The classic love story. We'd been acquainted for as long as I can remember. Then, when I first came to France in the summer of 2013, I saw our relationship in a new light.
My amour was rich. Full-bodied. And way older than I was.
It was, of course, the perfect glass of red wine.
You have to realize, I was a year shy of the U.S. drinking age that summer, and even so, the college pallet consists of beer so-watered down you could probably water plants with it.
My relationship with wine had been much different before then. I grew up drinking it every week — stiff, ceremonial sips from a glinty communion chalice on Sunday mornings.
Needless to say, the fermented grapes of France opened up a whole new world. It was like your cliché American high school film. Wine had taken off its glasses, removed its braces and was suddenly, like, really hot.
And that was it. We'd been on again off again ever since. I'll admit, as craft beer took off in the U.S., I strayed. But now that I'm back in France, I tried to rekindle things this year. It started in the fall.
This was a few months ago, at the end of October. We'd just gotten our first of many vacations (Vive la France education system) and I was searching for something cool to do in Paris. So I rounded up me and a few other teaching assistant friends for a wine tasting.
Dégustation du vin, the French call it.
The wine tasting was in the First Arrondissement, in the center of Paris. This time, I fell in love with the streets. Any local would say I'm in the shittiest part of town, but you know what? I'm not afraid to like basic things. I love listening to Drake, too.
One of our friends were running late, so we stopped at a café to kill time.
La Taverne de L'Arbre Sec. I remembered the name because I decided I'd take my friends there when they visit. It was nice and simple.
We sat at a small table near the bar. I ordered a vin chaud.
Yes, I was the only one in the group to pre-game a wine tasting with more wine. But my oh my. It was something. You see, many French specialities come in seasons. Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is usually only available in the cold months. So this was one of the places that already had it on the menu. It was the first I tasted of the season and now, months later, I can confirm it was the best I had.
Vin chaud à la canelle. It comes in a clear glass mug, with sugar packets on the side and a cinnamon stick in the glass. I savoured it.
At the café, we talked about our teaching jobs and our plans for the rest of the vacation, and soon, it was time to leave. In virtually every French establishment, bathrooms or "WCs" are in the basement. As we walked downstairs to find one, we learned why the café was called a tavern. The basement was an even cooler area, with all the lighting, ambiance and atmosphere you'd expect to find on a nice first date.
And because I often forget to take pictures in the moment (and usually can't be bothered), you will be left to imagine what it looked like.
So finally, we went to the wine tasting. It was at Les Caves du Louvre. Story goes, it used to be a "royal wine cellar," established by the sommelier of King Louis XV (for my American friends, he was the last guy before they brought out the guillotines).
Like all really old French things, it was renovated for both capitalist and cultural gain, now touted as an attraction for tourists. This time, I did take photos.
Nowadays, the old Parisian wine center is a far cry from the advent of the French Revolution. You could download an app to guide you through the tour. We all did, and it was wholly confusing so we just wandered through without a guide.
Did you know an automated wine filling line can produce between 500 and 15,000 bottles an hour? I took a picture of some random sign at the wine tasting with that information, but the math seems off. Why does it vary literally more than 10,000 bottles?
The sign on bottle output.
Apparently, corks are made from cork oak trees. Every nine years, you can strip the bark to make corks.
This sign explains the aging process. Once wine is fermented, it can age anywhere from 3 to 36 months. I learned all this in October and promptly forgot until I found these pictures on my phone.
Soon, we got to the best part. The actual tasting. A very kind sommelier guided us through a tasting of three wines.
First was a dry white wine — a Sauvignon Blanc from Val de Loire. It's fresh, the freshness derived from the limestone soil the vines grow in.
The next wine, also from Val de Loire, was the Côte-roannaise. The sommelier says you're supposed to drink it in the summertime, although we were tasting it in the fall. It's usually paired with fish, and it has a "stoneish" aroma, which also reduces the level of acidity. I actually don't care about any of the sommelier talk and just like drinking wine, but I'm giving a nice little intro for anyone who's curious.
Last but not least was a wine from the Languedcoc region in the south of France. The wine was called JMF, and it was from 2016. I think this might have been my favorite. This wine, according to the sommelier, was richer and stronger. It was aged in an oak barrel for six months.
90 percent Cabernet Sauvignon. 10 percent Pinot Noir.
Cabernet Sauvignon, which comes from Bordeaux, is strong. Pinot Noir, which hales from Burgundy, is light.
An illegible map with wine corresponding to France's regions
JMF — I need to find a bottle of this stuff
We left the caves, and, back out into the light of day, we were all hungry. Someone in the group suggested McDonald's and I silently fumed. No, no, no. I would not be that American who traveled all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to eat shitty American food in a culinary mecca like Paris.
So we ended up at McDonald's.
I told myself I wouldn't buy anything, but then I thought about it again. I thought about one of my favorite scenes from "Pulp Fiction," and I thought about the title of the first blog I ever made about France. Then I ordered a sandwich.
"You know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?"
Now that I think about it, I haven't had much wine since that tasting. Nowadays when I go out, my friends and I are so broke we look for the cheapest beer on the menu and just go with that. And now that I inspect the situation further, I guess, if I really loved wine as much as I said I did I would make more of an effort to drink it. But maybe I like it so much, I'm trying not to overdo it.
It's like that line from my favorite book of short stories.
"If you love something, let it go. If you don't love something definitely let it go. Basically, drop everything, who cares."
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