le Wine Shop— A New Wine Shop in Pézenas Features Local Domain Wines and stocks English Beers and Ales.

Photos and text © 2015 Steve Meltzer

If you love discovering niche and boutique wines then le Wine Shop in Pézenas, France is the place to go. The proprietor Dominic George has a passion for artisanal wines from small Languedocian domains. For several years he has operated wine tours of many of these wineries and had dreamed one day of having his own wine shop. Then last September he took the plunge and he opened his place. 

We found out about le Wine Shop from an English friend who, ironically, told us about it because it is his favorite place to buy British beers and ales. Intrigued, we hit the road to Pézenas and to give the shop it a look.  Tucked away behind the L'Assiette du boucher, adjacent to the main Pézenas round point-- le Carrefour de la paix-- it’s easily accessible from the D13 and A75 and the Avenue de Verdun.

A large open space the walls of le Wine Shop are lined with wines from several dozen local domains. These are the products of small and medium size producers many of whom, as is often the case in the Languedoc, are a bit off the beaten track or in some cases nearly impossible to find.

That’s one of the things I like about a good wine shop. A wine maven like Dominic does a lot of the hard work of travelling the countryside to find great wines. Now this not to say that I don’t like to visit domains on my own. But I find that one of these visits can turn a bit awkward when none of the wines are to my taste. I end up having to make a very “merci, désolé” retreat. 

Dominic likes to talk about wine and once started you quickly get a feel for the breadth and depth of his knowledge. That he likes to share this enthusiasm is evident. When you enter the shop you immediately see a large gray rural table surrounded by chairs where Dominic conducts his wine and food tastings 

When we arrived at the shop Dominic asked us about our wine preferences and soon had opened six bottles for us to taste. We ended up buying several bottles of a wonderful red --“Domaine de Cadablès (2012)” a niche domain near Gabian. It cost € 8 bottle. After a while our conversation turned to another of Dominic favorite topics, the astonishing landscapes of the Languedoc. He spoke about some of the incredible places he had encountered while travelling to small domains and recommended half a dozen great locations for photography; all the while as he opened bottles for tasting. The wines at le Wine Shop are all ‘domain’ (cellar) priced and start at € 5. There are also special sales.

le Wine Shop offers almost daily wine tastings programs.'s the Wines of the Languedoc--a tasting of eight wines-- The Wines and Food of the Languedoc--6 wines paired with 6 typical regional foods--and a Wine and Cheese Tasting. Dominic told us that he’s also happy to create custom wine and food tastings for groups of six or more people. 

Besides wine, Dominic loves the beer and ales of his native England and has a large selection of them; you are bound to take a few of them home too. 

For something entirely different at the end of the week Dominic offers a most special tasting. Summer Fridays at 17h he has a Wine and Chocolate Tasting (€25). It is a remarkable blending of six great domain wines matched with six amazing chocolates from a local master Chocolatier.  It sounds like the perfect way to end a week and to experience Languedoc living at its best.

le Wine Shop is located at the west end of the Avenue de Verdun (its # 65) adjacent to the restaurant/butcher shop, L'Assiette du boucher about 500 meters west of the McDonalds.

le Wine Shop

65, Avenue de Verdun

34120 Pézenas

04.99.41.11.71

06.50.61.99.03

contact@lewineshop.fr

www.lewineshop.fr

The Return of La Maison

Looking for a Great Meal?  Try This Unique Dining Experience

Living in the Languedoc we are surrounded by an astonishingly lush landscape with an abundance of fresh local products. Luckily we also have many restaurants that make exciting use of our natural abundance and to that list of great restaurants add La Maison. Located in the charming village of Tourbes on the outskirts of Pézenas. It has been a part a focus of Tourbain life for decades and now it has reopened under new management. Guided by the culinary skill of Chef Damian Martin and the solid management experience of his wife Florence, the new La Maison is sure to find its place at the top of the Languedoc’s fine dining list.

Damian and Florence bought the restaurant from its former owners Aurelien and Adeline Houyez and after remodeling re-opened it in late April. They work as a team with Chef Damian running the kitchen while Florence manages the front of the house and coordinates the restaurant’s chambre d’hotes rooms. As the welcoming ‘face’ of La Maison, Florence’s warmth and professionalism--as well as her fluency in French and English--clearly puts guests at ease. “I love meeting people and my work is enhanced by doing my best to ensure that all our customers have a pleasant experience, “she told me. 

The La Maison experience begins with your first bite; the cuisine is inventive, surprisingand daring. Damian riffs on conventional cooking formulas and like a jazz musician drawing on his broad experience guided by intelligence, he spins the spicing or introduces an unexpected ingredient to make something familiar altogether new.

At the heart of Damian’s approach is his short menu. 

Offering just a few dishes allows him to concentrate on each dish and to best express his creativity. Working with the day’s freshest ingredients-red tuna brought to him by a local fisherman or lamb from the Averyon-- he produces his day's fishes. But this pursuit of quality products necessitates a menu offering just two or three entrees, two or three plates and a few desserts. There are no frozen or chilled standby dishes waiting for reheating in the microwave. By limiting the menu Damian can better focus on every dish that leaves his kitchen.

It has been a long journey to La Maison for the Martins. Damian was born in Galway on Ireland’s rugged West coast and grew up in a family immersed in the food trade. “ My father was a butcher and passionately taught me this art,” he explains.”I proudly worked as a butcher for 6 six years before embarking on my culinary apprenticeship. It was at this point I realised my destiny to dedicate my working life to the culinary arts.” 

After receiving his initial culinary training and certification in Galway Damian promptly set off to travel the world and hone his skills, a journey that took him across Asia and Europe. 

Florence comes from a small village in the Averyon and grew up in the restaurant trade. “ My mother worked in our local restaurant and on many occasions I helped her with village fetes and weddings. This was my learning block for organising and delivering quality service.” After receiving her diploma in hospitality, Florence moved to Plymouth, England and a few years later moved to Dublin.

Damian returned to Ireland in 1998 he found work in one of Dublin's finest dining establishments and that is where he met Florence. They fell in love and after many years in Dublin decided to move to Florence’s native Averyon. While Damian worked at local restaurants, Florence got a job with one of France’s top chefs, Michel Bras at his Michelin three-star restaurant Bras, in Aubrac. The couple got to know Bras and Damian recalls that he was touched by the great man’s “simplicity and kindness.” 

Their training and experience shines through at La Maison. Damian’s commitment to quality has paid off and since its opening has developed a loyal following simply by word of mouth recommendations. My wife and I have dined at La Maison manyl times and whether we had fish or meat dishes; everything was superbly prepared and scrumptious. I photographed many of the dishes we had to give readers some idea of Chef Damian’s output.  

Damian Martin says that he has a goal of making his culinary “mark” with La Maison. Judging by the reception he’s gotten so far he’s well on his way to achieving his goal.

La Maison

Restaurant and Chambre d’Hotes

9 Avenue de la Gare

34120 Tourbes

 

Hours: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday Lunch service 12h-14h

           Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Lunch 12h-15h, Dinner 19.30h-21h

           Closed Wednesdays.

 

Dinner menu 30€

 

Reservations are definitely advisable: 04.67.98.86.95

email contact@restaurant-lamaison.fr

Website: www.restaurant-lamaison.fr

 

Souvenirs d’ombre et lumière

Souvenirs d’ombre et lumière 

--Memories of shadow and light--

 photographies de Steve Meltzer 

Je suis blasé, fatigué de mes photographies, épuisé par ces moments décisifs, leurs couleurs vives et leur insistance sur la vérité. Leurs détails, et leurs respects méticuleux du monde réel émoussent mon imagination, tel un rasoir qui tranche à travers mes yeux. Tout… a été révélé et rien.

Photographies à la recherche de la perfection - nus gracieux, insectes monstrueux, palmiers, plages, visages étrangers, champs de fleurs, couchers de soleil et jeux d’enfants  - ont toutes été des clichés bien avant mes prises de vue. Les «idées reçues» du visuel ont simplement servi à renforcer les attentes et les croyances des spectateurs sur un univers reconnu de la «beauté».

L’ennui qui m'a poussé à me risquer, à rompre avec mes méthodes établies et mes longues habitudes m’a fait réaliser ces images. Pour cela j’ai utilisé une lentille trou d’épingle (sans verre) sur mon appareil numérique. Cette «lentille» laisse passer la lumière à travers un minuscule trou. Non modifiée par l'optique du verre, la lumière tombe sur le sensor de l’appareil en laissant sur ces images sa signature.

En violant les règles de la netteté, de la couleur, et de la fidélité qui sont la norme dans la photographie moderne, ces images deviennent complexes. Elles racontent des histoires incomplètes dont le récit est mystérieux. Elles suggèrent, mais laissent le spectateur libre de son interprétation.

Ces souvenirs d’ombres et lumières sont des énigmes attractives qui séduisent l'œil et le leurrent, peut-être pour stimuler l'imagination.

I had grown tired of my photographs, exhausted by their decisive moments, their brilliant colors, and their insistence on “truth.” Their detail and their meticulous adherence to the real world dulled my imagination, like a razor slashed across my eyes. Everything was revealed and yet nothing was revealed.

Images in whose perfection--graceful nudes, monstrous insects, palm trees, beaches, foreign faces, fields of flowers, sunsets and children at play--were all clichés long before my shutter snapped. Visual “received wisdom” they served to reinforce the viewers’ expectations and beliefs about a knowable universe of “beauty.” 

Ennui drove me to risk, to break with long established methods and habits. I made these images with a glassless “pinhole lens” on my camera. The “lens” passes light unmodified onto the camera sensor leaving these images as its signature.

By violating the rules of the norm --sharpness, color and fidelity--these images become difficult. They are incomplete stories whose narratives are mysterious. They suggest but do not indicate. They are memories of light and shadow, enigmas that seduce the eye and luring it in perhaps stir the imagination.

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 6.2 : The Dance of the Vignerons, Part 1-The Fête Begins

Our village is a quiet place surrounded by hectares of hushed vineyards. The only sounds that disturb the peace are from the morning boulangerie traffic, the children playing in the schoolyard and the occasional karaoke night at the café. Two thousand years ago, Tourbes was settled by Romans who built houses and roads, planted olive trees and grapevines and prayed to the god Bacchus.

We moved here in January and over time learned about the various village festivals and in particular the big “fête locale” in late July. At first I thought  it would be like a “Renaissance Faire” with villagers dressed as quaint peasants and whole lambs roasting on spits over smoky open fire-pits. These images were quickly dispelled by one of our English friends.

“Actually, mate, it's four nights of show bands with strobe lights playing until two every morning. And here’s the part you’ll like best,” he added with a gleam in his eye. “the show's right under your front windows.”

With these words, our storybook French village of good-natured eccentrics and happy-go-lucky locals turned upside down. At the end of July, we were going to have ringside seats for four nights of Las Vegas, baby. 

“Don’t worry, mate,” my pal went on, “this too shall pass.”

July arrived hot and damp. By late in the month, the autoroutes were bumper to bumper with vacationers heading to already crowded, Mediterranean beaches. Several days before the fête, metal barriers sprouted on our streets, closing the village center to traffic and in front of our house, village workers erected a stage. Large white vans slipped silently into town like a caravan of circus elephants and camped around our 13^th century church.

The fête was to begin Friday night and that morning, the vans disgorged an entire amusement park, complete with carousels, bumper cars, games of chance and a stand that sold “Barbe de Pape,” cotton candy. In the center of this newly planted forest of fun, on a high pillar, was our statue of the Virgin Mary, hands raised in supplication to God, and now staring down in wonder at the chaos below. However, I’m sure she was pleased because each  night, kids and parents would ride the rides, play the games and enjoy themselves a lot.

In the late afternoon, the women of the “Comité des fêtes” set up huge paella pans on a long table near our front door. They filled them with sausage and chicken, and, humming merrily, crushed huge cloves of garlic into the simmering platters. They were making “macarrronade,” a paella like dish with pasta instead of rice. It would be the base of the village meal, the repas, that kicks off the fête. The Comité is group of hard working volunteers who labor year round to produce events and this was their biggest weekend.

A "fête locale' is a big happening in a small village. Each night the population triples or quadruples with foreign tourists and visitors from nearby villages. They come to drink and dance and drink.

And, let me be frank. There was a lot of drinking at the fête. We are a vigneron village, grape growing and winemaking is our business. Our vignerons produce a superb rosé from cinsault grapes grown in our vineyards. It is a civic duty to drink this rosé, and, of course, to help others enjoy it too. The fête is paid, for in part, through the sale of rosé, beer and pastis. However, in the whole weekend of fête, there was no public drunkenness or fistfights and surprisingly, the peace was kept without a single cop or security guard. Everyone just behaved well and watched out for each other.

Around seven, people drifted into the square. They bought their first drinks, and milled about saying hello to each other. By 8:30, they began to line up at the big paella pans, and the repas commenced. Everyone got a large portion of macarrronade, and in no time at all three hundred people were having dinner on our doorstep.  

The stage lights came on at ten and two singers began singing. Several showgirls joined them and soon everyone on stage was dancing and singing energetically. 

The Herault makes its money in the summertime and there are dozens of show bands, karaoke singers and DJs working the region. They play endless one-night stands at restaurants and hotels entertaining vacationers. The bands usually consist of a few singers and dancers, and half a dozen musicians. They all play “Nonstop,” that is without a break, intermission, or change of key or tempo for four hours straight.

The opening band for our fête was typical with several large banks of powerful amplifiers and a spider web structure packed with lights. There were even huge klieg lights like the kind normally used against enemy aircraft or to light up the Empire State building. For four hours, the band turned our cozy French town into Studio 54 and consumed more electricity in a night than the entire village in a month.

And what they played was disco. Remember disco? ABBA, the BeeGees, the Village People, mirrored balls, bell-bottom pants, and John Travolta’s white suit? Well, it may be 2011, but show bands play forty year old, American disco.

Worse yet, most of the songs were sung in English, a language that neither the performers nor the audience, understood. It made for some bizarre moments, as when one singer shouted to the crowd, “Shakes you booties” and in bewilderment, people raised their hands and clapped.

On the stage, the singers every song rapidly and at maximum volume. The dancers repeated the few routines they had learned watching MTV, and they had changed costume for every song. The band played nonstop and then abruptly at two, like sleepwalkers awakening from a dream, they stopped, packed up, and moved on.

People began to go home. I envied them going home. We couldn’t go home, we were home, put under some kind of disco house arrest by our own village.


Saturday morning the village workers hosed down the quai and the streets. The mayor and some of the Comité sat at a table eating bread and cheese and drinking rosé before they got up and put on plastic gloves to clean the public bathrooms.

The events for Saturday included a decorated bike and scooter competition and the election of the best “Mamies” or grandmothers in the village. Low keyed and sweet, they felt oddly out of place in our neon Las Vegas.

In the evening, the village filled with several hundred ados, what the French call teenagers. It was Saturday night and the kids needed to get out of their historic, old villages and party.

At ten, the show began. A singer started a song and half a dozen “showgirls” began to dance. I stared in disbelief. I had seen this all before, the night before. It was the same disco show. The ados seemed oblivious to this, they were there to dance and did their version of moshing and, dare I call it, break dancing. Mostly they stood in place, shaking their shoulders, hopping up and down and occasionally lifting one of their own into the air amidst a lot of laughter.

I watched the ados from the café bar with a friend. Shaking his  head in amazement he said. “It’s really weird, these kids aren’t pissed.”

Yup, these kids weren’t pissed. They had come for a good time, to dance and have fun. In spite of drinking a good deal of beer and wine, they remained polite and mostly sober.

Around midnight, the tech guys set off “snow” cannons. You couldn’t hear them because of the music, you’d just see them belch little puffs of “snow.” The kids laughed at the snow and at 2 AM, the band stopped and went home.

The ados began to disperse and we walked the few meters to our house. As we were crawling into bed, Diane heard a noise and we went downstairs to investigate. We found a couple of ados sitting on our doorstep. The girl jumped up in embarrassment but her boyfriend looked up at us and said in awkward English, “Excuse us, we meant nothing bad. We were just romancing.”

We smiled at that, the “romancing” on our doorstep and wished them a good night. We closed the door and went upstairs to try to get some sleep.  

To Be Continued in Le Sud de France 6.3: The Dance of the Vignerons, Part 2, below, scroll down to read more.

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