Sunday, July 30, 1826, Amboise

Every word typed here in Amboise other than the previous post has happened in the living room, on the couch of our Bnb.  It, like every place we’ve ever stayed in France, is a sloped ceiling’d attic apartment of sorts, complete with the prerequisite bajillion stairs, toasty mid day temps and all.  It’s quite nice, honestly.  I used to have a hard limit of about 50 Euros per night when traveling abroad (less if I could find it, just ask Megan about some of the closets we’ve stayed in for days at a time), and even though kids have changed that formula significantly, I’m still cheap as shit about things like lodging.  We don’t usually spend a ton of time at basecamp (we especially didn’t before kids), so it feels like a silly thing to splurge on.  But this one is pretty sweet, with skylights and hotel furniture and a pretty minimalist vibe going on.  For us, there’s nothing worse than a BnB with knick knacks on every single shelf.  Not only does it feel cluttered as hell, but the kids just grab everything and put it somewhere else.  This place is not that, for which I’m grateful.  Not that it really matters, as we’re only here until Tuesday, but still.

We spent one last day in Muscadet on Wednesday, and between our vigneron visit and lunch out, I feel like we used the time very wisely.  In the morning, we went to the one and only Domaine de la Pepiere, one of the most respected producers in the entire region.  We’ve been pouring a ton of their wines lately at both Grisette and Jardin, and have come to really like what they’re making.  It was time to check it out and see just how it’s being made.  The place seemed to be a ghost town as we arrived, so as everyone kinda just snooped around the tasting room, I walked off to look for Adeline, our host for the day. I found the 30ish year old cellar woman working with some other folks down a gravel hill towards their production facility, and I was warmly greeted.  It kinda dawned on me as were meeting that not a lot of Americans really seek out places like this for a wine trip.  Yeah, Muscadet is big and commands a huge market, but it ain’t exactly Tuscany with regards to wine tourism.  I was flattered by her greeting and general excitement to show us around.  We shook hands and took off on a stroll with our gaggle to see the vines, where every good winemaker insists on starting every visit.  

 Domaine de la Pepiere is made up of nearly 40 hectares split among a little over half of Muscadet’s crus.  They produce several different cuvees of Muscadet, and even grow a bit of Cot (that’s Loire-ese for Malbec) and Cabernet Franc that doesn’t make it to the states, or at least Richmond (hey Darcy, if you’re reading this, have some samples sent over, wouldya?).  Because their vineyards are so severely parceled, Pepiere actually has 4 winemaking facilities and cellars of various sizes throughout the region to make life a hell of a lot easier come harvest time.  They’ve grown significantly since their start in 1986, and have slowly grown their infrastructure with their acreage to vine.  The cellar we visited, the main one to my knowledge, is in the appellation of Clisson, perhaps the most famed of all 10.  The soil in Clisson is gravelly and limestoney, and perfect for slowly ripening Melon de Bourgogne with power.  Since the grapes haven’t reached verasion yet and they’re all still green, we played a fun and humbling guessing game of what’s what in the vineyards.  We all whiffed, but were kindly shown the differences of the stems and leaves of the varietals planted.  Pepiere’s cellar is a working person’s cellar.  While it was clean, there wasn’t any touristy spit polish on anything.  Nothing was branded, nothing was on display, and it reminded me a lot of how I run my restaurants.  Yeah, I want them to be nice and all, but pens with our name on them and an interior designer on retainer just feel like wasted cash to me.  I’d rather use that money to, you know, bring some staff to France, or give them raises, or resist another price hike on the menu even though things continue to go up up up.  But I digress.  The cellar was a luddite’s wet dream- no fancy technology and lot’s of gravity fed concrete tanks.  It felt like they could probably still make the same wine that they make without the use of electricity.  It was impressive in it’s rusticity, especially given the precision of their wines.

We sat down at an old table in a couple hundred year old farmhouse ground floor that Pepiere uses as a tasting room, and Adeline got to pouring.  She pulled cork after cork after cork, tasting each bottle before she poured for the rest of us.  Sometime she pulled a second bottle of the same cuvee because the one in the tasting room had been open for a few days and gave us an opportunity to side by side what happens to wine after it’s been open for 5 days.  With most wine, a day or two is fine, but anything more and it’s typically time to cook with it.  We taste everything, all the time, at our establishments, so never fear.  If something feels like it’s starting to fade on us, we eat the money and open a new one every time.  We also don’t marry bottles (at the end of the night, combining all the open bottles of the same wine together).  On one hand, we typically open them one at a time do it never comes up.  On the other hand, you ain’t paying for an in-house solera of our BTG offerings, you’re paying for a freshly opened glass of wine.  After we worked our way through the crus, Adeline had a little gift for us.  She opened a 2005 Briords and a 2009 Clisson, both of which were drinking beautifully and served as a stark reminder to lay down some freakin’ Muscadets when we got home (they’re so relatively inexpensive, there’s no reason not to!).  The wines were dripping with finesse, with aromas of almonds and lemon curd that can only be found in wine that’s getting a little long in the tooth.  For some of the folks present, this was their first real experience with aged white wines, and I loved seeing their reaction to them.  Around our 12th bottle (not consumed, tasted, people), someone brought up how hungry they were and we all kinda blankly stared forward and nodded along with a “yeah, me too” in stereo.  Adeline gave us a lunch recommendation in a neighboring village, so I stepped out to call them and, lucky us, they could squeeze us in if we could be there in 45 minutes.  Before we left, we took a little stroll through Pepiere’s equally conservative and unassuming wine library (the little cellar, as they call it).  They have bottles reaching back to the 70’s, before Pepiere was Pepiere, and the founder was making it under a different label.  We bid adieu to our wonderful host and hit the road for lunch.

A little restaurant tucked into a sleepy little village, full of boisterous older French people (boisterous by French standards at least), serving a 3 course meal to everyone for 23 bucks a person with a cheap wine list was exactly what I had in mind.  We shared a lot of what hit the table, we opened a couple of bottles to drink (instead of just taste), and the conversation started to drift to a bit of work.  What the new restaurant was going to be like.  What our Loire valley wine dinner menu might shape up to be.  The importance of taking a break from it all every once in a while.  Even though the food is usually good at places like this (middle of nowhere, not too expensive, recommended by a vigneron, checks all the boxes), the buzz around the table is what makes it special.  I could’ve sat there and not said a word and just listened to my crew goof off/talk shop/admire the food we were eating for hours.  It was the unscripted, kumbaya bonding shit that I preach when we take wine trips together, and it was coming together just as I had drawn it up (even unscripted television has some kind of a script, right?).  It was a lovely, sunny, 75 degree day, we just spent a couple of days with some really talented winemakers and interesting people, we were in the French countryside putting back rabbit terrines and mackerel filets and apricot cakes with Chenin Blanc and espressos, and life in that moment for this restaurateur was perfect.

We took the long way home, twisting and turning through vineyards and country roads 45 minutes back to Nantes.  We had dinner as a squad on Wednesday night, as it would be our last as a full team before some people’s weeks took a more leisurely turn (these trips aren’t all work for the crew, ya know) and we would be parting ways until we reconvened back in Richmond.  After a giant shellfish tower at La Cigale (it’s touristy, and you get what you get with that, but the shellfish is awesome and the service is warm), we hit La Comedie du Vin one last time, our now official wine bar hangout in Nantes.  Megan and I called it an early one given our toddler aged cargo (we kept them out until almost 1 AM the night before, so we felt like we owed them a good night of sleep- and ourselves the next day of good behavior, which you only get with a well rested kid).  See-ya-soons and hugs were in order and afterwards we went on our way.  The next day was a moving day.  We were leaving Nantes and heading to Amboise, a few hours up the river, where I currently sit.  I’ve missed having most of my staff here for the last few days.  Hannah and Andy stuck around for a bit and hit a couple more producers with me on Thursday (more on those tomorrow), but now everyone has headed home and I’m stuck with (kidding) the just Megan and the kids again.  

I’m really going to do my best to enjoy these last few days.  I’ve been gone for nearly 4 full weeks at this point between Italy and France, and I’m starting to feel it.  Not that I’m complaining, because I’m truly not- I recognize my good fortune, privilege, and even luck, to be able to do this.  Honestly, I worked my ass off my entire life for not a whole lot of money dreaming about doing this one day, and damn if one day isn’t here.  I appreciate every minute that I’m here, riding bikes with my wife (and towing my kids in a trailer up massive hills), sipping a glass of wine with unpasteurized cheese for lunch, napping the afternoon away, and judging croissants each morning with much discrimination.  It’s amazing.  It’s a dream come true.  And even though I’m almost at that point where I’m ready to utter the shittiest thing a fortunate traveler could utter (the “I’m r**** to go h***”, see, I can’t even type it), I’m not quite there yet.         

Sunday, July 30, 1214, Amboise

I’m sitting outside of our flat in Amboise while I wait for Megan and the boys to return from the park with our only key.  I left this morning to hit the laundromat in Amboise (if you stop doing laundry for a family of four with two toddlers, it piles up fast), but the machines were all broken.  Two French women were furious and on the phone with the help number on the machine, I think with their clothes either locked inside one of them or something, honestly I couldn’t understand what was going on.  All one of them said when they looked at me was something along the lines of “everything is broken, there is no way for you to do your laundry here right now.”  So I bailed on that task, pushing it off one more day (we’re at critical mass tomorrow… it’s either find a laundromat or wash our clothes in the sink, which really would be fine and I’ll probably do some of the kids stuff this afternoon anyways).  When I got back to the centre-ville, the city market was popping off, so after circling for a parking spot for 20 minutes, I stopped in myself.  The marchee was huge, half farmers market, half flea market, and a total people watching gold mine.  I got what I needed to feed the family today and tomorrow (today, merguez with zucchini and mushrooms and some fresh rigatoni, tomorrow roast chicken with potatoes and a salad), and after getting caught up on the news for 15 minutes, here I am.

Funny, the morning after writing a couple of paragraphs about orange wine, I awoke to a NYT article from Cousin Matt.  It’s like he read what I wrote before I wrote it, which is why we’re as close as we are I suppose, but it was still a little creepy.  The article, which was very brief and more of just a quick thought by writer Melissa Kirsch, was about the Dave Matthews Band, and how back in the early 90’s, when she was at UVA, she vehemently rejected Dave’s music and fans, but now feels quite differently about both.  To steal a couple of quotes from the article,

“In adulthood, in theory, we get more comfortable with our contradictions.  We can emphatically like things that others- or even we- deem uncool without risking an identity crisis.”

“I could have ‘been there when’ rather than having ‘been there on the sidelines with my arms folded smugly when’.”

“And when Dave sings on the first track (of his 1994 record Under the Table and Dreaming), ‘If you hold on tight to what you think is your thing, you may find you’re missing all the rest’, I know categorically that he’s right.”

Powerful words, no?  Despite trying to come across level headed and thoughtfully about something as trivial (in the grand scheme of life) as orange wine, after rereading what I wrote, I feel like I need to flesh out some more thoughts and continue to press myself into open mindedness on the topic.  I am immensely comfortable with my contradictions, and do my best to suppress any element of “get-off-my-lawnism” that may naturally present itself within my internal dialogue and outward personality.  I’m not closed minded to orange wine (or much else), I’m really not.  And I don’t unequivocally hate trends or chunky soled Gen Z’ers.  In fact, I love them.  They’re me, 20-25 years ago.  They’re the future of our industry.  And while yes, it’s easy to poke fun at some natty wine zealots (again, the orange and natty scenes are so closely intertwined that I’ll use them interchangeably for a moment, father forgive my sins), they’re living their truths and bucking the establishment and all the cool shit that comes along with those things and that’s awesome.  I can say that while also acknowledging that sometimes trends are of objectively bad quality.  But if you don’t even give them a chance, you end up being that smug asshole in Charlottesville in 1991, with your arms crossed, refusing all things Dave because he’s just too mainstream (or not mainstream enough) for your grungy/punky (or yacht rocky/establishment) ass.  And yeah, truth be told, I’m ready for the orange/natty thing to be over (time will tell if it’s a trend or here to stay, I guess). It’s self righteous (so what’s the cutoff for ppm of sulfur again? 25?  30?  00?  It all sounds pretty ambiguous to me), and sometimes it’s downright gross (those flaws ain’t terroir, and there’s nothing you can do to convince me otherwise). Because even if you don’t spray pesticides, plant and harvest based on the cycles of the moon, and plow your fields with horses, it’s not as if Greta Thunberg sailed those bottles to America herself on a goddamn zero impact sailboat, so chill out and hop off that high horse before she bucks you.  This whole paragraph is full of contradictions.  And I’m ok with that.  Because the whole world happens in shades of gray, even the idiosyncratic wine world, and if you can’t acknowledge that, there’s your problem.  Nobody is the authority and we’re all the authority at the same damn time.  That shit’ll hurt your brain if you think about it too hard.     

So here I sit, in acute awareness of the delicate balance between being old enough to know what I like (and not being ashamed of it), and hopefully young enough to not dismiss new things.  May that edge of open minded youth never leave me, no matter how old I get. And for the record, while I’m no superfan, I’ve been to 5 Dave shows over the last 20 years and think he’s great. There. I said it.  

Saturday, July 29, 1630, Amboise

I’ve napped as much (if not more) in the last 10 days than I have in the last 10 years combined.  Seriously.  I just woke up from a nearly 2 hour midday nap, and I feel refreshed, recharged, and amazing.  Is this real life?  Will I become a regular mid afternoon napper?  I don’t think so, but not because I don’t love it.  It just won’t keep up with our “American” scheduled lifestyle back home, which sounds shittier than it is.  Everyone likes to talk about how “Americans spend too much time at work”, which for a lot of folks is probably true.  But I don’t think people here spend any less actual time working, it’s just at different hours and at a different pace.  Here, even on weeknights, lots of restaurants are full and still seating until 11:00 PM.  Because the entire continent revolves around this mid afternoon period of inactivity (in Spain, the siesta has a name, which I haven’t found the case in France, at least not in my status as a casual observer… nobody has said to me “in France, we have a break in the middle of the day and we’re proud to call it _____.”), the days stretch longer into the nights.  The shops close, the restaurants close, damn near everything is closed from 1:00-4:00PM.  Also, not for nothing, it’s still pretty light out all the way into the 10:00 PM hour, which, I’m sure, has some kind of natural impact on whether your body feels sleepy or not.  Do I prefer it here?  Sometimes, in moments like this, where I’ve recently stirred from a great nap, of course I do.  But I’m also a total sucker for “early to bed early to rise” back home.  In my day to day in Richmond, it feels so great to get up early, attack the day, be done with more than most accomplish in a day by noon, and be in bed by 9:00.  So I don’t know.  I appreciate them both, and I guess it just depends on what side of the Atlantic I’m on as to which I’ll participate in at any given moment.  What the European lifestyle does help me with is listening to my body when it’s tired.  As I’ve gotten older, in general, I’ve begun to embrace the random Sunday afternoon 45 minute snooze, and I’ll continue to do just that when I get home next week.

Our winery visits in the Loire were time very well spent.  In Muscadet, we visited two producers- on Tuesday afternoon with my group in tow, I met back up with Pierre Henri at his Domaine, Domaine de la Combe.  We drove out to his vineyards and talked at length about the 2023 vintage again, this time with the captive audience of curious restaurant minds.  He showed us examples of mold and mildew, and how it attacks his grapes, talked of the dreaded frost monster that comes every April, and detailed the risks of esca, a disease that attacks mature grapevines with a 100% kill rate within the year once the vine shows signs of infection.  He talked a lot about soil types and hillside exposures and vineyard landlord spats (shitty landlords are shitty landlords all over the world, I guess).  Though it’s never lost on me, mostly because I’ve met and visited so many vignerons like PH, I think the delicate and gambling nature of winemaking is largely not understood (or even considered) by most wine consumers, and probably not nearly as many wine professionals as we’d like to think.  Without the use of chemicals (none of our wines use pharmaceuticals, per se, just naturally occurring treatments of the usual- copper, sulfur, citrus oils, sometimes sea salt, botanical extracts, etc), grape farming (and thus winemaking) is an insane gamble.  And while climate change has massively added pressure and new challenges to the profession (more on this in a future post, buckle up for some grim outlooks), it has really always been this way.  You hear winemakers from any given region scoff under the breath about some 199something vintage or another, “ugh, it was terrible, we lost 60% of our yields to frost”.  In the words of one Cosmo Kramer, “Fruit’s a gamble, Jerry.”

We headed back to the Domaine from the vineyard with some new respect for the farming aspect of the craft.  A lot of folks on this trip- Dylan, Pearce, Elizabeth, Andy- aren’t necessarily wine professionals in the same sense of the term as I am.  They work in the kitchen, or in the front but in a position that’s never been as wine-centric as a role on the floor at Grisette might be, and this trek through the Loire is their first chance to meet these winemakers on their own turf, see the work they do, and add this puzzle piece of perspective to what we do at the restaurants.  So by the time we hit PH’s cellar, the questions really started coming at him, which is always what I’m hoping for with an engaged crowd.  “So why is the concrete tank unfinished, the last winery we saw had enamel on the inside?  How come some of these barrels are so much bigger than the others?  So how does the press actually squeeze the grapes?”  To a lot of experienced wine folks, these are run of the mill knowledge type of questions.  But this is one of the things about wine folks that drives me nuts- there was a time when they didn’t know the answers either!  And imagine, hauling your ass all the way to fucking France and being too timid or embarassed to ask about the very thing you came here to LEARN ABOUT!  So my team performed admirably, with respect and curiosity.  We tasted through the entire line up of Domaine de la Combe wines and, lemme tell you, PH is onto something out there.

In a region defined by cheap, mass produced juice, PH is a leading visionary.  Sure, his “normal” Muscadet is great, very typical and delicious.  And his upper level Muscadets, both the Reserve Personnel and the cru’d single vineyard L’Astree are ageworthy and wayyyy up there in QPR (that’s quality to price ratio, young somms).  But it’s his Zeste lineup that’s really turning heads, and listening to PH talk about his father’s reaction to his idea to make it is every story that us millennials have ever heard about a generational shift in thinking.  “You can’t do that.  It’ll never work.  It’s not appropriate.  People won’t buy it.  That’s too radical.”  For centuries, in France, wine has been sought after largely based on one thing- where it’s from. The appellation that you put on your label carries more weight than any other aspect of French wine.  The appellation system signifies a promise- a guarantee of what grape varietals are in that bottle, largely how they were farmed and treated once in the cellar, what materials were used and how long their aging processes were before release- to put the appellation on the bottle means that the rules of said appellation were followed, you’re subject to inspection for fraud at any time if they were not, and that the wine inside has the appellation’s seal of approval.  Now, while Muscadet may not be Pauillac (the famed Bordeaux sub appellation that commands crazy high prices), it IS something that the French (and people all over the world, but largely the French) are familiar with.  And when you’re familiar with something, you know what to expect.  And when you buy a bottle of wine, and it’s not what you expect, it’s often a huge turn off, and you are likely to avoid that producer while shopping for wine next go around.  What an appellation is concerned with is when a producer goes rogue- PH in this context- and perhaps drags the entire appellation’s name down with his own reputation.  In the process of a winemaker “trying new things”, appellations (which in most cases are made up of some kind of cooperating “board” of winemakers and politicians from a given region) are allergic to the idea.  So, to defend the entire region, if you don’t follow the established, written rules of said region, you can’t put the name of the appellation on the bottle.  And, like we established, for hundreds of years, that one single thing is what gives your wine more marketing appeal than ANYTHING ELSE.  Back to PH.

Picking this back up at 2253 because we ran out with the kids for walk and dinner, etc.

So PH has this wine that he calls “Zeste”.  It’s 100% Melon de Bourgogne (the only grape he grows), but it’s treated entirely differently than the rest of his wines.  It’s an orange wine, and for those of you that know me well, you know that orange wines aren’t usually my jam.  

***Aside about Orange Wine***

Orange wine, in case you live under a rock, is white wine that’s treated like red wine in the cellar (when the grapes are crushed, the juice sits on the grape skins for a period of time, pulling out all their phenolic and tannic elements).  They’re trendy as absolutely all get out.  Anyone with a VCU art degree that strolls into Jardin or Grisette in their weird ass chunky soled shoes asks for it, not because they actually know what they like, but because it’s what they’re supposed to like right now.  Orange wine isn’t natural wine and natural wine isn’t orange wine, but they often end up being “partners”, to use another gen Z phrase (that I both understand and now use, out of respect for all kinds of relationships, it’s called personal growth, people, give it whirl).  Both orange and natty wine are what I’d consider wine’s current counter culture.  And, as someone who embraced(embraces) ska and pop-punk, counter culture is fucking cool to young people, I totally get it.  Wine culture is fucking old and white and expensive and classist and lame.  As an industry, we’ve been ripe for a counter culture for a long time, and it’s only natural (heh) that it finally came about.  It came about in the form of pet-nat’s, orange wines, and zero sulfite, ultra natty wines, and it’s continuing with hybrid varietals and ciders and all kinds of wild shit that is making Micahel Broadbent roll over in his grave.      

And that’s not to say that there aren’t excellent orange wines out there.  There definitely are, and you can put Zeste in that category.  But the dogmatic scene of trendy shit, orange wine included, drives this aging guy crazy.  Walking into a bar and saying “oooh, I love orange wine do you have any?” is a statement that lacks an understanding of what you’re about to get, because it’s a massive (and I mean massive) category.  They’re all different.  Some of them are good.  Some of them aren’t.  But the move, as we call it, always trends towards people drinking what everyone else that looks like them is drinking, and right now, if you’ve got a shit ton of tattoos and are a democratic socialist (LFG), you’re drinking orange wine.  Which is fine.  I’ll sell it to you, hell, I’ll even drink and talk revolutionary politics with you, I just might have a glass of Chablis instead, because at a certain point (the kids will realize this eventually, as we all do), it’s ok to like what you like.  How boring would life be if everyone drank mousey skin contact bullshit, ya know?  🙂

***end aside***        

SO PH HAS THIS WINE THAT HE CALLS ZESTE.  And they (his dad, the establishment, boomers, whoever) told him not to do it.  How on earth are you going to sell declassified Melon de Bourgogne from Muscadet, labeled as Vin de France (because remember, he can’t put Muscadet on the bottle anymore now that he’s broken their rules)?  And charge what?!  Nobody will want it!!  You’ll go broke!!!

Turns out, Zeste is absolutely delicious, and a lot more people want it than can get it.  Trends and dogma aside, PH makes an excellent, interesting, affordable orange wine that his American importer (Cason) literally can’t keep in stock.  It’s got tannins, it’s got minerality, and it’s clean as an unused whistle (never understood that clean as a whistle phrase… ever been a ref or a coach?  Whistles are gross).  It’ll be coming to a wine dinner, retail shelf, and maybe even a wine list near you, and you can give it a taste for yourself.  Maybe it’ll help change your mind about orange wine, maybe it’ll only entrench you in the “Cab or nothing” camp even further (even worse than the orange or nothing camp, seriously).  But what it will be is the first extended skin contact Melon de Bourgogne from Muscadet that you’ve ever had, because as far as I can tell, PH is the first to do it.  As I said earlier, PH is a visionary.  He sees what is possible in a region where nobody else can.  He sees the future of his industry, of his family’s domaine, of his entire appellation, unlike almost any of his peers.  But what really separates PH from other trailblazing, likeminded, “fuck the patriarchy” peers of his, is his talent.  He makes excellent wine.  Being a dreamer means nothing if you don’t put in the time tilling the soil, cleaning the tanks, pruning the vines, watching the weather and reacting appropriately.  There is a time in one’s life where you’ve developed (let’s call it) good taste.  You know what’s good and what’s not, because you’ve tried a lot of shit, and you’ve experienced enough to know the difference between bad, find, good and great.  You’ve learned the lessons on your own, and you’ve seen the consequences and outcomes of more than just one approach to life.  And there’s another time in one’s life where you have the energy to put in the work.  When you’re young enough to bend over 10,000 times a day, to pull a plow, to harvest by hand, to cook on the line yourself, to keep standing behind the bar and serving guests and stirring cocktails.  Pierre Henri is in that sweet spot of when those two periods of time, the wisdom and the energy, are intersecting, with the benefit of being part of a generation of free thinking winemakers.  He is what all the old guys in wine are afraid of- someone that’s going to rock the boat.  Someone that’s going to make them try harder.  Someone that’s going to make them CHANGE (what a terrifying word) the way they look at things.  That sweet spot gave us Zeste, but it also gave us Reserve Personnel, and L’Astree, which are very traditional wines in most senses, and I like them even more than Zeste, personally.  When someone is killing it, as, again, the kids would say, the way that PH currently is, you take note.  You make room on your list for those wines.  Because you never know when that moment in time will be over, or what the next vintage will bring, hail, hellfire, and all.

Friday, July 28, 0934, Amboise

We ate pig anus yesterday in Chinon.  It was bad.  Like, truly the most revolting thing I’ve ever consumed.  I fancy myself a fairly adventurous eater, as comes with the territory of being a chef and owning a “whole animal” (or so I thought) philosophied restaurant.  But this ass-hole sausage was too much for me.  I didn’t even know exactly what it was going in, so there weren’t any preconceived notions of what laid before me on this plate.  If I’d known, we would’ve skipped it.  Ears, brains, tails, kidneys, fine.  But you lose me at the butthole.  And the second Andy cut into the farce of colonic innards, a hot, putrid stench wafted my way and I knew we were in for something pretty unpleasant.  

Andouillette is such an innocent name for such a food.  “Oh, sausage, like Andouille, maybe the -ette means they’re little”, as -ette is sometimes the feminine ending to words when they’re made a little petite, we all agreed.  “Do you need a translation for the menu?”, our generous server asked.  “No, no, no, we’ve got it.” Hannah and I confidently (foolishly) replied.  But alas.  We didn’t have it.  Our waitress didn’t even raise an eyebrow when we three Americans ordered one of the most traditional, rarely seen outside of France, things on the menu.  She walked us off the plank willingly. 

“Oh wow, this is cool, it’s like hand chopped pork inside.” Andy said as he quickly shoveled down a bite.  Looking over and visually analyzing (get it, ANALyzing) his plate while searching for the source of the stench that had hijacked my senses and nearly already ruined my gorgeous piece of poached Loup de Mer, I said something along the line of “That ain’t no chopped pork.  That’s innards.”  Despite still not knowing the exact location on the hog of this food’s origin, I knew it wasn’t exactly a prized cut.  It looked bad.  It smelled bad.  Andy swallowed quickly and made a guttural “whoa” kind of exclamation, neither like a La Jolla surfer nor like a thoroughly impressed diner.  It was more like a “JFC, what did I just eat?” kind of low and slow whoaaa. I didn’t want to take a bite.  I really just wanted to eat my fish and Hannah’s amazing looking pork belly and move along with my day.  But we were partager-ing, and Andy had already wolfed down a generous bit, and I was up.  It was on the table, and if we were in for a penny, we were in for a Euro, as they say.

As I write this, I know how it makes me sound.  “Ohhh, big tough fancy wannabe adventurous chef guy that serves beef hearts and chicken guts at his restaurant can’t handle a little exotic eating of his own, what a fucking hypocrite.”  Go for it.  Call me Jay Monahan, Donald Trump, and Jerry Fallwell all wrapped into one stinking hypocritical shit sausage.  Without oversensationalizing my reaction to my very full forkful of Andouillette (doing shit like this, never take a little nibble… you’ve gotta full-send it), I nearly puked on the table.  I chewed a little, quickly thought “don’t chew, just get it down”, grabbed my glass of Chenin and dumped half of it into my mouth with the gelatinous, earthy, funk-bomb of bolus, and still struggled to swallow.  But I did swallow, most of it at least.  Whatever was remaining in my mouth after one gulp went into my napkin, as my body’s visceral reaction just wouldn’t allow another swallow.

And yeah, It’s dramatic, but it ruined my lunch.  I couldn’t bounce back.  None of us could, really.  Hannah tried to mask it by eating more fatty pork belly (while delicious, a bad choice), and I continued to work on my fish (again, white fish is not the appropriate chaser for pig anus, in case that ever becomes a choice you have to make in your life), but it was over.  The Andouillette sat on the table, half ingested by us willing participants, but surely not not receive another nibble from any of us.  I was by far the biggest baby about the event, even excusing myself to the WC to compose myself.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was traumatized, but degistively shaken for sure.  Not the case for the guy at the table next to us- he housed his entire portion of Andouillette, washed it down with a whole bottle of wine, and DEFINITELY noticed us struggling with ours while he smiled a content, snarky, little smile, most certainly thinking to himself,  “Fucking Americans.” in some way or another.  

After lunch, we went for a walk, and thought that espresso and ice cream would certainly wash out the taste and get us over the experience, and honestly, it did for the most part.  Chinon was a beautiful little town, and we walked that stuff down our esophagi at just a quick enough pace to not be burping it back up.  I texted Hans last night about my experience, and with mild amusement, he summed it up for me perfectly.  “We throw around the term peasant food a lot… *this* is peasant food.” 

Sunday, July 23, 0858, Nantes

It’s raining in the Pays Nantais, which is totally fine with me.  Despite staying slathered in sunblock the entire time I was in Italy, the weather was stiflingly hot, and the sun was oppressive.  Last summer, temps in The Roussillon and Southern Rhone reached the mid 100’s (I think 107 is where it maxed out one day in Provence), and we were slowly sous vide in our own skins.  The past few days have been quite literally perfect- 77 and sunny, dropping into the 50’s at night.  So a gentle sprinkle and some gusty wind is fine by me today.

We had a great lunch with Pierre Henri Gadais and his adorable little family yesterday.  We drove down into the crus of Muscadet and met at a picturesque little Bib Gourmand eatery that was completely surrounded by vineyards.  His wife and daughter accompanied him, and, despite the language barrier with them (PH speaks pretty good English, his family less so, but again, I can kinda keep up and Megan is often better than I), I think everyone had a lovely time.  We’re visiting his winery on Tuesday afternoon as a team, but we jumped right into work talk right away.  It’s been a challenging vintage so far, he told me, but nothing compared to last year.  This year it’s wet and disease/mold pressure, but last year was an inferno, and just too hot for the native Melon de Bourgogne grapes to retain the natural acidity that everyone looks for in prototypical Muscadet.  We’re going to taste the 2022’s on Tuesday, and I’m curious to see what they’re like.  

Muscadet was one of my first real wine region loves.  I fell for it about 10 years ago, when I was living in Charlottesville and knew practically nothing about wine other than that it got ya drunk a lot faster than beer and that I loved Chianti.  Public Fish and Oyster had just opened, and my buddy’s wife worked there as a waitress.  I was cooking somewhere that shall remain nameless, but I needed to get out of there.  It was dirty, it was soulless, and I was the miserable sous chef that took things more seriously than everyone else- a shit position to be in, and one that has turned more promising sous chefs into full fledged dickhead alcoholics than successful chefs.  Rumor was that the owner wasn’t pleased with his opening chef, and that he would entertain the thought of bringing someone new in already, just a couple of months after opening the doors.  Desperate for either a real mentor or my own shot and doing things my way, I stopped by the restaurant one night for some oysters and a drink.  Daniel, the owner, was behind the bar, and asked me if I wanted a glass of Muscadet.  And that’s when I said it.  The one thing that now makes my eyes roll so hard internally, that I sometimes have to literally bit my lip… “BuT iS It SwEeT?”, I asked.  Daniel, then ever the professional, assured me in much more polite terms, “No, you fucking moron, it’s not sweet.  It’s as dry as white can can get.”  So I had a glass.  And then another.  And then another.  And I was hooked.

Muscadet is the Western most, Atlantic Ocean adjacent region of the Loire valley, and is made up of massive swaths of vineyards around the city of Nantes.  There is but one grape grown here for Muscadet production- the aforementioned Melon de Bourgogne.  It’s admittedly a little tricky for first timers- it’s grapes from Muscadet, not melons from Burgundy, and it’s the only place in the entire world that focuses on the nichey white varietal.  Classic Muscadet is characterized by bright, brilliant acidity, a distinctive saline minerality, and typically some pretty full body due to lengthy aging on the lees (the spent yeast particles from fermentation).  Green apple, lemon zest, ocean spray, and baguette dough all come to the nose and palate alike.  For most somms, it is the pairing for oysters, as the grows-together-goes-together maxim rings true once again (the coast of Brittany, like Normandy, is chock full of oysters that are clean and salty as hell).  One of the real treasures of the region for me is the price- excellent Muscadet is quite inexpensive, compared to practically every other famous region of the country.  Even the good-good stuff, coming from Muscadet’s 10 crus that are generally clustered to the NE and SE of Nantes from the most famed producers, is reasonably priced.  The stuff has sneaky ageable potential too- 10 year or 15 year old Muscadet is a unique treat and sensory experience.  We poured a TON of it by the glass in May, which our pals at Free Run Wine Co dubbed “Musca-May” and raised some money for Chesapeake Bay oyster shell restoration projects.  All that said, the wines are so much more versatile than just slugging it with raw bivalves.  We used PH’s Domaine de la Combe Reserve Personelle two years ago on New Year’s Eve, paired with Bocuse’s famous Soupe VGE (think chicken consomme with the foie gras and black truffles, capped with freshly baked puff pastry… it’s righteously decadent, but not heavy or cloying because it remains a sippable consistency… it’s a tough dish to nail, as it is a master class in nuance and seasoning).  The pairing was perfect, as a lot of folks who dined with us that evening told us that it was their favorite combination of the tasting menu.  I think great Muscadet is a little closer to being similar to good Burgundy in its pairing ability than a lot of folks would like to think or admit.  Perhaps that’s where the Melon de Bourgogne comes from, eh?  I don’t think so, but I’ll ask on Tuesday anyways. 

So I suppose coming here, like the Roussillon last year, was quite intentional and quite personal for me.  I’ve long loved these wines, sure, but I also wanted to see Pierre Henri on his home turf.  PH came to Richmond last Spring and shucked oysters with us at Jardin before joining Cason (the fella that imports his stuff) and I for a lengthy, wine filled dinner at Grisette.  We talked a lot about our respective jobs, from making the wine to importing the wine to selling the wine, but more about our families and our lives- we all have small children and relatively new small businesses.  PH talked at length about the decision to break away from the family tradition and start making his own wine, his own way.  His father owns a 60 hectare(!) estate, and while there’s nothing wrong with his wines, per se, they don’t always see eye to eye on vineyard and cellar practices.  After spending some time with him and hearing out his convictions, I told him that I’d come visit, and here I am, making good on my promise.  While we’re here, before we head a couple hours inland to see the Chenin and Cab Franc of Chinon and Vouvray, we’re also going to go see Domaine de Pepiere, one of the most heralded producers in Muscadet.  I’m pumped to see the vastness of their operation, and I have a lot of questions ready.  

Having only a couple of days, it was hard to narrow it down to those two producers.  I like so many others in the region, and I could easily spend a week here just winery hopping and guzzling wine.  But I’ve got a 1 and 2 year old with me at the moment.  They’re currently doing their best to keep me from getting my security deposit back on this BnB (which is filled with knicknacks), sliding the barstools all over the floor, moving the coffee table to launch themselves onto the couch, grabbing the full sized samurai sword off the credenza, “LOOK DADDY, A SWORD!”.  Today, we’ll go back to the market, grab some things to cook for dinner and some snacks for today and tomorrow.  The rain is quitting in the early afternoon, so maybe after naptime we’ll go for a big walk around the centre ville and go see a castle or something.  The city is still quite sleepy right now, between the rain and the fact that it’s Sunday.  Almost everything, from restaurants to clothing and department stores, will be closed today as the French collectively exhale after another busy week.  Even the market and grocery stores close around noon.  I think we’ll cook at home tonight, a piece of fish big enough for all of us with a tomato and haricot vert salad sounds about right.  The rest of the staff arrives tomorrow afternoon, and I can’t wait to see everyone.  We’re planning on some drinks and snacks here at our flat in the early evening, and then we’ll hit the town together for more food and wine.  Our first appointment isn’t until 2:00 on Tuesday, so maybe I’ll even make it a late one (by my old guy with two toddlers standards).  It will be just like last year in Perpignan, but thankfully, not 107 degrees.

Friday, July 21, 1040, Nantes

My 72 hour Parisian vacation is over.  It was glorious, and proved to be exactly what I needed- a couple of days to slow down, take inventory of my thoughts, continue my hot streak of exercising, and get some much needed rest.  I found myself, uncharacteristically, without a plan or direction over the past couple of days, which, sandwiched between the packed work of Italy and being put into full-on “vacation dad” mode (iykyk, fellas, we earn it in the dirt when we’re away from home), came strangely comfortably to me.  But alas, by yesterday morning, as I packed my things in my little hotel room to head to the airport to scoop up Megan and the boys, shaking off the first smidge of a hangover that I’d felt since I left home (there are A LOT of wine bars in Paris, in case you hadn’t heard), I was glad to see my solocation come to an end.  My biggest enemy in life- boredom- was sure to creep in had it lasted any longer.  I could feel its breeze sweeping in, like the big windy moment before a storm hits.  Even so, I was content, grateful, and rested.  As lucky and fortunate and privileged as I know that I am, I rarely get three days alone anywhere, let alone in the City of 1000 Bakeries.  So I threw on my backpack and headed to the metro to retrieve my family.

The Paris metro is a wild time for the uninitiated.  I’ve been on the DC and NY trains at rush hour 100 times, and if you ask a Parisian, they’d say that you could fit at least 20% more people in those cars.  Being the last person on a packed full metro car in Paris is like squeezing one last sardine into a can.  I could feel the doors nearly pinch my nose as they shut a few centimeters from my face.  In this moment, there is no moving whatsoever.  No reaching into your pocket, no checking your watch, no looking at your phone, hell, you should probably reconsider taking deep breaths, in case the expansion of your lungs displaces the last remaining solid mass of the train that keeps it from exploding (not to mention, a deep gulp of hot, stale, stinky, Parisian metro air might cause a chain reaction of other bodily functions, and puking in this moment may very well be somewhere in the 4th or 5th circle of Saw-the-movie-like hell for everyone on board).  I found my zen, remembered my training (I received no training), held it together, and got to CDG, where I immediately picked up up our rental car and found the doors that my little fam would be walking through in a matter of moments.

Megan put on her cape and flew solo over the Atlantic with a 1 and 2 year old.  They were mostly good, according to her post flight report, though not without moments of terror.  We sat through some hefty traffic, but eventually made it into the countryside.  Highway driving in France (as well as Italy and Spain) is a breeze.  The speed limit is 130kph (80mph), the left lane is used exclusively for passing, and nobody seems irritated nor, despite the high speeds, in a huge hurry.  We got to Nantes around 8:00 last night, where we were greeted by our BnB host.  She showed us our cute little attic flat that’s located right smack in the center of the city, and we settled the kids in with some leftover highway sandwiches and a ceremonious feeling unpacking of their stuff.  Telling a 2 year old that we’re just going to live here for a week was as challenging to explain as it was for him to comprehend, but I think he’s getting it.  Teddy is in the phase (let it never end, please) of having strong opinions. Perhaps he doesn’t care for the art on the walls, or the shape of the table. He’ll let us know. Enzo is still too young to really care. We travel as often as we can with the kids, and even in just a couple of years, I bet they’ve slept in 20 different beds, no exaggeration.  Getting them out of their comfort zones widens their comfort zones, I think.  While it may take some time for them to warm up to a place, I think that the overwhelming feeling of safety in numbers and familiarity, as a family, ends up keeping them cool when other kids might freak out.  That’s not to say there aren’t tantrums and poor behavior sometimes, but I try to keep it in perspective.  We put them on an overnight flight for shit’s sake.  WE feel like zombies after traveling for 24 hours, imagine being used to 10-12 hours of sleep a night, plus two naps, combined with the structure of a toddler’s life, and see how you’d feel.  So we do our best to be patient.  Today, they woke up in much better states of mind than they were in last night, but still a little off.  In fact, everyone just went down for a late morning nap, Megan included.  Time to join them.  Ciao.  

Tuesday, July 18, 1722, Montmartre, Paris

I tried to keep up with journaling my experiences in Italy, I really did.  What I wasn’t really prepared for is how little time to myself I’d have on that leg.  There were 8 of us, we visited 15 different producers, had 2 meals a day that lasted 2-3 hours each, and spent way more time in the car than I had anticipated.  It was go, go, go, go, go, with virtually no free time.  With what hour a day I had to myself, I ran.  Literally.  My only defense against the next bowl of pasta was constant exercise.  And despite not writing writing the entire time, I did manage to take a lot of notes about the wines, the people, the scenery and soils, the meals, and everything in between.  But I went into this saying “this is a work trip”, and damn if it didn’t turn out to be just that.  By yesterday morning, I was so tapped out on raw veal and red wine that I completely changed my plans for the next few days.  Instead of touring Normandy until Meggo and the boys arrive on Thursday, I booked myself a cheap, slightly seedy, little hotel room in my favorite Parisian neighborhood of Montmartre, where I’m holing up for a couple of days and digesting the giant 3,000 course meal that was Italy.  Now that I’ve had 24 hours of decompressing (a long sleep,  nap, 3 showers, a croissant, multiple coffees, some white Burgundy, some good bread (more on that later), pate maison (twice), and a 5 hour solo traipse through the City of Lights with very little direction or goals in mind, I’m feeling much, much better.         

Instead of hammering out a list of every single wine we tasted, let’s walk through this trip with a little less detail, a bit more emotion, and some bigger picture takeaways.  I left you in Tuscany, of where my stay will be overwhelmingly remembered by just how hospitable everyone was.  Chianti, Montalcino, San Gimignano, everywhere we went, we were met with enthusiasm, authenticity, and a particular type of down to earth warmth.  And the wines of Tuscany are getting better every year as the region comes into its own, with a slow and steady commitment to quality that had evaded the region for generations until recently.  The wines we tasted showed well, they’re priced right, and are, in some cases, the most marvelous interpretations of Sangiovese in the entire world.  I’d be remiss to not mention the thrill of finally meeting Elizabetta Faguoli, the 90something year old owner and longtime winemaker of Montenidoli.  She was as prodigious as advertised, equal parts bombastic, sage, and sincere.       

On our way north, we spent a day (and a very very long night) with Giorgio and Angela of Cantina della Volta, one of my favorite and most illustrious Lambrusco producers in the world.  The slick, Ferrari-esque, polish on those wines were on full display, and Giorgio’s generosity knows no bounds.  We drank magnums of old tete de cuvee Champagne, ate at one of Massimo Bottura’s restaurants in Modena, and were served parmesan and salami at his house at 1:00 in the morning while playing foosball.  My only regret is not having the energy to keep that night going until the sun came up.

From there, we entered the Alps for a legit “rest” day from tasting, and took in the mountain air with cold beer and crispy fried meats.  John marched us at bayonet point up an entire mountain, which we followed up with a lengthy steam at the spa at the Hotel Botango with a bunch of naked older German ladies.  Their absolute dismissal of shame with regards to nudity proved too tempting to not join them in the buff (it is my (and I think everyone’s, once they can break through the social shame) preferred state, truth be told).  Driving over the Stelvio Pass is a bucket list item for many, and it held up to the hype.  John and Jose both managed to keep all 4 tires on the road as we took in big sweeping Alpine views and ice cold air at nearly 10,000 feet.  

 Lombardia awaited on the other side of the mountain, specifically Valtellina, where the Nebbiolo grows in steep terraces along the southern slope of the mountains.  Faso’s wines at Dirupi were energetic and spoke with so much intense clarity.  It’s Nebbiolo, yeah, but perhaps nothing like what you may be used to.  There is an amount of intentional imperfection that makes Valtellina what it is- the difference in elevation of up to 500 meters at different parts of each vineyard allows the varietal to flex many different muscles.  Sondrio, the town we stayed in, was cute as hell and crawling with local action.  It was the most populous place that we stayed, but ironically seemed to have the fewest number of tourists clogging it’s arteries (not that tourists are bad, but some places here are totally overrun right now; I also acknowledge that I am one of them; I also acknowledge that tourist dollars contribute a massive amount to the local economies here; it’s a complicated, multifaceted thing that would need it’s own 300 page book, so I’ll leave it there).  If you don’t see me for a few months, there’s a good chance Andrew Maksimovich and I have fled our lives to live happily ever after together in Sondrio.

We finished our tour of the peninsula with the most esteemed of all Italy’s regions: Piemonte.  Piemonte is home to a lot of things, Barolo, Barbaresco and Asti among them.  This is where Nebbiolo often needs to be 10 years old to be palatable and 20+ to truly reach sublimation.  We stayed three nights at Ca d’Gal, who makes the best Moscato I’ve ever had and that very well may exist.  With Ca d’Gal as a homebase, we split our time between the clay and limestone soils of Barbaresco and Barolo, where we visited Sottimano, Azalea, and Ettore Germano.  All three are making expressive, unbelievably age worthy wines (pro tip, I’ve got the 2010 Azelia Riserva on the Reserve list at Grisette for something like $250, which is the deal of the century).  Even in a region that is often painted with a broad brush of power, the wines showed so much nuance and deft.  We wrapped things up with a day in Alto Piemonte and a visit with Le Pianelle in Bramaterra and Boniparti in Faro.  Pianelle was raw- the vineyards are hard to get to even with 4 wheel drive and full of volcanic soil, steep hills, and every mosquito in Italy.  I could have spent a week with Cristiano, the winemaker at Pianelle.  His raw approach to his job was refreshing and free of smoke and mirrors.  As a chef, it resonated with me.  When asked about  his winemaking “style”, his response was similar to mine when asked about cooking “I only know one way to do it- the right way, I think- so I don’t know if style is the right word to use.”  The wines were bloody, and tiptoed the line of being both refined and feral at the same time.

So there ya go.  That’s 1% of what there is to say about my 11 days in Italy.  There’s so much more to tell, and if you want some nitty gritty on the wines and our experiences, there will be plenty of opportunities to hear about them in the coming months at wine dinners, tastings, and the like.  We’re going to bring in a bunch of them for an entire section at Jardin, and a good few of them will make their way onto the list at Grisette.  Which I guess is the whole point of these trips- to go get to know some people that make the juice we revere and bridge the gap between what they’re doing and what you’re drinking.  The personal connection of sitting next to them around a convivial dinner table, tasting straight from the barrel in the cellar while listening to them dissect the differences among vintages, walking through the vineyards with them and picking up a handful of soil to see the million year old fossils that are talked about on the tech sheets- these things are what makes the story the story.  It’s not about labels, or clout, or money, or anything else.  It’s about the wine and the food and the people and the land.  And as someone who fanciest human relationships over everything, I find weeks like the last very moving.  I’m looking forward to introducing you to all of the winemakers and cellarmasters and vineyard managers that I met last week, with their wine as a proxy to their presence in my own dining room.        

Big thanks to Le Storie wines for all of the generous hospitality over the last two weeks.  They put together a hell of a show, ran a tight ship, and assembled a cast of talented, thoughtful, hilarious people on this trip.  Getting to know 3 other Somms- Winn, Joe, and Jason- (as well as getting to spend some great one on one time with our very own newly minted Somm, Jenissa) was as fun and influential as any of the winery visits.  Everyone has their own approach to our craft, and hearing about how each of them balanced not only their wine lists, but their lives, was really great.  It was nice to be surrounded by my professional peers, where, once again, nobody was changing the subject on anyone when some idiosyncratic wine topic came up.  We spent A LOT of time together, and I’m already looking forward to our social and professional reunions once we’re all settled back into our respective grooves at work and home.  Silly Sally loves grappa, but hates amaro, amiright guys?

And that brings us into the present- at a cafe, somewhere between the 9th and 18th Arrondissement of Paris, where I’m knocking back a couple of espressos and typing under the watchful (and perhaps annoyed) eye of a rather grumpy looking, older gentleman waiter.  It’s nice to be somewhere where I understand most of what’s being said around me (my French is obviously not great, but it also ain’t bad) and where you can get a decent loaf of bread (pew pew, shots fired Italy, the bread largely flat out sucked).  I’m heading down to the 11th, near the Bastille, for dinner in just a bit.  I’ve got a friend in town with her family, and we’re meeting up for a wickedly old school meal at Chez Paul, a 120+ year old bistro.  Though I’m a little bummed I didn’t make it to Normandy (I really was cautiously and somberly looking forward to visiting Omaha beach for personal reasons, and that’ll have to wait now), I did manage to see Ben for lunch today as he treks off into the great wide open of his life in France.  

Megan and the boys will arrive on Thursday at noon, Paris time, which, though I don’t wish away my last quiet solo day here, can’t come soon enough.  I miss my family desperately, and can’t wait to see them.  We’ll be heading straight to Nantes from the airport, where we’ll link up with the Grisette crew a few days later.  I’ll be a lot better about writing from here, as family vacations with little ones always end up having a couple hours of “well what the hell should we do while these boys sleep?” moments each day.  

A bientot.      

Sunday, July 9, 0057, Panzano

I want a panda.  No, not a big fuzzy black and white bear.  And not a $10k Omega chronograph (I mean, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at one, but still).  I mean a 1990 Fiat Panda, perhaps the coolest car one could possibly get around the city of Richmond in.  They’re not box-y, they’re a literal box.  They’re tiny little 4x4’s, barely bigger than a goddamn ATV, and just the most Euro thing I’ve ever seen.  The new ones are too curvy and modern looking, but Fiat, listen, if you brought back a retro Panda and really leaned into it, Gen Z’ers would eat it up just like they do JNCO’s and fanny packs and Alicia Silverstone’s Cher.  You’d also snag millennials and X’ers for nostalgia’s sake.  The only people that would call them ugly would be boomers, and well, you know what, let’s not.  I want a panda.

We spent the day in Montalcino tasting Sangiovese in perhaps its finest form/ultimate evolution.  Brunello di Montalcino is Sangio that typically has 5 years of age on it before it’s released between time in oak and bottle.  Think of it like Rioja Reserva.  There’s an amount of patience that’s baked into the region that I really appreciate.  We started at San Lorenzo, a little 5 hectare estate run by Luciano Ciolfi.  He is the third generation to tend the vines at San Lorenzo, but only the first to have been making the wine himself the entire time.  Up until 2002, San Lorenzo sold its fruit to other wineries.  With changes in the DOC’s law (the final word on Italian wine laws often come from local groups of officials called consortiums) that held Brunello producers to the 100% estate grown fruit rule, San Lorenzo began their own production.  Luciano and Ivan walked us through their processes and philosophies, 

Sunday, July 9, 1017, Panzano

Never try to get a 1000 word journal entry down at 1 AM after a long day of wine, you’ll never finish it before you fall asleep.

Anyways, the tasting at San Lorenzo was impressive, to say the least.  Luciano opened bottles from 2007 all the way up until the not yet released 2019, and the wines really displayed the dark, brooding side of Sangiovese.  As we went back in the vintages, the wines got browner and browner on the eyes and more complex and savory on the nose, while retaining acidity and balance on the palate.  More than any amount of grandeur or beauty, I appreciate winemakers that are simply excited to open bottles and share them.  You could tell that Luciano was proud of his work, and judging by the collective grunts and praise heard around the table, rightfully so.  Lunch was “light”, meaning some pasta, some vitello tonnato, and some bread, which, I suppose, is the lightest menu since our arrival.

We departed San Lorenzo and headed over to San Filipo, only about 15 minutes by car.  The estate was gorgeous- century old stone buildings that have been refitted with modern windows, doors, lighting, etc.  San Filipo’s interpretation of Brunello is starkly different from San Lorenzo’s- where SL showed dark cherry and demi glace, SF was about red raspberries, tart cherries, and finesse finesse finesse.  They were bright and acid driven, but with persistent tannins and big long finishes.  There was definitely a “house style” that they’re after, and shit if they don’t nail it.  

I’ve got to wrap up quickly and unfinished here, as we’re off to L’Erta di Radda, another Chianti Classico producer just over the hill from Il Molino di Grace.  Until later.    

7/6, 1119, Richmond International Airport

Why do airport bars suck, yet I have an undying affinity for them?  The food is bad, the beers are expensive, they have those little pour control nozzles on the bottles of booze, everything is kinda sticky, and I inevitably end up sitting next to some guy that’s way more proud about being in the Army than I ever was.  If an airport bar existed outside of the airport, say, in Richmond, I’d never go.  It would definitely be owned by a biggish company that has a ton of restaurants that serve white person Asian food (I kid, I kid, and I love both the cheap eats and friendly staff at Lucky AF).  Nevertheless, here I am, sipping my $11 Sam Summer Ale, waiting for my plane, and cracking my typographical knuckles as I embark on a full month away in Europe.

I’m going to do my best to chronicle this trip here.  I kept decent travelogs both in France last summer and Spain last winter, and while I really enjoyed the opportunity to share my trip with people, I mostly just appreciated taking an hour or two each day to collect and transpose my thoughts and feelings about what I experienced.  I found myself able to more accurately and articulately put a point on my general opinions about wine, the European pace and way of life, and everything else, when I wrote it down (typed it out, whatever).  So if you’d like to follow along, here’s there rough plan

I’m headed to Italy, where I’m meeting up with Jenissa (our fearless (and newly minted Certified Sommelier) GM at Jardin), John Grimsley (the owner of Le Storie, a Richmond based wine importing company, golf buddy, and friend), and a small gaggle of wine folks (sales reps, other buyers from the DC market, etc).  We’re going to spend about 8 days together working our way from Rome to the Alps and then down to Milan, visiting several winemakers each day.  It’s work for J and I, but obviously pretty damn enjoyable work.  When that leg of the trip is over, around midmonth, I’ll head to Paris by train to scoop up Ben (a Grisette chef alum) and bring him to his new job, cooking at a restaurant in Normandy.  After a night or two there, it’s back to Paris to snag Meggo and my boys (Theodore and Vincenzo, obvi), and we’ll be on our way to Nantes and Amboise, where we’ll be meeting up with some folks from the Grisette staff and visiting some Loire valley winemakers before we all head back to the US and back to real work.  It’s going to be a whirlwind, I’m sure.  

Some of this will be about wine.  A lot of this will not.  It’s already been a slightly harrowing trip that began with a full fledged panic attack at Dulles last night about my health, driving back to Richmond, a doctor’s appointment that assured me I’m ok this morning, rebooking my flight, and now departing from Richmond not even 18 hours later.  I haven't been my usual self the last month or so.  I’ve been stressed out about leaving my kids for 2 weeks, Eli and I are mid-swing on planning this next restaurant scheduled to open later this year, all added to the crushing anxious weight of what I mistook for a blood clot in my leg for the past several months.  All it took was me standing at my gate, thinking I was about to die on this flight to go to the doctor and get checked out.  Turns out, I’m fine.  And no amount of medical anxiety in the world is any match for my desire to live to see my kids grow up, even if I’m a fool for not having addressed it way sooner.  I’m a little embarrassed, but big ups to the VA and my wife for calming me down and emotionally/medically/spiritually guiding me through the last day.  And really, fuck being embarassed about being scared about my health and having a little panic attack and things of that sort.  While I wouldn’t wish it on anyone and I’m glad the episode is over, it was a pretty human experience and nothing to be ashamed of.  As Eli’s mom, Josie, would say, with much Long Island vigor, “nobody’s perfect”.  Either way, it’s been an emotional 24 hours, and this airport bar is kinda hitting the spot, sticky tables, high and tights, and all.    

I’m really looking forward to getting to know these winemakers, many of whom make wines that I've enjoyed and admired for years.  I’m looking forward to seeing my kids nakedly splash around the rocky Atlantic coast beaches and eat crepes and watch the trains at the Gare de Lyon and for Teddy to finally see that damn Eiffel Tower he’s been talking about for months.  I’m looking forward to ditching those same kids with a babysitter that doesn’t speak English and going out for a quick dinner date with my amazing wife, who has been so incredibly supportive lately more than ever.  I’m excited to explore how my love of oysters compares and contrasts to the oyster culture of northern France in anticipation of opening my own aforementioned oyster-focused restaurant with Eli and Dylan later this year.  Speaking of Dylan, I can’t wait to meet up with him in Nantes and hit 17 bakeries in a day.  I’m excited to drink some Muscadet and Vouvray and all the Italian varietals I don’t even know how to spell (in addition to the ones that I do).  I can’t wait to get elbows deep into what’s happening in France politically at the moment- the right/left, rural/urban, race/class relations in France are wayyyyy more similar to the US than what most Americans realize. There’s going to be a ton of commentary on all of the above.

So here we go.  As usual, there will be no edits, no punches pulled, and no censoring of my thoughts.  The ticket to ride is free, just check in here every couple of days. 

See you in Tuscany!

Saturday, July 8, 0754, Panzano in Chianti

It’s a peaceful, overcast Saturday morning in Tuscany.  I slept as hard as a human can sleep last night, having skipped slumber for about 38 hours in a row leading up to my head hitting the pillow.  It was one of those deep, restful, exhausted sleeps with the shutters closed and not a crack of light in the room.  No matter how busy your mind may be, you’re out cold.  It was glorious.

I got into Rome yesterday at about 0830, where I quickly rendezvoused with Jenissa, took a quick bath in the airport sink, and then linked up with Jose and Jason at the Europcar counter. Jose works for Le Storie as our sales rep and general second in command for the whole company.  His wine knowledge is deep, his sense of humor is sharp, and between his passion for food and beverage and his adoration of our Washington Capitals, is generally just an easy, relatable guy to be around.  Jason is another “buyer”, as it would be called on this trip (someone responsible for purchasing wine for a restaurant or retail shop).   He runs the wine program at a couple spots in Northwestern Virginia called Locke Store and The Buttery.  Jason was immediately an easy conversationalist, clearly an experienced traveler and seemingly a downright Italian wine scholar.  Good dude to sit next to in the car on a trip like this. 

There would be no time to see Rome, and we grabbed our car and immediately set out on a 3 hour trip to Montalcino, one of the most celebrated DOCs of Sangiovese in the world.  What Chateauneuf and Gigondas are to Grenache, what Haro is to Tempranillo, that’s what Montalcino is to Sangio.  Brunello di Montalcino, the big boy most celebrated release of the region, drinks up there with the greatest fine wines in the world.  We rolled into an adjacent village for lunch with Sabina, the delightful owner of Sassetti, one of the famed producers of Montalcino.  Her family’s restaurant had a terrace that overlooked the bigger-than-expected rolling hills of Montalcino.  To a weary traveler, walking onto that terrace was right out of a fever dream- after about 20 hours of travel, a 6 course lunch, being walked through through all of Sassetti’s incredible wines by Sabina, all under the hot Tuscan sun while overlooking this region that I’ve long loved but never visited from a dramatically steep slope… whatever that may have been on my mind going into that lunch was violently ripped from my consciousness.  YOU’RE HERE NOW, DUDE, CHILL OUT.

Lunch was great, the wines were excellent, and the conversation came to our group of 8 pretty naturally.  We took a quick but harrowing gravel road ride to Sassetti’s vineyards, where we jumped out for 20 minutes to get in the dirt for a moment.  The terrain of Montalcino is similar to that of lots of the world’s greatest red wine regions: dramatic elevation changes, tons of sun, and rocky soil. I was surprised by the biodiversity of the flora, and the grapevines weren’t nearly as monocropped as they are in some other places.  Vineyards rolled into olive tree groves rolled into forests rolled into wheat fields and so on.  It was beautiful, no doubt, and being in such an altered state (no sleep, lots of travel, a few glasses of wine at lunch) left me emotionally vulnerable in the best kind of way to really just soak it in and appreciate where I was standing.  

One last 90 minute car ride brought us to Il Molino di Grace, smack in the heart of Chianti Classico in Panzano, where we’d be spending the next couple of nights.  Daniel Grace, the owner of the estate, met us in the driveway and guided us up to his family’s villa, which they’re generously opening to our group for a couple of nights.  Il Molino di Grace is pulled from the script of a movie- the original building was built in the 8th century, and has slowly and intentionally expanded to accommodate its various stewards since then.  I’m not sure if it was designed to entertain, or if it just happened organically over the course of 1400 years, but it seems to be an endless campus of Tuscan wonderment- enough rooms for everyone, patios galore, a great pool deck with a 15 foot deep end, a goddamn treehouse for tasting wine.  And while it’s impressive and amazing and all that, it’s not Napafied.  It’s authentic as hell.

Daniel is a host among hosts, and though it took very little goading, got everyone in the pool within 15 minutes of arriving.  We all took a quick and refreshing dip, Emanuelle (a winemaking friend of the family) and Giada (their exporting director) cracked some cold beers, and the 10 of us sat around the pool for a bit, shooting the shit and taking it all in.  Conversation pretty quickly went towards wine, naturally.  Emanuelle and Giada were curious about the Virginia wine scene, and we dissected the merits and pitfalls of our home state’s industry.  A fun, spirited debate about Brettanomyces began, and it really made me think about something my friend and mentor back at home, Lauren, talks about- it’s nice to find a group of people to socialize with that won’t try to change the subject on you.  Whether it’s wine, food, politics, baseball, or string theory, it’s important to keep friends and/or colleagues close who care about the same things as you.  And after just a few hours with this group, it was abundantly clear- we are all wine nerds.  Like, big, dorky, unashamed wine nerds.  And that is SO fucking awesome.  No shame, no feeling like we’re boring each other, none of that.  We’ve got 8 days together to enjoy, appreciate, and be curious about wine together.  Nobody’s a jerk, nobody’s judging, and everyone is into it.  In the moment, I looked across the deck and watched with quiet pride as Jenissa confidently jumped into the conversation with her own opinions.  I’m really glad she’s here, partly so I’ve got someone I know know to socialize with, partly because she deserves a nice little treat after studying so hard for that exam, but mostly because this kind of trip is truly where growth happens in our profession.  Walking the vineyards, tasting the wines with the people that made them, nerding out about cider’s place in the beverage pecking order with other professionals- if you want to really, truly be the best at this (not that it’s a competition, but everything’s a competition), you have to sharpen yourself with the hardest steel you can find.

A quick shower and we convened in the treehouse (it’s big enough for 12ish people to taste and even eat in) for a tasting.  We tasted through all of Grace’s offerings, from the easygoing to the serious stuff.  Chianti has long been plagued by being looked down upon when compared to other fine wine regions of the world- lots of mediocre to bad juice hit the states about 50 years ago, and people were slow to forget.  But things are changing, and people like Daniel are a big reason why.  His Chianti Classico Gran Selezione stands toe to toe with Brunello and Barolo.  And the Chianti Classico Riserva is an insane value for the quality of the wine.  Panzano, the subregion of CC that we’re in, is developing its own personality and style of wine that’s both big and masculine, but with elegance.  It was an eye opening tasting, to see the high end of what Chianti Classico can be, and encouraging to hear Daniel, Emmanuelle, and Giada profess their belief and hope for the region.  

Dinner was another several course, perfectly executed al fresco meal.  A lovely couple lives at the property and acts as caretakers, chefs, maitre d’s, groundskeepers, and likely whatever else needs to be done.  Daniel opened some special bottles- a magnum of 2020 Gran Selezione that’s not released from their cellars yet, a special project pair of bottles that he’s working on with his friend in Stag’s Leap with a heartwarming story behind them, and even an unlabeled bottle of Croatian moonshine (unlabeled bottles of liquor- never say no thanks, always take the ride).  By 2200, I was absolutely fucking wiped, as was everyone else, and we retired for the night.  It was a fitting end to a really wonderful day.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this entry- here I sit, on one of the countless Il Molino di Grace patios, sipping strong coffee and having a light breakfast.  We’re heading back to Montalcino today to visit two more Brunello producers, but should be back here by late afternoon for a little more pool centric relaxation.  I’m keeping some running thoughts about themes and moods and nuances of the trip that I’ll wrap up later, but we’re off to a hell of a start.