A beer and a magic carpet ride?
...all in a day's work.
Don’t make a fuss, just get on the bus. 28 hours down, 5 to go, give or take. It’s off to work for a while, a tasting with 30-ish producers from the Roussillon, followed by a dinner featuring a menu of Catalan dishes. Despite my glassy-eyed, just-wanna-go-to-sleep state, I’m excited, looking forward to exploring some new wines and satisfying my by-now raging hunger with Mediterranean flavors. Not to mention getting started on the home stretch, at the other end of which waits the big prize: sleep.
The second (or third, or fourth) wind is holding up well, though. Earlier, arriving at the hotel, I follow the tried and true routine: resist at all costs the overwhelming desire to get horizontal for a while, instead put on the running shoes and head out for a half an hour. An insult to the system, every footstrike feeling just plain wrong and requiring an effort of will – but that pays dividends once you’re done. Lungs cleansed with fresh air, blood nicely shaken (not stirred), it never fails to set me right. A quick shower to wash off all the airport juju and I’m good as new, sort of.
Out into the sun for a stroll to the Place de la Comédie to meet my comrades du jour, David, a wine writer from Austin, Andrew a sommelier from New York City(who over the next several days mysteriously becomes “Anthony” at odd intervals), and Jack, an importer from New Orleans, for a quick beer. Sitting in a café, outdoors in the late winter sun, who knew a mere Heineken could taste so damned good? Soon, the beers are replaced by a nice bottle of Domaine l’Hortus, from the nearby Pic St. Loup appellation, which just serves to underscore the sense or having arrived here. We drink and talk, the conversation ranging from Robert Parker (including indictments on what Bob hath wrought, and apologia for Bob the man) to Andrew’s tales of epic bottles, to politics. Jack saves the day, with a mention of fly fishing. Soon, we’re swapping stories of our favorite rivers, leaving the other two to run laps around the same old, same old wine guy track.
Later, acceptably cleaned-up for dinner, it’s on the buses with the rest of the Sud de France invitées, a interesting assortment of Russian, American, Chinese, Korean, Swedish, Polish, Japanese and Canadian wine importers, restaurateurs, retailers, distributors and writers, all similarly jet-lagged and slightly dazed. Off to the Maison des Vins de Languedoc for the Roussillon soirée, effectively a warm-up for the coming three days’ work.
The wines are quite good, for the most part, although just a few strike the sort of resonant chord that inspires poetry or purchase orders. Many have a Walla Walla or Red Mountain-esque ripeness that would undoubtedly play well back in the ‘hood, although with these wines, the sun’s sings in harmony with a counterpoint of firm acidity, the refreshing voice of Mediterranean breezes. As I taste, among the riper, more extracted wines I note another striking similarity to the fruits of Washington’s hallowed wine grounds – price, as in not at all timid, and seemingly directly proportionate to the level of extraction and/or oak aging. Wines that, as Randall Grahm once aptly put it, qui se Parkeriser très facilement. Indeed. The tariffs are perhaps not quite as dear as the back home, but relative to rest of the Languedoc, rather bold. Hmmmm.
The best of them are a dream. A Catalan reverie, a carrefour, a crossroad, a rond-point where sun, mountain, sea and centuries of tradition meet, merge and send palate and soul on a journey – à toutes directions! With food, they’re a revelation. And did we say food? There’s charcuterie – saucisses, jambon; cheese – lovely sheep’s milk and rustic cow’s milk cheeses; fruits de mer – oysters, shrimp, and best of all, fresh white anchovies spiced four different ways. An amazing daube (stew) of veal, olives and herbs is amazing with both a dry, spicy, deeply colored rosé and with a heady red, built on a sturdy, rather sauvage foundation of old vine carignan. Combined, they’re an alliance that’s seems made in heaven, this particular piece of heaven’s real estate, at any rate.
They also provide a soporific magic carpet ride. Just a drop of lovely Muscat de Rivesaltes as an exclamation point (or an ellipse?) and I’m hotel-bound. Sleep beckons enticingly, and there’s work to do tomorrow. It’s been a fine day.