to encourage its growth, but prevent it from growing up too fast. We wouldn't want her shooting up to be as tall as her older friends with her delicate structure, or riding in cars with boys for that matter. And in the form of her training wheels, we give her wooden posts as protection so the big bully of a tractor doesn't knock her down in the playground.

Adult

The most difficult vines to prune were in their 30s. Why? They are in their prime of life, strong and energetic. In fact, their developed branches are so tough, that one might even call them stubborn. Standing steady on their base, they spread their arms in so many different directions, perhaps looking for success or trying to prove themselves. I had a swollen Mickey Mouse hand after trying to limit the vigor of the ambitious Charmes thirty-year-olds.

Middle-aged

At 50 years, the roots of the vines have dug deeper. The vine feet have settled down and relaxed a bit. Weather-worn and slightly tattered, they are beginning to show the wrinkles of age. They seem to have realized their purpose in life and thus, from a pruner's standpoint, are relatively straight-forward. Having already experienced many years of vineyard life, they know the ropes and so use their energy toward putting out branches adept at producing fruit. Just like Dad has finally mastered his lawn-mowing techiniques, without having to break his back in the process.

Senior Citizen

The 70-year-old gnarled, twisted stumps may look intimidating, but they are gentle as Granny. With time, their roots have dug deep in the soil, revealing the layers of history that us younger generations can only imagine. They don't produce abundant bunches of grapes like the young adults, but the fruits of their labor are concentrated and precious. Remember that stuffed bear that your grandma sewed by hand? It may be smaller in size than the big, flashy Care Bear in the toy store, but that bear will always keep a special place on your bed.

Age diversity makes a balanced community just as vine diversity can lead to a balanced wine. Vineyards that were planted long ago still host the founding members, but are also now home to younger vines that have been replanted in the place of those that have passed away from disease. Thus, we can see each vineyard as a microcosm: the concentration of flavor but limited quantity yielded by the older vines is supplemented by the plentiful grape bunches of the younger vines.

And I'm describing the evolution of the vine as if I've lived it, but honestly this is all just a fantasy I allowed myself to get lost in while spending eight-hour days of giving my new friends haircuts. Watch out, pretty soon I may even start talking back to them...

Reflections in the Glass

2011-02-26T02:21:00.000-08:00

As of late, it seems I am constantly reminded of an interesting observation that a fellow harvest volunteer made way back in September. A connoisseur of Burgundian wines and their producers, he noted the strange phenomenon that wines seem to resemble the person that made them. At the time, with my limited experience in tasting with the winemaker himself, I laughed this remark off as mere apéro-induced nostalgia. But more and more, I realize that my friend really was onto something…

Have you ever noticed that the over-sulphured, likely-inoculated California Cab was served to you by a lavishly dressed winemaker, hiding behind a thick layer of makeup? Or, on the other hand, that a clean, mineral-driven Chablis was made by someone just as sharp and straight-forward?

For me, the most recent clear-cut proof of this phenomenon occurred back in December when I brought my Dad and step-mom over to Domaine Henri Germain in Meursault to taste with Jean-Francois. Even with the cold state of the underground cellar and the young state of the 2009 wines in barrel, each sample displayed a natural, honest, and friendly personality, much like the man who tended the vines and vinified the grapes seemed to be. In fact, Jean-Francois’ inviting nature (and my immediate affinity for the wines) led me to boldly offer my services as a humble intern right on the spot. And just as I imagine his wines are never ones to be perceived as intimidating or aggressive, he agreed with a smile.

Working atop the Beaune Bressandes hill.

So now you can find me getting my hands dirty in the vineyards from Meursault Perrieres to Beaune Bressandes when not in class. And if the delicious minerality of the Limozin, for example, is any proof, it seem I have much to learn from my new teacher and the fruits of his labor. And though there are clearly exceptions to the trend, isn’t it refreshing that you can drink a glass of tasty wine with the person that made it and genuinely enjoy the company?

Team Henri Germain burning branches.

Older and Wiser

2011-02-12T02:54:00.000-08:00

What is it about drinking a wine older than oneself that is so incredibly humbling?

Once again, I think the answer lies in seeing wine as a living being. Like grape must going through alcoholic fermentation, when we are babies we develop rapidly each day. We grow not in only in size but also in personality just as the juice transforms physically but also begins to express itself in terms of its color, acid, alcohol, and tannic qualities. Then there is late childhood where we learn to calm down, sit still, and see the world outside of our own personal progression. This can be seen as the wine's settling period after the primary fermentation is finished. Next, we enter the awkward teenage years, where again we are changing quickly, which explains why wines going through the secondary, malolactic fermentation can taste so out of whack and rebellious. Finally, once this second fermentation is finished the wine is mature like a young adult, ready to take on the world but still vulnerable and unsure. We find our life path, get placed in a profession (or a glass bottle), and begin to slowly age. Theoretically, as long as we take care of ourselves, we get better and better with age, benefitting from the passage of time and experience like a wine evolving slowly in the cellar.

Yesterday I was lucky enough to drink a 1982 Corton-Charlemagne from the old cellar of what is now Domaine de Croix with David and friends. The wine's old man wrinkles took the form of a faded, orangey-gold coloring. The nose was woolly, comforting, and the palate revealed stories that only come with age ("Back in my day, we had to walk five miles in the snow to get to school..."). Each swirl and taste hinted at a new layer of lived experience. Salted butter gave way to crème brulée and finally baked apples, but the notes were subtle, subdued, like grandpa in his armchair.

So I guess what is humbling is that drinking a wine like this makes me feel so young. Like I haven't lived long enough or quite earned the right yet to drink a wine that has seen more days than I have. I can only hope that I am as interesting, open, and wise in my old age.

As Requested...

2011-02-04T06:27:00.000-08:00

My first tractor driving experience. Go big or go home, right?

"Help Wanted" Wanted

2011-01-28T05:48:00.000-08:00

July 27, 2011. My deadline.

Already at the halfway point of my legally-allowed stint in France, I am beginning to panic at the thought of my time here coming to an end. Especially knowing that France’s protective immigration laws make it so that a prospective employer has to essentially prove that I merit the position more than a native French person. I swear I’m not trying to steal your jobs! I just want to get out of the classroom and help you make some wine come the end of May. And I’m kind of addicted to your cheese, so I’m afraid of the painful withdrawals of being forced back to simple cheddar so abruptly.

As an American optimist, born with the incredulous idea that the world is at my feet, I was taken aback by the words of a certain mentor who basically told me that as a foreigner (on top of being young, small, and female), it would be nearly impossible for me to secure winemaking work in traditional Burgundy. Apparently, motivation may not outweigh cultural and physical barriers. But passion is what got me here, and I’m not ready to abandon it yet. Luckily, this past weekend I spent time with a generous handful of passionate winemakers who restored my faith in the field.

A car full of American dreamers headed down to the Northern Rhone for the annual Marché aux Vins in Ampuis, but experienced so much more beyond the tasting room. While a handful of domaines served up expressive, pure examples of Côte Rotie, Saint Joseph, and Crozes-Hermitage, I left the event feeling a bit like I was already back home in the New World of wine. Big 2009s, notable traces of sulphur, overwhelming oak. Fortunately, the weekend had just begun and we were staying chez Texier, where I always experience something new to write home about. Within a reasonable amount of kilometers from this home base, we visited with three unique winemakers, who re-opened the seemingly closed doors of today’s wine industry, and taught me some valuable lessons...

1. Jean Paul Brun, Beaujolais: Essentially Eric’s neighbor, I couldn’t believe we had never met before. A quiet, soft type, he managed to find time in his busy vigneron schedule to taste us through a significant percentage of his offerings, from an elegant, young Chardonnay rasied in tank to a gamey, smoky 2001 Côte du Brouilly. And time must be valuable for a guy who works 45 hectares of vines all by himself! His bashful smirk upon opening and sniffing the 2001 exposed his love for his work. Lesson #1: work only becomes “work” when it is no longer pleasurable.

Vines in Bugey.

2. Franck Peillot, Bugey: In between the big(ger) names of Jura and Savoie lies the friendly terroir of Bugey. And even friendlier winemakers. In fact, it’s somewhat ironic that such structured, hauntingly dark, and masculine Mondeuses pass through the hands of laid-back Franck. His passion for wine and the vine was contagious as he showed us the step-by-step process of the méthode Champenoise he strictly adheres to in making his crémant and as he gave us a parcel-by-even-steeper parcel tour of the intricacies of Bugeyian viticulture, including his natural trellising with straw. And as if the tasting and tour weren’t enough, he treated us to a fritures and frog legs lunch, invited us to stay for a weekend in the spring, and sent us home with bubbly and magnums. As if we needed a souvenir! A wide open door compared to Burgundy’s moat and drawbridge. Lesson #2: There is no reason for competition in the wine world; sharing is more fun.

Bugey Viticulture 101 with Franck.

3. Jean Claude Chanudet, Domaine Chamonard, Beaujolais. Already a fan of these wines, which defy preconceptions of vintage, I anxiously anticipated finally meeting “Le Chat.” And what a character, indeed, underneath a Santa beard and Amish hat. He commenced by instructing us to choose three aged bottles to open, dating back to 1995. We picked 2005, 2003, and 1999. Over homemade terrine (“meat butter” in Jane’s eloquent wording) and almost ancient chèvre, he relished us with recounts of Marcel Lapierre in his heyday and teased me for asking nerdy vinification questions on a Saturday night. Soon enough, he was handling the corkscrew like a ninja, opening pretty much every vintage in reach. And again, the atypical perception of age on these bottles, making the 2003 seem much older than the 1995, blew me away. I guess some might find such deviation perturbing, but I won't complain if a fifteen-year-old Morgon can still retain it’s freshness and vigor while also gaining complexity with bottle time. Lesson #3: Winemaking can’t be taught, it must be practiced and acquired over time.

Le Chat, in his lair.

Le Chat also sent us home with gifts, a feminine Fleurie 2009 for Jane and me, “les filles.” However, knowing that his magical terroir has no heirs, I hope to show him that I may be a Fleurie by birth, but I can work like a Morgon in the vines and the cellar, too. All I’m asking for is a chance.

So thanks in major part to Eric, who introduced me to these characters and who continues to show me the ways in which French wine culture is vastly open, I still dare to dream. And to attempt to sell myself on the streets as a humble intern. Feel free to pass on the word: “WILL WORK FOR CHEESE, WINE, AND MAYBE SOME VISA HELP."

Another journal entry in blog form. Thanks for reading...Nana?

Finding Our Roots

2011-01-16T08:17:00.000-08:00

Furrowed brows and sighs of impatience filled the classroom as we analyzed the biodynamic lunaire calendar. When is the ideal time to prune…the morning of a roots day when the moon is ascending and Venus is the major constellation? No wonder Steiner’s theories are largely dismissed as hippie bullshit. And I think this time I actually benefitted from the language barrier because I’m used to always being a little bit behind in terms of comprehension. The delay of time between hearing the lesson of Bernard Zito, biodynamic consultant to Burgundian winemakers, and piecing it together in my head allowed me to take a step back and refocus on the bigger picture. As Bernard kept reinforcing, there is no point in planning out a detailed viticultural schedule until you really evaluate why you are looking toward biodynamics and how you hope it will influence your vines. Start with the season of the year and then work your way toward the more subtle planetary forces. It seems as students of viticulture and enology thus far in the year, we are trained to analyze the minuscule details and how effective they will be on the wines. But I’m not sure it works that way with biodynamics, at least not in the beginning.

While the natural preparations and lunaire calendar remain mysterious and complex to me for the time being, the philosophy behind the practice really resonates because it is essentially the same phenomena that first attracted me to the world of wine. In its simplicity, wine is a beverage…but it can be so much more. A unique, well-made wine can mirror human emotions and quirks. It’s no wonder we often characterize the wines we taste as charming, sexy, or even give them genders. And the process of growing grapes and raising wine often reflects or speaks metaphorically for human situations. Perhaps the most illustrative example of this is how certain natural winemakers treat their wines like they would their own children. Just as they wouldn’t give their little boy or girl junk food out of cheapness or laziness, they won’t feed their wine on synthetic additives like commercial yeasts or enzymes. They allow the wine to find its own way, build up its defenses, rather than keep it holed up in the house all day or set strict rules. It seems they prefer to guide the wine even if it matures with a few harmless quirks rather than control it into submission.

So yes, biodynamics is hard to explain but maybe fewer words are better. The metaphors with life and nature cycles make it so you don’t necessarily have to analyze it but rather can see and feel it. The practice seems to be more about observing and responding to nature’s needs. For so many generations, we have pumped agriculture with pesticides, chemical fertilizers, and magic potions that we are now in danger of rendering our vines completely lifeless. Maybe it’s like a drug addiction. Just a little bit to ease the pain. But once we have numbed ourselves, can we remember how to feel better without the chemical booster?

So hopefully my naïve viewpoint made some sense. In any case, I guess you can take the girl out of Berkeley, but you can’t take the Berkeley out of the girl.

Riding without a "heimat"

2010-12-31T08:46:00.000-08:00

The year 2010 has marked many new firsts for me: first year out of college and in the real world, first time living by myself, and the first birthday where I forgot exactly how old I am (though certainly not the last). The most recent first? Christmas 2010 is my first away from "home." And by "home" I really mean heimat, or at least I think I do. A German friend explained to me that the single word heimat expresses simultaneously the notions of roots, origin, homeland, and upbringing, and thus has no direct equivalent in any other language. So while I feel at home here in Burgundy, I am without my heimat. However, happy circumstances helped me look beyond this simple fact. First, my dad and step-mom were brave enough to tackle this year's mess of airplane traffic in Northern Europe to reach me. Second, we effortlessly adopted my other currently heimat-deficient American friend, Jane, for the holiday weekend. And finally, my mentor Alex Gambal provided us with the perfect Christmas setting--his cozy home perched among the cliffs of Orches, with Christmas tree, fireplace and all--under the sole condition that we take care of his polar bear of a cat, Bob.

The kitchen sink (his favorite perch) gives some perspective on Bob's massiveness.

This new family of five quickly discovered that the upside of leaving behind old traditions is creating space for new ones. Nothing planned, nothing expected, nothing done just because that's the way it's always been done. And yet, some of these new traditions were so lovely that I wouldn't mind seeing them again next winter...

La Carte de Vins...always a good read chez Tontons.

1. Stocking up on produce, meat, bread and cheese for the weekend at the morning market in Beaune on Christmas Eve. Holiday spirit was in the air as the farmers jovially wished each other a "Bon Noël," despite having to work on a holiday.
2. Spontaneous cheese courses. Christmas gave us an excuse to indulge in moldy chevre or pungent bleu after dinner, lunch, and even brunch, if the craving arose.

Parentals cozying up by the fire.

3. Edward Scissorhands. I nearly forgot that Tim Burton's original dark tale is set during the merriest season of all.
4. Sleeping in! In fact, I was the first creature to stir on Christmas morning, which is a feat I have not accomplished since my pre-puberty years.
5. Champagne with Christmas brunch. Make that vintage champagne. I love me a holiday mimosa but you just can't put makeup on a sparkler like that.
6. Spending hours around the table playing games, listening to James Taylor's seasonal croons, and clinking our glasses with a "santé!" (or a good-intentioned "sauté" in my Dad's case).
7. Homemade boeuf bourgignon for Christmas dinner. Call me radical, but I'll gladly take a plate full of wine-soaked meat over the traditional ham.
8. And finally, having a white Christmas. As a present from Mother Nature, the gentle blankets of snow began promptly Christmas Eve morning and lasted the weekend. Being snowed in gave us an excuse to cozy up by the fire, cook all day, open that special bottle(s) of wine, and just enjoy each other's company because let's face it, there's nothing else to do!

Orches blanketed in snow.

Making mustard by hand...another regional specialty.

While being in France really defined this Christmas for us, the moral of the story is that maybe you don't need to be anywhere specific to be merry. This holiday isn't about gift-giving, impressing guests, or imagined obligations, and sometimes it acutally takes riding without your heimat to see that. And I'm really not trying to push the stereotypical anti-materialism message here, because in fact, my newfound definition of a Merry Christmas does have some essential ingredients. Good food, good wine, and good people. Luckily, these components exist just about anywhere in the world. I only hope I will always be lucky enough to find myself there.

Puzzling Plantlife

2010-12-10T07:57:00.000-08:00

I have an embarrassing confession to make: I was secretly dreading the practical course on pruning in the vineyards. This secret is shameful because quality vineyard work means quality grapes and quality grapes means quality wine. And for those who don’t know, taillage (as vine-pruning is called in French) is the most crucial factor in determining the yields of next year’s harvest. So yeah, pretty important stuff. Essential to know if I really do want to be a winemaker. But lacking a green thumb and nervously watching the snow and frigid weather envelop Burgundy, I wasn’t exactly leaping out of my warm bed toward the bare winter vines.

Waddling like Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story under nearly every article of clothing I owned through the vineyard, I had no idea what to expect. Sure, I had seen plenty of other bundled poor souls hunched over the vine pieds during my runs through the Cote-de-Beaune, but what exactly were they doing? Luckily, Celine—our sweet-checked but secretly badass viticulteur instructor—gave us a demo. With a few quick snips, she transformed what originally looked like a gnarled weeping willow into a simple stump with only one persevering branch, standing tall.

Celine listens casually to our silly novice questions.

I realize this story is already becoming boring to the non-viticulture-geek, and so let me recapture your attention by explaining that this carefully chosen branch is called a baguette! Man, are the French proud of their bakeries or what? And this metaphoric hunk of doughy goodness is important because it will feed and eventually don the grapes of next fall. However, it is the process of selecting this baguette among all the other branches that I found intriguing. Pruning is actually like a game of chess, where each move you make depends on what you did last and what you will do next. In other words, you must choose which branches to chop off and which to keep based not only on the coming harvest, but also in order to best situate the vine for the years to come. But the best part is, there is no single right answer, meaning there is no losing…unless you miss and accidentally chop off a finger. Luckily, in this case you probably wouldn’t even feel it because your hand is already frozen and numb.

A charming classroom.

My hesitance toward what I thought was simply brute, menial vineyard work is already transforming to excitement. Taillage provides not only the opportunity to get out of the stuffy classroom and breathe some fresh air, but also is a natural puzzle for the mind. And you all know how much I love a good board game. So now my attitude has completely shifted and I can’t wait for the next opportunity to don those long undies!

Oh, and a quick joke I came up with in case anyone who reads this has ever pruned before: What is the difference between an “americain” and a “gourmand”?...

The unpasteurized cheese!

Official Small Proteins Day

2010-11-27T02:32:00.000-08:00


Lafarge and A. et P. de Villaine Aligotés complete the picture.

I am officially declaring November 21 Grenouilles, Escargot, and Huitres-Eating Day, because after spontaneously indulging in these three gastronomic delicacies with a few friends last Sunday, I think it is an experience everyone should allow themselves to try. It's not every day that one can or should splurge on frog legs fried in oil and parsley, snails soaked in butter and garlic, or oysters bringing the essence of the ocean straight to the taste buds. Not all at once. That kind of dietary recklessness is not even legal in France. But as any holiday can be a good excuse for a relatively harmless binge (Champagne on New Year's, turkey and pie on Thanksgiving), I think we can all proudly enjoy this kind of annual indulgence. Plus, the colorful shells and bones left on the plate make a beautiful centerpiece, as we discovered.

Before...

Embarrassingly enough, this was a three-fold devirginization for me, as I had never tasted any of these tiny flavor-absorbing creatures until then. And while I'm usually not quite sentimental enough to celebrate first times, the French creativity in turning strange parts of living beings into nourishment has inspired me. Who's with me? 361 days to go and counting...

Annihilation!

"Working" on the Weekend

2010-11-20T09:45:00.000-08:00

It occurs to me that this blog has recently manifested my musings on the bizarre things people do in the name of wine. As it seems, nowhere is this more true than here in Burgundy. Case in point: the Vente de Vin events unfolding this weekend.

For those who don't know, the roots of this weekend's activities date back to 1851when about 61 hectares of vineyard land were donated to make wines which were sold to raise profits for the elderly, sick, and disabled people who lived in Beaune's most historic building, the Hospices de Beaune. Today, it seems to have evolved into a weekend when jewelry-studded, high-collared-shirt-wearing anglo-saxons swarm the hotels and restaurants bordering the small, medieval town and stock up on their year's worth of Burgundy. But this is not to rail on the influx of the "foreigners"; after all, I've only been living here three months and still continue to butcher the beautiful French language, so who am I to judge. On the contrary, the arrival of such full-walleted big shots provides the opportunity for cheap students like me to taste some great wine right outside my doorstep!

So Friday, Antoine and I joined our harvest mentor to barrel-taste the 2010 Hospices de Beaune wines up for auction. We joined the human train of potential buyers, winemakers, and tourists shuffling along from the first barrel of Santaney to the last barrel of Batard-Montrachet Grand Cru. Despite the somber atmosphere of the dimly-lit cave, colors, aromas, and flavors seemed to be leaping out from every which angle. There were the purple tongues of the tasters, the glinting gold samples of Chardonnay in the glasses, and the blue, cramping fingers of the poor volunteers serving up the tastes. And the young, still fermenting wines transported me and my fellow stagiaire back to the chaos of harvest. Re-identifying the spritzy gas of carbon dioxide, the nailpolish smell of acetate, the puckering acidity of the pre-malolactic whites, and the industinguishable reductive smell that I can only eloquently describe as "fart" reminded me that the senses are often the best chemistry teachers. I couldn't help but laugh watching these potential buyers taste such awkward, unbalanced teenage wines and mentally prepare themselves to throw down wads of cash for them, hoping the faults will only develop into elegance, finesse, and grace with élevage.

As my mentor Alex said about the tasting, "C'est le boulot." It's work. I understood his sentiment because tasting 44 of these rebellious young wines back-to-back was exhausting, but I'm not sure if I would call it "work". After all, my passion for winemaking stems from my experience that it is not in fact a career, but rather a lifestyle. Of course as a winemaker, you have to come up with a product to make a living but other than that you don't really have to do anything. You don't have to prune, harvest by hand, foot-stomp the must, top up the barrels, etc. And often, less is more. From what I've seen in the past few years, all you really have to do is care about your wine and be responsive to its needs. And if you do, hopefully the year's undertakings seem less like work and more like taking care of your baby.

And as a winemaker, you certainly don't have to taste the Vente de Vin wines. But it can be kind of fun, n'est-ce pas?

We're not in la petite France anymore, Toto

2010-11-07T05:46:00.000-08:00

"To believe that by research and invention humanity can create something better than nature is an illusion," (The One Straw Revolution, 113).

At my class' field trip to the Dionysud technical exposition in Beziers, these wise words of Masanobu Fukoka rang in my ears while I stared up at shiny tractors of dinosaurian proportions. These machines looked like something out of a Tim Burton movie. With menacing metal blades, plowers seemed like the agricultural incarnation of Edward Scissorhands. Tractors used for chemical treatment on the vines resembled overgrown octopi with their long tentacles of sprayers jutting out at every which angle. When I could physically manage to climb the heights toward the driver's seat of these vehicles, I was met with more buttons and gear options than I could count. Needless to say, my glimpse into this side of the agricultural industry was terrifying. After all, wasn't simply getting back in touch with nature one of the appealing qualities of viticulture? Notions of terroir seem lost when you need binoculars to see the vines from the perch of your monstrous John Deer. Let alone the fact that your massive tires are stressing the soil, the essential source of support and nutrition for the plant.

Just to give some perspective.

Our excursion to the cooperative cave in Florensac was only a slight improvement. Having lived in cooperative housing at Berkeley, I can certainly acknowledge the merits of sharing a common space and working toward a mutual goal, but the marketing scheme at this gargantuan winery seems to have led the founding ideals of this establishment astray. The focus seems to have shifted away from raising a quality product and toward setting up a pristine tasting room, an interactive website, and cheesy bottle labels. Case in point: a mere three winery employees are entrusted 7,500 tons of fruit (that's 60,000 hectolitres or 8 million bottles of wine!) each year. No wonder the tanks are twice the size of my apartment and the press is accessible only by staircase. It's also no surprise that the coop imports Oak Powder from the Midwest, enabling them to simply infuse the oak into the wine instead of going through the "tedious" process of raising the wine in barrel. And the sulfur headache resulting from just a small taste indicates the other shortcuts taken to tame and control the largely neglected juice.

I had to see it to believe it, too.

So while I would probably not voluntarily expose myself to this side of winemaking again, the trip down south was very educational. At both sites, the merits of working with instead of against nature were reinforced. As with the modern agriultural industry in general, we seem to forget that man has been living off the land for centuries--before the "ingenuities" of the tractor, chemical treatments, or slaughterhouses. And when I taste a fresh tomato from the Texier's garden, drink a glass of biodynamically grown Comtes Lafon Meursault Les Charmes (not to say I have such luck often), or even just pick a wild blackberry while hiking, the proof of natural farming is undeniable. And delicious to boot.

Impromptu Field Trip

2010-10-26T11:38:00.000-07:00

So much for "vacation". For our autumn break, I brought the two other American students in my program down to the Beaujolais to stay with my adopted French family, the Texiers. But despite the serene setting of Charnay in fall foliage, we were submitted to a weekend of sensory overload immediately upon arrival. In short, I think I absorbed more winemaking knowledge from Eric in the past three days than I have in the past three weeks of class. And when the instruction is supplemented with the most practical teaching aide of all--the degustatory glass--the lesson becomes immediately ingrained the brain, the palate, and the soul. I think each of us stumbled upon a wine that surprised us, intrigued us, and maybe even changed us.

Back in the cuverie at Brezeme

You will have to ask Sam to describe the Rosé de Saignée Les Baudiers made by the Laherte Frères. I didn't believe eyebrows could climb so far up one's forehead as they did after he took the first sip. However, the effect was dramaticized even further when we re-tasted the wine the next night (how there was any left, I don't know). And I don't think Paul can even describe Edmund Vatan's 1985 Clos Neore, though the tears brought to his eyes and his recounts of the dreams that the unbelievable Sancerre brought him serve to give an idea. I encountered two wines that melted my heart, though I must admit that the sentimentality of these wines enhanced their sensory appeal.

The first was presented as a surprise, handsomely dressed in a cloth sack. It was only after we each tasted and smacked our lips in approval that he revealed his 1996 Crozes Hermitage Blanc, his very first vintage of winemaking. I don't know whether I was more shocked that a novice winemaker's white wine could age 14 years and still retain a vibrant complexity, or with the fact that he was generous enough to share such an important piece of his past with us no-nothing students.

The second one also brought me back in history. At Eric's tenth anniversary of winemaking celebration last year, I tasted Olga Juge's 1991 Cornas and it rocked my world. I can still feel the heated sparks it sent through my body, so I felt compelled to ask Eric to give me some details on the viticultural and oenological techniques. He did one better and opened the 1999 vintage of the same wine. Tasting it side by side with his 2007 Brezeme, he told me that he had the same affinity for Juge's methods and thus has incorporated the same techniques on his most namesake terroir. Words just can't compare to such a tactile lesson.

The bare vines of Brezeme 2010

After diving deeper into Eric's winemaking past, I feel so lucky to have a mentor who not only thinks for himself but encourages his students to do so as well. The biggest lesson I learned in these past few days is that wine is never black or white. Making a good wine is not a matter of conventional vs. organic vs. biodynamic vs. natural viticulture and enology. Real wine is simply the best of expression of terroir. And just as words can't describe the mind-blowing wines we tasted with Eric, neither can they describe a specific, limited way that the land and its product should be addressed.

Post-Harvest Depression

2010-10-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

The sticky legs of decuvage

I'll miss my fellow sorters.

A moment I will remember forever. Last day of my harvest and vinification internship at Domaine Alex Gambal. In potential Humpty-Dumpty style, I was perched on the edge of a giant, metal tank of fermenting Vosne-Romanée grape skins, stems, and seeds. Once Antoine and Geraldine created an evacuation route for them (and a small hole of air circulation for me), I took one last clean breath and plunged into the squishy, hot, sticky contents like a five-year-old leaping off the diving board. Within the natural sauna created by the heat exerted during alcoholic fermentation, I shoveled vigorously to push the foresaid mush out the tiny door of the tank before the toxic fumes mad me mad as a hatter. But once I reached the bottom and began scraping the remains out by hand, I felt a bit sad to let them go. I don’t know whether to blame my exhaustion, the toxic fumes, or my (at times) exaggerated romanticism, but I began to get a bit teary-eyed during my last decuvage. After all I had helped these grapes safely into the winery, sorted through them by hand, and monitored their progression each day, and now I had to let them go. I must be one of the youngest people ever to experience empty-nest syndrome.

Thus, the vinification internship is over. Thankfully, I have found a family here to help me get through post-harvest depression. I’m finding it difficult to describe these personalities in words, but culinary magic seems to exceed language barriers when my fromage-craving, wine-adoring friends and I get together. Thus, the very next day was spent milling about the kitchen, preparing coq au vin (à la Julia Child) to celebrate the end of harvest with these fellow students. And yet, I consider such indulgent nights as these indispensable to my education as we taste blindly through hand-picked bottles. I feel so at home having finally found wine geeks from my generation to debate fermentation temperatures, de-stemming, and biodynamic principles with. But this is Burgundy, after all. Oh, and did I mention a certain Mademoiselle Dauvissat just joined the class?

L'équipe

2010-10-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

The forklift is parked. The crusher, sorting table, and press have all been thoroughly cleaned. All the extra volunteers have returned to their normal lives. The chaos of harvest has been replaced by the calmer, more methodical vinification process. Last week and next mark crucial a crucial period in the wines’ growth, but their security in tanks and barrels has given me and my fellow intern, Antoine, a chance to breathe and to benefit from the wise words of our mentors. Who are these people, you ask?

September grapes

Alex: the name on the label, the head honcho, the man with the last word. And just as friendly and smiley as can be, despite the pressures of business responsibility. I can turn to him with questions about running a domaine, navigating the complicated laws of Burgundy wine, and simply living as an American in France. His generosity extends to inviting me to join his family to eat at one of Beaune’s finest restaurants and maybe even house-sitting over the holidays (big screen TV, extensive wine cellar, and sweeping views of the Orches Valley…Joyeux Noel to me!)

October vines

Bertrand: skeptical, nonconformist, and always sarcastic, this assistant winemaker knows how to keep me on my toes. He easily takes advantage of my gullibility, which is only intensified with my limited grasp of the French language. But all jokes aside, he is a great taster and someone who shares my passion for natural wine.

Bernard: our consultant for producing organic and biodynamic wines, Bernard is a soil-loving genius. He can simplify the phenomena of cosmic forces and lunar calendars in terms that relate to the concrete product…the wine. A fresh perspective in traditional Burgundy, I hope to soak up some of his knowledge like the vine soaks up the late summer sun (and the soft glow of the moon?).

Fred: the lab guy arrives every afternoon like the milkman, with his basket of empty bottles, to taste and talk acidity, tannins, and complexity with Geraldine. His palate seems to contain a computer database, which immediately picks up on specific sensory qualities of the wines, and their potential causes and effects. A freckled, red-haired and jolly enological encyclopedia, if you will.

A rainbow of rouges

Geraldine: clearly, I can’t say enough about this woman, so let me try to demonstrate with a visual. It’s the end of a long day and I walk into the cuverie to find my mentor working up a sweat, doing some piegeage au pied (grape stomping) in a vat of Savigny-les-Beaune to the tunes of Radiohead. Yeah, she’s that cool. Even cooler is watching her taste through a series of red wines with Fred, jot down some notes, and intuitively know what kind of nutrients the wine is thirsty for. From there, Antoine and I can perform a specific remontage, piegeage, or chauffage, which can directly influence the taste and progression of that wine the next day. In wine-making, tasting is believing and thanks to her, I do.

The Vines Are Bare and the Cuverie Is Full

2010-10-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

There's always time for bisous.

Each harvest brings new fruit, new challenges, new grape stains, and new wine-making vocabulary. And this year at Domaine Alex Gambal, I have a new teacher. Her name is Geraldine and don’t let her innocent blue eyes, long lashes, and cropped blonde hair fool you because she is a native Burgundian badass. Driving circles in the forklift, rolling heavy barrels around the cave, and sliding through tiny stainless steel tank doors to give the tanks a good scrub-down, this chick has it under control. But she still has a motherly instinct that not only serves to protect her interns and volunteers from being crushed under heavy machinery or inhaling toxic gases, but also helps her raise the new vulnerable wine with care.

In fact, due to her formal training in Dijon and the fact that she is working under a negociant, she is somewhat obliged to be overly cautious with vinification. In general, the esteem of the region and the fickleness of its sensitive grapes seem to limit risk-taking in Burgundy. So whereas some interventional oenological techniques were largely forbidden with the natural Donkey & Goat in Berkeley and Eric Texier in the Rhone Valley, this year I’ve been exposed to the bizarre world of chaptilisation, exogenous yeasts, and other chemical solutions:

Antoine in chaptilisation mode.

Instant yeast.

Chaptilisation: To give you a visual image, it takes the equivalent of my body weight in pure cane sugar to raise 30 hectolitres (or about 4,000 bottles) of wine a mere one degree of alcohol. So imagine throwing me into a bucket of fresh grape juice, whisking me around like the beginnings of a meringue, and throwing my sugary solution into the larger vat of wine. Of course all of the sugar is eventually fermented to alcohol, but the process itself undeniably conjures images of diabetes in a bucket.
Exogenous yeasts: Now grab that whisk and bucket again along with a pack of generic yeast powder. Following the directions on the back, pour enough powder into the specified quantity of water and stir. Easy as Kool-Aid! Once the solution is set, add enough of the wine to acclimate the new bubbling yeast to its eventual habitat and voilà…bring on the clinically-prescribed flawless alcoholic fermentation.

Beautiful Chambolle Charmes.

Clearly, I am a bit weirded out by these seemingly unnatural precautions that a winemaker sometimes feels impelled to take. However, Geraldine is an adventurous vigneron who knows her fruit and its potential. Thus, she is not afraid to try out a batch of no-sulfur Bourgogne Blanc, even in this challenging 2010 vintage. Or to take the time to hand-select bunches of Chambolle Charmes to ferment by carbonic maceration. Watching her sniff, taste, and monitor each individual wine every day reminds me of my former sensory-gifted winemaking mentors and gives me faith that I am once again in the hands of a talented teacher.

Two weeks of 13-hour days down and two to go. However, now that all the grapes have found their home at Domaine Alex Gambal there should be less stress and more time to deeply investigate the complexities of Burgundian vinification.

French Barbecue?!

2010-09-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I experienced my first French barbecue. Yes, the universal beats of Bob Marley echoed in the background, but that was just about the only common link to the traditional American BBQ. Chips and salsa were replaced by gougeres and a mysterious jarred, greasy meat substance (which turned out to be pork cheeks and surprisingly delicious!). The typical potato salad was upstaged by a salade de riz, composed of rice, tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, and of course big chunks of fromage. For the main course, we each tore off hunks of fresh baguette and stuffed as many long, skinny saucissons as we could inside. And though nothing beats a good, old-fashioned American barbecue, the tasty, if strange, offerings from the French grill warmed the soul on a cool, breezy night in the French countryside.

But perhaps I am a bit biased because it was the wine selection that immediately won me over. This is only to be expected when you get a bunch of Burgundian wine students together and everyone brings a bottle to share. In many cases, the bottles came straight from the source—a few classmates who were raised among the vines brought their families’ labels. One such a wine had just been bottled, presenting that spritzy, young refreshing taste that was not only a perfect thirst-quencher with grilled meats, but playfully hinted at the complexity that will follow with more time to rest.

The range of the wine selection seemed to reflect both the diverse backgrounds among my classmates and the diversity of the region’s terroir. And despite still sticking out like a donut in a French patisserie with my California clothes and an accent to match, I feel right at home among this mish-mash of wine-lovers.

P.S. Harvest starts Monday so don't be alarmed if you don't hear from me because I will literally be in a cave for the next four weeks.

The Geography of Wine Trivia

2010-09-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

When speaking with most of the people I encounter, I am met with what I like to call the “Warhead face.” You remember those super-sour candies we used to eat as kids that rubbed our tongues raw? Well, for some reason the French make that some scrunched, puckered face when trying to interpret my broken French. Thus, my primarily goal here is to smooth out my language abilities to prevent my instructors, friends, and neighbors from early-onset wrinkling.

Luckily, my classes are introducing a broad range of vocabulary, from math to biology to agriculture. The ratio of how much subject matter I immediately absorb seems to be directly related to the accent of the instructor, the aid of the classmate sitting next to me, and the number of caffeinated beverages I have consumed. However, the most important factor in my comprehension is, of course, my level of interest in the topic. One of the more gripping lectures was focused on “The World of Viticulture.” So, here are some surprising wine facts I like to share from that lecture. Test your knowledge…answers will follow.

1. Which continent, after Europe, has the most vines planted at about 1/5 of the world’s total number?
2. Which country leads in the number of hectares of vines planted, at 15% of the world’s share?
3. Which single country makes about 1/5 of the wine in the world?
4. Which nation leads in the consumption of wine per citizen?
5. The average American drinks about how many bottles of wine per year?
6. The average Japanese drinks about how many bottles of wine per year?

Who are the best people to dine with in Beaune? Trained sommeliers!

LES REPONSES:
1. Asia!
2. Spain, the underdog.
3. Italy, and luckily they’ve been supplying us with the good stuff for centuries.
4. Yep, France, at 55.4L a year. I will try to keep up to fulfill my civic responsibility.
5. 7.3L, which figures to almost ten bottles a year. Pretty weak, in my opinion. How do you compare?
6. 1.4L, which is a meager 2 bottles a year. The French could easily outdo that in a week…or maybe even an indulgent weekend.

"Là, c'est un beau jardin. Et en plus, il fait du vin."

2010-09-06T10:20:00.000-07:00

"That is a beautiful garden. And even better, it makes wine!"

A "garden" discovered on my 10.5-mile accidental hike.

Explaining why he decided to study wine-making in Burgundy, this was the profond response of one of my classmates. I am too exhausted from today's bombardment of French to explain the details of my first day of school, but I can answer a few questions. Yes, I am among one of the youngest. No, I am definitely not the only girl...phew. Yes, I am one of only two foreign students. And we are both, surprisingly, American. But the range of backgrounds among my fellow students is quite diverse...children born on the domaine, a Parisian chef who wants to discover elegant organic wines, and engineers/doctors/salespeople trying to find a more satisfying career. There is even a young ex-Army soldier who has to learn viticulture because his new wife is about to inherit her family's domaine. And with his straightforward, well-trained explanation, I couldn't tell whether he felt lucky to marry into such fortune or considered it a burden. The next year will surely be unpredictable, but one thing's for sure...I'm going to learn a great deal from my classmates whether it be inside or outside the classroom.

Lovely Beaune

2010-09-06T09:55:00.000-07:00

Basilisque in Beaune.

I am now officially a resident of the quaint medieval town of Beaune. Monday, 4:30 pm, I see a small sign indicating a studio apartment for rent. Minutes later, I call the number on a whim. Thirty minutes later, I am climbing up the 15th century spiraling stone staircase of the building. I step inside the apartment and note the essentials: bathroom with toilet and bath (yep, and another one of the handheld shower devices that I am still trying to master)…check. Kitchen with sink and stove…check. SKYLIGHT!...unexpected check. And lofted bedroom…checkmate! How is this place still available? So Monday, 7 pm, after a quick skype with Mom, I am on the phone again with L’Homme, my landlord, asking if I can move in tomorrow. And that’s exactly what I did.

Oh, funny sidenote: “L’homme” literally translates to “the man,” so when I say I have to pay The Man, I’m not just being a Berkeley hippie.

When I can't cook, eating out ain't so bad.

Another funny story, though it certainly wasn’t at the time. Of course you must know that my main reason for searching for an apartment was to have the ability to cook for myself over the next year. So imagine my excitement when I turned on the plug-in stove after buying all the ingredients for a homemade pasta dinner. The onions were just beginning to reach that irresistible, inexplicable aroma they always have when sautéed in a bit of olive oil, when click…all the lights went out. No matter, I put on my big girl pants, flipped the switch on the circuit breaker (where did I learn to do that?), and went back to my onions. A few seconds later and another CLICK…this time the damage was irreversible. I suppose this is one of the “charms” of living in a building older than my home country. So, my first night in my own apartment, eating take out in front of my laptop and watching Phoebe, Joey, Chandler and the gang speak French, was, needless to say, not quite as romantic as I had hoped it would be.

In case the story above isn’t proof enough, I must admit that I’ve had a lot of inner-dialogue going on in my head the past week. Perhaps it’s because I, myself, am the only person I can speak English to here. Sure there are lots of tourists now, but all the English-speaking ones seem to be have white hair, fanny packs, and socks underneath their sandals. That, or they are passionately clinging on to their significant others. But who could blame them. After all, the romance of this place was one of its main charms.

My school.

I am anxious for Monday to arrive so I can see who my classmates will be. I am under the impression that, on average, about one-third of the students are international. But “international” is such a vague term. Will I be the only American? Will I be the only English-speaking native? Of course, none of these questions really matter because I still must learn, read, speak, write, and think in French this next year. Oh mon dieu, what have I gotten myself into?

But that being the case, every little success feels like a huge victory. I rented an apartment, opened a bank account, befriended the local grocer, discussed French films with the librarian, and returned that malfunctioning stove all on my own! And though I do still feel like an outsider at times, when I go for a morning run through the vines of Pommard I feel like there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. After all, it’s the things that don’t necessarily come easy that are the things worth doing, n’est-ce pas?

Au revoir, Paris...bienvenue à Beaune!

2010-08-30T04:27:00.000-07:00

A sneak peek of Beaune

I'm finally here...and Beaune is even more magical than I remember from last year’s visits. Perhaps it’s because the wine capital of Burgundy is my new home so I’m seeing it with new eyes. Honestly, I can’t quite put my initial reactions toward the place into words. But let me just say that my morning run through the nearly ripened vines of Pommard had me questioning whether I was hallucinating from dehydration or whether the natural beauty surrounding me was real. Until I come down from this high of excitement that I am currently riding on, I’ll devote a few minutes of closure to my month-stay in Paris…

These were some of my favorite places in the City of Lights and Love:

Paris comes alive at night

1. I never thought I’d adhere to those cheesy ads lining the metro station walls, but I couldn’t refuse my friend David who was amped to see the city at night from the Tour Montparnasse. We watched the sunset paint rose and violet swirls across the horizon until the lights of the grand monuments turned on one by one. Paris can seem big and intimidating from the ground, but the view from above unified the puzzle of arrondissements and made me question whether I really could leave this beautiful city after all.
2. The line caterpillaring around the building of Restaurant Chartier almost scared Carole and I away, but I’m so glad we waited it out. In Paris, I had tried everything from Japanese to Lebanese to Thai but had yet to eat some real, traditional French cuisine. Salade aux lardons (emphasis on the bacon), darne de saumon (the buttery sauce smothering the pink fish melted in my mouth), and poire melba (a juicy pear atop housemade vanilla ice cream), all washed down with a floral yet dry house white wine. But the best part is you don’t have to break the bank to have a good meal at this popular joint, where you share tables with complete strangers, and the busy servers write your order on the table cloth in front of you to keep track of the overwhelming number of patrons.
3. Even with all the parks in Paris, the city is not the easiest place to jog through. At least that’s what I thought until I stumbled upon, the Promenade Plantée in the 12th arrondissement. Here, you can escape the traffic by running on top of it through lovely little gardens.
4. I must again refer to the Sunday morning Marché at Boulevard Richard Lenoir. I could rely on my new Beaujolais winemaker friend to give me some tastes, admire handmade jewelry, and buy fresh local fruits, vegetables, fish, meat, eggs, cheese, bread and more all in one place!
5. To say that I only frequented Ladurée twice in one month, I think, shows some serious restraint. But Chloe and I found a way to avoid the crowds and lines at Champs-Elyssés when we discovered the smaller, quainter location in Saint Germain des Prés. We enjoyed our petale de rose, café, vanille, and caramel buerre salé macaroons in a quite little garden (if you discount the vicious pigeons…for some reason they like to fly right at you in Paris).
6. On the plus side, having a whole month in Paris gave me ample time to explore. On the downside, it also gave me time to full understand my butchering of the French language. Luckily, the free public libraries offer language books, comfy chairs, and an environment where I can feel like I’m doing something productive with my life.

Notre Dame's derrière

7. Let’s face it, the Seine is the vibrant, glimmering heart of the city. To be along its river banks is to be surrounded by beautiful, ancient monuments. And in my mind there is nowhere better to enjoy that feeling than by sitting along the edge of Ile Saint-Louis, enjoying housemade ice cream from Chez Berthillon, and admiring the architecturally stunning rear view of the Notre Dame.

My heart belongs here in Beaune, but it’s good to know that the lively, thriving big city is only two hours by train.

How I got my groove back

2010-08-21T04:41:00.000-07:00

Paris, I had begun to doubt you. You gave us two days of unrelenting, gloomy rain, the French subjunctive just wasn't clicking for me, and a pigeon pooped on my purse as I was eating lunch in the park. I was about ready to pack my bags a week early and settle down in Burgundy. But then you pulled out all the stops and gave me four magical (though very different) nights in a row...

Mardi: my British classmate, Will, wanted to go to a jazz club for his birthday. Little did we know, he was quite the performer himself! After the red-suspender-clad Frenchman played old American classics with nearly every appendage (elbows and feet included), Will joined him on the piano...and knocked everybody's socks off! Even the calm, regular patrons started clapping their hands and bobbing their heads to the jazzy beat.

Some classmates eating Lebonese food

Mercredi: I met my kiwi friend, Rose, for a wander around Montmartre. In typical Paris-in-August fashion, hoards of tourists clambered around the steps in front of the Sacre Coeur, so we decided to find respite inside the church. After admiring the delicate stained glass windows and towering domes, we had a mission to complete: finding the necessary gourmet goods to join some friends for a sunset picnic on Paris' only hill. First stop was the boulangerie, where we purchased a doughy olive bread appetizer and a soft, aromatic baguette. Next was the pungently fragrant fromagerie, where we selected an especially blue Roquefort and a creamy Brie de Meaux. And to wash it all down, we purchased a light, lip-smaking Côtes du Rhone at a small wine shop, where the vendor happily opened the bottle and provided us with plastic verres. I'm pretty sure picnic-ers are the shop's main source of revenue. Et voila...all the essentials within one block of each other. We joined my Spanish, Italian, English, Danish, Brazilian, and Australian classmates on the grass and watched day turn to night.

Jeudi: One of my goals here was to take advantage of the colorful markets and cook my lovely host, Carole, a homemade dinner using only the freshest ingredients. The Marche d'Aligre offered everything I would need and more at only a ten-minute walk from the apartment. The menu: salmon garnished with pesto, served on a bed of grain de blé, with green beans cooked in lemon and garlic. All washed down with a crisp, citrusy Vouvray from the Loire Valley. I think I got as much pleasure out of shopping and cooking, then I did eating. Just kidding.

OK, so I took one photo.

Vendredi: the Louvre. (Enter screams of terror here). Last year, the sheer size of the museum and throngs of tourists milling about the grounds left me cowering in fear. But when I found out that the Louvre is FREE for those under 26 on Friday nights, I just had to be brave. The experience? Surprisingly...breathtaking. Simply being inside the ornate bulding brought me back centuries ago. And aside from dodging the crowds snapping photos of the Mona Lisa (really people, the online reproductions are better than anything seen through your camera lens anyway), I actually found myself completely alone in many rooms. I found that by putting down the map and following my magnetic attraction to certain pieces, the Louvre was actually quite wondorous.

And so now, chère Paris, I'm thinking it may be hard to quit you when the time comes in exactly a week from today...

The Parisian Rules I Break...

2010-08-14T04:08:00.000-07:00

While Paris is a huge multicultural city, I have come to learn there are certain social rules that one should abide by in order to avoid condescending stares in the metro. I've also discovered that I naturally tend to contradict may of them. Here are some examples:
1. Black, white, denim, and gray are (and always will be) à la mode in Paris. Thus, I'm afraid my bright California-girl outfits have blinded some of the locals. I better save my floral prints for Provence from now on.


Bright skirt...I can't help it.

2. In general, smiling at strangers is not a good idea here. The reciprocant will either raise their eyebrows in confusion while tightly securing their bag more closely to their body in fear, or will take it as a sign that you are in love with them. Either way, an "innocent" smile simply doesn't exist.
3. My Parisian friend Carole told me that even though she has lived here all her life, she still doesn't know how to naviagte around many parts of the city. However, I've never seen a local pull out a map or stop and ask for directions. Not even the women. Turns they would rather walk many kilometers out of their way with their dignity upheld than be mistaken for an ignorant tourist. Unfortunately, my sister seems to have stolen all the navigation genes, so my map is always in my bag in case I need backup.

See, I eat out with friends, too, sometimes.

4. My French class has confirmed that it is très bizarre to eat out alone in Paris. I don't get it. What's a girl supposed to do after spending hours strolling along the winding streets of the city while doughy aromas from the boulangeries at every corner tempt a grumbling tummy? No wonder the French girls are so thin.

In my defense, who can keep up with the rules of city where anything is possible. Each day I find new quirks of daily life, forever keeping me on my toes while attempting to assimilate. Here are just a few:
1. I always pass the fire station on my morning route to class. The men, who are tiny by American standards but considered beefy in Paris, are always up to something. Most entertaining are the mornings they set up a net in the station and engage in a rowdy game of...volleyball! Very studly.
2. Later, on my walk home, the African hair weaving shops have opened and I am beckoned at every corner to come in and get my hair did. I'm not sure I have the right hair for that style, nor the attitude to pull it off.
3. At last, I found peanut butter in the grocery store! Or at least it looked like the consistency of peanut butter as I carelessly pulled it off the shelf. When I bit into what I thought was my PB&J later that day, it tasted like a frosting sandwich. Turns out I had purchased some kind of cookie paste that you're supposed to put on pastries (because they aren't sweet enough already?).
4. It's strange enough that Step Up 3 was deemed successful enough to make it to the cinemas here. But on top of that, the translation came out to be "Sexy Dance 3." Well, maybe that will boost ticket sales.

Sunday Funday

2010-08-08T13:40:00.000-07:00

You can look at this one of two ways:

1. I like to keep things interesting.

2. I'm technologically-impaired.

I'd like to think you chose the first, but regardless, I've decided to make the move back to Blogger. And that's final. It's easier, prettier, and retains all of those good memories from last year's adventures in Europe. But if you'd like to check out the few posts I put on tumblr, you can find them here.

Now back to the blog...I have a date. With a winemaker. ...and his 12-year-old son. No, it's not as racy as it sounds. Let me give you some context, while explaining how my leisurely Sunday has progressed thus far. With no classes or rendez-vous to attend, I slept in this morning for my very first time in Paris. My body beseeched me to engage in some form of exercise, so I put on my running shoes and fled the apartment sans map. About five minutes later, I stumbled upon a bustling open air market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir. The plentiful tables of fresh produce, pungent cheeses, and hand-crafted jewelry convinced me to return later with my wallet to at least buy a bouquet of flowers for Carole's generous, apartment-entrusting mother. So after my quick run on the beach (if you actually consider Paris Plage a beach), a messy one-handed shower, and some breakfast, that's exactly what I did.

The first table that lured me in was one displaying glimmering bottles of Beaujolais wine. I was just going to take a glance at the offerings, but of course I couldn't resist talking to the winemaker. Like most French vignerons that I've encountered, he turned out to be a friendly and gregarious man. He poured little tastes of Brouilly, Beaujolais Villages, and Morgon while we swapped harvest stories, and he reiterated Eric Texier's sentiment that Beaune is THE place to study wine. After all, he planned to send his pre-teen son (who was shyly attempting to look busy by stacking boxes and counting euros) there in a few years. I was smitten by the fruity, refreshing 2008 Morgon, but, with a wink, Jean-Pierre gave me the winemaker's discount and only let me pay half. Oh, and the date? Now don't get too excited. I simply promised to return next week with pictures of the "très grand" (very big) vines in California to show the young winemaker-to-be son. Sigh, I wish the farmer's markets back home had wine vendors. Hmmm, maybe I will import that idea...

Moving! But not to France yet...

2010-05-21T11:07:00.000-07:00

Based on the advice of a technologically-savvy friend, I have decided to move my blog. Hopefully, the change in scenery will encourage me to post more frequently and with more photos. But the title, author, and musings about food, wine, and travel should all remain the same.

Check the new blog out here, and stay tuned for new posts!

Just Act Natural

2010-05-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

As I sat down at the kitchen counter with my cereal a couple Wednesdays ago, I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn't still asleep and dreaming. But lo and behold, there I was on the front page of the Contra Costa Times Food & Wine section, caught on candid camera with my nose deep into a glass of Chardonnay! Though to be honest, my little moment of fame wasn't a total surprise. I realized I was captured in some of the newspaper photographer's shots as Jared, Lars, and I topped barrels and tasted whites a few weeks ago. I just figured no one would really want to see people spitting wine into buckets on the front page of the paper. At least I was caught in a moment of apparent sensory contemplation. Well, that's what I told people when they ask what's with the awkward smirk on my face as I dove into that gleaming golden glass, anyway.

The story delves into some of the intricacies of natural wine-making, highlighting the one and only Donkey & Goat winery. Check it out here. And as the only American winery invited to VinNatur--a pretigious natural wine exposition in Italy--D & G is a truly a leader in the New World for letting terroir shine through in the bottle. I feel so lucky that working with the Brandts has become the root of my own vine, so to speak. After starting off at Donkey & Goat, I realize how essential it is to allow the wine to speak for itself when producing a unique, nature-driven result.

Another happy consequence of the article is that my co-workers and regular customers at Chow realize that I am, indeed, over 21. Well, fewer people ask if I am in high school, at least. Maybe I should stop braiding my hair?

A 26.2-Mile Stroll Down Memory Lane

2010-03-30T13:01:00.000-07:00

Nothing instills a sense of pride in your hometown like strolling by its many wonders on your own two feet. Now, that's easier said than done, especially if your hometown is a sprawling, topographic maze of a town like mine is. But when I find out back in December that Oakland would be hosting its Inaugural Marathon on March 28, I couldn't resist the urge to revisit some of my cherished childhood landmarks. What I discovered was that Oakland is not only the site of great changes in my growth, but that the city itself is a charming clash of past and present, multiculturalism, and class diversity. But despite such heterogeneity, O-towners can always be seen rallying together in cheers of "Let's Go, Oakland!"

Warning: in my dehydrated, exhausted, and hallucinatory state along the marathon course, I may have exaggerated my sentimentality toward seemingly neutral places. Or perhaps, some of the images I am about to describe are mirages, altogether. But if for some reason, you are at all curious about Oakland's influence on a skinny, middle-class white girl (really?), by all means, continue...

The first familiar sign on Piedmont Ave screamed "Cybelle's Pizza," in Italy's national colors, bringing me back to the days where this was considered a special night out.
As we progressed into Rockridge, my legs fell into a natural stride when they sensed the familiar surroundings of where Jenny and I had done many of our training runs in preparation for the San Francisco marathon last summer. The pervasive garlic-and-tomato-infused wafts of Zachary's Chicago-Style Pizza tempted me and brought me back to epic, hungry high-school-aged treks for deep dish, but alas, I was still only a mere few miles through the course.
Next up was sparkling Lake Temescal, and even the nasty blisters forming on my feet could not compare to the ones that used to form on my hands here after hours on the monkey bars in my elementary years.
As we rolled up and down the adorable but hilly neighborhoods of Montclair, more recent memories of babysitting for the wine-making Brandt family flashed through my mind. Little Izzy and I had spent many hours here in the past couple of years dressing up as Disney princesses and watching Ratatouille.
Montclair village felt much smaller to me now than as a child. The frozen yogurt shop, taqueria, and Red Boy pizza--where my sister and I used to cover the white paper tablecloths with our crayon-art--I realized are all within a stone's throw of each other.
In contrast, the architecturally beauty of the Mormon Temple was massive up close! When I used to stare at it from afar during night-time car rides, I couldn't help but notice its striking resemblance to a tube of Elmer's glue. Anyone else?
In its orange brightness on International Ave, the best taco truck I have ever frequented was hard to miss. In my ultimate frisbee days at Cal, I tested innumerable amounts of taco trucks, but this highway-side find stills surpasses them all.
Another recently-significant landmark was the prison-like campus of Laney College. Last summer, in the creatively named building "C," this was where I rediscovered that science can be downright interesting when it explains the inner-workings of a personal source of curiosity. In my case, wine-making.
A few miles later, when an overgrown fairy sprinkled her dust on me, I flew back to my youthful ventures in Fairyland, meeting the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe and Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.
Even my exhausted near-crawl during the last few miles around Lake Merritt was ironically-fitting. Nine-months pregnant, my mom embarked on a vigorous walk around this lake 23 years ago that she believes spurred my birth.

Please excuse me for turning this into a cheesy journal entry, but the many hours spent on the streets of Oakland on Sunday provided lots of time for self-reflection. Yes, the overarching theme of No Sour Grapes is my love affair with France and its most important product (at least in my biased opinion), but I can't deny persevering ties to my home in the Bay Area. At the very least it's nice to know that even though my dreams seem to be pulling me far away from the memories I have detailed above, I know I can always run home for comfort.

YUMology

2010-03-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

Working in a restaurant for most of my waking moments, or so it seems, I feel as if I'm constantly surrounded by good, fresh food. However, until Friday I couldn't remember the last time my cooking ventures had extended beyond throwing leftovers atop a bed of lettuce. With a day off, a kitchen to myself, and nothing but moldy cheese in the fridge, I decided to scour through the stacks of cookbooks collecting dust on the shelf for the perfect warm spring night recipe. However, another factor made this decision much more complicated: I wanted flavors to complement a bottle of Donkey and Goat's 2007 The Prospector I had been thirsting for as of late.

Now, I am by no means a religious follower of conventional wine paring rules, but I knew this particular bottle could be tricky, considering our team at Donkey & Goat had almost decided to name this rustic, bold, tannic Mourvèdre "The Dog Strangler." Plus, I had never gone about the task from this angle. It's relatively easy to pop into a wine shop and narrow down the puzzle of regions, varietals, and winemakers to a few menu-appropriate pieces. But to identify the spices, textures, and flavors to match a truly unique bottle? As a novice cook, it took me an embarrassing two hours of browsing epicurious.com to find The Prospector's potential culinary complement: Greek-Style Penne with Lamb, Parsnips, Tomatoes, and Cinnamon.

I know, it sounds like a recipe that might otherwise euphemistically be titled "Chef's Surprise." But upon further inspection of the ingredients, I predicted a palate-pleaser. That night, aromas of hearty stew and spice simmering on the stove filled the house as my friends and I whetted our appetites with sweet but mild Fromage d'Affinois, slathered in deep purple fig spread. I concluded the appetizer course a success, when only a thin film of cheese rind remained, but then came the moment of truth...

Could a menu really be conceptualized working backwards from glass to plate? The Prospector's juicy, wet mouthfeel refreshed the palate after the first salty, gamey, bite of ground lamb and crumbled feta. The cinnamon flavor that blanketed the sauce and infused the soft parsnips flowed seamlessly with both the spicy-sweet nose and underlying berry pie flavor of the wine. Finally, the Mourvèdre's robustness stood up to heartiness of the stewed tomato sauce, but the wine's bright acidity also brought a cleansing lightness, leaving us ready for another bite and sip. And considering I made about ten times too much food, this readiness for more was definitely a good thing.

After Friday night's pairing crash course, I began dreaming up new dimensions to the foodie world. Everyone knows that sommeliers are living the dream. Walking encyclopedias of wine flavor profiles, they get to advise swanky restaurants on the bottles that should accompany a soy-glazed salmon or chipotle-rubbed short rib, for example. But who will help the wineries and wine stores guide consumers on what to eat with the bottles they sell? Or what food to serve at a tasting event? Thats where I (hope to) come in. After years of experience with fine wine and food, someday maybe I will become the first successful "yum-molier." And after one sip of a given dry white from the Loire Valley, I will know the exact proportions of lemon and herbs to cook a filet of halibut with. And I will use this knowledge to help frustrated and confused wine sellers around the world. I know, you're now muttering a sarcastic "what a hero" remark, but it sounds fun, doesn't it? Once again, a girl can dream. Especially when she is stuck organizing produce and wrapping up raw meat for the next few months.

P.S. I know this entry makes me sound as snobby as a Top Chef judge. I think I've been reading too much of Bon Appetit magazine. Je suis desolée.

P.P.S. This picture was taken the next afternoon at Donkey & Goat's Spring Release Wine Party. The Brosseau Chardonnay and Four Thirteen blend seemed to be the overall favorites among my friends. Those wines are next on my to-do list for my yum-molier training.

Burgundy 101

2010-02-14T10:13:00.000-08:00

Et voilà, I came home from work on Monday to find a letter addressed to Mademoiselle Danielle Hammon from the viticulture school in Beaune. I felt the déjà vu of five years ago, when my stomach somersaulted each time a letter arrived from a prospective college. After the ceremonial assessments of letter size and weight, I tore into the envelope like a ravenous Edward Scissorhands. C'est fait! I'm officially registered for the 2010-2011 session! Meaning in a mere six months I will be getting my hands dirty in the terroir of Burgundy and on my way to earning a DNO (National Diploma in Winemaking).

As fate would have it, I found myself two days later representing Donkey & Goat Winery at a grand Burgundy wine tasting in San Francisco. What a perfect opportunity for a sneak preview of what my future studies have in store. Strictly educational, you see. The event began with a brief introductory seminar, as fifty or so fellow wine-related professionals and I toured the region by glass. A gustatory geography lesson, if you will. And Burgundy's ancient devotion to terroir became clear as detailed topographic maps accompanied the pours from each of the five wine-growing regions. Compared to this organized, in-depth analysis of eight unique Burgundian wines, the tasting exposition that followed was sensory overload.

With my palate already whetted, I attempted to explore as many of the wines offered by the army of 22 purveyors that my memory (and tongue) could handle. Besides gaining a crash course into the region’s offerings, I also found potential estates for my internship, met many interesting French winemakers, and unexpectedly fell in love. It was quite an eventful afternoon. Yes, I fell in love…with someone who was not exactly tall, dark, and handsome, but rather short, pale, and wrinkled. And a “she.” Lyne Marchive of Domaine des Malandes had a contagious passion for wine, and I caught the fever. She poured six different Chablis, all diverse in taste but united in consistency, as she whispered sweet nothings of her non-interventional winemaking practices into my ear. Okay, maybe the scene wasn’t quite this intimate, but I did get her number…errrr, I highlighted the contact info given in the event guide.

While Lyne warmed my heart, there was yet another female winemaker who convinced my tastebuds. And it doesn’t hurt that she, Anne Parent, and her sister are running a tag-team operation at Domaine Parent that earns awards for developing elegant wines from marquee-worthy appellations like Pommard and Corton. How convenient that these locations are just outside of Beaune. And that Domaine Parent is well on its way to becoming organic and biodynamic. I just had to make my move. In my best French, I hinted that we would soon be neighbors. And c’est incroyable, but she suggested I call her with my plans in July so that we could work out an internship arrangement! I celebrated such an unexpected offer with a swig of her Corton Grand Cru, les Renardes 2007. One of my favorite reds of the event. And if we do maintain contact, I can’t wait to see what her reds can do with some more time in the bottle.

Even with spit-tasting, my notes became more and more ridiculous as the afternoon progressed. Initial detailed comments about minerality, acidity, and tannins quickly turned into more colorful memory aids. Looking back some of my favorites include…
"Spectacular"...a word that I never actually use in everyday life.
“Heaven on Earth.”
"OMG!"
And references to my favorite Lonely Planet video...you know the one.

I can only hope that no snobby, uptight wine buyers were looking over my shoulder as I scribbled all of this down.

But more than anything, the event proved to me the magic of terroir: how one small region composed of only 27,600 hectares and two principal grapes could produce such a diverse range of incredible wines. I can’t wait to see it with my own eyes in a few months.

Goon evening

2010-01-28T17:31:00.000-08:00

On my day off last week, I decided to buckle down and tackle that application for the Beaune viticulture and enology program. Presto, change-o, and with a flip of the French-English dictionary and a scribble of the pen, I found myself done in about two hours time. My past experiences with college applications had me dreading the process, but the Beaune application was très simple. Could it really be this easy? Oh right, the hardest part is now...the waiting period.

At least I've found ways to keep busy in the meantime. The 2009 harvest intern for Donkey and Goat Wines has recruited my babysitting services. And the little ones are impeccably quiet, calm, and self-sufficient. They are also pretty tasty. Please don't alert the authorities...I'm not a cannibal; I'm talking about barrels of wine here. And while this job may sound exponentially easier than keeping up with 50-pound bursts of human energy, the consequences of either neglecting or over-protecting Justin's wine babies could be disastrous. Abandon them and they would likely lose motivation and fade into bitter vinegar. But shelter them with too much sulfur and guidance and they risk turning into boring, predictable drone wines. See, it's just like parenting! Well, almost.

As much as I miss frolicking in the French vineyards and cellars, there are many benefits to once again working at a California winery. For one thing, Jared and Tracey are much more organized than Eric. Instead of Eric'c chalkmarks on barrels, I now have graphs and color-coded labels to guide me through the cellar. And now that I'm back using American measuring units, about half the math required of the job has been taken out of the equation. (On a sidenote, we Americans really do need to get off our high horse and convert to the metric system. There is a fine line between rebelliousness and stubbornness). Furthermore, working with fellow native English-speakers has allowed me the opportunity to know exactly what I'm doing as I am doing it, and not hours later in the car while asking Eric, "Now why, exactly, did I have to jump down into that big tank and shovel grape skins like a maniac?" And finally, the Brandts have an awesome collection of mixed CDs, enabling me to get my groove on to anything from Amie Mann to Sublime as I dance between barrels.

The best days are when I come home with a nearly full Donkey and Goat bottle, left over from a client tasting. Recently, I came home with a more bountiful but saggier form of just such a job bonus. Bagged wine, or "goon" for you Australians out there (ahem, Uncle Tim). Scoff though you may, let me reveal to you the lesser-known benefits of boxed or bagged wine:
1. the wine can be preserved much longer than in the bottle (for up to a month!)
2. less risk of breakage or staining spills
3. reduced costs
4. the empty bag serves as a handy inflatable pillow while camping

However, because of goon stigma and the fact that this particular wine varied from the traditional Donkey and Goat style, the boxed wine donned a new label. Among the markings on this label are the letters "PR". Public Relations? Packaged Red? Paul Revere? No, "Panty Remover". Apparently, this is a somewhat vulgar nickname for wine that is highly alcoholic and slightly sweet. You get the punchline. Ahhh, I love having a job where I learn new vocabulary every day. And because such a wine obviously diverges greatly from the Donkey and Goat wine philosophy, this is also why I had the privilege to take home a free bag and give it a slap with my family.

Frenchie friends

2010-01-08T18:11:00.000-08:00

Two gray-haired heads and one bald one stared at me and laughed as I marched in place as vigorously as possible. No, I didn't sign up for the army as a result of America's sad excuse for a job market. I was merely demonstrating the pigeage à pied method of submerging the grape skins back into the fermenting juice for my French-studying classmates. As if this charades act weren't enough to make me stand out like a blonde in Italy, my presence as the only female and the only student under age 45 was. On Thursday evening, my cozy four-person French conversation class commenced at the Alliance Française in Berkeley. We consisted of:
1. A Dordogne vacation home-owning, commerce-defending lawyer (Randy)
2. A Canadian statistician and father with no sense of smell (Herry)...poor guy, what about those richly aromatic French wines?!
3. Our musically inclined and nomadic, native French instructor (Guy)
4. A wine-loving, marathon-training, francophilic young girl (Guess who!)

After uttering nary a word of French in the past month, except while feeding my cats--a girl's gotta practice somehow!--I was worried that I might have regressed back to "Bon-jorr" and "Mer-see." But surprisingly, the language just seemed to flow freely out of my mouth as we all verbalized our mutual love for la belle pays, France. And my brain, which had been somewhat dulled by the lazy toffee-eating and movie-watching activities of the holidays, appreciated the gentle exercise. Hopefully, repeated nights like this will have me ready to whiz through French enology textbooks in no time! Bonne chance. Well, if nothing else, it's a surprising change of pace to be in a French language classroom dominated by dudes!

So clearly, I still plan to go back to France next year, but California is feeling very comfortable at the moment. And not just because of the golden state's balmy version of winter. When not brushing up on my French or reading up on sustainable winemaking, you can find me back at A Donkey & Goat winery, weaving in between barrels and sharing crazy Eric Texier stories with Jared. And starting next week I will be making foodie small talk with the soccer moms and Cal-gear-wearing dads of the East Bay, while running the little market at Chow Restaurant in Lafayette. Come for a pour of Burgundy or a nibble of fresh apple pie...even if you're not a suburban parent.

What now? Bonne question.

2009-12-19T17:27:00.000-08:00

It was not like I had imagined. No lobster with bay leaves and star anise. No heated debate about French wine. And no real connection at all with my favorite Top Chef. I'm sorry to disappoint you all...I was truly hoping to have some juicy gossip after dining with Josh on recently at Mattin's San Francisco restaurant, Iluna Basque. I did manage a nervous smile as Mattin strode past our table on his way to the kitchen. And somehow my motor skills prevailed as I my hand met his in the good ol' informal American handshake when Josh introduced us. I was hoping for the typical French double-cheek kiss (les bises), but that's not the way the packaged, preservative-filled Nabisco cookie crumbles in California.

Harsh, I know. I didn't mean it. And before you label me a pretentious frog, slap a beret on my head, and export me back to France, please know that I will always be a Californian girl at heart. Although the grass may seem greener in France, I do know that the grass is not actually greener. I never took off my rose-colored glasses over there, but unfortunately that was the first thing I did when I got home. (After consuming a spoonful of peanut butter, of course. First things first). Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that I was braver in France because I had to be. Which opened a lot of doors for me. And California is stereotyped by the world at large as the hippie state, but conversely I found that my head was in the clouds as I frolicked around Europe. Call me crazy, but I think that's a great thing! There is something je ne sais quoi that I felt there and am now craving again like a French macaroon or a White Burgundy.

This is not to say that I couldn't satisfy that appetite here, but the forces of reverie are actually combining with the forces of practicality! It's hard to turn down a world-reknowned winemaking program...in France...with local winemakers...that is essentially free...and open to étrangères, comme moi! Of course, I must do more research and paperwork (not mention fatten up my wallet enough to get me ovet there). But now that my nonexistent relationship with Mattin has flopped, I have nothing holding me back.

Except you, dear reader. It's so great to see you again. You haven't aged a bit in three months. And if I pull through with these grandiose plans, you're welcome to squeeze in my suitcase next to my hiking shoes when I fly to France next September! Otherwise, I will miss you too much.

Love, Dani California

The Last Supper

2009-12-06T05:01:00.000-08:00

After a mere month and a half, Charnay has completely transformed. Snow adorns the distant mountain tops, the sky is painted with sparkling silvers and heavy grays, and the colorful autumn foliage has abandoned the now naked vines. So this is what is it like to have seasons.

But in France some things never change. For instance, Saturday night was devoted to one of those typical French five-hour long feasts. However, this dinner was not so typical. Forty of the Texier's closest friends and family cozied up in Charnay's only restaurant to celebrate Eric's tenth year of winemaking. Clearly, the event called for more than just a simple glass of bubbly. The guest of honor himself hand-picked a generous supply of treasures from his personal cellar, some of them with nearly illegible labels through the accumulation of dust over several years. And I had the good fortune of befriending another winemaking guest, Helene, from the Cotes du Rhone early in the evening and sitting beside him at dinner. This guest just so happened to be Eric's tasting soulmate, and Eric kept returning to our section of the table with new glasses to be evaluated. The two of them were quite cute actually, like little boys comparing their new toys the day after Christmas. With my limited French, I couldn't interpret all of their detailed taste descriptions, but emphatic bulging eyes, head jerks, and raised eyebrows informed me which wines were especially worthy of inspection. Helene and I agreed that the definite winner of the night was a 1991 Cornas that tingled the roof of the mouth, tickled the brain, and warmed the heart. With only three days left of my trip, I can't imagine a better send-off.

This morning I took my last run through the countryside, inhaling the crisp winter air and soaking in the scenery one last time. I whispered my au revoirs to everything I encountered on the path...to the donkey next door, to the snow-topped mountains in the distance, even to the scatterings of horse poop on the road. Oh, how I will miss you. Okay, maybe I have the slight over-indulgence in wine from last night to blame for such crazed sentimentality. Or maybe that's just the power that La Belle France has over me.

Bordeaux is Bor-delicieux

2009-12-01T11:51:00.000-08:00

As I give my (temporary) au revoirs to Bordeaux from my window seat on the train, I begin to realize that this famous wine mecca is a world of its own. And within this complex world exist a variety of different regions. Trying to explore as many of them as possible in a mere few days was a daring feat that I could only have accomplished with the help of a few overly generous friends...

Medoc: Though I spent most of my visit in this region with a dish rag in hand as I helped chef Alain Briant (see last entry), I would have done more unpleasant tasks (cleaning the horses’ stables?) in order to have the rare opportunity to spend the day in a beautiful chateau in Margaux.

Cotes de Bourg: talk about southern hospitality. And I’m actually talking about the American variety! Technically a family friend twice removed (and essentially a total stranger), Phillip from North Carolina allowed me to be the excited puppy in the passenger seat of his car while he went about his weekend tasks. A young aspiring winemaker himself, he not only had great advice and stories but also served as an insider’s tour guide. Our adventures in Cotes de Bourg include:

A (perhaps prolonged) lecture on Malbec followed by a tasting of the varietal as produced from various regions around the world. And had I known I would be clinking glasses with some of the head honchos in Bordeaux winemaking, I would have spit into the buckets a bit more gracefully.
Spending the night in Chateau de la Grave, where a beautiful family is living the dream. A humble chateau amidst curving hills of vines, three adorable children, six cats, and a continuously roaring fireplace…I was about ready to offer my services as maid and move in permanently! Phillip and I huddled with the winemaker and his children around the fire, grooving to tropical tunes from Martinique, munching on gambasses avec citron vert, and sipping on the estate’s very own sparkling white wine.

Saint Emilion: as if one spectacular chateau wasn’t enough, we lunched at Phillip’s home and "office", Chateau Monlot, the next day with fellow Californian(!) girls who are studying for the semester at the university in Bordeaux. The girls' ever-familiar “Oh my God’s!” reminded me to pinch myself to be sure that I wasn’t living a dream. After pasta and homemade tomato sauce at the chateau, we ventured into the little village atop the hill to catch views of the prized terroir and snack on Saint Emilion’s famed chocolate macaroons.

Sauternes: Though it is difficult to imagine people living in Bordeaux whose calendars are not determined by the vines, my motherly hostess, Catherine, was largely indifferent to wine apart from the honey-sweet Sauternes. Thus, on Monday, she, Thierry from Paris, and I ventured by car through torrential rain to the small town to warm our souls with golden goblets. As we passed around and compared three different samples of Sauternes wine, we did some detective work to locate Catherine’s American friend—and my new hero—Cedar. Cedar met us in the café and, with sparkling blue eyes and a flawless French accent, she described how she grew up in the Bay Area of California, married a French man in San Francisco, and now is single-handedly managing and making the wine for the estate Chateau Hautes Graves that her father-in-law is passing down to her. Oh, and she is renovating their lovely home in Sauternes and taking care of three children at the same time. Can you see why she is my hero?

I have to confess that I came to Bordeaux a bit skeptical. After finding a home in the Rhone Valley, I was worried that I would find the fame and pretense of the area a bit standoffish. But the genuine kindness, hospitality, and joie de vivre of the people I encountered there leave me craving another glass.

Canard with cranberry sauce...a new Thanksgiving tradition?

2009-12-01T11:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, Mattine. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s settle down in the Basque country ASAP. It seems to have everything we need: the French countryside, unbeatable local cuisine, Spain within a short drive, and the endless coastline. I’ll give you my final answer once I’ve explored the nearby wine country in the unabashedly famous Bordeaux region.

As you can see, even after all the beautiful new places I’ve seen in the past weeks, Biarritz swept me off my feet. Almost literally, because each time I strolled along the coastal path, crashing waves threatened to leap over the barriers and pummel me over. The swells of this well-established surfing mecca rival even the monsters of the North Shore in Oahu. Though I can hardly complain about traveling along the serene aqua blue water of the Mediterranean these past few weeks, I didn’t realize how much I missed the power of the ocean until I heard the ever-familiar roar of a collapsing wave. I never realized I could find such reckless and uncontrollable natural force in cozy, calm, quaint little France. But my short time in Biarritz was limited by another unprecedented adventure…

I felt like I was on Top Chef myself, Mattine. Fleshy slabs of raw salmon adorned the end of a long table, where soft avocados, crisp bell peppers, fresh herbs, and glimmering silver knives awaited an uncertain culinary destiny. Little did I know that when my French chef friend, Alain, invited me to a cooking party in Bordeaux, I was to be the one providing the entertainment. My mission: to instruct a group of sophisticated foodies on preparing a raw salmon dish…of which I had no idea how to make…in French. Bonne chance à moi! Unfortunately, the professional look of my apron and chef hat did not lend me any extra sense of confidence. Padma and Tom would have told me to pack up my knives and leave immediately, but luckily these people—who worked for the esteemed Nestle company—seemed to know their way around the kitchen. And though I was essentially a slave of the kitchen the entire day from 7:00 in the morning to 5:30 in the evening, I did sneak a few taste tests of the creamy eggplant-zucchini-mushroom risotto. But after seeing the mounds of uneaten magret du canard with cranberry sauce go to waste while the staff didn’t have so much as a five-minute lunch break, I’ve decided that working in the restaurant industry is not my scene. I’d prefer to be a humble cellar rat. Mattine, I don’t know how you handle the confusing world of white table clothes and culinary experiences that involve at least three forks for a single meal. You could serve me entrecote et potates dauphinoise from a dog bowl for all I care and I would still love it. And you, of course.

Muthas grathias, Barcelona

2009-11-23T10:24:00.000-08:00

I have to wonder if a common side effect of visiting Barcelona is the development of Attention Deficit Disorder. When a new source of entertainment can be found at every turn—whether it be a costumed street artist, a buzzing café, or a new art exposition—you almost have to limit your attention span in order to absorb it all. Yet at the same time, the Catalonians live a very relaxed life, with the inevitable consequence that a shop owner may not open this doors on time for the day…or even at all, if he decides to take a grand siesta. In fact, I learned that tapas were invented after so many workers decided to indulge in a little too much vino at lunch time. The tooth-pick skewered snacks were meant to help leisurely lunchers stay sharp enough to ride their scooters back to the office in the afternoon. Luckily, the tapas trend is here to stay, so we can all sample spanish omelettes, grilled mushrooms, and jamon serrano without blowing the bank.

With such temptations, it is not surprising that the city was bustling with tourists even at this time of year. After experiencing the sheep-herd mentality that is Las Ramblas in late November, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like in the summer (schools of fish?). Which is why I feel so lucky to have had my first real “small world” moment of my trip in such a huge city. The wine bottles lining the walls of Shillings on Saturday beckoned me into the cozy café, where I settled into a stool at the bar. My American accent gave me away, and soon I began chatting with the bearded man beside me. In no time we discovered that we both not only lived in the Bay Area, but also that he goes to Cal and lives about three blocks from the winery I worked at! We reminisced about Berkelian things (tuition fees, protests, nerds, etc.) until his Barcelona-dwelling American expat friend, Alex, met us. Alex modestly introduced himself as from “a small town outside New York” (translation: New Jersey), but it was obvious that Barcelona had become his new home. And he was intent on being our personal tour guide for the night, avoiding the tourist centers in favor of the seediest bars in El Raval.

I am somewhat reluctant to tell you about my favorite one because I want to ensure that it continues to retain its sanctity, but it is such a gem that I would feel selfish not sharing. Though Alex was mysteriously banned from Bar Pastis years ago, we ventured into the dim, closet-sized dive bar, dodging the hundreds of origami cranes that hung from the ceiling. Quirky French tchotchkes and pictures lined the walls, and the owner’s bellowing deep-voice resounded over Carla Bruni-Sarkozy’s seductive background singing. The owner, sweater-vested and pleasantly plump, clearly wanted to shelter this establishment--his pride and joy--from tourists, so we kept our American voices low and ducked into a corner…which apparently becomes a stage on lively nights. Although I have no idea which random back alley led us to this treasure, I am determined to seek it out when I return to Barcelona again.

I also tried to experience the local feel by buying fresh fish, fruit, and veggies at the Boqueria Market, which was kind of like Palermo's Ballero Market with a face lift and designer threads (see Sicily blog for description). And I attempted to transport myself around town like a local when I rented a bike all day Friday. The smooth, clearly-marked bike paths made it easy to cruise from the beach in the morning all the way to Park Guell in the afternoon, where I admired the view over the ocean from a much different (and higher!) standpoint.

But of course I also pulled on my tourist getup (embarrassing camera, map, sneakers and all) to explore the must-sees, including Gaudi’s fairytale-like architectural work. I couldn’t decide whether I was under the sea or in Candyland up at Park Guell. At the rooftop of La Pedrera, I tried not to fall over the edge as I dodged the famous chimneys that hold an eerie resemblance to Darth Vadar. And the gothic yet cartoon-like detailing on La Sagrada Familia left me wondering what kind of hallucinogenic drugs the architect was on while he sketched in his studio.

With such overwhelming stimulation, you’ll never believe where I found a sense of meditative peace. The Magic Fountain. Cheesy, yes, but there is something about watching the movement of flowing water that totally hypnotizes me. Hopefully, I didn’t embarrass myself with some Dirty Dancing to "Hungry Eyes” in front of the neon-lit fountain while under my trance!

A taste of Sicily

2009-11-18T12:38:00.000-08:00

Arrividerci for now, Italy. Goodbye gelato, pizza, gnocchi, foccacia, arancini, and vino. I will miss you. And goodbye life-threatening traffic. Your constant horn-honking, whether to signal "Here I come," "Move it, fatty", or "Ciao, bella" will continue to ring in my ears and give me near heart attacks. See you later, purple fashion statements. Maybe when I return you will have moved on to another blatantly feminine color...magenta? And ciao to that oxymoronically hurried yet slow lifestyle...where older Italian men zip through the alleyways on their vespas , nearly flattening millions of unprepared stray cats, only to linger for a couple hours over their evening espresso fixes.

As the 12-hour long train from Rome progressed along oceanside tracks on Saturday, reminding me nostalgically of California's Highway 1, I prepared for a drastic change in scenery in Sicily. Exhausted but antsy after hours of claustrophobic confinement, I decided to join the hostel crew for a five-course dinner featuring traditional Sicilian cuisine. In addition to the unique pasta al forno, I knew I was in for an authentic experience after shamefully noticing that I was the only non-Italian speaker at the table. Sicily became the only place in Italy where I desperately wanted to speak the language in order to interact with the friendly locals.

Authenticity also thrived in the Ballero Market, which offered rainbows of seasonal produce, slimy and fresh seafood glistening (and emitting powerful odors) in buckets of ice, and pigs' innards hanging from strings. In spite of swearing off meat for a few days in response to such graphic displays, I've never eaten so well for so cheap. My new Danish friend, Conny, and I stocked up on fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, parmesan, and bread to make overflowing plates of bruschetta. We washed it down with a complex bottle of inky red wine, though since Sicily boasts more vines per area of land than any other territory in the world, I must return again someday to do more damage. And despite my language deficit, my cheese vendor always cut me just the right amount of pungent gorgonzola and thinly-sliced prosciutto. Needless to say, I strolled along the market at least once a day, eventually learning where to shield my eyes from butchered cows' brains or pigs' feet.

On Sunday, Conny and I hopped the train to Cefalu, a charming little beach town among rocky mountains. The highlight was trekking up to the ancient castle on the mountain above the town in time to catch the sunset. I truly felt like a queen, with panoramic views of the island as we sat perched atop the ruins while the sky flushed pink. The mountain goats laughed at us after we lost track of time and were forced the run down the mountain path before the trail entrance closed. Unfortunately, all this direct impact irritated Connie's already-infected foot, which ballooned up like the enormous melons we had seen for sale that morning in the market. Despite her attempts to site-see as normal, doctor's orders and my own worry for her well-being had me running errands and feeding the poor girl for the next few days.

Other highlights of my stay include:

Sette Veli: Roughly translated to "Seven Layers" this rich cake would impress even the most serious chocoholics with its seven varieties of cocoa.
Mondello Beach: amid strange stares from the locals while walking to the bus stop in shorts, my bikini, and towel in the middle of November, the warm sun and crystal clear water beckoned me to bake in the sand Tuesday afternoon. The beach and gelato in November?! Please don't hate me for bragging.
Agrigento: I can't adequately describe the ancient Greek Valley of the Temples in words, but unfortunately my camera began malfunctioning Thursday morning on the two-hour bus ride to Agrigento so I will have to try. Thousands of years later, glowing orange stone temples still tower over ripening olive groves and almond trees on sloping hills leading to the sea. A lovely setting for not only a hike, but also a step into the past.
the friendly locals: merci beaucoup to Santi at Agrigento's tourist office for giving me directions in french (our only common language) to the gelateria with the creamiest pistacchio dessert. And grazie to Beni, who drove me back to the center of Agrigento just in time to catch my bus back to Palermo. Don't worry parentals, I don't usually get in the car with strangers, but he was an official and was completely harmless. And thanks finally to Giuseppe at the hostel for all the recommendations about traditional Sicilian life! I must go back to explore it all some day...and to find more sette veli!

Finding a home in Rome

2009-11-15T03:11:00.000-08:00

Taking in the sweeping view of Rome from the top of St. Peter’s Basilica, I have never felt so tiny. Here I was, thinking I was a big girl now by traveling Europe on my own, but the massiveness that is Rome knocked me right off my high horse. To see the grand civilization that the Romans built with their bare hands thousands of years ago was not only wondrous but also humbling. And so, after admiring the view of the city from every angle, with my jaw undoubtedly dropping to the floor in a stupefied gape, I dismounted the three-hundred-and-something steps the only way I felt appropriate. I crawled through the tiny spiral staircase, sucking my thumb.

Thus, Rome has essentially rendered me a wide-eyed infant at each of its famous sights. In the Vatican Museum, I was like a kid lost in an amusement park, as I repeatedly found and lost different friends from the hostel in various rooms. And in the Sistine Chapel I felt like I was asking Mommy to read me another story, as I pressed repeat on the audioguide while taking in Michelangelo’s stunning frescoes. The sculptured hand of Constantine on display at the Capitilone Museum was bigger than my entire body. You get the picture.

It really makes you wonder if the residents of this ancient city have psychological disorders. How can you walk by the Colosseum every day on your way to work and not bust out into schizophrenic renditions of Russell Crow’s portrayal in Gladiator? Or stroll by the elegant garden of ruins that is the Roman Forum without having hallucinations of men in togas? I think I’ve discovered the ending to that famous saying: “When in Rome…try not to go off your rocker.”

Fortunately, returning to the great vibe at Chianti Hostel always restored my sanity. And with a five-night stay, I was lucky enough to have three of Marko’s home-cooked dinners there. Italians are obviously legendary for their cuisine, but I’ve learned that you can only really experience the best food when it is prepared with amore at home. Though I resisted buying souvenirs in Rome, I will be coming home with recipes for authentic bruschetta, gooey pesto lasagna, and marsala-soaked tiramisu. Grazie, Marko!

Fleeing big cities for the calm countryside is becoming a habit for me. On my final day, I took the advice of the Canadian wine enthusiast, Hubert, to visit the medieval village of Orvieto. Perched atop a craggy hill with panoramic views of the Umbrian countryside, Orvieto seemed to be an Italian version of France's Provence. Boutiques lining the cobble-stoned streets offered handmade gifts and cafes boasted various produtti tipica. Stone cathedrals towered over quaint homes where lines of laundry hung out the window to dry. And unlike in Rome, the locals spoke only Italian…and were friendly! Unless those agreeable smiles were actually masking their snide comments about the “stupid American.” I guess I’ll never know.

The thought of trying to describe the wonder of Rome through words initially terrified me. It is one of those places to be experienced by people watching on the Spanish steps, wandering into the beautiful cathedrals, and throwing coins into the Trevi fountain. I just hope the fountain's legend holds true so that I can return!

Under the Tuscan rain

2009-11-10T08:35:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t until I climbed the seemingly endless steps up to Piazzale Michelangelo that I realized how big Florence really is. While walking around the city, every corner you turn seems to boast a different beautiful church or bustling piazza. However, the view over the skyscraping church towers offers panoramas of the lush green hills and the autumn reds, oranges, and yellows of the changing leaves outside the city center. So, I wasn’t exactly Under the Tuscan Sun for my four days in Florence, but I was still blown away by the colors of the Tuscan countryside.

However, the colors within Florence’s famous cathedrals and museums are also worthy of note. While admiring room after room of Renaissance art in the Uffizi Gallery, I simply couldn’t get the Beatles’ “Lady Madonna” out of my head as I stared at painting after painting featuring the famous woman. In contrast, my mind went totally blank as I circled Michelangelo’s larger-than-life “David” in the Galleria dell’Accademia at least ten times in a hypnotized state. The statue is so simultaneously beautiful, powerful, and magnetizing that it’s no wonder art-appreciators from ages five to seventy-five were intently sketching the masterpiece. I was tempted to follow suit, but refrained upon picturing the blasphemy that would likely result from my efforts.

I couldn’t resist getting outside the city to taste some of the offerings of this fertile area, so I booked a wine tour in Chianti. After frantically running out in the middle of the street to flag down the departing tour bus Saturday afternoon, I was ready to recover from near-death by Vespa with some of Italy’s finest vino. Unfortunately, my personalized tastings with Eric have spoiled me, and I find it hard to get excited about learning (for the thousandth time) how to “properly” hold a wine glass. These elementary lessons were forgivable, but when the guide brushed off my questions about the winemaking process at this particular chateau with an annoyed shrug, I resigned to simply enjoy the small talk of the overweight American tourists at my table and sample the snacks. Fortunately, the olive oil was some of the best I have ever had, and the Lastricato 2004 was complex but elegant, which stood in stark contrast to the cheaper 2.50 euro Chiantis I had been sharing with friends at the hostel on occasion. So it was actually because the instruction was lacking that I learned a valuable lesson: avoid group wine tours unless you want some cheesiness in addition to the parmigiano on your plate.

My other day trip was to see the celebrated Leaning Tower of Pisa on Sunday. But with the torrential rain and forceful winds, Toni (a Canadian aspiring comedic actress), Alex (a softball-coaching Aussie), and I worried that we would only be able to see the Fallen Tower of Pisa. But alas, we managed to take a few obligatory photos of us holding up the tower with almighty strength before the storm blew us away, like soaked Mary Poppins’ clutching our umbrellas, into a warm café for lunch. After convincing a reluctant Alex to split the wild boar and polenta, I finally had the opportunity to sample a typical Tuscan dish. And though I had never tried wild boar before, it nostalgically reminded me of the hearty beef stew my step-dad makes every winter. In other words, it was the perfect lunch to warm our Rudolph-red noses and purple appendages.

…Until we ventured back out to find that the weather had only gotten worse, and that my umbrella was no match for the wrath of a Pisa storm. We ran blindly toward the train station as the golfball-sized drops of icy rain pelted our faces and soaked us to the bone. At the train station we marveled at the Trenitalia workers’ impeccable timing for a strike, as train cancellations threatened to strand us in this new town that we already were developing a passionate disdain for. So, please don’t judge us when I tell you that we spent my final night in Florence, cozying up in the hotel with some red wine and sinfully decadent Italian pastries, sharing clips from our favorite musicals and holding a group sing-along.

As I write from the train to Rome, my thoughts are not only of ruins, cathedrals, and cobble-stone streets, but also of you, Nana. Happy Birthday! And thank you for always encouraging a sense of adventure and curiosity about the world in your grandchildren.

Welcome to Venice, and watch your step!

2009-11-05T09:42:00.000-08:00

Have you ever arrived in a new place and upon first glimpse been unable to wipe a stupid, overly excited grin off your face? That’s what it was like for me in Venice as I exited the train station and took in the overwhelming sights of tiny alleyways and towering ancient churches weaving around a maze of canals. Pedestrians rule the road as it would be impossible for even those spunky little Italian motorcycles to navigate the Labyrinth that is Venice. However, “rule the road” may not be accurate because even after four days of endless walking, I never managed to master the lay of the land. Fortunately, getting lost allowed me to take a new route home each time and explore different neighborhoods along the way. Venice is truly a geographic wonder, but I can’t help but be suspicious that the locals take advantage of confused tourists. Signs on the walls point eager visitors toward main sights, but I hypothesize that these signs intentionally divert us to main shopping and restaurant thoroughfares. Each day I was tempted by a seemingly endless array of creamy tubs of gelato or the aromas of freshly baked Italian pastries. Finally, I crumbled under the pressure and sampled a huge, bright green pistachio dolci encrusted in a shell of almonds. Soft, fluffy and the perfect accompaniment to a foamy macchiato.

Of course, boats are the other main made of transport. Buff-armed Italian men sing bravado to tourists as they row gondolas through the canals. Ferries circle the islands, and delivery boats supply the markets and restaurants with fresh food. Even the garbage is collected by cranes reaching out from boats, I discovered early one morning while exploring the city.

While the numerous artistic and historical sights including the Basilica San Marco, Palazzo Ducale, Gallerie dell’Accademia, and Peggy Guggenheim Collection are enough stimulation, the most exciting part of my stay occurred Monday night. Rain had been pouring down since the afternoon, so most everyone at the hostel was cozying up inside for the night. But our small talk came to a halt as sirens blared from outside. The canals were beginning to flood! My fear of lacking proper shoes for such conditions was far outweighed by my excitement, and I felt like an antsy kid on Christmas Eve, anxiously awaiting the morning to go outside and investigate. Indeed, the line between canal and street had been blurred and pedestrians were crossing San Marco’s Piazza by either sloshing through pools of water or climbing onto wooden platforms. My Alaskan friend, Colleen, and I escaped the frigid, wet air by ducking into a glass-blowing studio on the island of Murano and warming—or melting—ourselves by the 1200 centigrade degree oven. We sat there thawing out for at least an hour, watching an adept Italian man in shirt broadcasting the phrase “Enjoy Cock” and yoga pants rolling pliable mounds hot, glowing glass into elegant shapes. He and the other artists worked in a sort of choreographed dance, gliding gracefully from furnace to craft table and creating delicate flowers or anatomically-correct horse figurines in a matter of minutes. As I pondered the potentially disastrous consequences of a misstep in this dance, I was relieved to hear that glass-blowing “masters” require at least 25 years of experience.

As small as Venice is, it seems that one could spend years living there and still find new tucked-away gems to explore. For this reason, and the fact that our romantic gonadola ride was cancelled because of the rain, I will be back.

Ciao and Chow Down

2009-10-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

Rocky beaches, quaint coastal towns, quiet nights at home…these are not the images that first come to mind when I think of Italy. But in reality, Cinque Terre has been a perfect segue way into my grand Italian adventure. I arrived Wednesday night just in time to see a magenta sun descend into the Mediterranean, before settling into a homey apartment in Riomaggiore. I was delighted by certain special amenities of a real home that I hadn’t seen for weeks: a private kitchen, an outdoor terrace, and no bunk beds! Three nights in such a picturesque oasis were just what I needed before venturing off to the bustling cities of the Little Boot country.

Gray skies threatened rain on Thursday morning, but made for surprisingly agreeable weather for the 9-kilometer hike between the five seaside towns. No overheating, no sunburns, and fewer hikers to encounter and play chicken with. Which could have deleterious consequences considering the soaring altitude that the narrow, three-feet wide trail reaches. Indeed, accompanied only by the sounds of the crashing waves, I often felt as if I had the whole place to myself. But reality stepped in when every once in a while I would have to play the Name That Nationality game with hikers going the opposite direction. “Hello? Buongiorno? Bonjour? Ni hao?” And I came to several realizations on the meditative five-hour walk through grape vines, olive trees, and fragrances of essential oils. My main epiphany was that meeting and greeting French travelers on the path delighted me more than encountering English-speaking travelers. To put this in perspective: I’ve been away from home for 53 days and away from France for a mere three. And yet somehow I already miss France? Julia Child’s realization that “I must be French” is ringing in my ears.

And that is not to say that I am not fascinated by Italy, but Cinque Terre seems to be in a world of its own anyway. Where else can you hop onto a tiny, vacant island in the sea to escape a pack of obnoxious preteens singing in German and chasing you down the trail?

My routine became: sleeeeeeeep, hike, gelato, watch sunset, cook pesto pasta (the specialty of the region), chat and play Uno with roomies, and sleep again. But let’s return to the gelato point, shall we? All that you’ve heard about authentic Italian gelato is true. Figs and ricotta in ice cream form? Belissimo! I accompanied my Aussie roommate, Jess, on Friday to hike the five-town trail going the other direction, simply because the weather was too sunny and beautiful to resist. And it was this gelato and salty, doughy foccaccia (another specialty of Liguria) that kept our energy levels up as our legs shook with each ascending step.

So rested, relaxed, and rejuvenated from the fresh air and breathtaking scenery of the Riviera, I am now ready to explore the islands, architecture, and art of Venice.

Nice is just that…and more

2009-10-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

A buzzing, excited line of people surrounded a small food vendor. Tempted by wafts of fried deliciousness, I joined them without hesitation. Whatever was on offer just had to be good to warrant such attention. I knew I made the right decision as I finally rounded the corner toward the cashier and saw swarms of hungry customers munching on what turned out to be a soft, gooey, fried chickpea bread called “socca.” The satisfied patrons were enjoying this specialty of the region in the warm night air with chilled glasses of rosé on outdoor tables. I soon accompanied them, savoring the lightly salted mound of doughy goodness in front of me. I smiled upon seeing my total bill, including wine: 4.90 euro!

This was the beginning of my first night in Nice and was followed by watching the Nice vs. Lyon soccer match in a local pub before checking out the nightlife downtown. After a day of traveling and lugging around my heavy backpack, I hadn’t planned on staying out until 2 pm, but I found that keeping track of the hours of the day was irrelevant in Nice.

Mom, if you thought Les Baux was Disneyland then Nice is Disneyworld! While lavish high-rise hotels adorn the mountainside and gushing fountains lurk around every corner, this tourist destination stills maintains an irresistable charm with its well-preserved ancient monuments. Even the tram traversing the city looks eerily like Disney’s monorail.

The surrounding area seems to have several Disney-like themed kingdoms as well. There is Hollywood Kingdom, or Cannes, where I spent the morning of my second day. Flashy names like Cartier and Louis Vuitton marked the street-front shops, while luxury yachts glistened in the Old Port. But since these…ummmm “cultural” highlights are foreign to me, I relaxed on the sandy beach and took my first refreshing swim in the Mediterranean. The water was so clear and crisp that I could actually see the school of fish planning to attack me, and escaped to float out on my imaginary raft a little deeper. The Mediterranean is so salty that it is almost impossible not to float on the top like, to put it bluntly, a dead corpse off the Titanic.

Then there is the Medieval Kingdom of Eze, a colorful stone castle on the cliff, with stunning views around every corner. And Monaco is the Royal Kingdom. Not only is this diamond-studded yet microscopic country sandwiched between France and Italy governed by a prince, but it is the wealthiest country in the world. Thus, it is no surprise that: it is home to the famous Monte Carlo, only Lamberginis and Rolls Royces dare venture the streets, and I felt extremely out of place in my flip flops and coffee-stained T-shirt.

Thus, many famous destinations lie within a short bus or train ride, but the quaint Old Town and postcard-perfect beaches make it difficult to leave the town of Nice itself. Throw in a great hostel, the Villa St. Exupery, with a number of well-travelled guests, and it even becomes difficult to leave home! My favorite new friend is my roommate Gary (from China but working in Scotland), who zipped in for two short nights but probably accomplished more sight-seeing than I did in four whole days. Waking up at 6:30 in the morning to hit up all the major attractions, he still had enough energy at night to cook me some tasty beef curry for dinner. I was delighted that he accepted my offer to share a carefully selected (but only 3 euro!) red wine from the Languedoc-Roussillon as a sort of repayment.

I can see why hordes of tourists flock to Nice every summer to bronze their bods, and I hope to be one of them again someday. Especially because a miscommunication with the hostel staff about opening hours prevented me from seeing the museum devoted to my favorite artist, Matisse. Which is why I vow to return and once again experience the “Joie de Vivre” of Nice.

Hello, Mediterranean!

2009-10-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

You know you’ve left the quaint countryside when strangers you encounter on the streets no longer give you a friendly “Bonjour!” but instead eye your bag intently as you pass. Marseille is, for the most part, still a welcoming French city but there are marked contrasts between it and it’s bigger sister, Paris. The poubelle (garbage) washing up along the sea shores and doo doo de chien (dog poo) left abandoned on the sidewalks only instills me with nostalgia for the pristine neighborhoods of Paris. However, it is not the crap on my shoe that I will remember about Marseille, but rather the amazingly diverse group of people I encountered.

First, there was the café waiter, who saw me staring longingly at the full lunch tables with a spectacular view of the port. He promptly snagged an indoor table, swung it over his shoulder, and set a sunny table just for me. But the real treat was when he gave me complimentary doughy, powdery, and scrumptious pastries to accompany my coffee. “Zees are made by my muzzer,” he said, in an endearing French accent. That was my first outing in Marseille, and I was off to a good start.

The diverse group of patrons at the cozy Hotel Vertigo were also quite friendly. After living off bread, cheese, and market produce for a few days, I treated myself to a nice meal out at the wine bar Les Parts des Anges. While the magret de canard and lentil salad with roasted figs was divine, the highlight was really my company at the table. There was Paul, the German psychology student doing research at the city’s university; Miriam, the baby-faced Australian taking her gap year after high school to travel the world; and Kindra, the South African chef who now lives in London. This diversity of backgrounds seemed to reflect the wide range of experiences of the other hostel guests.

But I must also briefly mention another German roommate. She had recommended visiting Aix-en-Provence, where she had recently stayed for business. What kind of business, you ask? Well, she was simply selling “single-photon-ionization-time-of-light-mass-spectrometers.” Looking at my puzzled face, she claimed that she was speaking English, but I was skeptical.

And the award for The Most Generous People in Marseille goes to…the Swiss couple that saved me from a soggy, pathetic death in the Calanques. The Calanques are a series of ragged cliffs and coves jutting into the Mediterranean just outside the city, aptly named for the sound that would occur if you were to be knocked over by Le Mistral while hiking there (Ka-lunk!). I was one of the few brave (or stupid?) souls to go for a hike on a cloudy, gloomy day. As rain began to pound down, I followed two other hikers and their pup into an abandoned shack at the top of one of the cliffs. Having crashed their party, I decided to awkwardly introduce myself in French. I learned that Fred, Anore, and their puppy Danah were actually from Laussanne, Switzerland, and were vacationing for the week. And all I can say is thank God I speak some French because that was the start of one of the loveliest days I have spent in France. I stayed with my new adoptive Swiss family the rest of the afternoon , exploring the other Calanques (by car, quelle chance!), and ending the day with a Happy Hour drink in an Irish pub. Over Belgian beer, we discussed such light topics as theft, domestic violence, and health care. Apparently, we were all Psych majors, so what do you expect?

In all, my experience in Marseille has confirmed my realization that I actually am more of a country girl at heart. The highlights of my visit (the stunning view from Notre Dame de la Gare, the sprawling waterfront trail, and the Calanques) emphasized the beautiful nature surrounding the city more than the city itself. It’s a good thing, then, that Marseille is the only big city on my itinerary…oh, wait. Oops.

But the scene of my last night’s adventure could only be found in a big city. I assumed that the co-incidence of my trip and the Fiesta des Suds music festival in Marseille was fate, and spontaneously bought a ticket to Friday night’s show. Though no one else in the hostel was up for it, I put on my dancing shoes and hopped on the metro. Two incredibly friendly French girls took me under their wing, even loaning me an extra jacket and change for a drink ticket. We spent most of the night dancing away to the pre-recorded beats of Rhinocerose as a blond woman in a leather onesie and her bandmates pretended to play guitars. For the grand finale, a stick figure of a man with Lenny Kravitz’ hair and Cindi Lauper’s voice belted out indiscernible lyrics and shook his microscopic booty. It was a show one could only find in the French music scene!

And now it’s off to see if Nice is even nicer…

Sorry, I couldn’t resist the stereotypical tourist pun.

A Few Days in Provence

2009-10-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

The Mistral wind didn't exactly wisp me away to Provence...it pulverized me like a sumo-wrestler and had me, my mom, and my step-dad chaotically somersaulting into the quaint little town of St. Remy. But despite the treacherous side effects of the vents violents--including vertical hairdos and fleeing sunglasses--, Le Mistral made for crystal clear skies, providing the perfect backdrop for the Provencal landscape that charmed artists like Van Gogh and Cezanne. In fact, Van Gogh spent quite a bit of time in St. Remy...in the insane asylum. True story, but while I always thought the one-eared genius was kind of a surrealist, I realized that he painted the fields of lavender and knotted olive trees just as he saw them. The colors of Provence really are that vibrant! And while this California girl loves her warm weather, I've decided the colors of autumn might just be worth the chilly temperatures. Well, I endured it for a weekend at least!

Gastronomic adventures determined the itinerary for parents' weekend. First, we went grocery shopping for the Texiers at Moulin Cooperatif de Mouries, who creates France's finest olive oil. After shipping a giant tub of the golden-green goo to Charnay, we followed the strict orders of Ms. GPS, who guided us to Mas de Gourgonnier. A winery hidden between cascading Alpilles mountains, we would never have discovered this little gem if Eric hadn't recommended it. The fireplace crackled as we tasted through organic blanc, rosé, and rouge blends. My favorite was a spritzy 2007 cuvée made sans souffre (without sulfur). Sulfur is used, and often abused, to protect a young wine from oxidation. If the winemaker is careful and attentive, though, this preventative measure is not actually necessary. Like all the non-sulfur wines I have tried so far, this one had a rustic, unpolished, and intriguing flavor.

Le premier diner gastronomique: salad with warm goat cheese; colin (a white fish) cooked in a leek-garlic sauce; white/milk/dark chocolate cake

Our tummies (which somehow still managed to have room) and wallets led us to the Sunday morning market in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The little river town was completely covered in white tents selling everything from seasonal produce to lavender honey to pesto tapenade, with a few fake Gucci handbags thrown in to mix things up. It just wouldn't be a real market without a few designer knock-offs, would it? In the afternoon, we cruised up high into the Alpilles to the medieval town of Les Baux, where it was us versus Le Mistral. As we innocently attempted to climb atop the towers of the chateau, the winds thought it would be a fun game to try to hurtle us off the edge of the cliff to our bloody deaths. Good thing we had been eating so well the past few days; our expanded waistlines helped secure us to solid ground. Which brings me to...

Le deuxieme diner gastronomique: vegetable paté, coq au vin (chicken in red wine sauce), and profiteroles (my new favorite dessert: ice cream + pastry shell + chocolate sauce!)

And so with a full belly and an overly full backpack, I now embark on my solitary adventures...

Mattin, mon amour

2009-10-16T12:50:00.000-07:00

My last night in Charnay. The grape leaves are turning red, the first fermentation is coming to an end, and the temperatures are dropping to zero degrees Celsius at night. Brrrr! I am officially ready to make like a bird and migrate south. And the downtime in the past few days has allowed not only allowed me to figure out my upcoming travel plans through France, Italy, and Spain, but also to map out my future. Here's what it looks like...

When I return to the Bay Area in December, I will ask my step-brother to find a way to introduce me to Mattin Noblia from Top Chef. After all, you do know EVERYBODY in the restaurant business in San Francisco, right Josh? I will dine at his restaurant, nibbling on his lobster with bay leaves and star anise while batting my eyes. He will briefly escape the kitchen to suggest a wine-pairing, and we will enter a heated debate. When he suggests a big, oaky Bordeaux from an appellation near his home in the French Basque country, I will give him the infamous Provencal shrug and say "Sure, if you want to punch that lobster right in the baby-maker and completely overpower its flavor. C'est incroyable!" The night will end with him joining me at the table as we taste his Bordeaux and my choice of a delicate Burgundy side-by-side with the dish. In the glow of the warm buzz of good food and wine, we will know that this, indeed, is not the Last Supper for us.

Fast forward after a few years of young puppy love in the Bay Area, and we will eventually return to his home country. He will open a restaurant, and I will finally have acquired some much sought-after French terroir of my own. Bien sur, the restaurant will sell the majority of the wine I make...but don't worry, friends, I will save some for you. Oh, and the name of our first baby girl? Charnay!

Oh my, do I really sound that pretentious? Maybe the French snootiness is beginning to stain me like the grape juice has stained my clothes. Some humbling travel experiences (drooling on myself while asleep on the train, wearing the same outfit four days in a row, and spending way too long at the checkout line trying to figure out how many Euros I need) will surely demote me back to my normal status as the "stupid American."

But a girl can dream. And it might actually be necessary for the safety and well-being of others that I find a chef for a husband. The one time the Texier family trusted me in the kitchen here, I broke the microwave. Long story, but it's good thing the French aren't not nearly as dependent on the nuking machine as we Americans are!

Au bientot, Charnay...and let Le Mistral wisp me away to Provence...

A tired tongue

2009-10-09T03:37:00.001-07:00

It's not even lunchtime and I already have Purple Mouth Syndrome. And my palette is exhausted. Another tough day at work (note the sarcasm, s'il te plait). I just received a whirlwind of a lesson on the intricacies of blending. This morning I accompanied Eric in tasting through each of his barrels and tanks of 2007 Vaison la Romaine Syrah, imagining what combination would constitute the perfect mixture. Yes, it is all the same varietal. Yes, it is all from the same vineyard and same year. And yes, it was all crafted by the same winemaker. But it's amazing to experience the subtle differences in taste that result from the wine taking on it's own personality in the cellar.

But the differences are, indeed, subtle most of the time. Imagine eating from a bunch of grapes. You pick one at a time, contemplating its level of sweetness, crispiness, juiciness, and other measures of flavor. And after sampling all of them, you now have to decide how much of each grape you would want to put in your mouth simultaneously to have the most balanced gustatory experience. Barrel tasting isn't quite as tedious (and is actually a ton of fun!), but you get the idea.

My taste buds struggled to keep up as Eric wound his way through the barrels--swirling, sniffing, swishing and spitting. But with time and practice I hope to be as efficient as Eric in knowing how to create a balance that best expresses the terroir.

Back in my day...

2009-10-07T05:55:00.000-07:00

As much as I love watching the sunrise and sunset--and they really are spectacular in the French countryside--, I'd rather not have them be markers of my work hours on a common basis. Such was the case Tuesday when we performed three more decuvages in Brezeme. And I finally experienced what Eric means when he talks about making wine like in the ancient times as we pressed the rosé for one of my many new French farmer buddies, Bruno. Here's how it went down:

I turned around to find my refined and scholarly winemaking mentor with no pants on. Like the hired entertainment at a 45-year-old's bachelorette party, Eric scurried up a ladder in his bright red hot pants and plunged into a mush of fermented skins, stems and juice. Guy (no, I didn't forget the man's name...that IS his name) and I soon completed the human assembly line. Eric served me up a heavy bucket of the fluorescent purple soup, which I handed to Guy, who waddled it over to the "giraffe," a huge metallic machine with a tall conveyor belt of a neck. In fact, this machine may not be a reference to the popular zoo animal at all, but there's no denying the striking resemblance. The chain continued until all the contents of the tank were transferred, and my face had developed a stunning array of violet freckles, to say nothing of Eric's new lavishly lavender pants.

Ok, so maybe this isn't exactly the way the Romans pressed the wine thousands of years ago. Instead of our mechanical giraffe, maybe they used the real thing somehow. And I'm sure they did it wearing togas in the middle of extravagant coliseums. Okay, now I'm just getting carried away, but doesn't it sound "roman-tic"?

Decuvage

2009-10-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

On top of learning French, working here requires understanding the vast vocabulary necessary in wine-making. On Tuesday I was introduced to decuvage. Roughly translated, it describes the act of submerging oneself in a tank of intoxicating gas fumes and shoveling grape skins out as quickly as possible without breathing. I never before realized just how essential oxygen is when putting the body's muscles through strenuous work. And I'm serious--apparently this job claims 2-3 French lives a year!

In more practical terms, decuvage occurs after fermentation and is the process of pressing all the juice out of the skins so only the wine remains. The brilliantly violet-dyed skins and stems are then discarded. I don't know whether it was the alcohol and carbon dioxide fumes messing with my head, but I got a little teary-eyed watching the purple juice drip out of the press, and thinking back to a couple weeks ago when we picked the plump, juicy grapes from the vine. To see the syrah change from a sweet, young fruit juice to a dry, mature wine in just a few weeks was somewhat mind-boggling. Awwww, they grow up so fast! I hope I don't have empty-nest syndrome. See, my psychology degree is coming in handy after all.

Holiday in Switzerland

2009-09-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

It just wouldn't be a real travel experience without my Uncle Tim showing up for an adventure at some point during the trip. He arrived chez Texier late on Friday night with his world touring partner-in-crime, Mark, for a true French countryside dinner of confit de canard (basically a deliciously fattened duck, cooked in its own grease). And I was reminded exactly how remote a place the little village of Charnay is after all three of the GPS systems our techie guests had going failed to find the house. But they made it just in time for our late European dinner, and I was somewhat relieved as they asked Eric all the same New-World-centric questions about wine that I originally had (e.g. "Why are the French bottle labels so confusing?").

If I had one word to describe the weekend I spent in Switzerland with my uncle, it would be "douchy." But that's kind of inevitable when you're staying in Castle Douchy. No really, the name of our swanky, four-star hotel was "Chateau D'Ouchy." Ouchy is the lake-front area of Lausanne, a major French-speaking university city in Switzerland. And since I couldn't escape being douchy anyway, I decided to play the part by using the fancy towel heaters, checking out the mini-bar, and even wearing the fuzzy pink slippers. Thanks for the splurge, Uncle Timmy!

Saturday:

After checking in and exploring the castle, Tim and I decided to have a good old-fashioned picnic lunch by the water. But our relaxing meal was soon interrupted by vicious swans! They may look elegant and refined, but I swear one of them was hissing violent threats at me if I didn't hand over my salmon and broccali quiche.
Lausanne is the headquarters of the International Olympic Committee and, thus, has a museum dedicated to the world-reknowned event. Some of the memorabilia (OMG, Shannon Miller's leotard!!!) and photos were cool, but otherwise its not really worth the trouble.
I decided to go for a jog to check out the views of the Swiss Alps that the lake trail had to offer, but I (literally) ran into an unexpected obstacle...gnats! Thousands of tiny bugs hurled themselves into any orifice they could find...my eyes, my mouth, my nostrils, even my ears. When I came back and looked in the mirror, I was mortified thinking how many people must have seen me with little black bugs pasted to my forehead sweat. Don't get me wrong, the trail was absolutely beautiful, but I suggest at least wearing sunglasses as a preventive measure.
Surprised by the endless rows of vineyards we had seen driving into Switzerland, my uncle and I decided to sample a glass of the local wine before dinner. Mine was light, dry and spritzy like champagne, and my uncle's sauvignon blanc was a surprisingly delightful discovery as well!
We wandered around the lit-up cathedrals and university buildings of the Old Town before ducking into an obviously popular tapas bar, Minuit Soleil. And I'm beginning to believe Eric's complete faith in any wine from Burgundy...the Chardonnay we drank with our dinner was one of the best either my uncle or I had ever had!

Sunday:

My douchy, fluffy, soft bed was so luxurious that I actually had to set an alarm to wake up in time for the 10:30 breakfast. We enjoyed cappacinos by the water as the sun broke through the clouds and decided a cruise around the lake would be the best way to take in all the sights. Stops along the four-hour leisurely drive included castles and refreshments. We stole some delicious water from the quaint little town of Evian (haha, suckers! I'm not paying for that expensive bottled stuff), and hunted for some authentic Swiss chocolate. Unfortunately, we had inadvertently crossed the border back into France just before the chocolatier and only realized this fact when the cute little old French man asked for payment in Euros. Oops. But possibly the most decadent oops I have ever had. Turns out the French know their chocolat as well, right Johnny Depp?
We picked up Mark, who had made a quick trip to Barcelona to accompany his dad in fulfilling his boyhood dream of seeing a live bull-fight, at Geneva airport. The three of us then headed to the city center, a land of countless watch advertisements and an awesome jet-propelled fountain shooting water ten stories high over the lake.
We enjoyed a relaxing dinner at the trendy Le Java, until I realized that my devious uncle had not been checking his email on his phone, but instead had been texting my father the following message: "Hi, Dad. I've met a French boy named Pierre, who I'm falling in love with. This is his phone. Everything is going great with us, except he smokes. Love, Dani." Thanks, Tim. As if parents aren't worried enough already when their daughter is halfway around the world...

All in all, I have come to the conclusion that the Swiss region of Vaud would not be a bad place to live. Despite the disturbing number of mullets we saw (even a young girl wearing all pink had one!), I liked the vibe. Vineyards, castles, gorgeous mountains, and a crystal clear lake...what more could one ask for? If it's good enough for Queen's Freddie Mercury, it's good enough for me.

Yeah, Jack Black and I go way back

2009-09-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

For the first time since being here, I began to feel a bit homesick on Saturday evening. Eric's family came over for dinner--an intimate occasion that should make even a stranger feel right at home. The problem was, I think I contributed about ten words of conversation over the course of four hours. On the rare occasion that I understood the topic of discussion, I didn't feel confident enough in my language abilities to contribute. So when Martin, Eric's oldest son, invited me to his friend's housewarming party afterward, I almost denied him in favor of curling up into an antisocial ball in my room. But, aided by the liquid courage from the delicious wine that accompanied dinner, I decided to "take the flower" (see last entry).

...And it was formidable! His friends were very welcoming, and most spoke English very well, though I tried to continue practicing my French. And despite a moment of confusion where someone excitedly announced to the group that I personally knew the members of Tenacious D (the verb connaitre is confusing, non?), I felt confident in my language skills once again.

Monday and Tuesday brought us back to Brezeme, and I felt a little like Goldilocks for the final picking. Two weeks ago was way too hot...last week I froze in the rain...but the weather on Monday was juuuuuust right. And my lower back was very relieved to find out that grape-picking is officially done for the year! More importantly (and less selfishly), the grapes suffered very little rot in spite of the crazy weather of the past few weeks. Most of the day was spent picking 150 bins (!!!) for rosé, and we finished by picking only select bunches for an experiment Eric wants to try. Amarone, a rich and dry red wine originating in Italy, requires partially drying the grapes before pressing. Though it is labor-intensive and risky, he had interesting results after using this method on grenache. So why not Brezeme syrah? That's how Eric rolls. And I can't wait to see the results...

Taming the Lyon

2009-09-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the front seat of Eric's truck Thursday on yet another trip to Brezeme, I smiled as the thick fog gave way to bright, warm sunshine. And Eric cursed. Turns out sunny, warm, calm weather right after rain is the worst possible condition for the grapes still on the vine. The threat? Rot. So, we pressed the Brezeme Roussanne but we must wait out the weather before picking what remains in Brezeme.

On the plus side, this gave me a whole free day on Friday, which I used to explore the city of Lyon:

I started off at the Musée d'art contemporain to see La Biennale (biannual) modern art exhibit. The most memorable piece was one in which the artist displayed new flowers each day, allowing guests to take one under two conditions. The first was to agree to take an alternate route to the next destination, other than the originally intended one. The second was to give the flower to a complete stranger found along the way. As much as I loved the idea, I wasn't brave enough to play the game. I can easily blame my cowardice on the fact that I felt too inadequate in my French skills to approach a stranger or the fact that I actually had no idea where I was going next, but the truth remains. I was a pansy (pun intended).
My next destination turned out to be the Parc de la Tete d'or, which is conveniently situated right outside the entrance of the museum. Leisurely strolling in the direction of the botanical garden (the largest in France), I glimpsed a flash of orange out of the corner of my eye. A tiger?! No way! Turns out the park also boasted a small zoo. I was so excited! Until--as I approached the hot, bored, and claustrophobic elephants--I remembered how sad zoos made me feel. Luckily, the amazing dahlias and tulips in the garden immediately cheered me up.
Next, I did my default plan when exploring a new city: wander around and get lost until something interesting pops up. Which turned out to be the Presque-Ile (literally "almost island") between the Rhone and Saone Rivers. A lively area with a good combination of old historic buildings and hip new cafes.

As much as I love the liberty of traveling alone, it can be difficult and even embarrassing to not be able to speak the language fluently. As such, I have to decided to devote my free time to brushing up on my French grammar and vocab. Next time I will take that flower, and I will play the game.

Ter-what?

2009-09-16T01:13:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the most instructive times for me here have been the long car rides with Eric to check on his vineyards and wine cellars. I really admire Eric's creative approach to wine-making. He is always searching for that "je ne sais quoi" quality in wine, the creation of something unique and interesting. He treats his wines like his little babies, but he is not an overprotective parent. After all, it's the kids whose parents let them get a little dirty that grow up to be the strongest, most adventurous, and most interesting.

Monday was one of those cellar check-in days for Eric (and wine country tours for me). The first stop had us winding through the steep slopes of Condrieu to try to fix the acidity on this year's Viognier. Looking at the intimidating incline of the vineyards there, I was somewhat relieved to have joined Eric too late to help cut the grapes there. It's hard enough on flat vineyards! We also tasted the '08 Cote Rotie and Condrieu Syrahs there, the first of which was especially pure. I can't wait to try to finished product!

The round hills of Nothern Rhone gave way to the rocky mountains and lush green trees of Southern Rhone as we approached Chateauneuf du Pape. And the terroir* there was unlike any I have ever seen...large, sandy-colored rocks surrounded free-growing vines made the landscape look like some kind of pebble garden gone wild. However, the appellation also had a resemblance to Napa Valley, probably due to an influx of foreign tourists under the influence of Robert Parker**. Road signs and small paved driveways indicated the locations of various estates and tasting rooms. After checking that his underground, zero-ventilation cave was safe for me to enter, we TNT'd (tested and tasted) this year and last year's Chateauneuf du Pape Blancs. I personally loved the punch that the 08' barrels packed, but Eric thought they were too "big". I guess that's still my American extra-bold-flavor-seeking habits kicking in. I'm working on it...

We stayed the night in the town of Montelimar because we had another early morning in Brezeme on Tuesday. We woke up to a winemaker's worst nightmare during harvest time: RAIN! After an hour of picking as much as we could from the cold and dripping vines, Eric let us break for shelter to crush. In my psychology classes, we learned that weather conditions can make people do crazy things, as was the case of Tuesday. Even Olivier--my chocolate supplying friend--turned on me, blaming "la fille Americaine" for the surprise rain, and throwing wet leaves at me.

Eric figured we needed about thirty more bins in order to fill the tank, but first we took a break for another five-course lunch prepared by the old Salvignon farmers. The farmers also generously let us borrow their rusty, hole-y, oddly-proportioned raincoats to protect us in the fields. Two more hours of wet scissors flying through the air was all we needed to accumulate thirty more bins, enough to finish the crush. And at least cleaning afterward was easy...the rain outside provided a lasting, powerful (and environmentally-friendly!) shower for the machines when the work was done.

*Terroir: a magical word that the French use to describe how geography creates a wine. This explains why we curious Americans will not find indications of varietals on bottles of French wine. It's not the grape that makes the wine, it's the place the grapes come from.

**Robert M. Parker, Jr.: American wine critic who publishes ratings based on his own personal taste preferences (mainly high fruit and alcohol concentration) in The Wine Advocate. Unfortunately, his ratings often determine consumer trends.

Charnay: my new home

2009-09-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, Paris, maybe we should just be friends. I know that sounds rash--after all, we did have an amazing week together. It's not you, it's me. I guess I just can't be tied down right now. Maybe you can't understand my need to be free at 22 years old because you are much older and wiser (by at least 2,500 or so years). Anyway, I am very sorry to tell you, but I have met someone new. His name is Charnay.

Eric, my wine-making mentor, and his family live in the tiny, quaint village of Charnay, located about 25 km north of Lyon. And I mean tiny, as in less than 1,000 habitants. As in two-thirds the size of my high school. Exploring the town (a mere twenty-minute endeavor by foot), I couldn't help but laugh out loud in disbelief as I passed a donkey, a small bakery, a single market, and a small group of locals picking grapes from their vineyard. This is the REAL French countryside, and this time I am REALly in love....at least, for now.

The first days of harvest

Oh, hello 6 am. I had forgotten how mean you could be. Times three. Yep, I spent the next three days waking up bright and early to work 12-hour days harvesting Roussanne and Syrah in Brezeme (Northern Rhone). And despite being quite the black sheep (as the only female and the only English-speaker), I felt very in my element. Our motley crew consisted of:

1. Eric: the wine-maker extraordinaire

2. Olivier: Eric's second-hand man, who doesn't speak a word of English. But we communicated just fine through eyebrow raises and chocolate--he always handed me the delicious morsel that came with his coffee at restaurants. What a sweetheart.

3 and 4. Clement and Guillaume: two of the most fun-loving and energetic nineteen-year-olds I have ever met. With the combination of their broken English and my broken French, we communicated very well. We even talked politics while working the vineyard! Très sophitiqué, n'est-ce pas?

5. Moi.

Highlights of harvest include:

During the long afternoon I spent cutting the grapes from the vines, I learned many new phrases in French, including "J'ai mal au dos" (my back hurts), "une abeille m'a piqué" (I got stung by a bee), and the verb "s'épusier" (to kill oneself). No, grape-picking is not quite as romantic as it sounds. I have newfound respect for the hired Portugese workers who lapped me numerous times.
A traditional five-course French lunch at the farmers' house two days in a row. I have no idea what I ate, but I managed to persevere even through the final cheese course. Looking back now, I don't think I had ever seen a farmer in real life before coming to France. Now I have seen too many to count.
Discovering the surprisingly wonderful cuisine of the small town of Valence, where we went out to dinner each night. Salmon + creamy ravioli = my new idea of heaven.

There is something about cultivating the land and working by hand that is so unique. And somewhat indescribable. But perhaps I can better express my feelings on the matter when I am not so exhausted. And, there is much work still to be done...stay tuned...

À bientot, Paris!

2009-09-07T10:09:00.000-07:00

Le macaroon final: tart, jammy, refreshing...but not my favorite. Stick with the vanilla and coconut, I say.

I must recount the events of Saturday evening. And Josh, you better watch out; your girlfriend and I have been doing some pretty romantic things together. Saturday evening we took a sunset boat ride along the Seine. It was magical. And completely cheesy. As we floated by the Louvre, our guide informed us that if you spent a mere three seconds on every work of art in the museum, if would take you THREE MONTHS to see everything! Intimidating.

Afterward, we ate at one of Carole's favorite local restaurants called le Coude Fou, or "The Crazy Elbow." Strange name, delicious food. Though it was late as we left the restaurant, we decided to stop by her friend's apartment where there was a small rendez-vous. This time it was impossible to keep up in French as they all spoke a mile-a-minute and used lots of slang...probably the type of stuff that is deemed inappropriate for the classroom.

Day Five

On the first Sunday of each month, museum entry is free! So, still petrified of the Louvre, I decided to check out Musée Rodin. It’s a great solution if you’re a museum-phobe because most of the great sculptures are on display outside in the gardens.
Met Carole, her mom, and her step-dad for a late lunch at Au Boeuf Couronne. Though they are obviously known for the meat, I couldn’t resist ordering le saumon (salmon). Savory yet delicate. Julia Child would have approved as I think the key ingredient to the sauce was butter. But the real highlight was the cheese course. And there was definitely some stink on that plate. Steph, I think you would have immediately hightailed it out of there, but I was in smelly heaven. We discussed the differences between America and France, and came to the conclusion that the Bay Area should just secede and join the French. Ce n’est pas un mauvais idée, non?
Fighting the food coma, I headed over to Montmartre—the only real hill in Paris. A beautiful view was accompanied by some live music, but I was so exhausted from lunch and the hill climb that my favorite part was actually a quick nap in the sun in a nearby park.
Carole and I had a late and light dinner, while watching one of her favorite French films, L’amour en Fuite.

Day Six

For my last full day in Paris, I had planned to visit Versailles but apparently it is closed on Mondays. Next time, Ying. Instead, I decided to get lost. Okay, so maybe it was only kind of intentional. I spent the day renting who knows how many bikes (you can only use one for a half hour), and visiting a lovely park out on the outskirts of the city called Bois de Vincennes. I wondered when and why castles went of of style as I lunched right next to Chateau Vincennes.
I also said hey to my old friends, Marcel Proust and Oscar Wilde, at le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise.
Monday night is quiz night at the local Irish bar, and Carole is a regular because it helps her practice her English. Bien sur, our team won, despite some really tricky questions. Did you know that magnesium is the twelfth element? No, neither did we.

I’m writing now from the TGV to Lyon, where Laurence (Eric’s wife) will pick me up. Work starts tomorrow…eek! Au revoir, Paris! I will always love you. And please don’t cheat on me with those other tourists…they may seem into you, but everyone knows they’re only looking for a summer fling.

Art of the streets, using my feets, and delcious treats!

2009-09-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I'm already halfway through my stay in Paris. Only three days left! Funny story: as Carole and I walked back toward the apartment yesterday a young American girl approached me, and looked ME in the eye, while asking "Où est la Sarbonne?". Of course, Carole--who is obviously used to this sort of cultural exachange--immediately began to give the girl directions in English. But I was so flattered that she had mistaken ME for a local! However, my excitement was short-lived because I was shot down THREE times today by locals. What I mean is that I approached different Parisians on three separate occasions today, asking them questions in my finest French accent. And each time I received an abrupt and direct response in English. Okay, so maybe I don't quite fit in here yet. Give me a break, it's only been four days!

I forgot to mention one of my favorite moments of the trip so far. After Day Two's dinner with Carole's friends, we rented bikes to ride home in the streets, guided by the moonlight glow. In Paris, they have multiple bike rental locations and you can pick one up or drop one off wherever is most convenient. C'est genial!

Day Three

I felt like I could have slept in all morning but I forced myself to get up and seize the (rainy?!) day. To wait out the weather, Carole and I tucked into the Fondation Cartier to see "Né dans la rue," a street art exhibit. I had always had this internal debate about whether graffiti was an art form or just vandalism. This exhibit opened my eyes to how graffiti really can be a beautiful artistic expression, especially for the artists that started the movement.
As the sun came out, Carole and I refueled with quiche, before strolling through the Jardin de Luxembourg. Carole recounted memories of playing in the park as a little girl. In Parisian parks like this one, parents can leave their children with a supervisor, which I can't imagine ever happening in the U.S. Especially after hearing the recent details of the Jacey Lee Durgard case...which was a huge news story even over here! It's so scary to think there are creepers like that "spreading the word" on my college campus and living just a few towns away from my family.
Dave Eggers is HILARIOUS! And apparently very popular even over here. I found a little spot on the staircase of the quaint little bookstore, squeezing between other eager Yanks and Brits to hear him speak. In fact, I never even had a chance to see the guy because it was so crowded! But the large numbers didn't discourage the store workers from opening some rosé for the starstruck guests like myself.
Met some of Carole's English-speaking friends at--get this--an AUSTRALIAN bar! Uncle Tim, you have got to check this place out...it includes every stereotype you could ever imagine, including crocodiles, boomarangs, and, of course, Foster's beer. And one drink turned into a few, as I chatted with an array of various expatriates (from Britain, Australia, and America). Tempting, n'est-ce pas? And I have a confession to make: I cheated on my beloved French wine with some delicious Australian Chardonnay.
So, I think the first Friday of every month is the critical mass night over here, because as I walked home from the bar, hoards of roller-skaters zoomed by me on the Rue de Rivoli! Quelle surprise! I would have found a way to join them had I brought some skates, hot pants, and disco ball earrings.

Day Four

I decided to go for a run this morning. I find that is actually the best way to orient myself in a big city as I can cover more ground in less time. Jenny, shall we train for a marathon in Paris? Too soon, not funny. Anyway, I ran along the Seine until I found myself at the Louvre and the Jardin Tuileries. And I actually saw other runners! I knew there had to be a way the French stay so skinny but eat so deliciously.
I returned to the Jardin Tuileries and beyond later in the day, with my camera this time. I strolled down the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe.
But the highlight was stopping in Ladurée, an upscale resturant and bakery with the most precious (and delectable) pastries. Carole told me to get a macaroon...and I walked out with six. Hey, it was a better deal! I told myself I would wait to enjoy them dans le jardin but five seconds later the vanilla bean macaroon was in my mouth. Oopty poopty. The most delicious oopty poopty ever!
I ate my first French crepe (avec du jambon, du fromage, et des tomates) as I did the whole cheesy postcard-writing thing in the park. Then decided I needed some dessert...voilà macaroon number two: chocolate. As a chocolate girl at heart, I still have to say the vanilla bean was better
Macaroon number 3: coconut. This delicate, flaky cookie combined with the smooth, creamy center took the cake (so to speak).
Eating macaroon number four as I write this: caramel. Second place. I have got to go back soon! I only have one left because I already gave one to Carole. Tasting notes on the violet blackcurrant macaroon to come...

Je suis arrivée à Paris

2009-09-03T08:53:00.000-07:00

And Jared, I might just take you up on that advice. Jared Brandt, one of the winemakers at A Donkey and Goat winery where I interned last year, told me "Don't come back" when I asked for his advice about working and traveling in France. And though I know harvest work will be more difficult than frolicking around Paris, I am already falling in love with this country and its people. Yes, I may still just be in the honeymoon stage, but Paris is a great lover...he feeds me well and is smart, exciting, romantic, and is great eye candy (bien sur!). I don't see things not working out between us.

So why am I on my laptop right now instead of out exploring, especially when I only have four days left in the city? Good question...I should get going. I really just needed to write something so the family knows I'm alive. But I plan to fill in the details when I have some downtime in the countryside. Highlights to come...

Day One

first French bakery experience (avec du pain du chocolat...delicieux!)
Carole's apartment is in a fabulous location. Le Marais, her neighborhood is known as both the Jewish and gay community of Paris. I still have yet to try some falafel, but it's definitely on the itinerary.
Place des Vosges, Notre Dame, the Seine...all within walking distance.
I visited Shakespeare and Company, and was shocked to see that the Bay Area's own Dave Egger's will be speaking there on Friday (which is acutally today)! I plan to go check it out, though it's ironic because I've ever seen him in the Bay. Mais pourqoui pas à Paris?
the Pompidou: the modern art museum had a huge feminist art exhibition and a great view of the city from the roof. Carole and I enjoyed some coffee up there as I began to fade from jet lag.
Carole cooked a very French meal for my first dinner: fish, ratatouille, and (of course) a fresh baguette. I had first my glass of wine in France :o)...and then promptly fell asleep at 8 pm.

Day Two

Woke up way too early...my body still hasn't adjusted to the time. So, I took advantage and headed over to the Eiffel Tour as it was a sunny morning. I decided to go all the way to the top, which I definitely recommend doing! I also recommend going early in the trip as the view provides an opportunity to locate some of the city's historic places, allowing one to plan out the rest of the trip accordingly.
I headed over to Musée D'Orsay but needed caffeine and fuel first. I wandered around the area until I found a cute little cafe called Le Pain Quotidien, which I realize now might be a chain, maybe even an international one. I had a cappacino and my first tartine chaud, which is basically an open face sandwich, while I tested my French skills by eavesdropping on the conversation of the French women next to me.
Musée D'Orsay: after seeing (almost) everything, I forgave the museum for having only one Matisse painting (Mom, can you believe that?!). In fact, this is probably my favorite museum I've ever been to. I was awestruck seeing the originals of some of the most famous Impressionist (pre-, post-, and neo- included) paintings. Start at the top floor, when you have the most attentiveness and energy, and work your way down.
Carole and I enjoyed a delicious apéritif at her Dad and step-mom's place, giving me my first opportunity to really practice my French. I think I kept up for the most part, but Josh, I don't know how your dinner with them went because they speak so quickly to each other! If you're still taking that class when I get back, I will go with you. But you really need to go now, too!!!
Dinner with two of Carole's good friends and more opportunities to practice French, though my skills diminished as the combined effects of jet lag and wine set in. Luckily, they also spoke English very well. And--get this--the French think our awful, ugly American accents are actually endearing! Phew, what a relief. Elodie, who is hoping to one day open a lunch cafe, cooked prawn curry with zucchini and lemon leaf over rice (which we ate with a baguette, of course). Dessert was a chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream. I was in heaven. Elodie, let me know when you open the restaurant...I will be back.

Okay, so it looks like I actually just gave the rundown after all. I couldn't resist...writing it out let me relive it all again. But now I really should go have some brunch as it is noon and my tummy is beginning to rumble again...

I'm ready! Sort of...

2009-08-31T16:21:00.000-07:00

T minus 16 hours. Until I get on the plane for Paris, at least. Then 6 days in the city with my lovely Parisian host, Carole, before diving straight into harvest work with Eric in Charnay (near Lyon). The nerves are kicking in. They're mostly jitters of excitement, but there are a few undeniable facts that sometimes make me wonder whether I'm a little crazy for embarking off to France and beyond for three months by myself:

1. I just said it. I'm traveling by myself. Which is sometimes great because myself and I have very common interests. We usually get along great and rarely fight. But will I get bored of myself? That could lead to some very awkward situations. And I might just go crazy...look, I'm already talking in the third person!

2. I've never been to France. Or anywhere in Europe besides England. And yet, I'm committing the next three months of my life to being there, assuming I'm just going to love it. What if all they eat is frog legs and snails? What if the French really do stink? What if the locals are rude and think I'm some dumb American? Oh no, I just totally stereotyped and sounded like a dumb American! Oh, they're really gonna hate me...

3. Mon français n'est pas très bien. Did I say that right? I took a few years of French in high school, and another class last semester at Berkeley, but we talked slowly and often relied upon franglais. How am I going to keep up with native speakers? Wild hand gestures and charades can only get one so far and can easily be misinterpreted.

4. My reason for going is to intern with the winemaker, Eric Texier, during harvest. In other words, I am venturing off to the wine mecca of the world to advance my limited knowledge of winemaking during the most critical time of year in the wine region. I bet Eric is REALLY happy he hired a tiny American girl to help with all the hard manual labor involved in harvest work. (Note the sarcasm. It's really too bad that it can be so difficult to detect sarcasm from writing. I bet I come across as an arrogant jerk sometimes). Anyway, I just hope that Eric feels like he is gaining something from our deal because I feel like the luckiest girl on Earth! Although I have a feeling that all might change once I'm picking in the hot vineyards or dealing with huge and heavy barrels.

If you're actually still reading this (wow, really?), rest assured that my next entries should be much more exciting. Maybe I'll be sipping wine in some fancy cafe while writing, and that's already a big step up from where I am now--on my bed at home, sipping tea. I really just needed to let out some nervous energy, but now I am so ready! How long do I have to wait now? Oh, still almost 16 hours. Magnifique...