When you enter the Gironde valley from the direction of Bordeaux, you can grasp this simple landscape whose fertility is measured by postage stamp sized fields, orchards, and vineyards stretching up hillsides beautifully ornamented with medieval towns. Entering the Garden of Eden must feel as rich and serene.
We drove a small, new Peugeot station wagon and had three missions: find old Armagnac; seek the producer of a honeysuckle eau de vie; and visit a winemaker in Buzet. It’s good for the students to see that France is not all the same. While Gascony is only three hours away by car, it presents another landscape, architecture, and food. It is the Aquataine, whose ancestral queen was Alianor. A visit here underlines my instruction, that the cooking of France is distinct by geography, season, and culture.
We wove our way south staying parallel to the Gironde river valley and the Canal du Midi, a man made waterway connecting the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. We were seeking an old man my friend Kate Hill introduce me to, who has orchards above Porte Sainte Marie. She explained farmers must produce standardized foods for the European market, and with standardization local varieties disappear. M. Gros declined to move his orchards to the valley floor to bloat their shape and weight by irrigation. Orchards here are planted on hillsides, the valley floor floods. He told himself: when you have lemons, you make lemonade, and started distilling.
We drove slowly to better appreciate the countryside. Fortified towns, called bastides, were built on hilltops for protection. Patches of perfect pastures where lamb graze are almost too green. The hills roll gently and the river winds northward. At the top of the hill we follow a tiny road passed orchards, house before pulling up to the barn where M. Gros unloaded his car from the market.
While his curious spaniel offers a friendly tail wagging, I establish my connection to Madame Ill, (Kate). “So you’ve come because the eau de vie you have at home evaporated, and the bottle is empty,” he joked. “When the eau de vie gets to within an inch of the bottom, I know it’s time to visit you,” I reply in an attempt to voice a truth rather than a flattery.
He plucks an old key from a nail, maneuvers it into the lock. He doesn’t bend to get through the low door, but issues a warning “Attention aus tetes .” We wander under old rafters and around storage tanks to a nicely arranged display space. He automatically removessmall glasses wrapped in a cloth napkin from a basket, and as he arranges them on the table, asks: “What would you like to taste?”
Monsieur Gros distills his own pears into a luscious eau de vie (brandy). He also blends a mythic liqueur, fat in the mouth, and rich with the perfume of honeysuckle that blends seamlessly with his fruit. He developed an aperitif, and this being Gascony, it marries with foie gras, a traditional food. The little old man is on the cutting edge.
Over the years, I used to ask Kate with trepidation if M. Gros was still alive. I wanted to know that I’d have another taste of honeysuckle. To us it’s seductive, but for him, while it’s mythic, he can’t really justify a business. The aperitif represents a future because it’s viable. We conclude our visit reluctantly in order to search for a hotel and dinner.
Nerac is the seat of Henry IV’s (a chicken in every pot) holdings in the southwest of France. The most obscure roads bear witness that these were the routes the king meandered. The beauty that anchored him is evident. We traced a route to the 13th century village of Fources, a Ville fleuri, uniquely built in a circle, and among the most beautiful villages in France.”
We park the car and enter an arcaded walkway hundreds of years old. A small sign indicating Armagnac aged in wood advises us to “Ring the bell to be informed.” I waited till an old woman appears. I greet her and ask if we could taste her Armagnac. “Yes, please. Follow me. My husband is not here at the moment, but I’ll take care of you.”
As we step through the opened the door, I tell her I’ve been here before. “Our Armagnac is the same as then. And it’s also the same price. Nothing has changed.” I wonder if this is going to be a quick “Here’s your money, there’s your Armagnac.” She unfolds boxes, and reaches for the bottles when I ask if we could have a ‘teardrop’ to taste. “But of course,” and sets three snifters on the table, pouring from a big bottle into each one. She watches while we look at the color, sniff, and lift the glass to our lips. It is smooth, warm, and ambrosial. “My husband kept it in wood 28 years.” We drink an Armagnac that is a blend of three years, but the law only permits it to carry the date of the most recent year. This Armagnac from 1974, is of the year one of the students was born.
“When this is gone, there will be no more,” Madame tells us. “You mean you won’t produce any more Armagnac,” I ask, trying to control the note of alarm I fee;. “No,” she replies, “you don’t have any worry. The next blend will include Armagnac from 1980.” We are all taken by her sparkle and vibrancy. As we leave, we pass an old photo. “That’s not my husband,” she says, adding he isn’t as old as the photo, “but it’s probably his grandfather.” We shake hands, wish each other well, and depart.
We follow the circular sidewalk around the village exploring narrow alleys to discover further charms, an inn, tiny gardens, and a portal framing the river. We find old doors fascinating; eye details of old brick, mortar, and beam construction and fantasize about life here.
Our final destination is the Domain de Versailles, above the village of Montesquieu. We follow the ridges above the river valley, turn onto a little road and pull into the drive as Madame Singlande, the wine maker, is coming back from the mail box. She and her husband share wine making, and some vintages here bear her name, while others bear his. She invites us into the room where they label and cap the bottles. This is a really small production, and everything is done by hand.
I apologize for not phoning and tell Madame that I can’t visit the region without thinking of them. She arranges glasses, and invites us to sit and taste. She pours the 2000 vintage that bore his name, and tastes of young fruit with a floral quality. She next pours a1996, which bore her name on the label, and we see that the floral quality matured to bouquet, making the ‘96 a complex wine. She is pleased that I remember the blend of grapes. When I ask for a case of the ’96, she removes one from a stack and sets it aside. “Monsieur is out back in the chai, if you would like to see him.” I am thrilled she extends this courtesy because it means that it will take an hour to buy the wine.
The barn is dark, old, and not state of the art. Far to the back, I can see M. Ryckman, a tough old nut, descending a ladder from a holding tank. By the time we reach him, he is seated. He watches wine drain from one holding tank and separates the lees. The barn exudes an earthy aroma of wine. He stands up to shake my hand, but his attention is on the wine.
Madame explains they had to empty last year’s wine from the tank. She gets glasses, slips them under the wine gushing from the tank and offers us a taste. The young wine has a great taste of fruit. Despite the fact that it is just becoming wine, we think we could drink it. We follow her up the ladder to observe what’s going on. By the time we came back down, the wine is almost completely drained. Coincidentally, the pump stops working. Monsieur fiddles with it, feels for hot spots while she heads to the fuse box to see if it tripped a switch. I suggest it might be out because it was time for lunch. She is in complete agreement.
At 78 years old, M. Ryckmann still climbs ladders, repairs pumps, works his vines, and produces great grapes. We thought we were done and start to say our good byes. “I don’t run as fast as I did twenty years ago,” he begins, “but you should always run a little.” I like this part of the visit. His gravely voice sounds like an old Piaf recording. The students understand him and love being with him.
Our banter includes reminiscences, politics, America, wine, love, and people’s quirks. It is rich and we are in no hurry. We finally exit through the room where our wine waits. Madame fills out the sales slip by hand. I take the wine and head for the door. Monsieur indicates quietly with his finger that she should give us a bottle of wine ‘for today.’ She gladly complies and his generous gesture underlines a shared pleasure.
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