“Never in Vain, Always with Wine”
(The first in a series of articles reviewing European wine events.)
Jim Gore takes us on a tour of the 72nd annual celebration of Saint Vincent, the patron saint of vignerons, this year hosted by Chassagne-Montrachet.
3rd of January 2010. Day three into my Burgundy adventure. I’d been lured by the prospect of a wine‑fuelled adventure, but here I was, sitting in my parents’ icy kitchen wearing two pairs of pyjamas and drinking a strong cup of Earl Grey. I was at best, I reckoned, fifteen minutes from frostbite. If only the central‑heating system could pack out the same heat as my menopausal mother.
Thumbing through the local “journal” for flight offers back to Edinburgh, I happened upon an advert for a wine festival, in Chassagne-Montrachet. Maybe I could stick it out a little longer after all? The village, in the south of the Côte-de-Beaune, has more than 370 hectares of some of the most sought‑after terroir the world. Home to 400 people, the humble village contains three of the seven white grand crus.
This years’ theme was aroma: a terroir-driven theory that complex characteristics come from the most simple and essential components. Five unnamed winemakers produced five different cuvées of white Chassagne‑Montrachet from village and premier cru vines, each cuvée displaying a different aroma profile: citrus, white flowers, red fruit, forest floor and pâtisserie. The village itself would be split up into five “aroma quartiers” for the tasting.
On the morning of the celebration we woke to a blizzard. We skidded our way up to the Côte Chalonnais in our rattly Fiat Punto, snaking past the frozen canal that flows up past Santenay to the flat planes east of the villages of Meursault and Puligny-Montrachet. The tiny village of Chassagne-Montrachet sat unassuming and pearlescent in the winter sun.
Frost dusted the spire of the distant church, and vines, stark in their winter slumber, pinstriped the land surrounding the village. On a steep rise beyond the village lay the premier cru vineyards, a craggy tree‑covered knoll formed a rocky barrier between the communes of Saint‑Aubin and Chassagne-Montrachet. To the north were the south‑easterly‑facing grand crus Le Montrachet, Bâtard-Montrachet and Criots-Bâtard-Montrachet. It looked a scarred, alien, industrial landscape.
Buses hurtled into the village with Italian vigour. Two kilometers of cars veined the roads and tracks that encircled the village, parked at desperate angles, abutting the deep ditches separating the vineyards from the road. The Punto was abandoned, and we joined the frenzied flow towards the village’s heart.
We entered at “les aromes des fleurs blanches”, and paid 15 Euros at a ticket stall for six tasting tickets and an embossed Chassagne-Montrachet glass, surprisingly attached to a short rope. The device was an oenophile’s nosebag, the noose being placed around the neck, held the glass firmly in drinking position. Arms free, for full French gesticulation, we marched on, along an ancient cobbled street bathed in a carpet of white, handmade white paper roses cascaded out of plant pots, white grapevines entwined gateposts and a white papier-mâché horse stood centre stage – a breathtaking Narnia wonderland.
The spell was broken by a rugby scrum of a bar jutting out rudely from the wall of a cave. Mother, being of sufficient height and gumption, took my glass and ticket and burrowed her way under the arms of the jostling crowd, to emerge mole-like and triumphant, chest height before the dispensing wine officials : “Deux blancs, Monsieur!” She dived under the sea of floating berets and, not a drop spilled, returned with her spoils.
The nose showed hazelnut, icing sugar, lemon, quince and fresh green pepper. The palate was tightly wound, with plenty of minerality. The wine opened up to a lush palate, the main hallmarks of which were lime, citrus skin and green apple. Upon warming further, a note of toffee appeared. Aromas of “fleurs blanches” were perhaps a push, but without doubt there was a crisp delicacy I had not encountered before in Chassagne-Montrachet.
On we trekked to join the long road leading along the premier cru vineyards of Les Rebichets and Clos Saint-Jean. Here was the start of “le quartier des fruits rouges”. Gargantuan strawberries, cherries and raspberries adorned every stone wall; perhaps the comic effect was deliberate. There was nothing for it but to send Mother in.
With glasses chiming like cow bells on our coat buttons, we headed up to the premier cru vineyards on the westerly edge of the commune to sample our wine.
Geranium, orange peel, yellow plum and a tiny hint of lemongrass jumped out on the nose. Again the palate was leaner than I had expected but with more oak than the previous wine. Rich flavours, but nowhere near as intense as “fleurs blanches”, though a welcome lick of honey on the finish did up its game.
We then passed through “Les Murées” to re-enter the southerly part of the village, “le quartier des agrumes”. Sunflowers, oranges, mandarins, limes, bananas and pineapples burst from buildings like an advert for Caribbean rum punch. TV crews were interviewing visitors to the festival, and an accordion tribute band, “Les Blues Brothers”, were in full swing.
Glass in hand, I rested myself on a giant upturned grape press containing metre long bananas and dived in. To my surprise, there was a big thwack of new oak, pineapple, light mango, cigar and tangerine. A hint of lychee was noted by Mother, possibly prompted by the giant papier‑mâché version on which she was sitting. The palate was a strange mix of warm chestnut liqueur and racy pineapple. Odd for a wine intended to show boundless citrus flavours to have been so heavily oaked. The theory goes that pineapple and other citrus aromas appear in a young Chassagne-Montrachet and then reappear later in its development. It certainly had the power of longevity, and no doubt the oak flavours will soften.
With Mother wilting after three large glasses of wine, we dragged ourselves up to the fourth “quartier” of “sous bois” or forest floor. We walked out of the village itself to the “terres rouges” soils to the south of the commune where most of the village red is produced. Here, the soils are more suited to Pinot Noir; they produce softer wines more akin to the neighbouring Santenay than the powerful wines of the northerly Côte-de-Nuits.
Just before we reached the enclave of Morgeot, I turned to my right. In the premier cru of “Les Champs Gain” was a man, not 20 metres into the vines and not 50 metres from the nearest toilet, doing what can only be described as illegal irrigation, hands clasped tightly behind his head. My outraged eyebrow firmly attached to the top of my forehead, I moved a gawping Mother on with the crowd, whizzing past giant toadstools, autumn leaves and golden vines until we arrived.
Mother deftly burrowed to the front of the wine queue once more, while I joined the queue for lunch. With the French appetite for nourishment at 12pm sharp, I had envisaged a speedy and efficient service: Merguez sausages all round. It did not occur to me that five out of the seven food servers would also elect to take their two‑hour lunch break at 12pm, leaving only two nonchalant staff to serve the hoards. The Frenchness was palpable, as was the near‑fainting queue. (Note to self : bring a “pique‑nique” next time.) Good job “sous bois” was still being poured.
We sat on a blustery rock and tucked in. Truffles, toffee, deep earth, burnt tangerines and light cinnamon on the nose. The palate was richer than the previous wines with even some wood tannin creeping in. The wine was long and luscious and even stood up to the aforementioned merguez baguette. My favourite of the day: earthy, rustic and yet very smooth, and it delivered hit after hit of flavour. You could say that the earlier wines had the delicacy and power of Puligny, but this had Chassagne stamped all over it.
It was now late afternoon, and squelching boots dictated that we moved swiftly on. A dreek scattering of snow started to descend upon the road leading away from Morgeot, and we sludged our way down to the 1960s hamlet just outside the ancient village, the busy N79 vibrating to our right. The small cul-de-sac on the outskirts of the vines had been chosen to emulate “les aromes des pâtisserie”, and it was our final destination. There was not the majesty or importance of the ancient village centre, and the drab troglodyte air of the place did nothing to help the aesthetics. Neither did the now soggy papier‑mâché bonbons and oversized polystyrene croissants that littered the front gardens.
On the nose there was butter, tarte tatin, peardrop and red apple skin. The palate was a mixture of crab apple, grapefruit, green pepper and a Sauvignon-like acidity. We were disappointed: it was a minor relative to the last four wines, lacking definition and character.
Our day here was over, and we could just make out the misty headlights of the cars streaming out of the village. We’d done a rough circuit of the commune already, and now decided in our marinated wisdom to go cross country. We stumbled over the edge of the vineyard plateau, nodding as politely as our neckwear would allow to the all‑knowing gendarmes, and began the icy skid towards the car. I belted on, leaving five‑foot Mother to slip into a concealed ditch, her glass thrust high like the torch of the Statue of Liberty. Smart woman. We were escorted home by a bemused, sober Father, who delighted in revving the car over the speed bumps in almost perfect synergy with Mother’s hiccups. Again, not a drop spilt.
The 73rd celebration of Saint Vincent will take place on 29/30th January 2011 at Corgoloin, a village just below the hill of Corton. Details at www.saint-vincent-corgoloin2011.com.
