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Médoc, From Grand Cru to Country Cooking Médoc, From Grand Cru to Country Cooking
(1 day later)
This week, we roam France, sampling three regional cuisines: the richness of Gascony, the earthy pleasures of Médoc (below), and the new vibrancy of Bordeaux. Also check out the Food section’s guide to French cooking and our survey of five classic specialties, from bouillabaisse to galettes.
The Gironde Estuary cuts like a knife into southwest France, dividing the famous Bordeaux wine region into left and right banks. On the left bank, stretching from the Atlantic tip down toward the city of Bordeaux, are the vineyards of the Médoc. In the 17th century, this land was mostly marsh, until an enterprising team of Dutch engineers drained it, revealing a gravelly, mineral-rich soil perfectly suited to viticulture.The Gironde Estuary cuts like a knife into southwest France, dividing the famous Bordeaux wine region into left and right banks. On the left bank, stretching from the Atlantic tip down toward the city of Bordeaux, are the vineyards of the Médoc. In the 17th century, this land was mostly marsh, until an enterprising team of Dutch engineers drained it, revealing a gravelly, mineral-rich soil perfectly suited to viticulture.
Today, several wines made in the Médoc are so expensive, and so thoroughly commodified, they should be thought of less as beverages and more as complex financial instruments. Their high cost can be traced back to a famous list, drawn up in 1855, that divided Bordeaux’s best vineyards into categories (called crus, or “growths”). Almost all vineyards that made the cut were in the Médoc, including four of five to carry the highest ranking (premier cru). Just rattling off their names — Latour, Lafite, Margaux, Mouton — is enough to make a Chinese billionaire purr.Today, several wines made in the Médoc are so expensive, and so thoroughly commodified, they should be thought of less as beverages and more as complex financial instruments. Their high cost can be traced back to a famous list, drawn up in 1855, that divided Bordeaux’s best vineyards into categories (called crus, or “growths”). Almost all vineyards that made the cut were in the Médoc, including four of five to carry the highest ranking (premier cru). Just rattling off their names — Latour, Lafite, Margaux, Mouton — is enough to make a Chinese billionaire purr.
Big-ticket labels like these have turned Médoc into arguably the most famous wine-producing area in the world. But they have also cast a snooty shadow over this region, concealing its earthier, more sensual side. That realm belongs to the Franco-Chinese food writer Mimi Thorisson, whose blog and cookbooks — lavishly photographed by her Icelandic husband, Oddur — have transformed the image of Médoc from the stodgy preserve of pretentious chateaus into something like a peasant paradise.Big-ticket labels like these have turned Médoc into arguably the most famous wine-producing area in the world. But they have also cast a snooty shadow over this region, concealing its earthier, more sensual side. That realm belongs to the Franco-Chinese food writer Mimi Thorisson, whose blog and cookbooks — lavishly photographed by her Icelandic husband, Oddur — have transformed the image of Médoc from the stodgy preserve of pretentious chateaus into something like a peasant paradise.
In 2010, the Thorissons uprooted their very large family — eight children and eight dogs, at last count — from Paris to a farmhouse in the northern Médoc. There they discovered a wild patch of France sandwiched between rough beaches and thick pine forests crawling with wild boar. The villages were deathly quiet, fringed by abandoned, vine-choked estates that looked as if they were being slowly swallowed by the countryside.In 2010, the Thorissons uprooted their very large family — eight children and eight dogs, at last count — from Paris to a farmhouse in the northern Médoc. There they discovered a wild patch of France sandwiched between rough beaches and thick pine forests crawling with wild boar. The villages were deathly quiet, fringed by abandoned, vine-choked estates that looked as if they were being slowly swallowed by the countryside.
Some of the locals made wine, but they had the air of farmers, not investment bankers. Mrs. Thorisson plunged herself into their simple existence. She spent her days picking mirabelles, raiding brocantes, charming charcuterie recipes out of her butcher. Wherever she went, a gaggle of smartly attired French-Icelandic-Chinese children toddled behind her, as if she were some glamorous Mother Goose in a fairy-tale version of French country life.Some of the locals made wine, but they had the air of farmers, not investment bankers. Mrs. Thorisson plunged herself into their simple existence. She spent her days picking mirabelles, raiding brocantes, charming charcuterie recipes out of her butcher. Wherever she went, a gaggle of smartly attired French-Icelandic-Chinese children toddled behind her, as if she were some glamorous Mother Goose in a fairy-tale version of French country life.
When it rained, she and the children pulled on their matching Camper wellies and went mushroom hunting in the forest. When they got hungry, they ate poached eggs and asparagus tips out of little Staub cast-iron cocottes. The family’s kitchen was always a portrait of seasonal abundance: piles of cèpes, crates of pears, freshly killed game waiting to be roasted over dried vine stalks in the hearth.When it rained, she and the children pulled on their matching Camper wellies and went mushroom hunting in the forest. When they got hungry, they ate poached eggs and asparagus tips out of little Staub cast-iron cocottes. The family’s kitchen was always a portrait of seasonal abundance: piles of cèpes, crates of pears, freshly killed game waiting to be roasted over dried vine stalks in the hearth.
The earthy cooking, the rusticated backdrops, the antique tableware, the children, the dogs, the wine — it all proved a bit too perfect for some. “I’m actually not sure if Mimi Thorisson is a real person, or just an elaborate fiction created to make everyone else feel bad about their lives,” wrote one of her readers. “I hate her a little bit, but I also want her life.”The earthy cooking, the rusticated backdrops, the antique tableware, the children, the dogs, the wine — it all proved a bit too perfect for some. “I’m actually not sure if Mimi Thorisson is a real person, or just an elaborate fiction created to make everyone else feel bad about their lives,” wrote one of her readers. “I hate her a little bit, but I also want her life.”
Who wouldn’t want that life? Or at least a taste of it? To get a fuller picture of the Médoc, I took a weekend last spring and flew down from Paris. The plan was to drink and eat my way up the Gironde, from the fancy villages of the Haut-Médoc (like Pauillac and Margaux) to the tousled beach towns along the Atlantic Coast.Who wouldn’t want that life? Or at least a taste of it? To get a fuller picture of the Médoc, I took a weekend last spring and flew down from Paris. The plan was to drink and eat my way up the Gironde, from the fancy villages of the Haut-Médoc (like Pauillac and Margaux) to the tousled beach towns along the Atlantic Coast.
Driving from the Bordeaux airport toward Margaux, I was almost immediately surrounded by vines. I love a brisk ride through wine country, but I was surprised at how hard it was to enjoy the passing landscape. The flat terrain, narrow road and low-hanging sky all conspired to give me an unexpected feeling of claustrophobia.Driving from the Bordeaux airport toward Margaux, I was almost immediately surrounded by vines. I love a brisk ride through wine country, but I was surprised at how hard it was to enjoy the passing landscape. The flat terrain, narrow road and low-hanging sky all conspired to give me an unexpected feeling of claustrophobia.
Every scrap of land was covered in vines, and at every turn there was another pompous chateau trumpeting its existence with tall gates, formal parterres or Palladian columns. In the fields, the little bushels of green, ripening grapes cowered beneath gigantic Transformers-style watering vehicles.Every scrap of land was covered in vines, and at every turn there was another pompous chateau trumpeting its existence with tall gates, formal parterres or Palladian columns. In the fields, the little bushels of green, ripening grapes cowered beneath gigantic Transformers-style watering vehicles.
The chateaus of the Médoc don’t exactly hang out big welcome signs. Tastings are possible, at even the best estates, but as with most things in France, you have to make a reservation. As for spending a night, that privilege is usually reserved for the best customers or big shots in the wine trade.The chateaus of the Médoc don’t exactly hang out big welcome signs. Tastings are possible, at even the best estates, but as with most things in France, you have to make a reservation. As for spending a night, that privilege is usually reserved for the best customers or big shots in the wine trade.
Château Beychevelle, in St.-Julien, is an exception to this rule. A Fourth Growth estate, founded in 1565, it has quietly opened itself up to overnight guests, with rooms starting at 250 euros (about $264) a night.Château Beychevelle, in St.-Julien, is an exception to this rule. A Fourth Growth estate, founded in 1565, it has quietly opened itself up to overnight guests, with rooms starting at 250 euros (about $264) a night.
(Beychevelle is not the only luxe chateau in the area that has gotten into the hotel game. Château Paveil de Luze, in Margaux, is one of the oldest and, for my money, most outrageously beautiful of Bordeaux’s chateaus, covered in flowering vines and backed by an edenic lagoon. It’s now rentable via Airbnb for about $5,000 per night.)(Beychevelle is not the only luxe chateau in the area that has gotten into the hotel game. Château Paveil de Luze, in Margaux, is one of the oldest and, for my money, most outrageously beautiful of Bordeaux’s chateaus, covered in flowering vines and backed by an edenic lagoon. It’s now rentable via Airbnb for about $5,000 per night.)
I was the only guest the night I stayed at Beychevelle and felt dwarfed by the property’s size and its strenuous display of luxury: all tapestries, gilt and carved-wood ceilings. I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped out of my room into the chateau’s gardens. I strolled, admiring the marble statues, feeling slightly ridiculous alone among all this splendor.I was the only guest the night I stayed at Beychevelle and felt dwarfed by the property’s size and its strenuous display of luxury: all tapestries, gilt and carved-wood ceilings. I poured myself a glass of wine and stepped out of my room into the chateau’s gardens. I strolled, admiring the marble statues, feeling slightly ridiculous alone among all this splendor.
A light, Evian-mist kind of rain was falling, and by squinting through it I could just make out the silky gray of the Gironde at the edge of the estate. Passing boats once lowered their sails as a nod to the Duke of Épernon, the fearsome naval man who owned the chateau in the 16th century. This tradition, however apocryphal, inspired the name of Beychevelle (from the Gascon, meaning “lower the sail”).A light, Evian-mist kind of rain was falling, and by squinting through it I could just make out the silky gray of the Gironde at the edge of the estate. Passing boats once lowered their sails as a nod to the Duke of Épernon, the fearsome naval man who owned the chateau in the 16th century. This tradition, however apocryphal, inspired the name of Beychevelle (from the Gascon, meaning “lower the sail”).
The chateau’s kitchen prepares meals for guests if arranged in advance. I was served a filet of John Dory with some of the season’s first white asparagus and slices of cured ham from black pigs raised in the Pyrenees. That scrumptious course was followed by another: roast lamb, thought to be the perfect accompaniment to the wines of the Médoc.The chateau’s kitchen prepares meals for guests if arranged in advance. I was served a filet of John Dory with some of the season’s first white asparagus and slices of cured ham from black pigs raised in the Pyrenees. That scrumptious course was followed by another: roast lamb, thought to be the perfect accompaniment to the wines of the Médoc.
I’m an overenthusiastic lush, so you should be skeptical of my tasting notes, but I really liked Beychevelle’s wines, which combined power with a bit of finesse and earthiness. I was able to drink with abandon until the cheese course, before feeling my face turn red-hot and slinking off to my room — only to get completely lost among the chateau’s endless identical doorways. An attendant finally directed me to the right one.I’m an overenthusiastic lush, so you should be skeptical of my tasting notes, but I really liked Beychevelle’s wines, which combined power with a bit of finesse and earthiness. I was able to drink with abandon until the cheese course, before feeling my face turn red-hot and slinking off to my room — only to get completely lost among the chateau’s endless identical doorways. An attendant finally directed me to the right one.
The next day, I drove to Pauillac to tour Château Mouton-Rothschild, the only premier cru estate that I would visit. The choice of Mouton had less to do with wine than art. Concealed inside the winery’s monastery-chic cellars is something like the drinking-man’s Louvre, full of Ming porcelain cups, harvest-themed tapestries from the Middle Ages and still-lifes by artists like Juan Gris and Georges Rouault.The next day, I drove to Pauillac to tour Château Mouton-Rothschild, the only premier cru estate that I would visit. The choice of Mouton had less to do with wine than art. Concealed inside the winery’s monastery-chic cellars is something like the drinking-man’s Louvre, full of Ming porcelain cups, harvest-themed tapestries from the Middle Ages and still-lifes by artists like Juan Gris and Georges Rouault.
The most impressive artworks, however, were not acquired but commissioned. In 1924, the Baron Philippe de Rothschild made what was then the revolutionary decision to stop selling his wines in barrels to a négociant, or middle man, and instead bottle them himself, transforming Mouton’s label into a certificate of authenticity, and a marketing statement.The most impressive artworks, however, were not acquired but commissioned. In 1924, the Baron Philippe de Rothschild made what was then the revolutionary decision to stop selling his wines in barrels to a négociant, or middle man, and instead bottle them himself, transforming Mouton’s label into a certificate of authenticity, and a marketing statement.
Starting in 1945, the baron asked an artist to illustrate each vintage. The original designs — whose creators included Picasso and Jeff Koons — are now collected in a permanent exhibition that’s a fascinating fusion of branding and art. Many artists used the commission to spoof their own style: Andy Warhol silk-screened and collaged the baron’s face; Francis Bacon submitted a disembodied, abstracted limb gripping a wine glass; Balthus simply offered a pencil sketch of a reclining nude nymphet.Starting in 1945, the baron asked an artist to illustrate each vintage. The original designs — whose creators included Picasso and Jeff Koons — are now collected in a permanent exhibition that’s a fascinating fusion of branding and art. Many artists used the commission to spoof their own style: Andy Warhol silk-screened and collaged the baron’s face; Francis Bacon submitted a disembodied, abstracted limb gripping a wine glass; Balthus simply offered a pencil sketch of a reclining nude nymphet.
My 45-euro tour culminated in a tasting of the most recent vintage. Consumer psychology robs moments like these of the illusion of objectivity. How can anyone discount the fact that the average retail price of a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild is $700? I knew I would be swayed by that price, by the palatial surroundings, by the lovely white-blazered guide who waxed on about the wine’s “creamy tannins” and “slightly saline attack.” And swayed I was.My 45-euro tour culminated in a tasting of the most recent vintage. Consumer psychology robs moments like these of the illusion of objectivity. How can anyone discount the fact that the average retail price of a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild is $700? I knew I would be swayed by that price, by the palatial surroundings, by the lovely white-blazered guide who waxed on about the wine’s “creamy tannins” and “slightly saline attack.” And swayed I was.
After Mouton, I visited the Thorissons, who had kindly invited me to lunch. Since arriving in Médoc, the family has left its rented farmhouse by the coast and bought a rambling old stone house in the deserted village of St.-Yzans, not too far from St.-Estèphe. The house, once an important provincial hotel, sits in the heart of the dusty town center.After Mouton, I visited the Thorissons, who had kindly invited me to lunch. Since arriving in Médoc, the family has left its rented farmhouse by the coast and bought a rambling old stone house in the deserted village of St.-Yzans, not too far from St.-Estèphe. The house, once an important provincial hotel, sits in the heart of the dusty town center.
When I arrived, Mrs. Thorisson, eight months pregnant, was dressed in a chic little black dress and tan leather apron. She was decapitating freshly butchered quails with the same nonchalance that one might bring to peeling carrots. Over Champagne, her husband gave me a history lesson on the house, explaining how it once belonged to the town’s mayor, whose mistress presided over the kitchen, while her cuckolded husband, the town’s baker, supplied bread for the restaurant. “It was a very French arrangement,” Mrs. Thorisson said.When I arrived, Mrs. Thorisson, eight months pregnant, was dressed in a chic little black dress and tan leather apron. She was decapitating freshly butchered quails with the same nonchalance that one might bring to peeling carrots. Over Champagne, her husband gave me a history lesson on the house, explaining how it once belonged to the town’s mayor, whose mistress presided over the kitchen, while her cuckolded husband, the town’s baker, supplied bread for the restaurant. “It was a very French arrangement,” Mrs. Thorisson said.
Like the best French cooking, Mrs. Thorisson’s recipes manage to be rich and light at the same time. For lunch, she made a cheese soufflé and a tangy mille-feuille of quail and savoy cabbage layered between crisp discs of phyllo dough.Like the best French cooking, Mrs. Thorisson’s recipes manage to be rich and light at the same time. For lunch, she made a cheese soufflé and a tangy mille-feuille of quail and savoy cabbage layered between crisp discs of phyllo dough.
The couple’s latest book, “French Country Cooking,” is filled with meals like these, but it’s really about their attempt at recapturing the faded glory of St.-Yzans and this house. In 2015, the family hosted a pop-up restaurant here (the children were deputized as servers, Mr. Thorisson played sommelier). This year, they’re planning a farmers’ market and cooking workshops. Slowly, the family is putting down roots in a place that, like many towns in rural France, has an uncertain future.The couple’s latest book, “French Country Cooking,” is filled with meals like these, but it’s really about their attempt at recapturing the faded glory of St.-Yzans and this house. In 2015, the family hosted a pop-up restaurant here (the children were deputized as servers, Mr. Thorisson played sommelier). This year, they’re planning a farmers’ market and cooking workshops. Slowly, the family is putting down roots in a place that, like many towns in rural France, has an uncertain future.
For dinner, I asked Mrs. Thorisson to recommend someplace unstuffy, unsubtle and inexpensive. She suggested the Lion d’Or restaurant, a little auberge in the nearby town of Arcins with yellow wood shutters on the windows and an Art Nouveau-style glass awning.For dinner, I asked Mrs. Thorisson to recommend someplace unstuffy, unsubtle and inexpensive. She suggested the Lion d’Or restaurant, a little auberge in the nearby town of Arcins with yellow wood shutters on the windows and an Art Nouveau-style glass awning.
I arrived early, which is always a mistake in France. The sober room — checkered floor, white tablecloths — was empty save for a table of three dweeby Swiss guys trying to eat pencil-thin foie gras canapés with a fork and knife. “It would give me pleasure if you used your fingers,” the proprietor said, saving them further embarrassment.I arrived early, which is always a mistake in France. The sober room — checkered floor, white tablecloths — was empty save for a table of three dweeby Swiss guys trying to eat pencil-thin foie gras canapés with a fork and knife. “It would give me pleasure if you used your fingers,” the proprietor said, saving them further embarrassment.
I ordered an aperitif to run out the clock, let the restaurant fill up a bit. Before long, the winemakers started to stream in. They carried their own bottles or took some out from the brushed-wood cases that lined the restaurant’s walls. Each estate has its own private locker here, from the fanciest premier cru chateau like Lafite to the affordable cru bourgeois vineyards that surround the restaurant. No one, including visiting tourists, pays a corkage fee.I ordered an aperitif to run out the clock, let the restaurant fill up a bit. Before long, the winemakers started to stream in. They carried their own bottles or took some out from the brushed-wood cases that lined the restaurant’s walls. Each estate has its own private locker here, from the fanciest premier cru chateau like Lafite to the affordable cru bourgeois vineyards that surround the restaurant. No one, including visiting tourists, pays a corkage fee.
I started with the grenier médocain, a gnarly looking local cut of charcuterie made of a pig’s stomach that is stuffed (with intestines, organ meat and ham), garlicked, spiced, boiled in broth and served cold. It’s the kind of thing you congratulate yourself for loving. Next came a blanquette de veau, the monochrome veal stew cherished by French schoolchildren — textbook buttery deliciousness. I never expected to find such a time capsule of simple, frugal French country cooking within shouting distance from some of the world’s most elite wine estates.I started with the grenier médocain, a gnarly looking local cut of charcuterie made of a pig’s stomach that is stuffed (with intestines, organ meat and ham), garlicked, spiced, boiled in broth and served cold. It’s the kind of thing you congratulate yourself for loving. Next came a blanquette de veau, the monochrome veal stew cherished by French schoolchildren — textbook buttery deliciousness. I never expected to find such a time capsule of simple, frugal French country cooking within shouting distance from some of the world’s most elite wine estates.
On my last day, I drove the winding roads through the Landes du Médoc — the largest maritime pine forest in Europe — until it emptied out onto the Atlantic coast. I followed a road up to the northern tip of the Médoc, Soulac-sur-Mer, a seaswept town encircled by belle epoque villas where I bought croissants at a local bakery and then staked out the central market in a state of wolfish desire, munching on accras de morue (fritters of salt cod) and lamenting all the beautiful things I could not eat because I do not travel with a kitchen.On my last day, I drove the winding roads through the Landes du Médoc — the largest maritime pine forest in Europe — until it emptied out onto the Atlantic coast. I followed a road up to the northern tip of the Médoc, Soulac-sur-Mer, a seaswept town encircled by belle epoque villas where I bought croissants at a local bakery and then staked out the central market in a state of wolfish desire, munching on accras de morue (fritters of salt cod) and lamenting all the beautiful things I could not eat because I do not travel with a kitchen.
At the market, I learned that oyster farming had recently been reintroduced to the Médoc, and that the best place to taste the local variety was in St.-Vivien du Médoc, at Le Kayak Café, a little shack perched beside a creek that’s fed by the Gironde. This might be the only establishment in France that bundles a serving of shellfish and a kayak rental into a 22-euro package. I opted for a dozen oysters and no kayak, and took a seat on the patio overlooking the beds where the oysters are raised.At the market, I learned that oyster farming had recently been reintroduced to the Médoc, and that the best place to taste the local variety was in St.-Vivien du Médoc, at Le Kayak Café, a little shack perched beside a creek that’s fed by the Gironde. This might be the only establishment in France that bundles a serving of shellfish and a kayak rental into a 22-euro package. I opted for a dozen oysters and no kayak, and took a seat on the patio overlooking the beds where the oysters are raised.
The tide was low, the sailboats muddy in the stream. The oysters tasted sensuous, clean, a bit sweet. I washed them down with a little 2-euro glass of white pail wine. In doing so, I realized how far I had traveled from the corseted luxury of grand cru country, and how happy I was to have made the trip.The tide was low, the sailboats muddy in the stream. The oysters tasted sensuous, clean, a bit sweet. I washed them down with a little 2-euro glass of white pail wine. In doing so, I realized how far I had traveled from the corseted luxury of grand cru country, and how happy I was to have made the trip.
Mimi Thorisson hosts intimate three-day workshops on topics like wine, antiquing, food photography and foraging. Each includes personalized instruction at her house. 2,000 euros (about $2,111) per person; mimithorisson.com
Le Lion d’Or This bistro in Arcins is where the wine barons go to break bread. There’s no corkage fee when you bring your own bottle, and the classic French food — homemade charcuterie, pigeon flambéed in Armagnac — is sublime; 33-5-56-58-96-79; leliondor-arcins.fr
Le Kayak Café You can rent kayaks and slurp fresh oysters at this tranquil waterside seafood shack in St.-Vivien de Médoc; 33-6-49-27-30-05
Café Lavinal This polished brasserie in Pauillac is an ideal spot for lunch between tastings. 33-5-57-75-00-09; jmcazes.com/en/cafe-lavinal
Château Beychevelle This palatial estate in St.-Julien is one of the few “grand cru” chateaus where you can spend the night. From €250.
Château Ormes de Pez A lovely, quiet inn in St.-Estèphe with rooms done up in floral wallpaper and antiques. From €159.