Drinking Geography

 Three years after our wedding, my husband and I at last went on our honeymoon. A champagne lover for the past fifty years, my husband’s dream had always been to immerse himself in the Champagne Region of France, just 100 miles east of Paris. He thanked me profusely for agreeing to join him on this adventure, saying I’m the only person on the planet who would be willing to tour at least two wineries a day, and often three, for nine days in a row. I would never complain about tasting some of the most amazing wines on earth, but I was surprised at how our travels moved me in ways I never expected.

 On the surface, the world of champagne seems clear and straight forward. For instance, in order for a sparkling wine to bear the word champagne on its label, it must be made solely from grapes of this region using the “champagne method.” There are only three grape varieties that can comprise a bottle of champagne: chardonnay (white), pinot noir (red), and pinot meunière (red). A wine can include all three, a blend of two, or just one grape. Pinot meunière is not a sturdy grape and is often added to give the wine a little extra fruitiness. Some winemakers don’t use it all.

 There are several large wineries in the region, such as Moet & Chandon, that are owned by corporations. These big houses buy grapes from hundreds of farmers in the region, rarely produce a vintage wine, and focus more on making the taste of their wines as consistent as possible year after year. For the rest of the winemakers, they either use only the grapes they grow, or also buy grapes from smaller farms.

 Grapes from Champagne are a highly valued commodity. The vines are divided into “hectares” which are approximately 2.2171 acres. The hectares are passed down through generations and if by some rare chance one is offered for sale, it can go for as much as two million dollars.

 The production of champagne is governed by the Comité Champagne. Its main responsibility is to ensure the economic stability of the industry by setting standards and rules. One of its responsibilities is to select the date of harvest each year and, if necessary, limit the number of grapes per hectare to be used to produce champagne each year.

 Included in the planning of our adventure was the hiring of a tour guide. Jean-Baptiste (JB) is a thirty-year-old French man with curly dark hair and a gentle smile. He drives a sporty Lexus hybrid, a model I had never seen in the States, that hugged the curves, hills, and endless roundabouts of the region as if in the French Grand Prix. When he asked how many of the nine days of our stay we would like him to guide us through Champagne, we replied: all of them! And he did.

 JB’s usual tours involve driving his customers from Paris to the region for a tasting or two and then a return trip to Paris the same day. In his experience, most white American ‘boomers’ go to champagne to drink and find the perfect spots for Instagram photos. He was surprised by our interest in all things champagne, from cutting to pressing to bottling and aging to popping the cork, and at last, tasting.

 Most Americans find the French to be aloof, with maybe a lift of the chin or nose to convey disinterest or even disapproval. JB spoke of this freely, agreeing the French are infamous for their coolness, but that it belies a cautionary approach, that once they warm up, they are kind and friendly people, particularly in the countryside.

 When we entered the lobby of our hotel, we were met with a, bonjour. It sounded like two lyrical notes of a song. The French don’t just speak, they sing in the most beautiful, gentle voices. We were offered a glass of champagne and given a tour of the hotel. I hadn’t felt that relaxed in a very long time. Although I detected a little guardedness from our hosts, I had hope we would eventually experience the warmth JB had promised.

 Although we wanted to tour smaller wineries, JB suggested we visit at least one ‘Big House’ to get a feel for it. The big houses have glitzy tours and well-trained guides. Most are located in the quaint little town of Épernay or larger Reims, where the best part of a tour is entering the huge, cavernous caves in the cellars more than 100 feet under the ground.

 In its geological past, the region was covered by the sea, not once, but twice, leaving behind a porous chalky terroir that is moist and soft enabling the vines to go deep, increasing the grapes’ complexity. This chalky soil is also easy to dig through, thus the cool maze of caves filled with endless bottles of champagne.

 On our tour of Ruinart, we participated in the polished tour with people from Brazil, Australia, and England. At the end we were offered glasses to taste, some aged in stainless steel, others in oak barrels. While tasting the oak barrel champagne, I mentioned I detected a hint of bourbon. Our guide stared at me, as if I’d snapped him out of a trance. He was intrigued and the most enjoyable conversation ensued about the nuances of the wine, what part of the mouth tasted the acidity, or freshness as they call it, and where the salinity and minerality lingered on the tongue.

 While my husband was soaking up all things champagne, as a writer, I was intrigued with the people. Our guide’s reversal in demeanor was encouraging. Maybe I could break through the coolness and learn more about these people.

 In the fourth book in my Rosalie Hart mystery series, Rosalie, in search of making sense of her own life, begins to ask her friends and customers to ‘tell their story.’ When we visited our next winery, I knew I wanted to go deeper—find out more. I was ready to hear, and learn, from their stories.

 Wine is liquid geography.

 Erik Orsenna