"I can do it."
Why did I just say that?
Jennifer's face lit up.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yeah, why not?” stop Paul.
"Really? That would be great! You know our wines, you know food, you know the winery. Let me ask Laurent "
Before I could reconsider, she was halfway across the tasting room toward Laurent's office.
What have I just done? I don't want to spend an entire Saturday talking to strangers. I don't even like people that much. Hopefully he’ll say no.
It was late Thursday afternoon. I had stopped by the winery around the corner from the house to grab some wine. We had visitors coming the following week and everyone that visits loves Laurent’s Signature Sauvignon. I love telling them that it costs €9.
What I was in the process of volunteering for was spending all day Saturday, behind a table, pouring samples of Laurent’s wine at the Les Estivales, Montrichard’s annual food and wine festival. The event is a big deal for the locals. There will be plenty of rides and fun things for the kids to do, lots of local artists selling their works and of course, local food and wine.
Our region of France is known as Touraine. It is known for Selles-sur-Cher goat cheese and great wine. Sauvignon Blanc, Cabernet Franc, and Côt, the local name for Malbec. There would be sausage makers, tons of winemakers, and more goat cheese than most Americans are accustomed to seeing in one place.
To most people, the Loire Valley is synonymous with châteaux. Hell, five of the most famous castles in France are within a half-hour of our house. They're everywhere. But while the roads are clogged with RVs all summer with visitors coming to admire the castles, the French have another reason to love this region. The food and the wine. And around here, both are serious business.
Laurent came out of his office with a smiling Jennifer. “Are you sure it’s ok?” he asked me as we shook hands.
“Sure, why not? It will be fun,” I lied.
Laurent liked having an English speaker around his winery and wine events to speak with the non-French visitors. Preferably an American. He loved Americans. The English, well let’s just say I don’t see them around here too often.
Saturday morning around nine, I rode my bike along the river into Montrichard. My thought was, I am going to be around free wine all day, in an environment where I will be talking to strangers the entire time. Maybe I should play it safe.
The festival was being held beside the river Cher, beneath the enormous shade trees just across the river from the center of Montrichard. White tents lined the park, children ran between the rides, the balloon twisters, and face painters. Families were walking around together. It reminded me of what life was like growing up where I did, but with something other than Italian food. It was one of those impossibly pleasant French mornings that makes you wonder why anyone would choose to live somewhere else. The smell of sausages grilling was in the air.
Looking for Laurent’s stand, I walked my bike past a display of leather goods, a candle maker also selling incense whose fragrance was competing with the sausage. I prefer the latter. There was a jelly stand and the ever-present rillettes sellers. Rillettes are a local delicacy that is cuts of pork slow-cooked in fat (how French) and aromatics, then shredded and put into jars. Not like a pâté, think chunky shredded pork without the barbecue sauce. It is actually quite tasty in a salad or spread on a baguette with a little goat cheese. There were multiple cheese sellers and probably 15 wine stands.
I saw Laurent’s stand up ahead as the row I was in bent off to the right. Halfway there I heard “Paul. Paul.” I kept going because Denise was still back at the house. A couple of steps later I felt a heavy hand land on my left shoulder.
Startled, I quickly turned around, about to wield my bike as needed.
“Étienne,” popped out of my mouth. “Hey man, what are you doing here?”
Étienne is my buddy from the wine shop in town. A big burly guy, probably 6’ 5” or 6. A former basketball player from Brittany who you can tell likes the local food. He is the marketing director at the Domaine des Trois Pierres winery and also runs the wine shop they own. He sells wine from all over France and really knows his stuff.
“We have a table,” he said, pointing to our left.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Why not?”
“Um, no reason,” I said almost kind of hesitantly. Over the last couple of years, I had gotten to know Étienne a bit, the fact that he swims in the 14°C Atlantic when he goes home, what he does when he goes to the U.S. to sell their wine to distributors, and that there are not many great wineries around Montrichard. Except, Domaine des Trois Pierres, of course. But for some reason, he had this look today. Like an I didn’t know you bought wine from anyone else around here kind of look.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to help Laurent with his stuff, in case he gets some English speakers.” As I pointed toward Laurent’s table, I could see Laurent waving to me and looking at Étienne.
“Doesn’t Laurent speak English?” he said as if anyone making and selling wine should know how to speak English.
“He does, but he likes to have someone American ideally…” I let it trail off because I had no idea where this would go.
“Well, have fun,” he said as he smiled then nodded to Laurent.
What did that nod mean? I was thinking to myself over to Laurent’s table.
“Bonjour Paul,” said Laurent as he smiled and reached his hand out to shake mine. “Ça va?”
Laurent is a fit, compact fellow in his late forties, probably five-foot-six, with an easy smile. A good foot shorter than Étienne, although I doubt either man has ever given that much thought.
“Ça va bien. Et toi?” I smiled. “What do you want me to do today?”
“Pour wine, enjoy yourself,” he said as if nothing was going on as he continued arranging Sauvignon bottles. “They make nice wine,” he said looking back toward Étienne.
Having spent decades in competitive sales, I recognized the signs. Étienne had made his opening move, and Laurent was refusing to take the bait.
“Bonjour Paul,” said Alain, who was also at the table. He has worked with Laurent for over twelve years, he once told me proudly. This might be fun after all. Alain is a good guy, speaks pretty good English, has a sense of humor and loves to talk about California wines.
Around us there were cheese purveyors and a couple of boulangers as well as wineries from Monmousseau, Mérieau, Cave Boutin, Domaine des Echardières. But no wineries were side by side. Interesting.
Over the next hour, the crowds continued to build. It seemed like the whole town was out. I suppose that will be good for everyone’s business, I thought. Speaking of which, I think I need to go check out some of the other vendors.
“Do you think it’s ok if I walk around for a few minutes to check things out?” I asked Alain.
“Of course. You don’t work for us. I am sure we will be ok,” he cracked.
I could see the folks from Domaine Mérieau down the way a little bit. They have good wine too. A Côt that tastes like violets. I don’t know how they do it.
On the way over there, I went by Étienne’s stand again. “Looks like many people are stopping by your table,” Étienne said as I passed. “That is great.”
“Yes, a lot of people are here today,” I replied, not taking the bait. Clearly, these two men were professionals. Neither was prepared to reveal his hand.
Stopping by Mérieau, I said hello to the woman who works the tasting room. I met her the first time when a buddy from California and I stopped in to taste during a bike ride. Since then, I had seen her a couple of times when D and I have gone to some of the live music and dinner nights they have at the winery during the summer.
“How are you enjoying the event?” she asked.
“It’s really nice. There are a lot of people here. We have poured for a lot more people than I thought I would have.”
“Poured?”
“Yes, I am helping Laurent over there with his table,” I said as I pointed back toward him.
“Oh,” she said quietly while looking down his way. “I didn’t know you worked with him.”
“I don’t, I just agreed to help him today.”
“Anyway,” she finished.
She poured me a fetching Sauvignon. Maybe a little too good. I looked at my phone. It was 10:45. I thanked her and told her I needed to wander a little bit more.
Anyway. That was weird.
I decided, since it was still before noon, that maybe I should stick to sparkling wine. So I headed toward Monmousseau. They are famous for their Crémants. Me and D visited them and their caves with one of my sisters and her husband last year. They have a cave network of over nine miles attached to the winery, we learned. From what they told me, they have millions of bottles of wine stored throughout their cave network. They must sell a ton of wine.
Stopping at the Monmousseau table, someone quickly poured me a stout glass of cold bubbly. I did not catch whether it was a Touraine, a Vouvray, or a Crémant. But damn, it was good. It made me think about the stories I had heard about Monsieur Monmousseau back during Second World War.
The history of this area was not lost on me. The Cher was a demarcation point between free and occupied France during that war. To think where I was standing at the moment was free France. But just on the other side of this quiet river was German occupied. It turns out that M. Monmousseau was part of the Resistance. Apparently it was not uncommon for him to hide people in wine barrels to get them across the river to safety. It was crazy to think about what those people went through.
I was also contemplating the possibility that a modern French wine festival might be concealing its own elaborate network of alliances and rivalries.
By midafternoon, I had developed a fairly sophisticated understanding of the local wine industry, or at least an understanding that seemed sophisticated to me.
The Monmousseau people were gracious and charming. Mérieau still had great wines. Cave Boutin was doing a brisk business. Domaine des Echardières, a very small producer, presented a Sauvignon Blanc that clearly belonged in the big leagues. Étienne was smiling at everyone, which I increasingly interpreted as a deliberate marketing strategy.
Laurent, meanwhile, seemed completely unconcerned. I found this troubling.
At one point, I suggested that we might move a few bottles closer to the front of our table to attract more attention.
Laurent looked at me.
"Why?"
"Visibility."
He looked at the bottles, then at the people standing in front of us.
"People can see them."
Fair point. I returned to pouring wine.
The trouble with conducting intelligence operations at a wine festival is that every conversation seems to begin with someone offering you a glass.
And because I was representing Laurent, I thought it important to maintain cordial relations with the other producers. Refusing to taste their wines might have been interpreted as an insult, possibly jeopardizing the delicate diplomatic balance I'd spent the afternoon constructing.
So I continued tasting for the good of the event, all those involved, and our community.
Not too much, mind you. A little Sauvignon Blanc here, a splash of Cabernet Franc there, perhaps a sparkling wine to cleanse the palate. Nothing remotely approaching a proper drinking session. And, of course, some sausage and goat cheese to keep the balance.
But wine has an interesting way of accumulating when you're not paying attention.
By late afternoon, the festival was still going strong, children were laughing, music was playing, and the winemakers appeared to be enjoying themselves enormously.
I, on the other hand, had begun to reconsider my transportation arrangements. My bicycle was leaning against a tree next to the back side of the easy-up over Laurent’s table. When I'd arrived that morning, it had seemed like a wonderful idea. A pleasant ride through the countryside, a little exercise, and no need to worry about parking.
Now I was looking at it with the sort of suspicion normally reserved for unfamiliar machinery. I wasn't falling-down drunk. Far from it. But I had sampled enough wine to conclude that riding home would be an unnecessarily ambitious undertaking.
I decided to call Denise.
“Hey Paul,” she said as she answered. “How’s the festival?”
“Hey Miss Thing, it’s going great. There are a lot of people here today. Everyone seems to be having a great time. Laurent has been great. I have seen a lot of the other guys around too.”
“That’s good. What’s up?”
“Well, um, I ended up buying some wine. And since I rode my bike over, I don’t really want any incidents.”
“How much wine did you buy?”
“Oh, not too much, it seemed right to support all the people that work so hard around here.”
“Uh-huh. Ok, I’ll come get you. I will text you when I get there.”
“You’re the best.”
“Uh-huh.”
I hung up, feeling enormously relieved. Then I remembered something. I hadn't bought any wine. Not one bottle. I'd spent the entire day tasting wines, discussing wines, analyzing the competitive landscape of the local wine industry, and generally making myself useful, but I hadn’t purchased the very thing I'd just told my D was preventing me from riding home.
I had ten, maybe fifteen minutes.
Now, under ordinary circumstances, buying a few bottles of wine at a wine festival would be a relatively simple undertaking.
Unfortunately, I'd spent the afternoon developing personal relationships with approximately half the participating wineries, and I suddenly realized that my purchasing decisions might carry considerable diplomatic significance.
Laurent had invited me. Surely I should buy his wine. But Étienne was my friend, and I'd spent a good part of the afternoon at his stand. Not buying anything from Trois Pierres might seem ungrateful. And Monmousseau had that important history, not to mention a particularly agreeable sparkling wine.
I started looking at the festival with a sense of urgency that had been absent from the proceedings until that moment. I bought a few bottles from Laurent, who seemed mildly surprised that his volunteer was suddenly shopping.
Then I hurried over to Étienne. "Paul! Back again?"
"Yes. I need some wine." He looked at me. "Didn't you just spend the afternoon pouring Laurent’s?"
"That's beside the point." He laughed and helped me select a couple of bottles.
I considered stopping at Monmousseau, but I was beginning to run out of time. Besides, I wasn't entirely certain how much wine I could reasonably claim to have purchased before Denise began questioning the economic logic of the afternoon. Plus, I had to push my bike over to meet her too.
When she arrived, I was standing beside my bicycle with a mixed case of wine. She pulled up, got out, and surveyed the situation.
"Well, did you have fun?"
"Fantastic. Really wonderful people."
She looked at the bottles.
"Did you need all that?"
"Yes."
She gave me the look.
“It seemed important to keep everyone on diplomatic terms,” was all I could think of.
I loaded the bicycle and the wine into the car. As we drove home, I told her about the festival, Laurent, Étienne, the other winemakers, and my growing suspicions about the complicated competitive relationships within the Montrichard wine industry.
She listened patiently. Finally, she asked, "Did any of them actually say they were competing with each other?"
"Well, no."
"Did anybody seem upset that you were talking with the others?"
"Not particularly."
"So everybody was just having a nice afternoon?"
I looked out the window. It was beginning to appear that way. After a moment, Denise glanced at the bottles in the back.
"You know we already have a cellar full of wine."
"Yes."