THE NEW BEAUJOLAIS HAS ARRIVED!

BUT IT ISN'T ALL ABOUT THE WINE.

           

On rue Monge in Dijon, caviste Bertrand Joinville compares two of the Beaujolais Nouveaux.

Just as the reds and browns of autumn segue into the greys and black of winter, Nature and the French capacity for enjoying life insert a colourful leaf into the calendar. Everywhere, bars, hypermarches and cavistes display posters announcing La Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivée. The new Beaujolais is here.

            French wines aren’t varietal ­– ie, named for the grape from which they are made - but regional,  taking the name of the district that produces them. Au revoir Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Merlot or Chardonnay.  Bonjour Bordeaux, Bourgogne, Saint Emilion, Côtes du Rhone, Champagne – and Beaujolais.

Beaujolais lies south-east of Paris, just above Lyon. Its vineyards produce a Gamay grape that bursts early and yields a light red wine which can be drunk after only a few months in the bottle –just the thing, locals decided, to lubricate the tonsils before they hunkered down for winter, never mind the law that no wine could be released until 15th December.

            Traditions of that sort have a way of spreading, so the custom become national, then international, and the authorities, recognising an Idea Whose Time Had Come, made an exception. Other wines had to respect the December date if they wanted to qualify under Appellation contrôlée, entitling them to use the region’s name on their labels: Beaujolais alone could be sold earlier, from the third Thursday in November.

About a dozen vineyards had wine bottled in time. Races developed between them, and among bars and restaurants everywhere, to be the first to pop a cork. These days, about half the vintage is exported, particularly to Japan and South Korea, where cases are transported ceremoniously by plane, racing car, even elephant.

But is it worth drinking? Like so many things in France, the answer is “That depends.”  According to Caroline Conner, who offers Lyon wine tours, “The worst taste like the saddest kind of cheap wine, thin and acidic, with a banana candy or bubblegum vibe. The best thing about Beaujolais Nouveau is that it’s made to drink now, you don’t need any anxiety about keeping it wondering if it will get better, it’s not supposed to get better, drink it today.”

            But wine isn’t entirely about drinking.  It can fulfil many functions: celebration, commiseration, consolation. As you don’t use the best champagne to launch a ship, you don’t drink the Beaujolais Nouveau with Chateaubriand. But there are times…

            Most years, our friend Suzanne, a top New York curator, visits Paris for the autumn art shows. The first I knew of her latest arrival was a Sunday morning call.

            “You busy today? Wanna hang out?”

            When I pick her up about 9am from her right-bank boutique hotel, a tiny figure in an ankle-length overcoat, neck swathed in a metre of scarf and carrying a voluminous bag, she gives the impression of having been up since dawn.

            “OK,” she says briskly. “First I want to see a show at the Orsay. It opens at ten. After that….”

            “No,” I say firmly. “First, breakfast.”

            “I don’t eat breakfast!”

            “Well I do.”

            Grudgingly seated at the Deux Magots, she sniffs contemptuously at the tourists digging into their cafés complets - juice, basket of baked goods, washed down with lashings of café au lait - and reluctantly accepts an express as she outlines a day filled with activity. At the same time, however, she unwinds the scarf, lets the coat drape over the back of her chair, and imparts a particularly juicy piece of gossip about a mutual friend. I detect the beginning of a thaw.

            We get to the Orsay just as it opens, see the show, then spend some time in the bookshop, where she purchases half a dozen tombstone-heavy catalogues raisonnées.

As we exit onto the Quai d’Orsay around noon, she checks her schedule. “Ok, the European Center for Photography…”

            “No, Suzanne. Cartier-Bresson can wait. It’s time for lunch.”

            “I don’t eat…”  she begins, but sees my mind is made up.

            At my favourite bistro, Emile, the proprietor, is as amiable as ever, but also apologetic. “I know you like the table by the window….”

            He nods to where a family of four is tucking into boeuf bourguignon. The tendency of Americans to eat early baffles the French. Emile even considered doing two evening sittings, one at six for Americans, the other at nine for his regular clientele, but dropped the idea. It isn’t all about money.

            “…but the Beaujolais nouveau has arrived,” he continues. “Why don’t you share a bottle with mademoiselle at the bar - with my compliments – and I’ll tell you when the table’s free.”

            This time, Suzanne removes her coat completely, and, over the second glass, begins to pour out her account of what a young Manhattanite, and a woman at that, must endure just to stay alive. We begin a second bottle as Emile shows us to the table, and finish a third two hours later over the crème brulée.

            Outside, the afternoon light is as perfect as a chanson by Reynaldo Hahn and Paul Verlaine. Un vaste et tendre apaisement semble descendre du firmament ...

Wrapped again in her coat, scarf once more in place, Suzanne looks around, as if for the first time, at a city that a negligible wine has made new in her eyes.

            Opening her hand, she lets her bag fall to the sidewalk with a thump and, leaning forward, rests her forehead on my chest.

            “John,” she says softly, “you saved my life.”

            So was it a good year for the Beaujolais Nouveau? Depends….