How to Taste French Wine :: Personal Narrative France Papers

How to savouring French Wine The Vin Jaune, or yellow booze, of eastern Frances Jura realm is not just yellow but the brightest yellow, like pure honey. The strange 62-oz. bottles in which they ar sold are half-covered with dirt when photographed for supermarket glossies to show that their nectar, justly served chilled, is of the earth, of good, French earth. Plucked en masse from the sleepy fields of Chateau-Chalon, Arbois, or an separate smallish vineyard village of the like, Savagnin grapes are harvested late, al almost in November, then squeezed, fermented, and sealed and aged in oak caskets for a pointedness of exactly six years and three months. In these caskets, in pitch-black and humid cellars, a layer of yeast forms upon the liquids surface, protecting the young wine from the spoiling effects of oxygen and thus allowing for its unique yellowness to skin rash from within. On the first morning after the last day of the third base month of the seventh year, la Perce, or the piercing, of the caskets begins. Locals flock to a tiny, unknown village for the annual mass, ceremony, and piercing itself. There, 25 wine houses are set up, each offering only the most refined and quality flavors from the years harvest. It was amongst these houses, each within a barn, or tent, or some other makeshift location, that I was introduced to proper wine etiquette, and how, in turn, to appreciate wine itself. It was also here where I learned how to go to a wine tasting with friends who buy bottles for in-between-tasting tastings and who drink on buses and uprises. In other words, this is where I learned how not to go to a wine-tasting.The unknown village that would drove the festivities this year was Cramans, indicated my yellow train ticket, printed especially for the event. It would be a bollock affair, I decided, and I would wear a tie of red. Arriving at the towns train station around noon with my German friend Thomas, we stepped out into the soggies t, most bitterly cold February Sunday and continued down to a driveway of hay laid out like a red rug that continued, little did we know, for about a half-hour until we reached the village proper (one of import street, lined with ancient brick houses and barns, constitutes the downtown). We complained shamelessly and annoyingly about the brook amongst the large group with whom we were making our pilgrimage, but neither of us would guard really turned back, not with the irreplaceable lesson in being genteel that lie ahead.