I'll Drink To That Part 5

LE BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU EST ARRIVe.

Strange thing, fas.h.i.+on. Suddenly entire nations go berserk for a book, a plastic cube, a homely doll or a certain manner of dressing and grooming. Someone tries something a bit new or a bit different, another picks it up, word gets around, a few articles appear and maybe some TV, more hear about it, and the swell gathers. Before you quite know how or why, the famous tipping point arrives: the swell becomes a craze, and a new fas.h.i.+on is born. Say what you will about New York, London or Tokyo, but the hub and the nub of fas.h.i.+on-la mode, la vogue, le style, le chic- is and probably always will be Paris, because no one seems to sniff out trends the way the French do. It was in mid-November of 1970 that the trend for drinking Beaujolais, and more specifically the year's new wine, the primeur primeur, gained the status of a true fas.h.i.+on in France. The spark that officialized it was a mere slip of paper, a little yellow handbill, or banner, containing just five words: Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrive. Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrive. The new Beaujolais has arrived. The new Beaujolais has arrived.

Suddenly the plate gla.s.s windows of cafes all over Paris were plastered with yellow and red stickers, partially obstructing the view through to the bar, where the knots of smokers were arguing above the din of the inevitable pinball machine, that American invention that the French adopted with almost unseemly enthusiasm. In the more high-tone restaurants, small inserts, table tent cards or handwritten addenda appeared on the menus to announce the same happy event. No one knows exactly who coined that simple but oddly compelling little slogan (there are several versions of its paternity), but it was just right, and the Comite Interprofessionnel in Villefranche was happy to print up stickers by the thousands and provide them free with s.h.i.+pments of the new wine.

It was just right because it finally indicated a bit of good news for the cold, wet and disgruntled Parisians. Good news because in Paris everybody was fed up and bad-tempered by mid-November: the long summer vacation was a distant memory, the tans had disappeared, the weather was lousy-the damp, the chill, the slush-and the Christmas holiday was still six weeks away. In America, Thanksgiving can always be counted on to bust up the autumnal blues, but there was nothing like that in Paris, only more rain, more political quarrels and probably more strikes, too. The arrival of the year's new wine on November 15 broke into the routine like a sunburst, offering a change, a diversion and an excuse to push the door of a bar and down a ballon ballon of optimism juice. It wasn't a profound wine-it was never meant to be-but it was pleasant, tasty, invigorating and fun, and it could be drunk without delay or afterthought. By the mid-seventies, tasting the new wine had become very much like a social ritual, and there was scarcely an early winter business lunch in Paris that was not washed down with a bottle of of optimism juice. It wasn't a profound wine-it was never meant to be-but it was pleasant, tasty, invigorating and fun, and it could be drunk without delay or afterthought. By the mid-seventies, tasting the new wine had become very much like a social ritual, and there was scarcely an early winter business lunch in Paris that was not washed down with a bottle of primeur. primeur.

What the Parisians were discovering was what the Lyonnais had always known, of course, and they threw themselves at it with a joy of discovery that looked suspiciously proprietary: our thing. Wine-wise Lyonnais, seeing "their" tradition being kidnapped, grumped that this rapture of possession was excessive and typical of the imperialistic manner of the capital city. What the Lyonnais felt didn't matter, though, because commerce and fas.h.i.+on had taken the game over, and there was an eternal rule in play: if Paris liked something today, the rest of France would like it tomorrow, Europe the day after tomorrow and the whole world right after that.

And that's exactly what happened. Through the next decades, as the vogue for Beaujolais Nouveau rippled out in concentric circles from Paris and demand grew more insistent everywhere, production of the new wine followed an upward curve to satisfy that demand as naturally as day follows night. By 1975 production of primeur primeur had risen to 139,000 hectoliters, by 1982 to 400,000 and 1985 to 516,000-more than half of the region's entire output. By the mid-nineties, more than 60 percent of the entire annual output of the basic Beaujolais crop and half of Beaujolais-Villages was leaving the vinifying sheds as had risen to 139,000 hectoliters, by 1982 to 400,000 and 1985 to 516,000-more than half of the region's entire output. By the mid-nineties, more than 60 percent of the entire annual output of the basic Beaujolais crop and half of Beaujolais-Villages was leaving the vinifying sheds as primeur primeur. (The difference between normal, traditional Beaujolais and primeur primeur is essentially a matter of the time the grapes spend macerating in fermentation vats before being pressed: about four to five days instead of seven to eight. The ten is essentially a matter of the time the grapes spend macerating in fermentation vats before being pressed: about four to five days instead of seven to eight. The ten crus crus are not concerned one way or another; by common consent backed by INAO regulations, these bigger, more complex wines are never vinified as are not concerned one way or another; by common consent backed by INAO regulations, these bigger, more complex wines are never vinified as primeur. primeur.) Over the years since that 1970 benchmark of one hundred thousand hectoliters, Beaujolais Nouveau has gone from the status of little-known but congenial regional curiosity to worldwide smash hit, one of France's best performing export items since the invention of Catherine Deneuve and Brigitte Bardot. Faced with this totally unexpected triumph, the peasant vignerons who made the wine could only wonder at their good fortune, shake their heads and repeat the observation that one anonymous member of their caste had spoken with blunt clarity back in the late sixties: "Le vin est bu, paye et p.i.s.se dans les vingt-quatre heures." The wine is drunk, paid for and p.i.s.sed within twenty-four hours.

The period was unusually propitious for this gratifying situation. The three decades of les trente glorieuses les trente glorieuses were bringing what appeared to be a permanently growing rush of wealth to France and her partners of the European Union; the liberal democracies of the West-big alcohol consumers, all of them-were mostly at peace and eager for novelty; the nascent phenomenon now known as globalization was spreading goods, services and profits with unprecedented speed and ease in every direction; and entire populations were learning to enjoy the superfluous necessities that are the basis of The Good Life. And now they had the money to pay for them, too. were bringing what appeared to be a permanently growing rush of wealth to France and her partners of the European Union; the liberal democracies of the West-big alcohol consumers, all of them-were mostly at peace and eager for novelty; the nascent phenomenon now known as globalization was spreading goods, services and profits with unprecedented speed and ease in every direction; and entire populations were learning to enjoy the superfluous necessities that are the basis of The Good Life. And now they had the money to pay for them, too.

Things came together. In Paris, two smart young journalists named Henri Gault and Christian Millau, working for a now-defunct Parisian daily paper, made a hit with readers by writing lively, often funny and sometimes outrageous restaurant reviews that broke with the solemn, respectful style of traditional critics. They quit the paper, founded their own gastronomic magazine and put out a yearly restaurant guide bearing their own names. Hanging around bright young chefs like Paul Bocuse, Michel Guerard, Alain Chapel and the Troisgros brothers, they invented a slogan that proved to be a pure stroke of promotional genius: nouvelle cuisine, they called the cooking they liked.

What was nouvelle cuisine? No one quite knew, but it influenced- no, it didn't just influence, it evangelized evangelized-a whole generation of chefs. Creativity was one of its tenets, of course (it always is), along with artistic presentation (huge plates, food arranged as precious little ornaments) and originality (unusual, frequently gimmicky combinations of ingredients), but above all nouvelle cuisine had to be fresh, done at the last minute and light. Light was the most important buzzword of all, because Gault and Millau personally tested as many restaurants as they could, and they were sated with the surfeit of delicacies that ambitious cooks hurled at them. So if nouvelle cuisine was light, it was also fun and it was new-just like the Beaujolais Nouveau that had appeared on the Parisian scene at almost exactly the same moment. They complemented each other perfectly-a match made in heaven. New cuisine and New Beaujolais held hands, liked each other, got gastronomically married and flew around the world in an idyllic commercial honeymoon.

The best part was that it was almost a free ride for the winemakers and distributors-no ma.s.sive ad campaigns were needed, no expensive promotions and no endors.e.m.e.nts from high-priced public figures. The Comite Interprofessionnel in Villefranche rarely faced investments weightier than printing up their red and yellow flyers and equipping the Compagnons du Beaujolais with a few train or plane tickets for ad hoc appearances, along with an adequate supply of bottles, which they got free from the dealers and caves cooperatives caves cooperatives in any case. Unlike Burgundy's more famous, richer and infinitely more hoity-toity Chevaliers du Tastevin in Beaune, the foot soldiers of the Compagnons were mostly simple vignerons with real vineyard mud on their shoes, who took time off from their ch.o.r.es to promote Beaujolais by making quasi- ethnographic exhibits of themselves, dressed in their folklore suits: black jacket with wine red b.u.t.tons, green cellar master's ap.r.o.n, black porkpie hat with green ribbon, and a profusion of pins and logos. Peasant amateurs of street-level s...o...b..z, they appeared singly or in groups at railroad stations, airports, department stores or any other venue guaranteed to attract plenty of pa.s.sing people, sang their drinking songs, handed out free samples and generally created an atmosphere of country bonhomie that proved to be far more effective than the smooth, professionally smiling hostesses that PR agencies trotted out for most giveaway promotions. And the atmosphere wasn't entirely make-believe, either. The vignerons really did enjoy visiting the big city, and their joviality was unfeigned after a matutinal nip or two of their own goods. Only the most intractably irascible of Parisians could have failed to be cheered by the amiable bucolic spectacle, the free drinks that the Compagnons provided, and the rich, chewy syllables and rolling peasant r's of their p.r.o.nunciation, deliberately exaggerated for the city slickers. When the vogue of in any case. Unlike Burgundy's more famous, richer and infinitely more hoity-toity Chevaliers du Tastevin in Beaune, the foot soldiers of the Compagnons were mostly simple vignerons with real vineyard mud on their shoes, who took time off from their ch.o.r.es to promote Beaujolais by making quasi- ethnographic exhibits of themselves, dressed in their folklore suits: black jacket with wine red b.u.t.tons, green cellar master's ap.r.o.n, black porkpie hat with green ribbon, and a profusion of pins and logos. Peasant amateurs of street-level s...o...b..z, they appeared singly or in groups at railroad stations, airports, department stores or any other venue guaranteed to attract plenty of pa.s.sing people, sang their drinking songs, handed out free samples and generally created an atmosphere of country bonhomie that proved to be far more effective than the smooth, professionally smiling hostesses that PR agencies trotted out for most giveaway promotions. And the atmosphere wasn't entirely make-believe, either. The vignerons really did enjoy visiting the big city, and their joviality was unfeigned after a matutinal nip or two of their own goods. Only the most intractably irascible of Parisians could have failed to be cheered by the amiable bucolic spectacle, the free drinks that the Compagnons provided, and the rich, chewy syllables and rolling peasant r's of their p.r.o.nunciation, deliberately exaggerated for the city slickers. When the vogue of primeur primeur really got into gear and the demand spread from Europe to America, j.a.pan and, later, China, a few of the luckier Compagnons got free rides to the faraway places that their forebears of only one generation earlier could never have dreamed of visiting. The tickets cost the Comite Interprofessionnel a few thousand francs or euros, but the outlay was peanuts compared to what a full-blown professional advertising and promotional campaign would have cost. really got into gear and the demand spread from Europe to America, j.a.pan and, later, China, a few of the luckier Compagnons got free rides to the faraway places that their forebears of only one generation earlier could never have dreamed of visiting. The tickets cost the Comite Interprofessionnel a few thousand francs or euros, but the outlay was peanuts compared to what a full-blown professional advertising and promotional campaign would have cost.

"People always think that Beaujolais has a huge budget for promotion," said Michel Rougier. "But it's not true. Of all the world's great wines, we're the ones who have done the least marketing for our product. We don't have that kind of money. It was the press that made Beaujolais known throughout the world. We just accompanied the phenomenon. You know, it all comes down to that early release in November-it made a good story. Take away that early release, and there's no Beaujolais Nouveau."

Back in the late seventies, at the height of the primeur primeur craze, I briefly met with the export director at Piat, still a bigger, more important dealer than Duboeuf at the time. His tone of bemus.e.m.e.nt bespoke the breadth of the historical bonanza that had befallen him and the wares he was charged with putting into the commercial circuit. "It just sort of sells automatically," he said, the happy man. craze, I briefly met with the export director at Piat, still a bigger, more important dealer than Duboeuf at the time. His tone of bemus.e.m.e.nt bespoke the breadth of the historical bonanza that had befallen him and the wares he was charged with putting into the commercial circuit. "It just sort of sells automatically," he said, the happy man.

It couldn't go on that way forever, of course, but while the iron was hot it would have been foolish not to strike, and down in Romaneche Georges Duboeuf recognized the trend for the potential world-beater that it was. Now, once again, things came together just right: there was a perfect match between one man's inclinations and the hoops that Mother Nature could be persuaded to jump through in the Beaujolais vineyards. Because that is what all agriculture is about, after all, whether it be soybeans, barley or grapes-hoops. Bending nature to jump the way you want her to go.

From the very beginning of his career Georges had insisted that a certain kind of Beaujolais represented the most true and faithful expression of the gamay grape: a wine that was friendly, candid and unpretentious, fragrant with hints of field flowers and the fruit native to the region: blackberries, cherries, currants, strawberries, raspberries. Un vin de soif Un vin de soif (a wine of thirst), it was easy to drink, but was also b.u.t.tressed by a structural bite of acidity, lacking which it would merely be an agreeable but undistinguished alcoholized drink. This was what wine professionals would soon be calling (a wine of thirst), it was easy to drink, but was also b.u.t.tressed by a structural bite of acidity, lacking which it would merely be an agreeable but undistinguished alcoholized drink. This was what wine professionals would soon be calling le gout Duboeuf le gout Duboeuf (the Duboeuf taste), the one he doggedly sought out in those relentless treks of his to peasant domains and (the Duboeuf taste), the one he doggedly sought out in those relentless treks of his to peasant domains and caves cooperatives. caves cooperatives. What was most significant for the Beaujolais was this: the Duboeuf taste corresponded perfectly to the qualities of a good What was most significant for the Beaujolais was this: the Duboeuf taste corresponded perfectly to the qualities of a good primeur. primeur.

That taste alone-the personal preference-was not enough, however, to shake up the Beaujolais as thoroughly as Georges Duboeuf's arrival on the scene did. There was something else, too, this one rather more technical. Call it the Duboeuf touch. It was not exactly a professional secret, because the option had been there all along, but rather a different approach to the genius and potential of the gamay grape, one that he gradually persuaded many of the region's best winemakers to share with him. His own experience as vigneron and then courtier courtier had convinced him that the best way to capture the charm of the gamay in the final product was to vinify quickly and bottle early. When, still young in the business, he began bottling the had convinced him that the best way to capture the charm of the gamay in the final product was to vinify quickly and bottle early. When, still young in the business, he began bottling the crus crus in mid-December-always starting with Chiroubles, because its vines were the highest in alt.i.tude, closest to the sun and the quickest to ripen-Beaujolais traditionalists cried heresy and madness. Reigning wisdom dictated that the in mid-December-always starting with Chiroubles, because its vines were the highest in alt.i.tude, closest to the sun and the quickest to ripen-Beaujolais traditionalists cried heresy and madness. Reigning wisdom dictated that the crus crus had to have "done their Easter" before they could leave the vats and be imprisoned in gla.s.s. But it was Duboeuf who best captured the fruit and the flower of the gamay by rus.h.i.+ng his wines into bottles in the prime of their youth. had to have "done their Easter" before they could leave the vats and be imprisoned in gla.s.s. But it was Duboeuf who best captured the fruit and the flower of the gamay by rus.h.i.+ng his wines into bottles in the prime of their youth.

If early bottling worked well for the n.o.ble crus, crus, it was all that much more suited to the less complex Beaujolais and Beaujolais-Villages, which were precocious by nature, and it was these that gave birth to it was all that much more suited to the less complex Beaujolais and Beaujolais-Villages, which were precocious by nature, and it was these that gave birth to primeur, primeur, that extraordinary exception to winemaking's usual rules. When Georges spotted the Beaujolais Nouveau fas.h.i.+on and correctly guessed that it had not only not peaked but was set to bloom into a worldwide phenomenon, he was right in his comfort zone, because he knew that the new wine would give a foretaste of the later releases of mature, fully finished Beaujolais, and everything he loved in the gamay would already be there, in cheery adolescent form. Whenever someone asks Georges for a description of his ideal Beaujolais he invariably falls back on two key words, the virtually untranslatable French adjectives that extraordinary exception to winemaking's usual rules. When Georges spotted the Beaujolais Nouveau fas.h.i.+on and correctly guessed that it had not only not peaked but was set to bloom into a worldwide phenomenon, he was right in his comfort zone, because he knew that the new wine would give a foretaste of the later releases of mature, fully finished Beaujolais, and everything he loved in the gamay would already be there, in cheery adolescent form. Whenever someone asks Georges for a description of his ideal Beaujolais he invariably falls back on two key words, the virtually untranslatable French adjectives friand friand and and espiegle. espiegle. Roughly, this means delicious but at the same time roguish and perky, like a slightly risque old song by Maurice Chevalier, grinning rakishly, cap canted down over one eye. Roughly, this means delicious but at the same time roguish and perky, like a slightly risque old song by Maurice Chevalier, grinning rakishly, cap canted down over one eye. Bonbon anglais, Bonbon anglais, he will say, too-English rock candy, the equivalent of American sourb.a.l.l.s, metaphors for the touch of acidity indispensable to any respectable wine. he will say, too-English rock candy, the equivalent of American sourb.a.l.l.s, metaphors for the touch of acidity indispensable to any respectable wine.

As soon as the first juice began flowing from the freshly picked grapes of each new harvest, Georges turned on the sophisticated aroma-seeking device he carried on the front of his face and set off to track down, batch by batch, the wines-or rather the future wines-that nose and palate a.s.sured him would develop into le gout Duboeuf. le gout Duboeuf. Hound dogs have nothing on Duboeuf when he is on the prowl. Hound dogs have nothing on Duboeuf when he is on the prowl.

"He calls me every morning at six-thirty," Pierre Siraudin explained to me in Saint-Amour. "He knows everyone's cellar vat by vat, and he never forgets them-all the barrels and tuns and vats, every single one. If there's a vat he doesn't like in a cellar, you can't slip it past him. Even if they change the number, he'll find it. No one else can do that. He can't stand it if a vigneron holds anything back from him, even if it's just information-he has to know everything about the cellar, even the vats that aren't for sale. Other dealers make wine to the taste of their clients-more fruit, more tannin and so forth-but he only chooses for le gout Duboeuf le gout Duboeuf. Always, always, always. And he is the only one in the Beaujolais who is capable of buying wine after only four or five days, when it is still bubbling in fermentation. He already knows which vats will be the good ones."

Siraudin is something of an exception among Beaujolais vignerons. Although deeply attached to his land-ten hectares of Saint-Amour and eight of Saint Veran-he is not of peasant stock, but rather a bourgeois who inherited a lovely little mansion, le Chateau de Saint-Amour le Chateau de Saint-Amour, and did university studies of agronomy. His time with the books may or may not be partly responsible for the quality of his wine, but his stuff is wonderfully delicious. Now a somewhat elderly gent (and coquettish about his age), he received me like a true chatelain-gray suit, conservative tie, knickknack-cluttered sitting room-at ten o'clock on a bright June morning. At precisely 11:00, Madame Siraudin appeared with a frosty bottle of Champagne and poured us all a tingling pre-lunch libation. It was, he explained, part of his regular morning ritual-"mon peche mignon." My little treat. The wine business has done well by Pierre Siraudin.

The functional, concrete-walled office where I met with Jean-Pierre Thomas, boss of the Liergues cave cooperative cave cooperative, was considerably less elegantthan Siraudin's mansion, but the tone of the talk about Duboeuf was exactly the same. Liergues is true, cla.s.sical Beaujolais territory in the south, and its warm, sandy soil produces an early-ripening grape that is perfect for primeur. primeur. Duboeuf has been sniffing out its best vats for as long as anyone can remember. Like Siraudin, what impresses Thomas the most is the constancy, the straight, beeline, unvarying constancy, as predictable as the tides. Duboeuf has been sniffing out its best vats for as long as anyone can remember. Like Siraudin, what impresses Thomas the most is the constancy, the straight, beeline, unvarying constancy, as predictable as the tides.

"Other dealers come here, taste maybe ten vats, and then, as often as not, they choose two wines of completely different character," he said. "And they change from year to year, too. But Georges never varies. He always chooses the same style of wine-elegant, aromatic and perfumed. And he does it fast, fast. Others will hesitate and drag out their choices. Not Duboeuf. He knows what he wants, he gets right to it, and he's adamant about getting just that and nothing else."

Thomas winced with a rueful little smile and went off on a tangent to tell a story on himself about the Duboeuf intransigence. "I've only ever had one run-in with him. It happened in 1985. You know, this is a big place. We've got two hundred different storage vats here. That time, we had picked out thirty of them for him to taste, and he chose twenty. Each one was twenty thousand or thirty thousand liters, so it was a lot of wine. I thought maybe he wouldn't notice if I sold one of the vats-just one-to another buyer. But, sure enough, he noticed when he tasted those twenty samples again back at his place later. All of them corresponded to the quality he wanted-all except one. Well, of course he wanted it back. He was very firm about it. Almost angry. He got his vat back. You can't hide anything from him. He is rigorous, and he imposes that rigor on all of us."

Today, after more than half a century of roaming through the countryside and rummaging in the most obscure little backwater cellars, Georges carries in his head an unparalleled mental map of the Beaujolais vineyards and a minutely detailed a.s.sessment of each one's possibilities and performance: who's having a good year, who isn't and why. With each new vintage he updates the a.s.sessment, of course, but he knows he can trust this extraordinary memory only so far, so he is careful to back it up with blind tests: each vat he pre-chooses will get six, seven or eight tastings as it evolves, before he makes the final purchase and brings it back to Romaneche.

There is a dismayingly great amount of it. Working as he does with twenty-four caves cooperatives caves cooperatives and four-hundred-plus individual vignernons, he faces a Niagara of samples: every working day without fail he tastes for at least two hours, in company with his two top laboratory technicians. The basic daily slots are 12 noon to 1 P.M. and then 6 to 7 P.M., but this shoots up to considerably more time during the wild, manic few weeks every year when he has to choose fast for his and four-hundred-plus individual vignernons, he faces a Niagara of samples: every working day without fail he tastes for at least two hours, in company with his two top laboratory technicians. The basic daily slots are 12 noon to 1 P.M. and then 6 to 7 P.M., but this shoots up to considerably more time during the wild, manic few weeks every year when he has to choose fast for his primeur- primeur-three to four hundred samples to be appraised daily, putting his money and his reputation on the line with each one, because what he chooses will appear later in shops and restaurants with the Duboeuf label. There are few, if any, wine professionals in the world who are capable of holding such a pace with such accuracy. I certainly have not met or heard of any who can do it, but in any case it underlines an essential point of his success: the gout Duboeuf gout Duboeuf is not so much made as is not so much made as found found.

It was in one of the regular laboratory tasting sessions, in December or January, after the mad primeur primeur days had pa.s.sed, that Georges' erudite nose and palate picked up on a far more egregious diddle than Jean-Pierre Thomas's attempt to do a favor for a friend with one vat out of twenty. It is one of Michel Brun's favorite stories. days had pa.s.sed, that Georges' erudite nose and palate picked up on a far more egregious diddle than Jean-Pierre Thomas's attempt to do a favor for a friend with one vat out of twenty. It is one of Michel Brun's favorite stories.

"It happened in the mid-eighties. I was tasting with Monsieur Duboeuf at a vigneron's place in the Pierres Dorees (golden stone) area, and there were two vats side by side at the far end of his cellar, each one 7,200 liters. He sampled both of them and chose the vat on the left, shook hands on it, and we left to continue tasting at other domains. Three months later, when the tank truck brought the contents of the vat to Romaneche, he tasted it and said: 'Merde! They've given us the vat on the right. Get over there quick.' They've given us the vat on the right. Get over there quick.'

"I drove down and went straight to the guy's cave. cave. When I walked in, there he was-pumping out the vat on the left and transferring it over into the vat on the right." The poor devil was trying to hide the evidence of sin. With that, he lost his position as a Duboeuf supplier. When I walked in, there he was-pumping out the vat on the left and transferring it over into the vat on the right." The poor devil was trying to hide the evidence of sin. With that, he lost his position as a Duboeuf supplier.

Georges' gustatory prowess, his memory and his ironclad work ethic made him the undisputed world champion of Beaujolais Nouveau, and he has sold more of it than any other single negociant negociant. This has not, however, always conduced to his advantage. In later years, after the Parisian pa.s.sion of the seventies and eighties had begun to cool and Beaujolais Nouveau was no longer the acme of fas.h.i.+on, it became common to hear critics-a great many of them winemakers from other regions, wracked with jealousy at the insolent success of this despised upstart-dismissing primeur primeur with any number of derogatory epithets: half-made wine, fake wine, alcoholized fruit juice. Often the criticisms were worse, sometimes downright slanderous, and the 747s en route to New York, Chicago, Tokyo or Toronto in November, their holds stuffed with new wine, offered an easy whipping boy symbol for cynics and the disenchanted who had adored Beaujolais Nouveau when it was fas.h.i.+onable. In short, they reacted like the Lyonnais of a few years earlier: if the Americans and j.a.panese were drinking the stuff, it wasn't authentic anymore. It was precisely the same psychological situation as two divas arriving at a reception in the same dress. with any number of derogatory epithets: half-made wine, fake wine, alcoholized fruit juice. Often the criticisms were worse, sometimes downright slanderous, and the 747s en route to New York, Chicago, Tokyo or Toronto in November, their holds stuffed with new wine, offered an easy whipping boy symbol for cynics and the disenchanted who had adored Beaujolais Nouveau when it was fas.h.i.+onable. In short, they reacted like the Lyonnais of a few years earlier: if the Americans and j.a.panese were drinking the stuff, it wasn't authentic anymore. It was precisely the same psychological situation as two divas arriving at a reception in the same dress.

The French didn't turn their backs entirely on primeur primeur, to be sure, and its annual release continues to be celebrated around the country, but the thrill of discovery and trendiness has now pretty much become quotidian routine. Further, a couple of perfectly senisible rule changes by INAO contributed mightily to destroying the mystique of that traditional old release date. Reasoning that November 15 could in certain years fall on a Sunday, causing all sorts of logistical problems, the inst.i.tute allowed the far more practical option of the third Thursday in November. The second rule change simplified life for s.h.i.+ppers. So long as the Beaujolais Nouveau was not released released until the third Thursday, INAO decreed, it could be s.h.i.+pped earlier to sealed warehouses and held there until the famous third Thursday. The wine industry's operations were eased, and the new regulations meant that drinkers the world over would be able to pop their bottles of until the third Thursday, INAO decreed, it could be s.h.i.+pped earlier to sealed warehouses and held there until the famous third Thursday. The wine industry's operations were eased, and the new regulations meant that drinkers the world over would be able to pop their bottles of primeur primeur on the very same day-but all this commercial utilitarianism seriously sapped the aura of spontaneity, novelty and romance that had been attached to those barrels burping through straws as they coasted down the Saone toward Lyon. Eliminating November 15 was a bit like officially declaring the nonexistence of Santa Claus. on the very same day-but all this commercial utilitarianism seriously sapped the aura of spontaneity, novelty and romance that had been attached to those barrels burping through straws as they coasted down the Saone toward Lyon. Eliminating November 15 was a bit like officially declaring the nonexistence of Santa Claus.

Inevitably, critics of Beaujolais Nouveau carped especially at Duboeuf, because he was the one who had bet most heavily on primeur primeur and whose efforts had, far and away, paid off in the most spectacular manner. There could be no doubt that Duboeuf was guilty, because he had chosen those batches of wine, he had blended them, bottled them, packaged them and sold them with whatever marketing blandishments his native talents inspired. Certainly he could take comfort from the fact that his guilt was shared by the millions who lifted a gla.s.s of Beaujolais Nouveau every year in all innocence because they found the ritual congenial and the wine tasted good. But wine sn.o.bs-especially French wine sn.o.bs-tend to get cross with reasoning as straightforward and simple as that. A brooding Beethoven of a wine will always be accorded reverent respect, but a sprightly Vivaldi reaps scorn-doubly so if it is selling well. and whose efforts had, far and away, paid off in the most spectacular manner. There could be no doubt that Duboeuf was guilty, because he had chosen those batches of wine, he had blended them, bottled them, packaged them and sold them with whatever marketing blandishments his native talents inspired. Certainly he could take comfort from the fact that his guilt was shared by the millions who lifted a gla.s.s of Beaujolais Nouveau every year in all innocence because they found the ritual congenial and the wine tasted good. But wine sn.o.bs-especially French wine sn.o.bs-tend to get cross with reasoning as straightforward and simple as that. A brooding Beethoven of a wine will always be accorded reverent respect, but a sprightly Vivaldi reaps scorn-doubly so if it is selling well.

Whatever the opinion of the chattering cla.s.ses, Georges' efforts were rewarded many times over, and the phenomenal success of his Beaujolais Nouveau was the most conspicuous signal that the polite, soft-voiced young man from Chaintre had arrived as a new powerhouse in the French wine business. A few other companies on the national scene were (and today still are) bigger and richer, but none had the flair or the personal prestige of Duboeuf. The secondhand truck with the pumps and filters in the back was soon relegated to the status of museum piece, and a series of enormous modern structures for stocking, bottling and s.h.i.+pping sprang up behind Monsieur Crozet's old headquarters. Pure white with neat red trim, surmounted with the steer's head logo that he had designed years earlier, the new buildings loomed like the statement of an inescapable economic fact: Georges Duboeuf had arrived, and Romaneche-Thorins was Duboeuf City. The artisan was beginning to look very much like an industrialist. For many, this was clearly bad. Today still, large segments of French public opinion, influenced by journalists and other opinion-makers heavily in debt to the vague Marxist noodlings that no amount of reality ever seems to be able to chase from the intellectual discourse here, remain deeply mistrustful of entrepreneurial success in capitalism, while yearning instead for some ideal, mythic socioeconomic system where the country could live in joyous communal fraternity like the comic strip inhabitants of the Gallic village of Asterix and Obelix.

Of course that past perfect never did and never will exist, and Georges' modern installations were in all ways cleaner, more precise and more efficient than the single-family peasant operations to which he had been born himself, but the stigma of success and profit clung to him like a burr. What most critics could not grasp was that in spite of all the impressive logistics of the modern s.h.i.+pping industry-the computers, the pallets and containers, the wine-heavy trailer trucks on the roads and the 747 cargo planes winging to Tokyo and beyond-his Beaujolais Nouveau was not an anonymous industrial product but a real wine with its own personality, one whose birth he had midwifed from first juice to bottling, seeking it out and blending it himself for le gout Duboeuf le gout Duboeuf. Clearly, a lot of people around the world agreed with the Duboeuf taste, because in a good year he sold more than 5 million bottles of primeur. primeur.

Getting that taste was and will always be a matter of the terroir terroir first of all, that and the care of the grapes growing on it, but once the grapes are in, everything hinges on the crucial next step: vinification. Turning grape juice into finished wine is a bafflingly complex process, half-science and half-art, one in which an obscure peasant who quit school as a stripling, all instinct and folk wisdom, can easily surpa.s.s the best efforts of a battery of technicians and Ph.D. microbiologists. Vinification tricks and manipulations are in constant evolution, but the fundamental idea is simple enough: to bend nature by persuading her to turn the fermenting juice into wine rather than vinegar. The great Louis Pasteur discovered that it was yeasts rather than the hand of G.o.d (as most peasants had a.s.sumed) that caused fermentation, and that thousands of these micro-organisms occurred naturally on grape skins. But trusting nature to choose exactly the right yeasts from this rich c.o.c.ktail is a bit like throwing a pack of cards in the air and hoping that the one you want will land faceup and the others facedown. In consequence, winemakers around the world, with the exception of a handful of inveterate risk-takers, prefer to vinify by starting their fermentations by inoculating their must (fermenting grape juice and pulp) with selected yeasts that have been carefully isolated from grape skins, then grown and cloned in oenological laboratories. first of all, that and the care of the grapes growing on it, but once the grapes are in, everything hinges on the crucial next step: vinification. Turning grape juice into finished wine is a bafflingly complex process, half-science and half-art, one in which an obscure peasant who quit school as a stripling, all instinct and folk wisdom, can easily surpa.s.s the best efforts of a battery of technicians and Ph.D. microbiologists. Vinification tricks and manipulations are in constant evolution, but the fundamental idea is simple enough: to bend nature by persuading her to turn the fermenting juice into wine rather than vinegar. The great Louis Pasteur discovered that it was yeasts rather than the hand of G.o.d (as most peasants had a.s.sumed) that caused fermentation, and that thousands of these micro-organisms occurred naturally on grape skins. But trusting nature to choose exactly the right yeasts from this rich c.o.c.ktail is a bit like throwing a pack of cards in the air and hoping that the one you want will land faceup and the others facedown. In consequence, winemakers around the world, with the exception of a handful of inveterate risk-takers, prefer to vinify by starting their fermentations by inoculating their must (fermenting grape juice and pulp) with selected yeasts that have been carefully isolated from grape skins, then grown and cloned in oenological laboratories.

Inoculating different yeasts will make different styles of wine, and for a few years in the seventies and eighties many winemakers of the Beaujolais, Duboeuf included, succ.u.mbed to the seductive fruitiness produced by the one known in professional circles as 71B, isolated by a researcher in the Narbonne laboratory of INRA, the National Inst.i.tute of Agronomic Research. There was a curious property to 71B's fruitiness, though. The enzymes it produced caused one particular aroma to stand out prominently: banana. During the 71B years, then, much of the Beaujolais production, especially primeur, primeur, exhaled a characteristic fruit and floral bouquet dominated by a pleasant but nevertheless strangely anomalous chord of a fruit that had never been seen to grow between Macon and Villefranche. The fascination with this quirky little yeast could not last long, and it didn't. You're not likely to find 71B in the Beaujolais today, but the episode underlines a salient point: in winemaking as in everything else, fas.h.i.+ons come and go. exhaled a characteristic fruit and floral bouquet dominated by a pleasant but nevertheless strangely anomalous chord of a fruit that had never been seen to grow between Macon and Villefranche. The fascination with this quirky little yeast could not last long, and it didn't. You're not likely to find 71B in the Beaujolais today, but the episode underlines a salient point: in winemaking as in everything else, fas.h.i.+ons come and go.

The saga of Beaujolais primeur primeur had a considerable impact in France and, indeed, around the world, because it signaled the presence of an unsuspected market that could be developed on a far wider scale than anyone had supposed. What had been a tiny niche-those barrels on barges riding the Saone down to Lyon, straws through their bungholes lest they explode-swelled into a new and gloriously profitable commercial opportunity. Eager to exploit that market themselves, other winemakers quickly revised their practices and rushed to get into the act that Duboeuf and his fellow had a considerable impact in France and, indeed, around the world, because it signaled the presence of an unsuspected market that could be developed on a far wider scale than anyone had supposed. What had been a tiny niche-those barrels on barges riding the Saone down to Lyon, straws through their bungholes lest they explode-swelled into a new and gloriously profitable commercial opportunity. Eager to exploit that market themselves, other winemakers quickly revised their practices and rushed to get into the act that Duboeuf and his fellow negociants negociants of the Beaujolais had pioneered. One of the first to appear was Gaillac Bourru, a fruity, cloudy, tingling and slightly sweet white wine from the southwest near the cathedral city of Albi. It enjoyed a nice little ride on of the Beaujolais had pioneered. One of the first to appear was Gaillac Bourru, a fruity, cloudy, tingling and slightly sweet white wine from the southwest near the cathedral city of Albi. It enjoyed a nice little ride on primeur primeur's coattails for a few years in the seventies, but the magic wasn't there. It was strictly a one-gla.s.s-at-the-bar drink that could not reasonably accompany a meal, and it soon faded from Parisian bars.

There are other white primeur primeur wines that may be sold as of November 15, Muscadet for instance, but the true tradition and romance of the genre corresponds to reds alone. Several newcomers. .h.i.t the market to join the new red wines of Beaujolais and Beaujolais-Villages. Inevitably the Loire Valley reds of Touraine and Anjou, also produced from the gamay grape, were among them, as were Cotes du Roussillon, Coteaux du Languedoc and Cotes du Ventoux, but the main compet.i.tion came from the Cotes du Rhone, familiar old neighbor and rival from south of Lyon. Although sales of these me-too wines never approached the stunning success of Beaujolais wines that may be sold as of November 15, Muscadet for instance, but the true tradition and romance of the genre corresponds to reds alone. Several newcomers. .h.i.t the market to join the new red wines of Beaujolais and Beaujolais-Villages. Inevitably the Loire Valley reds of Touraine and Anjou, also produced from the gamay grape, were among them, as were Cotes du Roussillon, Coteaux du Languedoc and Cotes du Ventoux, but the main compet.i.tion came from the Cotes du Rhone, familiar old neighbor and rival from south of Lyon. Although sales of these me-too wines never approached the stunning success of Beaujolais primeur primeur of the glory years, their simple presence on the market underlined how acute Duboeuf's instinct had been. More than anyone else, he taught the world to take a taste of new wine at least once a year. It is surely an exaggeration to say, as Gerard Canard, Michel Rougier's predecessor at InterBeaujolais, did in a paroxysm of admiration few years ago, that Duboeuf "invented" Beaujolais Nouveau (any more than to affirm that Dom Perignon "invented" Champagne) but in the context of modern commerce Canard was not so far off the mark. The man in Romaneche is the one who imposed his conception of the wine's character and the one who marketed it more intelligently than anyone else. If the arrival of Beaujolais Nouveau is a yearly event to be celebrated in Chicago, Moscow, Beijing and Tokyo, it is mostly because of Georges Duboeuf. of the glory years, their simple presence on the market underlined how acute Duboeuf's instinct had been. More than anyone else, he taught the world to take a taste of new wine at least once a year. It is surely an exaggeration to say, as Gerard Canard, Michel Rougier's predecessor at InterBeaujolais, did in a paroxysm of admiration few years ago, that Duboeuf "invented" Beaujolais Nouveau (any more than to affirm that Dom Perignon "invented" Champagne) but in the context of modern commerce Canard was not so far off the mark. The man in Romaneche is the one who imposed his conception of the wine's character and the one who marketed it more intelligently than anyone else. If the arrival of Beaujolais Nouveau is a yearly event to be celebrated in Chicago, Moscow, Beijing and Tokyo, it is mostly because of Georges Duboeuf.

Within a decade of taking his card as a negociant, negociant, Georges was already a major force of the Beaujolais trade, and his position was improving every day. Bocuse's "King of Beaujolais" label had stuck fast, and the tremendous popularity of Georges was already a major force of the Beaujolais trade, and his position was improving every day. Bocuse's "King of Beaujolais" label had stuck fast, and the tremendous popularity of primeur primeur was elevating him and his wines to a certain level of media stardom. Duboeuf was new, he was different from all the other was elevating him and his wines to a certain level of media stardom. Duboeuf was new, he was different from all the other negociants negociants, and his ideas and energy were generating an excitement that revivified the sleepy old tradition-bound trade. A true precursor, he alone among all French wine professionals antic.i.p.ated the marketing, graphics and packaging of modern commerce, the touches of salesmans.h.i.+p that in later years would be employed with stunning effectiveness-and to French discomfort-by wines from the United States, Latin America, South Africa and the antipodes.

By the beginning of the eighties he had risen to number three among Beaujolais negociants, negociants, surpa.s.sed only by Mommessin and Loron. Within a few years he would be leaving them, too, in his wake, but for the moment he was still referring to his company as a family affair, with Rolande managing the seventy employees (about half the company's size today), their raven-haired, radiantly good-looking daughter Fabienne in charge of public relations, and son Franck still deep in his studies before coming to join Papa in Romaneche two years later. Big brother Roger, the sage, a.s.sured an unbroken continuity of ancient family tradition back in the house in Chaintre, while overseeing the Duboeufs' own vines and carrying on as confidant and advisor, the role he had played in Georges' life ever since early childhood. Every Sunday the brothers met, ritually, for an hour of talk. As for Georges' part in the business, he remained what he still is today: the point man, the one who goes out and finds the wine. surpa.s.sed only by Mommessin and Loron. Within a few years he would be leaving them, too, in his wake, but for the moment he was still referring to his company as a family affair, with Rolande managing the seventy employees (about half the company's size today), their raven-haired, radiantly good-looking daughter Fabienne in charge of public relations, and son Franck still deep in his studies before coming to join Papa in Romaneche two years later. Big brother Roger, the sage, a.s.sured an unbroken continuity of ancient family tradition back in the house in Chaintre, while overseeing the Duboeufs' own vines and carrying on as confidant and advisor, the role he had played in Georges' life ever since early childhood. Every Sunday the brothers met, ritually, for an hour of talk. As for Georges' part in the business, he remained what he still is today: the point man, the one who goes out and finds the wine.

I'm not sure whether the planetary popularity of primeur primeur had ever been for Duboeuf the divine surprise that it was for the peasant growers and had ever been for Duboeuf the divine surprise that it was for the peasant growers and caves cooperatives caves cooperatives in whose vats he systematically tracked the stuff down-after all, he had worked hard for just that purpose. But certainly the boy on the bike with his Pouilly-Fuisse in the saddlebag could never have imagined a future day when his wines would be served in the in whose vats he systematically tracked the stuff down-after all, he had worked hard for just that purpose. But certainly the boy on the bike with his Pouilly-Fuisse in the saddlebag could never have imagined a future day when his wines would be served in the Palais de l'Elysee, Palais de l'Elysee, the French presidential mansion in Paris, or when he would be riding a supersonic jetliner to New York with Paul Bocuse to further the cause of the greater glory of French wining and dining (a glory that won him the the French presidential mansion in Paris, or when he would be riding a supersonic jetliner to New York with Paul Bocuse to further the cause of the greater glory of French wining and dining (a glory that won him the Legion d'Honneur Legion d'Honneur along the way), but his years of collaborationwith Lichine had given him a good glimpse of the world beyond the Beaujolais and shown him just how far a capacity for selecting superior wines could carry a business. All of this could only add to the exceptionally powerful motivation he was born with. And so, being by nature both perfectionistic and conscientious, the more he worked, the more work he found to do. I have had several occasions over the years to observe Duboeuf at work at different periods of his seasonal routine, but never is this exercise more characteristic than in the crucial September-October-November months when the tasting is the most hectic and he is nailing down his choices of vats of wine to buy. along the way), but his years of collaborationwith Lichine had given him a good glimpse of the world beyond the Beaujolais and shown him just how far a capacity for selecting superior wines could carry a business. All of this could only add to the exceptionally powerful motivation he was born with. And so, being by nature both perfectionistic and conscientious, the more he worked, the more work he found to do. I have had several occasions over the years to observe Duboeuf at work at different periods of his seasonal routine, but never is this exercise more characteristic than in the crucial September-October-November months when the tasting is the most hectic and he is nailing down his choices of vats of wine to buy.

It's a curious occupation, the hunting and gathering of wine. On the surface, it would appear to be an extraordinarily pleasant way to make a living, in that it entails long rambles through France's most beautiful and scenic vineyards, halts in picturesque stone villages and sincerely warm welcomes in any of the thousands of winegrowers' caveaux caveaux that proliferate in this nature-blessed landscape. Pleasant and instructive it was for me to tag along behind Georges as he made his rounds, but I certainly could not have lasted more than three or four days at his pace without collapsing in fatigue and despair: too much of everything. The best and most ill.u.s.trative of these expeditions remains the very first time I went to Romaneche to join him on one of those expeditions. With minor variations, it can stand as the template for any of the years since, because the routine is fixed and unchanging. The adventure began on a chilly mid-October morning in 1981. that proliferate in this nature-blessed landscape. Pleasant and instructive it was for me to tag along behind Georges as he made his rounds, but I certainly could not have lasted more than three or four days at his pace without collapsing in fatigue and despair: too much of everything. The best and most ill.u.s.trative of these expeditions remains the very first time I went to Romaneche to join him on one of those expeditions. With minor variations, it can stand as the template for any of the years since, because the routine is fixed and unchanging. The adventure began on a chilly mid-October morning in 1981.

Compared to Georges I had it easy, of course. I didn't have to put any money on the line, and I could stop persecuting my mouth with the acidity of young wine whenever I chose. I was lodged that day in the little Hotel Les Maritonnes in Romaneche, where they made a very nice chicken frica.s.see with morel mushrooms, and where the frogs' legs were fresh and delicious. I also enjoyed the luxury of sleeping as late as seven-thirty in the morning, because my appointment didn't begin until an hour after that. I was taking my ease at a wrought-iron table under the thick auburn foliage of a plane tree when, at 8:30 precisely, Georges drew up in his gray, mud-spattered Citroen CX Prestige GTI with the high, swaying radio antenna of those years before cell phones.

"ca va?" he asked, one hand on the wheel and the other holding his bulky car phone, and almost before I could utter the ritual ca va ca va myself, he crunched out of the gravel courtyard and headed south and then west: direction Beaujeu. Shortly another call came in, and with a nod of his head, Georges indicated that I might help out by s.h.i.+fting gears for him. It seemed like a prudent idea, since once again both his hands were otherwise occupied. Now, as we barreled down the N. 6 at 90 mph (no speed traps or traffic cops in those days, either), I saw he had lodged the tool of his trade next to the hand brake: a large myself, he crunched out of the gravel courtyard and headed south and then west: direction Beaujeu. Shortly another call came in, and with a nod of his head, Georges indicated that I might help out by s.h.i.+fting gears for him. It seemed like a prudent idea, since once again both his hands were otherwise occupied. Now, as we barreled down the N. 6 at 90 mph (no speed traps or traffic cops in those days, either), I saw he had lodged the tool of his trade next to the hand brake: a large degustation degustation (tasting) gla.s.s, s.h.i.+mmering with the purplish patina of a thousand tastings. (tasting) gla.s.s, s.h.i.+mmering with the purplish patina of a thousand tastings.

"The price doesn't matter," Georges was insisting to a courtier courtier at the other end of the line. "Just get me the best." It sounded too good to be true, like some hokey TV ad, but there it was, he actually said it. (And of course the price at the other end of the line. "Just get me the best." It sounded too good to be true, like some hokey TV ad, but there it was, he actually said it. (And of course the price did did matter, as it always does in business, but the urgency of his imperative set the uncompromising tone that never leaves him.) He slammed the phone back down on its cradle with a sigh. " matter, as it always does in business, but the urgency of his imperative set the uncompromising tone that never leaves him.) He slammed the phone back down on its cradle with a sigh. "Ah, la la," he muttered, "this is no way to live. I got four hours of sleep last night and five the night before. You've got to be everywhere at once, because all the others are out there buying, too. You know, a chef gets to do his marketing every day, but we've got to do ours for the whole year right now. So everyone's a little bit tense."

Well, since he brought it up, what about this sleep deprivation? I asked. Two alarms, he said mechanically, choosing to answer the how to rather than the what about. First the wrist.w.a.tch at 4:30 and then, ten minutes later, just in case, a j.a.panese electronic clock with a loud voice, across on the other side of the bedroom. After a quick cup of tea-always tea, because coffee blunts the taste buds-he would arrive in the office shortly after 5:00 to fight the piles of papers and make phone calls. But that's of no interest to you, he said, coming back, as he always does, to matters of wine. The 1981 vintage was going to be good-much better than 1979 or 1980, and almost as good as 1978-but it was going to be expensive, because it was a short harvest and everyone had jacked up prices by more than 20 percent. He threw up an arm in a gesture of impotence. The law of supply and demand was implacable, and now everyone wanted good Beaujolais.

Above Beaujeu in the hamlet of Saint Didier, Georges pulled up next to an unprepossessing stone and stucco house behind which stood a much larger, older and lovelier stone barn, roofed with half-round Roman tiles. The master of the domain was Louis Tete, a rival negociant negociant but nevertheless good friend. He was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the gray Citroen, because he had set up a but nevertheless good friend. He was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the gray Citroen, because he had set up a degustation degustation of new wines. of new wines.

Tete, who died in 2004 at a ripe old age-Beaujolais preserves, they always say-was another true regional character. Possessed of, and by, an almost juvenile enthusiasm for wine that belied the fifty-plus years he then was carrying, he was one of the rare professionals who tasted nearly as often and as copiously as Georges-loving it, endlessly repeating it, keeping his nose and taste buds exercised to maintain their acuity. The testimony to this lifelong pa.s.sion was an iridescent, rubicund complexion, spa.r.s.e white hair, a portentous tummy carried low and weighty with dignity, and the intelligent, darting eyes of a brain fine-honed by decades of bargaining over prices. He was comfortably dressed in what most people would describe as rags: ancient, baggy corduroys and a tattered, moth-eaten green sweater that the Salvation Army would surely have rejected.

"In Beaujeu they call him Croesus, he's so rich," Georges said, poker-faced, but deliberately loud enough for anyone to hear it. Tete rolled his eyes and sighed.

Leaving the Citroen's door open so he could hear if the phone rang, Georges followed Tete into the barn's beautiful, double-arched stone cellar, where a long plank on sawhorses held twenty-two sample bottles, unidentifiable except by numbers chalked on the plank in front of each. Tete had aligned them with military precision, and a single large tasting gla.s.s stood in front of each. This was no fancy degustation degustation for show; everyone would be sharing the same gla.s.s in turn. The wine was the color of young raspberries. Several more cases were stacked under the table, to be opened when the first batch had been finished. In all, sixty different samples were to be tried. for show; everyone would be sharing the same gla.s.s in turn. The wine was the color of young raspberries. Several more cases were stacked under the table, to be opened when the first batch had been finished. In all, sixty different samples were to be tried.

"Voila, messieurs, everything's ready," Tete said. "I've told the maid to bring in the sausage and bread."

"Kind of cold, isn't it?" Georges observed, rubbing his hands in the morning chill. He could see his breath. Two courtiers, courtiers, men who scouted wine for both Duboeuf and Tete, waited respectfully for the big guns to start first. Big Gun Tete was eager to get going. Everyone always wanted to see how Duboeuf would react. men who scouted wine for both Duboeuf and Tete, waited respectfully for the big guns to start first. Big Gun Tete was eager to get going. Everyone always wanted to see how Duboeuf would react.

"Goute!" Tete roared. Taste! A young woman entered the room carrying a tray laden with a big round loaf of country bread cut into rough chunks, along with a platter of steaming hot garlic sausage. Outside in the yard a rooster crowed.

"Goute!" Tete thundered again. Georges c.o.c.ked an ear and heard his car phone beeping. He sprinted out to take the call. Tete tapped his foot impatiently.

At length Georges returned and the degustation degustation got under way. He started at the right end of the table, and the immutable professional routine began: the small portion of wine splashed into the gla.s.s, the long, thoughtful a.n.a.lysis via the nasal pa.s.sages, plunged as far as they could go below the rim, the careful sip, the sucking, slurping and chewing, then the few paces to the sawdust-filled bucket to spit it out and move on to the next sample. In scarcely more than a minute the year's work of some unknown producer was judged, undiplomatically and irreversibly. got under way. He started at the right end of the table, and the immutable professional routine began: the small portion of wine splashed into the gla.s.s, the long, thoughtful a.n.a.lysis via the nasal pa.s.sages, plunged as far as they could go below the rim, the careful sip, the sucking, slurping and chewing, then the few paces to the sawdust-filled bucket to spit it out and move on to the next sample. In scarcely more than a minute the year's work of some unknown producer was judged, undiplomatically and irreversibly.

"Gout metallique," Georges said. Metallic taste. Now, as the samples succeeded one another, the room echoed with the watery sibilants and the smacking and clacking of wine entering mouths, being a.s.sessed and then departing in admirably precise crimson streams to the sawdust bucket, followed by sotto voce murmurings of judgments being pa.s.sed. Much opinion was exchanged about la malo, la malo, the secondary fermentation that may or may not have happened. the secondary fermentation that may or may not have happened.

"Not my style at all," said Georges, rejecting number two. "Too harsh."

Some minutes later, Tete remarked that he had liked number ten quite a lot. Without a word, Georges pointed to the chalk mark he had already made in front of it.

"Ooh, la la," he exclaimed now, jerking his nose free of a succeeding sample. "This one I won't even taste."

Shortly after that he had an even more dramatic experience. After a dubitative sniff of a sample, he decided to give it a second chance and took a taste. Suddenly his poker face convulsed into a mask of astonished indignation, as if he had been goosed in church. He pumped his forearms up and down, his whole body shuddering with revulsion. In three quick strides he was over to the bucket to rid himself of the execrable intrusion. He spat and re-spat with emphasis, fastidiously wiping his lips with his handkerchief and casting a mournful glance of reproach at Tete.

"Pas bon, hein?" asked Tete. Not good, eh? He was enjoying the spectacle.

"Ah, la la" Georges replied. "That one makes me cold in the back."

Within less than an hour he had tasted all sixty samples and concluded that the lot were generally mediocre. That was all right-there would be plenty of others. But he was already behind schedule. He grabbed a chunk of bread and a slice of still-warm sausage and hightailed it out to the car. Speeding off southward, he held his hasty breakfast with two fingers of his left hand and steered with the other three. He was expected at the cave cooperative cave cooperative in the village of Quincie-en-Beaujolais. in the village of Quincie-en-Beaujolais.

"Last year there was about 10 percent of very good wine," he was saying. "This year, 90 percent is good, and of that 90 percent, 10 percent will be extraordinary. It's a serious wine, more body and character than last year. Some of the ones I've tasted are so intense that you'd think there was pinot in them-po