Look Into My Eyes, Gosh Darn It

We had just landed in France and finally made it to the restaurant where I’d made reservations months earlier. I wasn’t surprised they couldn’t find our reservation. I was surprised by how quickly they informed us. In English.

We have this running joke that in France nothing is ever possible because their response is often “C’est pas possible” (that’s not possible). Carrie had been doing great with her French but this trip was different. No matter how much French she spoke, the answers kept coming back in English. Efficient? Sure. Less fun? Definitely. Tough break for language practice too.

We pivoted and found a perfectly good little restaurant near our hotel.

On the wine list was something we’d never tried before: Aligoté. The one white grape in Burgundy nobody talks about because Chardonnay hogs all the attention. It was from Georges Duboeuf, a producer I mostly associate with brightly labeled Beaujolais Nouveau flooding American shelves every November.

We liked it. I remember thinking it reminded me a little of Chenin Blanc. Carrie described the aroma as “white flowers after rain that had fallen on the ground and been stepped on.” It was so oddly specific that I wrote it in my phone. My notes simply said “pineapple core.” In fairness, jetlag had rendered us barely functioning humans at that point. I didn’t care. Our fellow dining neighbors were smoking which confirmed that, yes, we were definitely in France.

We realized pretty quickly we needed to sharpen our Burgundy knowledge because we’d soon be giving onboard talks about the wines and regions we’d be sailing through on our cruise. Rhône wines? We’ve got those. That’s our comfort zone. Burgundy seems simple enough from a distance: Pinot Noir and Chardonnay. But once you dive into the villages, classifications, inheritance laws and endless patchwork of vineyards, things get complicated fast.

Thankfully Carrie had already gone down the rabbit hole. Weeks before the trip she picked up the Wine for Normal People book and the pages immediately landed on Burgundy. On the drive home she kept interrupting my podcast with Burgundy facts. When she started enthusiastically explaining inheritance laws, I knew the Burgundy section of our lecture was officially her problem now. I was off the hook.

Most of the bottles we bought on this trip came from the Côte Chalonnaise where prices still resemble something a normal person might willingly pay. Head farther north and some bottles start costing as much as used cars. The ship also poured a lot of approachable Burgundies with meals which made for excellent “research.”

One of the highlights was revisiting a winery in Beaujolais we’d first visited four years ago. Riviere was where our guide taught us the proper French way to toast.

Eye contact with your partner. Not with the glass. Not vaguely in the direction of the person. Direct eye contact.

Ever since then I’ve noticed Americans mostly stare at the glass during a cheers while the French lock eyes like they’re reading your soul. It feels strangely personal. I’ve decided I’m bringing this tradition home to the tasting room. Forget aroma descriptors for a second. I need commitment. Look into my eyes, gosh darn it!

Carrie and I probably tasted every wine the ship offered over the course of the cruise. Naturally I always started with Rhône wines first, but what surprised me was how much I kept enjoying the wines further south around Languedoc.

We had a Viognier/Grenache Blanc blend from Jardin de Charmes that vanished quickly every single time it hit the table. Picpoul de Pinet from Felines Jourdan reminded us why we already love the variety back home. Bright, crisp and basically begging for oysters, grilled fish or a long lunch outside. Meanwhile a GSM blend from Gérard Bertrand drank so much like a southern Côtes du Rhône that I wouldn’t have guessed Languedoc in a blind tasting.

Languedoc produces an enormous amount of wine and for years had a reputation for cheap bulk bottles. But these days there are some ridiculously good values coming out of the region, especially Mediterranean blends with grapes like Syrah, Grenache, Carignane and Mourvèdre.

At one point Carrie explained to my mom that “Languedoc” comes from langue d’oc, meaning “language of oc,” the southern word for “yes.” Northern France used langue d’oïl, which eventually became modern “oui.”

I find it hilarious that entire regions were basically named after how people said “yes.”

Not “no.”

Which brings me back to “C’est pas possible”.

Maybe I’ve been translating it wrong all along. Maybe it’s not pessimism. Maybe it’s more like: “Well clearly something has gone sideways here because this outcome makes no sense.”

Kind of like Canadians saying “sorry” when they really mean “excuse me.”

Because I can confirm that it is absolutely possible to accidentally go to the wrong restaurant in France after making a reservation months earlier. I know this because the following morning the restaurant I’d actually reserved emailed to let me know my credit card had been charged 70 euros for not showing up.

Oui. C’est vrai.

But at least we properly toasted that Aligoté wine, with an absurdly intense locking of eyes in a sleep-deprived jet-lagged stupor. Gosh that was a great trip!

Joshua Bendick (Somehow I became Joshua on the cruise.  Why so formal?)
co-winemaker