Topic: TN: An unfamiliar malady (Alsace, pt. 4, long, img)
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: 20040129015450

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Paris

The cheese that keeps on giving The lapin not-so-agile

Alsace

Monsieur is a great connoisseur The Beyer necessities Boxler rebellion

Box lunch

The clouds of the morning never do break, but the day is getting progressively more humid, and it "feels" like rain is on the way.

And so after a wonderful, though somewhat marathon, tasting at Boxler, we quickly return to our gîte for a garden lunch of saucisson de sanglier from a sausage négociant in Eguisheim, fresh Munster from the small market in the center of Hunawihr (the proprietress, though still smelly in a highly unshowered way, greets us with a polite smile on our second visit), rich and creamy AOC butter from Normandy, a fresh green salad, and asparagus-studded pâté. With it, a quickly-chilled bottle of Boxler 2001 Pinot Blanc (L20B) (Alsace) is no less stunning than at the domaine, showing densely spiced pear, peach, and ripe apple in cream with that smoked quartz minerality with which the Brand vineyard seems to mark Boxler's auxerrois and pinot blanc. Long and full-bodied, this is a hell of a wine.

After lunch, we hit the road in search of the diminishingly small number of open markets on this, yet another semi-holiday in France. An asparagus grower in Sigolsheim is well-advertised and open, selling white asparagus (priced by diameter) and some token green asparagus, though it appears that few are going for the latter. She carefully describes the best way to cook the tender white stalks she painstakingly selects from our selected bin, sending us on our way with no little surprise at these Americans visiting her barn-door establishment.

Altenbourg & Schlossberg

From there, we circumnavigate Kaysersberg to its industrial zone, which is situated a bit higher into the Vosges, and find a small market that sells a strange micro-variety of prepared foods, snacks, variable produce, and a lot of really lousy local wine. A few staples (herbs, seasonings and water, mostly) are acquired here, after which we descend back into Kaysersberg proper for a relaxing afternoon of strolling. We've been to this village many times, even stayed here once, but we've somehow managed to avoid really exploring its charming interior. A shame, because (especially on this untouristed day) it's a lovely way to pass an afternoon, dropping in at cafés and brasseries, soaking up the gentle sound of the river, and taking in the remarkable architecture.

Box dinner

On the way out, we poach the wares of an artisan boulanger (who also specializes in pastries) and a boucherie (in which, as with the asparagus vendor, we are instructed in detail how to prepare a robust, freshly-hung coq we've purchased along with some homemade terrines). A few relaxing hours later, I'm washing clothes while Theresa prepares our meal of rooster and asparagus. We greedily wolf down this magnificent repast – the coq twice as chewy, but five times as flavorful, as any female of the species – in the dark stillness of the Vosges foothills, with yet another bottle from this morning's tasting.

Boxler 2000 Muscat Brand "Grand Cru" (L42) (Alsace) – A flower truck crushing a mound of perfume bottles as it speeds by a field of ripe lemons and limes, trailing fruity apple and crystalline minerality in a medium-bodied wine of striking clarity and precision, yet not at all lacking in aromatic generosity. Terrific.

Something to crow about

After dinner, we sip small glasses of another purchase, this one from the day before, and meant to mitigate Theresa's dislike of the fiercely alcoholic eaux de vie of the region, yet still allow her to partake in the digestif experience.

Léon Beyer Liqueur de Mirabelle "Réserve Personelle" (Alsace) – Half the alcoholic strength of the companion eau de vie, and much sweeter, but still possessing that essential acrid core of distilled yellow plum, then turning soft and supple on the finish.

Wonderful wines. Wonderful experiences. Wonderful food. And a wonderful day. 100 points!

Cold comfort

It appears that I've picked up a nasty virus. My throat is achingly sore, my nose is a firehose of liquidity, and my body aches. I arise at dawn, and thank God for a full box of Drixoral I remembered to include in my luggage. While I wait for it to kick in, I surf through what passes for morning television in these parts while Theresa sleeps.

Some of the options are exactly like their American counterparts, while others are wonderfully strange; in one, MTV-style quick cuts interpolate a strange procession of young, attractive types wearing headset microphones between little skits and screenings of the hottest French pop videos. There's an extremely attractive blonde girl, who dances seductively while gazing directly into the camera, but not with any audible musical accompaniment. This is interspersed with shots of a short, slightly sleazy young man in a cat suit. He's painting a large canvas with his tail.

Kaysersberg (from the Schlossberg)

Enough of that. The next channel features another attractive, pleasant couple hosting short informative segments on a host of subjects, and fielding the occasional call-in viewer. It's "Regis & Kelly" in French…with one important difference. Each caller is presented with a quiz question for some sort of prize, but the show then provides the answer while the caller thinks it over. Example: "What 'maladie' does Michel Sardou have?" while they play the line from the song ("Maladie Amour"). This is a quiz? Even more mysterious: sometimes, the callers get it wrong. Bizarre.

However, the third option is a dubbed "Teletubbies" from across the German border, which is (even in small quantities) enough to provide a lifetime of nightmares. Das Tinky-Winky, indeed.

Take a pill

I'm getting sicker. Drugs aren't helping. Theresa coaxes me outside for lunch, which consists of some of yesterday's repast, plus a salad of leftover rooster and asparagus. We open another of the gift bottles provided by the proprietor of our gîte.

Léon Beyer 1993 Riesling "Les Ecaillers" (Alsace) – Lemongrass and spring greenery with Kaffir lime leaves and a soft, almost floral minerality touched with a hint of botrytis-like oxidativeness. Fully mature, but pretty in a very unaggressive fashion.

After lunch, I suck down a no doubt dangerous number of pills in a fruitless attempt to stem the flowing tide of snot, and then head south for an appointment at Weinbach, an admired producer who was extraordinarily hospitable to us on a previous visit, and on winemaker Laurence Faller's subsequent visit to Boston.

Another sort of chill

The Kaysersberg blues

Unpleasantness ensues. Those who are looking for tasting notes will not find them herein, and should skip to the next section. Those who are uninterested in the occasionally soap operatic nature of the relationship between producers, the wine press, and the average drinker will also do well to skip the following.

We have a long, detailed, and very generous tasting of wines from the 2000, 2001, and 2002 vintages hosted by Laurence, who graciously agrees to see us in what is apparently a busy time, but both Theresa and I notice that she is somewhat cold and uncommunicative in response to queries about the wines, the vintages, and the like. She had been exceedingly warm and friendly during previous encounters, so the change is striking. She volunteers one question, on the reception of French wines in an American marketplace that (at the time of tasting) is rife with poisonous anti-French rhetoric, but otherwise mostly sits in relatively quiet disinterest. I shrug it off, assuming that she's tired or overworked; common conditions for busy winemakers. Unfortunately, this is not the case.

At the end of the tasting, I ask if we can purchase some wine. There's a palpable hesitation, a pained grimace. She looks to be considering something. Then she reaches into a cabinet and retrieves a sheet of paper, saying, "please, Thor, you cannot write about the prices."

I'm momentarily taken aback, and I stare at her slack-jawed for a moment longer than I'd like, not comprehending her statement. Recovering somewhat, I make a few selections, and she leaves to collect them. While she's gone, Theresa and I agitatedly whisper to each other. She's convinced that Laurence has been upset the entire time (as is often true, her perception is keen), and this has led to great discomfort on the part of my wife. Suddenly, it occurs to me what the problem must be.

Laurence returns with my wine, and Theresa asks to use the restroom. While she's gone, I take a deep breath and broach the probable point of controversy with her. My worst fears, and more, are realized. She is enormously upset by these notes, posted after her 2001 promotional visit to Boston. Her objections are threefold:

This old house

What she considers to be personal details, such as her travails with delayed luggage, are inappropriate for public dissemination.

Tales of the entry of "illegal" food products (foie gras, specifically) are even more inappropriate, bordering on dangerous.

Comments on the high price of Weinbach's products, vis-à-vis other Alsatian wines, are unwelcome and ignorant of the realities of the marketplace. Nor are my negative impressions of the '99s at Weinbach particularly embraced.

We have what passes for a dialogue on these subjects, but it is both too short and comes to no satisfying conclusion. Still shocked, still sick, and unable to form my most cogent arguments on short notice, I nonetheless attempt to respond to her objections:

Personal details make a story "come alive" much more than a tedious recitation of tasting notes, especially in a piece that is not for publication in a regular journal, but simply a posting from one wine enthusiast to many others on the WLDG. She is unconvinced by this response, which baffles me; certainly any number of similarly non-vinous details, authored by other writers, on the Fallers and other wine personages and in major wine and non-wine publications, must not have permanently escaped her notice. I don't see that my narrative is fundamentally different, except (as befits the intended audience) perhaps presented a little more casually than it would be were it for a major publication.

The regular and normal importation of technically illegal French food products (most especially, certain types of raw milk cheese) is one of the worst-kept secrets in the world, whether by individuals or by cheesemongers and specialty markets around the country. If anyone (especially the government) really cared, they'd be going after businesses that rely on the profits from these products, not individual winemakers wanting to show their late-harvest wines to best advantage with a little authentic Alsatian pâté de foie gras. She is equally unconvinced by this response, and in this case I can understand and appreciate her fears.

On the price issue, there's not much to say. Weinbach's wines are expensive in both objective and contextual terms, and not just in the Boston-area market referenced in the post that causes her such anxiety. That they don't sell as well as the similarly-priced wines of Zind-Humbrecht, and far worse than the lower-priced non-Ste-Hune wines of Trimbach, is not a matter of opinion, and is not (by me) linked to price but to a failure of marketing and promotion on the part of the American importer, my limited but direct knowledge of which I painstakingly detail in that post. This is especially important for the wines of the 1999 vintage, which was as problematic for Weinbach as it was at other domaines. In the end, I can't apologize for an opinion, and tell her so, in a statement of the "I'm truly sorry if you were offended, but…" variety. Nonetheless, the notes seem to have caused significant trauma at the domaine. More on that in a moment.

A river of white wine

The discussion is a particularly painful one for me, for several reasons. First and foremost, I have deep respect for Laurence and her winemaking, and for the qualitative path the domaine has taken under her oenological leadership and her family's business leadership. Second, it recalls a particularly nasty bout of personal invective and underhanded professional abuse to which I was subjected (both privately and publicly) by a local retailer after the posting of the notes in question, a process which eventually caused not only irreparable damage to my relationship with certain important members of the wine trade (and, apparently, with Weinbach), but also to my naïve belief that honest opinion would be received in similar spirit by intelligent people. More the fool, I.

I've also heard from more than a few people that my notes (and me, personally) have been negatively referenced by the Faller family during tastings at the domaine. That this is a subject of discussion with otherwise innocent visitors is somewhat appalling to me. Catherine, in particular, has expressed how "hurtful" Laurence found the aforementioned notes. I confess to bewilderment at this response, but can only assume that it is heartfelt, and would take steps to avoid further damage if I could. However, the objection to comment on Weinbach's pricing (the only complaint common to both the original notes and our current visit) is another matter.

If I, either as a sometime journalist or as a simple wine enthusiast, cannot give my opinion on price, quality, or the relationship between the two, then something is seriously wrong with the entity that would impose such a restriction. As a journalist, it's a precondition that I would not and could not accept, and that should go without saying. However, on conversational wine fora (like the one on which the problematic notes were posted) I am not a journalist, but a lover of wine with the desire to maintain certain relationships in a positive way.

The Mambourg, in "shadow"

As a result, and after much post-tasting contemplation, I come to the following conclusion: if paid to do so, I will say what I wish to say about Weinbach (positive, negative, or otherwise) with all the usual lack of prior restraint that such a pursuit demands. As I respect the domaine's work, so would I expect that they would respect mine, even if they disagree with its substance. But on a personal basis, operating not as a journalist but as a wine enthusiast who posts thoughts to public wine fora – and one who would like to revisit certain properties in the future – if I cannot say negative or contextual things about Weinbach, I won't say anything at all. To do otherwise would be an ongoing lie of omission. As a result, there will be neither notes nor comments from me on the wines of this domaine, now or in the future.

That this message, itself, will constitute a probable offense to Weinbach is something I understand and accept, though it is certainly not meant in this spirit. Nonetheless, I feel that honesty is required here, especially as I have already (and repeatedly) been asked for my opinions on the current releases of the domaine by those with knowledge that I've visited and tasted them. Further, an explanation is required as to why Weinbach might be omitted from any of my responses that qualitatively list or rank the producers and wines of Alsace, since I know there are some who value my opinions on the region's wines.

In the end, it's a regrettable turn of events that negatively colors much of the rest of the week, and cannot (even many months later) be recalled without considerable regret on my part. Regret, but not remorse, for I still do not believe that I acted wrongly…and hope that, some day, the Faller family can understand my position, even if they never agree with it.

The road to ruin

Zum, what you do to me

We need to shake off the malaise, both psychological and physical, and so we take a brisk and twisty drive through the postcard villages of the central Haut-Rhin until we come to Husseren-les-Château. We ascend the steep mountainside above it, by car and by foot, until we find ourselves within the ruined tours d'Eguisheim that overlook it in decayed majesty. The view of the Rhine plain is commanding, though anything past the first few kilometers of Germany is obscured by the usual post-industrial haze that rests on the valley. From there it's on to Gueberschwihr and its writhing cobblestone roads and narrow gates, before returning to our gîte for a little rest and restoration.

In the descending shade of a cool evening, we walk the nearly-deserted streets of Ribeauvillé towards one of the culinary jewels of Alsace, a locale that was serving food before Columbus sailed to the New World. Zum Pfifferhüs (14, Grand rue) is known to all, and yet somehow, year after year, lives up to its reputation as a haven for traditional, authentic, delicious Alsatian wistub fare. In an interior that could not possibly be more charming, we arrive for an 8:30 reservation and have to wait a while for early-dining tourists to clear out. When we leave, we're just barely ahead of the final diners, an enthusiastic group of Germans. Why are people eating so early? Don't they know they're on vacation?

With the sole exception of thematically "charming" chairs that are, after just a few minutes, uncomfortable to all but the most extensively padded, this is an establishment that does everything right. An apéritif is offered, and when we choose crémant (over muscat and vendange tardive gewurztraminer) the bottle is brought to our table and identified before pouring, a touch that any number of much fancier restaurants would do very well to emulate.

Bernard Schwach Crémant d'Alsace (Alsace) – This particular Schwach, though ubiquitous in the region's signage, is not known for superior quality, though the occasional wine delights. Here, lemon and geranium turn from a refreshing crispness to a finishing sourness. At least it's palate-enlivening.

He'll Bacchus up, won't he?

With house-made pâté de foie gras, choucroute, and veal with butter-fried spaetzle (all superlative), we greedily consume a bottle of Kientzler 1999 Riesling Geisberg "Grand Cru" (Alsace), which is as tight and stern as one would expect; a rigidly Germanic block of steely minerality with a long, firm finish. It wants to age, but our pedophilia is quick and painless, and it is a marvelous accompaniment to the food.

After dinner, I take a warming glass of Matté Alisier (Alsace), an eau de vie from a floral red berry of the Vosges, which shows heady strawberry flower and currant aromas that turn a bit florid with air and increasing temperature. Nonetheless, alisier remains one of the most intriguing ingredients from which these often searing beverages are made, and I vow to devote more study on a future visit. For now, however, I'm too ill to contemplate the activity.

We return to Hunawihr, and in an attempt to allow my wife some sleep, I take my nose-blowing, sneezing, and congestive snoring to our enclosed living room, where I relax on a bunk as the much more comprehensible images of late-night French television pass before my blurring eyes. As I fall slowly into a fitful and somewhat hallucinatory sleep, I internally opine that Michel Sardou can keep his damn maladie.

I dream of Dipsy and La-La performing Der Ring des Nibelungen. It's going to be a long night.

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