In·sh'al·lah, or divinity in the Provence.

Time keeps slipping by. More friends are on their way and summer is hot on their heels, so I headed to the Provence to preemptively top up the farmhouse inventory with some well-made (yet definitely easy on the wallet) wine. Outside of Avignon, former home to the Popes, there is Chateauneuf du Pape about which I've written earlier. A wine town par excellence (where I lunched at the sunny Mule du Pape across from the fountain in the photo below), it was the former drinks supplier to the aforementioned Popes. Not too far north of Chateauneuf du Pape, there is the village of Violes, one of the named Côtes du Rhône Villages, known for its AOC Plan de Dieu, or Plan of God.
The forty-four hectares of ground known as God's Plan around Violes (apparently linguistically evolved from God's Plain, a moniker first applied in the Middle Ages) only produce red wine. The wine is made with fixed percentages of the following varietals: Grenache 68%, Syrah 19 %, Mourvèdre 5%, Cinsault 5%, and Carignan 3%. The terroir is thick with creamy-white craggy rocks--to an average depth of 13 meters--and has a (fixed) low average return of 35 hectoliters per hectare. A Plan de Dieu has a deep red hue and a subtle nose. No "fruit bomb" by any means, it is easy on the tannin, well-rounded, with a velvety fullness that is nicely nuanced rather than being sun-baked.
I enjoy the wines of Violes' small-scale Domaine de l'Espigouette (as does the vinicultural Guide Hachette, where its name regularly appears and which in 2008 gave it two stars--Robert Parker's a committed fan too, for what it's worth). In fact, a lot of people seem to like the easygoing, well-balanced l'Espigouette wines: upon chatting with the owner Bernard Latour, I discovered both Harrod's and Selfridge's carry his wines in the UK (see the caricature below). Domaine de L'Espigouette wines have been produced by the gregarious Latour and his son over the last thirty years--and before then by Bernard's father. The Latours produce a very drinkable Plan de Dieu, a solid Côtes du Rhône, and a Vacqueyras, which is the most sophisticated (and most expensive by far) of the trio at 9 euros. You can contact M. Latour at espigouette@aol.com if you are interested. But oy. What to serve with an almighty Plan of God? Have you ever tried confit de canard? This is a divinely luscious specialty of Southwest France which has become such a standard it's available vacuum-packed or canned across France--across much of Europe for that matter. To make it yourself, allow duck legs to macerate in dry, heavy salt rub for 24 hours. Rinse off all the salt, pat the legs dry. Cook them over an extremely low flame for two hours, fully submerged in gently melted duck fat with a fistful of thyme and rosemary. Doesn't sound magnificent? If you aren't feeling compelled, it may be because you've never tasted the result: a profoundly flavorful, head-shaking gorgeousness. And the fat's all culled, drained off, discarded. The first time you taste this, I'm fairly certain the planets will realign for you. The main challenge is placing a leg whole on the plate, the meat's that tender. At the local market, confit de canard just waits for me to toss it into my shopping basket for unexpected drop-ins or must-keep-gardening-can't-be-bothered-to-really-cook evenings. It is worth hunting around your area, I promise. In the US, they can be ordered from D'Artagnan for an anything-but-frugal feast. For people looking for close to the same result with much less effort and cost, I trolled the ether and came up with this at Simply Recipes and this at City Cooks. And why not savor this heavenly dish with a side of well-roasted rosemary potatoes and a generous glassful of a southerly Côtes du Rhône Villages--such as Plan de Dieu.

Pulling something holy out of straw.

While out driving, I noticed that the vignerons were out in force these past couple of days, taking advantage of the clear weather to carefully prune the vines. They and their workers must do this with real care and precision: if the time-consuming prunings aren't done properly (i.e. dans les régles de l'art) the harvest for the year can be lost.Having pruned my birthday cake of its (many) candles, I've remained in a celebratory mood, so I decided to open two half-bottle-sized beauties that had been quietly improving in the cellar.
Vin de paille is French for "straw wine", but in my personal language translates to "wine beyond the norm". Intense and quite complex, it is pricier due to the juice yields, which are absurdly tiny because only the healthiest (otherwise there is a risk of mold), very ripest grapes are partially dried on mats of straw before being pressed. Some 100 kilos of the "partially raisined" grapes will result in only about 20 liters of juice.

Because the wine is thus deliberately concentrated, it is stronger and sweeter, which means it can be stored for very long periods of time, and is in fact often aged for quite some time in barrels by the vigneron. This rare wine is found only in the Hermitage and the Jura, with some production also in the Alsace. In the Jura, the (white) grapes used are Chardonnay, Poulsard and Savagnin. The result is a sweet wine that defies expectation, with a luscious but complicated, earthy character that, at its finest, can make time stand still. Seriously mmm--yes, that's very technical wine-speak.The Italian version of vin de paille is vin santo, or holy wine, and it is traditionally made of white Trebbiano and Malvasia grapes. This wine has actually had a significantly longer history than vin de paille, but can vary hugely in taste from a very dry, sherry style to cloyingly sweet. This is perhaps in part due to the less organized, sometimes contradictory approach of the Italians (wine being, at its best, after all a reflection of its terroir, which includes the people who make it). There is also, I have been warned, an alarmingly broad range of quality among vin santo. Don't allow this to deter you from trying a bottle yourself, however. The one I opened is from Volpaia, and is a well-regarded nuanced, sweet vin santo from the breath-taking Tuscan vineyard of an Italian acquaintance. Volpaia is both suave and of the earth; you sip it and feel the contradictions in the mouth, the viscous depth, the stretched out finish.

If you want to be Italian for an evening, you serve this to visiting friends, you dip almond biscotti (crunchy biscuits) in your glasses (hang the crumbs!) and have a great rollicking conversation about everything and nothing.

Staying warm, part deux.

There is always debris involved in the act of creation, and wine-making is no exception. White wine grapes are generally crushed and pressed to extract the liquid, leaving behind a greenish-brownish mass of skin, seeds and pulp. Red wine grapes are usually crushed and the liquid allowed to drain freely, leaving behind a blackish mess of solids, which also include traces of yeast cells and alcohol.
Wine-makers are thus left with substantive solids, which English cider makers long ago dubbed pomace. With this, they make pomace brandy, or what the Italians call grappa and the French call Marc. (In the photo, the three bottles on the left contain grappa, including the more well-known Alexander at the very end.) Parenthetically, if you want to say the 'm' word out loud and impress others by sounding French-ish, drop that 'c' at the end.

Wine-makers engage in their own sort of recycling in a number of ways. They use the leftovers--including the dregs, or sediment found in the bottom of the fermentation vessel. From this, they extract what is sold in powder form as cream of tartar (used to stabilize and add volume to beaten egg whites, to improve the texture of baked goods, for polishing brass and copper, and removing tough stains from your clothes and bathtub...). They also spread the dregs in the vineyard, returning nitrogen and other organic nutrients to the soil. But most notably--at least in my mind--they make that clear, robust brandy. Because what a pity to see any bit of what has so carefully been grown go to waste, right?So the Marc is simply a very earthy response to the challenge of making something out of that "nothing", and what resulted was a kind of moonshine that served as a fairly spine-straightening kick in the pants, a buffer against harsh winters and intensive labor.

The Marc has acquired some finesse and distanced itself to a degree from its fiery, peasant origins. Most Marc in France comes from either the region of Champagne (much of which is distilled in steam heated vats at Jean Goyard, after which the highly aromatic Marc is aged by individual champagne houses) or Burgundy. There are a variety of different stills and distillation processes found across the country, but Burgundian Marcs are oak-aged, and tend to be quite rich--or ample. Alsace is, to a smaller degree, also known for its Marcs (far right in the photo), as is the Jura (just left of the center bottle). There is no real difference between Marc and grappa, other than country of origin. Since Nonino's hugely marketed, transformative shift toward single varietal grappas in the early 70s, however, grappa has gone very high end, with gorgeous packaging that often costs more than the beverage within. Grappa has gained a certain cachet, especially in the US, its biggest export market, a chicness that Marc still lacks.

Marc is drunk as a digestif, taken after dinner to ease digestion, perhaps with an espresso or a good cigar for the aficionados. It is not, however, for the faint of heart. With an alcohol content ranging from 40% to 45%, conservative sipping, with extended pauses for conversation, is key to remaining upright. My favorite (so far) is the beautiful, supple vanilla and spice-scented Marc de Banyuls that I brought back from the marvelously rough-hewn (French Catalan) Cote Vermeille. This one is made from Grenache noir, gris and Carignan grape pomace.

Wind up your courage, give this brandy a try. As for me, my companionable little glass is now empty, which brings this entry to a close.

(With thanks to Charlene, for asking about it.)

The Beaujolais Nouveau has arrived!

Here is some of what I passed this misty morning, on the way to the soulless but well-stocked DIY megamart. It has been a busy time around here (she says aplogetically, thinking of the week's lapse in blogging). Among other home improvement activities, we have partly papered one of the bedrooms--but this is paper with an Arts and Crafts pedigree, mind you: a brick-red abstract 1860s Morris print (designed by Mr. Morris for his own turreted, medievalish Red House outside London, where the dreamy Pre-Raphaelites would later cluster). Another bedroom is now partly covered in a dove-grey paper from The Little Greene, which is based upon an old Parasol Pine kimono print. There is clearly Orientalism in the rendering, but the Parasol Pine is ubiquitous in the Mediterranean countries, and is also in my garden. Having wallpaper feels a bit shocking, as the house is a rambling old country home, the type known here as a mas. (And you pronounce that 's' at the end of the word.) Up to now, the walls have always been a blinding, lime-washed white. Think of a holiday home in Greece or Tunisia. That kind of thick-walled whiteness. Now I am going a little crazy with color, perhaps to pre-emptively reduce the deadening effect of the long winter season. I am thinking about winter and cold, but autumn has so far been uncommonly mild, so I can still enjoy the saturated hues of the leaves, mostly on most of the trees. I'm even warmer than usual at the moment, as I have just returned from a festive village tasting of the Beaujolais Nouveau. It was, as always, officially released on the third thursday of November, which was yesterday. This is mere weeks after being bottled. Consisting exclusively of Gamay grape production (from just north of Lyon), it's a wine that must be drunk while young--that is, well within a year of being bottled.

Frankly, while some of the Beaujolais Nouveau can be fun to drink, I think the whole enterprise of the annual launch to be a well-organized, hugely successful marketing coup more than anything else. Posters pop up in bars and restaurants seemingly everywhere--"Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!"--and an infinite numbers of tasting occasions come up across France and the rest of the world. It is estimated that some 65 million bottles (most of them from négociant M.DuBoeuf's cave) are emptied over this weekend. That's half of the Beaujolais region's annual production! Keep in mind the Nouveau is the most inferior wine the underrated Beaujolais region has to offer, which counts the exquisite Margaux, Morgon, Fleurie and Julienas among its apellations, or AOP.

Even deeply hardened cynics like me will show up to a tasting however, if only to rub shoulders with my neighbors, gossip and join in on the culinary potluck. Unfortunately, I drank a bit much of the plonk (when in Rome, etc., etc.) and managed to forget my platter (upon which I had brought my near-famous caramelized walnut tart). Maybe the lotto tickets I bought while at the party--to support a local stock-car racing club--will pan out and I'll get a new platter.

Getting thirsty.

Pin cushion protea tree in bloom. South Africa has 370 different protea species, 120 of which are recognized to be endangered.

Barring limits imposed by religion or allergy, you simply cannot go to South Africa and not drink wine. If it isn't against the law, perhaps it should be. If you do have such a limitation, please bear with us wine drinkers. I promise I am also going to describe some delicious non-alcoholic options in an upcoming post.

Wine has been made in South Africa since the 17th century, far longer than either in Australia or California. While the original Dutch settlers brought French root stock with them, it was the subsequent wave of migrating French Huguenots who brought substantive viticultural skill and experience.
Today a broad swathe of the south-western Cape is South Africa's wine country, and quite spectacularly so. It is said that the world's longest wine route is the Cape's R62, which is peppered with hopelessly charming wine estates, many of which offer excellent, sometimes even world-class, dining and lodging. (I plan to write about my delectable experience at one of them in a separate, strictly food-related posting. My mouth waters at the memory alone.)

The main varietals, or cultivars, as the South Africans say, among the whites are Chenin Blanc, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc (which benefits from having been planted for over a century), Riesling and Gewurztraminer. The white wines have a longer history in the Cape, but red varieties now make up over 40 per cent of the vineyard area destined for wine. Cabernet Sauvignon is now the dominant variety, followed by Shiraz and Merlot. A varietal developed in South Africa is the Pinotage, which was made in the 1920s by crossing Pinot Noir and Cinsault. It is a specialty--and the main ingredient in what have become known as ‘Cape blends’. According to Jancis Robinson, "some see it as South Africa's answer to California's Zinfandel and Australia's Shiraz." She goes on to explain that

...the structure of the South African wine business has also changed dramatically in the last 10 years. While the 60 or so co-ops are still important, providing grapes for cheap wines on the domestic market and some of the big export brands, there are now nearly 500 private wineries. It is hard to believe that only recently have individual wine estates been even allowed to buy in grapes, although a separate name must be used for the wine they produce - quite a contrast with most New World wine producing countries! South Africa is firmly hanging its hat on a programme encouraging wine farmers to adopt sustainable farming techniques and to retain the country’s exceptional biodiversity.

As with any travel, there was the inevitable constraint of time, and I don't feel that I came away with anything approaching a comprehensive viticultural understanding of the Cape. That being said, I did have the chance to taste some fine representative wines from the main regions.

Constantia, just outside of Cape Town, takes the honors as the Cape's oldest wine region. I enjoyed a dessert Vin de Constance Muscat de Frontignan 2004 from the Klein Constantia winery, although I was slightly deflated by its lack of a sustained finish.

Another prime area centers around the Afrikaans-dominated university town of Stellenbosch. I was advised to visit the beautifully restored town while class is in session, or else it seems rather barren. I can see where this might be true. I can also see happily spending a full day or two here, admiring the gabled and thatched-roof Cape Dutch buildings, browsing in the design shops and lingering over a local wine or two at one of the chic terraces. You may recall I recently got to take part in a viognier harvest here in the Cevennes. Terroir makes a huge difference, whether it is in the Cevennes, the Bouche du Rhone, or Stellenbosch. After getting over its startling difference to French viognier, I loved the very full tasting, slightly peachy organic 2008 Viognier from small Topaz Estate, one of the so-called boutique, or garagiste, wineries.

The third main area is Paarl, which produces even more wine than Stellenbosch, and is known for its fortified wines. I am afraid I wasn't able to visit. (Next time?) While I am thinking of it, I should note that all the wineries now charge a small tasting fee, which I am not used to. It seems that too many South Africans enjoyed themselves rather mightily...

I did spend some time in Franschhoek, which means 'French corner.' This is French Huguenot central, as one might infer, and a cute little place to boot. I visited the well-respected Boschendal winery, pictured below, where I quite enjoyed the Blanc de Blanc 2008. This predominantly Chardonnay blend was sprightly with a fruitiness that nicely balances its dryness. The winery describes it as having "pineapple and mango aromas."

But please remember, I'm no expert. For more in-depth opinions on all things related to South African wine, you can't beat the comprehensive, succinct and award-winning--yes, there are awards given for wine guides--Platter's. Keep in mind the major wine expo held every september--which I just missed. If you would like to plan a visit, or just dream about one, try Winelands. Happy sipping--and surfing.

Vendange Cévenol.

I spent my morning at Puechcamp today. Puechcamp roughly translates to 'mountain meadow' from Lengadoc. And a meadow it certainly is, some 5 nurtured hectares of vines at 300m altitude, a short distance from St. Hippolyte-du-Fort, tucked into what the seminal Guide Hachette des Vins describes as the piémont cévénol (and what we might call the cevenol foothills in English).

This year the vendange, or wine harvest, is early. In the case of the viognier, the first varietal to be picked at Puechcamp this year, the harvest is nearly three weeks early, due to the unusually dry, hot summer. Just look how parched the earth is by the vines. I have mentioned viognier before, as it is the only varietal permitted in the illustrious AOC Condrieu. But a Languedoc viognier is quite distinct from a Condrieu viognier; the local conditions--mineral and meterological--make all the difference. It remains an exciting wine, which helps explain its extraordinary, international return from the near-dead. Daniel Faure, the proprietor of Domaine de Puechcamp (pictured below), has developed an engagingly floral yet dry viognier, distinctive, yet with persistent echoes of a classic Condrieu. His other wines are also worth a sampling, and he welcomes visits to the domaine. The low-yield viognier is grown without any use of pesticides or chemical fertilizers at Puechcamp, all the more impressive given how notoriously sensitive to mildew this grape is. Having reached full ripeness, it is picked by hand and brought to the cave.For more on this increasingly popular varietal, check this Jancis Robinson essay out. Happy oenological exploring.

The coast, done differently.

Take the A9 southward toward Spain sometime. Trust me on this.

On the tollway, Montpellier--the capital of the Languedoc-Roussillon region--is rather quickly followed by Narbonne, a sleepy spread of a city. The magnificent (unfinished) thirteenth century cathedral rises out of the small city like a surfacing dream. You could stop for a stretch and wander, but I'd save myself for a real break just down the highway in Perpignan. Dining choices abound in Perpignan, but look for someplace charming in the old center, such as cosy, old-school Les Antiquaires on Place Desprès. The food and the quartier, or neighborhood, won't disappoint.At Perpignan, you forsake the highway and its views of the mighty Pyrenées mountains for the little D914, still winding southward. Take a deep breath (because now the holiday really begins). You are entering true Catalan territory, French-speaking still, but with a distinctly Spanish-inflected style. Along this bit of road, you are taken to the vertiginous edge of the Vermilion Coast, but then here even the vineyards are tucked into the very sea-edge (as in the photo below), and if you're anything like me, you come for the open spaces, dramatic views--and wine. Apparently others come for the nude beaches.

And yes, there is also the art; Fauvist painters like Matisse and Derain spent time on the Côte Vermeille, drawing inspiration from the windswept, craggy seashore, old watchtowers and fishing boats moored in the port-villages. But in travel as in life, sometimes one must choose. Wine versus art, hmm...For this trip, the calculus was for the more portable, and potable, wine.

A basic, very short primer about this relatively little-known wine region. Banyuls and Collioure wines were at their most well-known in the Middle Ages, when they were the tipple of choice in the Aragonese court, having been introduced and developed by the Knights of Templar. After that, they were slowly forgotten; this amnesia continued well into the twentieth century. Wine connoisseurs suggest this has slowly been changing. You wouldn't know it to see the area, however, which in terms of wine-making and tourism seems to be the land that time almost forgot. A good thing, actually, for those of us lucky enough to visit, as the locals seem unfailingly warm and chatty.

The vines of the region grow in very schistic (read: rocky) soil, a thin layer often atop a solid rock bed, located anywhere from next to the Mediterranean to 15 kms inland. They grow on absurdly steep terraces which mean all work must still done by hand. These terraces are kept in place by hand-made dry rock walls, which put end to end, it is said, would measure over 6ooo kms, about the length of the Great Wall of China. As if all this isn't extreme enough, the vines are submitted to very demanding weather: a very hot, dry climate, with no rain six months of the year, then a flash rainfall, often right in the middle of the autumn harvest, which can make or break wine quality. The rainstorms, while relatively rare, are so devastating that laborers have had to build deep, narrow dry-stone gullies that angle across the terraces. The actual yield from all this is very low compared to other wine regions, which of course has a real impact on the character of the wine.

The principal difference between the wines of Banyuls and Collioure is of how they are made: most Banyuls, whether red, rose or white, are unfortified (no sugar added) sweet wines, while Collioure are dry wines, whether red, rose or white. In the case of Banyuls, alcohol is added to stop fermentation. But another essential distinction is rancio, which is what Banyuls often have in spades. Described as the taste of "nutty, oxidized fruit" (thank you, Rosemary George), this is a result of exposing the barrels, as pictured below, or glass bonbonnes (sitting on the first-floor roof pictured above) to the extreme weather variation--outdoors, rather than in the constant, humid cool of a cave. For a startlingly long time.If you are interested in grape varieties, Grenache Noir is the principal one used, blended with Grenache Gris and Blanc for Banyuls, and Syrah and Mourvedre for Collioure.

The finished Banyuls product (which has by then also spent a bit of time barreled in a cave, as pictured above) can be exquisite, like the most refined of ports or sherries. The variation in Banyuls character is astonishing; some go well with a good summer melon and ham, many seduce best when paired with chocolate, others match a strong cheese, like Roquefort, beautifully. Cigar aficionados swear it is meant to be enjoyed with a good smoke. But most French Banyuls drinkers still choose it as an aperitif.

If you are willing to heed my advice, then go one step further: in addition to visiting some domaines themselves, visit Cave St. Jacques in low-key Banyuls-sur-Mer. I know, the exterior of the shop is a bit twee, but the inside is a well-chosen treasure trove of independent Banyuls and Collioure vignerons. Ditto for Vin d'Auteur in Collioure. Although the Cellier des Templiers is despair-inducingly large-scale in comparison to the independents (it is part of the principal regional cooperative), its wines do remain consistent people-pleasers, and a visit to their well-oiled operation is worth it--as long as you go in the off-season, when real people talk to you, as opposed to your rather bovinely watching a video. All tastings considered, this trip's winner has to be Domaine de Vial-Magnères; I went home with two cartonsful. If you're really interested, ask me--and I'll send you some notes on individual wines... I also went home with a bagful of these local artichokes (and fresh peas, and asparagus) from the Sunday market in Collioure. So I guess I did bring home some art after all--the kind best enjoyed with a mustardy, shalloty vinaigrette.

Popping corks on the roasted slope.

For a few days every January, somewhat anonymous little Ampuis, tucked in a bend of the Northern Rhone, becomes the center of the wine world as it hosts its own "little" Marché aux Vins. The wine fair's focus is the connoisseur's Côte-Rôtie, which is not very surprising since Ampuis is located in the region of Côte-Rôtie, or Roasted Slope (mm, it just doesn't have that je ne sais quoi in English...).

A place of steep slopes and plentiful sun--hence the name--the area is considered by many to be where wine was first cultivated in Gaul. While Côte-Rôtie was for centuries the wine of French royals, its circle of influence outside the court was fairly limited, and by the twentieth century, neglect had led to a somewhat shabby reputation. This has been nearly singlehandedly turned around since the 1970s by the then-unorthodox wine-making and marketing approach of one family, the Guigals. (Full disclosure: our party was rather disappointed by the Guigal wines on offer at the fair.)

After world wars and economic difficulty, neglect is not unimaginable. One look at the extremely steep slopes--or more accurately hills--around Ampuis, and you quickly realize that here, wine-making is not an undertaking for the faint of heart. The cotes have a gradient ranging from 20% to 28%, and the extreme steepness sometimes requires pulley systems, and winches, for hauling grapes and equipment up and down from the cheys (the local term for the man-made terraces). Given the intensive labor involved, many of the cheys have been taken over by lower-maintenance fruit trees. Only the cheys facing south or southeast have vines, and those plants have to be hardy enough to withstand the persistent problems of high winds and erosion. I wish I could offer a photo, as the cheys are impressive, but it was raining cats and dogs (and their offspring) when I arrived with friends at the 81st annual marche last weekend.

Côte-Rôtie wine, like Hermitage, is made from red Syrah grapes. Sometimes, to give that little extra accent of difference, a small amount of white Viognier grape is added. Côte-Rôtie is a good wine for setting aside in the short to medium term, with, broadly speaking, somewhat more delicate aromas than Hermitage. Of course, once you start tasting, there is such a startling degree of variation...

In addition to the Côte-Rôtie and the Hermitage, the Ampuis wine fair spotlights other Rhone Valley reds such as the Saint-Joseph, Croze-Hermitage and the Cornas, which is the one of the smallest Rhone AOC (Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée). Among Rhone whites, the fair features the very distinctive Condrieu, Saint-Joseph white (my discovery this trip), Croze-Hermitage white and Hermitage white. While the Condrieu is purely Viognier (love it or hate it--and I am generally a fan), the others are varying combinations of Viognier, or Marsanne and Roussanne grapes.

For 8 euros, you are given your own tasting glass and are sent in the direction of the masses milling around stands of the over 60 producers present. The professional wine merchants and writers go all four days, perhaps staying with either red or white on a given day, I imagine. In one day, it is impossible to visit with even half the producers. At least in our cases, it became more and more difficult to clearly distinguish between glasses after a while, despite diligent use of the spittoons. As we were there with friends, I did not take tasting notes. I suppose this is a bit of a mistake if one wants to be able to write about it later. But we certainly enjoyed ourselves--despite the crowds. (A tip: give yourself a good three hours, and arrive just before lunch, to stand a better chance of elbowing your way to the front of the more popular producers.) And here's a bit of what I did retain from the day's labors:
The Delas house is gaining in popularity due to strong and steady improvements in the past few years; the resulting praise from Robert Parker hasn't hurt. Unfortunately the photo I took above highlights a bottle of white I was underwhelmed by, having found it a bit astringent. To the right sits a bottle of what we quite liked: their Les Challeys 2007, St. Joseph white. So refreshing and, well, flirty, I was already busy imagining summer afternoons on the terrace.
I can say that we very much enjoyed the various Côte-Rôtie on offer by the gracious Levet family, pictured above. They have a small, independent operation, with a storefront in Ampuis itself. It was hard to choose, but we walked away with their 2006 Amethyste, and 2005, both Côte-Rôtie reds. Voluptuous and rich, with a lingering finish. Stephane Otheguy makes organic wine, on a tiny scale. We found his 2006 Côte-Rôtie red a pleasure, but the bottle of 2006 Les Massales was the real show-stopper. It is made from 75 year old vines of petites serines, which, as I understand it, is the genetic precursor to the syrah. I wanted it badly (even knowing it would likely outshine any dish paired with it), but cooler, budget-minded heads prevailed: it is 39 euros, which was decidedly more than we paid for any other bottle there. (Perhaps a visit to Monsieur Otheguy later in the year...) Ampuis is a half an hour from downtown Lyon and just off the main highway toward Marseille and the coast, thus eminently accessible, and the wines make it worth a detour, rain or shine, wine fair or not.