Jeanne was from Paris, and she had come to the Bordeaux, and more specifically to Saint-Emilion, to interview the wine-growers there. In particular, she wanted to talk to the man they called the Petit Bordelais. He came from the city, though that was a matter of debate, and was known to be a passionate and erudite speaker. He would talk endlessly on the subject of wine, and he had read countless books with his glass of red in hand. The Petit Bordelais was stocky in build, with very hairy arms. He rarely went unnoticed when he walked the streets of Bordeaux in his shirtsleeves and apron. He saluted old friends by tipping his beret, and never tired of trying to convince them to come and work in the vineyards. As Jeanne observed him, he was crushing grapes vigorously to extract their juice. “In the old days we threw them into a big vat, and the women stomped on them! You had to get the must out without crushing the seeds,” he explained. He burst out laughing when he saw Jeanne’s saucer-eyed reaction. “I can picture you now, feet all red and dress hitched up to your knees!”
“Do you know the true story of the vineyards of Bordeaux? During the Roman occupation, the lands of Aquitaine were famous for their wheat. Vines had never yet grown in Bordeaux! The Gauls drank beer brewed from barley. Cervoise, they called it. They had never heard of the wine brought in by Mediterranean merchants. Wine from Pompeii, the town that perished beneath the lava, and from Spain. But the Gauls were not easily outdone,” explained the Petit Bordelais in his musical accent. “The French paid prohibitive taxes that only enriched the traders from Pompeii and Spain, so the people in Bordeaux decided to close their tin mines and plant their own vineyards that could withstand the winters. By the Middle Ages, our wine was the envy of the whole continent. The English wanted a monopoly. The English kings had good taste, and they exempted our wines from taxation and ordered their subjects to drink no other wine. Yet that wine was harsh and clear, nothing like our wine now.” The Petit Bordelais was impatient to have her taste his wine – the best the region had to offer, he assured her. “It takes muscle and a good deal of patience to crush the grapes properly,” he boasted. Jeanne smiled. She admired the craft and knowledge that went into the wine that would soon grace millions of French dinner tables. A glass of wine with every meal helped the circulation, it was said.
“Have you been to Paris, the capital of our great country?” Jeanne asked.
“Not living in Bordeaux must be hard for you. I feel for you, I truly do. And let me assure you, I am always a consummate host to my guests. That said, if you want your visit to flow as peacefully as our gentle Garonne, a long and easy river whose tidal bores help it unwind, you should know there are some questions one does not ask.”
“What kind of questions?” Jeanne asked with a smile.
“Well, if you order Tariquet you’ll find yourself in a whole heap of trouble. Here you’re in Bordeaux. You don’t order Tariquet in a bar down here, otherwise I’ll get all bent out of shape. I admit, it’s not the worst. But it’s a matter of honour. I’d prefer to serve you a finer wine. Et basta, as they say in Italy.”
“Interesting. So you don’t miss the mountains?”
“My poor sweet madame! All Parisians think the mountains are far away. Down here, we all live near the mountains.”
“Do you know Toulouse?”
“Why all these questions? Are you here to find out about me or the wine? I don’t know Toulouse. I’ve never heard much about it. Where is it?” smiled the Petit Bordelais. “Is in in France? I don’t know the place.”
“Just one last thing. Does it rain in Bordeaux?”
“In Bordeaux it never rains. It waters. It nourishes the plants. It refreshes the wells from time to time, storing up underground so that our grass is greener than our neighbours. But it doesn’t rain. In Brittany, maybe, but not in Bordeaux.”
Alan Alfredo Geday
ความคิดเห็น