Long ago, thousands of years before our time, there lived a people called the Israelites. They lived in harmony as a community, with their leader at its head. These folk dwelt peacefully in their “sukkot”, which were three-walled huts with half-covered roofs, designed to let the four elements enter in: wind, earth, water and fire. These houses resembled the tabernacles in which Israelite farmers resided during the harvest. From their fields they gathered beans and peas, and all that would grow in their fertile lands. When the harvest was over, the men brought a portion of their bounty to the Temple in Jerusalem. Such was their tradition, and their way of giving thanks. Generations later, Jews would come to celebrate the harvest festival under the name “Sukkot,” building huts where they would live, drink, sleep and pray for one week, and it is here that we find the earliest iteration of the grape harvest festival.
Harvest season in the vineyards is a time of great festivity in France, full of the pride and savoir-faire of her people. The grape harvest marks the end of a cherished phase in the production of wine – tending the vines – and the beginning of vinification. France is a vast nation, and each region carries its own traditions; each landscape its own customs. In Champagne, the end of the grape harvest is still known as Cochelet, for in the Middle Ages the Gauls would bring a cockerel to the harvest feast so that the animal could drink its fill of wine. The bird was then released as the guests hooted with laughter, applauded in drunken uproar and hurled mockery upon it. But times have changed, and cockerels are now left in peace, for more ethical behaviour is expected. In Burgundy, the locals celebrate the grape harvest with a traditional meal known as “La Paulée.” La Paulée is celebrated in the third weekend of November, and its name is a local pronunciation of the word pelle, meaning “shovel” – referring to the final shovelful of grapes deposited in the wine press.
The time had come to celebrate the harvest! This morning, the inhabitants of Montmartre had gathered in the central square high above the capital: the Place du Tertre. The tourists had stopped in their tracks, their attention piqued by this unusual gathering. The Parisians were out in force, and their mood was gay. A wine press, for extracting the juice from grapes, had been moved to the square the night before, and two men dressed in berets, long aprons and tall boots were in the process of pressing the grapes. As they turned the handles the first drops of delicious nectar began to fall into the vat below. The locals looked with pride upon the little keg as it filled with liquid; the fruit of their winemakers’ labour. A few of the women applauded, while the men jostled for a taste of the libation. The artists had ceased their painting, and the sound of French horns rang out through Montmartre. The musicians blew harder and louder into their erstwhile instruments of war – for tending the vines was a constant battle, fraught and perilous. But the French had a knack for it, and that was why the whole world raved about French wine. For a Frenchman not to celebrate the grape harvest would be tantamount to treason; his participation was a symbolic act. They were not gathered here to get drunk, but to represent France as proud patriots. To the folk of Montmartre, this was a holy day. Such traditions hold fast, and not a soul among them would willingly miss the harvest feast.
The grapes had been pressed, and the two men were spent. One of the musicians poured a few drops of the liquid into a glass, for they would have the honour of tasting that season’s harvest. They started by turning the glass in their fingers to consider its colour. Then they inhaled the aroma of this youngest of wines, smelling notes of raspberry, pepper, and leather. The eyes of the crowd were transfixed upon them. They wondered when their turn would come to taste that liquor in its final form. The men gathered around the press, waiting for the winemakers’ prognosis with baited breath. “This shall make a wonderful wine. A full-bodied vintage, I say, as all good wine should be!” announced the winemaker to the crowd. The applause rose up; there would be plenty for all. “Any colour will do, as long as it’s red!” one of winemakers laughed.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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