Le Pin, Pomerol: Here's to Advancement

Advancement is accomplished when we have outsmarted what appears to be our only two options: to turn backwards or to drudge along forward. 

The food world currently stands at this fork in the road, and we've been aware that we're twiddling our thumbs here for the last 15 years. 

Genetically modified foods, such as protein-enriched rice are actually combating levels of hunger and malnutrition; agricultural pesticides, aquifer tapping for watering, and chemical additives have reduced the potentials of crop failures that once impoverished entire communities; industrial machines and factories have mitigated the need for back-breaking, dangerous labour that once claimed so many lives. And yet how can we possibly be satisfied by the products that are the champions of such processes? What is satisfying about a twinkie? What is lovely about a Dorito?

Opponents of this system first turned to the good old days. We realized the importance of local production. We applauded heritage varieties, we started to taste the flavors of the lands around us and realized how much potential our own backyards had. We recognize value in a food product by its age old definition, the actual labor that went into crafting this product, and we can taste and smell this craftsmanship in products such as beers, artiginal cheeses, or local eggs. 

Le Pin  is the synthesis that has fully realized our historical moment: it has embraced the best of our advancement-- technical instruments, superbly designed facilities and architecture, and scientific research-- to create a product that requires the senses and memory to be appreciated, an outcome as varied as the seasons in which it was produced, a creation that is extremely personal and with a distinct personality. It would be an understatement to say Le Pin is special. 

The Pines of Le Pin seen from Le Pin's roof top terrace

I arrived to Le Pin bright an early for my scheduled visit, which I had made with the secretary. Expecting her to greet me, it was my surprise when a Range Rover pulled up and out stepped Jacques Thienpont himself. I must admit, I did feel quite starstruck. How lucky to get a visit to the property and happen to catch a glimpse of the owner and creator of one of the world's finest vineyards…. and then, oh how lovely to get a handshake as he approached me. 

Jacques Thienpont is jolly. He has the sort of face that would be easy to caricature: a linear, aquiline, distinguished nose, leading into a full, whole-hearted smile that raises his somewhat plump cheeks up until his eyes become just little crescents. 

Jacques Thienpont

"You must be Mary!," he greeted me shuffling through his car searching for something. "I can't seem to find my keys to show you in, so I'll have to pass by my cousin's place if you don't mind."

His cousin's place! This could only mean his cousin Alexandre Thienpont of Vieux Chateau Certan. 

"Hop in," he gestured to the passenger seat. 

Barreling through the narrow, dirt roads separating the vineyards of Le Pin, he asked "Have you visited Certan?"

When I replied in the negative he quickly suggested in his jolly tone, "Well if you have the time, we might as well have a quick visit, that way you can see this property too. Why not?" 

Alexandre Thienpont answered the door to the Chateau just as any home owner would, and held the door open upon seeing the familiar face of a relative. Alexandre gives the impression of being reserved, gentle, serious, and timid, with smart eyes behind glasses that show humor and wittiness when they dart up to hold your gaze. 

He handed over the keys and in a soft voice said to me, "The keys to heaven."  

For Vieux Chateau Certain click here! 

And so began the visit to Le Pin.

Though it likely needs no introduction, Le Pin is one of the world's renown wines. With an average bottle price of €2,000 and an average production of only 400-600 cases per year, Le Pin is certainly hard to get a hold of. 

So what makes Le Pin exceptional?

Le Pin grapes the day before harvest, 2014

Thienpont says that 95% of making a good wine takes place outside. Located in Pomerol Le Pin is neighbor to Vieux Chateau Certan (in fact, at first the property was thought to become a part of the Certan), and the Moueix owned  Chateau Trotanoy.  From the small roof-top terrace of Le Pin one has a view on some pretty impressive neighbors, and of course, the two lone pine trees that symbolize the property. 

The soil is mostly clay with deep gravel and sandy soil and deposits of iron oxide. Vines are nearly 100% Merlot with an average age of 35 years. 

That said, the focus of our vineyard took place inside the small Chateau. The small but mighty winery was designed by Belgian architects, Robbrecht & Daem, and was recently completed in 2012. 

A model of the property

Above is pictured a model of the building. The small tower houses the secretary's office on the ground floor, and Jacques / Fiona's office on the first floor. Jacques is quick to share his love of art, design and architecture, and even while talking about wine, often illustrates his point with metaphors of art. The small room has commanding views of the vineyards stretching as far as Cheval Blanc, which can be enjoyed from some damn gorgeous leather and wood Scandanavian chairs and sofa. 

One of Jacques' favorite pieces of art that commemorates the property is this black and white photograph of one of the two famous pine trees. He explained that it was photographed on a day not unlike my visit: the sky was dark and overcast, but at one point this terrific, brilliant light shot through the grayness bringing out the textures of the tree.

One theme from Le Pin: maximum quality from minimum space. This room is no different. Behind folding doors, Jacques reveals a sink and storage area that can accommodate tastings and some preparations. Other panels can pop forward, revealing a television. 

The long segment of the building is the fermentation room and cellars. One enters this space from the covered out-door space between the two buildings. Here sit 7 stainless steel tanks, with coils inside (for controlling temperature) and double layers. Though each tank appears to be the same size, the inner layer varies from 15 to 40-something hectoliters to hold the wines from various plots of the vineyard. Jacques explained that this room, like all areas in Le Pin, were designed to maximize hygiene, a quality in wine production that is paramount for Fiona. Jacques says the fermentation should take place as quickly as possible, which at Le Pin is just two or three days. He explained that grapes are a natural fruit juice, just like leaving orange juice on the table for days on end, grape juice will develop unwanted flavors if the fermentation process takes too long. The temperature automatically increases during the fermentation and the vats ventilate the carbon dioxide, until there are just under two grams of sugars. Fermenation requires some air, the quantity of which varies from vintage to vintage. 

Le Pin's fermentation room

 

The space has the feeling of a gallery: with it's dark stone floors, and high ceilings, the room is airy and light. It feels new. Always excited to share a design feature, Jacques explained that the windows are positioned at the east and west corners of the building so that the room has two daily moments of direct sunlight and is always bright.

Jacques Thienpont points out the windows in the fermentation room

Going down the stairs to the cellar, another window is added just above ground level to let some natural light into the cellars. In Jacques' words "Just like New York!" 

The barrel room has that fresh, toasty smell of new oak. Here in 100% new french oak, the wine undergoes its malolactic fermentation, a practice which Jacques was one of the first to practice in the Right Bank. This room can be partitioned in two by sliding doors so that the temperatures can be controlled for two different vintages: the new vintage will need some heat during its second fermentation, while the last year's vintage must remain cool. Jacques noted the airiness even in this room: with the barrels close to the cool floors, the room has plenty of airspace to dissipate rising warmer temperatures. 

The cellars

When I visited in September, the day before the harvest, the room held two vintages: the 2012 had just been bottled; and the teeny-tiny 2013 filled just one tank (only 6 hectoliters, or about 800 bottles). The 2013 vintage has such low yields due to terrible storms that destroyed nearly 60% of the regions crops in the last weeks before harvest. 

 

Above is Jacques with his favorite wine bottle size: the double magnum! For wine bottles, bigger is in fact better, as the bigger the bottle the lower the surface area exposed to that tiny gap of air in proportion to the wine, and thus better aging potentials. Please take note readers who wanted to purchase me some Le Pin: I'd prefer a double magnum.

2012 Magnums

As one of the world's most expensive wines, it's no surprise that many fake bottles of Le Pin have been sold in the past. To counter this, Le Pin has always been a pioneer in using the latest technology to guarantee authenticity. Currently, it is the first vineyard to use Near Field Communication (NFC), a Belgium invention. Behind the label of each bottle of Le Pin is a small chip that can be scanned with your smart phone. The phone sends a unique code to Belgium where the code matches up on the computer. He explained that it's a bit like online banking devices (we in America don't have these, but my UK bank gave me a small device that looks like a calculator into which you insert your pin, which then generates a code that can be used for online access). Jacques' explained "what's dynamic can't be copied". 

Currently, Jacques is developing a new technology for the cork which would connect the cork's code to the bottle code, ensuring that a bottle has never been opened. 

The last room that we entered was his cellar. Wall to wall Le Pin of every vintage!

The wine cellar at Le Pin

Our 10am visit lasted until 1pm, at which point Jacques looked at his watch and asked what I would be doing for lunch. With generosity and kindness, he invited me to join himself and two remarkable young individuals who would be helping with the harvest (a young woman from Belgium, and a young man from the UK). "It's always lonely having to eat alone when you travel," he added.

I had arrived that morning already grateful to learn about one of the world's greatest wines, and I left brimming with appreciation. Jacques Thienpont's generosity, humility, intelligence, and passion had exceeded my expectations. He is an individual to be respected not just for his advancements in wine-making or his acute entrepreneurial skills (demonstrated by his purchase of Le Pin in 1979, and his recent purchase of L'If, as well as his negotiant company in Belgium), but he is a man of character. Humbly conversant in a range of topics from restaurants in Rome, to avant-garde art, to politics of poverty in he United States, his joy for life shone through. Clearly an advocate of lending a hand to youth, our lunch was a demonstration of the importance of "paying it forward," if you will. And he did.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jacques Thienpont for the visit, and to Master Sommelier Fiona Thienpont for organizing it. 

Upon leaving Jacques handed me a bottle with a wink and said, "Here, share this with your friends." I'll write to you after Christmas when I return to New York where I plan to share it with my best friend, Nina.   

Selfie with Jacques Thienpont

On the roof top of Le Pin with the pines themselves! Thank you Jacques!

La Maison de Sylvie

Today I was invited to visit the house of Sylvie. 

Sylvie lives in one of the many teeny villages in the hills surrounding Saint Girons. Saint Girons may be the central town, but these hills give the region its character and flavor. On Saturday, Saint Girons is home to one of France's most vibrant markets, in which the thousands of cheeses, produce, sweets, and meats journey from their small houses of production in the mountains down to the banks of the Salat to be sold. Here, market-browsers have the rare opportunity of purchasing some of France's best products-- but also some of the most difficult to attain outside of the Ariege. 

At these markets, a visitor would have a taste not only of the outstanding products, but also of the people who produce them. If I may say so, Ariégeois are an uncommon bunch. Friendly, alternative, and remarkably happy, they are people with such humility and a contagious appreciation for life. In their company one cannot help but lean back, breathe deeply, gaze at the mountains, and feel a joy emanating from within. A visitor to the Ariege will undoubtedly note the predominance of a "free" lifestyle here. Though traditional and conservative dress will still be found, at the market you are more likely to encounter dread-locks, whispy long skirts, breezy linen shirts, hand-rolled cigarettes, and jewelry made of nature. You may hear a guitar being plucked, you may see a bare-foot couple spontaneously start dancing, and you may be even hesitant to accept the beautiful white goat cheese from the soil-stained hands of the older farmer. 

Because these hill villages, frequently with less than one-hundred inhabitants, are often reached only by curving, country roads, they can be impossible to discover for the average tourists. From Saint Girons or Saint Lizier, I would gaze into these picturesque hills and Mountains further in the distance and dream about what life must be like in this most stunning environment.

Today I had the opportunity to find out. 

We followed a narrow road from Hotel Eychenne, exiting the little town, and entering a land of wide planes, circular hay bales on fields perfumed of freshly cut grass. And suddenly the greens of the scenery became more vibrant.  The low hills appeared near in sight, with small fields carved out of the thick forests for grazing animals. In the distance, powerful and noble, stood the peaks of the Pyrenees, some of them still white from this year's heavy snowfall.

After about fifteen minutes of whipping around these little hills, following streams, and peering into small villages with old Roman stone churches, we arrived at the most pleasant village. 

Sylvie smiled at me, and said "Not quite yet, I live up."

She pointed to a narrow stone road, leading into one of these small, voluptuous hills. The car bumped along the gravel, groaning with the ascent. 

And there, after passing through a stand of Birch trees, the ground lined with early-summer ferns, we saw a clearing and a small stone house.

Hens cackled about, a rooster crowed, and a strong wind blew the tall grasses surrounding the house, revealing flashes of color from the wild flowers. The house, with it's triangular metal roof, complemented it's background of the snow-caped Pyrenees. A writing desk and wooden chair sat silently under the shade of a large oak tree, facing a field of wheat and flowers and the mountains. Water from a spring babbled in the distance. Birds sat for a moment to share their songs on the solar panels. And the outhouse had a view of a birch grove where foxes played in the early morning. 

Inside of the house Sylve's husband had build everything: the floors, the ceilings, the cabinets and the bookshelves were hand-built or carved from wood. With few straight lines in sight, the counters around the kitchen curved, making natural stations for a cook to work in an intimate enclave. Art books-- from Ingres to modern photography-- curved around the walls, leading the way from the sunny sitting room, walls entirely composed of glass,  to the shadowy den, preserved from the summer's sun. 

We ate on a table, beside the vegetable garden and admits the clucking hens, which provided our meal. We drank water from the mountain stream that sang for us. We looked onto the fields in the distance on which the goats graze whose milk had been turned into our cheeses.  With satisfaction, I felt the wind blow against my skin after it grazed the daisies and buttercups in the fields, and I felt joyful. 

Merci, Sylvie!

My first impressions of Saint Lizier, one year ago

Saint-Lizier is a small, midevil city in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains. It is best experienced when wet; when the thick, ancient stones that compose everything, and the rosemary and lavender growing against them, are forced to leave the purely visual realm and enter our noses with each breath.

Driving into the town, you pass many farms mostly with horses and cows, and you begin to follow a rocky river that hugs its way along the base of the hills. To enter the town requires crossing over this river on a small bridge which leads through the city walls. It is a tiered, Roman city, protected by grey walls though which the red, tiled roof tops are able to pop out. Despite these colorful roofs, even in daytime the city still looks grey from the sheer quantity of stone, from which all of the houses, streets and walls are constructed. The city is small, but thick. It is strongly constructed and though aesthetically pleasing, it has no signs of frivolity. I find this grey to be very pleasing.

Agnes’ house is reached by a small door cut into the stone, on a steeply inclining street. From the outside, the homes appear indistinct. All that I can recall of the façade is grey and stone. There is no separable “house”, no elaborate entrance. It is actually remarkably indistinct. It has a way of blending, which leaves no visual imprint. Upon entering this small door, there is a front hall that has the feeling of a cave or a wine cellar. The walls are a thick stone and smell as such. Like all of the house, this hall too is tastefully decorated, and somehow distinct but well integrated with the rest of the house. Here there is a mounted boars head and a stuffed hawk frozen in an aggressive stance. The hallway attains its feeling of elaborateness because of its sparseness, which gives these few pieces of decoration against the bold stone a firm presence. And, oh!, the rest of the house. Everything is as it should be. The dining room is massive and sunny and decorated with beautiful wooden chairs. The sitting room is grand. The kitchen is sunny, clean and inviting. The house has 4 or 5 floors, many hallways and many rooms. Like it’s vague façade, I also have no ability to recall it’s layout, as the house seems to somehow extend indefinitely into stone, while still maintaining a sunny window in each room. Everything is hundreds of years old. The woods of the floors and furniture are noble. And the smell is grand. It smells like a place in which to sip cognac.

My favorite room in the house is my bathroom. It has exposed, rough floors, and a soaking tub. This is perfect for me! There is an attachable showerhead, but one cannot take a shower since there is no way to enclose the tub (with a curtain or doors). This means that one must take a proper tub. Spending so much time in the bathroom has encouraged me to buy many hygienic products. The grocery stores stock high quality bath products at very affordable prices. I bought shampoo that smells like cognac, honey scented conditioner, and this herbaceous soap made from donkey’s milk from the farmer’s market. Now, I don’t usually like scented things, but MAN! do the French know how to use scents. These products smell so nice.

France is the land of beautiful faces. People have such light in their eyes, and such distinct features. I cannot point out a feature, which is distinctly French. But the uniqueness and extreme character in these faces, forms a feature which is distinctly French. It reminds me of the little bronze busts of French politicians and socialites by Honoré Daumier.

Yesterday I went to the farmer’s market and bought 4 kinds of cheeses, peaches, a baguette, bacon bread, a chocolate plum cake, baklava, a dozen oysters, a pie of mussels in tomato sauce, apple juice, a jar of foie gras pate, and orange marmalade. The food here is incredible! With such a bounty of ingredients, how could a tradition of such lofty cuisine not have arisen? The market makes me crave cooking.