Not having much holiday left, I am at least trying to make the most of my weekends. This weekend I visited a beautiful little village called St Germain – all flowers, cottages and farm houses basking in plus 30 degree heat, set on a hillside with a breath-taking view across the plains of the French countryside, dotted with trees, cows and the odd lake. And quite a lot of horse poo. I don’t know whether someone was hoping to grow roses in the middle of the road, but there was a good sprinkling along a 2 mile stretch of road. It all added to the charm and aroma of the countryside though.
The purpose of the visit was to visit Mr. Kauffman, a very nice French Grandpa of a friend of mine who, as it turns out, happens to live in a beautiful cottage with a beautiful garden which just makes you want to start drinking Pastis and stay there forever. I was given a tour of the house and garden – lovely vegetables growing in the sun, a cool dark barn-like extension to the house which although pretty much unused was at least a third bigger than my apartment in Lyon, and came with it’s own sunny garden, and numerous sunny, bedrooms with white shutters and pretty views of the garden.
Then there was “Le Cave” – a room used as a wine cellar which, I have learnt, any self respecting wine lover (and therefore French person) should have and nurture. Hard to do in a small flat, but one can try. This room, although not particularly large, housed around 300 bottles of wine, a few spirits, and more recent/ more frequently changing additions of a few crates of beer, among which I was a bit surprised to see a crate of “Desperado’s” – sweet lime flavoured beer with a dash of tequila more commonly drunk by English students in ski resorts or bars in Clapham.
I was very privileged to be given a short, sharp course in Brandy tasting by a connoisseur. Mr Kauffman has collected his brandy’s for many years, and the first one I tasted was made in 1969 – which would have been a sobering thought, drinking something 8 years older than me, except that sobering is the last thing that a 50% brandy does to you. Certainly warmed the cockles, and I imagine did the equivalent of exfoliation to the back of my throat, oesophagus and stomach lining. We tasted 3 in all – the last being a mere 6 years old, made of Mirabel’s which are a common fruit in the area (yellow prunes – haven’t come across them in England I don’t think…) and being of more recognisable strength and a fruity flavour. The first 2 had a definite difference between them, one being heavier and more honeyed, the second a bit more fruity but both incredibly strong. I noticed one bottled on the dusty shelf which said 70%. My only question would be, does alcohol get stronger with age? If those were nearly 40 years old and started off at that percent, lord only knows how strong they are now!
So after an impromptu brandy tasting course, we retired to the patio for some Mirabelle tart washed down with a very nice desert wine, in the late afternoon sun. Perfectly acceptable to be tipsy at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon, after all, I am (pretending to be) en vacance.
