In the gastronomic jigsaw of Gascony, travel writer John M. Edwards goes prospecting for the amber eau-de-vie Armagnac while housesitting a 15th-century farmhouse.
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To be initiated as a real Gascon by my neighbor, an amateur Armagnac producer wearing the region’s signature set of yellow-mud-covered Wellingtons and a classic beret-basque, I had to chug a glass of “white” (unaged) Armagnac under the stout man’s supercilious gaze.
“Bon! Maintenant, monsieur!”
“Down the hatch!”
“Chin-Chin!”
By the time I understood why he was making the sound of a toast without a glass in his hand it was too late. Tout de suite I was speechless with fright. Coughing and spluttering, I scrunched up my face and managed amerci, lips forming a painful pout, and felt hot tears shaming down my cheeks.
Since I was housesitting a 15th-century farmhouse with a view of the snow-capped Pyrenees for three months, I thought I’d become an expert on an eau-de-vie (brandy) that’s a lesser-known rival to Cognac.
The French département Gers, which includes the romancing region of historical Armagnac, lies between Bordeaux and Toulouse. It’s a rural area that’s so undeniably French that it’s surprising to learn that the Gascons fought on the British side during the Hundred Years War. Gers’s rolling tapestry of farmland and vineyards punctuated by fortified towns called bastides and castelnaux make it seem as though the area is contented to exist back in the Dark Ages, but with electricity.
Driving along the “Routes de Bastides et des Castelnaux” in my rented Renault time machine with a patina of yellow dust on the chassis, I landed upon Larrressingle, the so-called Carcassonne du Gers, which is small enough for me to bring my own picnic inside. It is also the name of my favorite commercial Armagnac.
The wine in Gers is excellent. AOC Madiran, VDQS Côte de St. Mont, and the whimsical white “Pacherenc du Vic Bilh” are the standouts. But the gist of the region is its brandy Armagnac.
There are three Armagnac appellations: Haute-Armagnac (center: Auch), Bas-Armagnac (center: Eauze), and Tenareze (center: Condom). For obvious reasons, Condom is a popular place to buy postcards to amuse your friends back home. But Bas-Armagnac is considered the best.
Feeling like a medieval alchemist seeking elixirs for eternal life, I spent a day at Auch’s Museé de Armagnac, nosing around like Nostradamus. This was serious.
Gascons learned the art of distillation from the Arabs. Unlike Cognac, which is distilled twice, Armagnac goes through the alembic (from the Arabic “el embic”) only once. The grapes generally are white Folle Blanche, Ugni Blanc, Colombard, and—my favorite—Bacco 22A, which, for an experienced oenophile (wino) like myself, is easy to segregate in the glass. The strange flavor comes from the new oak casks in which it is aged (but in the bottle it remains stationary in time and space).
During a dégustation, I was “instructed” (white lie) to cup the glass and swirl it to release the aromas, leaving behind long golden Midas tears streaming down the edges. If you really mean business, do as the locals do and pour some eau-de-vie into your palms like eau-de-cologne, rub them, and sniff them.
With so many brands of Southwest brandy to choose from, here is a guide to help;
VS = 2 years minimum in cask.
VSOP + Reserve = 5 yrs min.
XO + Napoleon = 6 yrs min.
Hors d’Age = 10 yrs plus.
Also worth trying is a regional specialty drink called Pousse Rapier (Thrust of the Rapier), an orange-based liqueur mixed with Armagnac and served with Champagne or white wine and crushed orange and ice in a glass. This is a nod to favorite son Charles de Batz, the real–life D’Artagnan immortalized in Alexander Dumas’s The Three Musketeers. In Auch, beneath the Cathedral de Sainte Marie and the 14th-century Tour d’Armagnac, the Escalier Monumentale’s 232 steps lead up to a statue of this famous Fourth Musketeer.
Last but not least, there is Floc d’Armagnac, a cheap local aperitif made from crushed grapes and Armagnac. From the wheel of my Renault I came to believe that this is a favorite of local truck drivers.
I agree with France, if you’re that scared to eat unpasteurized Camembert, go shop at a new deli.
At last I fell into a local Fête de Chausseurs (Hunter’s Feast), an event liberally garnished with Gascon hunters brandishing rifles and aromatic Gitanes, featuring the following accentless menu:
Garbure
Assiette composee fruits de mer
Truite sauce Champagne
Civet de chevreuil
Roti de chevreuil
Legumes
Salade
Foret noire
Cafe
Armagnac
You don’t have to consult Escouffier’s or delve into a Larousse dictionary to divine the gist: a meal of more than six courses, including a thick soup (drowning in duck confit), a whole trout, and two deer dishes, accompanied by wine and several Armagnacs.
Between courses I breathed “beaucoup” and “trop,” waving my fork in a feeble attempt to ward off food. Which adds new meaning toamuses bouches (happy mouths?) and amuses gueules (happy faces?)—small gourmet bonbons to induce evacuation, Roman- style.
The only other people who spoke English at the fete were an Irish Earl, renovating an 18th-century chateau down the street (his ancestor was the Viceroy of India), and his wife who handed me a business card: “Comtesse de ____.” (The Countess dabbled in real estate, including small chateaux, which she assured me were not too dear.)
Though I could have splashed out at master chef Andre Daguin’s Hotel de France in Auch, whom I believe discovered “magret de canard,” or chef Coscuella’s Le Ripa Alta in Plaisance (both recipients of Michelin rosettes), I found the rustic moveable fete to be a good way to finalize my plans for eventually buying a farmhouse here and acting like Ernest Hemingway avoiding gainful employment.
However, my book proposal Three Months in Gascony, sounded derivative and unsaleable, so I chucked it in the poubelle and poured myself a delicious glass of amber Sempé from nearby Aignan, the former capital of Armagnac.
Finally, I found myself at a surreal vineyard across the borderlands, which felt like intruding over an Asterix comic battlefield, owned by none other than actor Larry Hagman, J.R. on “Dallas” and Tony Nelson on “I Dream of Jeannie.”
I was rubbing a bottle of one of the best Bas-Armagnacs, waiting for a harem babe with a golden-fleece veil to pop out. My search for the ultimate amber after-dinner drink verily had classical proportions, shades of The Arabian Nights and Jason and the Argonauts. I fancied myself both Shwimbad the Sailor and Johnny and the Armagnacs. I had found my finale, closure.
“J.R. is back in the U.S.,” one of Hagman’s elegant leggy assistants joked. “But we’ll tell him you stopped by for a drink!”
© 2010, John M. Edwards
John M. Edwards has traveled worldwide. His work has appeared in numerous publications including CNN Traveller, Missouri Review, Salon.com, Islands, Escape, Endless Vacation, Michigan Quarterly Review and North American Review. He has won a NATJA (North American Travel Journalists Association) Award, a TANEC (Transitions Abroad Narrative Essay Contest) Award, a Bradt Independent on Sunday Award, and a Solas Award (sponsored by Travelers’ Tales). He lives in New York City. He is editor-in-chief of the forthcoming Rotten Vacations.