A Wine Amateur in France

Contributed by Jana Llewellyn

When my husband and I decided to book a trip to France last February, our main goal was to take in the country while sipping delectable and plentiful French wine, whether we were in Paris or the Burgundy region. I had come a long way in my wine journey—all the way from the fruitiest Arbor Mist in my wine-drinking infancy stage, to an interest in somewhat more complex flavors at a reasonable price. Having never been to France, I hoped my husband and I would fit right into the wine-sipping culture of the bistros and brasseries we’d heard so much about. We had heard that the French drink wine during lunch and dinner; that bottles cost only as much as soda or a jug of iced tea here in the States, and—perhaps the silliest of all—that wine gushes out of fountains in the center of Paris. Of course we didn’t believe this last rumor, but it was enough to convince us that we were in for a luxurious and relaxing trip. Among our more pessimistic expectations was the rumor of the snooty French, who we thought would sneer at our paltry attempts to speak their language, even though we had practiced "bonjour," and "Deux verres de vin rouge, s'il vous plaît," for a month or more. Through what I hoped to be a wine-induced haze, we wouldn’t be able to see their narrowed eyes, nor understand any whispered French insults.

But the people of France—or waiters, rather, because most of our interactions took place in restaurants—were nothing but pleasant. It was tourist season in early August, and while through the streets we heard an amalgam of languages, from French, to German, to Spanish, to American English, to English with a British accent. The waiters seemed accustomed to their language being butchered, and as long as I could point to the food I wanted, we were in good shape. Our first visit was to Café de la Pais, a popular place near Notre Dame. In this first experience of a French café, I noticed that instead of wine, Diet Cokes were being ordered all around me. I was the only one I could see who had a glass of whatever white wine the waiter thought sufficient for my general request. We were duped—the French didn’t appear to drink wine at lunch, as I thought, or if they did, they did it in the comfort of their own homes. Or was everyone American? In the afternoon at Café Madeleine, near our hotel, people casually stopped in to read the paper and have a drink—again, a Coke. I observed my fellow diners with furrowed brow, a glass of Bordeaux in one hand, a handful of the potato chips the waiter had brought for us to snack on in the other. Nowhere was I seeing the vast wine consumption, the wine pouring out of fountains into the eager mouths of Frenchmen, women, and children like I was promised. Yet I dutifully and delightedly ordered a glass with lunch and a bottle for dinner, even if, on our last night, it happened to be from Australia.

Beaune, however, in the Burgundy region (Bourgogne, in French) was a different story. Still no fountains, but definitely an emphasis in restaurants on the local wines, as well as a smattering of wine bars, caves, and even a wine school. Two of the wine highlights were our visit to a popular underground cave/museum called Le Marche aux Vins, and our education at Sensation Vin Wine School. Le Marche aux Vins is a historic cave where wine has been maturing for ages in large wooden barrels. For five euros, we were able to tour the underground medieval cave and sip wines using our souvenir metal cup (which as you might have guessed, does give wine a more metallic flavor.) Every few feet were more local wines to try as well as audio commentaries on the cave; there was even a display of a centuries-old stone coffin that served as a sanctuary during the plague that hit Beaune in the middle ages. At the end of the tour, of course, was a collection of wines we had tasted and some we hadn’t for us to peruse and buy with the help of a sommelier. We got one rich red—Sauvigny-Les Beaune (1999)—and a few bottles of Hospices de Dijon, a 1999 chardonnay we had enjoyed the night before at a local restaurant called Le Gourmandin, where my husband pursued my dare to eat the stinkiest, and apparently, foulest, cheese one might ever come in contact with.

Our next, and last, big wine experience was at a wine school called Sensation Vin. For 20 euros, we could sit at a wine bar, learn about and drink Burgundy wines, which are more often white than red, we were told.

Once comfortably seated, our wine teacher, Celine, showed us a Powerpoint presentation about Burgundy wines. Each wine, she explained, comes from a different region, village, premier cru, or grand cru. All of this information was a little overwhelming and fast for two vacationing Americans. We looked at the presentation, smiled, and nodded dumbly. When her last slide was complete, Celine took a bottle from the shelf behind us, placed it on the bar in front of us, and asked us whether it was a region, village, or cru.

We looked at each other, speechless. "Huh?"

We hadn’t realized there would be a test, and she was a stickler for making sure we learned how to read these bottles. Because they were in French, and because we didn’t know the crash course was going to count, she had to go over all of it again. When we finally achieved what would probably be considered a "C" in our verbal answers, she poured the first wine for us to sip. We were excited to finally try wines from varying villages and crus, only, with the exception of a tasting at a small wine vineyard in Connecticut, we were virgins to the sipping, swirling, and spitting wine world. We had definitely never discussed the notes and aromas in a glass of wine before, except for the jokes we made about the descriptions on the backs of wine bottles. First, Celine taught, we had to swirl the wine to unlock the aroma; then we were to put our noses in the glass and say what we smelled.

"It smells a little like…oil?" My husband ventured.

"Uh, no. Try again."

"Pear?" I offered.

"Yes, I smell some pear, some fresh greens…. Now, let’s taste."

I watched as Celine swished the wine in her delicate cheeks and breathed in some air. I also tried this, careful not to let any wine drip down my chin. We all looked at each other wide-eyed and with pursed lips. Finally, she spit.

"How would you describe the taste of this wine?"

"Maybe a little like…beef?" My husband said.

Celine laughed. "Maybe you would drink it with meat, but I don’t think it tastes quite like meat."

I swallowed."It’s earthy, and rich. Maybe some notes of chocolate?"

"Yes, I would agree."

Even though my husband is the cook in our household, I was scoring big points with Celine. Fortunately, she seemed to find our wine immaturity endearing rather than frustrating, and she laughed with us at our wonderment about articulating the flavors, aromas, and assessment of tannin in each of the wines. Out of the four wines, we tried two white and two red, ranging from regional to Grand Cru, as well as a black cherry dessert wine for the finale. We left with one crisp white (similar to a sauvignon blanc) from a small village in the Cote-d’Or region of France, Saint-Romain, Sous Le Chateau, 2004, which we had agreed would go well with salad or a light fish dish, and a black cherry liqueur called Baccate de Mure, made and bottled in Beaune.

While I might still consider myself a wine amateur, my trip to France has definitely been an enlightening experience on my journey to becoming a somewhat more knowledgeable critic of wine, beyond a basic assessment of like and dislike. I learned that the French don’t drink wine like water, but rather respect it as an important complement to a good meal. And while I’m a fairly thrifty wine buyer, I won’t forget Celine’s lesson to swirl, sniff, swish, discuss, and even laugh a little before enjoying that full glass of wine, French or not.

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Jana Llewellyn is the author of the blog A Reader of Discriminating Taste.

Comments

[Katy Budge]

This brought back fond memories of my too-distant trip to France. I had the same experience with waiters, and with most of the French people; if you make an honest effort to communicate and treat people with respect, you'll usually get that in return. Besides that, wine and food are great common denominators!

[Darby Higgs]

Yes Katy, the secret to communicating with French people is making an effort and treating people who you deal with respectfully.

I have made several trips to France (I'm Australian) but I have rarely encountered the rumoured arrogance of French people. What I have witnessed though on many occasions is Americans getting themselves into difficulties with waiters, hotel staff and retailers.

It's not really the language or the accent that is the problem. The real cultural gap is in the tone of interactions and the body language. Americans seem to treat anyone who they are buying something from as menials, not consciously I'm sure but it is a subliminal message. It's not a matter of rudeness it is just the way business is done in America. Between French people the transactions are much more egalitarian and formal.

So when you go into a shop smaller than a supermarket you should always say Bonjour Monsieur, or Bonjour Madame... then tell them what you want. After I discovered this trick I found communication was so much easier.

Don't worry too much about the words, most communication is nonverbal. If you find you have ordered a peach instead of a fish or vice versa don't worry, it's part of the fun of travelling.

[N.Smay]

Loved the descriptions of your husband venturing guesses as to the aromas and flavors in the wine you were tasting! My own husband always falls back on "barnyard" or "mousenest" after seeing those terms on the aroma wheel. I've gotten over thinking it embarassing.

But I'm not surprised that you scored better -- women often have more sensitive palates! Thanks for a fun read!