For several years now the Burgundy Bourgogne Wine Board (BIVB) has been pleading with requesting those in the wine trade and journalists to refer to the wines produced in the Burgundy region as Bourgogne wines.

Personally, when writing and speaking in English, I have trouble thinking of the wines made in the 74,000-acre patchwork of the Burgundy winegrowing region as anything but Burgundies, unless I’m drinking Chablis, which I think of as Chablis even though its vines are firmly rooted in Burgundy, or Beaujolais, which is the wine equivalent of a dog that wants to be both inside and out.

Nevertheless, I share with you the latest plea from Burgundy, dated March 16, 2021, before commenting further below:

In 2012, on the request of its elected representatives, the Bourgogne Wine Board (BIVB) decided to stop translating the word “Bourgogne”, whatever the country. The aim is to help consumers find their way by ensuring coherence between our wine labels and the name of the region where the wines were created.

Bourgogne wines enjoy a strong global reputation with half of all Bourgogne wines produced being sold at export to around 170 territories. However, the farther the consumer lives from France, the more they struggle to understand our appellation system. They can get their bearings thanks to the wine’s origins, which is the name of this winegrowing region. It is therefore essential to use only one powerful name, a synonym for excellence and the respect for origins: Bourgogne.

Historically, Bourgogne is the only wine-producing region in France whose name is translated into different languages: “Burgundy” for English speakers, “Burgund” for Germans, “Borgogna” in Italian, to name but a few. This dates back to ancient times when the region was established as a crossroads for trade between the north and south and the east and west of Europe, as it still is today.

As such, Bourgogne wine producers and fans find themselves caught up in something of a paradox. The 200 million bottles of Bourgogne wine sold every year have the word “Bourgogne” on their label, either due to their appellation, which might be Bourgogne, Crémant de Bourgogne, Bourgogne Aligoté, and so on, or because they are a “Vin de Bourgogne” or a “Grand Vin de Bourgogne.” But consumers can find them amongst a range referred to Burgundy, Burgund, or Borgogna…

Confusing, to say the least.

“We felt it necessary to return to our original name, Bourgogne, in order to affirm our true identity, in a unified and collective way,” explains François Labet, President of the BIVB. “I’d say that our appellations are like our forenames, which makes Bourgogne our family name. A name that unites us all with our shared values embracing all the diversity of our wines. You don’t translate a family name!”

As they say in Beaujolais: Yes and no.

Yes, the historic region and former administrative region of Burgundy is called Bourgogne in French, as is the winegrowing portion of that region. But with all due to respect to this beautiful territory and the complexities of its mono-varietal wines and its terroirs and climats, it’s disingenuous to say that the wines made in the region that English-speakers call Burgundy should be called Bourgognes just as, say, the wines made in Champagne are called Champagnes. While Champagne the region and Champagne the wine are spelled the same way in English, Champagne’s pronunciations in English and French are as different from each other as Burgundy is from Bourgogne.

Would the BIVB also now have all non-French-speakers refer to the region itself as Bourgogne so as to complete the linguistic-territorial wine-pairing? If so, I look forward to their fight with tourist and government officials who are still keen on inviting English-speaking visitors to “Love France, Adore Burgundy,” to quote a slogan of the regional tourist board. Perhaps one day Burgundians will unify in imploring the world to call the region Bourgogne, but in a sense the region itself has somewhat faded on the map; Burgundy/Bourgogne no longer exists in the administrative way that it did when the BIVB first stopped translating Bourgogne. France’s territorial reform law of 2014 forced Burgundy/Bourgogne to marry its lesser-known (and also largely pinot-noir- and chardonnay-producing) neighbor to the east, creating Bourgogne-Franche-Comté.

Of course, it isn’t for historic or administrative reasons that the BIVB requests that we refer to their wines as Bourgognes but for the very contemporary, exported-minded reason of distinguishing their wines on the international wine market. The effect of decades of abuse of the term burgundy to refer to Burgundy-style New-World wines still lingers in major export markets, so insisting on Bourgogne is a way of appearing inimitable as well as uniquely French. Champagne producers fought long, hard and for the most part successfully to uphold the proprietary distinctiveness of their evocative name. Bourgogne producers are now looking to assert their particularity by gently pushing professionals and consumers to adopt the singularity of their geographical indicator as written in French.

For now, calling the wines produced in Burgundy’s winegrowing region “Bourgognes” sounds a bit pretentious in English. Admittedly, positioning the wines of Burgundy as products of quality on the world market could well call for an affected pronunciation. The “bourgignon” in beef bourgignon (aka beef burgundy or boeuf bourgignon) gives beef stew braised in red wine added value to a rustic dish. (The true snob would feel the need to prove to guests that the red wine in the dish was a Burgundy/Bourgogne.) With time, “I’d like a good red (or white) Bourgogne, please” may sound less affected, just as we eventually cozied up to Beijing as a closer approximation in speech and spelling to the name of the Chinese capital than Peking, though we still call the imperial fowl with the crispy skin “Peking duck.” But I digress.

If producers in Burgundy want us to call their wines Bourgognes then I’m willing to make an effort—it’s no skin off my grape—but without promising anything. I won’t try to sway you one way or another, though. But here’s some wine advice: If you’re going to order a “Bourgogne,” it better be good one—otherwise an ordinary Burgundy will do.

© 2021, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Bourgogne: A Burgundy by Any Other Name Would Be Just as Terroir appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

STOPPING BY VINES ON A SUNNY MORNING

Whose vines these are I think I know.
His cellar’s in the village though;
He will not mind this makeshift bar
To share with Claire an apéro*.

Our Giant bikes could take us far
Yet stop beside this great terroir
Between high woods and valley ring
Where ripen grapes pinot noir.

Our glasses make a little ping
To toast this Burgundy cycling.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and her laughing.

The vines are lovely, green and deep,
But we’ve got a schedule to keep,
Four miles to lunch though not too steep,
Four miles to lunch though not too steep.

*Apéro is an informal way of saying apéritif in French.

© 2020, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Biking in Burgundy: Stopping by Vines on a Sunny Morning (Video) appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

So here is one way to re-raise the culinary bar with a summer sandwich recipe.

The ingredients
1. A traditional baguette, up to one half per person.
2. Comté cheese aged 18 months, 100-150 grams (3.5-5.3 ounces) per person.
3. Mustard with truffles, up to one teaspoonful, to taste, per person.

The traditional baguette

Formally called une baguette de tradition française, un pain traditionnel français, or un pain traditionnel [de France], and colloquially known as une tradition [s’il vous plait], the make-up of a traditional baguette is defined by a governmental decree of 1993. It must contain only wheat flour, water and salt, along with yeast, with tolerance for very limited amounts of other flours. Plenty of other delicious breads, including non-traditional baguettes and other loaves may also be tried with this recipe if you don’t have a baker of excellent traditional baguettes nearby. However, a traditional baguette is best.

While the proper portion of tender crumb (mie) to cracking crust (croûte) is important for any baguette, I prefer for this recipe a traditional baguette on the slightly white (blanche, meaning less baked) side of the spectrum, as opposed to the crustier more baked (cuite) version. In any case, it should remain within the mid-range, neither too blanche nor too cuite. It is essential that the baguette not be over 3 hours old, otherwise toasting in required. If there are several bread bakers within reach of your grocery rounds, it’s advisable to decide upon the best maker of traditional baguettes before attempting this recipe. Your stick of bread should also be kindly served at the bakery; a fine-looking baguette from an unkind seller may contain traces of bad karma. (Within my shopping radius, the prize baguette is found at 58 rue de Lancry in the 10th arrondissement.)

A single baguette feeds two for an adult’s lunch where this sandwich is the principal “dish.” For those who like figures, count two-fifths to four-ninths of a baguette per sandwich. That leaves a small portion which may have already been eaten on the way from the bakery anyway.

The cheese

This recipe calls for a semi-hard raw-milk cow cheese with a sharpness that is present yet not overly pronounced. My preference is for a Comté cheese aged 18 months. Comté is the most popular cheese in France. Produced in 80-pound wheels, three feet in diameter, then aged in the area of its production for four months to four years, Comté comes from the Jura Massif, a sub-alpine range along the French-Swiss border. We are naturally on the French side with this sandwich, in the Bourgogne-Franche-Comté region for the most part. (Some Comté also produced in Ain, on the northern edge of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region). The Montbéliarde breed of cow is the primary source (95%) of milk for Comté, while 5% of the overall herd is comprised of the Simmental breed.

Much of the production is placed on the market after less than 12 months in the maturing cellars. However, those younger Comté risk being overwhelmed by the mustard with truffles in this recipe, while older Comtés aged 24 months or more stand best on their own. A 15-month Comté may do, but at 18 months there’s an ideal balance between its nuttiness and its saltiness, a saltiness that becomes more pronounced with ageing. (Note: What may appear to be salt in older Comtés of 18 months and more are in fact cheese crystals, as one might find in older Parmesans). Together, the nuttiness and the saltiness at 18 months further balance well with the mustard with truffles. Learn about Comté aging in this video.

I’ve also tried this recipe with a flavorful sheep cheese, such as a Tomme Corse, from Corsica, aged close to one year, and found it quite interesting. I’ve also experimented with a Brie de Melun (not Brie de Meaux), from just east of Paris, aged 10 weeks, and enjoyed that as well, though I prefer for this recipe a cheese with a semi-hard texture. In a pinch, when French cheese isn’t available, Comté can be replaced by an aged sharp cheddar. In any case, this is an element of the recipe that’s worth playing with according to your taste and the availability of various cheeses. Just be sure to select a gracefully aged cheese with a pronounced but not stinky taste on its own.

The mustard

The Romans of Antiquity were likely the first mustard makers in Europe, but the international conquest of the condiment comes from the appetite of the Dukes of Burgundy during the Middle Ages, particularly from their duchy’s capital in Dijon. Hence the reputation of Dijon in your own lifetime, more than 600 years later.

Dijon mustard (which isn’t necessarily from Dijon and might better be thought of as Dijon-style mustard) is prepared with dark mustard seeds, which have a sharper bite than the mild yellow (actually, yellow-white) variety. The English language gets the word mustard from the Old French moustarde (moutarde in Modern French). Mustum (Latin)/ moût (French)/ must (English) refers to the grape juice or young wine that was added to the grains to create the mustard paste.

Nowadays, 70% of French-made Dijon mustards use grains from Canada, but the jar used in this recipe contains only grains from Burgundy, administratively part of the Bourgogne-Franche-Comté region.

My mustard of choice for this summer sandwich is one with bits of white summer truffles, moutarde aux brisures de truffes blanches d’été. Specifically, a limited-edition product made by Reine de Dijon, a company based just outside of Dijon. The truffles in question are tuber aestivum, at 1.1%—a small but potent percentage. Use sparsely but markedly, enough to reach the nose when you first pick up your sandwich but not enough to overwhelm the bread and the cheese. The amount is key so as not to upset the proper balance of this sandwich. Do not feel that you have to cover every nook and cranny of the mie (crumb) of the bread. If this is your first time using truffled mustard then you may want to take a test run on with the nib of the baguette. (I will not at this time discuss the debate within the culinary community in France as to whether it should be placed on the bottom or top portion of the sliced baguette.)

Edmond Fallot, another regional mustard house (moutarderie), which can be visited in Beaune, the main town just south of Dijon, makes what might be considered a more precious mustard using fall-winter truffles (truffe de Bourgogne, tuber uncanitum, 5%). However, that mustard is more appropriately served with grilled meats or rabbit, or perhaps integrated into a homemade mayonnaise for other dishes, rather than used as a delicate condiment for this summer sandwich. (I could well imagine either mustard properly dosed to add a kick to a sandwich of raw roast beef, with or without cheese, and leave you to experiment with that at home.)

Maille, the most internationally known Burgundy-based mustard producers, also makes a line of truffled mustards.

No other condiments are needed.

How to serve

Cut in half. Best when served with fruit or salad. Avoid serving with potato chips (though I understand the temptation). This summer sandwich should be served soon after preparation.

Suggested wine

Côtes de Jura vin jaune, a deep yellow wine, as the name indicates, from the same region as the Comté cheese. I’ve also had a delightful experience in pairing with this dish a 100% pinot meunier brut champagne, which has the advantage of serving as the aperitif as well.

See this video for other wine and Comté pairing ideas and this video for other dishes with Comté.

© 2020, Gary Lee Kraut.

The post A Summer Cheese Sandwich Recipe appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

So I’m pleased, upon my return from a masked excursion to the bakery and the cheese shop this afternoon, to find that the two agree to sit together to work on a new travel article. At my desk I hop onto the first train out of Paris, and I write:

Thirty minutes after setting out southeast from Paris by train, you’ll notice the flat landscape begin to flutter. Then swells form. And when those swells rise to hills—hills covered with colza, wheat and barley and crowned with woods, cattle grazing down below—that’s when you know that you’ve entered Burgundy.

But what’s my destination? Why head toward hills in the first place?

Before sitting at my desk I opened the refrigerator for some butter to spread on the warm baguette I’d just bought. Among the old photographs magneted to the refrigerator door is one taken in the backyard of the home where I grew up. It shows the hill that my siblings and I would roll down in summer and sled down in winter. Maybe that’s why I like rolling hills—they make me want to explore, yet their tranquil flow across the landscapes reassures me that I can find my way home. “Hill” is what we called the slight gradient in our backyard as children, though anyone over the age of seven would see instead a small slope to a row of trees on the edge of the property. On the opposite side of the trees lived a girl who was in my class. She was a volatile girl. Her name was…

Stop! The traveling mind, the one that resists confinement, won’t cooperate. That mind is quick to switch tracks to examine an old photograph or to look out the window or to give me a sudden urge to go running. That’s the mind that rattles around looking for exits. While my inward traveling mind tries to focus on the task at hand, my outward traveling mind is looking for the name of the girl next door from second grade. It’s telling me to call my sister to see if she remembers. It’s suggesting that I ask another neighbor from my childhood with whom I recently connected on Facebook.

No! Facebook is the death of cordial understanding. Don’t do it! Focus, demands the other mind, the one that’s satisfied sitting at the desk, riding a train to Burgundy. I reread my opening line hoping that its momentum will project me onward.

Thirty minutes after setting out southeast from Paris by train, you’ll notice the flat landscape begin to flutter. Then swells form. And when those swells rise to hills—hills covered with colza, wheat and barley and crowned with woods, cattle grazing down below—that’s when you know that you’ve entered Burgundy.

I unfold a map of Burgundy. On the train to where exactly?

But the outward traveling mind, averse to being bridled by lockdown, won’t let me study the map. I sense it rummaging around in nearly forgotten corners of my brain, unwilling to stay on the tracks to Burgundy, looking to latch onto anything that will pull me away from my text. Forget the girl then, let’s look for something else, it seems to say. And then it stumbles upon something, an open door. It elbows the mind that’s examining the map to let it know that it has found an exit.

It has found, or remembered, the existence of my storage space in the basement, my cave. Simultaneously both minds, the one that accepts confinement and the one that resists, come to the new cordial understanding that my sense of personal space can now be extended by a few square meters if I were to go down to the basement. I feel a shiver of liberation at the thought of visiting my cave in the cellar without having to justify myself to anyone. I haven’t been down there in several years. The train to Burgundy grounds to a halt, in the middle of nowhere.

The last time I went down to my storage space in the cellar was right after a team of thieves broke into it three or four years ago. They busted the padlocks on many of the storage spaces and stole all the wine. Well, they stole my wine, about three cases of it. I don’t know what they took from others because there are few direct exchanges between neighbors in this building other than to say “bonjour” or some expression of embarrassment when we cross paths at the entrance or in the winding staircase. My neighbors were social distancing before it became a health necessity. And when it did, many distanced themselves even further by fleeing Paris for the countryside or the coast in the illusion that, far from our building, far from Paris, lay true freedom, and by their exodus they could deny their confinement and negate their fears, as though, given a deadline to hole up, they’d suddenly realized that they’d been prisoners in Paris for so very long and needed to run while the guards weren’t looking, only to make themselves prisoners elsewhere.

I should thank them their intended escape. Now we don’t have to apologize for checking the mail or throwing out the garbage at the same time. Pardon, pardon, excusez-moi. Après vous, monsieur, madame. Fewer hands on the railings, the light switches and the door handles. No overflow of the trash bins by the end of the weekend. And the greatest gift of their absence: the silence. No footsteps from above, no crying baby from below, no barking dog, no arguing couple, no Airbnbers dragging their luggage up the stairs. No one to judge. Freedom. I wonder if this is what it would feel like to be the only person left alive.

No, there’s my 82-year-old neighbor, she’s still here. She’s the only neighbor with whom I have an actual conversation about anything other than a problem in the building. When they first announced corona confinement, I asked if she planned on going anywhere to ride it out. Her reply: “The last time I went away to ride something out was when I was 6 years old, after they rounded up my father, and my mother sent me to live in the Alps with a family I didn’t know—that’s enough for me.” I told her that if she ever needed anything and didn’t want to go out, I could get groceries for her. “Oh, I’m going out,” she said. “They stole my childhood, no one’s going to steal my old age.”

So I’m not going to complain that someone stole a few dozen bottles of wine that I had in my storage space, my cave. It wasn’t exceptional wine anyway. The temperature and the humidity level in the basement are ideal for wine, but I’m not one to buy bottles with the intention of letting tannins or acidity age gracefully in the dark. I’m not a collector.

I buy a few bottles here and there when I travel to wine regions in France, and winegrowers and tourist officials sometimes give me a bottle or two. Other than a bottle of champagne awaiting an occasion in the refrigerator, I keep bottles on a shelf in the kitchen. I’ll open one or two when I have guests over or take one to someone’s home when I’m invited. But I tend to receive and buy more than I use, so when two kitchen shelves were full I began putting the overflow into the basement.

After the theft I stopped taking bottles down there. I bought two wine stands that hold a dozen bottles each and placed them in the corner of the kitchen.

When not quarantined, I drink wine often, socially. But I don’t drink wine when I’m at home alone. I like sharing wine and the effects of wine. Drinking by myself does nothing for me other than make me want to have someone with whom to share the drink. So I haven’t been drinking wine during lockdown, just the occasional whiskey, calvados, cognac or rum late at night. “A little schnaaps,” as my Great-Aunt Helen would call her nightcap. She lived with us toward the end. “Don’t be stingy,” she’d say when she’d ask us to pour her a tumbler before going to bed. I told that to my friend Guillaume and he now repeats it when he comes over for a drink—he did before lockdown. For religious reasons my friend Achmed says that he doesn’t drink. However, since he isn’t religious, he sometimes will. But it’s Ramadan now, so he won’t.

As I’m thinking about my friends, I sense my resisting, exit-seeking mind standing there with its arms cross waiting for me to remember that it had found me a novel excursion: The cellar, it says, let’s go see what’s down there.

I put on my shoes and grab a flashlight. Work began in the stairwell shortly before lockdown, and with it paused the building feels like an abandoned construction site. Half the lights don’t work. The courtyard door doesn’t shut. Common pigeons are gathering near the garbage bins, as though plotting to take over. On the way to the bakery and the cheese shop earlier today I observed on the cobblestones the courting rituals of pigeons, which reminded me that I’ve forgotten my own. I watched wood pigeons feeding on the budding plane trees, beneath which their beige droppings are distinguishable from the white of their pedestrian cousins. Last night, when I went out for a walk, I saw a couple of ducks waddling across the street without looking either way. And I watched a group of rats playing 3-on-3 basketball around a trash bin. Couldn’t tell which side was winning. I guess they don’t keep score like we do. But living rats is a good sign, because dying rats means that the bubonic plague is here. So vive les rats! Just not so many.

As I suspected, the overhead light isn’t working in the basement. I turn on my flashlight. My storage space is at the end of the corridor—to the left, I remember, number 7. My broken padlock still lies on the ground. I never replaced it. Why bother? I don’t even remember what I ever used this storage space for.

I pull open the door and am reminded: There’s a bicycle in need of repair that I bought during the transportation strike of 1995; wobbly chairs from my previous apartment; a mattress wrapped in a tarp; a broken suitcase that I kept, thinking that I might use it if ever I moved again; the computer box from about 3 laptops ago—the one on which I was going to write a new guidebook. There they were: memories. There it was: junk. Memorable junk… Junk memories. My cave. My additional space. Could my outward traveling, resisting, exit-seeking mind do no better than to send me here? Instead of opening wings, all this journey to the basement has brought me is the promise of things long gone. But there’s no courage in nostalgia, only in throwing things away.

Then I see it: Near the ground there’s a bottle of wine that the thieves missed, or didn’t want. I dust it off and shine the light on it. Chablis premier cru, Vaillons, 2011, Domaine Jean-Marc Brocard.

Just then I hear a sound that seems to say, “Do it now… Do it now.”

I call out, “Hello?”

“Do it now. Do it now.”

“Is someone there? Il y a quelqu’un?”

“Do it now. Do it now.”

Bottle in hand, I run, stumbling against the wall as I rush up to the ground floor, and I keep running for the next two flights in the dusk of the stairwell. Then I slow down. I must have been frightened by the shadow of my own flashlight and the sounds of rats or pigeons. I laugh to myself—at myself. We all need a good, healthy scare every now and then. Several pigeons look drearily at me from outside the stairwell window, biding their time. I knock at the window but they merely step over a few inches as though they’ve just heard a cough.

As if by magic, the light in the stairwell goes on. Approaching the fourth floor I see that my neighbor has come out of her apartment. She must have turned on the light. She has a shopping bag in her hand. Each of us takes a respectful step back.

“Bonjour Madame,” I say.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” she says. “There aren’t many of us left.”

I don’t know which “us” she’s referring to.

I feel a need to justify being out. I hold up the bottle of wine and say, “I’m returning from the cellar, my cave.”

“To your health, then,” she says.

“To the health of us all,” I says, and doing so gives me idea. “Listen,” I say, “I don’t drink alone so maybe you… I can open the bottle and pour you a glass. You don’t have to drink it right here or with me. We have to keep a social distance, so you close your door and drink your glass whenever you want, but this way we’ll share it, in a sense, that is if you drink wine, I don’t know if you do.”

“That’s kind of you,” she says, without indicating her answer.

“Seriously. Chablis 2011, chardonnay.”

She says, “There’s no rush. It can wait.”

Then she wishes me a good end of the day, goes back inside her apartment, and closes the door as if she only came out to turn the light on for me.

I unlock my own door and go inside. I stand against the door. After a few seconds I hear my neighbor go out. I slip off my shoes. I wash my hands. I rinse off the bottle of wine, dry it and place it in the refrigerator. As I return to my living room / office I’m amused by the coincidence that Chablis is in the northwest corner of Burgundy. The train was somewhere near there before my excursion into the cellar. That’s just the momentum I need to get back on track. I reread my opening lines:

Thirty minutes after setting out southeast from Paris by train, you’ll notice the flat landscape begin to flutter. Then swells form. And when those swells rise to hills—hills covered with colza, wheat and barley and crowned with woods, cattle grazing down below—that’s when you know that you’ve entered Burgundy.

I look at my couch. To write or not to write, that is barely the question, for the answer is clear.

I lie down as though I’ve just unpacked my bags from a journey. I think about where I’ve been: I went down to the cellar because the resisting, exit-seeking mind had leaned against the unlocked door of my storage space; downstairs I heard a voice telling me to “do it now”; on the way back up an 82-year-old Holocaust survivor told me that there was no rush, it could wait.

What “it” could wait? What “it” should be done now?

My outward traveling mind and my inward traveling mind start to volley the question back and forth. Their game lulls me to sleep.

When I awaken the sun has dipped behind the buildings across the street. Early evening. How long was I asleep? Where was the sun before my nap? I fade in and out of consciousness. As a child I dreamed of leaping off the hill beside the house and flying, a silent figure over the neighborhood, defying gravity, a solitary victory over the world. But what now could be sweeter than submitting to gravity? It molds me to the couch. I abandon myself to the snug sensation that nothing matters but the comfort of being embraced by gravity. To nap: the great compromise of prisoners. To rest. Not to stand by the window to subjugate myself to alienation but to lie with myself, fading in and out of consciousness. Conscious just enough to feel this delicious gravity-induced satisfaction before sinking back out. Desiring nothing but this warm peace as the sun fades behind the opposite roof. Newtonian satisfaction: the nap: a timeless moment of gravity and of peace. Nothing else matters.

Nothing—but the stomach doesn’t know that. I’m hungry. I sit up. A wide yawn clears my head.

I go to the refrigerator. As I open it, I hear again what I heard in the basement: “Do it now. Do it now.” Immediately, I close it the refrigerator. I see the hill of my childhood home on the door. On the window railing a pigeon with his feather’s puffed is trying to seduce a female: who-rrou, who-rou. Slowly, I open the door again. “Do it now. Do it now.” I know that it’s the sound of the pigeon that I hear, still, the bottle of Chablis seems to be speaking to me. I take it out. “I need to be drunk, now,” it seems to say.

The bottle is telling me that, not me. I do not need to be drunk, and I do not want to be drunk. I want to be lucid as I follow this bottle wherever it will now lead me.

I set on the table the baguette and the cheese that I bought earlier. Two cheeses: a hard goat cheese from Maconnais, on the southern edge of Burgundy, and a soft goat cheese from Tarn, in southwest France.

I open the bottle of wine. I pour myself a glass. Unaccustomed to doing so alone, I imagine that I’m at a wine tasting, better yet a wine pairing.

I hold the glass up to the light, and to my surprise I now see myself driving from Paris to Chablis, in the northwest corner of Burgundy.

I swirl the wine. And I see a chapel surrounded by vineyard.

I inhale the wine. And I see ripe chardonnay grapes on the vines.

I take a mouthful, aerate it and swallow. I see a harvest underway.

Now I remember: I bought this bottle at the Jean-Marc Brocard vineyard during harvest time one September day several years ago. I was with a friend, though I can’t see his face. How strange. You’d think that, confined, you’d remember people, but for the most part you don’t. Your memory is vaguely peopled with people, but they’re ghosts with no distinguishing features, as least as far as the non-essential people are concerned. But who are the essential people? Maybe there are none—all ghosts? What more do I need or want than what I have right here? A nap, a baguette, cheese, a bottle of wine.

The streetlights have come on. The sky is twilight blue, the half-moon waxing or waning, I don’t know which.

I examine the bottle’s label: 2011. I remember visiting Burgundy that year. After the harvest, early autumn, when the grapes in this bottle were little more than juice. I wasn’t in Chablis that time, but further south, in the heart of the Burgundy winegrowing region, the Côte de Beaune and Côte de Nuits growing area.

I pour myself another glass. I try it with the bread and cheese. A fine pairing, especially with the softer goat.

Burgundy. 2011. October. I’d taken the train to Beaune. I was picked up by a Jaguar, a Jag-u-ar, as the driver called it, a deep green Jag-u-ar. Yes, there was a driver, a woman, from company that gives tours in vintage cars. There were two passengers in the back, unknown to me now.

I get the Burgundy map from my desk and spread it on the table. The names of some villages on the map are highlighted in several colors, indicating different trips that I’d taken to the region: Pernard-Vergelesse, Chassagne-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, Gevrey-Chambertin, Aloxe-Corton, Meursault, Marsannay, Orches, Nuit-Saint-Georges.

Bread, cheese, wine, and I now see myself standing by the entrance of Clos de Vougeot, the former abbey that’s now headquarters of the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, the international wine order whose members vow to honor and spread the wine gospel of Burgundy. I stand looking at the abbey-chateau surrounded by vineyards, as though it were a promise land, and dreaming of one day being ritually inducted into the order by men in red and gold robes. Maybe that was from yet another trip, or another dream. It’s not easy to recall things past when your main struggle is projecting yourself into the future.

Wine, bread, cheese, wine.

In October 2011 I was in Burgundy. There was a driver, a woman, and two spectral passengers in the backseat of the Jag-u-ar. We drove into the vineyards. We tasted wines. In the evening I attended my first paulée. P-A-U-L-E accent aigu-E. Paulée, pronounced with a sharp “ay” at the end. But at times like this we revert back to our mother tongue, so I relax my throat, unsharpen the é, and dictate into my phone:

In 2011, in October, in Burgundy, I went to a paulee. A paulee is the opposite of social distancing. It’s bacchanalian, as in Bacchus, the Roman god of wine. Traditionally, it was a celebration in Burgundy when a winegrower would honor the back-breaking work of his grape pickers by bringing out and sharing his wine with them to celebrate the end of the grape harvest. The tradition fell by the wayside with the decimation of the vineyards toward the end of the 19th century and was revived in the 1920s, after the First World War and the Influenza Pandemic known as the Spanish Flu had killed countless millions of people around the world. The best known paulee soon became and still is the Paulée de Meursault, the Meursault Paulee—Meursault is a famous winegrowing village in Burgundy (as well as the name of the narrator in Camus’ The Stranger, L’Etranger). Maybe cut that line. Or keep it in—Aujourd’hui, mama est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas—for the French majors among my readership. Where was I?

I stop dictating and pour myself more wine. I eat some bread and cheese. I continue:

The Meursault Paulee is a wine gala with great food that closes the annual Hospices de Beaune wine auction which takes place on the third weekend in November. There are a number of other major paulees in Burgundy in the fall. Internationally there are paulees, often with respect to Burgundy wines. (Or Bourgogne wines, as the regional wine board wants them to be called.) Places in the Loire Valley also now have paulees with their own wines, though a paulee is traditionally associated with Burgundy (Bourgogne).

I stop again. I’m pleased with the balance of my coincidental wine pairing: soft goat cheese and Chablis premier cru Vaillons. Or is any of this coincidental?

2011, Burgundy, October, the night of the Jag-u-ar, I attended a paulee, somewhere near Beaune. In a chateau? There were hundreds of people in the vast banquet hall. I dictate:

A paulee is the Burgundy version of a communal pot-luck dinner where most people bring wine instead of casseroles and pies and where the chefs, at least at the paulee that I attended, have Michelin stars associated with their names and are accompanied by enough sous-chefs to feed a battalion. Great food. But the wine’s the thing. When Burgundy wine producers, wine merchants and wine touring professionals invite you to a BYOB where they’re doing the BYOing, you know that you’re in for a treat. There was no tasting protocol to follow, as I recall. No spittoons. This was purely a sip-and-swallow event. We sat at round banquet tables for 8 or 10 people. Producers, distributors, sellers, friends of producers, distributors, sellers, hotel owners, tour organizers. They’d brought wine with which they had an intimate relationship. That’s what I remember most, the spirit of sharing and generosity by guests bringing a part of themselves; everyone was somehow related to the wine and the terroir, or the climats as they call their vineyard parcels in Burgundy. Six to eight bottles on each table. At least 30 different wines available in the room. And if you listened carefully you could hear each of those bottles saying, “Now. Do it now. I have to be drunk now.”

I laugh at that thought as I pour myself another glass.

Once we tasted the bottles on our own table at the paulee, we set out on collective or individual missions for bottles at other tables. We then exchanged or begged or stole a pour or a bottle from a neighbor, then from their neighbors, then from the neighbors’ neighbors’ neighbors, spreading good cheer along the way like a harmless coronavirus party.

I stop recording and try to remember who was at my table. No one particular comes to mind. Who invited me to that paulee?

From that sharing of things with which one has a personal connection, there develops a joyful, communal atmosphere. As reserved and uptight as the French can be in social settings, it didn’t take long at the paulee for everyone to stand up and do a Burgundy version of the macarena. They waved around white napkins while singing “Je suis fier d’être Bourgignon.” (I’m proud to be a Burgundian.) I stood up with them and sang that I was proud to know a Burgundian.

Yet for the life of me I can’t remember who the Burgundian was that invited me, or sat at my table, or drove me back to the hotel.

I carry my glass to the bookshelf in the living room / office and take down my Burgundy file box. I find nothing in it about the people I was with that weekend. But here’s the tasting list from the paulee of October 2011! On it I noted at the time what wines I’d liked. Apparently, I had a taste for the Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru 2006 Domaine Michel Picard among the whites. And among the reds the Corton Grand Cru 2007 Domaine Rapet struck my fancy, as did the Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru 2006 Domaine Bertagna.

I won’t say that everyone was wasted, because wine folk don’t like the term wasted. Let’s just say that if the two words “social distancing” are saving us now, the two words that saved us then were “designated driver.”

I remember that fraternal feeling of the paulee, that sense that, good harvest or bad harvest, we were in this together. We were sharing something that we all felt concerned by and connected to. We had all brought something to the table.

But what had I brought to the paulee? How was I connected? Did I know anyone there? Did I speak with anyone? What was I doing there? Who invited me?

I look outside. The street is silent. A man walks a dog. No neighbors can be heard. A few birds call.

I sit at my desk with my glass of wine. It feels like I’m at the end of my article yet I’ve only written three lines: Thirty minutes after setting out southeast from Paris by train, you’ll notice the flat landscape begin to flutter. Then swells form. And when those swells rise to hills—hills covered with colza, wheat and barley and crowned with woods, cattle grazing down below—that’s when you know that you’ve entered Burgundy.

Again, I sense the outward traveling, resisting, exit-seeking mind calling for attention, turning me away from the text. This time it’s drawing me back into the kitchen, to the corner, where bottles of wine accumulate while awaiting an occasion.

Behind the cereal, the rice, the pasta, the onions, the aluminum foil, the plastic wrap and the paper towels, beneath a black table cloth, there are two wine racks with a dozen slots each, nearly full of bottles. I pick them up one by one and read the labels. Each one speaks of a trip I’ve taken or of someone I know or have known: a Bordeaux Clarendelle that was a gift from the producer the day after the fire at Notre-Dame; a Côtes-de-Meuse from Domaine de Muzy, where I stopped at between WWI sites in northeast France; a Cour-Cheverny, bought after a picnic at Domaine des Huards in the Loire Valley with Achmed and Guillaume; a Vin de Merde (it’s real name) that Pierre-Yves brought to dinner one evening having received it himself second hand; a Champagne G. Tribaut from a trip last fall to Hautvillers with Stephanie, which I now remember was also the name of the girl next door from second grade.

Hidden behind the wine racks, I discover other bottles that pre-dated the robbery, bottles that I must have intended to take into the basement but never did: a Châteauneuf-du-Pape Beaurenard 2011, a remnant of several days in Provence in 2013; two Saint Emilion Grands Crus, Château Gaudet 2011 and Château Soutard 2011, from a day in Saint Emilion on my way to Rauzan to visit Sophie and Jean-Stéphane; a forgotten Champagne Krug 2000 that Jean-Pierre brought for my birthday dinner some years ago. Each has a story to tell.

No—my two minds shout in unison—each has a story to share. Together they’ve come up with a plan: When friends feel comfortable gathering again, I’m going to have a paulee.

That’s it! Everyone is going to bring a bottle with which they have a personal connection, a story to share. I’ll invite Madame my neighbor. And Guillaume will come, he’s a great storyteller. And Achmed will be here, he’ll share. I’ll invite Scott, with whom I visited Chablis. And Véronique—that’s who invited me to the paulee in Burgundy! And the baker, who told me today that he’s just became a father. And the cheesemonger who sold me that delicious creamy goat cheese.

And you? Will you come? Get your bottle ready because you’re invited to a paulee. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to have a paulee. I would do it now, but it can wait. For now.

© 2020, Gary Lee Kraut

Share your own bottle story in the comments section below in 300 words or less.

The post Burgundy Memories: The Bottle in the Basement appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Slavery is a crime against humanity. So decreed France in 2001, making it the first country to do so. What may seem to be a solely symbolic decree, akin to declaring the Jurassic era over, is actually a way of condemning the country’s own history with respect to slavery, something not every country is willing to do.

The law was adopted by Parliament on May 10, which was then decreed the National Day of Commemoration with respect to slavery. In particular, it recognizes France’s involvement in slavery and the slave trade for over 350 years until the definitive abolition of slavery in France and its colonies on law April 27, 1848. The abolition law, passed under the period known as the Second Republic, resulted in the liberation of 250,000 people from slavery.

Slavery had been outlawed in continental France since 1315, but with conquest of the Americas and European incursions into black Africa, France by the early 16th century become a full partner in the triangular slave trade between Africa, Europe and the Americas. Estimates vary as to the total number of Africans uprooted and enslaved in the Americas with European involvement (primarily Portugal, Spain, England, Holland, France) from the 15th to the 19th centuries, with 12-15 million Africans being the figure used along the Route. (Black slavery to countries north of the Sahara was long present, if on a much smaller scale, before Europeans arrived.)

While men, women and children were not brought as slaves to the transcontinental ports of Nantes and Bordeaux, certain French shipping companies actively participated in their transport and profited from slavery in the colonies.

Origins of the Abolition of Slavery Route

In the wake of the national decree declaring slavery and the slave trade crimes against humanity, a number of sites in eastern France and in Switzerland joined together in a thematic constellation under the heading the Abolition of Slavery Route.

Launched in 2004 with support from the UN and UNESCO, the Abolition of Slavery Route appears as a haphazard route on the map. Unlike other historic routes in France (e.g. wine, pastel, castle, abbey, Impressionists or Napoleon routes), there is no true unity of place to these sites , though historically the anti-slavery movement in France did develop in its eastern provinces and their connection with Switzerland.

Burgundy – Franche-Comté

Rare is the traveler who will actually follow the route from start to finish. This article concerns three sites on that route in Burgundy – Franche-Comté, a composite administrative region, comprised of evocative Burgundy on for its west portion and little-known Franche-Comté for its east portion. While the thirsty traveler will know of Burgundy first through wine, hungry traveler might initially encounter Franche-Comté through comté, which is among the most familiar raw-milk (cow) hard-pressed cheeses in France, and through poulet de Bresse, which is among the country’s top-quality chickens.

Each of the three major sites in Burgundy – Franche-Comté honor abolition presents a different facet of efforts between 1789 and 1848 to abolish slavery .

The House of Negritude and Human Rights

While the year 1848 marks France’s complete refusal of slavery in its territories, it was in the 1780s that significant anti-slavery movements began making their voices heard in France, as well as in Great Britain and the United States. On March 19, 1789, four months before the storming of the Bastille, citizens in the village of Champagney (Haute-Saône) drew up a charter of grievances (photo above) in which they wrote to King Louis XVI, “The inhabitants and community of Champagney cannot think of the ills being suffered by Negroes in the colonies, (…) without feeling a stabbing pain in their hearts.”

That expression of solidarity earns Champagney its place on the Abolition of Slavery Route. Here, in what is now a small town with a population of 3600, the House of Negritude and Human Rights (La Maison de la Negritude et des Droits de l’Homme) presents a reproduction of a slave ship and numerous African and Haitian objects that illustrate negritude (or the values of black civilizations around the world).

Château de Joux, the fortress prison of Toussaint Louverture

During the French Revolution, in 1792, the National Assembly granted full rights of citizenship to people of color. As early as 1794, the young republic appeared to be on its way to definitively abolishing slavery in its colonies when it promulgated a law to that effect. (It was at around this period that the term “crime against humanity” was first used.) However, that early French version of our Emancipation Proclamation wasn’t fully applied in all of France’s overseas territories in the ensuing years, and Napoleon Bonaparte, in his pre-Emperor role of First Consul, turned the country’s back on that decree. In 1802 he reinstate the legality of black slavery and the slave trade in colonies where former slaves weren’t yet all free.

Shortly thereafter, Toussaint Louverture (~1743-1803), an Afro-Caribbean who had become governor of the island of Santo Domingo (present day Haiti) and leader of the rebellion against French rule at the time Bonaparte’s decree, was jailed and brought to the continent to be imprisoned in the Chateau de Joux. Louverture was born into slavery, was a freed and become a slave-owner himself in his 30s before climbing the military and political ladder through alliances with various sides over through the 1790s. The fortress at La Cluse et Mijoux (Doubs), which served as a state prison from 1690 to 1815, stands on the summit of a 3300-foot rocky outcrop guarding the entry to the water gap that is a natural passageway into Switzerland.

Louverture died a few months after his incarceration here. In 1804, within a year of his death, Haiti became a sovereign country, though bloodshed on the island would continue. His cell, situated on the ground floor of the fortress dungeon, can be visited (see photo at top of article).

The Anne-Marie Javouhey House

The same revolutionary body that would free slaves was also wary of the desire of the Catholic Church to reassert its dominance in the lives of the citizens of France. Born in Chamblanc in 1779, Anne-Marie Javouhey therefore grew into the faith of her ancestors in relative secrecy during her teenage years before taking her vows. Religious, as well as racial, reasons had often been given for allowing slavery from Africa. For Sister Javouhey and others, however, religion was instead a reason to oppose slavery, and former slaves should be converted to Christianity.

In 1805 she founded a religious congregation that would eventually take on the name Saint Joseph de Cluny, with a particular interest in education. The order, which still exists, became the first order of female missionaries. Beginning in 1817 and periodically for the next 25 years, Javouhey personally led a group of sisters on missions around the world, where they bore witness to the black slave trade. “Negroes are not deaf to the voice of morality nor to that of civilization,” she wrote to the governor of Guyana; “children of God, they are men just like us.” In 1835 Javouhey and her group obtained the right to oversee the education and conversion of 500 slaves. The first emancipations came in 1838 when she obtained the freedom of 149 who had been shipped to Mana, Guyana. Others would follow.

In addition to the family home of Anne-Marie Javouhey and a museum space located in the school that currently bears her name, the Abolition of Slavery Route sites in Chamblanc (Côte d’Or) include a remembrance forest, made up of 150 trees each named after one of the first freed African slaves.

Further information

The route continues in northeastern France and into Switzerland. For further information in French about the Abolitions of Slavery Route see its official website. The official tourism website of the Burgundy-Franche-Comté region can be found here in English. 

Lodging 

Near La Cluse et Mijoux (Château de Joux): The town of Pontarlier,  several miles to one side of the fortress, has the 3-star Hotel Saint-Pierre and the B&B La Maison d’A Côté. Several miles to the other side and a half-mile from the Swiss border, Le Tillau is a chalet-like 11-room hotel and restaurant in the Jura Mountains.

Champagney: By Napoleon’s time already Champagney was known for its coal mines rather than for its point of view on slavery. The mid-19th-century manor of the director of coal mines in the area (which closed in 1958) is now the B&B Château de la Houillère. Just outside of Champagney, in the village of Ronchamp, the B&B La Maison du Parc also occupies a charming 19th-century mansion.

The post The Abolition of Slavery Route in Burgundy – Franche-Comté appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

From time to time a winegrowing area will flex its viney muscle and, claiming distinctiveness, seek to untether itself from broader semi-generic wines in a region.

Vézelay, a Burgundy village otherwise known as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is the latest to make a name for itself. In the fall of 2017 Vezelay was officially granted permission to call its dry chardonnays “Vézelay” rather than the broader “Bourgogne [Burgundy] Vézelay.” It’s a subtle but proud distinction that allows its producers to affirm and refine their wines’ particularity compared with other white burgundies.

In France, permission to bear a village label comes from the INAO, the National Institute of Appellations of Origin, which is responsible for the implementation of policy on official signs of identification of the origin and quality of agricultural and food products.

From now on, Vézelay, like Twiggy, Cher, Madonna, Beyoncé, Moby, Ice-T, Oprah and Voltaire, needs no other qualifier to its name to make a statement.

The last Burgundy village to rise to appellation (AOC) status was Irancy, in 1999, for its rough-edged pinot noir produced 22 miles north of Vézelay. Now it’s the turn for chardonnay, the other illustrious grape of Burgundy wines, to get honored as Vezelay comes of age and out from the long shadow of white Burgundy.

The first AOC Vezelay bottles will appear on wine shop shelves in the fall of 2018. That’s just in time for the best launch party that a Burgundy village can have, as Vézelay will host the region’s annual Saint Vincent Tournante wine festival over the weekend of January 26 and 27, 2019.

Each year the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, the venerable and folkloric wine fraternity of Burgundy wine enthusiasts (and of much else Burgundy), selects a different Burgundy wine village to host the event. That village then shares the fermented fruit of its labor in honor of Vincent, a patron saint of winegrowers. Vézelay was awarded the 2019 slot when Aloxe-Corton and Pernand-Vergelesses, which historically host the event together, backed out due to a series of small harvests that left them low on party stock. January may not be the most beautiful time for a stroll in the vineyards, but Saint Vincent Tournante is one of France’s premier wine parades. (The January 2020 event will likely be held in Gevrey-Chambertin, the Côte de Nuits village whose grand cru reputation needs no introduction to fans of French wines and to visitors to Burgundy.)

Vezelay Abbey

Its hosting of Saint Vincent Tournante makes 2019 a double reason for Vézelay pride since that also marks the 40th anniversary of the listing of its 12th-century basilica and its dramatic hilltop presence as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Benedictine abbey of Vézelay was founded in the 9th century and eventually acquired the supposed relics of Saint Mary Magdalene, leading to the church being rededicated in her name in the 11th century. Miracles were attributed to the relics, pilgrims flocked in increasing numbers, and the church became an important point of departure along Saint James’s Way. The church, rebuilt following a deadly fire in 1120, is “a masterpiece of Burgundian Romanesque art and architecture,” to quote the UNESCO listing. The perfect setting, then, for Saint Bernard to preach the Second Crusade in 1146 and for Richard the Lion-Hearted and Philip II Augustus to set off in bromance for the Third Crusade in 1190.

With all that communion going on, as well as the thirst of the Court of Burgundy, there was much need for wine, and vineyards flourished around medieval Vézelay.

(The Vezelay Tourist Office provides information about visiting the abbey, the village and the surrounding villages and vineyards, including Vezelay wine tasting.)

The appellation and the terroir

But Vézelay’s long winemaking history, dating to Roman times, dried up with the phylloxera epidemic that hit the area in 1884 and soon decimated the vines. Several acres of vines were later replanted for local consumption, but it wasn’t until the 1970s, when a handful of producers, with support from some elected officials, made a concerted effort to relaunch local wine production with the pinot noir and especially chardonnay varietals that are so at home in Burgundy. Their efforts gradually bore fruit, and in 1988 the area’s chardonnay production was authorized to bear the Bougogne/Burgundy appellation. In 1997 that gave way to the appellation Bourgogne Vezelay. Consecration has now come with the AOC Vezelay designation, which recognizes the distinctiveness of these chardonnays compared with others in the region.

Twenty-five producers, including ten associated with a cooperative, currently work 70 hectares (173 acres) of chardonnay vines. That leaves plenty of room for growth since the new appellation delimits a zone covering 256 hectares (633 acres).

AOC Vézelay defines a dry white wine produced from the chardonnay B varietal. In granting it an appellation in its own right, INAO recognizes it as a well-defined and independent geographical entity within Burgundy. The outline of the Vézelay winegrowing zone lies in the Cure Valley within the municipalities of Asquins, Saint-Père, Tharoiseau and Vézelay in Burgundy’s Yonne department or subregion. Its clayey marly limestone soils are situated on southern and southeastern slopes on the edge Morvan National Regional Park and distinct from Burgundy’s Chabliens/Auxerrois vineyards, also in Yonne, to the north and its Côte d’Or vineyards to the southeast.

Having a village appellation does not mean that a wine is exceptional but rather that it is distinct from neighboring wines and follows certain specifications. Consequently, it presents a specificity in the marketplace that is up to its producers and distributors to exploit. In and of itself, it is not a gauge of quality with respect non-village wines, though a village appellation is presumably not plonk. Of course there is still room for varying tastes and qualities within the production area.

Vézelay, or at least the Bourgogne Vézelay currently on the market, might best be considered a fresh, unpretentious dry aperitif with floral, citrus and mineral notes. You can always keep pouring it beyond the aperitif to accompany a starter, if you like, or to finish with some soft cow’s milk cheese. See AOC Vézelay’s description by the Bourgogne Wine Board (BIVB).

Bourgogne Vézelay can already be found in some U.S. and British wine markets, so AOC Vézelay will certainly follow suit and perhaps grow as the vineyards and their “brand” reputation do. In France, bottles of Bourgogne Vézelay sell in shops in the 10-15€ range for the most part. The new village appellation and accompanying marketing efforts may well lift prices. (Keep in mind, we are not in Chablis Grand Cru territory here.)

For a lesson in English of the geography of Burgundy appellations (pre-AOC Vezelay), south to north, see this video from the Bourgogne Wine Board.

Vezelay in Montmartre

A group of Vézelay winegrowers recently came to Paris to speak of the new appellation at an event at the La Bonne Franquette, a restaurant located just up the street the vineyard of Montmartre. La Bonne Franquette is also an institution of Montmartre folklore, hence the presence of President of the Republic of Montmartre in the photo below. He is seen holding a bottle of Montmartre wine, as is Patrick Frashboud, La Bonne Franquette’s owner. The other bottles held are among the last of the Bourgogne Vézelay chardonnay production.

Left to right, Patrick Fracheboud, owner of La Bonne Franquette; Matthieu Woillez, Domaine La Croix Montjoie; Valentin Montanet, Domaine La Cadette; Elise Villiers, Domaine Elise Villiers; Delphine Dupont, Domaine Dupont; Patrick Bringer, Domaine Les Faverelle; Alain Coquard, President of the Republic of Montmartre; Brigitte Guéret, Cave Henry de Vézelay, the Vezelay wine cooperative; Christine Ranunkel, whose father was an elected official instrumental in pushing for the replanting the vineyards around Vezelay in the 1960s and 70s; Isabelle Garnier, Cave Henry de Vézelay.

© 2018, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Vézelay: A Chardonnay Emerges from the Shadow of Broader Burgundy Wine appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

1. Since 2014 marks the 70th anniversary of the D-Day Landing in Normandy and the Liberation of France by the Allied Forces as well as the 100th anniversary of the outset of the First World War, my most frequently requested lecture on this trip is on the theme of War Touring: Exploring Normandy and Other American War Memories in France.

In this lecture, I’ll explain how the American battle sites in France—from Utah and Omaha Beaches (WWII) to Belleau Wood and and the Somme (WWI)—and their surrounding areas can captivate Americans of all ages. I’ll describe how war tourism has evolved over time and speak of some of the fascinating Americans, French and others that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and interviewing in and around the battle sites.

2.My second major lecture is entitled Understanding Patrimoine: The Key to Extraordinary Travels in France. In this lecture I’ll examine the notion of patrimoine, often translated as heritage, which is so deeply engrained in the consciousness of the French that it is applied to everything from cathedrals, chateaux, old mills and gardens to cuisine, wine culture, craftsmanship and horseback riding.

I’ll explain through history, anecdotes and examples from my own travels throughout France how understanding the pervasive concept of patrimoine, along with its sidekick preservation, is a major key to enjoying enriching, insightful and extraordinary travels in France.

3. I’ll also be speaking to several groups about wine tourism in France, particularly Burgundy and Champagne, regions that I know well from researching and writing about them and from organizing wine tours there.

The winter 2014 lecture tour schedule

Jan. 18, Yardley-Makefield Public Library (PA), 2pm. Subject: War touring.
Jan. 22, Alliance Francaise de Doylestown (PA), 10am. Subject: War touring. I’ll be delivering this lecture in French.
Jan. 22, Newtown Square Library (PA), 7pm. Subject: War touring.
Jan. 24, Princeton (NJ) Elks Lodge #2129, 7pm. Subject: War touring.

Jan. 27, Vorhees (NJ), private event with a local wine club. Subject: Wine touring.
Jan. 28, The College of New Jersey. , 7pm in the college library auditorium. Open to the public. Subject: War touring.
Jan. 30, Jake’s American Grille, 5018 Conn Ave NW, Washington DC, 6:30-8:30pm. My friend Janet Hulstrand, a writer and teacher who has contributed to France Revisited, organizes a Francophile/Bibliophile evenings in the DC area and has invited me to make informal presentation about travel and travel writing in France during this evening’s gathering, followed by Q&A time. If interested in attending contact Janet directly at janet.hulstrand[at]gmail.com.
Jan. 31, Alliance Française de Washington DC, 2142 Wyoming Avenue, NW, Washington DC, 7:30pm. Subject: Understanding Patrimoine.
Feb. 4, Rotary Club of Medford (NJ). Subject: Wine touring.
Feb. 5, Mid-Manhattan Library (6th floor), 455 Fifth Avenue, NYC, 6:30pm. Subject: Travel and Travel Writing Beyond the Clichés: In Search of the Perfect Travel Moment. See the library’s events calendar for details.
Feb. 6, Lawrence Library (NJ), 7pm. Subject: War touring.
Feb. 7. Princeton Library (NJ), 7pm, followed by a Burgundy wine tasting at CoolVines, a wonderful wine shop near the library. Subject: Wine touring in Burgundy and Champagne.
Feb. 16, Alliance Française de Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill (NC), 4pm. Subject: Understanding patrimoine.
Feb. 18, Alliance Française de Charleston (SC), held jointly with the College of Charleston, on campus. Subject: War touring.
Feb. 21, Alliance Française d’Orlando (FL), 7pm. Subject: Understanding Patrimoine.
Feb. 25. Pinecrest Library (Miami-Dade, FL), 11am. Subject: War touring.

The post Editor Takes France Revisited On the Road in the U.S. appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The oppidum (or major settlement) of Alesia—situated on the heights of the commune of Alise-Sainte-Reine, 40 miles northwest of Dijon—has been the subject of nearly uninterrupted archeological digs since the mid-19th century and has unearthed tangible proof that as indeed the site of the ultimate battle fought by a coalition of Celtic tribes to liberate Gaul from the Roman conquest of the vast territory beyond the northeastern side of the Alps.

The oppodium of Alesia continued to exist as a town until well after the Roman conquest before finally being abandoned in the 5th century, so archeological digs have brought forth artifacts throughout the Gallo-Roman period. Nevertheless, it is the site’s evidence of the siege of 52 B.C. and the defeat of Vercingetorix that are the great treasure of this vast archeological site.

Vercingetorix, an Averni chieftan at the head of a disparate coalition of 80,000 Gaulish warriors, fell back to Alesia as the Romans under Julius Caesar closed in. Caught in a vice of Roman camps, including 10 to 12 legions of 4,500 men each, supported a Germanic cavalry, Vercingetorix awaited reinforcements that would arrive too late and too few. He chose to surrender in order to save his men, as is told to us in Caesar’s own first-hand testimony in his “Commentaries on the Gallic War” (Commentarii de Bello Gallico).

The Siege of Alesia probably lasted two months beginning at the end of August, leaving archeologists to uncover miles of fortifications along with hundreds of pieces of Gaulish money that help identify those involved in the battle and a fantastic military arsenal including helmets, shields, swords, daggers, catapult balls, etc.

Though the digs carried out during the reign of Napoleon III (1872-1870) were long discredited because they were carried out to satisfy the emperor’s own passion for history and archeology, their documentary value is of utmost importance. Research undertaken since 1905 and accelerated since 1990 with the help of aerial photography has revealed the outline of double fortifications constructed around the oppidum by Julius Caesar. This evidence confirms that the Battle of Alesia did indeed take place in Burgundy on Mount Auxois, thereby dismissing the arguments of other claimants, in particular Alaise in the region of Franche-Comté to the east of Burgundy. Nevertheless, more than two thousand years after the battle, the site has yet to reveal all of its secrets.

Until 2011, only the colossal and fanciful statue of Vercingetorix made of copper sheet by Aimé Millet and erected in 1865 stood as an emblem at the site.

But now, since spring 2012, the MuséoParc Alésia allows visitors to dive into the heart of the battle.

The museum-park consists of a reconstitution of Roman fortifications—where reenactments and activities for all ages take place—and an “interpretation center,” a vast circular building representing the encircling of the Gauls by the Romans. The center, designed by the architect Bernard Tschumi, is a notable building of glass and concrete covered with a wooden “hairnet” (unfortunately, it misses the mark on sound insulation).

It houses a circuit outlining the historical context, the profiles of the two protagonists and the main stages in the battle. Visitors also discover remnants of the Gallo-Roman presence in the area, including clothing accessories, fibulae (brooches) of iron and bronze, pieces of helmets, shoe nails, amphorae, grindstones, horse bones, a rare fragment of a Roman goatskin tent, and other items.

A wider and more detailed view of the Gallo-Roman era will be on display when the Archeological Museum opens nearby in 2016.

© 2012, Catherine Rigollet. Translation and adaptation by Gary Lee Kraut

MuséoParc Alésia – 21150 Alise-Sainte-Reine. Tel. 03 80 96 96 23. See website for opening times and entrance fees.

The Laumes-Alésia train station is just a mile from the MuseoParc Alésia, but you’ll likely want a car to also Alesia along with other sites in the area. Bikers who don’t mind a few hills will also enjoy pedaling through this area within a radius of 8 miles in any direction.

Visitors can continue to follow in the footsteps of Gauls and Romans at three other sites in Burgundy:

– The Châtillon-sur-Seine Museum,  whose centerpiece is the Treaure of Vix, found in a Celtic tomb;

– The archeological site and museum of Bibracte;

– Roman remnants at Autun, a town founded during the reign of Emperor Augustus as Augustodunum.

Catherine Rigollet is the founding editor of L’Agora des Arts, a website dedicated to the arts. As a journalist she worked for Le Point, L’Express, Le Figaro Eco and the Les Echos group before taking over the culture and exhibitions section of Air France Magazine. She is the author of a dozen books about art, history, heritage and social issues including Les Conquérantes (Nil Editions, 1996) and Les Francs Maçons (JC Lattès 1989).

This article first appeared in French in L’Agora des Arts (specifically this page) and has been translated and adapted, with permission, for France Revisited by Gary Lee Kraut.

The post Alesia: Investigating the Roman Conquest of Gaul in Burgundy appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Of the many annual awards ceremonies great and small that take place in Paris each fall, three are examined for the insights they provide into certain visions of French excellence, heritage and savoir-faire or know-how.

Their recipients represent a wide variety of companies, associations and individuals that embody, each in its/his/her own way, a certain vision of France or of a part of France today, of its history and of its ambitions. Theirs may be a glorified image of France, sanitized of the cult of governmental heavy-handedness and the functionary ambitions that dominate major sectors of the culture and the economy, but that image has its own truth, a truth that gives much pleasure to foreign residents, travelers and stay-at-home Francophiles.

The three awards ceremonies go by the headings Excellence Française (French Excellence), Un Patrimoine pour demain (A Heritage for Tomorrow) and Trésors vivants de l’artisant (Living Treasures of Craftsmanship).

Excellence Francaise

Excellence Française brought together a prestigious array of CEOs and leaders in various fields when it hosted its fourth annual namesake awards in the refined setting of the Hotel Bristol in Paris on November 21, 2012.

“Excellence Française,” its founder and president Maurice Tasler has written, “was established to contribute to this optimistic outlook of our beautiful country, and thereby for each and every one of us.” Mr. Tasler points to the 2012 recipients of these awards as “a shining example and source of renewed confidence for all those who are plagued by doubt.”

These domestic awards are given with international intent. Thanks in part to Exellence Française’s partnership with TV5 Monde, an international French-language station, the Excellence Française imprimatur offers companies, often already with a significant international presence, an additional opportunity to showcase their talents and accomplishments abroad. In addition to filming the ceremony itself, TV5 Monde has produced highly flattering videos about each of the winners.

Reflecting the international intent of these awards, French Foreign Minister Laurent Fabius, Mr. Tasler told the assembly at this year’s awards ceremony, had sent a letter of congratulations also regretting that he could not be in attendance that evening.

Despite bringing together men and women with excellence written all over their detailed curricula vitae and despite best wishes from government officials, Mr. Tasler remains mysteriously discreet about his own C.V. More on that later. First, here are the ten members of the Excellence Française class of 2012.

Sector Category—C ompany/Organization—Represented by
1. Technology—Dassault Systèmes—Bernard Charlès, president and CEO.
2. Enology—Wines of Burgundy—Louis-Marc Chevignard, Grand Connétable (head knight) of the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin, Burgundy’s brotherhood of wine tasters.
3. Education—Agence pour l’Enseignement Français à l’Etranger, AEFE, the government agency for French education abroad—Anne-Marie Descôtes, executive director.
4. Government institutions—PGHM de Chamonix, Peloton de Gendarmerie de Haute Montagne (Chamonix national high mountain rescue team)—Jean-Baptiste Estachy, commander.
5. Craftsmanship—Aubusson Manufactory Robert Four—Robert Four, founding president.
6. Instrument Manufacturing: Pianos Pleyel—Hubert Martigny, CEO.
7. Luxury Watchmaking—L. Leroy—Guillaume Tripet, CEO.
8. Sports—French Judo Federation—Teddy Riner, gold medalist at 2012 London Olympics.
9. Automobile Equipment—Michelin—Jean-Dominique Sénard, CEO.
10. Luxury Silverware—Christophle—Thierry Oriez, CEO.

These aren’t competitive awards; in many ways they are obvious selections. Categories are largely contrived to fit the awardees rather than the other way around. That doesn’t diminish the importance of the companies and organizations themselves but it does raise the question as to what’s truly behind this brand of award-making.

Mr. Tasler says that his ambition for Excellence Française is to “hoist high the colors of France” and to create an economic and cultural “strike force.” Each year’s awardees represent for him “a widening circle of influence.” That’s a slightly ominous phrase to describe the effect of doling out honorary awards, however merited they may be.

The awards ostensibly honor to companies and organization. In being accepted on their chief or most stellar representatives, though, it was evident that many of them, not simply the owner-bosses, were handed and accepted the award as a personal honor. Emphasizing the mano-a-mano nature of Excellence Française, an equally high-level array of representatives from the class of 2011 presented the awards but to fields of activity different from their own, making for entertaining juxtapositions and often witty introductions by those in unrelated fields but of equal “excellence.”

The physical award received by the honored organizations is a handsome bilingual coffee-table book (for sale and also available for iPad) containing Mr. Tasler’s informative interviews with the leading representative of that organization along with illustrations of their products, participants and employees. The book opens with an introduction by Mr. Tasler in which he writes: “Our [France’s] exceptional creativity and capacity for innovation, together with our art of living, should enable us to compete very effectively. France shouldn’t be hesitant about her success.”Sitting in the elegant setting of the Hotel Bristol, aware that the collective C.V. of those in attendance had excellence written all over it and that the bonhomie between the recipients reflected many shared interests, this writer couldn’t help but wonder who outside of government and a James Bond film would have the influence, the financing and the Rolodex to bring together so many CEOs and directors (with an Olympic gold medalist thrown into the mix) for the purpose of receiving rather obvious recognition.

Maurice Tasler is, however, extremely discreet regarding his background, acknowledging only that he has worked in various fields and that his multidisciplinary past allowed him to constitute the well-appointed address book that served as the launch pad for the Excellence Française enterprise. The addresses have expanded admirably over the past few years thanks to the awards and the awardees. Mr. Tasler is not so much self-effacing—indeed, his presence on the podium and his role as interviewer for the Livre d’Or demonstrated otherwise—as he is elusive.

Excellence Française was nevertheless a lovely, well-orchestrated ceremony with good humor, intelligent commentary and diverse acceptance speeches. Champagne would follow. We were all ready for a glass as the closing remarks were graciously made. Everyone applauded.

Then Serge Dassault came to the podium.

Mr. Dassault is publisher of the right-leaning newspaper Le Figaro, a conservative party (UMP) senator from Essonne (the department just south of Paris) since 2004 and head of a major defense contractor. Now it’s no secret that publishers, politicians and CEOs routinely form a well-massaged ménage à trios in France. Exceptionally, though, Mr. Dassault brings together all three in a single man. Imagine if you will U.S. Senator Mitch McConnell holding sway over The Washington Post and Northrop Grumman.

Mr. Dassault gave a nod to the assembled directors and organizers, he re-applauded the namesake company that had won an award and he indicated that this gathering could teach a thing or two to a certain left-wing politician. While it’s true that certain politicians gladly make common cause with the significant part of the electorate that is highly wary of business leaders, employers and private sector success, this was certainly a missed opportunity for a man with a winning hand to stay silent and simply applaud the brotherhood of successful enterprise. Unless of course…

… Unless of course… Contemplating the forces behind these awards, this writer naturally wondered if one of the forces behind the Excellence Française enterprise—perhaps even the main force—was Mr. Dassault himself and if so then the personal or political agenda involved may not be so broadly excellent after all.

Asked subsequently in a private discussion if this was the case, Mr. Tasler said that there is no governmental agency or political agenda behind these prizes but that he could not refuse his distinguished guest’s request to speak.

Mr. Tasler then spoke about plans for 2013, when he intends to begin expanding Excellence Française beyond the selection of award recipients and the ceremony itself by organizing round-table discussions, private gatherings among awardees and, possibly with the assistance of the Foreign Ministry, trips abroad to promote the French brand(s) of excellence. Mr. Tasler insists that even if the goal of promoting French industry and excellence internationally is also in the State’s interest, Excellence Française is not and does not intend to be an arm of the government.

Mr. Dassault’s graceless endnote deserves mention because it was so remarkably out of tune with the rest of the ceremony, and Mr. Tasler’s elusiveness regarding his own background also deserves mention because it adds a slight discomfort to the overall applause of his initiative. Nevertheless, a largely dignified and entertaining evening presented ten great examples of French excellence that do indeed deserve attention abroad.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

Go to Part 2 of Paris Award Ceremonies Honor French Excellence, Heritage and Savoir-Faire.

The post Paris Award Ceremonies Honor French Excellence, Heritage and Savoir-Faire (Part 1 of 2) appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Known as the TGV Rhine-Rhone because it navigates between the two rivers, the new tracks specifically connect Dijon (Burgundy) with Mulhouse (Alsace), further linking two other high-speed lines: Paris-Lyon and Lyon-Mediterranean.

In addition to quickening inter-regional and international train travel, the three different branches—eastern, western and southern—also form an attractive come-hither for travelers looking to expand their horizons in France. Trip-planners, whether DIY or professional, can now take advantage of the more direct way in which Alsace (and Germany beyond) is now linked to the Mediterranean. The eastern branch links Alsace and Dijon via Belfort-Montbéliard and Besancon (Franche-Comté), little-known regions worth exploring. For those living in the Paris regions, these regions are now more accessible for weekend getaways.

Trips are now shortened by 90 minutes between Mulhouse and Marseille, as well as between Dijon and Strasbourg. Dijon is now only an hour and 25 minutes from Basel, Switzerland, and Lyon is just under five hours from Frankfurt.

Domestic trains feature first- and second-class seating, an organic and fair-trade bar menu, and an on-board bike storage area. International routes will include new Euro Duplex trains.

All aboard!

The post New TGV Line Speeds Up Burgundy-Alsace Train Route appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.