Take me home

Paris calling. In the line of duty, I'm arriving with the late friday night plane and go straight to Verre Volé, where Cyril and his staff is hitting the roof and is throwing wine and food over the zink at an incredibly speed. A table for one? No. Perhaps a little later? Oh no, then the third seating will be coming in. But.. well, just a moment and with a wrinkle of a wand, a shelf that can be drawn from the wall and normally is used for cutting bread, is dusted, an old, rocking folding chair is found from the secrets - et volià: A table for un.

One has to lean a little forward, when waiters are going to the cellar, and take good care so that the folding chair is not using it's abilities for getting folded, but then the location is perfect; good food, good wine and a fabolous view to one of Paris' busy bistros. The room os meant for 14-16 eating guests or so, and the walls all the way around is full of wine bottles; just have a look around and decide. A large blackboard with todays - surprisingly many - dishes is carried around and squezzed inbetween tables. There's 28 guests not counting myself, and if it wasn't for the fact that three or four of theme were continuesely out on the street smoking, it would hardly be possible to serve plates and wine to the diminuitive tables.

Ahh. I'm leaning back a little, loosening up, but having second thoughts just in time not to let the chair show its full potential for deconstruction and smash me to the floor. So I'm sitting straight up again, sniffing in a glass of Allez Goutons from Dominique Derain; finally home. Always at home in Paris.

Copenhagen was april with some disastrous mixture of rain and snow and a cacophony of the colour grey; Paris is mild and open, and Cyril is arriving with large, and beautiful green asparagues with a vinaigrette, a bit of ibericoham and a glass of Melonix from Jo Landron. Fundamentally one goes to Verre Volé for the wine - a bit absurd as you're not aloud to drink without eating at the place - but the food is - again and again - striking me with wonder; always good and sometimes extraordinairy. The kitchen at Verre Volé is basically two large salamanders (it's an advanced toaster), an electric kettle and a electric pressurecookinglike thing mainly used for boiling potatoes in, which is then mashed and kept warm in the very same apparatus. Salades are mixed in the cellar, which is a temperaturecontrolled room just behind the bar, where many plates are made ready aswell. Sausages, caillette, parmentier and even rôtie de porc is prepared in the salamander. It's simple dishes, but of good raw materials and quite often that's exactly what one needs. Toulouse sausage with mashed potatoes and frissé salade; not too difficult, eh? In this moment of writing Verre Volé has been renovated, but as far as it's known kitchen equipment and style hasn't change at all.

Verre Volé is an important spot for natural wines and has for years, with a handful of other places - as Baratin in the 20. - been the leading spots for the Vins Nature-avantgarde. With it's location in the 10. arrondisement Verre Volé is not on Main Street for the tourists, but little by little the nerds and geeks of wine, has found the way out here. With a vigorous mixture of young parisians, who needs to be going out to eat and drink, but not necessarily has heaps of cash to do it with. Here you'll find natural wines from all outposts of France; strange winegrowers and strange wines, but all with life and a mission in the world. Not just to please, but to challenge, restaurate and intoxicate its audiance.

Salad of lentils with porkroast and a glass of Pineau d'Aunis from Puzelat. Third seating is on the go and Cyril explains that I can join a table with some friends of his, winegroowers from down south, but on the way from my breadstation and the three meters to the cornertable I'm trapped by the fourth seating, a handful of people from restaurants and a bottle of a very musically Anjou - Initial BB from Agnès and René Mosse - so it takes some hours, befor I reach the table with Cyrils friends. At this rather developed hour, Verre Volé is long sinced closed for the night and the shutters are down, but the wines is still floating and everytime someone is trying to escape, there's an unmistakenly sound of a cork leaving a bottleneck, and Cyril is arriving with a blind wine and large smile (occasionally with a large wine and blind smile; not that the difference matters too much). As the nightcap we're having 2004 Les Chênes from Vincent Laval and it makes the walk through the Paris night to some friends appartement both chalky and almost levitating.

Three hours later at a sofa bed in the tiny Paris flat of my friends, the appartements youngest participant (4yo César) is crawling underneath the matress to shoot mice with his bow and arrow (!). But it's Paris outside the windows. And a new tasting is waiting. Luckily you never get hangovers drinking natural wines. or.

Hjemme igen

Paris kalder i embeds medfør. Jeg lander med det sene fly fredag aften og tager direkte til Verre Volé, hvor Cyril og staff er gået op på den høje klinge og sprøjter vin og mad over disken i et hæsblæsende tempo. Om de har bord til én? Nej. Men lidt senere måske? Nej, så kommer tredje seat jo. Men.. jo, et øjeblik, og tryllerylle, en hylde, der kan trækkes sådan halvt ud af væggen og normalt fungerer som skærebræt og brødstation, bliver afkrummet og en klapstol trækkes frem af de hemmelig gemmer – et voilà: Bord til un.

Man skal lige sørge for at læne sig frem når serveringen skal ud i vinkælderen, og holde godt øje med at klapstolen ikke forvandler sig til klapstol adskilt i hoveddele, men så sidder man til gengæld perfekt; god mad, god vin og en fantastisk udsigt til en af Paris' travle bistroer. Lokalet er vel beregnet til 14-16 siddende gæster, og væggene hele vejen rundt er fyldt med vinflasker, så kan man bare se sig omkring og vælge. En stor tavle med dagens – overraskende mange – retter bliver båret frem og tilbage og bakset ud og ind imellem bordene. Der sidder 28 gæster foruden mig, og hvis ikke der hele tiden var tre-fire stykker ude på gaden og ryge, ville det næppe være muligt at få serveret tallerkener og vin til de overfyldte mikroskopiske borde. Ahh. Jeg læner mig tilbage. Blot for omgående at kommer på bedre tanker, da jeg bliver mindet om klapstolens lange levetid og potentiale for dekonstruktion. Så jeg læner mig frem igen, dufter til et glas Allez Goutons fra Dominique Derain; endelig hjemme. Altid hjemme i Paris.

København var april med slud og gråt i gråt; Paris er lun og åben, og Cyril kommer med store, flotte grønne asparges med vinaigrette, lidt ibericoskinke og et glas Melonix fra Jo Landron. Det er i princippet for vinen, man kommer på Verre Volé – lidt absurd al den stund, at man ikke må drikke uden at spise på stedet – men maden slår mig gang på gang med forundring; altid god og iblandt er den fremragende. Køkkenet på Verre Volé består af to store salamandre i baren (en salamander er en avanceret brødrister), en el-koger og en elektrisk trykkoger-lignende ting, der oftest bruges til at koge kartofler i, som siden moses og holdes varme i selvsamme tingest. Salater blandes i reglen i vinkælderen, der er et temperaturstyret rum lige bag baren, hvor også mange tallerkener anrettes. Pølser, caillette, parmentier og sågar rôtie de porc steges i salamanderen. Det er simple retter, men af gode råvarer og oftest lige det, man har brug for. Toulousepølse med kartoffelmos og frisésalat; hvor svært kan det være? I skrivende stund er Verre Volé netop blevet ombygget og har fået et vaskeægte køkken, men så vidt vides er salamandrene blot fulgt med.

Verre Volé er den naturlige vins højborg og har i mange år, sammen med en håndfuld andre steder som fx Baratin i det 20., fremstået som spydspidsen inden for Vins Nature-avantgarden. Med sin beliggenhed i det 10. arrondisement er Verre Volé ikke lige på alfarvej for turisterne, men efterhånden har vinnørderne fundet vej herud. Sammen med en frodig blanding af unge parisere, der jo skal ud at spise og drikke, men ikke nødvendigvis har de helt store summer at gøre det for. Her er naturlige vine fra alle afkroge af Frankrig; besynderlige vinbønder og besynderlige vine, men alle med liv og en mission i verden. Ikke blot at behage, men at udfordre, restaurere og beruse sit publikum.

Linsesalat med svinekam og et glas pineau d'aunis fra Puzelat. Tredje seat er så småt på vej ud i Paris og Cyril siger, at jeg kan få et bord sammen med nogle af hans venner, vinbønder sydfra, men undervejs på strækningen fra brødstationen og de tre meter hen til hjørnebordet bliver jeg indfanget af fjerde seat, en håndfuld branchefolk og et par vinbønder og en flaske meget musikalsk Anjou – Initial BB fra Agnès og René Mosse – så det tager et par timer, før jeg når bordet med Cyrils venner. På dette fremskredne tidspunkt er Verre Volé forlængst lukket og skodderne trukket ned, men vinen flyder stadig i stride strømme, og hver gang nogen gør mine til at bryde op, lyder et umiskendeligt plop fra vinkælderen og Cyril kommer bimlende med blinder og stort smil. Afslutningsvis får vi 2004 Les Chênes fra Vincent Laval, der gør hjemturen til venners lejlighed i parisernatten både kalket og næsten svævende.

Tre timer senere på udtrækssofa i vennernes lille pariserlejlighed, kommer lejlighedens yngste beboer (4-årige César) kravlende ind under madrassen for at skyde mus med sin flitsbue (!). Men det er Paris uden for vinduerne. Og en ny smagning venter. Godt man ikke får tømmermænd af naturlig vin. Eller.

Splitte mine bagaksler

eller

En af de der gamle skrotbunker, der bare kører og kører og aldrig fejler noget

eller

En bourgognefarvet drøm på fire hjul

- en personlig beretning fra Bourgogne

Af 1971 Mia Rudolf og 1970 Mads Rudolf

Noget af det, man virkelig skal overveje, når man rejser i Bourgogne, er, hvornår man skal drikke hvilke vine. – Og af hvilke glas. Det er selvsagt en fordel, at bagakslerne på bilen er hele og uknækkede, men det er absolut ingen betingelse. Med et par gode vinmarksglas, en proptrækker og en halvsnalret tilgang til livets fortrædeligheder når man ganske langt.

En Bourgognefarvet drøm i Bourgogne: Mercy ved Le Montrachet.

Mercy, Mercy me

Altså. Om vinteren så vi os selv på sommerferie i vores nye gamle bil. Vi havde jo ikke købt den endnu, men alligevel. Bare os i solnedgangen på Montrachetskråningen med en af de der gamle skrotbunker, der bare kører og kører og aldrig fejler noget. Vi købte så en gammel, bourgognefarvet Mercedes (Mercy) med masser af charme og kassetteafspiller til at spille Marvin Gaye; vi var cool. Efter et par hurtige stop hos mekanikere i Lübeck og Alsace, ikke noget at tale om – en oliefordelingsdims og en bagaksel –, skramler vi videre til Bourgogne, hjemsted for verdens største vine og et dragende mekka for enhver sand vinelsker. Mellem Nuits St. Georges og Beaune ryger den anden bagaksel, og situationen er så småt ved at være kritisk. I hvert fald hvis man tager de økonomiske briller på. Men gør man det? Næh. Det er jo ferie. Så. Man sørger for at holde fanen og bourgogneindholdet i blodet højt, og når verden er imod, må man jo kompensere. Jo mere autoskade, jo højere kvalitet på vinen. Jo mere fransk arrogance hos mekanikeren, des større kvantitet fordres, mens mere mekaniske franskmænd fordrer des arrogantere kvalitet. Eller noget. Vin skulle vi i hvert fald ha’!

Vi kommer til Bourgogne sent søndag aften og checker ind hos Fru Foch (ja, det hedder hun næppe) på Hotel Foch. Hun er Thierry Matrots svigermor og således i familie med en halv flaske 2001 Puligny-Montrachet 1. cru Les Chalumeaux, der straks får os til at glemme lydene fra bagvognen. Vi bliver enige om, at bilen sikkert bare har en løs dims, fx vores spritnye venstre bagaksel, der skal strammes. Således opstemte går vi ud i byen og finder efter nogen søgen en restaurant, der, omend modstræbende – de var ikke meget for børn (skal vi lige huske at introducere Esmeralda, 1½ år, vant til at spise ude, vældig glad for foie gras og næsten i stand til at skelne mellem riesling, chardonnay og pinot noir på duften) – indvilliger i at vederkvæge os med en bid brød og en flaske 1999 Vosne-Romanée fra Robert Arnoux. Vi går i seng med et rimeligt positivt indtryk af den samlede situation og deler os næste morgen, så en tager datteren og den anden køretøjet, som vi, trods de oplivende vine fra dagen før, godt kan se nok må et smut til doktoren. Halvvejs til mercedesmekanikeren i Nuits St. Georges må forehavendet imidlertid opgives og Falck tilkaldes. Hvad gør man så? Tja. Tager på Ma Cuisine og spiser frokost. Restauranten ejes af et oldebarn af Escoffier, men det er ikke maden, de er berømte for. Det er derimod vinkortet, og vi finder da også uden videre en flaske 2000 Meursault fra Coche-Dury, der ligger og kalder på os. Straks stiger humøret, hun bliver snart god igen, Mercy.

Pilgrimsfærd

Ideen med at tage til Bourgogne: At mærke suset fra de store vinmarker. Kysse i Les Amoureuses, drikke Chambolle i Chambolle, sparke til mudderet på Le Montrachet og tisse på Romanée St. Vivant. Men. Vi fik ikke drukket Chambolle i Chambolle! Og her kommer vi således til det egentlige. Det handler om at udstyre sig selv med de rigtige flasker til de rigtige tidspunkter og dertilhørende korrekte vinmarksglas. Når alt kommer til alt, er det et spørgsmål om logistik. Hos Ma Cuisine pågældende krisemandag investerede vi i tre fine, fine flasker vin. Men som nævnt er det et spørgsmål om logistik, og det var simpelthen ikke de rigtige flasker vin, vi fik investeret i! Vi endte med at sidde på Montrachetskråningen i Puligny og drikke en flaske, i øvrigt glimrende, 2000 Nuits St. Georges fra J.J. Confuron, og hvad værre var: vi måtte simpelthen afstå fra at drikke vin på Les Amoureuses, og var der ellers noget, vi havde set frem til, var det da dét!

Vintjener på Le Montrachet. Let genkendelig

med sine blå tænder og sin hvide skjorte.

Tilbage til frokosten, som blev afløst af fem ture i karrusel til turens mindste deltager og en skal vi sige let deprimerende telefonsamtale med vores nye rejseledsager, Falck Udland. Nu var gode dyr let opløste og dyr vin uden for rækkevidde: Vi bevægede os i trance rundt i byen, spiste et stykke (medbragt) knækbrød og gik i seng med en flaske 2000 Bourgogne Rouge fra Coche-Dury. Situationen lysnede en smule. Næste dag var jo en ny dag, hvor vi nedslåede af en telefonsamtale og siden opildnede af et utrolig dejligt vinindkøb tog en taxa til Le Montrachet, den mest legendariske vinmark i det hvide Bourgogne og måske i hele verden. Skråningen har en perfekt hældning, jorden er stenet og mineralsk, aftensolen falder følsomt mellem rækkerne af vinstokke.

Lidt om lyset i Bourgogne. Det er pænt. Faktisk er det helt specielt. Måske er det bladene på vinstokkene, der for turisternes skyld fanger solens stråler og kaster dem mod himlen med en særlig vinøs glans. Måske er det himlen, der vælger at sende nogle helt specielle lysstråler til netop Bourgogne, velvidende at terroiret her producerer de ypperste vine, man kan tænke sig. Hvorom alting er: Lyset er pænt. Det skinner fra himmel til vinstok, fra vinstok til vin og ned i glas og op til os. Eller er lys i virkeligheden bølger. Havde Bohr ret? Han starter dog med B...

Vinmarksglas. (Det er billedet der er uskarpt - ikke fotografen!)

Næste dag til frokost blev det en flaske 2002 Mâcon fra Robert Denogent, den var billig, kølig og dejlig, men Spiegelaus Authentis 02 lå hjemme hos Fru Foch og er i øvrigt ikke et glas, der med sin lange stilk og crispy krystalkarakter egner sig til livet i marken. Så vi foretog en, skulle det vise sig, vigtig investering. Vi købte vinmarksglas. Små buttede cognacglas af den gamle, solide skole påtrykt landsbyskjold fra hhv. Vosne-Romanée og Chambolle-Musigny. Sidenhen måtte der indtil flere lodtrækninger til, for hvem vil drikke 2001 Vosne-Romanée, Clos du Château fra Vicomte Liger-Belair af et Chambolle-glas?

Rundt og rundt. Og rundt

Man er fanget i Beaune, og man vil hellere ud at se på en knold og synge om vinene, vinen og vin. Bagaksler er let udsolgte, Falck taler ikke fransk, og mercedesværkstedet i Chênove gør visse begivenheder om ikke helt naturlige så i hvert fald uundgåelige. 30 km i taxa til en lidt blegfesen skråning mellem Puligny og Chassagne – Le Montrachet. Anne-Claude Leflaive tager imod til en lille afmålt smagning. Vi triller klapvognen ud i vinland og stener på Montrachets stenede skråninger. Baguette, rilette og desværre havde vi ikke en vin, der rimede, men en halvflaske 2001 Chambolle-Musigny fra Domaine Roumier er såmænd o.k., lidt glas-diskussion, men havde vi haft bagaksler som vi havde agt, havde vi selvfølgelig valgt en picnic, der rimede på Montrachet.

Burgøjser-vinbonde

Bussen tilbage til Beaune og madame Foch var aflyst i sommerferien, det stod selvsagt ikke i køreplanen, men hvad er en enkelt taxatur mellem venner? Og vi var gode venner med Bourgogne. Senere samme aften blev vi gode venner med Lolo. Mercy var hos doktormanden i Chênove, men doktormanden var en heksedoktor – syntes vi så småt – og vi havde tilsyneladende købt den sidste tilgængelige Mercedes 123 årgang 1980-bagaksel i Alsace. De gjorde knuder. Vi ringede og ringede og blev lidt smådeprimerede, bare et øjeblik, turens mindste deltager fik en tur eller tre i karrusel, og vi fandt en lille-bitte-billig-nede-om-hjørnet-bistro af den rare slags; og igen spiller glassene en rolle, for hvordan skelner man den rare bistro fra den væmmelige turistfælde? Vinglas! Gode glas betyder god vin, god vin – god smag, god smag – god mad. Såre simpelt. I teorien i hvert fald. Og i dette tilfælde: For i de gode glas hældte Lolo 2001 Meursault Génévrières fra Lafon, hertil dagens Formule til 12 €, man måtte vel spare lidt i ny og næ, dagsprisen på bagaksler taget i betragtning.

En ny dag truer. Kaffe, croissant og ingen cardan.Vi er helt på det rene med, at vinindholdet i vores blod ikke bør nærme sig de faretruende nedre grænser; vi har jo ferie. Bander lidt ad Falck og en hel del af franske mekanikere. Turens mindste deltager får en tur i karrusel, inden vi kører med toget til Nuits St. Georges og derfra videre med taxa til Gevrey-Chambertin og et aftalt besøg hos Domaine Trapet. Madame Trapet er en historie i sig selv og bander ad franske mekanikere sammen med os, joh, vi er skam på bølgelængde, os og madame Trapet. En herlig smagning og en biltur senere efterlader hun os på banegården i Nuits med en flaske 1971 Gevrey-Chambertin af egen avl, det er næsten lige så godt som en hel cardan.

Vi bander ad Falck, der naivt siger cardan og pardon på vegne af franske mekanikere, som vi også bander over, og som for deres vedkommende bander over hvad som helst. Vi bander og bander. Målet er fuldt, da den Flincke Falckmand flinckt forcklarer, at det nok godt kan tage endnu et par dage, inden den franske cardan når fra Dijon til Chênove. Der er 4 km. Men hvad ved l’Homme Falck om det? (Ingenting, kan vi godt afsløre). Tid til at opsøge en gammel ven: Lolo. Vi kvæler en flaske 2002 Chambolle-Musigny Les Charmes fra Lucien Le Moine (det store gabehoved), og skruer bissen på, Mercy får sin cardan, og vi triller fra nord til syd og fra syd til nord og tilbage igen, op og ned ad Rouge National 74, det er søde tider, stokkene smiler til os i solnedgang, vi er kørende, gu’ er vi, rødderne trækker mineralerne op i lyset, vi har ferie, gu’ har vi, vinden blæser liv i vinen, vi er fattige nu, men hvad er penge mellem venner, vi er gode venner med hinanden og med Bourgogne, det skal fejres! Turens mindste får en tur i karrusel.

Chambolle...

On the road again

Aurevoir mémé Foch, Matrots velsignede svigermor, og bonjour les dégâts! Vi kører (læs: Mercy triller!). Nordpå. Væk er vanskelighederne, vi fortjener at have det lidt godt. Nu er det ferie. Lidt god vin. Nu. Vi havner hos en gîte-madame i Morey, her bliver vi ikke længe, hun har tæppetisserhund, men vi bliver længe nok til at stifte bekendtskab med Hotel de Très Girard i selvsamme landsby. Første gang kommer vi bare lige forbi og drikker et glas vin, 2002 Clavoillon, Puligny-Montrachet fra Domaine Leflaive, siden går det værre, men der er et par flasker imellem.

I Vougeot spiste vi steak-frites på den lokale med en pichet til, og siden drak vi fru Trapets donation, i Vosne lykkedes det os rent faktisk at drikke Vosne (Liger-Belair) – uden at komme op at skændes om Vosne-vinmarksglasset, muligvis (vi husker det ikke helt) fordi vi lagde ud med en flaske 2002 Bourgogne rouge fra Claude Dugat, den rare mand i marineblå sømandssweater, og en 2001 Les Caillerets Chassagne-Montrachet fra Marc Colin, en stålsat mineralsk sag med eller uden sweater (nok uden); et ophold, der krævede en længere pause og en lur i vognen.

På Très Girard lander vi igen for at lade turens mindste deltager nyde godt af stedets swimmingpool. Bare en frokost og en flaske d’Auvenay og en eftermiddag i poolen, men de kunne ikke finde den d’Auvenay, vi havde udset os, og vi endte med en – bevares – rar 2001 Meursault fra Coche-Dury, og vejret er ualmindelig varmt, og værelserne er ualmindelig dejlige, og der er også en flaske 2000 Echezeaux fra Domaine Dujac, vi gerne vil smage, og Meursault fra Jacques Prieuré, og det er flere dage siden den mindste fik en tur i karrusel, så resten af dagen i pølen er vel kun rimeligt. Og selvfølgelig er det dyrt, men hvad er penge mellem venner, og vi er stadig gode venner med hinanden og med Bourgogne og igen gode venner med Mercy, og vi er jo på ferie. Vi kompenserer med at smide en helt banal 2001 Puligny-Montrachet fra Leflaive oven i menuen, og vi har en flaske champagne fra David Léclapart med, som de rare mennesker naturligvis skal smage, men altså det hele er vel rimeligt eller i hvert fald inden for rimelighedens grænser.

Roch’n’roll i vinmarkssko

Mercy triller lystigt, og i Nuits St. Georges hos Henri Roch, som vi hjemmefra har aftalt at besøge, skal vi en tur med ud i vinmarkerne og belæres om, hvorfor han gør, som han gør, og hvordan man kan være biodynamiker uden at være hippie, men desværre har han travlt med bestyrelsesarbejdet på Romanée-Conti, og hans kone bliver verfet med os ud i marken for at forklare. Og her er det, begrebet vinmarkssko kommer ind i billedet. Vi blev måske ikke så meget klogere på vinen, men til gengæld lærte vi et og andet om fodbeklædning. Stram nederdel i leopardskind, 20 cm høje stikke i-stiletter med guld og dims, en udsøgt pariseraccent, og en Volvo 4WD i monsterklassen, som bipper hidsigt hver gang madame Roch er ved at køre ind i – de temmelig dyre – vinstokke, og det er hun hele tiden. Man er vel fra Lutetia og landsbyens førstedame, skønt husbonde er vinbonde. Siden har vi ikke kunnet se en stilet model Reberbahnstrasse uden at tænke på fru Roch, der rimer på fru Foch, og de har muligvis en hvidvinsplimmelim tilfælles, men her stopper ligheden også.

Vosne-Romanée

Solen gik ned i tindrende rødt halvejs mellem Nuits St. Georges og Beaune, og vi drak en flaske rød bourgogne (det husker vi ganske bestemt) på en virkelig god restaurant, hvor vi fik en virkelig stor – og virkelig god – kalvekotelet, og medkøbte en flaske Auxey-Duresses fra McMahon (og nej, det er ikke en tilflyttet skotte, men en efterkommer af republikens første præsident!) til at drikke i det brune badekar på det brune hotelværelse på det brune hotel med brune gulvtæpper på både loft og vægge og æbleskrog under sengen. (Det giver faktisk nogle besynderlige oplevelser at være vinnørd.)

Så småt tid at drage hjemover med Mercy – der stadig spinder lystigt, når blot man husker for hver 400 km at hælde en liter olie, en håndfuld sikringer og en hel del benzin på hende. Inden vi rigtig kører hjem, når vi at smage.... Ja, både dette og hint. Og turen hjem går heldigvis gennem både Champagne, Luxembourg og Rheingau (og det er næsten ingen omvej, og sådan en flaske Cheval Blanc 1970 er man jo nødt til at kaste sig over, når nu der er tale om den enes fødeår), men, men hjemad det går. (Og ja. Sommerferien gik lidt ud over julegaverne!)

M&M og turens mindste delatger i Les Amoureuses.

No Mercy

Året efter står sommerferien – tro det eller ej – stadig i vinmarkens tegn, og let skrantende, men trofaste Mercy stod det igennem hele vejen til Loire, hvor det i Anjou lykkedes os at knække vores i Chênove dyrt indkøbte bagaksel; heldigvis to dage inden garantien udløb, så hjem kom vi også. Endnu en ny sommerferie står for døren, i vinmarkens tegn, selvfølgelig. Men Mercy er nu trillet til de evige vinmarker.

A Burgundy Coloured Dream on Wheels

or

In a Wreck on the Road in Burgundy

- a personal account from Burgundy

by Mia Rudolf (1971) and Mads Rudolf (1970)

When travelling in Burgundy, one of the things you really have to consider is when to drink which wines. And which glasses to use. Obviously it is a good thing when the rear axles of your car are whole and unbroken, but it is definitely not a sine qua non. With a couple of good vineyard glasses, a corkscrew, and a half-fuddled approach to life's pinpricks you can get quite far.

A burgundy coloured dream in Burgundy: Mercy at Le Montrachet.

Mercy, Mercy Me

Well then. During the winter we imagined ourselves spending our summer holidays in our new old car. Of course we hadn't bought it yet, but anyway. Just our little family in the sunset on the Montrachet slope with one of those old wrecks that just run and run without any problems. So we bought an old burgundy coloured Mercedes (Mercy) with a lot of charm, and a cassette player to play Marvin Gaye; we were really cool. After a few quick stopovers in repair shops in Lübeck and Alsace, nothing to speak of – an oil distribution gadget and a rear axle – we rattled along towards Burgundy, home of the world's greatest wines and an alluring Mecca for every genuine wine lover. Between Nuits St. Georges and Beaune the other rear axle goes phut, and the situation is getting slightly critical. At any rate if you see it through economic spectacles. But do you really do that? No. After all you're on holiday. So you take care to keep the flag flying and the burgundy content in your blood high, and when the world is against you, you have to compensate, haven't you. The more damage on the car, the higher quality of the wine. The more French arrogance in the mechanic, the larger is the required quantity, while more mechanical Frenchmen necessitate a more arrogant quality. Or something like that. In any case, wine was a must!

We arrive in Burgundy late one Sunday evening and check in with Mrs Foch (well, this is probably not her name) at Hotel Foch. She is the mother-in-law of Thierry Matrot and thus related to a half-bottle of 2001 Puligny-Montrachet 1. cru Les Chalumeaux, which instantly makes us forget the sounds from the rear of the car. We agree that probably the only problem with the car is a loose gadget, for instance our brand-new left rear axle which needs tightening. In this elevated mood we go into town and, after some searching, we find a restaurant which, albeit grudgingly – they were not keen on letting kids in (let us not forget to introduce Esmeralda, 18 months at the time, used to dining out, enthusiastic about foie gras and almost able to distinguish between Riesling, Chardonnay and Pinot Noir by the smell) – agrees to offer us a refreshment in the form of a slice of bread and a bottle of 1999 Vosne-Romanée from Robert Arnoux. We go to bed with a fairly positive impression of the whole situation, and next morning we split: one takes care of the daughter and the other takes the car, which, in spite of the stimulating wines from the day before, we realize would probably need a little visit to the doctor. Halfway to the Mercedes garage in Nuits St. Georges, however, the plan has to be given up, and Falck International (the breakdown service) is called in. What do we do then? Well, we visit Ma Cuisine for lunch. The restaurant is owned by a great-grandchild of Escoffier, but it is not the food they are renowned for. It is the wine list, and without much ado we manage to find a bottle of 2000 Meursault from Coche-Dury, which lies there calling for us. Our spirits rise immediately, she will soon be OK again, our Mercy.

Pilgrimage

Our purposes in going to Burgundy were: to feel the sough from the great vineyards, to kiss in Les Amoureuses, to drink Chambolle in Chambolle, to kick the mud on Le Montrachet and to pee on Romanée St. Vivant. But we didn't succeed in drinking Chambolle in Chambolle! And in this way we approach what it is really about: It is a question of getting the right bottles for the right moments and the appropriate vineyard glasses. After all, it is a question of logistics. On this emergency Monday we invested in three exquisite bottles of wine at Ma Cuisine. But, as mentioned before, it is a question of logistics, and it was simply not the right bottles of wine we had invested in! We ended up sitting on the Montrachet slope in Puligny drinking a bottle of – incidentally, excellent – 2000 Nuits St. Georges from J.J. Confuron, and what was worse: We simply had to give up drinking wine on Les Amoureuses, and if there was something we had been looking forward to, that was it!

Just to take away the suspense: M&M and the youngest member of the party in Les Amoureuses

Now, back to the lunch, which was succeeded by five rides on a merry-go-round for the youngest member of the party and followed by a, let's say, slightly depressing telephone conversation with our new travel companion, Falck International. Now the fat was in the fire and good wine out of reach: In a trancelike state we wandered around in the town, ate a piece of crispbread (from home) and went to bed with a bottle of 2000 Bourgogne Rouge from Coche-Dury. The situation was getting a little brighter. Next day was another day, you see, where, dejected by a telephone call and later stimulated by a really magnificent purchase of wine, we took a taxi to Le Montrachet, the most legendary vineyard in white Burgundy and maybe in the whole world. The slope has a perfect inclination, the soil is stony and mineral, the evening sun gleams between the vine rows.

A few words about the light in Burgundy. It is nice. Actually it is unique. Maybe it is the vine leaves which in honour of the tourists catch the sunbeams and throw them skywards with a special vinous radiance. Maybe it is the sky which has chosen to send some very special rays of light to exactly Burgundy, knowing that the terroir here produces the most outstanding wines you can imagine. However that may be: the light is nice. It shines from the sky down to the vine, from the vine to the wine, down into the glasses and up again to us. Or does light actually consist of waves? Was Bohr right? After all, his name begins with a B...

A typical vineyard glass.

(It's the photo - NOT the photograper - that is out of focus)

Round and Round. And Round

We are trapped in Beaune, and we would rather go out to sit on a knoll and sing about the wines, vines and wine. Rear axles are easily sold out, Falck does not speak French, and the Mercedes Garage in Chênove make certain events if not quite natural, then at least inevitable. 30 km by taxi to a slightly colourless slope between Puligny and Chassagne – Le Montrachet. Anne-Claude Leflaive receives us for a little measured tasting. We roll the push-chair into the wine land and lie down on the stony slopes of Montrachet thinking of nothing. Baguette, rillette – unfortunately we didn't have a wine that rhymed, but a half-bottle of 2001 Chambolly-Musigny from Domaine Roumier is quite OK, we had a little discussion about glasses, but with intact rear axles we could have had our way and chosen a picnic rhyming with Montrachet.

Montrachet. Doesn't rhyme very well with neither rillette, baguette or goddamwreck.

The bus which would take us back to Beaune and Madame Foch was cancelled during the summer holidays, which of course was not mentioned in the timetable, but what is a single taxi ride between friends? And we were friends with Burgundy. Later that evening we became friends with Lolo. Mercy was staying with the doctor in Chênove, but we were gradually thinking that the doctor was a witch doctor – and we had apparently bought the last rear axle for a 1980 Mercedes 123 which was available in Alsace. They were not exactly beeing easy to deal with. We called them several times and got a little bit depressed, just for a moment, the youngest member of the party got a ride or three on the merry-go-round, and we found a wee little cheap round-the-corner bistro of the nice kind; and again the glasses are important, for how do you tell the nice bistro from the nasty tourist trap? Wine glasses! Good glasses mean good wine, good wine means good taste, and good taste means good food. Very simple. In theory, at any rate. And in this case: Into the good glasses Lolo poured a 2001 Meursault Génévrières from Lafon, accompanied by today's Formule at 12 € - you must economize now and then, mustn't you, considering the current price of rear axles.

A new day threatens. Coffee, croissant and no cardan. We fully realize that the wine content of the blood shouldn't get near the alarming lower limits; after all, we're on holiday. We swear a little at Falck and quite a lot at French mechanics. The youngest member of the party gets a ride on the merry-go-round, before we go by train to Nuits St. Georges and from there by taxi to Gevrey-Chambertin where we have arranged a visit at Domaine Trapet. Madame Trapet is in a league of her own, who together with us swears at French mechanics – yes, we're really on the same wavelength. After an excellent tasting she drives us to the station in Nuits where she leaves us with a bottle of 1971 Gevrey-Chambertin of her own make – it is almost as good as a whole cardan.

We swear at Falck, who naively say 'cardan' and 'pardon' on behalf of French mechanics, whom we also swear at and who for their part swear at anything whatever. We swear and we curse. The cup is full when the friendly fellow from Falck friendly feeds us with the information that it may very well take another couple of days before the French cardan arrives in Chênove from Dijon. It's a distance of 4 km. But what does monsieur Falck know about that? (Nothing, we can tell you). Now it is time to go and see an old friend: Lolo. We gulp a bottle of 2002 Chambolle-Musigny Les Charmes from Lucien Le Moine (that big mouth), and get tough. Mercy gets her cardan, and we drive leisurely from the north to the south and from the south to the north and back again, up and down the Rouge National 74. Times are pleasant, the vines smile at us in the sunset; we're on wheels, yes, we are; the roots draw the minerals up into the light; we're on holiday, yes, we are; the wind blows life into the wine; we're poor now, but what does money mean between friends? We're friends with each other and with Burgundy, let's celebrate! The youngest member gets a ride on the merry-go-round.

On the Road Again

Aurevoir mémé Foch, blessed mother-in-law of Matrot, and bonjour les dégâts! We drive (i.e. Mercy runs!). North. Gone are the difficulties, we deserve a good time. Now it is holiday. Let's have some good wine. Now. We end up with a gîte-madame in Morey; we don't stay long: she has a short–legged dog, but we stay long enough to become acquainted with the hotel Castel de Très Girard in the very same village. The first time we just pass by and drink a glass of wine, 2002 Clavoillon, Puligny-Montrachet from Domaine Leflaive, later it gets worse, but there are a couple of bottles in between.

In Vougeot we ate steak-frites at the local bistro and had a pichet with it, and later we drank Mrs Trapet's donation, in Vosne we actually succeeded in drinking Vosne (Liger-Belair) – even without quarrelling about the Vosne vineyard glass, possibly (we don't quite remember) because we started with a bottle of 2002 Bourgogne rouge from Claude Dugat, the nice fellow in a navy blue sailor's sweater, and a 2001 Les Caillerets Chassagne-Montrachet from Marc Colin, a staunch mineral thing with or without a sweater (probably without). This break necessitated a rather long pause and a snooze in the car.

We land again on Très Girard in order for the youngest member of the party to benefit from the swimming pool there. Just a lunch and a bottle of d'Auvenay and an afternoon in the pool, but they couldn't find the d'Auvenay we had selected, and we end up with a decent 2001 Meursault from Coche-Dury, and the weather is unusually warm, and the rooms are unusually lovely, and there is also a bottle of 2000 Echezeaux from Domaine Dujac that we would like to taste, and a Meursault from Jacques Prieuré, and it is several days since the youngest one got a ride on a merry-go-round – so, spending the rest of the day in the pool is reasonable, isn't it? Of course it's expensive, but what is money between friends, and we are still friends with each other and with Burgundy, and we are friends again with Mercy, and, after all, we are on holiday, arent' we? We compensate by having a totally banal Puligny-Montrachet from Leflaive with the menu, and we have a bottle of champagne from David Léclapart with us, which the nice people have to taste of course, but finally it all seems reasonable or at least not totally out of reason.

Roch'n'roll in Vineyard Shoes

Mercy runs merrily. Before the departure we had prearranged a meeting with Henri Roch from Romanée-Conti in Nuits St. Georges, who would take us on a walk into the vineyards and tell us why he uses the methods he uses and explain how you can be biodynamic without being a hippie, but unfortunately he is busy with administrative work, and his wife is ordered to accompany us into the vineyard and explain. And here the concept of vineyard shoes gets into the picture. We may not have learned so much more about the wine, but in return we learned something about footgear. Tight skirt in leopard skin, 20 cm high stiletto slippers with gold and gadget, a studied Paris accent, and a Volvo 4WD of the monster class, which beeps heatedly every time madame Roch is about to hit the – rather expensive – vines, which she is all the time. She really acts la Parisienne and the First Lady of the village, even though she is married to a wine grower. Since then we we can't see a stiletto model Reberbahnstrasse without thinking of Mrs Roch, who rhymes on Mrs Foch – they may have a white wine fuddle in common, but that's all.

It's a miracle that this wall still stands.

The sun set in sparkling red halfway between Nuits St. Georges and Beaune, and we drank a bottle of red Burgundy (we remember that quite clearly) at a really fine restaurant, where we got a really big – and really fine – veal cutlet, and bought a bottle of Auxey-Duresses from McMahon to go (no, McMahon is not an immigrated Scot, but a descendant of the first president of the Republic!); it was meant for drinking in the brown bathtub in the brown hotel room in the brown hotel with brown carpets on both the ceiling and the walls and apple cores under the bed. (Being a geek actually gives you some odd experiences).

It's about time to be homeward bound with Mercy – which still purrs merrily, as long as you don't forget to feed her with a litre of oil, a handful of fuses and quite a lot of petrol every 400 km. Before seriously driving home, we manage to taste... well, both this and that. And luckily the route takes us through both Champagne, Luxembourg and Rheingau (it's practically no detour, and you have to throw yourself on a bottle of Cheval Blanc 1970, since one of us was born that year). But, homebound we are. (And, yes, the summer holiday did affect the Christmas presents!).

(...)

No Mercy

Next year – believe it or not – the vineyards were still on the agenda for our summer holiday, and our slightly ailing, but faithful Mercy kept going all the way to Loire where, in Anjou, we managed to break the rear axle that we had bought so costly in Chênove – luckily two days before the guarantee expired, and we came home also this year. Yet another summer vacation is looming – to be spent in the vineyards, of course. But Mercy has now gone to the happy drinking grounds.

Fruit Day or Fake Day

Since I am supposed to know something about drinking wine, and as I have moreover taken the liberty to have an opinion, to write and to lecture on wine and biodynamics, I have quite often been asked: Is there something in it when they say that wine tastes better on a fruit day? The answer must be a clear and unequivocal: Well – maybe... But let me start by summing up.

Based on a series of lectures on agriculture given by Rudolf Steiner in the twenties, Maria Thun has carried out further experiments and developed what she calls a 'Sowing Calendar', often, however, referred to as 'Maria Thun's Calendar', the 'Biodynamic Calendar' or the 'Moon Calendar'. Steiner had no specific agricultural background, but he tried to gather and to systematize a great deal of non-scientifically treated know-how; he simply took tradition as his starting point, the ways and methods used by the peasants, even though, in many cases, there were no well-documented reasons for doing so, and then looked for explanations and improvements using his anthroposophical philosophy as a prism. Maria Thun is a disciple of Steiner and carries out a colossal piece of work to document the effects of Steiner's ideas in practice; this is the basis for biodynamic farming.

Aurélien Laherte spraying 501.

According to the Sowing Calendar some days are particularly suitable for sowing various crops. The Calendar mentions fruit days, flower days, leaf days, and root days, which come and go at a varying pace and in varying turns, following the impact of the moon and the planets on life on earth. Thus a fruit day is a particularly lucky day for sowing fruit-bearing plants, while flowers are sown on flower days, salad on leaf days etc. Various parts of the work with plants and fields are organized according to this calendar. It should be noticed that Steiner believed the cosmic forces to be effective on earth in the form of rhythmic movements. Thus it was the idea that the pruning of fruit-bearing plants for instance should be carried out in accordance with the position of the planets, but this would have no serious impact until four years later when the life rhythms by then would have been brought in harmony with the cosmic forces. If we seriously want to adjust our wine drinking to the Sowing Calendar, we would have to do it in a rhythmic balance (some experience with wine, rhythm, and rhythmic wine drinking has been gained, but that is another story!).

I have often heard biodynamic enthusiasts maintain that wine tastes different (and better) on fruit days, for instance; I have even met wine growers who maintain that you only get a hangover if you drink on the wrong days. Other wine growers have mentioned that certain wines taste best on certain days, while other wines taste best on other days. Thus, as an example, dark wines with soil notes would be preferable on root days. Flower days would result in a more aromatic and – not surprisingly – flowery wine, and leaf days in greener and sometimes more stalky wines. In this way it should be possible to bring out specific parts of the wine's character. To many it is only of question of when wine tastes best – which according to most people, typically is on fruit days. And recently a publication came out which, on the basis of Maria Thun's Sowing Calendar, proclaims when wine tastes best. But... Does it work?

In 2006 we (M & M) began to make notes on all the wine we drank, including how we had experienced the wine, and compared this with the Sowing Calendar. After three months we stopped again (suppose the Child Welfare Authorities would get hold of the notes!). And the conclusion? Well, yes...

What really matters when you want to decide how, and how good, wine tastes are the following factors (in random order): the time of the day, the weather, the relative humidity of the atmosphere, high/depression, the temperature of the wine, the temperature of the room, the smell in the room, one's food consumption before tasting (and the day before), the size of the room and the furniture in the room, the persons you taste with, the general mood, the colours of the room, the surrounding sounds and the light, possible choice of music, glasses etc.

Wooden dynamisateur for preparing biodynamic treatments.

And the Sowing Calendar? Well... Possibly. Probably. But there are so many other factors which are important that it becomes extremely difficult to decide. The question 'When does a wine taste best?' is too complex, it cannot just be reduced to a question of fruit or root days. The same wine does not taste the same twice in succession – the difference can be incredible. There is a vast number of reasons for this, amongst which could be the position of the moon and the planets. For years we tried to arrange important tastings on fruit or flower days; at any rate it does not do any harm, but now we attach less importance to it. There are other, less lofty, reasons for selecting days for wine tasting, which take precedence over the moon and the planets. And finally it should be remembered that the wine does not taste bad on a root day; a root day will only accentuate the part of the wine's character which has connection with the roots – minerality, for instance.

The long and the short of it is that it may be worth considering if other factors could have influenced the experience of a given wine, before drawing any conclusions from Maria Thun's Calendar. (Likewise, apples taste good not only on fruit days, don't they?). Alternatively, you can try and open another five bottles to see if that will change your mind. (One more bottle is not enough, since there may be variations from one bottle to another, as is well-known). Yes, the lesson must be always to open six bottles at a time!