Digging deep in Champagne

I have been too busy to update this regularly, let alone daily, but I have many stories to share in good time. But first, the latest adventure -- my first day in Champagne on this trip:

"TASTE this dirt," said down-to-earth winemaker Bertrand Gautherot in the tiny Champagne village of Buxières-sur-Arce.

I was glad he offered it to my travelling companion Gavin first, a double handful of claggy clay from a neighbouring plot of vines. Despite protestations that his English was terrible, Bertrand can express himself very well in another tongue, but in this instance the word he was looking for was smell, not taste. It was a shame Gavin understood what he meant.

It's true, the dirt in his neighbour's vineyard not only looked pallid, it smelled awful in comparison to his own lovingly tended vineyard a few steps away. It was apparent from sight and smell that biodynamic practices produce healthier soil, and logically healthier vines and potentially better wine.

The proof was eventually in the tasting - of wine, still and sparkling, from bottle and barrel, rather than the dirt underfoot - that Bertrand is on the right track in his small plots in the southern region of Aube.

The story begins in World War I, when Bertrand's grandfather fought from start to finish and returned to this village one of the few surviving men. His land holdings soon increased from 30 hectares to 300, including 15ha of vines. Bertrand eventually inherited some of that land and has bought other small holdings to take his total to 5ha, although not all under vine.

Like most of the other growers still do in BSA, he contributed grapes to a co-operative until the mid-1990s, when he made a trip to Sancerre, Chablis and Alsace and became fascinated with biodynamic practices. He converted his vineyards in 1998, but kept selling to the co-op until the 2001 vintage, when it became apparent the two styles didn't mix. In fact, in that year the bulk of non-bio vineyards in the area could manage to get their grapes to a potential alcohol level of just 7.5% because of persistent rain, and tonnes of sugar were added to bring the wine to some level of drinkability.

Bertrand's grapes were much healthier and riper and, thanks to the insistence of Anselme Selosse, who Bertrand calls a biodynamic god, his own label was launched, Vouette et Sorbée. Bertrand had sought out the Avize champagne master to discuss biodynamic practices and said that after just a few days they had developed a special rapport. Selosse visited his estate and insisted Bertrand make his own wine. He jokes that he now has a dedicated telephone - a hotline to Selosse - if ever he has a problem. He has called just twice, and both times Selosse answered with a host of questions of his own to push his protege to figure out the answers for himself.

There are other disciples - notably Jerome Prevost and Olivier Collin - and Selosse insists it is their responsibility, along with others in the biodynamic forefront such as David Leclapart, Pierre Larmandier and Alexandre Chartogne, to pass on what they learn.

Bertrand's modus operandi is basically respect for the land. He allows grass and weeds to grow to contain vigour in the vines and to force the roots to go deeper; he sprays copper sulphate only when needed, as well as a biodynamic preparation; he raises his own cattle and mixes their manure with hay as a fertiliser (but happily admits to eating the herd's offspring); and he is preparing original American rootstock to accept cuttings because he doesn't like the way the nurseries do it.

The names of wines and vineyards all carry meaning: Fidele for fidelity/loyalty; Blanc d'Argile, a reference to the rocky soil; and the domaine name Vouette et Sorbee relates to natural features of the land, the narrow track up the side of one vineyard (a vouette), and the trees (sorbées) surrounding another. He's cheeky, too: we walked through a neighbouring vineyard to see more of his vines, and he called the climb "crossing Chernobyl". He's not far wrong: the soil looked pale and lifeless.

The soil in the area is the same as in Chablis, just 60km to the southwest, but the average temperature here is lower and the average annual rainfall 80mm higher.

OK, it's all well and good to cultivate healthy soil, crop at low levels and pick at optimal ripeness (the neighbours once knocked on his door, concerned that he had forgotten to harvest because they had finished and he had not started), but how did he get to the point in such a short time that demand for his wine exceeds supply?

First, the supply was so small: 3000 bottles in 2004 when he was selling the rest of his grapes to raise funds for much-needed infrastructural expansion, rising to a pre-allocated 15,000 in 2010, with an estimated increase to 30,000 in another three years and an ultimate cap of 40,000 bottles because he and his wife Helene have decided to preserve their lifestyle and not pursue more vineyards and a greater workload. You can tell that is going to be hard for Bertrand to stick to now that he has the bit between his teeth.

Second, the marketing plan was brilliant in its absence: He took some bottles to a quirky bistro in the nearby city of Troyes, where the staff decided the wine was fantastic and they would spread the word to Paris. Within two weeks he had received his first order from Japan - before he had even settled on a price list.

He's obviously not out to make millions: he has refused requests for stock for a couple of years to build up his cellar, and he says he wants just enough money to keep his wife and children happy. He also marks his labels with a code to ensure that if wine destined for one market turns up in another, he knows the guilty party. And he says fame is fleeting, and he wants his wine savoured by enthusiasts, not only by those with money and connections.

Bertrand chuckles when he thinks about how his wine has found its way to Italy, Scandinavia, the UK, US and Japan, and will soon be appearing in Australia. The first allocation for Eurocentric down under is just 60 bottles of 2006 Saignee de Sorbée, a rosé made from the smaller bunches of vines closest to the rootstock.

Next year the offer will likely be 180 bottles of Fidele Blanc de Noirs, 90 bottles of Blanc d'Argile (BdB) and 30 bottles of the saignee, all 2007 vintage. The BdN is likely to be around $120, the BdB about $150 and the rose should squeak in under $200. He will keep pushing the release date back until the wine is a full year older than it is on release now.

So, onto the tasting. We examined nine samples in the cuverie, from barrels of different sizes. The new crop from 2008 hadn't yet gone through their malolactic fermentation so were understandably acidic, showing plenty of grapefruit flavour and crisp minerality. The first was a pinot noir from Sorbée and Bertrand thought it a little heavy. The nose was very generous and I thought the palate elegant enough. But the second sample, from the "daughter" vineyard, Biaune, was leaner, showing more finesse and yet still citrus flavours. Bertrand explained that it was a cooler area, getting less sun exposure and facing the forest rather than the village. It was thought by others to be the worst plot but he feels it is fantastic. It is hard to argue. The third sample came from a tiny warmer vineyard and was noticeably softer and mellow. All three were from Kimmeridgian soil, the same in Chablis and the Cote Chalonnaise, where another Eurocentric producer, Stephane Aladame, crafts his subtle chardonnays.

The fourth sample was more chalky, coming from Portlandien soil, with green apples, some yellow fruit, oak spice and touches of cream. The fifth was an experiment with a yeast selection to see if he could get away with using less sulphur dioxide. Bertrand isn't happy with the result, so he will pursue the same goal through less oxidative winemaking techniques.

The sixth, the saignée, was a pretty soft pink, fragrant but showing less flavour at this stage, and was made using a brief carbonic maceration in a style that hails from Bertrand's childhood. He is looking for tannin here to help preserve the wine.

The chardonnay vineyard planted by his father produced the seventh sample, very floral and slightly creamy, while the eighth was from young vines and seemed tightly wound but at the same time remarkably complex.

We then tapped into one of his soleras - a huge oak vat of reserve wine that he adds to and draws off each year. Eventually he will have one each of pinot noir and chardonnay. This blend though was simply awesome, showing plenty of oak influence but great richness of fruit and length on the palate.

At last it was time to crack a bottle. This hadn't been a standard domaine visit: there's the winery, here's the wine, let's run through them. No, we had spent two hours in the vines, studying the soil and plants - in between throwing sticks for his indefatigable dog Chops - and then an hour in the cuverie before the first bottle was even produced.

It was a 2006 Blanc d'Argile, which seemed a contradiction: a very fine mousse, elegant, classy, delicate in a way, but packed with flavour and yet not heavy. Bertrand doesn't use much sugar for the secondary ferment and there is no filtration, so he explained that the wine would run out of fizz quite quickly, but I suspect the liquid will run out before the bubbles do.

The second bottle was still on lees, and Bertrand hand-disgorged it for us. There was no need for a dosage - none of his wines have one added - but it was still rich. The oak was prominent but not offensive, like a Krug on steroids, with cream, caramel, butter and popcorn flavours, and a soft, lingering finish. It was from his second vintage, a 2002 Fidele.

The man certainly can make wine but I sense he knows there is still much to be learned. His neighbours think he is crazy but all he cares about is the love of his family, the respect of his peers and spending time communing with his small corner of God's nature.

I promise to return soon, to talk more and to perhaps go for a motorbike ride together. He has three bikes - a Moto Guzzi, a trials bike and an enduro bike - so he insists I don't need to bring one. He likes to go wild though, he warns. "I must be strict in winemaking, so riding is my release, my chance to let the adrenaline flow." I get the feeling it never actually stops.

Vouette et Sorbee website

Take note: How to dine alone in style

I went to dinner last night at one of my secret restaurants in Europe that sells great wine at great prices, and kept a running commentary:


FAMILIAR faces greet me at this gastronomic delight in the middle of nowhere. The maitre d' doesn't recognise me but the sommelier does -- I've been stalking her for a year now. When she saw me at ProWein I think she ran for cover, remembering my lame pickup attempts at two previous visits to this restaurant in 2008.

This time, however, she seems pleased to see me and leads me to a table big enough for four in the main dining room. This is the room that went into shocked silence a year ago when I walked in with Gav, Gen and Michel. We're not sure what we did but perhaps it was the sight of a little Eurasian girl in the company of three hulking studs ;-)

That time we discovered a 1992 Leflaive Montrachet (the greatest wine wine I've ever had) and a 1978 Rousseau Chambertin, before slipping horrendously with a brett 1993 Rousseau Clos de la Roche and some sickly 1976 German sweet wine.

On the second visit, Danny, Alex and I were ushered to a dingy table next to a sour couple with a stinky dog. The sommelier -- in fact most of the staff -- ignored us, so we went for the jugular with a 95 Matrot Meursault, a 93 DRC La Tache and another 78 Rousseau Chambertin. That showed them :-)

So here I am alone, with a great view of the dining room. The car park was packed with BMWs, Mercedes (all a bit bigger than "mine") and Audis -- the Hummers were obviously around the back -- and the number plates show French and Swiss origins. Word is getting around.

On my left are two tables of retirement-age couples, top left there is a table with two older couples, straight ahead a couple aged around 50, in the top corner is mum, dad, son and maybe grandma. To my right and front there is mum, dad and their steamy librarian daughter, probably 25 at most. And to my right, obscured behind the door, two older chaps sharing one woman.

The waitresses are decked out in traditional hausfrau outfits (OK, I don't know what sort of outfits they are, but they are meant to look like peasant servants). Mine speaks English well but is nervous if asked to repeat anything. The younger one we terrorised a year ago is still here and obviously drew the long straw, not having to serve me.

I ignore the menus and ask for the wine list. It's not massive, but they have Bordeaux dating back to 1901. There aren't many half bottles but the sommelier tells me I can have a half of something so long as it's not Latour or similar -- she'll either sell the other half or drink it herself, she says.

The red choice is obvious: 1993 Rousseau Chambertin for 195 euros. I'm tempted by a 64 Lafite and a 75 Lafleur Petrus, but I'm a burgnut, and I'd like to see how the Rousseau is travelling since I have only one in my cellar. The sommelier says it is perfect. I want a half bottle of champagne but there aren't any. A glass of 1996 Legras Blanc de Blancs is offered but I decide I'd rather have a half of white Burgundy. The sommelier offers a Bonneau du Martray Corton Charlemagne and says the 01 is very fresh, the 98 and 00 more developed and richer. I go for the 98, having had the 00 not so long ago. It's a pale gold colours and delicious even cold and straight after pouring.

For the first time I don't go for a degustation here -- the "gastronomic" menu is heavy on seafood and the sole red dish is pigeon in Sptaburgunder (pinot) sauce. I like the look of a calf fillet in black perigord truffle sauce, and ask if it would be too heavy for the Rousseau. The sommelier thinks it will be perfect. I go for the cod with a lime-celery sauce for entree, but they start me with an oxtail in aspic appetiser. It's lovely and flavoursome, not heavy or too spicy, and the BdM is easily up to the challenge.

I've got time to survey the room some more, trying to stretch out my drinking time since I've committed to a bottle and a half. The librarian is tall and looking closer to 30 now. Maybe she's the secretary. The waitress is hot and will no doubt look hotter as the wine goggles come on. She's got gorgeous eyes and a knowing smile, is blonde, quite tall and no shrinking violet. In fact, she's fairly sturdily built without being too solid, a bit like this Bonneau du Martray.

The restaurant host and hostess have independently done the rounds with their "guten abend" greeting, her hardly pausing for acknowledgement. I pick up bits of German by context and am able to respond to most greetings and basic questions. When the host comes around he does a double take on the wines on my side table. "Oh, very nice wines," he says. "Yes, I try, thank you for cellaring them for me," I respond.

The entree arrives. It's poached cod on a bed of lime and celery puree. It is quite pungent but tastes mostly of the lime. I'm not a saltist, but this could do with some.

Oh, there's a comedy act by two of the waiters, unintentional I'm sure. The short, young one fits under the flailing arms of his senior colleague, so the passing of plates in a ceremonial fashion passes with barely an elbow to the face. The short waiter has dark brown hair with a yellow-blond patch on top, so maybe the tall guys rubs lemon sauce on him from time to time.

The wine choices of fellow diners at these fabulous restaurants I'm going to this weekend never cease to amaze me. Most people here are drinking the house wine. Maybe that's what they came for. Actually, I can see 10 bottles of house wine and just a bottle and a half of others.

The hot waitress stops for a chat. She has been working here for three years but has "three" days off a week -- Tuesday and Wednesday -- when the restaurant is closed. The librarian seems to be more interested now, perhaps envious of the attention. Actually her group must be foreigners: they have a bottle of chardonnay but I can't tell what it is, and a half bottle of what looks like Bordeaux.

There's not much difference in price from entree to main here, by the way. My entree is 32 euros and the main 38 euros, and cheese to follow is 11e. Tap water wasn't an option, and a 375ml of still water is 3e. So the food bill is going to be 81 euros, while the degustation options were 54e, 68e and 89e for eight courses.


Oh, the librarian is drinking Bonneau du Martray too -- it's a sign.

This restaurant is located 4.5km from my hotel. The police are off at the Nato summit near Strasbourg so I needn't worry about random breath tests, and if I really get carried away I can always sleep in the car for a few hours.

More random thoughts: it's hard to pick the wedding ring situation in Europe. Many people wear their rings on the right hand, but my waitress has what looks like an engagement ring on the right hand and a wedding ring on her left. Turns out they are neither, but the ring on the right hand is a friendship ring. She's embarrassed but flattered by the attention. I think.

I ask for my main meal to be brought out as late as possible, but they've already set the cutlery: a beautiful Laguiole en Aubrac steak knife. Reminds me to buy more fakes at the market in Chablis.

No, it's not Bonneau du Martray. Must be Olivier Leflaive.

This is not a great BdM. It's not getting that creamy, rich, round finish of a great year but thankfully it also doesn't have the resiny paint aromas of too much new oak. It has a lemon edge, the fruit not quite emerging as expected. It's not tart, but it's not as generous as BdM can be.

OK, I'm convinced she is the daughter again, and maybe 23. So hard to tell. I'm guessing the waitress is 28, the sommelier 37 and in danger of never being kissed -- the ultimate ice maiden.

If Mark AS (www.winestar.com.au/forum) thought the 1991 Rousseau Chambertin I opened a couple of weeks back was the greatest Burgundy he had drunk, he would absolutely have wet his pants over this 1993. Storage is everything I guess, and this bottle was cold and dusty and probably hadn't been moved since purchase 14 years ago.


The nose is sensational and the colours rich, with a hint of browning on the rim. The palate is packed with power -- soft and supple at first, with hints of tea, brown sugar, rose petals, soy sauce, but then comes this rush of force, a punch to the mid-palate. Would you want that to soften? The sommelier tells me they don't have so many 93s and only a couple of 78s left. It's possible to see the family traits from the 78 to this one, but I'm enjoying this right now to consider I might have cut it short.

The main dish of calf meat is pinned down by equal parts warm foie gras, and the side vegetables are five potato fingers, sliced white asparagus and that Japanese kind of mushroom, the name of which escapes me.

My request to delay the main as long as possible and to decant only half the bottle of Rousseau and pour the rest into a half bottle have been ignored. It's OK, I'm hungry, I didn't have lunch and it's 9.15pm. Mind you, I've had almost a bottle of wine in 1hr 45min, and I was hoping to spread a bottle and a half over five hours.

The second glass of Rousseau is better than the first. It's getting a bit more assertive, showing a little oak and its firm structure. Maybe it would benefit from another five years.

The food is pretty rich. I can't taste the truffle much but the foie gras is powerful. The mushrooms have a lovely delicate flavour but the asparagus is fairly flavourless.

I call for the cork for the BdM. No one else is going to drink that so I wonder if I'll be charged for a half or the whole.

So, the cute waitress would like to move on. She lives alone, two villages away, her family in Dresden. She'd like to work in Austria or England but she's "waiting to see what happens". There is a problem, she says. Maybe she means the GFC. You can feel the other diners straining to hear what we're talking about, so I let her go back to her work.

I like this place because it takes Diners and it'll probably be my last chance to use it. There wouldn't be enough credit on any of the other cards anyway. I hope it works!

"We make a little break?" the waitress asks. I'd love to, but there are still a couple of glasses of Rousseau to drink.

The table in the far right corner could be son, dad, wife and ex-wife, and they speak English. People move stealthily here. I notice Librarian Girl go to the bathroom but I didn't see the middle-aged couple leave. I was probably lost in the Chambertin. I couldn't miss the cheese cart being wheeled to the table next to me though, with its own pungent cloud trailing along behind it.

People are intrigued by me writing at the table. They probably think I am a restaurant critic. Or they think I am writing them into a play. Maybe I am. The woman at the table to my right decides it should be a comedy, and starts laughing. People do seem more animated here than last year, when it was quite stuffy. The people at the top left table are even having their photo taken together now, and some diners don't have a jacket and tie on: shock, horror.

Librarian Girl is taking an awfully long time in the bathroom but I'm pinned in by the cheese cart so I can't go to trigger an international incident. Just then she floats back into the room, noticeably preened. Very cute.

The host is back. "So, what is happening down under?" he asks. He has a scar that runs from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. Maybe the hostess glassed him one drunken night. He inquires again about the wine and says Charles Rousseau is a friend of his. Charlers's daughter Corinne is said to be helping run things at the domaine now and is a divorcee. I decide it'd be rude not to call in and pay my respects next week.

Two more tables of diners leave. There are still 23 people up the other end of the restaurant, I'm told. The restaurant is usually busy -- full most Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, lunch and dinner, but Thursday and Monday are quieter. The wait staff work from 10am to 2 or 3pm, then return at 6.30pm for the night shift.


10.02pm, the top right table leaves. The "ex-wife" bails up the son while the others head for the exit. She was definitely traded in for a younger, slimmer model.

The note-taking has kept me amused, I imagine I will give my hotel name and room number to the cute waitress and she will show it to the others and giggle at my expense. Or maybe she will send someone to rough me up. Maybe that's what happened to the host. I'll ask what sort of wine she likes. She'll probably say she has to be back at work at 10am, but I have a tasting at 10.30am and it's a 45-minute drive away, so I'm no better off. I do have the afternoon free, though. And another dinner tomorrow night, subject to how good their wine list is.

Did I tell you I think I broke my elbow? When I hit my funny bone trying to reach my mobile phone while on the toilet at home in Sydney no less. Either that or I have a torn ligament from lifting cases in the cellar. I have very little strength in my left arm but there is no swelling.

My last glass of Bonneau du Martray, which the sommelier suggested I keep for the cheese, smells like french vanilla yoghurt now. Yum.

Service has tailed off to the point that I've been able to drain my glass for the first time. Something is "verboten" at the table next to me. Maybe it's me chatting up waitresses. They've paid their bill, so go home already.

Unbelievable. The waitress's name is Claudia. I was just saying the other day that I have a predisposition towards girls named Claudia. She doesn't believe me but I explain why and she seems pleased.

The cheese trolley comes back and she chooses one cow's milk one for me to match the Rousseau. I also take a gruyere, a heavily mouldy blue and another cow's milk cheese. They are all gorgeous. And there was no limit ... but I figured they would repeat on me if I took more.

I notice the candles still burning on the tables of departed guests. Maybe it's to ensure they get home safely.

Ah, I thought I was feeling good for 1.5 bottles of wine: there's about a third of a bottle of Rousseau left. I have another glass and offer to keep the rest for the cute waitress if she would care to join me at the hotel. She says she knows where it is and she might come around after work.

My work here is done. I try to pay by Diners and they no longer accept it. Gulp. Somehow, the Amex comes to the rescue again, although I'm sure I'm over the limit. Back to the hotel, I linger in the foyer using their wifi on my laptop, then wait outside in the fresh air for a while. It's almost 1am. I doubt she is coming. The last quarter of a bottle of 1993 Chambertin goes to waste.

And now? It's time for dinner again ;-)