Champagne, France
Dawn’s chill at last surrendered to the warmth of the mid-morning sun, as rows of verdant grapevines revealed their fruit seductively. Crouching on the chalky soil, I reached in with my pliers to snip off a bunch. The bright green Chardonnay grapes were almost luminescent. I took them, a handful at a time, and placed them in my faded yellow crate. In this age of iPhones and BlackBerrys, it was satisfying to look, quite literally, upon the fruits of my labor.
And to think you too can be a part of this earthy experience for only 57 euros. At Champagne Launois, just south of Epernay, tourists by the busload (mostly Belgians with unquenchable thirsts) come to pick grapes and reconnect with Mother Nature. Not to mention a “complimentary” lunch at the luxurious Château Launois and a bottle of bubbly to take home. Not to mention innumerable glasses of the stuff in the course of the day.
It’s not a bad deal-at least for the winemaker. Give them a meal and a bottle, and the tourists will do the picking for you. (Of course Launois does employ a seasonal workforce to harvest the vast majority of its grapes, though the number of visitors trolling through the vineyard, 50 on most days, is impressive.) Not that I myself shelled out 57 euros (about $90). Fortunately, I was part of a small contingent of American journalists who were traveling through the region courtesy of the Comité Interprofessionnel du Vin de Champagne, an association representing grape growers and makers of champagne.
In brief, the CIVC is fiercely protective of the name “champagne” and believes, logically, that it properly applies only to sparkling wine from the Champagne region. The visits -please do not say junkets-are designed to bring light to this worthy cause, though I am loath to shill for anyone simply because of a free trip to France along with copious amounts of truly exquisite wine, including a 1999 bottle of Amour de Deutz, a 1993 Roederer Cristal, and a 1988 Henriot Rosé, as well as a 1974 Armagnac, that last not champagne but thrown in for good measure. Let us just all agree that “California Champagne” is an oxymoron.
On this day in the middle of harvest season, we Americans were instructed by our guide, a French beauty named Solène, to proceed carefully down the rows and leave no grape behind. The previous day we’d picked Pinot Noir at the illustrious Roederer estates, but after 20 minutes the chef de caves had kindly relieved us of our “duties” and off we’d gone to the tastings. At Launois, however, there was a sense that we really might have to work for a few hours to earn our lunch.
Joining us was a sizable group of elderly French tourists, a handful of reporters from India, and three women from Singapore. Though numbering a few dozen, the French were slow pickers. Some looked tired, others confused. My group was jovial at first, then indifferent, then seemingly incensed by the notion that we had no choice but to pick our way out. There was talk of forming a union. After half an hour, we simply refused to harvest any further until Solène said in her delicate way, “Please, just a little more, down this row.” Three of us (me included) caved in to the pressure and finished the job like shameless scabs.
The Indians, on the other hand, toiled without complaint. In no time, they were 50 yards ahead of us. “No lunch until you pick all your grapes!” joked Rajiv Singhal, India’s CIVC director. Or was he serious?
When our harvesting ended, bottles of champagne were uncorked. After a few glasses, we piled into an antique bus driven by the proprietor himself, Séverine Launois, who blasted 1950s rock and swerved his way back to the winery. The French broke into song and danced in the aisle, falling on top of each other. When we got to the parking lot, a number of them went to their cars and for some reason changed their clothes, oblivious to the spectacle they provided. The ladies from Singapore were utterly smashed (one was seen staggering disheveled out of the restroom) and shared a complexion pinker than a Brut Rosé.
Back at the château, we did have our lunch (a lovely four courses including chicken wrapped in bacon). But the whole production was a bit much, and by the end we were yearning for the quiet of the Deutz cellars or the coziness of Chartogne Taillet. It seems ridiculous now, returning home to the harsh realities of an economic crisis, to have complained about picking grapes. Certainly the Indians showed us a thing or two about a good work ethic. But at least we outlasted those ladies from Singapore.
VICTORINO MATUS
