The Grape Years Weblog

Oh joy of joys! Franck’s day-long grape picking excursion has qualified us for “La Paulée”.

La Paulée is the traditional way Burgundians mark the end of the Grape Harvest. When the last grape has been snipped, it is time to eat, drink, and celebrate all the hard work in the vineyards before everyone goes their separate ways.

So on Sunday morning, with the girls in tow (La Paulée, like so many other events in France, is for every member of the family) we make our way back to the Buffet Domaine.

In France it is generally considered polite to bring a little something when you are invited to someone’s house for a meal – and in our case that is usually a bottle of local Hautes-Côtes wine from chez Naudin in Magny-les-Villers (which, incidentally, many of our guests at La Maison des Deux Clochers will be intimately familiar with!).

However, in this instance Franck and I decide that bringing a bottle of wine would be rather like bringing sand to the Bedouins, so we opt for a bouquet of gerberas.

The front entranceway to the Domaine could not be better situated; it sits just across from the exquisite little church in the centre of Volnay.  The entrance is blocked today, however, by a garishly decorated and very muddy grape harvester van. As we squeeze past, the girls notice with delight that it is festooned with streams of toilet paper, bunches of grape leaves, and the occasional blown up latex glove. The girls particularly thrill at this last item, and as the breeze whispers past us shriek with delight “Look mommy, the hands are waving at us!”

Once inside the Domaine we are greeted by Marc-Olivier, who is busy emptying the last haul of grapes from the plastic cases into the grape presser. Our friend Charlotte is busy corralling their three children, Eloï (5), Alix (3), and Capucine (1), while simultaneously participating in the cooking of the feast - in this case a couscous of pantagruelesque proportions.

Franck is greeted warmly by his Portuguese cohorts, yet nevertheless is ribbed mercilessly about not showing up for his promised day of work on Saturday. There are also ominous noises made about him using dishonourable tactics to avoid the “grape shampoo” that he had coming to him.

In short order, the girls say goodbye to us boring big people and run off to play with Charlotte’s children and several other little kids that are there.

Grown-up Charlotte had the ingenious idea of packing all the kids picnic lunches. I help her dole them out, and the children plop happily down in the gravel of the courtyard, each clutching their very own plastic bag which I find is filled with a baguette and jambon blanc sandwich, fresh cheeses, vanilla pudding and smarties, and, of course, mini boxes of Grape juice!

Once they are done with their feast they bid us a quick good-bye and set off to play “rock quarry” in the far corner of the courtyard.

We adults settle around the huge table set up in the outbuilding, and one of the Portuguese men appears with what looks like a large watering can. It turns out to be full of “ratafia”. This is a mix of wine, sugar, and hard alcohol, and something fruity tasting. It goes down very well, but I am warned by Charlotte that a little goes a long way.

After some lovely puff pastries hot from the oven to accompany the ratafia, we’re onto the main course; heaping plates of couscous with chicken and lamb swimming in a delectable vegetable and chick pea sauce. Along with this goes a voluptuous Volnay.

Absorbed as I am with working my way through my plate I catch snippets of the conversation and hilarity around me. Apparently this is the juncture of the celebration when anecdotes of years past, including some story about a girl from Holland and Marco before he met Charlotte, are trotted out – the more embarrassing, the better.

“I have to hear this story every year,” Charlotte whispers to me, but smiles good-naturedly at the ribbing.

When the stores of humiliating stories have been exhausted, someone brings in a stereo and begins to play a tape of Portuguese music. This leads to dancing, and applause and cheers from everyone still sitting at the tables.

I am enjoying the music immensely, and am watching the dancers as I enjoy my dessert – a rich chocolate concoction made by Charlotte, when I catch a suspicious looking movement out of the corner of my eye. Before I can warn Marco, who is sitting beside me, he is besieged by two of the vendangeurs. They give his head a thorough scrubbing with the bunches of grapes they clutch in their hands.

Marco goes outside to hose himself off, and we all settle back down again into conversation and coffee, but then Charlotte is hit with the grape-wielding marauders. I didn’t even see them coming this time.

I notice that Franck, who up until now has been quite engrossed in a conversation about winemaking with Marco’s father, is beginning to look a tad twitchy.

Disloyal spouse that I am, I decide that it may be time to get up and check on the children. Franck casts me a dirty look when he realizes that he’s being abandoned.

Sure enough on my way out to the courtyard, I pass the marauders who have regrouped and now have a fresh batch of grapes in their hands. I watch them streak into the grange with singular determination. Seconds later I hear a familiar yelp, and when I stick my head through the doorway, Franck is covered with grapes and grape juice – but he’s got a smile on his face.

In the evening, we wind our way home through the golden stone villages of Volnay, Pommard, and Meursault. The car smells like fermenting alcohol, and is driven by Franck, who, with grape skins still stuck all over his head, looks a bit like Bacchus.

Never again will we try to pull one over on a Portuguese.

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