Le Sud de France 6.5: Le Vendage et le Primeur Vin

The grape harvest and the presentation of the “first” wine.

It has been a year since we arrived in France with our jam-packed suitcases and drugged out wild cat, and we managed to celebrate this anniversary with our whole community. We live in a “vigneron” village where most residents either own a vineyard or work on one. The vines are the main source of income and the very existence of Tourbes depends on them.

At the beginning of October, the vendage, the harvest, began and the roads and vineyards were filled with huge harvesters. Unlike the movie version of a wine harvest, with happy peasants taking days to pick the grapes, these monsters harvest a vineyard in a few hours. The harvested grapes are loaded onto trucks that deliver the tons of fresh grapes to the wineries co-ops where they will be pressed.  

However, viniculture has had a particularly tough grind for the last few years. The Languedoc-Roussillon has had a drought with rainfall in some areas down by 80%. Water tables are precariously low; and you need water to make wine and for the mundane tasks of cleaning vats, trucks and other equipment. In the last few years, the drought reduced vineyard production around our village to the point that our cave stopped producing wine and the vignerons elected to merge their operation with that of another co-op. 

The arrangement is that while grapes would continue to be pressed at our co-op, the juice would be transported by tanker the dozen kilometers to a cave in the town of  Montagnac for fermentation and bottling. The wines would then be sold under their “Montagnac” label.

Once the vendage was over, wineries around the region celebrated by opening their “primeur” wines. Most wineries produce many different wines and the primeur is simply the first drinkable red, white or rosé, from the previous year’s harvest. These openings are part celebration and part marketing event with speeches, food and music.

Although le Sud de France had had an exceptionally hot and long Indian summer, by mid-October, autumn arrived, gray and wet and we ended up walking to the cave in a cold rain. As we neared it we heard music and people singing, and it turned out to be a guy was playing accordion with a bunch of people performing old French songs. Diane and I joined in, although knowing neither the words or the music, the best I could do was to hum and scat along.                                                 

After about half an hour of music making, the official program began. The president of the regional winemakers association got up and spoke about how hard it was to market wine, especially with competition from the well know wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy. He spoke of the irony that these famous wines were actually made largely from Languedoc grape juice that those wineries quietly bought from us.  Next the mayor spoke, reminding everyone that wine making was the very life of the village. He is a vigneron himself and happily announced that the vendage had gone well. It had been a good harvest and this year they were getting good prices for their grapes. The mayor was followed by the director of the co-op, who spoke about the new wine. 

When he finished the vignerons and their wives began to bring out tray after tray of slices of paté, cheeses, hors d’oeuvres and of course, bottle upon bottle of the new wine.

The mayor came over to me, filled our glasses with the new wine and we tasted it together. He sipped and I sipped, we sipped again and then agreed that this “sauvignon nouveau,” as it was called, is a damn fine wine. 

The trays of food and the bottles of wine kept coming out. When I looked around me, I realized that this was a rather private gathering of our village. In an atmosphere of “Bonheur,” it seemed that we were reinforcing community bonds as well as celebrating a good harvest. This was a crowd of no nonsense, tough vignerons, who were relieved as people refilled their glasses again and again, visibly enjoying the new wine. Oddly, this means that once again, like so many great Languedoc wines, all of it would be sold locally before it had a chance to reach a larger, worldwide audience.

After a while, one of our friends pulled us aside and led us out of a side door where we found ourselves in front of a fire pit of burning grapevine stems, the glowing embers swirling up in the currents of hot air like fireworks, exploding in the darkness. Sitting over the fire pit was a steel wheelbarrow contraption filled to overflowing with mussels. Several men stood stirring the mussels with long ladles that were also used to scoop up the cooked mussels and pile them onto paper plates. Soaked in olive oil and garlic before barbequing, the hot barbequed mussels were delicious and despite the quantity of hors d’oeuvres everyone had consumed earlier, the wheelbarrow quickly emptied. 

 

We sat eating with a group of friends, mostly Parisian émigrés, on an old stone wall, struggling to balance the plates of hot mussels on our laps. We had no silverware so we ate with our fingers and ended up laughing at ourselves. Here we were a bunch of big city sophisticates, sitting around a blazing campfire, eating mussels with our fingers like children, happy as clams. No one even minded the persistent, cold drizzle anymore.  

Le Sud de France 6.4 : Journées Taurines, the Days of Bulls

The young men stood nervously rocking on the balls of their feet, waiting for the riders and horses. The long allée of plane trees leading into the heart of the village was full of people. New parents pushed strollers, old folks walked slowly with canes and teenagers gossiped ceaselessly on their mobiles. Every one of them passing easily through the tall red, steel barriers that had been erected along the allée. They chatted and laughed in the street, oblivious to the danger the young men next to them were anticipating.

The gardiens are France's cowboys

In the distance, from the direction of the village recycling bins, came the clacking of hooves on hard asphalt. Within seconds, the young men could see the Camargue gardiens and their graceful white horses turning the corner and racing down towards them. The tightly packed horses surrounded something, something dark and foreboding. In a ghostlike blur, they flew passed the young men. Just visible between the horse’s flanks were two black bulls.

After several circuits of the village the bulls are tired and can be caught up with.

The youths took off after them, running as fast as they could. They tried to catch the bulls and a few got close enough to grab an animal’s tail for a few seconds, but most did not. In frustration, some of the young men shouted out at the rapidly disappearing animals.

“When I catch you, you lousy son-of–a-cow, I will turn into a McBurger!”

The young men show their cajones.

“Hola bull, I had your sister for dinner. Nice steaks, she tasted great! I’m waiting for you.”

Then, winded and sweating, the young men stopped and bent over to catch their breaths to the scattered applause of a few friends. For those who touched the bulls’ tails there was visible elation.

Welcome to our village’s “Journées Taurines” or “Days of Bulls.”

We are located in the Herault, halfway between Spain and the cattle ranches of the Camargue. Raising bulls and bullfighting is a tradition in the Languedoc and many cities have arenes (arenas). The larger venues, like Nîmes, Carcassone and Béziers, are part of the “corrida” circuit that the toreros travel each year. While bullfighting may be a controversial sport, with its ardent supporters and equally ardent detractors, the Journées Taurines is not a bullfight at worst it is bull annoyance.

The bull running began Saturday and continued on Sunday. The first year the event was held one of the organizers stepped out in front of a bull and taunted it. The taurine was not impressed and flung the man into the air, a moment immortalized on YouTube.

Thinking of breaking out?

Thereafter crowd control and public safety became a big concern. This year along the Avenue de la Gare, the tree lined road that leads into town, the village workers erected heavy, red steel barriers. About two meters tall, there was enough room between the bars to allow people to pass through them, but not enough space for a large animal. However, there was a glitch in this security arrangement. No one cared that you were supposed to stay behind the bars. People just passed through them and continued on their merry way, as though nothing were going on. The event announcer kept telling people to stay back behind the barriers but no one seemed to pay any attention to him except for the local band, Fanfare Banzai. They wisely sat well back from the barriers and played their music from the terrace of a nearby restaurant.

This old guy threw his hat at the bulls to get them to run faster.

The horses and bulls made a wide circuit down the allée and around through the fields. Each time they came down the Avenue, the crowd stepped aside to make room for them and cheered a little, then just as quickly stepped back out into the street.

As the village photojournalist, I loaded up my professional gear, long lenses and all and covered the “action.” And, there I stood out in the middle of the street, cameras at the ready, ignoring the taunts and the warnings of several British friends who shouted from behind the barriers.

Fanfare Banzai played from the safety of the restaurant.

Even Diane added to the chorus, begging me to come back to safety.

“No,” I said proudly, “I am a photojournalist and my job is to get the photos.”

My sang froid rising, I added, “I’ll be okay because I will stand next to this old lady and her two little granddaughters. Surely, not even an angry bull would harm a child or the photographer standing behind her.”

Then I heard the sounds of the approaching horses and I began to have some misgivings about my plan. Luckily, the little girl looked up at me and smiled.

The horses flew by us and I hurriedly snapped frame after frame. Most of these shots, of course, were photos of the rear ends of horses, young men, and bulls. No, Pulitzer there. Clearly this event would not rise to level of an Ernest Hemingway bullfight, there was not even going to be a broken arm much less a Death in this Afternoon.

After a lot of taunting this taurine chased a kid across the arena. 

Then I realized what the village’s little secret was. These bulls were rather young. Imagine if you will as one year old, sweet, and gentle Ferdinand the Bulls, rather than some sort of steamrollers of death. As herd animals they ran, dare I say, happily in the safety of the horses? 

Notice how small the bull is.

Moreover, unlike Pamplona where the bulls chase the people, in Tourbes people chase the bulls and try to catch up with them. Sure, these frisky steers could hurt you but you literally have to get in their faces to do it, as that event organizer did in that first running. Cattle are nearsighted, that is why toreros use red capes to get their attention, to get hurt you have to get in their way.

A log day of running bulls draws to a close.

“Gardiens,” the cattle ranchers from the Camargue marshes of the Rhone, operate these bull runnings all around the region. They are in control of the animals and having raised them are aware of each one’s mood and attitude. I’ve written about the gardiens before. These are the French cowboys who at the turn of the 19^th century hosted Buffalo Bill Cody and his Wild West Show when they were forced by bad weather to spend a winter camped in the Camargue. The gardiens learned a lot about riding and roping from the cowboys and adopted both American style saddles and clothing.

People without barriers watch the loose bulls.

Although the weekend went well and there were only minor injuries, some question remains about whether or not there will be a Journées Taurines next year. While the bulls were well behaved, the people were not. With dozens of people milling about oblivious to the bulls, horses and men racing by, it was an injury lawyer’s dream and an insurer’s nightmare.

Most people totally ignored the barriers. The bulls, on the other hand, recognizing the danger these people posed, wisely sought shelter with the riders and horses. Facing the horde of reckless moms, wandering children and incautious grannies, that was the smart thing to do. In their hooves, I would have done the same.

Le Sud de France 5.5 : The Chateau Abbaye de Cassan.

Goats

It is Spring in the Herault and the grapes are growing, the goats are kidding and the karaokes are singing. On the bright side of life, Carla Bruni is complaining that Sarko is ruining her "career" but on the downside of things, it was a rainy Easter weekend. We were determined to get out of the house and since it was a dark and stormy day, we had to look for something to do indoors. 

Fresh Ginger root at the foire

Turns out that just up the road from us, in a very old chateau, there was a “foire de saveurs et odeurs.” That is French for a “flavors and smells fair” which sounds much tastier to my ears than the American “food fair.” It was held at the Chateau Abbaye de Cassan near the town of Roujan and we decided that it’s just the thing we needed to brighten up a gray day.

Charlemagne

History envelops and embraces you in the Herault and the Chateau-Abbaye is a good example of that. Back in the first to fourth centuries the Languedoc was called “Septimania,” which does not refer to an XXX rated movie “Seven Maniacs,” but rather to veterans of the Roman VIIth Legion who conquered most of this area and settled here. They took possession of the Languedoc from Narbonne to the Rhone. The Chateau site was originally a  Gallo-Roman outpost dating from about the 4^th century  and then in 805 A.D Charlemagne built a priory on the site. A Romanesque church was added in the 12^th century and in the 18^th century, years before the American revolution, a grand chateau was constructed. For a thousand years, the Abbaye priory was one of the most celebrated church structures in the region and a stopping off place for travelers making the long and arduous pilgrimage to Saint-Jacques de Compestelle in northern Spain.

The Abbaye de Cassan today is a huge estate set amidst vineyards and a working winery. The Chateau has rooms available for meetings, concerts and events like weddings, and there are  plans for creating a full scale corporate retreat and conference center that are still several million Euros in the future. 

Arriving at the Abbaye, there wasn’t much to see from the parking lot, just an old wall and an sign with an arrow marked “Visitors” that led to a gift shop. Eek, a gift shop before you’ve even seen the place, that's very American. Slipping through the gift shop, avoiding the tourist ware, we ended up in a large tree shaded courtyard and a path to the Chateau.

The outer corridor

So far, this didn’t seem like much but entering the Chateau you suddenly feel as though you have stepped into the unfinished set for a Three Musketeers movie. What we hadn’t realized was that the parking lot and the gift shop were tucked into the backside of the building. Seen from the front the chateau’s a different story. It is a huge building with long, curtained corridors stretching its entire length. Nestled within the corridors are several large rooms that were the living quarters.

The dining room

In the wide corridor that the path led there were a dozen or more stalls selling artisanal food products. This was the heart of the “saveurs and odeurs” and in the middle of the corridor we found the stall of “Roses et Délices.”

Created by a couple from Massac Hautes-Corbières named, Bernard and Marie-Laurence Million (honestly), "Roses et Délices" is a line of handcrafted confits (jellies) and syrups made from flower petals--the petals of thyme, rosemary, mint, violets and roses. These are the most delicately flavored jellies and syrups imaginable. Just a tiny spoonful on a piece of chévre or some ice cream, explodes with the flavor of the flowers. M Million suggested with obvious pride that the rose confit when sprinkled on foie gras or duck breast is simply spectacular. Marie-Laurence added that a few drops of the syrup added white wine makes a heavenly “kir” and mixed with champagne produces the most “royal” of all “royal kirs.” To learn more about the Million’s petal jellies and syrups take a look at their website at www.RosesetDelices.fr.

These handmade chocolate was sold at the foire!

Flower petal jelly and syrup are just one of the incredible culinary treats that keep popping around the Herault. Producing artisanal food in this part of France reminds me of home beer brewers in the States. They are passionate and committed; and only a little crazy.

The Romanesque church

Walking on we came to the crafts fair. It was set-up in the Abbaye’s 12^th century church. As you can see from the photo, with it’s high arched, Romanesque ceiling, it was the most extraordinary venue for a crafts show imaginable.

A 12th century fresco in the abbey

Finally, we got to the table set up with a display of the Chateau’s own wine named fittingly enough, "Chateau-Abbaye de Cassan." 

This fortified tower looks like a chess "rook"

The Chateau winery produces several wines that are blends of different grapes, like syrah, Grenache, cabernet. Their least expensive wine is named “Le Jardin des Simples.” This name refers to a medieval herb garden. A more complex wine is called “Le Jardin de Labyrinthe" or the Garden of the Labryinth and above it in price (15 euros) and complexity is “Le Jardin de Songes” or “the Garden of Dreams.” I just love these wines' names, they are a lot classier than “Yellow Tail” or “Two Buck Chuck.”

And then there was a lovely rosé called “La Rosé de Madame de Brimont” which was made entirely of cinsault grapes--one of the most important local grape varieties in the Languedoc.

After tasting the rosé, one of the winemakers pulled us aside to tell us the story behind the wine's name. Madame de Brimont, was the beautiful mistress of the Prince de Conti who was the King's administrator for the l'Herault. His palace was in Pezenas some ten miles away and with a little string pulling he obtained the Chateau for his lover in the middle of the 18th century. Over the years she visited the Chateau and her prince often and, the wine guy went on, it is said that years after her death, Chateau servants would see her ghostly figure playing the piano in the Chateau salon.

At that moment, after rose petal jellies and rosé wine, standing in a haunted castle at a flavors and smells fair, it seemed to me that we could not have found a more perfect way to spend a rainy day in the Sud de France.

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Le Sud de France 5.3: Home is Where They Break Your Heart.

Claude Michel is in his seventies, five feet tall and one of the few villagers who wears a jacket and tie when he goes out for a drink at our tiny bar. He is a sharp dressed man. He's also a former mayor of the village and a retired Captain in the French Foreign Legion where he received a Legion of Honor medal for his service in the brutal Algerian war. He came to the village thirty years ago.

He is a man out of another time and another world. When he meets a woman, he bows his head and kisses her hand. I'd never seen this done before and when he kissed my wife’s hand, I was startled. Then I watched him closely as he kissed another woman’s hand, and realized that the way he did made it a lovely gesture.

Today most women don’t expect to have their hands kissed, but Claude Michel’s method is as disarming as it is simple. He takes the woman’s hand, slowly lifts it up, so the woman has a moment to realize what is about to happen, and then he barely touches her hand with his lips. This gesture is an elegant sign of respect rather than of eroticism and most women seem comfortable with it.

Another one of the short men in the village is Liam Gonzales whose family, like half a million others, fled Franco’s Spain in 1939. They were the losers in the Spanish Civil War and they fled across the Pyrenees to seek asylum. Instead of sanctuary, the Vichy government put them in internment camps and then sent to the German ovens. A little over 100,000 avoided that fate by hiding in villages and in the hills. When WWII began many of them fought as part of the Maquis, the Spanish underground. The allies assured the Maquis that after Hitler they’d deal with Franco, but they broke that promise. Liam’s family and thousands of others were left stranded in the South of France. Many settled here in the Herault and I would guess that today about a third of our villagers have Spanish surnames.  

Liam’s first name is also the result of another war--the Napoleonic War of the 1800s-- when the British sent Irish troops to Spain as cannon fodder. Rather than face Bonaparte's cannons many deserted into the Pyrenees with Spanish ladies, the results were Spanish kids with names like Liam, Patrick, and Sean.

 

  The other night when we stopped at the bar for a drink, Claude Michel was there and after kissing my wife’s hand, he came over and shook mine vigorously. He held my hand with his right hand and my elbow with his left, which recognized immediately as the old politician’s hand-lock. 

I bought him a drink and he told me that he played piano and violin and that we should come over to his place for drinks one evening. I told him I played “American guitar” and he replied, “Ah, tu devr’apprendre à jouer de la guitare française, maintainent!” (Ah, you must learn to play French guitar, now.)


I struggle with my understanding of French but I realized that Claude Michel had just used the familiar “tu” for “you” instead of the formal “vous.” Tu is how family people and friends address each other. 

Paul has a guitar like mine

Just then, a big woman who had been talking to Liam, stood up and with a nod to Claude Michel, began to sing. She stood very straight and sang very slowly at first--and very loudly. The song she sang was about a terrible battle that took place near here in 1943 between resistance fighters and the Germans. It recalled the horror of the occupation and that dark night of the soul that the French bear for their collaboration with the Nazis. At this battle, the partisans were defeated, this is a song of loss and sorrow. Nonetheless, it is an uplifting song that urges listeners to carry on, to remember those who died, and to never give up hope. 

At its heart, it is an anti-war war song.  

As the woman sang the passion in the her voice grew and with each chorus, more people stood up and joined in; soon everyone was on their feet. Claude Michel was standing next to me, his back straight and stiff, his right arm waving in front of him. In the dim glow of the bar, I could that see his eyes were damp. Liam linked arms with him and the two rocked back and forth, and then Claude Michel reached out and took my arm and began rocking me in time to the music.

I stood there singing in French or at least trying to sound like I was singing in French, but I had no idea of the words I was singing. The music and the crowd just carried me along and soon enough I was singing at the top of my lungs. 

A strange thought struck me there as I sang. We Americans have no comparable songs of war, songs of remembrance with which to honor Americans who've died in Iraq or Afghanistan or Vietnam. Without songs of sacrifice and remembrance I thought, we numb ourselves to war's madness and that makes it too easy to go war and to do it without feeling a thing.

In our small village bar, the sorrow and the passion of that awful moment in 1943 was alive again. I stood next to Claude Michel and I was sobbing too, not for the partisan’s losses, but I think for my own.

But this was not what I came to France for, I came here to take pretty pictures, eat cheese, and write funny blogs- not to dredge up old memories and open old wounds. Certainly, I didn’t come here to have my heart turned inside out by a bunch of semi-sloshed town folk in some hole-in-the-wall bar in the middle of nowhere.

Later as we left the bar, Liam patted me on the shoulder and tapped his heart with the palm of his hand. 

Above us, a bright crescent moon floated in a star-filled sky, lighting our way.

"Yeah,” I thought as we walked off, “home is where they break your heart.”  

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Le Sud de France 4.9: A Passion For Pézenas

We are moved again, this time into our own house. As we settle in we decide that since the weather has finally cleared, we'd take a stroll through town and get a better feel for its streets and neighborhoods.

 

Pézenas is best known for its Renaissance mansions and palaces. The town boasts that the playwright Moliere, who wrote comedies and farces-very fitting for Pézenas--often brought his troupe here to perform and enjoy the city. 

The town’s name probably comes from the Latin for fishpond but the town’s exact origin is lost in Roman times or earlier. But the role it’s played in history is not lost. It was an open city, tolerant of different beliefs and lifestyles.  Like other parts of the Languedoc it was a city in which Roman Catholics, Cathar Catholics and Jews all lived together as one community. 
Then in the early 13^th century the city was conquered by the French army from the North and the Cathars were wiped out. 

Walking through the old streets we passed an archway bearing the sign “Le Ghetto” which means that this was the Jewish quarter.  It reminded me that several meters below our feet there exists a centuries old system of tunnels that run from the houses to the fields outside the town. One recently discovered tunnel entrance starts a building which was used for Jewish ritual baths. These tunnels were used during WWII by the French Resistance. 

Naturally any place that supports freedom of thought requires escape routes to evade whomever the current forces of intolerance are. And there’s always some variety of the thought police ready to clamp down on people for just trying to live their lives.

photos c 2011 steve meltzer photographe

Walking through Pezenas, I found myself taking pride in living in a place where freedom was so highly valued and its one of the reasons I have a passion for the place.

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Sud de France 4.3: 10 Tips for House Hunting French Style

Part 1. Location, Location, Location.

Man cave circa 500 AD

If was a surprise to see the ruin of a 500 A.D. Roman home, with its vaulted ceiling and stone wash basin, in the garage of the house we were looking at. But while I was amazed at this bit of ancient history in the house’s basement, the realtor shrugged and said that it was no big deal, there were ruins all over the place. 

Things like this make searching for a home in France an eye opening experience. We’ve seen about two or three house a day for eight weeks and are still looking for the right place. We’ve learned a lot along the way and I’ve come up with a list of tips for the prospective home buyer wishing to relocate to a cute little village in the vineyards of Sud de France.

Finding the right village for you is the first thing.

Tip 1. Find a village. Even before you look for a house, look for a village. Spend some time in different villages. Get a feel for them hanging out at the local café or bar and walking the streets. Don’t do this on a Sunday or Monday or during the 12-2 lunch break when most towns are totally shut down. Think about how much village you need. Do you want a very small village with only a tabac and a bakery or do you need a larger, more lively place?

A typical big village house with two faces or sides.

Throughout the South of France from April to September there are village festivals, concerts and activities. Around Christmas even the smallest village will have celebrations. It is up to you to choose the place where there’s just enough activity to suit your tastes.

 Tip 2. Village Center Issues. There are 12^th or 13^th century village every couple of miles around here. The houses at their hearts have been renovated dozens of times over the centuries. They are very small spaces. Hilltop villages are particularly compact with narrow streets you can’t get a car down and there is no parking. Seriously consider how much claustrophobia you can handle.

No place to park is the usual state of affairs.

One person we met bought a village house with a garage only to discover that his 4 meter long car could turn in the three meter wide street to get into the garage.

 Tip 3. Look for “à vendre” signs. One of the best ways to find a house is to walk through a village and look for “à vendre” (For Sale) signs. Lots of people sell homes without an agent to avoid fees and you can save thousands of Euros dealing directly with the owner. Most signs list a phone number and it is perfectly okay to call the owner and say that you are standing outside the house and would like to see it. Another resource for finding private sales is the community bulletin board at an area supermarket or at a local convenience store. 

A terrace hemmed in my the neighbors.

Tip. 4 The Old, the Dead and the Mayor. France is undergoing a population shift and young people are leaving the old villages for job opportunities in the cities. When old people go into a retirement center or die, the families usually wants to get rid of the old house as soon as possible. They need cash to pay taxes and are often willing to lower prices just to get rid of a place. A good way to find a place for sale is to go to the mayor’s office as they know who in the village has died or moved.

Tip 5. “Immobiliers” or real estate agent each have their own distinct listings within a region, there’s no multiple listing service in France. If you want to use an agent, consider dealing with half a dozen to get a wider choice. Realtors work for the seller not for you and their commissions are paid by the seller and can add 5000 to 20000 Euros to price of the house.

Many French people prefer not to work with estate agents.

To be continued….