Day 6: Figeac and Petit-Villages

I thought that after spending a good deal of time in France over the last couple of years (close to three and a half months) that I would know how to order from a menu properly. Alas, there are always surprises awaiting. Over-run by the constant stream of foie-gras and butter in the diet for the week I decided to have a salad at lunch. You know, something fiber-filled.

Only the French would put foie gras, chicken gizzards, and chicken livers on a “salad.” It was indeed a delicious plate of food, but it hardly seemed within the definition of salad. However, the crafty French have once again duped me. So distraught was I from this perversion of a category I deemed a safe-haven of health that I looked up the root of the word “salad.” It comes from the latin salata, meaning salty. So, basically, written into the foundational definition of the menu item is an element of unhealthfulness. And unhelpfulness when it comes to protecting my delicate arteries.

That said, it was easy to get over such a surprise when one of my favorite chateau was the next stop in the afternoon (see a theme forming in these write-ups). Yes, in the morning we had the pinnacle of right bank Merlot at Petrus, the apogee of Cabernet Franc in the world with Ch. Cheval Blanc, and now the lead ballerina of right-bank Cabernet Sauvignon-dominated wine, Ch. Figeac.

To get to Figeac one takes a right turn immediately after passing Cheval Blanc if you are driving toward St. Emilion, drive along a rock embankment holding back the tide of vineyards from the road, and 400 m. later or so take a left onto a poorly marked dirt road that winds its way up to dusty enormity of ol’ Figeac. Beautiful, rustic, Figeac.

Figeac of the wooden fermenters and wooden basket presses, of yawning maws of dark caves and cold rooms. Of candles melted down the sides of decades-old Methuselah and Jeraboam bottles– regal pharoahs indeed of this cellar.

In many ways, Figeac seems like the older brother of Ch. de Sales in Pomerol. You know, the successful older brother that went to college, got the degree, got the girl. It is certainly blessed with better terroir, as it kisses the White Horse. Here, like at Cheval Blanc, the soils are composed of gravel and sand, with a tidge of limestone at one end of the property. Like on the left bank, it is the easy-draining gravels that allows Cabernet Sauvignon to reach a perfumed gloriousness. The wines here seem a touch more linear, lacking the expansive perfume of Cheval Blanc or the power of nearby Pomerol, rather they are about fineness and elegance. Figeac is Figeac, just like Cheval is Cheval and Petrus is Petrus.

The wines here are fermented in old wooden tanks. Only in the last couple of years has the press here even been converted to stainless steel. Rather, the classic wooden basket press was the mainstay of production. Following fermentation and mlf in tank the wines are barreled down– here the oak is 50-60% new. The approach here seems as time-tested and conservative as the grounds. That said, it works.

At the end of our tasting we were given the opportunity to taste a wine blind. The was clearly older, presenting the classic semi-translucent glowing red center and slightly brickish rim of older Bordeaux. The nose was beautiful, intertwining sweet cedar, pipe tobacco, ebbing currants and raspberries, and a hint of earthy saddle leather. On the palate the lithe-flavors simply danced. Total harmony. Too rarely do we get to taste such a lovely wine coming into maturity. It was a 1988 (I had guessed 1989), and tasted within the ancient walls of Figeac, it was perfect.

As the sun sunk and the early coldness of a frigid night began to settle we raced to our last stop in St. Emilion and Pomerol, Ch. Petit-Villages.

In contrast to the ancient splendor of Figeac, Petit-Villages is an excercise in hyper-modernism. The cubic, wood-plated outside is home to a stark interior. Here, the concrete vats are painted black rather than the traditional cream and red. Sliding glass doors separate rooms (though a few of them already do not work). The feeling of emptiness is sacred here. I must say that I was not a fan of the attempt (expensive as well) undertaken by AXA-Millisimes to set the property apart from its neighbors (atleast architecturally).

It was here though that I had one of my favorite, “that is so French” moments.

Walking through the cellar I was asking the usual array of question posed to a director. What is the philosophy regarding ML in barrel? How do you choose barrels? Do you test different barrels to make sure you are getting the best? etc. etc. I was getting the typical answers. “French, only, American oak, phhhh, I hate it, I would kill myself first before using it, etc. etc.” Which is fine, I would probably kill myself too before using it. It was at this moment though that I spot a familiar oak-leaf on a barrel across the way. Upon further investigation I find a trove of Canton American oak barrels! I point to them and ask “Vous n’utilisez rien de chene American?” (you use NO American oak?.

“That is not American oak.”

At this point I decide to drop it in the name of being polite but I looked at my father. Was I wrong, had France taken over the forests of Pennsylvania?

That said, this was the same director that claimed his wines did not get bret, even at pH’s too high for them to be protected by sulfur, because of the unique terroir. There clearly is a reason Petit-Village has brought in every consultant under the sun (Rolland and Derenencourt have both consulted here).

That said, the tasting they prepared for us was really quite nice. We tasted every vintage back to 2000, which was a nice post-script in remembering the vintages. 2000, excellent, 2001 classic, 2002 eh, 2003 hot as hell, 2004 classic, 2005 amazing, 2006 rich classic.

Upon finishing our time at Petit Village Pop and I returned to Saint Emilion where we decided to stay at the Relais and Chateaux hotel, Hostellerie de Plaisance, in the middle of town. That evening we had the greatest meal of the trip, complete with 2 courses of deserts, cheese, and a healthy amount of wine. Best of all was a 1996 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Echezeaux– which was like a salve to the wounds inflicted by too much Bordeaux.

Our trip was almost over. The day and dinner felt like the climax of a wonderful time. Little did we know what happy suprises awaited us in the humble communes of Cote de Bourg and Cote de Blaye the next day!