November 29, 2005

The Wheel continues turning...

-a plate of Risotto St. Jacques covered with white truffles

-a glass of good Champagne, or two

-conversation & friendship

-a pilgrim's walk along the Chemin

-a very good birthday indeed!

November 25, 2005

Saint Catherine's wheel turning

Tim Clinch on the job

As a 'Catherine' in more ways than one, I celebrate this remembrance day in a typically French way, by planting something. "Tout bois prend racine !" All wood takes root as I celebrate my name day by planting the seeds of a new project: a beginner's book of my France, an ABC of Gascony, and a primer for Terroir 101. A is for Armagnac. In these vanilla-scented old oak barrels, 400 liters of 15-35 year old eau-de-vie rests, evaporates, ages, colors and transform from a young virile hot brandy to a mature worldly bon vivant. This is part of the mythology of armagnac.

From grape juice to wine to brandy to nectar of the angels, it is in the cellar barns or chais of Gascony's modest farms that armagnac makes a slow transformation from a rustic Gascon moonshine to a world class liquor. This week, my good friend Tim Clinch, fab photographer and bon vivant himself, joined me for a romp across the Tenereze, the northern part of the Armagnac producing area and closest to home. We inhaled, tasted and swallowed, then tried to make little indulgent excuses to hide our delight in discovering that our favorite armagnac, hands down, was that of old Dubourdieu and his shambles of a farm.

Like the part des anges, the ephemeral alcohol evaporation that colors the stone walls, beams and even the roof tiles black with a drunken fungus, both Monsieur and Madame D. passed on this year. What they leave behind for their grown son to continue is as folkloric as the Dogpatch barnyard and kitchen at the end of a dirt road. Outside barrels rest against the barn, under a piece of galvanized tin, in the middle of the chicken run; Five-litre bottles with just a small tag reading 15 ans- 15 years, fill a wooden produce box next to the door; There are fifty bottles on the table of every size imaginable; more bottles are under the buffet, on the floor and climbing a staircase to heaven of old cardboard boxes. The fragrant chaos gets us giggling and we can barely nod oui as Pia serves us a generous pour of deep amber into simple brandy glasses. It was a cold late November day until the chill evaporated along with the part des anges. I learn the beginnings of terroir as I drink the earthy eau-de-vie and taste Gascony on my tongue. A is for Armagnac.