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vineyardstars.com Wine Travel
Cheap Thrills (April Chills): A Wine Lover In Paris by Paul Davis-Trier |
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It was the end of April and it was raining in Paris. Lynn and I were determined to cram as much of the city into our hearts, heads and stomachs as we possibly could. So, we walked on. It didn't seem to matter that much. The cold, the wetness of it all. Somehow, maybe this was Paris. I was having a blast. "I want to go inside this fabric store," Lynn said. "Okay, I'll be at the cafe we passed, see you there." And with that, I was off to have my first glass of wine in Paris. I had goosebumps. From the cold. Still it was a little exciting. The waiters saw me coming. One tall and lanky, the other short and stout. They rushed to my table. One putting out the silverware, the other handing me a menu. When they heard my feeble attempt to order in French, their enthusiasm seemed to wane. They walked off a little disappointed. I had ordered a croque monsieur and a Cotes du Rhone. They wouldn't come back for a long, long time. Finally, I was able to grab their attention. "Une verre eh, de, Cotes du Rhone!" I cried. Somehow, I'm not exactly sure why, I got my Cotes du Rhone. It was chilled a bit and it wasn't the best I ever tasted, but this was my first glass of wine in Paris. I could have used hot coffee, but the cold wine was fine with me. I sipped and gazed at Sacre-Coeur across the street, waiting for Lynn and wondering where my croque monsiuer had gotten to. Ten minutes passed and suddenly there she was. Walking down the street, umbrella in hand. I knocked on the window to get her attention. Ironically, the waiter who had taken my order for the croque monsieur, the short one, was standing just outside, waiting on a sidewalk table. He looked up, thinking I was trying to get his attention, and waved his hand at me. Smiling, he politely excused himself to the customer, then, making a different face, rushed inside and quickly delivered my sandwich. I think he mumbled something. It sort of sounded like croque monsieur, but not quite. Soon Lynn appeared, and there I was. A man with everything he needed in the world. I lit a cigarette and gazed into my beautiful wife's eyes. She coughed and said, "What are you drinking?" "A Cotes du Rhone," I replied. "It's cold." We both looked at the croque monsieur. In Philadelphia where we live, there's a restaurant that does this sandwich like it's never been done before. They serve it on a warm croissant with gobs of melted cheese, special sauce and lots of honey baked ham. "It's not like I remembered," I said. "This is Paris, not Philly. That's a real croque monsieur," was her reply. "Oh," I quipped, and ate it. It didn't take long. One slice of white bread, one piece of cheese and one piece of ham. The problem in the States is that everything that has a French name is played up like it's the second coming of, well, sliced bread. The truth of it is, not everything French is wonderful, but rather, wonderfully French. When one catches on to this, that's when the fun begins.
I soon realized, in France, wine was an everyday thing. Nothing so special. I drank it with my lunch and my not-so-special dinners. An Alsatian Sylvaner to go with the omelet near the flea market. Medoc in a carafe with steak and pomme frites at the bistro in Montmartre. A Cheverny rouge with chicken at a wine bar on St. Germain. It was not a matter of picking the most expensive wine, simply one that fit the meal, the mood or the occasion. And even if I didn't pick exactly the right one, no one seemed to care. It was my enjoyment that mattered. My taste. To hell with being a perfect wine snob. In Paris, all the wine is good. My most enjoyable glass was probably the most humble. Attending a street market near the Eiffel Tower on a hot Sunday afternoon, I stopped again to wait for Lynn. I found a crowded Braserrie with tables and chairs spilling out into the street. Looking up, I saw Beaujolais Villages listed on the menu board. I was parched. It seemed like the thing to do. The waitress brought it out, chilled, in a large fluted glass, rose colored, perfumed aromas wafting into the air. It was the most perfect glass of wine I ever drank. Not because it was the best wine I ever drank. Because it matched the setting, the weather, the time of day and the surroundings. This was how I had my fun in Paris. Going with the flow, acting on impulse. And this is why the French know their wine better than anyone on the planet. We walked away with several treasures from the street market that day. A poster, some glasses and a wine basket that we and it's previous owners couldn't stop raving about (they most likely wanted the sale). But we also walked away with an experience that will stay in our hearts and minds forever.
Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves wandering near St. Germain-des-Pres, searching for a little wine shop called La Derniere Goutte. We had heard about the tastings there and having only been to Nicolas shops, we were hoping to find something, well, different. And that we did. Upon entering the shop, we immediately felt at home. The brick walls and carefully racked wines, the smiles and greetings in French and English, and the offer to try the Bordeaux on the table, all were more welcoming than any wine store we had visited before. By the time we left and headed for Aux Deux Magots, there were six bottles of wine, carefully picked and packed, ready for air transportation, tucked beneath my arm. As I walked out the door, I promised to send more customers their way and not to be the least bit shy about drinking the Savennières.
On Sunday, our last full day in Paris, we made a visit to the Foire de Paris. We had seen the signs advertising it in the Metro and had previously read about it on the internet. There would be 60 or so winemakers there sampling their wines. It was a bit difficult to taste without buying. So we bought some more. The winemakers at the Foire are really looking to make sales to restaurants and retailers. It was only decent to buy a bottle or two since we tasted at least a dozen wines. And that was before someone suggested we tried spitting. Most of our hosts did not speak very good English and we spoke lousy French. But somehow, the wine did the talking. I'll never forget two lovely women, one from the House of Bonnaire, the other from Chateau Vannieres, who tried so hard to tell us about their wine. I only understood a total of three words. But when I got to the very last bottle each had offered (the good stuff), the smile on my face spoke volumes. They immediately knew what I was thinking. That I was a wine lover in Paris. Falling in love. |
