Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

A drop of sweat fell from my nose and happened to land on my destination, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a small town that produces good wine. "Welcome to taste! Welcome to taste!" can be seen everywhere on the giant wine bottle, on the wall, leaning against the edge of the vineyard, and on the pillar at the end of the driveway. Tasting of "Castel New Pope" (1) August days in Provence are best for lying still, or finding a place to enjoy the shade.In such weather, everything is done slowly, and all travel schedules are also compressed to the shortest possible time.Lizards obviously have a deep understanding of it, and I should have realized that earlier.

It was close to 9:30 in the morning, and the temperature was in the eighties, and as soon as I stepped into the car, I felt like a chicken about to be cooked.I flipped through the map, trying to find a way away from the hordes of tourists and truck drivers who were already dizzy from the heat.A drop of sweat fell from my nose and happened to land on my destination, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a small town that produces good wine. A few winters ago, I met a man named Mitch at the engagement dinner of two friends.When the first bottle of wine was brought in and a toast was proposed, I noticed that while everyone was drinking, Mickey was engaged in a personal ritual.

He stared at the wine glass, slowly lifted it up, then held the glass with his palm, slowly rotated it three or four times, then raised the wine glass to the level of his eyes, carefully observing the traces of the wine slowly flowing down the glass wall after spinning.Nose close to the glass, nostrils flaring, giving a thorough examination with concentrated attention, then taking a deep breath, turning the glass one last time, and taking the first sip, but only a sip. Obviously, the wine has to go through several more tests before it hits the throat.Mitch swished the wine in his mouth for a few seconds, pursed his lips to let some air into his mouth, and made a careful gargling sound.His eyes are looking directly at the sky, and his cheeks shrink and bulge repeatedly, allowing the wine to flow freely back and forth between his tongue and teeth.Seemingly satisfied that the wine had withstood all the trials in his mouth, he finally swallowed it.

He noticed that I was watching the show, smiled at me and said, "Not bad, not bad".He took another sip, but this time the procedure was simpler, and finally raised his eyebrows in salute to the wine. "This wine is quite old, 1985." Later I found out at dinner that Mitch is a real businessman who buys grapes, makes mellow wine and sells it. At the same time, he is also a professional wine connoisseur, especially proficient in southern wines, from Tianfang rose wine ( Tavel rose — which he said was Louis XIV’s favorite — to pale golden white wines to hardy Gigondas.But in all his collections, his favorite wine, and the one he most craves to drink, is Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

He talked about the wine as if he were talking about women.The hands caress the air, the lips kiss the fingertips lightly, and there are a bunch of words related to the body, bouquet and power on the mouth.In fact, everyone knows that Châteauneuf Pope actually has an alcohol content above the 15% limit, he said.Over the past few years, Bordeaux has been getting weaker and weaker, and the price of Burgundy (Burgundy) is only affordable by the Japanese. Châteauneuf du Pope is really worth it. I must go to his cellar to see for myself To appreciate, he will arrange a wine tasting for me. In Provence, it often takes months, if not years, to go from planning a gathering to finalizing an itinerary.So I didn't expect Mitch to invite me right away.Winter goes to spring, spring goes to summer, and August comes quietly. It is the best time to hold a glass of 15-degree wine in your hand and taste it. At this time, Mickey's phone call also arrives.

"Tomorrow morning at 11 o'clock sharp," he said, "I will wait for you in the wine cellar of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, remember to eat more bread in the morning." I did as he told me, and pre-drank a tablespoon of clear olive oil as the gourmet expert recommends.The purpose is to plate a protective layer on the stomach, so as to buffer the constant attack of all kinds of fresh but powerful wines.Driving on the curvy and scorching country road, I made up my mind that no matter what the situation, I can't swallow too much wine. I must be like a veteran, take the wine in the mouth, turn around and spit it out.

In front of us was the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, looking a little blurry in the unbearable heat, just before 11 o'clock.The whole town is simply a big wine cellar, full of temptations everywhere.Handwritten slogans everywhere on notice boards with weathered and peeling paint, on freshly painted billboards, on giant wine bottles, on walls, on pillars at the edge of a vineyard, at the end of a driveway "Welcome to taste! Welcome to taste!" A towering stone wall separates the Caves Bessac from the outside world, and I drive in slowly, stopping in the shade.When I got out of the car, I felt the sun shining directly from the top of my head, covering my whole head tightly like a hat full of heat.In front of him was a long building with a jagged roof and nothing on the front except for two doors.A group of people lined up at the door, their large wine glasses gleaming in the sun.

It was almost chilly in the wine cellar, and the glass Mitch handed me was cool in my hand.It was the largest wine glass I had ever seen—a large crystal glass with a foot, a round belly, and a shrunken top port, like a goldfish bowl.Mickey said that this kind of cup can hold 3/4 bottle of wine. From the glare of the sun into the dark wine cellar, my eyes gradually adapted, and then I realized that this wine cellar is not small, and there may be 25,000 wine hidden in a dark corner in the distance. A good bottle of wine.In fact, there were no bottles to be seen at all, just a road lined with wine barrels on both sides, countless wine barrels lying on the half-person high platform, the highest point of the side curve of the barrel was about 12 or 15 feet from the ground. ft., each cask is chalked with ingredients.This is also the first time in my life that I had the opportunity to meet so many wines.Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages, Lirac, Vacqueyras, Saint-Joseph, Hermitage (Crozes-Hermitage), Tavel, and Gigondas, each of which has thousands of liters, and the barrels are lined up according to the year of manufacture, silently on the road to mellow wine Dozed off.

"Okay," Mitch said, "you mustn't come here for nothing, what would you like to drink?" With so many options in front of me, I don't know where to start.Can Mitch give me some pointers on dizzying barrels? I can look at what other people put in their wine glasses and follow suit. Mitch nodded, "That's the best, because we only have two hours." He didn't want to waste his precious time on the newly brewed wine, and there are countless good wines waiting for us to taste.Hearing this, I am glad that I drank olive oil beforehand. Any wine called "treasure" cannot be spit out.But if I swallow all the wine within two hours, I'll lie down like those casks.So, I asked if it was okay to spit out the wine.

Mickey waved his wine glass and pointed to a small gutter that marked the entrance to the Boulevard du Rhone, "If you want to throw up, please do, but..." Obviously, he thought that if someone refused to enjoy the feeling of drinking wine-among them, The blossoming of palates, the intriguing aftertaste, the indescribable satisfaction of drinking a work of art - it's terribly tragic. The owner of the wine cellar suddenly appeared at this moment. He was a tall and thin old man, wearing a dark blue cotton jacket, holding a huge instrument in his hand, a three-foot-long glass tube with a plastic fist-sized tube at one end. Balls, reminds me of eyedropper tubes.He aimed the nozzle at my wine glass, generously squeezed some baijiu into my glass, and muttered in his mouth as if praying, "1986 Hermitage wine has the fragrance of acacia flowers, and the taste is strong, but not too strong. acid".

I also shook the glass, smelled it with my nose, let the wine swirl in my mouth a few times, and then swallowed it in one gulp.Great, Mitch was right, it would be a sin to dump all that fine wine down the drain.After relaxing a bit, I saw some people pouring undrinked wine into a large jar on the table next to me.Later, the wine in the jar will be poured into the vinegar vat, and four-star vinegar can be brewed. We move forward slowly.At each stop, the cellar owner climbs the ladder he carries with him, climbs up to the barrel, uncorks it, inserts his thirsty spout, and descends the ladder as carefully as if he were carrying a loaded gun , with the deepening of tasting activities, it becomes more and more similar. Tastings at the first few stops are limited to white wines, rosés and light red wines.The deeper we went, the darker the wine became, the richer the taste and the stronger the wine.Behind each wine, there is its own short but awe-inspiring story-Hermitage, with aromas of violets, raspberry fruit and mulberry, belongs to spirits; Grande Cuvee) is crafted and brewed with pure quality.The adjectives used to describe how charming these fine wines are are also impressive to me-fat and juicy, wild, majestic, well-proportioned, gorgeous and luxurious, powerful... These words spit out from the mouth of the wine cellar owner, unexpectedly No duplicates.I really wonder if his brother's eloquence is natural, or he sleeps with a dictionary every night. We finally made it to Mickey's favorite, the 1981 Châteauneuf Pope.It’s still years away from being a true masterpiece, but it’s a great wine right now—deep grape color, hints of spice and truffle, warm and balanced on the palate, not to mention its nearly 15% alcohol content.Mickey's head is about to fall into the wine glass!It's great to see someone who loves his work so much! Tasting of "Castel New Pope" (2) He reluctantly put down his glass and looked at his watch, "We should go, I have to buy some wine for lunch!" He walked into an office in front of the wine cellar and came out with a whole case of wine, twelve bottles .Another colleague followed behind him, and there were still a dozen in his hand.Eight of us are going to have a big meal. Guess how many people can survive to the end? We left the wine cellar, everyone was a little sluggish under the poisonous sun.In the cellar, I've refrained from taking just sips and sips.Even so, on the way to the car, my head suddenly gave a warning, "chug-chug" non-stop.I must drink some water before I smell alcohol again. Mitch slammed me hard on the back. "Wine tasting is the easiest way to get thirsty," he said, "don't worry, we have enough wine here for you to drink." My God! It takes about half an hour to drive to the restaurant Mickey chose. It is a small country hotel outside Cavillon. It has the country style that Mickey said and the most authentic Provence food. It is very hidden and hard to find. I have to follow Mickey’s closely car. Easier said than done.Although there are no statistics to support my argument so far, as far as personal observations and personal experience are concerned, a Frenchman on an empty stomach drives twice as fast as a Frenchman who is full. times; and even a full-fledged Frenchman is driving at a speed that has seriously exceeded the limit in terms of reason and speed.Of course, Mickey was no exception, one minute he was there, the next he was a dusty blur on the shimmering horizon.He put the delicious juice on the conveyor, made a sharp turn for a while, the hay on the road was broken, and rushed into the small village that was taking a nap, rumbling straight through the small street.When I got to the restaurant, all thoughts of drinking water were gone and I just wanted to have some wine. The restaurant on the farm is cool and noisy.In the corner, there is a large TV set ignored by customers, and the sound is indistinct to entertain itself.Most of the guests were men, sun-tanned, wearing old work shirts and vests, with tarnished hair revealing a white forehead protected by a hat.An ordinary-looking dog was shaking in the corner, smelling the smell of meat coming from the kitchen.At this time, I can eat an elephant! Someone introduced us to Andrew, the owner of the restaurant. He was dark-skinned and burly, just in line with some of the wines we had tasted earlier.He was wearing loose shirts and shorts, a pair of rubber slippers on his feet, and a striking black mustache. His voice was loud enough to cover the noise in the room. "Hey, Mitch! What's this? Orange juice? Coca-Cola?" He opened the wooden wine case and reached into his hip pocket for the corkscrew. "Honey! Get the bucket of ice!" His wife, strong and smiling, came out of the kitchen and put a tray on the table - two buckets of ice, plates of peppered pink sausages, a plate of bright radishes and a large bowl of anchovy olives Sauce, sometimes people call olives and anchovies "black butter of Provence".Andrew's movement of corking the wine corks was as skillful as a corkscrew. He sniffed each cork one by one, and then arranged the bottles in two rows in the center of the table.Mitch said there were some wines we didn't have time to taste in the cellar, mostly young Rhône wines, and half a dozen older and stronger jigondas to drink with the cheese. When it comes to French lunches, there are some things my little willpower can never resist.I could sit quietly, resolve to be genteel, and swear to eat and drink only a little, but often after three hours I was still sipping my wine slowly and still irresistible.I don't think it's greed, but the collective atmosphere created by a room full of eager eaters and drinkers.They ate and chatted, not about politics, sports or economics, but what was on the plate and in the wine glass.The sausages were compared with each other, the menu was studied over and over again, the big meals in memory were brought up again and again, and the future big meals were arranged and planned one by one.All mundane affairs can be discussed later, at this moment, eating is the best in the world, and the air is full of satisfaction.It's irresistible! We started lunch with ease, soft and flexible like athletes.A radish topped off and filled with a long strip of near-white cream topped with a pinch of kosher salt; followed by a slice of pepper-strewn sausage; Bright anchovy tapenade, and chilled red and white wine.Mickey leaned over from the edge of the table, "Don't spit it out!" While greeting the guests, the boss took a sip of the red wine in his hand from time to time.At this time, our first course was served with twelve points-an almost blackened deep pot was placed on the table, an old kitchen knife was inserted into the dough, and then brought A long glass jar of pickles and a plate of onion sauce. "Have a nice meal, children." When Mickey handed out the younger red wine, it changed color and the pot was passed around the table so everyone could have more.Andrew came over from his game to pour wine, "How is it? Do you like it?" I said I loved his onion sauce, and he advised me to save some for the next dish. "The next dish, 'Headless Lark,' he sucked his fingers loudly, was made especially for us by dear Monica. Despite the somewhat scary name, the dish consists of thin slices of beef wrapped around slices of cured pork, served with minced garlic and coriander, soaked in olive oil, dry white wine, stock and tomato, and neatly tied with edible twine.The whole dish looked nothing like a lark and more like a fat sausage, but some creative cook in Provence must have thought that lark sounded more appealing than a roulade, and so the name stuck. Monica brought up the "skylark", and Andrew said that it was the skylark he just shot this morning.He's the kind of guy whose body language is a must when telling a joke, his arms outstretched and his elbow almost knocking me into a big wooden bucket of leftovers. The headless skylark was still hot and smelled of garlic. Mitch thought it should be paired with a stronger wine, and Jigonda was the best choice.The number of empty bottles across the table is now in the double digits.I asked Mitch if he was going to work in the afternoon, and he was taken aback. "I'm working," he said, "and that's how I like to buy wine. Another drink!" The salad comes on, followed by a tray of cheeses, oily fresh feta, some mild Cantel, and some St Nectaire cow's milk cheese from Auvergne .These things reminded Andrew, who had just sat down at the other end of the table, another joke.There was a little boy in Auvergne who was asked if he liked his father or his mother. The little boy thought for a while and said, "I like bacon best." Andrew burst out laughing.I was relieved that he couldn't hit me this time. Scoops of sherbet arrived, as did a glistening apple tart, which I couldn't eat anymore.Seeing me shake my head, Andrew started to growl loudly, "You must eat! You need physical strength, we will have a bowling game soon!" After coffee, he takes us outside to admire the sheep he keeps in the restaurant pen.They hide in the cool shade of the house, and I envy them.They don't need to bowl in the laser-like sun.That's bad.My eyes hurt from the sun, and my stomach urges me to calm down and digest things.I found an excuse, found a piece of grass under the shade of a tree, and lay down. Around six or seven, Andrew woke me up and asked if I wanted to stay for dinner.There were goat feet, and with luck, two or three bottles of jigonda remained.With great difficulty I was able to escape and drive home. Wife has wisely spent the day by the pool and in the shade.She looked at me in a ghostly mess and asked if I was having fun? "Hope they have something for you to eat," she said.