Toujours les petits grains...

A few weeks ago I arrived back home broken and hungover after ten days of putting grapes into a bucket and consuming the products of the last few years yield, at Chateau Thivin in the Beaujolais region in France.

Entre les vignes.

Do you know what? I’m feeling pretty smug and proud of myself, the little Rosbif weakling that I am dragged her lazy fesses (arse) out of bed every morning at 6am and worked until 5.30 in the fields. It felt good though (or maybe just in hindsight!) a hard day’s work among the vines, vendanging the same vines that have been picked for centuries, and after a damn good feed and a wine soaked evening, it all felt very wholesome. There’s a kind of spirit that accompanies the vendange, that draws back seasonaires, hippies, students and general countryside lovers year after year. Maybe it’s the free wine and the (reasonably) easy money. But I like to think it’s the atmosphere, being out in the vineyards and seeing the sunrise every morning alongside a crew of dirty, smelly and sticky people.

Grubby Vendengers.

Wine. It runs through the French’s veins (metaphorically and literally). It’s the foundation of their culture and holds up two of the cornerstones of French society food and family. Like some kind of magic life blood the wine drunk throughout the day spurs on the vendengers who pick the grapes that will then be made into wine, drunk and sold by the Geoffray family. But it’s bigger that, it’s at every family meal to accompany any dish. Like we Brits believe all problems in life can be solved by making a pot of tea, for our cheesy neighbours it is wine that is the answer to all.

cheese and wine: the most beautiful relationship in the world.

Of course one of the things that made the vendange great was the people. As well as the group of young, tanned twenty somethings, there were some lovely old countryside gents with an array of cracking moustaches and cripplingly difficult accents. One certain bonhomme, named Claude (as everyone was at Chateau Thivin) sported a moustache that seemed to surround his entire nose. Outstanding. He would regale us with stories of his youth, he spoke 4 different languages and seemed to know about everything. He once approached me and asked me in english “eef your hat has babies, can I ‘ave one?” Baffled I replied, “yes” and shuffled off. It wasn’t til later I realised he was paying me a compliment on my hat. Ahhhh the mysteries of French expressions.

Claude, Michel, Denis and Christian

 My boss, Claude (yes I wasn’t lying), lord and master of Chateau Thivin was a like a greyer and frencher version of Mr Darcy: Timid, brooding and you could never tell if he hated you or rather fancied you. One minute he’d be reproaching me for my slowness and the next he’d be asking to help me retrieve that sneaky grape that fell down my top. Bloody French men.

Claude Geoffray.

Then there was Claude … nah just kidding Jean-luc, a well loved scoundrel, who one night accused us English of being mad for eating so much jelly. Where does this come from? Who even eats Jelly? The French think we wolf it down morning, noon and night!

This being a delicatessen after all, I should tell you about eating vendange style. Beautiful meals dished out by Madame Geoffray. This was traditional rustic French cuisine and it was bloody good. Simple hearty meals of meat in a sauce with veg, all cooked to perfection and flavoured exquisitely. Evelyn created a menu that was, yes heavily dominated by boeuf-carotte BUT boasted some impressive dishes of roasted ham and canneles in white sauce (a traditional regional accompaniment, rather like a dumpling), Rabbit stewed with mustard and a side of dauphinoise potatoes. This cuisine had heart, it had strength and it had its feet firmly planted alongside French tradition and winemaking. One thing I had never experienced before I entered the beautiful rustic dining room with red and white checked table cloths and large wooden tables, was the notion of having one plate for a 4 course meal. We tend to inundate ourselves with side plates and plates for each course, plates for the bones, plates for our bread, plates, plates, plates! Every meal I had at the chateau involved one plate for EVERYTHING. If you didn’t finish your meal you’d be eating cake swimming  in mustard sauce with meat juices. That’s why bread exists, use it to clean your plate- good as new! And why the hell not? I liked it, simple, honest, no fuss (and especially good if you’re feeding 40 hungry and messy vendangers) 

The dining room.

However, 9.30 every morning was my favourite food time. The rumbling of my tummy was heard across the vineyards as we approached the time of the daily casse-croute (breaking of the crust). A beautifully simple French picnic which involved bread, bloody good comté cheese, quality sauccisson sec and of course as much wine as you want (or can handle at 9.30 in the morning!) with a view over the vineyards for miles in the morning light. Just perfect. And a great hangover cure as well: wine + wine = good.  

Perfection!