WBW #44: The Last Chinon

The gigantic, dark, empty Chateaux towering over the banks of the Loire River me made me feel like I was suddenly trapped in a French Horror movie. Here in our boat we had only the light of a half moon to navigate by, but it was enough to make out the endless stone walls of the rows of Chateaux. The black water of the Loire River trolled underneath us as my guide, the skinny and bespectacled Henri, quietly rowed the oars poking out either side of our dingy.

“Combien plus lion?” I whispered, hoping my murder of the French language wouldn’t cause Henri to throw me from the boat.

“Silence,” he whispered said and looked around to the banks of the river. Both banks were under the cover of night. “The bloggures… they’re everywhere. Partout!”

My late start on Wine Blogging Wednesday had me in my current predicament. First, a trip to my wine shop revealed they were sold out of Loire Reds. “We got run through weeks ago,” The manager said, “There are some supposedly on a crate on the way here, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Ask any retailer who owes you pre-arrival wine, I thought, and there is always wine on a crate on the way Stateside.

Next, the distributors proved to be no help. There was no wine on the way for them and since I lived in Maryland I had no recourse such as having some shipped to myself. “Got to keep the minors safe,” a distributor told me, then lit a fat Cuban cigar with a hundred dollar bill.

I had one choice if I wanted to participate with WBW: Go to the Loire Valley.

And that’s how I found myself in this two-man dingy, straining through the darkness to make out our surroundings as Henri tired up the boat to a tree along the banks.

“Come now, American.” he said, and we stole off up the bank towards a dirt road.

Wine Blogging Wednesday had put a strain on the Loire Valley. There were only a few bottles left, my guide told me when we met in a clandestine meeting at the taxi stand at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Surely, I said, you mean a few bottles left of the current vintage. Perhaps we could find a back vintage, maybe from an off year. I pulled out my vintage chart and Henri snapped it out of my hand. No more bottles, he said, no more bottles anywhere.

“If you want the wine, you have to come with me. Maintenant!” he blew his nose onto my vintage chart and handed it back to me.

At the end of our dirt road, having navigated only by the light of the moon, we arrived at the back of a Chateau. There was a wooden door fit for a hobbit in front of us. It looked old enough to be pre-revolutionary. Henri knocked in a pattern: twice, then a pause, then once more. A code.

There was a long pause while we waited. I pulled my coat up around my neck to try and stay warm in the chilly Loire air. Frosted grass crunched underneath my feet as I shifted. Nerves trembled up to my brain. What if it was a setup? I hadn’t told Henri I was a Blogger. I hadn’t told him that I was part of the group cannibalizing this storied wine region. I said I was a journalist writing a piece on the quest for truth in wine. Henri believed me. At least, I hope he did. Any wine producer in America would be happy to have a run on his wines created by the Blogging community. Nobody in the Loire, though. Here, in the old world, we were the enemy.

The door swung open, before me was Philippe Barton.

Inside his cave underneath the estate, I found it hard to tell which was the truth: that Henri was very small or Philippe was very large. Philippe stood at least six feet tall, had a huge black beard underneath a mop of black hair. A homemade wool sweater hung over his gigantic belly. Phillipe shifted side to side as he walked me to the back, passing huge foudre after foudre of wine. Each had a chalk V on it. Vendu. Sold. I knocked on one. The hollow thump came back at me with disdain.

The bloggers. We’ve taken it all.

In the back, on the ground, there were six bottles on their sides cradled by the Earth. Five were to the right. On top of those there was a mini chalkboard that read “1945 Lafite.”

Beside the one other lone bottle, another chalkboard read “2005 Guy Saget Chinon.”

“Which would you like?” Philippe asked.

Struck with the inability to choose, I stalled. I looked at the Lafite. The labels were worn and moldy. The bottle was cold to the touch. Lafite wasn’t from the Loire, but 1945 Lafite! Thinking quickly, I tried to recall if 1945 was a good year. I stood up and pulled out my vintage chart, scanning for 1945.

“Let me help you.” Philippe said, and turned my vintage chart upside down. “There, now it is of more use.”

I looked at Henri for help. Henri spat on the ground and said nothing.

“I guess he is a journalist after all, Henri.” Philippe said.

I couldn’t tell if he believed me or if he was bluffing. Henri didn’t move. Philippe didn’t move. My stomach sank.

Just then there was a rumble from above. Something was coming down the wooden steps to the subterranean basement. Each step clomped louder than the last. Something large. Something ominous. Philippe looked up in fear.

“Philippe?” Came a voice from up the stairway that was deep and shrill at the same time.

“My wife!” Philippe said. “Allez, allez!”

“Que fais-tu, Philippe?” the voice said. The steps were getting closer.

“If she finds us down here, she’ll have our heads. We must go! The Chinon!” Henry whispered.

I grabbed the Chinon bottle from the damp earthen floor and looked up. The hobbit door was down the long row of foudres, at least 100 meters away. Besides that, the door was next to the staircase base from which Philippe’s large wife tumbled down towards us. We’d never make it in time.

Before I could think of anything else, Henri grabbed my arm and pulled me into a foudre. The front gave way, the inside was empty! An escape tunnel in the basement! We crawled on hands and knees down the pitch black tunnel. Behind me, I could hear Philippe take a lashing from his wife.

“Le dernier Chinon! Ou est-il?” I heard a crash, then a scream. Phlippe the bear-man was screaming. Zut Alors!

She was angry. It would not be a good night for Philippe.

Later, I stood silently on a train platform at Roissy Gare. A few hours had passed since we emerged from the secret tunnel that led us from Philippe’s basement to our salvation on a Loire countryside at dawn. The sky was gray. The air, chilly. Henri stood next to me smoking a cigarette, looking this way and that. He wasn’t protecting me, he was protecting the bottle of wine resting safely in my suitcase.

As my train arrived, Henri snubbed out his cigarette and said “Good luck with your column. Please spread the word about truth in wine. It reflects the Earth and the maker, not some score on some vintage chart.” I shook his hand and boarded.

From my seat on the rolling train I shouted back at him “Henri, you can read all about it…

…on my blog”

The train sped off toward Paris.

Fin

Initially the 2005 Guy Saget Chinon Les Tenanceaux was disjointed, astringent, and a little alcoholic, but after an hour or so it lightened up. Paired with a panini sandwich and roasted broccoli, it actually came together well. Nutty aromas with some coffee. Tasted like leathery red berries, which sounds bad but was actually pretty good. Recommended for $15, just watch out for Philippe’s wife.