Tag: champagne grapes

La Vendange part two – wine – champagne – food. I meet an American who can’t speak English and admire the statue of Pope Urbain 11. And in LHR, what do I say to the customs man?

Here I am, on my first morning, cutting away, blood being lost, frozen fingered, stiff backed, but all was not lost, as after only about 90 minutes, who turns up but Madame Beaumont, with a big basket of bread and saucisson and some really hard cider.  So we all had to stop for a quick nosh and drink.  I think we all felt a lot better and our work continued for a couple more hours.  Once my basket was full, I hiked to the end of the row and dumped the grapes into a big wooden tub.  My nighttime mate Hercule was there and the tubs were manhandled on to his cart and off he trundled. I’m not sure he had anyone with him.  What the need?  He had been doing for ever or at least since he left a cave.

Then midday approached and there remains nothing more sacrosanct in France than LUNCH.  Home we went and after minimal handwashing, sat down at the table and Madame Beaumont appeared with food that could have been served in some posh French restaurant in London.  Here, it was just lunch. And sublime bread from the boulangerie, which was located en route back from the fields, so we picked it up.  Just once, I was allowed actually to hold the baguettes.  It felt like I had really been accepted in to la famille Beaumont!  Oh boy, it was just basic peasant fodder and we inhaled it and wiped our plates clean with the leftover bread and sat back very fat and happy.  But what is this?  This is dessert.  Oh how lovely to live in France, I thought, where tarte aux pommes or mousse au chocolat seem to flow from everywhere. Eating is just a greatly appreciated experience here and this made me a fan of French food for life.

I caused much mirth the first lunch time, when all looked done, sitting closest to the sink, I piled up some plates and cutlery and moved them in that direction.  What was I doing?  Have you gone mad? Well, I was just trying to help.  No way.  Even Madame agreed … this was HER job and not mine.  She was a one woman union and I was some scab who was taking her job away from her.  Oh dear.  I did not try again and every meal was silently hoping my mother was not looking.

Back out we went for only about 3 hours, as in northern France at the end of September, days were becoming radically shortened and no one can pick grapes in the dark.  Well, actually I thought, you almost could, as so much of the finding the hardpacked bunches was done by feel rather than sight.

One thing I would never forget were the rifle shots.  Of course, hunting is a way of life here and there was always someone out there stalking something that moved and a shot or two would echo down the valleys.  The champagne vines were basically terraced down the hillside, leading to the Marne, one of France’s great rivers.  And of course, one of the major battlefields of WW1 was just north of us.  What amazed me was how just one single shot echoed around.  You could practically hear it coming and then is whizzed past and went on its way.  Whatever did WW1 sound like?  Something I had never thought of, but it must have been deafening to be in the wrong spot.

Back home by 5:30, we cleaned up and then a bottle or two would come out.  A bottle or two of champagne, as the rellies, who were possibly being paid en liquide, as the French call cash payments, but here it had literally turned to liquid.  Dinner was at 7 and everyone ate heartily, so all done by eight thirty. We also had some red wine, usually Bordeaux and cheeses, all local of course.  So here we are, in a rather damp ancient stone house, built in, it felt like, c1500, with faces that dated from that era too and the wooden shutters of course had been closed and the fire stoked, so what do we do now?   Well, we put on our coats and go to make a social call on the Joubert’s two doors along. In an equally damp feeling house, there was nothing to do but try M. Joubert’s house tipple and do a bit of blind tasting.

Little did I know when I started out from the UK, that I was entering the most seriously alcoholic three weeks of my life.  It seemed that if we were not cutting or eating, then all we could do was drink red wine and champagne.  It was total hell of course and I only did it to be polite.  And the amazing thing was that in all their blind tastings, they could recognize their own homemade tipples and just who had made what.  99% of the grapes went off to the big co-operative and then to some champagne house in Reims or Epernay, but there were always enough bunches for a little home enterprise.  I nearly drowned in champagne.

We did get Sunday off.   So we piled in to some ancient French vehicles (there was absolutely nothing new in this village) and off we tootled to either Reims or Epernay, the two big champagne cities and what did we do?  We went to a champagne house, where someone had a brother or cousin or the like and we got a behind the scenes visit. I was shaking hands with never to be seen again strangers on a par with the queen touring the colonies.  Everyone was ravi to meet me, the foreigner.  It was like I had come from the moon.  And of course, we ended up in the wonderfully named ‘salon de degustation’ or tasting room and the bottles came out and I don’t think anyone ever said no. We were very merry on the way home. Of course, this was way before anyone had invented a designated driver and we had to make several stops for countryside peeing too.  We were all equally looped.

One day I was taken to meet one of the oldest inhabitants of the village, as they thought I should.  Because he was American.  Most amazingly, he had arrived there as a soldier during WW1 and had never ever gone home.  I was introduced all in French and of course he spoke it back and then I thought he might like some English, as I appeared to be the only English speaker in this area and it turned out he had totally forgotten everything.  You would not think it possible that you could forget your native language, but he had not used it in 50 years and it had gone.

Chatillon-sur-Marne did have one son who had made it big in the world.  How about becoming Pope!   Given the unusual name of Odo, when he was born in 1035 (yes, 1035), he became Pope in 1088 until his death in 1099.   He was known as Urbain 11. And to celebrate this fact, there was a large statue of him, overlooking the valley and blessing us all.  Apparently, he was best known for starting The Crusades, which was the movement to reclaim the Holy Land from all those heathen Moslems.  He started it all!!

As all good things come to an end, I bade my dear family au revoir.  They insisted I take some champagne with me, to the tune of four bottles and I could have had more if I could work out how to carry them.  BUT, what would I be faced with at customs in Heathrow?  This was way before red and green channels and all that.  You had to line up and be grilled, as if you were going to sabotage the whole country with the contents of your bag.  And the alcohol limit was just one bottle of anything and I had four.  I was going straight to jail. I knew I was.  My knees were knocking and I was in sheer panic mode and then suddenly, I had an idea. Look for the oldest customs guy and get on his line. 

So I did.  When my turn came, I confessed right up front.  “I have been to France to pick grapes for the last three weeks, so that when your daughter gets married, you will have champagne to drink.  I have four bottles”.   Best line I have ever given to anyone.  He laughed and said “How did you know?  She is getting married next week. Thank you.  Off you go”.

At 20, I go to France to work in ‘la vendange’. How I learned to cut grapes, stay with a bucolic family, share a stable with Hercule and drink a great deal of champagne.

When I was 20, so of course now, I can’t remember how, but I saw an ad for being a temp. worker in Champagne for the grape harvest.  NO pay (!) but live with the family for two/three weeks (and it inferred drink champagne all day and night) so what could be better than that?    I applied and was accepted.

Armed with the name and address of my host family (and absolutely nothing else… this was pre-cellphones or anything like that), I jumped on a plane from London to Paris and then took a train to Epernay, which is NE of Paris going towards Belgium.  From there I had been told to take a certain bus from the station and just get off at the village of Chatillon-sur-Marne.  What you did then seemed to be up to you.  Had this been today you would be armed with cellphone numbers and texting and Googlemaps.  In those days, I just got off a bus in a village.

I did all that.  It was dark by the time I boarded the bus, which did not help in locating a village.  I sat right at the front, literally behind the driver, who said he would tell me, but I was not 100% sure. I did not take my eyes off the village signs that fortunately are well posted outside each one.  Suddenly in the intense blackness, there was the name I needed. I descended along with a schoolboy, on to a very deserted street.  If there was lighting, it was candle-power.

Fortunately, the child was being met by maman and I fell on them as apparently the only people alive there and asked for the abode of Monsieur Beaumont.  She had never heard of him.  My life was saved by an old crone who tottered out of the gloom and she was quizzed and pointed down the street to where the pale street lamp was and assured us that was chez lui.  I certainly hoped so, as the rows of houses either side looked like they were about to collapse at any moment.   Summoning up all my courage, I knocked on the door.

Madame Beaumont answered and stared at me like I had two heads and had come from the moon.  In my best French I assured her I was here to stay and help, which just seemed to confuse things even more.  Fortunately, a teen male child came to see what was going on and all became clear.  I was the foreigner who had come to help.  Well, duh… didn’t I just say that?  

They were just about to sit down for supper and a place was laid for me.  Probably 8-10 of the most bucolic French faces I had ever seen and all speaking something that kind of sounded like French, except I could barely understand a word.  Pere de famille, Monsieur Beaumont, probably 50, was virtually toothless, so that did not help.  It was just so amazing that a total stranger was sitting eating within five minutes of coming through the front door and I was already just one of the family.

I never worked out who was who, as they were somewhat lax in making introductions.  Families very much come together for ‘la vendange,’ so I gave up trying to work out if they actually were immediate family or cousins from Nantes who came every year to help out.   They all looked very connected in appearance.

We drank champagne like it was tap water.  OMG, I was quite buzzed and also had to find the loo fast, as it always goes through me at record speed.  The loo was… basic …  I realized there was a sort of conflab going on about sleeping arrangements and did manage to ascertain that I had not just barged in on a family but that they were only vaguely expecting me, but it rather seemed no more than that.  SO, I was here and what do we do with him?

Answer was… put a bed in the stable.  However, I was not going to turn into the Little Lord Jesus, as I was sharing it with … not a human… but the family horse!  Hercule was his name and he was definitely descended from a long line of cavemen art.  He was HUGE and had eyes the size of soup plates.  A partition was erected and his straw swept to one side and I am assured he is ‘très sage’ and will not bother me.  There wasn’t much I could do about it anyway and in the end I had to admit that if I had to spend nearly 3 weeks sleeping with a horse, then Hercule was just the best room mate ever.  He would put his huge head over the partition in the morning and gaze at me.  I liked to think it was admiration, but he never let on.

In the morning, we assembled in the front room which doubled as parlor and dining room. The traditional oilcloth table covering was swept of the breadcrumbs from last night and big bowls of milky coffee (the type of soup bowl things they use in France, with lips on either side for lifting) and hunks of bread and that was breakfast.  Oh, I forgot.  As it was cold in the morning and very misty and dank outside, then the bowl of coffee could have a good shot of marc (think grappa) which would serve to fortify us until we warmed up from our labors.  An excellent idea. 

We walked to a nearby vineyard and I was shown the ropes.  All the others had been doing it all their lives and now there was little moi.   I had a wooden basket (think bucolic peasants sitting around in hayfields pictures by Breughel and that was us, but no hayfield and in dank, gloomy weather) and a pair of long pointed ‘scissors’ and shown how to rummage around in the leaves, all still firmly attached but turning beautiful autumnal shades and when my hand found a bunch of the hardpacked black grapes, then I cut.   Two things needed to be factored in here.  My left hand was frozen within minutes and became more numb by the second.  This was a good thing so that when I used my scissors and impaled the points on my left hand fingers, I felt no pain.  It was a very good thing, as I was continually doing it. 

Within ten minutes of stooping or just kneeling on the near frozen earth, my hands were iced and bloody and my back was giving out.  At least eighteen more days of this?

There will be more to come.  Food, glorious food.  And I meet an old American who had lived in the village since 1917 (honest) and he could not remember one word of English!