Was driving home the other night with my head
predictably clicking away, closing the still open tabs of my day. “Okay, be
sure to write Chuck from Beaune Imports when you get home and add a case of
Manciat-Poncet Macon-Charnay to that order” and “I wonder if stocking some cool
local bacon might be worth our time” along with, “I hope that lady likes that
Cotes du Rhone with her grilled lamb chops” and “I wish I wasn’t going home to
an empty pad, I feel like cooking, spoiling someone” you know, the regular schizophrenia
of the working wine woman.
I pulled into the parking structure of my (between
you and I) horrible local Vons, grabbed the canvas sack from the backseat of
the car, the one that weirdly smells of cigarettes even though it was purchased
at least a year after I quit smoking….must be the years of smoker gunk that has
saturated the porous fabric of the seats and carpet of my car. Sack in hand, no
real idea or passion for what I was to grab for dinner, I lumbered through the
sliding doors, past the ever-present display of Cutie clementines and stack of
out of season avocados. With the
plasto-fanstasco stank of fake ass cinnamon that haunts those “This will make
them buy apples” commercial markets, I managed to toss a cool, crisp head of
barely green iceberg lettuce, a wrinkly red onion, some GMO’d tiny tomatoes and
a silver box of Philadelphia Cream Cheese for whateverthefuckreason into my bag
with dinner as the end goal.
Feeling, oddly enough, not all that optimistic, weird
stinking sack of ingredients in hand I emerged from the yuckiness of “The Vons”
all the while ticking away at those tabs, trying with all my will to close the
ones that didn’t need me that evening. “Fuck” my comment as I saw that in the
ten minutes I was in the valley of discontent that is my Vons, a moist band of
cool air had moved through and doused my still warm windows with dew. Using my
bent paw I scraped the wet off the windows in order to make my one fifth of a
mile drive, home from the Vons a safe one. Tossed the pathetic sack of
gathered, “goods” in the backseat and swung my thick ass into the driver’s seat
and that was when it filled the entire landscape of my eye slits, “that moon"
A big, swollen, butter colored moon hung overflowing
and so close that I feared we were on some tragic path of implosion, one that
my too many open tabs kept me from knowing was imminent. I rested my round chin on the top of the
steering wheel and let it soak in and saturate me like cigarette smoke in the
fabric of a 2007 Camry….that moon.
Made some bullshit salad for dinner, one that didn’t
distract me from running outside every fifteen minutes, face all scrunched as I
spread and pushed at the tiny screen of my android phone trying to get a shot
of that moon. I even went so far as to ask folks on Facebook if they were able
to capture a picture that might speak to the power of it but alas, no one was quite
as obsessed as I was. They were busy like having a life and junk while I toiled
away slicing at wads of water filled lettuce and slap-slap-slapped out to the
un buried patches of my complex looking for a window, any tiny bit of space
that I could let, that moon, fill me. Wasn’t too long before more wetness moved
in and the fog took away any hope I had of feeling or capturing much more
heart-pounding from that engorged globe of muscle. Legs swinging like a twelve
year old pouting on their way home from yet another awful day of middle school,
I flounced down upon the squish of my couch and closed my eyes trying to think
of the last time, that moon, moved me…
“Sam, are you ready? This salon is straight out of the
1800s and Jean-Francois, he is something of an incorrigible flirt.” Aline’s
words floating across the table. Her left hand cupped around a steaming white teacup,
her right gracefully maneuvering a silver spoon, a deep dunk into a milky
looking jar of honey before her slender fingers spun the thick and oily spoonful
into the pale colored cauldron of liquid she embraced, secreting its sweetness
in a way that occupied more than the cup….it seemed to slip across the table
along with her words in a way that scented the deep breaths that were tugging
in and out of me. We were on our way to visit the Champagne house of A.
Chauvet, a tiny producer whose wines I’d been scarily intimate with but
produced on grounds I’d never seen and by hands I’d never touched. I pulled the
soft beige colored napkin from my lap, took in a deep reassuring tug of Aline’s
sweet, honey-scented lyrics and brushed the remnants of my (not-so-good) onion
soup lunch from the corners of my mouth before saying, “Yup. We got this lady.
Let’s go”.
Our mini-ish van pulled onto a small by our standards
street, barely room for cars going in two directions to share the narrow bend,
I saw the big looping letters of the winery sign, “Perrier Jouet” and just as
my head spun to utter the, “What the hell?!” Aline pulled our car into a tiny
lot, across the street. Before I could even open my door there stood
Jean-Francois, smaller than I expected, (but he somehow managed to triple in
size the more he spoke) dressed dapper and ready for receiving guests. Little tuffs
of white curly hair bending out above his ears and not quite covering the span
of his whole head. He wore the mischievous grin of a man half his age and with
a quarter of his vigor, so it was sort of love at first sight, for me.
We walked the chalky cellar and Jean-Francois relished
in showing me how they worked the lights on slender bits of wire that ran
through the moist chalky underground of where they stored their tremendous Champagnes.
A smell that I can’t quite yet define slipped into my chest, this damp, sweet, ghostly
but warm smell that reminds me of scrapping my nails along the walls of the
cellar, the way the wet stones would cave and bend beneath my nails…the way my
lips spread when I thought of the fact that one of the next people that came to
visit and walk those same steps, they could see the thin, hollowed out swipe of
my thumb nail that now runs along the walls of that cellar. I marveled in the vulnerability
of that soil and the tenacity of it surviving my digs along with those of time
and war. This place, these people, those wines, that grin….these were things by
far more powerful than I.
“Samantha, I have to tell you, we are very proud to be
in your store and I want to thank you for including us in your selection for
your customer” Jean-Francois’ words as he stood from the centuries old chair
from which he had been pouring us wine, in glasses that were over 100 years
old, “If you would be open for another glass, might I share something from our
cellar with you?”…now that was just swoon inducing but also, wicked smart,
Aline and I drank deep from that flirty, adorable distinguished man’s old
glasses and begged him to let us import, (well that was her part, I just got to
reap the benefits of my flirting back and pleading) the last few cases of the 2005
Grand Cru Blanc de Noir he had left. I’d have thought the so-called flirt was a
hustler if it had not been for the fact that his sister in-law ran and
retrieved the wine from the family’s private stock, and sort of grumbled at
him, in French of course, for sharing it and even considering selling off such
a rare family treat. Wasn’t about that
wine for him, it was about us having a moment, one that would follow us back to
Southern California, one that we could sing with honey scented voices that
explained them, their family, to all of you. Found my own little bit of honey
saturated verbiage as I cooed and engaged her and she nodded and let us buy all
they had left….
I thought of Jean-Francois’ sweet face, effusive
energy and sweetly soaked passion as we piled into our car and headed out, the
way he too lit up when I playfully asked, “You gonna kiss me or what?!” this
time beneath a dark sky before packing up to leave, the whole of the tiny city
seemingly asleep as Aline and I bumped along the narrow road back to Reims from
Tours-sur-Marne. We couldn’t stop giggling and chatting about how and to whom
we were going to sell the A. Chauvet wines, especially that 2005 Blanc de
Noirs, (just a note, I have like 4 bottles left. It is as rich, dense, and
sensual…..more like wine in its depth and corseted restraint than any Tete de Cuvee from 98% of the Grand
Marques I’ve had) and how we could easily teach grower Champagne with wines
like this, people like this resting in our back pocket. The bright sky we rode
in on a lifetime behind us as we made plans, spoke in terms of bubbly wines that wore the embossed texture of noble Burgundy, bubbles or not.
That moon
That dark red moon…..
A warm spoonful of honey that spins around my cup
Opens my tight jaw
Makes me flirt and sing….
N.V. A. Chauvet Carte Blanche ($45.99)
A stunningly balanced Champagne that rides that sensual line of sweet, textural fruit and biscuity yeastiness. Full and curvy on the palate the roasted breadcrumbs and nuts push right up against the sides of your mouth before the succulent green apple notes come through like a river of freshness.
N. V. A. Chauvet Grand Cru Brut Rose ($48.99)
You find a buttoned up bit of saucy red cherry fruit in this understated and wicked valued Brut Rose. Lusty weight on the palate but with those nibbles of acidity on the sides of your tongue that keep you coming back, aching for, more. Far more wine here than you get with anything from a big house at this price point and the finish, it defies you to quit...
2005 A. Chauvet Grand Cru Blanc de Noirs ($74.99)
If you don't try this limited and voluptuous wine, let it stain and soak into your palate, well then you might just be dumb. If Burgundy had a bubbly and effervescent, curved and compelling cousin, this wine is it. Wanna we wrecked by wine...let me help you and pop the cork on one of my last 4 bottles of this.
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7 comments:
Shooting the moon...there's nothing like it.
Far better than Shoot the Root that's for sure!
Fabulous. Except you made me very thirsty.
Mr. Ward,
Well welcome to my dusty little space, hoping to shake the cobwebs off the furniture and freshen up a bit around here.
Thank you for the compliments, both....seems the watering mouths have spoken, those bottles of 2005 Blanc de Noir vanished from my racks yesterday. Such a wonderfully connecting feeling I really must say.
Nice to see you here, and on Facebook as always!
We gets some great grower Champagnes here in Tundraland, thanks in large part to a Mr. T. Theise, but not from that house.
Bill,
Been a fan of Theise for many, many years. His wines were some of the first we stocked when we kicked the Moet, Jouet and that dreadful orange label crap, out of the store. If you can, seek out some of the Ms.Wasserman's grower Champagne selections too....giving him a serious run for his money.
In this bright future you can't forget your past. See the link below for more info.
#bright
www.ufgop.org
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