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!
So slightly disheartened from my creepy encounter, I moved to the Southwest of France to work at a family run winery in Courbenac, part of Puy L'Eveque- of the Cahors appelation.
Lyon - Cahors: Six hours
Cahors - Puy L'eveque: 1 hour
Puy L'Eveque - Courbenac: a walk
Boring Details
After several confusing conversations on the phone with the mother of the winemaker whom I would soon come to know as Mamilette, I arrived at the home of Philippe, Maryline, Danis, Mamilette and Mamie Rose.
The family home dates back to the 16th century, and though of course their have been some renovations a tower at the center of the 'L' shape remains almost completely intact. Mamilette lives alone in the older wing of the house, leaving P, M, D, MR and a chicken to inhabit the part of the house which overhangs the cave and basement, in which all of the wine is bottled and labeled.
Across from the home is a small structure which houses the tasting room and a large kitchen that, twenty years ago, was used to slaughter and pluck chickens- but is now used to prepare confitures and other jarred goods. Pass through the kitchen, and you'll find yourself surrounded by chickens, a pig named PuPuce and a couple of alarmingly large rabbits for eatin'.
Behind the house is a large vegetable garden, rows of quince, fig, walnut and apple trees, tomatoes and blackberry brambles, a hectare or so of grape vines (an assortment of merlot, tannat, cabernet and malbec and a large black grape whose name escapes me.) To the left, there is a wall of shrubs, a pen full of geese and a large tank of fermenting vinaigre, beyond which is a large (now bare) wheat field lined with chestnut trees. At the base of the field closest to the garden and home, is the largest building on the property: the cave.
The cave is much larger and more modern than that of D.C in Beaujolais, though it is nonetheless at least thirty years behind most wineries you'll find in California. In the first room, there is a large stainless steel (inox) lined tank that rotates on it's side, guided by chains, into which the grapes are pumped upon arrival. Depending on whether P. is making a Cahors, Vin de Pays or Rose, he uses the tank to circulate the wine (in place of pumpovers) or for maceration and then the grapes and juice are pumped into the press or directly into a tank. The remaining three walls are lined with a total of seven cement tanks with small portholes at the top.
In the adjacent room, two walls are lined with oak barrels. Freestanding circular open tanks occupy the other walls, along with several small, newer stainless steel tanks which P. seems to use mostly for grape juice and Rose. He also has a pasturizer, makeshift equiptment for controlling temperature, and an antique press that his father used to use.
The Grapes
A.O.C. Cahors wine can contain Malbec, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and Tannat, though Phillipe uses 100% Malbec (Cot) for his. Like most french winemakers, P. hasn't had a successful harvest since 2006. Last year was a 'catastrophe!' and this year, early spring rain destroyed the flowers on the vines, resulting in a meager harvest throughout France) but in more abundant years he produces pure Merlot and Cab. Sauvignon, in addition to using the other varieties to make Vin de Pays de Cahors.
Although the grapes approved for use in Cahors differ from those of nearby Bordeaux (Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Cabernet Franc) the style and techniques of winemaking are similar enough that I feel very fortunate in my little exposure to small wineries in france to have been exposed a bit to Burgundian techniques in Beaujolais, and Bordeauxian ones in Cahors. (It's a bit of a stretch- but at my novice level, I think it's fair!)
Bio
P. Is passionate about producing organic wine- but not in the militantly 'green' way that you might expect. P.'s father made the decision to go organic in the early eighties, because he believed in traditional methods of viticulture and that the end result was finer, more delicious. P. agrees, and has taken the further step of absolutely never using sulfites- a common preservative used in wine and beermaking to keep bacteria in check once fermentation is complete which even most organic producers use. He's firm in the belief that sulfites are unhealthy and on par with chapitalization- the addition of sugar to wine to boost alcohol content or spurr fermentation in wine- to add them is to cheat and cheapen your wine.
When walking through P.'s vineyards, one is immediately struck by how healthy the grapes and vines and rows are. In stark contrast to the weed choked vines of V's in Beaujolais, from which we harvesters emerged fully covered in brambles and spiny little seeds- it's clear that P. is a skilled viticulturalist who values the quality of his grapes above all. He approaches winemaking as a gardener and a botanist, as opposed to as a chemist or a cook- ready to season his wine with sugar, superyeasts, oak chips and sulfites.
And why shouldn't he, when they are the sole ingredient in his wine? The grapes are destemmed and dropped into a tank- and the rest is a miracle of chemistry. The yeasts that grow naturally on the skins of the grapes interact naturally with the natural sugars that concentrate in the grapes, which are picked at the peak of ripeness, and produce as much alcohol for the wine as can mathmatically occur in a given season- though he aims for 12-13%.. He allows fermentation to occur for as long as is necessary for density to reach 900 before barreling the wine, and that's it.
And how's the wine?
We drank this years new wine- not fully fermented and bracingly tannic with chestnuts, a tradition in Cahors. The quality of the wine hasn't seemed to suffer however meager the harvest was- and P. comments daily on how incredibly black the wine is this year. It seems to be the case throughout Cahors, as P. and his winemaking peers babbled excitedly a bout it at the friday market in Prayssac.
In addition to the unforgettably delicious Vin de Noix I already described, the greatest treat of all at D.A was the bottle of 2002 Cuvee Danis that Philippe pulled out on my last night. I enjoyed it so much that he insisted on sending me home with a bottle. Only six years old, it is already supple and rich with currant and berries, soft and spicy flavors and beautifully colored- truly representative of the 'vin noir' that makes Cahors famous. I will be sure to heed his advice and hang on to it for a while before drinking it. Given how little I know about wine and how few bottles I have to my name, I feel really lucky to have such an emotional bond to this particular bottle, to have something to treasure and anticipate.
A footnote: On my first day of work, I was amused when Maryline and Philippe asked me if I liked Robert Parker. I told them that I thought he was full of it- and they told me that apparently he's rated Philipe's wine! They haven't seen the ranking, and I'm looking forward to seeing what he tasted and what he thought...
Lyon - Cahors: Six hours
Cahors - Puy L'eveque: 1 hour
Puy L'Eveque - Courbenac: a walk
Boring Details
After several confusing conversations on the phone with the mother of the winemaker whom I would soon come to know as Mamilette, I arrived at the home of Philippe, Maryline, Danis, Mamilette and Mamie Rose.
The family home dates back to the 16th century, and though of course their have been some renovations a tower at the center of the 'L' shape remains almost completely intact. Mamilette lives alone in the older wing of the house, leaving P, M, D, MR and a chicken to inhabit the part of the house which overhangs the cave and basement, in which all of the wine is bottled and labeled.
Across from the home is a small structure which houses the tasting room and a large kitchen that, twenty years ago, was used to slaughter and pluck chickens- but is now used to prepare confitures and other jarred goods. Pass through the kitchen, and you'll find yourself surrounded by chickens, a pig named PuPuce and a couple of alarmingly large rabbits for eatin'.
Behind the house is a large vegetable garden, rows of quince, fig, walnut and apple trees, tomatoes and blackberry brambles, a hectare or so of grape vines (an assortment of merlot, tannat, cabernet and malbec and a large black grape whose name escapes me.) To the left, there is a wall of shrubs, a pen full of geese and a large tank of fermenting vinaigre, beyond which is a large (now bare) wheat field lined with chestnut trees. At the base of the field closest to the garden and home, is the largest building on the property: the cave.
The cave is much larger and more modern than that of D.C in Beaujolais, though it is nonetheless at least thirty years behind most wineries you'll find in California. In the first room, there is a large stainless steel (inox) lined tank that rotates on it's side, guided by chains, into which the grapes are pumped upon arrival. Depending on whether P. is making a Cahors, Vin de Pays or Rose, he uses the tank to circulate the wine (in place of pumpovers) or for maceration and then the grapes and juice are pumped into the press or directly into a tank. The remaining three walls are lined with a total of seven cement tanks with small portholes at the top.
In the adjacent room, two walls are lined with oak barrels. Freestanding circular open tanks occupy the other walls, along with several small, newer stainless steel tanks which P. seems to use mostly for grape juice and Rose. He also has a pasturizer, makeshift equiptment for controlling temperature, and an antique press that his father used to use.
The Grapes
A.O.C. Cahors wine can contain Malbec, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and Tannat, though Phillipe uses 100% Malbec (Cot) for his. Like most french winemakers, P. hasn't had a successful harvest since 2006. Last year was a 'catastrophe!' and this year, early spring rain destroyed the flowers on the vines, resulting in a meager harvest throughout France) but in more abundant years he produces pure Merlot and Cab. Sauvignon, in addition to using the other varieties to make Vin de Pays de Cahors.
Although the grapes approved for use in Cahors differ from those of nearby Bordeaux (Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Cabernet Franc) the style and techniques of winemaking are similar enough that I feel very fortunate in my little exposure to small wineries in france to have been exposed a bit to Burgundian techniques in Beaujolais, and Bordeauxian ones in Cahors. (It's a bit of a stretch- but at my novice level, I think it's fair!)
Bio
P. Is passionate about producing organic wine- but not in the militantly 'green' way that you might expect. P.'s father made the decision to go organic in the early eighties, because he believed in traditional methods of viticulture and that the end result was finer, more delicious. P. agrees, and has taken the further step of absolutely never using sulfites- a common preservative used in wine and beermaking to keep bacteria in check once fermentation is complete which even most organic producers use. He's firm in the belief that sulfites are unhealthy and on par with chapitalization- the addition of sugar to wine to boost alcohol content or spurr fermentation in wine- to add them is to cheat and cheapen your wine.
When walking through P.'s vineyards, one is immediately struck by how healthy the grapes and vines and rows are. In stark contrast to the weed choked vines of V's in Beaujolais, from which we harvesters emerged fully covered in brambles and spiny little seeds- it's clear that P. is a skilled viticulturalist who values the quality of his grapes above all. He approaches winemaking as a gardener and a botanist, as opposed to as a chemist or a cook- ready to season his wine with sugar, superyeasts, oak chips and sulfites.
And why shouldn't he, when they are the sole ingredient in his wine? The grapes are destemmed and dropped into a tank- and the rest is a miracle of chemistry. The yeasts that grow naturally on the skins of the grapes interact naturally with the natural sugars that concentrate in the grapes, which are picked at the peak of ripeness, and produce as much alcohol for the wine as can mathmatically occur in a given season- though he aims for 12-13%.. He allows fermentation to occur for as long as is necessary for density to reach 900 before barreling the wine, and that's it.
And how's the wine?
We drank this years new wine- not fully fermented and bracingly tannic with chestnuts, a tradition in Cahors. The quality of the wine hasn't seemed to suffer however meager the harvest was- and P. comments daily on how incredibly black the wine is this year. It seems to be the case throughout Cahors, as P. and his winemaking peers babbled excitedly a bout it at the friday market in Prayssac.
In addition to the unforgettably delicious Vin de Noix I already described, the greatest treat of all at D.A was the bottle of 2002 Cuvee Danis that Philippe pulled out on my last night. I enjoyed it so much that he insisted on sending me home with a bottle. Only six years old, it is already supple and rich with currant and berries, soft and spicy flavors and beautifully colored- truly representative of the 'vin noir' that makes Cahors famous. I will be sure to heed his advice and hang on to it for a while before drinking it. Given how little I know about wine and how few bottles I have to my name, I feel really lucky to have such an emotional bond to this particular bottle, to have something to treasure and anticipate.
A footnote: On my first day of work, I was amused when Maryline and Philippe asked me if I liked Robert Parker. I told them that I thought he was full of it- and they told me that apparently he's rated Philipe's wine! They haven't seen the ranking, and I'm looking forward to seeing what he tasted and what he thought...
Tarte of Tomatoes and Whole Grain Mustard
Again, less of a recipe than a good idea, deliciously executed by the Bessieres with some of the last of the fresh tomatoes:
Prepare a pate brisee, or pasty base of your choice.
Roll into an thin oblong or to fit a baking sheet. Spread a fine layer of whole grain mustard over the entire base, then a layer of thinly sliced tomatoes.
It was also delicious with green tomatoes, stolen from Mamielette's horde for making confiture.
Prepare a pate brisee, or pasty base of your choice.
Roll into an thin oblong or to fit a baking sheet. Spread a fine layer of whole grain mustard over the entire base, then a layer of thinly sliced tomatoes.
It was also delicious with green tomatoes, stolen from Mamielette's horde for making confiture.
Salted cod in red wine Roux
salted cod- soaked over night and rinsed with fresh water before using
a full bodied red wine of your choice (we of course used Vin de Cahors- Malbec)
flour
water,
chopped onion,
garlic,
capers
Melt a dab of butter in a cocotte and make a roux, using flour and red wine in place of milk. Then add two cups or so of the red wine, 1 cup of water, onion and garlic. Reduce into a hearty, stew like texture. Meanwhile, flour and lightly fry the cod. At the last minute, add a generous amount of capers. Serve with boiled potatoes or over hearty greens, with the fried fish on top.
a full bodied red wine of your choice (we of course used Vin de Cahors- Malbec)
flour
water,
chopped onion,
garlic,
capers
Melt a dab of butter in a cocotte and make a roux, using flour and red wine in place of milk. Then add two cups or so of the red wine, 1 cup of water, onion and garlic. Reduce into a hearty, stew like texture. Meanwhile, flour and lightly fry the cod. At the last minute, add a generous amount of capers. Serve with boiled potatoes or over hearty greens, with the fried fish on top.
Fenouil au citron - Lemon Fennel "Choucroute"
Inspired by a recipe so simple, fresh and versatile it hardly merits a precise recipe: Fenouil au Citron served to me by a farmer and winemaker's wife in Cahors. She serves her version, which is the same as appears below but without the addition of sausage- with a mild freshwater fish in papillote. As much as I love the combination of her delicate white fish with the fennel, I think I prefer the bolder flavors of this delicious twist on choucroute.
Lemon Fennel "Choucroute" with Sausage
Lemon Fennel "Choucroute" with Sausage
Four bulbs of fennel, cut into slices 1/2 centimeters in width.
A dab of butter
2 tbsp. of lemon,
Large handful of chopped parsley
1/2 cup of wine
1/4 tsp. whole coriander, or to taste
salt and pepper
Spicy Italian or Andouille Sausages
Brown the sausages in a hot cast iron pan. Then, melt the butter in a cocotte or heavy bottomed pan. Add the coriander, and when it's fragrant add the fennel, lemon juice and wine. Lay the browned and crisp skinned sausages over the fennel and partly cover the pot, simmering over low heat until most of the liquid has cooked off. Season with salt and pepper and garnish generously with parsley. Serve right from the pot, with crusty bread, mustard and butter.
Soupe d'orties (nettle soup)
Another recipe made from something fierce. Maryline uses lots of garlic and just barely cooks the nettle leaves.
a generous bunch of nettles
olive oil
garlic
onion, diced
several potatoes
Salt, Pepper
Saute the diced onion and minced garlic in oil until they smell good. Add the water and chopped potatoes and boil until the potatoes are cooked. Reduce to simmer and add the nettles at the last minute. The french like their soups pureed
a generous bunch of nettles
olive oil
garlic
onion, diced
several potatoes
Salt, Pepper
Saute the diced onion and minced garlic in oil until they smell good. Add the water and chopped potatoes and boil until the potatoes are cooked. Reduce to simmer and add the nettles at the last minute. The french like their soups pureed
Gateau aux Noix
Harvesting walnuts is a hundred time more pleasant than harvesting chestnuts. The dogs follow me around, mischeviously snapping up walnuts right out from under me and then darting away- a cheerful crunch and I see that Merlot cracks open the shell and leaves not a morsel of meat. A gnawing sound and I see that the puppy, Aron, hasn't quite figured out how to free the nuts but makes up for it by slobbering on and destroying three times as many.
Here at Domaine d'Antenet, the payoff is the Vin de Noix which Phillipe makes each year- a fortified wine drunk as an aperetif or dessert wine. The wine is flavored with mashed walnuts and I underneath the raisinated, nutty warth there's a barely perceptible bitter flavor. This, of course, is a trade secret- but I asked him if I tasted some kind of citrus rind, was it orange? He just winked at me- but I'm almost certain he does.
But I digress. These cakes are traditional to Quercy, seasonal and at the moment are being advertised outside every bakery in the Southwest of France and for all I know, everwhere. They seem to sell out every day.The ones I see in bakery windows have a maple- colored fondant like icing, which is beautiful but tooth achingly sweet...Here's what I found in the lovely cookbook Maryline and Phillipe gave me as a going away gift.
Preheat oven to 350
Pate sucree
Filling:
250g fresh walnuts, ground
300ml heavy cream
vanilla
70-100g sugar (I like things less sweet, generally, and the walnuts soften the texture of this cake enough already that I don't think it would miss it)
1 egg white, beaten untill stiff
salt
Icing, if you like, seems to just involve sugar and some kind of brandy. And wanuts halves to decorate
Roll out the pastry to fill little tart pans or a large one.
Combine the cream, vanilla, sugar, salt and ground nuts, then gently incorporate the beaten egg white. Bake for 35 minutes or until the center is firm but keep an eye on it at 25 minutes to make sure the center doesn't split.
Here at Domaine d'Antenet, the payoff is the Vin de Noix which Phillipe makes each year- a fortified wine drunk as an aperetif or dessert wine. The wine is flavored with mashed walnuts and I underneath the raisinated, nutty warth there's a barely perceptible bitter flavor. This, of course, is a trade secret- but I asked him if I tasted some kind of citrus rind, was it orange? He just winked at me- but I'm almost certain he does.
But I digress. These cakes are traditional to Quercy, seasonal and at the moment are being advertised outside every bakery in the Southwest of France and for all I know, everwhere. They seem to sell out every day.The ones I see in bakery windows have a maple- colored fondant like icing, which is beautiful but tooth achingly sweet...Here's what I found in the lovely cookbook Maryline and Phillipe gave me as a going away gift.
Preheat oven to 350
Pate sucree
Filling:
250g fresh walnuts, ground
300ml heavy cream
vanilla
70-100g sugar (I like things less sweet, generally, and the walnuts soften the texture of this cake enough already that I don't think it would miss it)
1 egg white, beaten untill stiff
salt
Icing, if you like, seems to just involve sugar and some kind of brandy. And wanuts halves to decorate
Roll out the pastry to fill little tart pans or a large one.
Combine the cream, vanilla, sugar, salt and ground nuts, then gently incorporate the beaten egg white. Bake for 35 minutes or until the center is firm but keep an eye on it at 25 minutes to make sure the center doesn't split.
Gateau aux Chataignes (country chestnut cake)
It may have been a horrible year for tree fruit and grapes, but the nuts are bountiful and to my great surprise, the tail end of tomatoes and haricots verts are overlapping with the decidedly wintry treat of piping hot chestnuts for dessert every night after dinner, and bittersweet walnuts to snack on throughout the day.
Of course, the pleasures of nuts have their downside. If you have ever attempted to harvest chestnuts, you like me have a deepend respect for the French commitment to eating them in massive quantities. Like the first hominoid to drink the milk of a cow or eat the foot of a chicken, one has to be both inspired and fearless to attempt to free a cluster of marrons from the angry spines in which they're encased. Believe me, you have to really love chestnuts.
And the Bessiere's do. And so, to honor their love of chestnuts, I spent an hour or two each afternoon crouched low to the ground, swatting at the dried autumn leaves with two sticks to reveal the evil little urchins and then clumsily pry them open. The process brought to mind unpleasant memories of finger-prick blood tests at the pediatritian, and the distict recollection of being told at the age of 12 or so that I would never again be subjected to a needle being poked into my index finger. So why was I, a pink and fleshy mammal, attempting the work better suited to gigantic mutant beetles or leather palmed apes with rocks? And woefully ill equipped- I briefly considered whether the otter, floating on it's back in the water, cracking open nuts on it's exposed belly, would have come up with better tools for harvesting chestnuts.
Because they're delicious, and four giant trees plop them all over the wheat field Phillippe is soon to turn, and Mamilette promised to give me her recipe for her famous chestnut cake if I came back with three buckets full.
500 g of chestnuts (boiled and peeled)
6 small eggs
200 g sugar
1 pinch of salt
vanilla (or a pocket of sucre vanilee)
Puree the chestnuts and incorporate the sugar, egg yolks and vanilla.
Beat the whites into soft peaks (un nuage pas trop ferme) and fold in to the chestnut mixture.
Bake for 1 hour at medium heat- 325 in a porcelain dish or pyrex pan.
11 October, 2008
Out out, damned spot
NO matter how much I scrub, my hands are completely cut up and stained black with wine. I've also got a black nail from dropping something very heavy on my hands, and lots of callouses from shoveling all day and scrapes from thorns. If you know me at all, you can probably guess that I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself right about now.
My good intentions to keep those at home up to date on my exploits via the interwebs were clearly optimistic, as I have very little time to myself and even less on the computer. Today marks just a bit over a week in la belle France and much has befallen me since then. I reckon I'll just write when I can and chronology be damned- sorry if anyone actually intends to read and make sense of this stuff.
(To your right, you can see the stack of bottled but unmarked wine that is at our disposal in the caves. It's not for sale, just for the family and workers. We go through about ten bottles a day without so much as making a dent. It varies significantly from bottle to bottle but is consistently refreshing and light.)
The day I arrived and my first day of work went relatively well. In spite of only a few hours sleep and twice as many going from train to train as I made my way from the aeroport to Gare l'Abresle, I was in high spirits. Gazing out the window of the train and alert for any early sign that this trip was a good idea after all, I was encouraged by the sight of a pack of tweed-clad geezers. They were ranging an open field (with no game in sight,) rifles tossed cockily over their shoulders and beagles weaving inbetween their legs. The banlieues of Paris were visible in the backround. I had passed the duration of my overnight flight to Paris fretting over the question of what I expected to achieve this year. Was my impulse for adventure merely a foil for a more urgent developmental deficiency? The kooks in suits made feel no less Quixotic, but at least here was a sign that I wasn't alone.
One week in, I can report that so far I thoroughly enjoy the work of a winery in the full throes of harvest. I was warned by the other volunteers that the picking would break me, but on day two I found that the scenery was so beautiful and the excitement of picking grapes by hand, delivering the precious cargo to the tanks to undergo maceration is actually really fun for me. Within a few days I had shown enough interest (and maybe asked enough involved, nerdy questions about the winemaking process) that the winemaker and proprietor here invited me to work with him in the cellar in the afternoons, and some mornings while the others were picking.
For those who care, here are some interesting particulars about the wine and the process here at D.C. The grapes, all Gamay of course, are organic- bio. This means that as we sweep the fields in groups- the volunteers tend to be slow and whiny while the native and profession vendagers are hyper efficient and boisterous- we're constantly tripping over weeds and flicking slugs, snails and spiders off of the bunches. This year's yield has suffered due to too much rain, but not the quality of the grapes, Vincent assures me.
Once picked, the grapes are driven immediately to the caves, where we drop they by hand into the tank from a window above. It is an oddity of Beaujoulais wine that the grapes are not separated from the stems and thank goodness- as I'm sure we'd be doing it by hand. No doubt this level of detail is boring, but having only seen very modern and well endowed wineries in California I think it's fascinating- so indulge me as I explain this process. The tractor, bed full of bins of grapes, is pulled up alongside the outside of the cave. We stack large plastic bins on the tractor and lay a wooden board across the top to stand on, then hand up the bins (which must weigh about sixty pounds each) up to two people standing in the windowsill. The bins are tipped directly into the tank, afterwhich one or two people disinfects and stops around a bit to start the juice running and even out the mountain of grapes within the tank.
The grapes are left alone to undergo carbonic maceration for about five days for the Nouveau. (due to this years poor yield, D.C. will only make Nouveau this year- it's a pity.) Once or twice I day I get to do the pumpovers- or pump juice from the bottom of the tank back over the grapes from the top to allow more extraction of pigment and tannins from the skins. This is a twenty minute process per tank. I also get to tag alongside V. as he takes measurements of alcohol and density levels, to monitor the fermentation progress. Oh, and of course, I get to taste the juice when it first comes in and at every stage along the way. It's remarkable to be able to taste the individual character of the grapes from different vineyards- some taste spicy, of green pepper and chives and others of cherries and ripe fruit- and how much they change as the sugar ferments along the way.
Once maceration is complete, they are shoveled out by an elderly native who has taken a liking to me, calling me at turns 'Louise' and 'la belle Americaine," who is usually macerated himself. HE descends, naked cept for his grey astro suit-pants and a fork, into the 15 foot tank with little fear of the oh so toxic CO2 that makes him even more ridiculous than usual. I take it he's developed an immunity, because I get woozy when I'm up there with a hose for twenty minutes and have to sort of lean over the edge for fresh air. In any case, the grapes are shoveled through the porthole into a Dr. Seussian looking machine which involves a stainless steel basin which pushes the must aside into a tube by virtue of a giant screw, then pumps them vertically through the tube making absolutely desgusting noises as they go. It spurts, sputters and heaves as it goes and my job throughout this process is to physically prevent the machine from leaving the premises. The intense heat emenating from the tiny porthole of the tank and the fumes of gas are incredible.
Being such a small production with old and constantly broken equipment, this harvest has seen a series of small crises. V. alludes constantly to other career options and reasons he may sell the business, which his family has owned for hundreds of years. Some examples involve u-boat leakage scenarios from the doors of tanks, pipes that don't reach from one place to the next, a broken pressoir, and a contamination of grapes which reeked of rubbing alcohol. The solutions to these problems are primitive, labor intensive and infurating to Vincent, but pretty much fun for me to witness and help to solve: carring five tons of grapes in bins from one place to the next, fishing out contaminated grapes.
Also intersting to observe have been Vincent's highly dramatic relationship to the co-op in Bully who for some reason this year refuse to buy his grapes, his refusal to age anything in Oak, and the fascinating politics of the A.O.C appelations.
There is also the matter of how colorful the family is. Up until a dramatic denoument after only a week here, at which point I was no longer comfortable working with V., I was thoroughly enjoying my status as the designated cellar rat and first mate to the winemaker. But the rest of the family and the locals who help out with harvest are wonderful. The food is incredible and all lovingly prepared by V.'s mother, Colette. For lunch and dinner there are always four courses- starting with a soup made entirely from vegetables in her garden, usually just a simple soup of leeks, celery and carrots blended with one of those plastic blending wands right over the stove. Then comes some kind of salad, followed by meat and some kind of other vegetable. After the main courses, apples and peaches and other fruit from trees on the property are passed around along with several cheeses. Sometimes there is even dessert on top of that. It's just unreal.
I could go into even more detail about the family and lots of funny vignettes about them, but I should probably quit while I'm ahead as this is already obscenely long. When I next write, It will be to tell you about where I've relocated to after the event which I cryptically alluded to above...
I'll leave you with an example of how beautiful it is here:
With love,
Lise
My good intentions to keep those at home up to date on my exploits via the interwebs were clearly optimistic, as I have very little time to myself and even less on the computer. Today marks just a bit over a week in la belle France and much has befallen me since then. I reckon I'll just write when I can and chronology be damned- sorry if anyone actually intends to read and make sense of this stuff.
(To your right, you can see the stack of bottled but unmarked wine that is at our disposal in the caves. It's not for sale, just for the family and workers. We go through about ten bottles a day without so much as making a dent. It varies significantly from bottle to bottle but is consistently refreshing and light.)
The day I arrived and my first day of work went relatively well. In spite of only a few hours sleep and twice as many going from train to train as I made my way from the aeroport to Gare l'Abresle, I was in high spirits. Gazing out the window of the train and alert for any early sign that this trip was a good idea after all, I was encouraged by the sight of a pack of tweed-clad geezers. They were ranging an open field (with no game in sight,) rifles tossed cockily over their shoulders and beagles weaving inbetween their legs. The banlieues of Paris were visible in the backround. I had passed the duration of my overnight flight to Paris fretting over the question of what I expected to achieve this year. Was my impulse for adventure merely a foil for a more urgent developmental deficiency? The kooks in suits made feel no less Quixotic, but at least here was a sign that I wasn't alone.
One week in, I can report that so far I thoroughly enjoy the work of a winery in the full throes of harvest. I was warned by the other volunteers that the picking would break me, but on day two I found that the scenery was so beautiful and the excitement of picking grapes by hand, delivering the precious cargo to the tanks to undergo maceration is actually really fun for me. Within a few days I had shown enough interest (and maybe asked enough involved, nerdy questions about the winemaking process) that the winemaker and proprietor here invited me to work with him in the cellar in the afternoons, and some mornings while the others were picking.
For those who care, here are some interesting particulars about the wine and the process here at D.C. The grapes, all Gamay of course, are organic- bio. This means that as we sweep the fields in groups- the volunteers tend to be slow and whiny while the native and profession vendagers are hyper efficient and boisterous- we're constantly tripping over weeds and flicking slugs, snails and spiders off of the bunches. This year's yield has suffered due to too much rain, but not the quality of the grapes, Vincent assures me.
Once picked, the grapes are driven immediately to the caves, where we drop they by hand into the tank from a window above. It is an oddity of Beaujoulais wine that the grapes are not separated from the stems and thank goodness- as I'm sure we'd be doing it by hand. No doubt this level of detail is boring, but having only seen very modern and well endowed wineries in California I think it's fascinating- so indulge me as I explain this process. The tractor, bed full of bins of grapes, is pulled up alongside the outside of the cave. We stack large plastic bins on the tractor and lay a wooden board across the top to stand on, then hand up the bins (which must weigh about sixty pounds each) up to two people standing in the windowsill. The bins are tipped directly into the tank, afterwhich one or two people disinfects and stops around a bit to start the juice running and even out the mountain of grapes within the tank.
The grapes are left alone to undergo carbonic maceration for about five days for the Nouveau. (due to this years poor yield, D.C. will only make Nouveau this year- it's a pity.) Once or twice I day I get to do the pumpovers- or pump juice from the bottom of the tank back over the grapes from the top to allow more extraction of pigment and tannins from the skins. This is a twenty minute process per tank. I also get to tag alongside V. as he takes measurements of alcohol and density levels, to monitor the fermentation progress. Oh, and of course, I get to taste the juice when it first comes in and at every stage along the way. It's remarkable to be able to taste the individual character of the grapes from different vineyards- some taste spicy, of green pepper and chives and others of cherries and ripe fruit- and how much they change as the sugar ferments along the way.
Once maceration is complete, they are shoveled out by an elderly native who has taken a liking to me, calling me at turns 'Louise' and 'la belle Americaine," who is usually macerated himself. HE descends, naked cept for his grey astro suit-pants and a fork, into the 15 foot tank with little fear of the oh so toxic CO2 that makes him even more ridiculous than usual. I take it he's developed an immunity, because I get woozy when I'm up there with a hose for twenty minutes and have to sort of lean over the edge for fresh air. In any case, the grapes are shoveled through the porthole into a Dr. Seussian looking machine which involves a stainless steel basin which pushes the must aside into a tube by virtue of a giant screw, then pumps them vertically through the tube making absolutely desgusting noises as they go. It spurts, sputters and heaves as it goes and my job throughout this process is to physically prevent the machine from leaving the premises. The intense heat emenating from the tiny porthole of the tank and the fumes of gas are incredible.
Being such a small production with old and constantly broken equipment, this harvest has seen a series of small crises. V. alludes constantly to other career options and reasons he may sell the business, which his family has owned for hundreds of years. Some examples involve u-boat leakage scenarios from the doors of tanks, pipes that don't reach from one place to the next, a broken pressoir, and a contamination of grapes which reeked of rubbing alcohol. The solutions to these problems are primitive, labor intensive and infurating to Vincent, but pretty much fun for me to witness and help to solve: carring five tons of grapes in bins from one place to the next, fishing out contaminated grapes.
Also intersting to observe have been Vincent's highly dramatic relationship to the co-op in Bully who for some reason this year refuse to buy his grapes, his refusal to age anything in Oak, and the fascinating politics of the A.O.C appelations.
There is also the matter of how colorful the family is. Up until a dramatic denoument after only a week here, at which point I was no longer comfortable working with V., I was thoroughly enjoying my status as the designated cellar rat and first mate to the winemaker. But the rest of the family and the locals who help out with harvest are wonderful. The food is incredible and all lovingly prepared by V.'s mother, Colette. For lunch and dinner there are always four courses- starting with a soup made entirely from vegetables in her garden, usually just a simple soup of leeks, celery and carrots blended with one of those plastic blending wands right over the stove. Then comes some kind of salad, followed by meat and some kind of other vegetable. After the main courses, apples and peaches and other fruit from trees on the property are passed around along with several cheeses. Sometimes there is even dessert on top of that. It's just unreal.
I could go into even more detail about the family and lots of funny vignettes about them, but I should probably quit while I'm ahead as this is already obscenely long. When I next write, It will be to tell you about where I've relocated to after the event which I cryptically alluded to above...
I'll leave you with an example of how beautiful it is here:
With love,
Lise
05 October, 2008
23 August, 2008
Allez to plan Z
After more than a few false starts (plans A-Y) I'm leaving Northampton behind and hitting the high seas.
This is where I will chronicle some of my adventures and follies in the coming year. As I'll be in fairly remote locations with intermittent access to the internet, I suspect this will be the best way to keep folk in the loop - friends, loved ones and rubberneckers alike.
On September 26th, I'll make my way towards France where I'll start off on a small farm in Belle-Île. In the 'department' of Morbihan, it is famous for goofy Breton dialects, sardines, dense confections full of butter with crunchy flecks of sea salt, and hard cider. Needless to say, I'm in it for more than hard labor and language immersion.
In case anyone is interested, the ad I responded to appears below:
This is where I will chronicle some of my adventures and follies in the coming year. As I'll be in fairly remote locations with intermittent access to the internet, I suspect this will be the best way to keep folk in the loop - friends, loved ones and rubberneckers alike.
On September 26th, I'll make my way towards France where I'll start off on a small farm in Belle-Île. In the 'department' of Morbihan, it is famous for goofy Breton dialects, sardines, dense confections full of butter with crunchy flecks of sea salt, and hard cider. Needless to say, I'm in it for more than hard labor and language immersion.
In case anyone is interested, the ad I responded to appears below:
| LA FORGE AUX TROLLS | |
| Kerourde | |
| 56360 Bangor | |
| - | |
| Description: Nous souhaitons participation enthousiaste et énergique pour : potager, plantation haies et arbres, construction en bois et rénovation en matériau écologique et aux diverses activités du lieu. Sur place boulangerie, épicerie biologique. So there you have it. Enthusiasm: check. Energy: on the upswing and especially for vegetable gardens, woodworking, renovation and bread baking: check^6. That's all she wrote as far as planning goes. I can't say for sure how long I'll stay in France or Europe at large. The plan is to experience as much language/traveling/baking/farming/ experience as humanly possible on a shoestring. | |
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