“I won’t work a vineyard if I can’t hear the terroir speak to me.” Those were almost the first words Manuel Jorel said to me. I was tasting barrel samples with him in his garage-winery in the village of St. Paul de Fenouilledes, a small town about 45 minutes west of Perpignan on the D117,
Mid-February is a good time to take a peek inside the barrels and tanks to sample last fall’s vintage. The wine is still a baby, of course, but it is starting to come together. With a little practice it is possible to get some clues about where it is going.
Jorel has made wine in various parts of southern France for more than 20 years, but when he opened his own winery in 2000 he came home to the Fenouilledes and Roussillon. His winery is a two car garage, crammed with small tanks and other winemaking gear. There is a tiny cellar below, reached only by a steep ladder, where a few dozen barrels take up almost all available space. In the event that you are over six feet tall, you will won’t be able to stand up straight.
The tiny cellar was once part of a series of tunnels carved from almost solid rock under the old town in the 10th and 11th centuries. The region has been fought over since Roman times and when the next army passed through, the inhabitants would hide out in the tunnels. All in all, it seems put to better use now.
Jorel makes about 20,000 bottles of wine a year in the space that is smaller than the tasting rooms of most California wineries. Of course, there is no tasting room at Domaine Jorel. Jorel has put together a patchwork of small vineyards around St. Paul, all organically farmed and mostly Grenache, both red and white, and a bit of Carignan. He has been steadily adding vineyards since he started the Domaine, and now has about eight hectares. But not just any vines will do for Jorel.
“I’m looking for old vine Grenache, primarily. I would be interested in vines between 60 and 100 years old. I don’t think Grenache really opens up until it has had some time. Wine from 20-year-old vines is just not the same. The vines are too young. Grenache reflects the soil, the terroir more than any other varietal,” he said. “The roots of the old vines go very deep. They can find water in dry years and they also add to the minerality of the finished wines
Jorel is passionate about the vineyards and the wine. It may sound foolish to the ears of the world’s money grubbers, but he is not in the game for the money. Sure, he has to make a living. He does not have an independent income, but the truth is he would probably make more money and work less if he left the land and moved to the city.
He is part of a new wave of growers and winemakers who are re-discovering the tremendous potential of Languedoc-Roussillon. Many, like Jorel, are locals. Others are coming from Burgundy, Bordeaux, England, Australia and California. Like Jorel, they are discovering the pure pleasure of old vine Grenache.
At the time of our tasting, Jorel was making wine from 12 different vineyards, producing up to eight different bottlings a year. That’s a lot of wine for a one man operation, plus he takes care of the vineyards as well. At harvest, the entire extended family joins in to pick the grapes. The vineyards are at different altitudes and exposures, so he can spread out the harvest over several weeks.
The barrel samples were incredible. The wines, each from a single vineyard, were, in general, rich and intense with each cuvee showing individual character. I made a few comments and Jorel said. “You can go for either high yield and inexpensive wines, or you can look for something special. I prefer something special.”
Only Connect
Domaine Jorel, 28 Rue Arago, 66220 St.-Paul de Fenouillet; domainejorel@orange.fr. www.fenouilledes-selection.com.
Larry Walker
Monday, February 16, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Photos from the Truffle Festival at Lesquerde
The scene at the Coop: A woman selling chèvre in front of the tanks of new wine.
The music
Ann Walker: It's not about how they look.
The basket maker
A basket of truffles
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The February Truffle
The February Truffle
The wind they call the tramontane was gusting off the Corbieres mountains, blowing high white clouds down the Agly River Valley toward the Mediterranean. In the summer the tramontane (literally ‘from beyond or the other side of the mountain’) can bring cool air. In the winter and spring it brings rain. It was the first Sunday in February and we were on our way to the truffle festival in Lesquerde. The road between Maury and Lesquerde, the D19, crosses the Maury River and climbs steeply up the mountain.
We spotted several stands of wild boar hunters, their neon-orange vests brazen in the trees and bushes. The hunters had set up their stands in the steep, wooded gully beside the road. It was prime wild boar country and not the kind that ever sniffed out a truffle. These tough, ugly and smart little piggies were true sons and daughters of Bacchus. There are grape growers who regularly lose twenty to thirty percent of their crop each year to wild boar. You can bet that a good many of the hunters had a personal score to settle
We arrived too late for rock star parking but found a spot beside the highway about a quarter mile away, and with several dozen other people, walked into Lesquerde. The fair is pitched at the wine cooperative, taking up perhaps two short blocks altogether. The street was lined with vendors on either side selling honey, cheese, sausages, herbs, flowers and local crafts. Neither the truffle hall, nor the wine coop tasting room, had opened yet. There was a feeling of expectation, of subdued excitement. Like being at a Rolling Stones concert waiting for the opening bands to finish up and clear off.
I bought a small plastic glass of Muscat for one euro—the same stand was selling instant coffee at the same price. I also bought a small desk calendar, the kind that stands up like a photo frame. It has a picture of Maury on the front, then every month inside has another picture of our home village of Maury. There must have had at least three dozen calendars of villages in the area. It is a swell calendar, even if there isn’t a picture of our house. Maybe next year.
After my second Muscat, I found the churro cart. (There are always churro carts at Catalan festivals, thank goodness. Churros, sometimes called Spanish doughnuts, are long pieces of extruded dough, deep fried crisp and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. I bought dozen in a paper cone and shared them with friends while we watched the musicians. There were only two: a tall man with a white beard playing a battered horn, perhaps it was a French horn. The other, a shorter, wiry fellow with a sly look, who played a nickelodeon which seemed to operate from printed sheets, like a player piano. They would play a song, then stop to have long chats with other vendors and friends who stopped by. Maybe they were waiting for the Rolling Stones as well. I wanted to give them some coins but they never put out a plate or a hat.
A gypsy dressed all in black and wearing a black hat stood beside the churro cart. He seemed to be always rolling a cigarette. . There was an empty space all around him as he watched the crowd.
The churros were good. (Maybe not as good as that little place just off the Plaza Mayor in Madrid where they serve fresh churros with cups of chocolate so thick you can cut it with a knife. But that’s a different story.)
Finally, the main event. The truffle hall opened precisely at 10:30, as advertised. Inside, there was an overwhelming smell of truffles, dark and pungent. Around three sides of the room---it was perhaps 30 feet wide, 40 feet long—the truffle sellers were standing behind small tables. On each table was a bowl or box of truffles and a small scale of the kind drug dealers use. Although the room was filled with people and a fair number of dogs and children, it was very serious. In theory, the price of the truffles had been set before the fete, but it seemed there were still some interesting negotiations going on.
The faces of the truffle sellers were tense and the buyers and potential buyers were focused, intent on the truffles. This was business, not a party. Selling for about a euro a gram, the price we eventually paid as a winemaker-friend bargained for us, the sellers stood to make a fair bit of extra change at the fete. One older fellow with a younger woman bought a large plastic bag—maybe 25-30 truffles, which are slightly smaller and more irregularly shaped that your standard horse turd. They must have spent well over 1000 euros. They were both smiling.
After we bought our two token truffles I went back out into the sunshine and listened to the music again. The whole affair was very orderly. There were occasional outbursts of kissing on both cheeks. A very French fete. I would have liked to stay for another snack of churros and Muscat, but my friends were chilled by the tramontane, so we left.
As I walked past the churro stand, the gypsy was rolling a cigarette. Our eyes met briefly as he struck a match.
Only Connect
The truffle fete in the village of Lesquerde is held the second Sunday in February, which fell on the 8th this year.
The wind they call the tramontane was gusting off the Corbieres mountains, blowing high white clouds down the Agly River Valley toward the Mediterranean. In the summer the tramontane (literally ‘from beyond or the other side of the mountain’) can bring cool air. In the winter and spring it brings rain. It was the first Sunday in February and we were on our way to the truffle festival in Lesquerde. The road between Maury and Lesquerde, the D19, crosses the Maury River and climbs steeply up the mountain.
We spotted several stands of wild boar hunters, their neon-orange vests brazen in the trees and bushes. The hunters had set up their stands in the steep, wooded gully beside the road. It was prime wild boar country and not the kind that ever sniffed out a truffle. These tough, ugly and smart little piggies were true sons and daughters of Bacchus. There are grape growers who regularly lose twenty to thirty percent of their crop each year to wild boar. You can bet that a good many of the hunters had a personal score to settle
We arrived too late for rock star parking but found a spot beside the highway about a quarter mile away, and with several dozen other people, walked into Lesquerde. The fair is pitched at the wine cooperative, taking up perhaps two short blocks altogether. The street was lined with vendors on either side selling honey, cheese, sausages, herbs, flowers and local crafts. Neither the truffle hall, nor the wine coop tasting room, had opened yet. There was a feeling of expectation, of subdued excitement. Like being at a Rolling Stones concert waiting for the opening bands to finish up and clear off.
I bought a small plastic glass of Muscat for one euro—the same stand was selling instant coffee at the same price. I also bought a small desk calendar, the kind that stands up like a photo frame. It has a picture of Maury on the front, then every month inside has another picture of our home village of Maury. There must have had at least three dozen calendars of villages in the area. It is a swell calendar, even if there isn’t a picture of our house. Maybe next year.
After my second Muscat, I found the churro cart. (There are always churro carts at Catalan festivals, thank goodness. Churros, sometimes called Spanish doughnuts, are long pieces of extruded dough, deep fried crisp and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. I bought dozen in a paper cone and shared them with friends while we watched the musicians. There were only two: a tall man with a white beard playing a battered horn, perhaps it was a French horn. The other, a shorter, wiry fellow with a sly look, who played a nickelodeon which seemed to operate from printed sheets, like a player piano. They would play a song, then stop to have long chats with other vendors and friends who stopped by. Maybe they were waiting for the Rolling Stones as well. I wanted to give them some coins but they never put out a plate or a hat.
A gypsy dressed all in black and wearing a black hat stood beside the churro cart. He seemed to be always rolling a cigarette. . There was an empty space all around him as he watched the crowd.
The churros were good. (Maybe not as good as that little place just off the Plaza Mayor in Madrid where they serve fresh churros with cups of chocolate so thick you can cut it with a knife. But that’s a different story.)
Finally, the main event. The truffle hall opened precisely at 10:30, as advertised. Inside, there was an overwhelming smell of truffles, dark and pungent. Around three sides of the room---it was perhaps 30 feet wide, 40 feet long—the truffle sellers were standing behind small tables. On each table was a bowl or box of truffles and a small scale of the kind drug dealers use. Although the room was filled with people and a fair number of dogs and children, it was very serious. In theory, the price of the truffles had been set before the fete, but it seemed there were still some interesting negotiations going on.
The faces of the truffle sellers were tense and the buyers and potential buyers were focused, intent on the truffles. This was business, not a party. Selling for about a euro a gram, the price we eventually paid as a winemaker-friend bargained for us, the sellers stood to make a fair bit of extra change at the fete. One older fellow with a younger woman bought a large plastic bag—maybe 25-30 truffles, which are slightly smaller and more irregularly shaped that your standard horse turd. They must have spent well over 1000 euros. They were both smiling.
After we bought our two token truffles I went back out into the sunshine and listened to the music again. The whole affair was very orderly. There were occasional outbursts of kissing on both cheeks. A very French fete. I would have liked to stay for another snack of churros and Muscat, but my friends were chilled by the tramontane, so we left.
As I walked past the churro stand, the gypsy was rolling a cigarette. Our eyes met briefly as he struck a match.
Only Connect
The truffle fete in the village of Lesquerde is held the second Sunday in February, which fell on the 8th this year.
At the Rabbit King
A cold late January rain was passing down when we pulled into the parking lot of Casa del Conill (house of the rabbit in Catalan) just over an hour’s drive from Barcelona. Our mind was on rabbit. We were anticipating rabbit. We were thinking of rich and warming red wine from the Priorat which we would like to introduce to the rabbit. We were thinking of how many ways rabbit can be prepared, which is why we were at the restaurant which is known locally as Conill Rei or Rabbit King because of the kitchen’s many ways with rabbit.
Although we were only a few miles from the ramblas in Barcelona, surely one of the most esoteric if not downright weird cityscapes anywhere in the world, at the Casa Conill we were deep in the Catalan countryside. This was where the mystic Catalan spirit and the very practical Catalan ego hang out together. (See almost anything by Gaudi.) The nearest town of any size is Vilafranca del Penedes, the most important winegrowing center in Catalonia. Think of Napa without the tees, cute little B&Bs, and pricy shops. Just miles and miles of vineyards and working bodegas. And a sprinkling of restaurants that will keep you eating until way past midnight.
The back story: anywhere you go in Spain, you will find people eating rabbit. The very name of the country is all tangled up in rabbits. Carthaginians, who were in Spain before the Romans, were so impressed by the local rabbit population that they called the country Ispania, or land of the rabbits, from their word for rabbit, span. When the Romans arrived beginning in the third century AD they kept the name, calling the peninsula Hispania, although they booted out the Carthaginians.
We can let Virginia Woolf, not noted as a Spanish scholar but rather good at language, have the last word. In her book Flush, a biography of the poet Elizabeth Barret Browning’s cocker spaniel, Woolf wrote: “Many million years ago the country which is now called Spain seethed uneasily in the ferment of creation. Ages passed; vegetation appeared; where there is vegetation the law of Nature has decreed that there shall be rabbits; where there are rabbits, Providence has ordained there shall be dogs.” And if the dogs chase rabbits, they would be called, of course, spaniels. And the oh so common domestic cocker spaniel is of Spanish origin and somewhere in that muddled floppy eared gene pool spaniels are still chasing rabbits.
(And no, this is not the time to ask about Alice and the White Rabbit. That’s a different trip altogether.)
Casa del Conill is a large mas on the C-244, the road between Vilafranca and Sitges, in the small village of Sant Miguel d’ Olérdola. There is a sprawl of rooms, ranging from small to grand---the restaurant seats up to 350 people. There is also a huge cellar, much of it given over to aged rancio, the common name in Catalonia for vin doux naturel that have been deliberately maderized. The best rancios have a powerful flavor, reminiscent of overripe fruit, nuts and almost rancid fat. Right. They are an acquired taste but once you acquire it you will make long pilgrimages to satisfy it. (See future rancio posting.) The interior of the rabbit king is fairly plain, although the owners couldn’t resist sprinkling a few old time vineyard tools here and there. Who could? It’s built for eating, not for flash.
Back to the rabbit, a very Catalan rabbit. Two Catalan rabbits, as it turned out.
Ann ordered the rabbit cooked in snails and I ordered the rabbit with turnips and pears. Solid winter comfort dishes, but what makes them Catalan? Let’s start with the snails. Sure, snails are eaten outside of Catalonia but rarely with the gusto that you find there. Catalans do take their snails seriously. Every spring in Lleida in western Catalonia, there is a snail festival which attracts hungry snail snackers from all over Spain. (See Snails posting coming soon.)
My rabbit with turnips and pears is clearly a very old recipe. Turnips were the most popular root vegetable all over Europe before the introduction of the potato from the Americas. What makes it Catalan is the combination of fruit with meat, especially game. Such combinations are sometimes found elsewhere in Europe, usually in recipes going back to the middle ages, but are still rather common in Catalonia.
Salud!
Rabbit with Snails
(conill amb cargols)
Serves four to six
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 rabbit, cut into six pieces
salt and freshly ground black pepper
24-30 snails, fresh or canned; if fresh leave in shells
6 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
3/4 pound onions, peeled and minced
2 small red bell peppers, stemmed, seeded and chopped
1 pound tomatoes, peeled, seeded and pureed
2 sprigs fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 cup chicken stock
Preheat oven to 350F
Heat oil in a skillet, add the rabbit and cook until golden, lightly sprinkling with salt and pepper as it cooks.
If using canned shells, refresh under cold running water. Set aside. Remove the rabbit from the skillet and set aside.
Add garlic tot he skillet and cook over moderate heat until browned. Add the onions and cook until soft. Stir n the peppers and cook 1 minute. Add tomatoes and cook to a paste. Add thyme and stock and cook until the liquid is reduced to 1/2 cup. Mix with the rabbit in an ovenproof casserole. Add snails. Bake for 30 minutes. Serve direct from the oven in the casserole.
Rabbit with Turnips and Pears
(conill amb naps i peres)
Serves six
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 2 1/2 pound rabbit, cut into six serving pieces
1 medium onion, peeled and minced
2 leeks, cleaned and finely chopped, white part only
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 carrot, peeled and chopped
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and chopped
1 bay leaf
Sprig each of thyme, marjoram and oregano
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 small pears, peeled and cored
2 cups chickens tock
1 cup dry white wine
2 pounds turnips, peeled and cut into strips
Heat the oil in a large skillet and sauté the rabbit until golden. Remove the rabbit. Add more oil if necessary and sauté the onion, leeks, garlic and carrot until soft. Add the tomatoes, herbs, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper; cook over high heat until reduced to a paste.
Return the rabbit to the sauce and arrange the pears around the rabbit. Pour one cup of the stock and the wine over all and cook, covered, over medium-low heat until the rabbit feels tender when pierced with a fork, about 30-45 minutes.
Meanwhile, bring the remaining cup of stock to a boil in a saucepan and add the turnips. Cook, covered until tender. Drain, reserving the stock and setting aside the turnips on a heated platter.
Remove the rabbit and pears from the skillet to the heated platter of turnips and keep warm. Purée the stock in a blender, pour it through a fine sieve into the skillet and add the reserved turnip stock. Cook over high heat to reduce and thicken. Taste for seasoning. Pour the sauce over the dish and serve immediately.
Only Connect
Casa del Conill, Sant Miguel d’Olérdola.
93-890 20 01
www.casadelconill.com
info@casadelconill.com
The recipes above and many others will be available in the upcoming book Catalan Hours by Ron Scherl, Ann Walker and Larry Walker.
Although we were only a few miles from the ramblas in Barcelona, surely one of the most esoteric if not downright weird cityscapes anywhere in the world, at the Casa Conill we were deep in the Catalan countryside. This was where the mystic Catalan spirit and the very practical Catalan ego hang out together. (See almost anything by Gaudi.) The nearest town of any size is Vilafranca del Penedes, the most important winegrowing center in Catalonia. Think of Napa without the tees, cute little B&Bs, and pricy shops. Just miles and miles of vineyards and working bodegas. And a sprinkling of restaurants that will keep you eating until way past midnight.
The back story: anywhere you go in Spain, you will find people eating rabbit. The very name of the country is all tangled up in rabbits. Carthaginians, who were in Spain before the Romans, were so impressed by the local rabbit population that they called the country Ispania, or land of the rabbits, from their word for rabbit, span. When the Romans arrived beginning in the third century AD they kept the name, calling the peninsula Hispania, although they booted out the Carthaginians.
We can let Virginia Woolf, not noted as a Spanish scholar but rather good at language, have the last word. In her book Flush, a biography of the poet Elizabeth Barret Browning’s cocker spaniel, Woolf wrote: “Many million years ago the country which is now called Spain seethed uneasily in the ferment of creation. Ages passed; vegetation appeared; where there is vegetation the law of Nature has decreed that there shall be rabbits; where there are rabbits, Providence has ordained there shall be dogs.” And if the dogs chase rabbits, they would be called, of course, spaniels. And the oh so common domestic cocker spaniel is of Spanish origin and somewhere in that muddled floppy eared gene pool spaniels are still chasing rabbits.
(And no, this is not the time to ask about Alice and the White Rabbit. That’s a different trip altogether.)
Casa del Conill is a large mas on the C-244, the road between Vilafranca and Sitges, in the small village of Sant Miguel d’ Olérdola. There is a sprawl of rooms, ranging from small to grand---the restaurant seats up to 350 people. There is also a huge cellar, much of it given over to aged rancio, the common name in Catalonia for vin doux naturel that have been deliberately maderized. The best rancios have a powerful flavor, reminiscent of overripe fruit, nuts and almost rancid fat. Right. They are an acquired taste but once you acquire it you will make long pilgrimages to satisfy it. (See future rancio posting.) The interior of the rabbit king is fairly plain, although the owners couldn’t resist sprinkling a few old time vineyard tools here and there. Who could? It’s built for eating, not for flash.
Back to the rabbit, a very Catalan rabbit. Two Catalan rabbits, as it turned out.
Ann ordered the rabbit cooked in snails and I ordered the rabbit with turnips and pears. Solid winter comfort dishes, but what makes them Catalan? Let’s start with the snails. Sure, snails are eaten outside of Catalonia but rarely with the gusto that you find there. Catalans do take their snails seriously. Every spring in Lleida in western Catalonia, there is a snail festival which attracts hungry snail snackers from all over Spain. (See Snails posting coming soon.)
My rabbit with turnips and pears is clearly a very old recipe. Turnips were the most popular root vegetable all over Europe before the introduction of the potato from the Americas. What makes it Catalan is the combination of fruit with meat, especially game. Such combinations are sometimes found elsewhere in Europe, usually in recipes going back to the middle ages, but are still rather common in Catalonia.
Salud!
Rabbit with Snails
(conill amb cargols)
Serves four to six
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 rabbit, cut into six pieces
salt and freshly ground black pepper
24-30 snails, fresh or canned; if fresh leave in shells
6 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced
3/4 pound onions, peeled and minced
2 small red bell peppers, stemmed, seeded and chopped
1 pound tomatoes, peeled, seeded and pureed
2 sprigs fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
1 cup chicken stock
Preheat oven to 350F
Heat oil in a skillet, add the rabbit and cook until golden, lightly sprinkling with salt and pepper as it cooks.
If using canned shells, refresh under cold running water. Set aside. Remove the rabbit from the skillet and set aside.
Add garlic tot he skillet and cook over moderate heat until browned. Add the onions and cook until soft. Stir n the peppers and cook 1 minute. Add tomatoes and cook to a paste. Add thyme and stock and cook until the liquid is reduced to 1/2 cup. Mix with the rabbit in an ovenproof casserole. Add snails. Bake for 30 minutes. Serve direct from the oven in the casserole.
Rabbit with Turnips and Pears
(conill amb naps i peres)
Serves six
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 2 1/2 pound rabbit, cut into six serving pieces
1 medium onion, peeled and minced
2 leeks, cleaned and finely chopped, white part only
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 carrot, peeled and chopped
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and chopped
1 bay leaf
Sprig each of thyme, marjoram and oregano
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 small pears, peeled and cored
2 cups chickens tock
1 cup dry white wine
2 pounds turnips, peeled and cut into strips
Heat the oil in a large skillet and sauté the rabbit until golden. Remove the rabbit. Add more oil if necessary and sauté the onion, leeks, garlic and carrot until soft. Add the tomatoes, herbs, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper; cook over high heat until reduced to a paste.
Return the rabbit to the sauce and arrange the pears around the rabbit. Pour one cup of the stock and the wine over all and cook, covered, over medium-low heat until the rabbit feels tender when pierced with a fork, about 30-45 minutes.
Meanwhile, bring the remaining cup of stock to a boil in a saucepan and add the turnips. Cook, covered until tender. Drain, reserving the stock and setting aside the turnips on a heated platter.
Remove the rabbit and pears from the skillet to the heated platter of turnips and keep warm. Purée the stock in a blender, pour it through a fine sieve into the skillet and add the reserved turnip stock. Cook over high heat to reduce and thicken. Taste for seasoning. Pour the sauce over the dish and serve immediately.
Only Connect
Casa del Conill, Sant Miguel d’Olérdola.
93-890 20 01
www.casadelconill.com
info@casadelconill.com
The recipes above and many others will be available in the upcoming book Catalan Hours by Ron Scherl, Ann Walker and Larry Walker.
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