I love this photo. The man pictured is a 4th generation winemaker. His wife does all the work and his children report that he was a tyrant in their youth.
13 November, 2008
Rene
I love this photo. The man pictured is a 4th generation winemaker. His wife does all the work and his children report that he was a tyrant in their youth.
Making Wine The Hard Way: Part I
Blue skies, late summer।
In Beaujolais, the vines are trained lower to the ground; the tightly packed clusters of Gamay are less than a foot above the rich clay, sandstone and limestone laden soil.
Above you see the 'pros,'- real live french 'vendagers' who thought nothing of sucking down a bottle of wine or two on the job. No small feat as it's hard work and the sun's strong.
Once the vineyard had been cleared, वे harvesters and the grapes rode back to the winery, sometimes together.
Part II: In the Cellar
Once safely back at the winery, we dumped the grapes- bin by bin- into a freshly cleaned and disinfected tank for stomping to get the juices running. Afterward, the grapes were left to undergo the long carbonic maceration-stems and all- which sets the making of Beaujolais apart.
Here you can see the cutting edge technology used at D.C. for "remontages" or 'pumpovers,' a key part of carbonic maceration. in making Beaujolais. The juice is allowed to flow out of the tank into a clean plastic bin, where we ten pumped up 15 feet over the wall of the cuve and over the 'cap' of the wine- the topmost layer of grapes and must- for maximum and even extraction of tannins and pigment. This chore was repeated two or tree times daily, for 20-30 minutes at a time.
Part III: Into the Press and a fresh tank for Malolactic Fermentation
A. B. C. D.
A. Perhaps for our benefit, the poor sucker shoveling out the fermenting grapes from inside the tank is wearing pants. It's probably 19-20 degrees Celcius in there and the C02 fumes are dizzying, even from my position just outside the door to the tank. Vincent would shovel 600 litres worth of must out of that tiny opening with a fork and the insteps of his rubber boots- the process took about an hour and a half, depending on V.'s stamina on that particular day, and how many times the haphazard pulley system we had rigged from the cieling to support the massive tupe was dislodged from the heaving of the pump.
Just outside the frame is the stainless steel bin with the screw-press pumping the contents of the tank out a large tube and into the press.
B. The large tube delivering the must to the press, where the juice will be separated from the stems, skins and seeds.
C. The mountain of refuse, shoveled by slaves onto the bed of the tractor.
D. The 'new' wine, before malolactic fermentation has clarified it's color or softened its tannins. It's cloudy, still sweet and very low in alcohol at this point. Slightly funky grapejuice. Yum.
Here you can see the cutting edge technology used at D.C. for "remontages" or 'pumpovers,' a key part of carbonic maceration. in making Beaujolais. The juice is allowed to flow out of the tank into a clean plastic bin, where we ten pumped up 15 feet over the wall of the cuve and over the 'cap' of the wine- the topmost layer of grapes and must- for maximum and even extraction of tannins and pigment. This chore was repeated two or tree times daily, for 20-30 minutes at a time.Part III: Into the Press and a fresh tank for Malolactic Fermentation
A. B. C. D.
A. Perhaps for our benefit, the poor sucker shoveling out the fermenting grapes from inside the tank is wearing pants. It's probably 19-20 degrees Celcius in there and the C02 fumes are dizzying, even from my position just outside the door to the tank. Vincent would shovel 600 litres worth of must out of that tiny opening with a fork and the insteps of his rubber boots- the process took about an hour and a half, depending on V.'s stamina on that particular day, and how many times the haphazard pulley system we had rigged from the cieling to support the massive tupe was dislodged from the heaving of the pump.
Just outside the frame is the stainless steel bin with the screw-press pumping the contents of the tank out a large tube and into the press.
B. The large tube delivering the must to the press, where the juice will be separated from the stems, skins and seeds.
C. The mountain of refuse, shoveled by slaves onto the bed of the tractor.
D. The 'new' wine, before malolactic fermentation has clarified it's color or softened its tannins. It's cloudy, still sweet and very low in alcohol at this point. Slightly funky grapejuice. Yum.
Brain Real Estate Well Spent - French Edition
seau
récolte
clé
épine
impale
tuyau
transmission,
bin,
la densité
la chouette
épines
tronçonneuse
greffe
marteau
carburateur
carbonique, malolactique,
éthylène
étiquette
ecchymoses
inox
récolte
clé
épine
impale
tuyau
transmission,
bin,
la densité
la chouette
épines
tronçonneuse
greffe
marteau
carburateur
carbonique, malolactique,
éthylène
étiquette
ecchymoses
inox
28 October, 2008
Oh..
and in case it wasn't glaringly obvious, no camera. Sorry, team, it was broken when I arrived and sadly I haven't had a chance or the funds to buy a new one!
Life at the Winery
Philipe and Maryline are immediately warm and have mischievous, smiling eyes. Their son, D, is 11 but he is such tall, skinny kid that appears to be at least 13 or 14. He plays the accordion and has a flare for the dramatic, altnerating constantly between tears and laughter and vying for the attention of everyone in the room. Not an hour goes by that he doesn't fly into a fit of rage and get screamed at (literally) by his parents. I find myself wondering constantly how someone who gets yelled at and corrected for every mistep came to be such a brat in the first place. I guess it's a chicken or egg question, in the end.
The accent in the Southwest is very hard for me to understand- 'in,' normally pronounced as a nasal 'ah' are pronounced as 'aing.' So for example, pain becomes 'paing,' and vin becomes 'vaing,' and so on. Thanks to Marylines constantly muttering and cussing mother, Rose, the example of this peculiarity I hear most often is 'ah PUTAING!'
Mamie Rose quickly became my favorite person in the household, not because I find her general pessimism and perma-exhaustion amusing at her expense, but because it's interspersed with incredible warmth, humor and above all, mischief. One minute she might be shuffling around the corner of the room she never leaves to reach for a vegetable peeler, the next, she may drop it and exclaim 'ah MERDE' and the next, she'll make eye contact and start to laugh. Maryline, however, has no patience at all for her mother. Whenever M.Rose opens her mouth, M. berates her. It's actually quite awkward and sad, though perhaps it's just a family dynamic that I don't understand.
My day to day tasks were pretty varied, though generally I helped Philippe to take measurements in the winery, clean various tanks and pump grapes around in the morning. Then I would return to the house to help Mamie Rose prepare lunch (which she capable of doing herself but only with profound frustration with whatever she was chopping, washing or peeling.) Typically lunch would start off with apples, or a radis noir- a tubular, charred-black radish about the size of a rutabaga with butter and salt. A raw salad of a single vegetable- usually carrots, beets or turnips in vinaigrette and lots of garlic- would follow, and then cooked vegetables- roasted tomatoes stuffed with bread, garlic, and parlsey, for example, or green beans sauteed with onion. We'd clean our plates with some bread and then there might be dessert, but there was always at least two and usually three glasses of different wines to drink, so that it was difficult to get motivated to get back to work.
After lunch I might return to the cave with P., or we might off to the vines to do some weeding, clean some machinery or tanks. I might also do some bottling or labelling, or work in the garden.
P.'s mother is as delightful as Marylines, but decidedly less subversive. I enjoyed talking with her immensley, and once I acclimated a bit to her accent, flapping dentures and rapid fire delivery, I had the good forture to hear her talk a bit about her experience during 'the war of 39,' in the same village. She recounted to me how during the war, there was no bread to be had, and families would get their ration of flour from a nearby mill and make bread at home, which she described with horror as 'hard work.' I found this amusing not only because I enjoy making bread as a hobby, but because this is a woman who in her late sixties continues to bust her butt on the winery- constantly hovering around Philippe and I and attempting to exert herself far beyond what any person weighing less than an average sized halloween pumpkin should.
Chabrol
Another intersting culinary tradition of the Southwestern culture in France is Chabrol. It sounds semitic, but it's occitan, and there are lots of songs and sayings about it and it seems to be ubiquitous. So when in the Southwest of France, your hosts will be impressed when you don't react with surprise when someone reaches over and pours a generous bowlful of wine into your nearly empty soupbowl. Swirl it around, put your lips to the bowl and drink it with a smile.
Leaving Puy L'Eveque
I spent the weekend with old(ish) friends, Bruno and Maxime, just outside Montpellier. These guys are displaced Parisiens trying to strike out on their own as the founders of Aeropaint.fr . If you every find yourself in the Montpellier area and hungry for some, well, paintballing, look them up. They very kindly played host and even delivered me to the doorstep of my Aunt and Uncle's home in Saints, a slight detour for them, en route back to Paris. A shameless plug for these two jokesters: www.aeropaint.fr
And on Friday, it's off to Belle Ile!
The accent in the Southwest is very hard for me to understand- 'in,' normally pronounced as a nasal 'ah' are pronounced as 'aing.' So for example, pain becomes 'paing,' and vin becomes 'vaing,' and so on. Thanks to Marylines constantly muttering and cussing mother, Rose, the example of this peculiarity I hear most often is 'ah PUTAING!'
Mamie Rose quickly became my favorite person in the household, not because I find her general pessimism and perma-exhaustion amusing at her expense, but because it's interspersed with incredible warmth, humor and above all, mischief. One minute she might be shuffling around the corner of the room she never leaves to reach for a vegetable peeler, the next, she may drop it and exclaim 'ah MERDE' and the next, she'll make eye contact and start to laugh. Maryline, however, has no patience at all for her mother. Whenever M.Rose opens her mouth, M. berates her. It's actually quite awkward and sad, though perhaps it's just a family dynamic that I don't understand.
My day to day tasks were pretty varied, though generally I helped Philippe to take measurements in the winery, clean various tanks and pump grapes around in the morning. Then I would return to the house to help Mamie Rose prepare lunch (which she capable of doing herself but only with profound frustration with whatever she was chopping, washing or peeling.) Typically lunch would start off with apples, or a radis noir- a tubular, charred-black radish about the size of a rutabaga with butter and salt. A raw salad of a single vegetable- usually carrots, beets or turnips in vinaigrette and lots of garlic- would follow, and then cooked vegetables- roasted tomatoes stuffed with bread, garlic, and parlsey, for example, or green beans sauteed with onion. We'd clean our plates with some bread and then there might be dessert, but there was always at least two and usually three glasses of different wines to drink, so that it was difficult to get motivated to get back to work.
After lunch I might return to the cave with P., or we might off to the vines to do some weeding, clean some machinery or tanks. I might also do some bottling or labelling, or work in the garden.
P.'s mother is as delightful as Marylines, but decidedly less subversive. I enjoyed talking with her immensley, and once I acclimated a bit to her accent, flapping dentures and rapid fire delivery, I had the good forture to hear her talk a bit about her experience during 'the war of 39,' in the same village. She recounted to me how during the war, there was no bread to be had, and families would get their ration of flour from a nearby mill and make bread at home, which she described with horror as 'hard work.' I found this amusing not only because I enjoy making bread as a hobby, but because this is a woman who in her late sixties continues to bust her butt on the winery- constantly hovering around Philippe and I and attempting to exert herself far beyond what any person weighing less than an average sized halloween pumpkin should.
Chabrol
Another intersting culinary tradition of the Southwestern culture in France is Chabrol. It sounds semitic, but it's occitan, and there are lots of songs and sayings about it and it seems to be ubiquitous. So when in the Southwest of France, your hosts will be impressed when you don't react with surprise when someone reaches over and pours a generous bowlful of wine into your nearly empty soupbowl. Swirl it around, put your lips to the bowl and drink it with a smile.
Leaving Puy L'Eveque
I spent the weekend with old(ish) friends, Bruno and Maxime, just outside Montpellier. These guys are displaced Parisiens trying to strike out on their own as the founders of Aeropaint.fr . If you every find yourself in the Montpellier area and hungry for some, well, paintballing, look them up. They very kindly played host and even delivered me to the doorstep of my Aunt and Uncle's home in Saints, a slight detour for them, en route back to Paris. A shameless plug for these two jokesters: www.aeropaint.fr
And on Friday, it's off to Belle Ile!
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