The Wine Poet of Paris

Interview by Linda Donahue of Parisien Salon


Susan Barbour always tells people that, unlike with most sommeliers, there was no “bottle that did it for me.”Instead it was a grape—a moldy, rotten, wrinkled grape from the Sauternes region—as well as the peculiar way the angled light hit the vine-rows and the charming idiosyncrasies of the winemaker who led that tour.All of these components intersected in the glass, and suddenly she saw that wine was poetry.

As a writer, this realization was all Susan needed to get hooked for the rest of her life.That was in 2005.The following year she spent working part-time teaching English in France while spending most of her time and money designing her own extensive tours through Burgundy, the Rhone, the Loire and Bordeaux. Susan still thinks that most of what she knows today about wine came from those first few months of adventure, when it was all new and in situ.

Afterward, Susan returned to the states and completed her formal training and certification at the Wine and Spirits Education Trust, but building her palate library has been the outgrowth of many wonderful encounters with wine and wine-lovers everywhere.

I met Susan during a wine tasting on a Vueling flight between Paris and Barcelona, and over a delicious Spanish lunch we discovered that, among other things, we shared the same astrologer in New York. Susan introduced herself as “a poet”—something that, these days, few are willing to claim as their primary occupation. But during the course of our conversation, it became clear that, for Susan, wine is no different from poetry, especially in the way one learns to appreciate it.

How can someone develop a wine sense?

I honestly believe everyone can enhance their palate through practice and attentiveness.I have an article on my blog SavvySippers called How to Maximize Your Nose’s Wine Potential.In it, I make recommendations for how to go about training yourself to notice and identify more.Smell is more or less an outmoded sense (we’re not hunters and gatherers anymore), so it just needs to be engaged and put to good use.It’s like learning a language:once you decide to sense and decipher what’s around you you may even find you start dreaming in scents!With a little bit of mindfulness you can do anything.

What’s the secret to finding a good wine?

The secret is there is no secret.Finding a good wine is part knowledge of regions, vintages, producers, price points—and part good luck.But ultimately it’s only “good” if it pleases you—and this can be the hardest part for some people.You have to have confidence in knowing what you like, and you have to be unabashed about savoring pleasure when it finds you.Wine appreciation is really just that:appreciating the value of something, making its worth increase through your attention and devotion to it.If you have a hard time expressing passion then it is going to be more difficult for you to find good wines!I often meet people who wish they could be more sensitive to wine, but the true problem is that they just don’t have a high enough bliss-tolerance.They have limiting beliefs about the role of pleasure and their right to it.But that is the single best reason to start learning more about wine, because it will expand your happiness as well as your perception.My advice is to try new wines with the intent of being surprised.Then, when you do find a good one, remember what AOC or region it comes from—that’s the single most important piece of information.Chances are good you’ll like another wine from that region if you try more.

What makes a good vintage?

Vintages are a cross-section of history.I once heard a Burgundy winemaker describe grapes as temoins, or “witnesses”, to history.If you have ever been in wine country during the vendages of an amazing vintage (I was in Bordeaux, for example, in 2005), then you know that a good vintage is magical weather.It’s the kind of ordinary day that seems extraordinary because of the quality of the air, the angle of the sun.In France, where the weather varies greatly, vintages are quite important.In California and other sunny climates, not so much.If you’re making an investment or looking to get something special at a restaurant, I’d recommend consulting a vintage chart.You can find Robert Parker’s online then print it out and carry it in your wallet.Wines drunk too young will cloak you with stingy unreadiness, while wines drunk too old will seem like dingy flower water from an old vase (I’ve never actually drunk the latter, but it’s always what I imagine!)

Do you think some wine regions are better than others?

Better is a slippery word.There are definitely regions where there is a higher percentage of higher quality wine.But this isn’t always obvious to the consumer.Bordeaux, for example, is world-famous for its wines and often sells them at top dollar, but as a region they still produce hoards of mediocre ones.In the little appellation of St. Emilion alone there are over 900 wineries!So there is bound to be a range.What most certainly is true is that there are regions which are better for finding good values.The Rhone, the Loire, and Languedoc-Rousillon are great areas for this.

What’s your favorite wine region?

People often laugh when I say this, but I actually have phases.Right now I am weak in the knees for Coteaux-du-Layon, which is a semi-sweet wine from the Loire made from Chenin Blanc.It tastes of perfume, sweat, and honeydew.It’s absolutely delicious.Wine phases are nice because you build—relatively quickly—a nice basis for comparison, which is good for building your palate library—a life-long task!If I were really forced to settle down with one region for the rest of my life, however, it would be red Burgundy.The whites are to die for, but the reds offer enough subtlety and variety to break your heart a new way every time.

Is there any difference in the taste of wine when served in a “wine tumbler” vs a traditional stemmed wine glass?

Definitely not in the taste, although you should be careful because a tumbler means your hands are going to warm the wine—which can make the alcohol too apparent.Sometimes that’s okay if the wine was served too cold—but a stemmed glass can still be warmed by rotating the glass with the stem between your fingers.

What are the main things to look for in red wine?

With any wine there are three components to tasting:appearance, smell, and taste.With appearance you need to check for clarity, viscosity, age (the meniscus of an older wine will be lighter in color), and reflections.Then you check for aromas in a first and a second smell (the second one is preceded by swirling for aeration).It helps to identify broad categories of aromas (fruit, floral, vegetal, mineral, chemical, etc.)Then you’d taste and look at the balance.Red wine, unlike white wine, has tannin, so the composition is made of acid, sugar/alcohol, and tannin.A lot of people have difficulty discerning between acid and tannin when they first start tasting because they can both feel drying.But acid will make the mouth water afterwards whereas tannin will make the tongue feel leathery.Alcohol is sensed at the back of the throat and in taste tests will often be confused with sugar, from which it is derived.

What are the main things to look for in white wine?

All the same things I mentioned for reds with the exception that white wines don’t have tannin.And with a white wine, I always find, acidity is absolutely essential.It is the backbone of a white wine, and without it the wine will come off feeling “flabby”. Acid actually causes water to release positively charged Hydrogen ions, which will bind to aromatic molecules.Acid makes the aromas in a wine “pop” so to speak, the same way that lemon juice brings out the flavors of raw seafood.

Any final tips you’d like to leave us with?

Yes. Don’t serve artichokes or asparagus! Those are the cardinal wine-killers.They’ll spoil your palate, and you won’t be able to taste red or white wines.You can, however, serve them up with dry Champagne.I’m also a stickler for not refilling any glass until it’s been drunk to the bottom.The reason is that the bottle and the glass have different surface areas, so they oxidize at different rates and are hence different wines.It’d be like taking identical twins and rearing them apart—only with one on a spacecraft traveling at the speed of light!They just don’t age the same way.In a Burgundy, which evolves rapidly, the difference in the nose of the bottle or decanter versus the nose of the half-drunk glass can be noticeable even to a complete beginner.

Susan Barbour is a Paris-based poet/sommelier. She has studied and worked in France, Italy, Cyprus, Malawi and Japan. Susan received her B.A. in English Literature from Dartmouth University and attended the Writing Program at Johns Hopkins University. Susan currently lives in Paris where she is working toward a doctorate in English at the University of Oxford. Thanks to a James B. Reynolds scholarship, she is at work on her first book, Metaxu, a unique pastiche of prose poetry, memoir, literary essay, and lyric fragments about the artist-model dynamic.

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The Wine is Corked at Oxford

Of course, and to be fair, wine can be corked anywhere. But it is a veritable albatross, I have found, when it happens in the town of dreaming spires--especially when it is sniffed out by a Yank.

Oxford has two long-running wine societies, in addition to dozens of smaller college-based ones. Tragically, I did take part in any Oxford sponsored oenophilia before skipping the Channel for la Belle France (a regret I hope to redress on my next visit). I did, at a formal event later that year, manage to score one for Team America, but I otherwise did my wine appreciation underground--mostly because an initial encounter had left, well, a rather bad taste in my mouth.

Early on at one of the college bars, a chap told me I'd missed out on a glorious Chateauneuf-du-Pape their society had been pouring (I'd been at a department meeting during the freshers' fair). "Oh nice, which producer?" I asked. When I said I did not know the vineyard (there are over 320 in CDP), the oenophile in question responded (with audible "inverted commas"), "well you obviously don't know about wine then--so much for your American 'certificate'."

I did not bother to tell him that my wine knowledge was acquired in France--or that my "certificate" was from an international school, founded in London (that's the U.K.). I know a pissed Brit when I see one.

So what is up the British butt? I'd imagine it has something to do with a taste for gentility. Such a taste, gone unchecked, will homogenize all wines and wine-drinking into one grand semiotic of bourgeois behaviour [sic]--at the expense of the infinite varieties of tasting experience. If you're not into wine to increase your appreciation and empower your fellow tasters, then I'd rather stay at home and wash my (non-existent) car.

A moment of glory came when I attended a college high table dinner where we were sipping Meursault late into the evening. Divine! Then they opened a second bottle. Hoorah-- except--um, gag me with a spoon!--the bottle was so corked and unlike its ethereal other that I had to sit there holding back tears while the others drank and cavorted.

"Susan....Susan J. Barbour is it?" Oh no. My anti-social stance had been spotted. (n.b. the Brits do love my name. I am waiting for the day when I discover I am, in fact, the heiress to the eponymous--and pricey--hunting jacket company. But Barbour was getting me nowhere this evening. Nor was my boisterous New World employment of my middle initial J. I'd already been presumed "North American" on account of it and "oh right...so, Modern then" on account of having only a Poundian pilferer's interest in the Classics.) "What are you doing over there all alone at the other end of the table, come along and join the banter, will you? And what's the bother with your wine there? Bringing back the Prohibition are we???"

I smiled and sidled up to the woman motioning me near. "Oh thank you, no, not at all, it's just that," I leaned in close and whispered, "it's just that you see, well, the wine is...is..." I looked around me to see at least six people drinking from the flawed bottle as though nothing at all were out of the ordinary. "It's just that the wine is corked."

"CORKED!?" she said.

"CORKED!?" repeated the wine steward, who was passing behind us that very moment. He raised the glass in the air and sniffed it uproariously, making the biggest show of nose I've ever seen. Then he announced, "She's right! It's corked! We've all been drinking corked wine all night!"

I proceeded to explain to a rapt audience how 4, 6 trichloroanisole (TCA) bacteria can infect corks, spread through the bottle, mute the expression of fruit, and make the wine reek of wet dog and moldy cardboard. I showed them each that the smell of cork could not be missed if they compared it to a glass from another, unaffected bottle. We went back and forth, because that is how I first learned to train my nose. Because the olfactory system grows quickly acclimated to the smell of TCA, I told them, it is important to pay attention to the first nose of the first glass, since that is where you will notice it most.

"Are you on the wine committee?" said an old man who had dragged his chair nearer to me for the lesson.

"I'm afraid not, sir," I said.

"Well," he replied, with utter dignity and charm, "you have just been made President."


Of course, this spontaneous and honorary appointment was forgotten by all except for me the next morning.

Perhaps on another visit I can set a different tone for the rituals of libations at Oxford. I know that genuine Brits and curious drinkers abound and together we will all raise glasses to the art of appreciation. For the moment, however, I'm still plotting how to make that graceful transgression go down.

Can a University which has been teaching since 1096 make room for new attitudes? I managed to matriculate in a black leather motorcycle jacket over my subfusc ("and, if desired, a dark coat for women"), so I'm entirely convinced it can happen.

Happy Sipping,
SJB

Related Posts:
My First Gig as a Champagne Cruise Sommelier
Making Sense of Burgundy, Part I of II
Making Sense of Burgundy, Part II of II
Bistro Wine by the Glass: How to Pick the Winner
How to Maximize Your Nose's Wine Potential
How I Fell in Love with Wine

My First Day as a Paris Celebrity--Lunch at le Taillevent

According to my horoscope I became famous on Thursday. "Why not go to Le Taillevent to celebrate?" said R__, my best friend in Paris, when I called him on Monday to give him a head's up.

Le Taillevent is hardly a no-name itself. As the inspiration for Gusteau's restaurant in the film Ratatouille, its virtual reputation casts a long and pixelated shadow. Luckily we were seated in a strategically discreet location, and R__'s back looked delightfully anonymous in the Taillevent sponsored sportscoat.

Me: Do you think we have to start worrying about paparazzi?

R__: Yes.

Me: Why are these gougères so good?

-CLINK-

Founded in 1946, Le Taillevent takes its name from the nickname of 14th century cook Guillaume Tirel who wrote the first French cookbook: Le Viandier. The restaurant won its first Michelin star in '48, a second in '54, a third in '73, and then--in 2007--it was détoilé or demoted to two stars. Chefs have been known to faire suicide over such a fate. However, in the words of the late Jean-Claude Vrinat, who was head chef until his death due to lung cancer in 2008, "sometimes a kick in the behind is a good motivator." Alain Solivérès has inherited that kick.

Most meals here begin with a glass of the house Champagne, Cuvée Taillevent, which is made by Deutz. During my Sherry-Lehmann days in Manhattan I frequently observed Norman Invasions whereby French patrons cleared out of our Deutz supply. Light-bodied, delicate but supple, bubbles super-fine; it's lovely, for certain, but how explain the mania? I personally think it's the feather-light bubbles, which seem not to burst on your tongue but to invite you to participate in their own aery expansion. They are so fine you could easily fit a thousand on the head of a pin. I sat there marveling the ebullient acolytes of chalky soil and then--was it the alcohol??? the fame???--suddenly I lost my head....

Me: Wait a minute, is this Le Taillevent? What are we doing? Why are we here?

R__: I was thinking that we both live in Paris, and it's Thursday.

-CLINK-

It is so nice to have friends who ground you. Now it was time for the amuse-bouche, a delightful pumpkin soup with parmesan. Then our first wine pairing arrived: a 2005 Hautes-Cotes-de-Nuits from Domaine Jayer-Gilles. What a nose! I love white burgundies because of a signature note I always find in them--which to me smells of nougat and linden. (That my Swedish grandmother's maiden name was Linden surely plays a part in my romance with these wines, however--matrilineal logophilia and synesthesia aside--white burgundy is simply the most complex and generous Chardonnay I've ever had.)


For our starter courses I got the beet soup because I cannot resist anything beet-red. I also cannot resist saying betteraves and sub-vocalizing it with every mouthful. A beet is definitely not as sweet by any other name....

Problem: R__ was getting my second choice, the marbled chicken with foie gras. The prognosis for order envy was disturbingly high. Luckily R__ is always two steps ahead of me and got the waiter to bring a separate plate with utensils for sharing.

R__: Ca serait possible?

Waiter: Pour vous, tout est possible.


Time for the mains. R__ and I both opted for the seared scallops with endive. Perhaps on account of my new stardom I was feeling like I might be seized by the rapture at any moment, and scallops seemed light and just right. The only difficulty was the endive, which I find a bit difficult to pair with wine. Its bitterness always strikes me as falling in the brussel sprouts/asparagus/artichoke category of WINE KILLERS. Could it be done?


Still unaware of our fame, the sommelier Jean-Francois LeMoine came over to our table and poured us a glass of Vin de Pays Viognier from Domaine de la Janasse, 2008. I didn't catch the region or the varietal at first; I thought I heard him say "sud-ouest", so I was expecting a white Bordeaux or a Bergerac. When I took my first nose I exclaimed, "Marsanne....Roussanne." These are varietals used in the Rhone to make such stellar whites as Chateauneuf-du-Pape and Hermitage. After a second swirl and inhale I added, "Viognier or Colombard. But if it is Viognier then it is surely not a Condrieu as the nose is quite subtle. I'm stumped."

R__: He said it was Viognier. You really need to get your hearing checked again. You are deaf as a post.

Me: Did you say I'm the guest with the most?

R__: Yes.

I love that this confusion happened, because it proves that with French wine it's inevitably the terroir--and not the varietal--that overpowers. That is the strategy of French winemakers, who seek to erase themselves so as to express the spirit of the place around them. I zeroed in on "Rhone varietals" not because of the relative proximity of the grapes but because of the land where the wine originates. (This can be a tough consciousness shift for Americans who are aggressively scientific and obsessed with species and genetics. On the opposite end of the spectrum, a French person can grow up in a wine region and drink the same AOC all her life but have no idea which varietals are used.) But the question remains: how did it go with the scallops? I'm not entirely convinced it was a perfect winner. The lime and mineral notes in the sauce seemed perhaps to overpower the subtlety of this Rhone Viognier's own aromas...and the acidity of the wine petered out ever so slightly at the end, leaving a touch of hotness or alcoholic finish. Am I a hater? Au contraire. I am just--at the end (and especially the beginning and middle) of the day--one who would probably pick my food to suit the wine, and this wine pairing was playing second fiddle to the dish.

By this point we had chatted up the lovely sommelier about declassified wines (AOC winemakers break the rules by, for example, using 100% Viognier for a region that would otherwise require a blend and be labeled Cotes-du-Rhone, so the classification remains a plebeian "VDP"), and our secret had leaked: we were famous. There was no use hiding it anymore, and the head waiter even insisted he take my picture with our dessert, a milk chocolate and praline déclinaison infused with tonka bean. The tonka bean has an aroma reminiscent of vanilla, almonds, cinnamon, and cloves, which made it the perfect dessert to accompany our Banyuls Grand Cru, Domaine du Vial Magneres 1998.

The Madeleines and petits fours came. This time the waiter dared to leave the bottle of the next booze on the table. I had a vague memory that this was done during my first trip to Taillevent in 2008 as well, meaning that this was a signature move--not one which is only reserved for VIPs.



At this point, most patrons settle the bill and trot off happily and curiously lighter than they were before, metabolizing the glorious food high. Bona fide celebs, however, receive a private tour of the restaurant. Our first stop was the pastry kitchen, where glorious tarts were being primped and piped.























Next we went on to the main kitchen were I met chef Alain. It isn't every day that celebs bump into one another. Everyone insisted we stop for a photo op.

I must say that while R__ probably could have explained special relativity in at four languages at thatpoint, Le Taillevent Armagnac left him ever so slightly less than deft; he dropped my camera twice and accidentally took a video of the handshake before coming up with the gem on the left. Luckily Alain is remarkably zen. Does he meditate between meals?

Next we were escorted to the cellars. Sommelier Jean-Francois pulled out a bottle of 1897 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild and let me hold it. Like chef Alain, Jean-Francois was remarkably poised. Unlike yours truly, he even appears steady in low-light!



















I was clearly beside myself--can't blame this one on R__. Instead I'll blame the food and wine which, while perhaps not terribly innovative, surely make the case for why some French recipes ought to be declared UNESCO World treasures.

Le Taillevent may have lost a star in 2007, but that doesn't mean you won't feel like one when you dine here.

In Vini Veritas,
SJB

Related Posts:
Making Sense of Burgundy, Part I of II
Making Sense of Burgundy, Part II of II
Bistro Wine by the Glass: How to Pick the Winner
How to Maximize Your Nose's Wine Potential
How I Fell in Love with Wine
My First Gig as a Champagne Cruise Sommelier