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A lovely day in Epernay

September 29, 2010 by Beth Shepherd

Outside our train window, vine covered slopes stretched out as far as we could see, knitting together small villages with red tiled roofs and wooden shutters. The river Marne gracefully cut a green swath along the edges of this landscape. A more peaceful scene I could hardly imagine which belied the history of fierce World War I battles that took place along the Marne’s banks.

Big Papa and I were heading to Epernay, a small town of 25,000 residents in the heart of the Champagne region of France. Founded back in the 5th century by tanners, Epernay was passed into the hands of the Counts of Champagne in 1024. The town is roughly 88 miles from Paris; our train ride took 45 minutes with a few stops at smaller villages along the way.

Once there, we moseyed up the appropriately named ‘Avenue de Champagne,’ passing by many of France’s famous champagne “houses”: Moet and Chandon, Castellane, Mercier, and Perrier-Jouet. It was fascinating to imagine that underneath our feet more than 100 kilometers (or over 328,000 feet) of tunnels dug into chalk soil were sheltering millions of bottles of aging champagne.

Ah, champagne. I confess I rather like the bubbly and so a chance to tour and taste champagne in Champagne was a pretty big thrill. It is, after all, the wine of celebration. No other wine has quite the same reputation for launching ships or toasting weddings. Its meaning is universal.

As wines go, champagne – as we know it – is a relatively recent “invention.” Before the mid-1600s there was no fizzy champagne. The only wines made were “still wines.”

Although Dom Pérignon has been credited as the inventor of champagne, in reality he was only a contributor to the process now associated with bubbly wine. Pérignon was a Benedictine monk who, in 1688, was appointed treasurer at the Abby of Hautvillers, near Epernay. Included in Dom Pérignon’s duties was the management of the cellars and wine making. The bubbles in the wine are a natural process arising from Champagne’s cold climate and short growing season. Of necessity, the grapes are picked late in the year. This doesn’t leave enough time for the yeasts present on the grape skins to convert the sugar in the pressed grape juice into alcohol before the cold winter temperatures put a temporary stop to the fermentation process. With the coming of Spring’s warmer temperatures, the fermentation is again underway, but this time in the bottle. The re-fermentation creates carbon-dioxide which now becomes trapped in the bottle, thereby creating the sparkle.

For Dom Pérignon and his contemporaries, sparkling wine was not the desired end product. It was a sign of poor wine making. He spent a great deal of time trying to prevent the bubbles, the unstableness of this “mad wine.” Although he was not able to prevent the bubbles, he did develop the art of blending grape varietals. He also found a method to press the black grapes and yield a white juice, improved clarification techniques to produce a brighter wine than any that had been produced before. To help prevent the exploding bottle problem, he began to use the stronger bottles developed by the English and closing them with Spanish cork instead of the wood and oil-soaked hemp stoppers then in use. Dom Pérignon died in 1715, but in his 47 years as the cellar master at the Abby of Hautvillers, he laid down the basic principles still used in making champagne today.

Sparkling champagne was only about 10% of the region’s output in the 18th century. But over the years, it became increasingly popular as the wine of aristocrats and royalty. Its influence in the world of wine continued to grow until, in the 1800’s, the sparkling wine industry was well established.

Big Papa and I chose the ‘Mercier‘ house of champagne and signed ourselves up for their tour which involves riding a laser-guided automatic train through caves 100 feet underground. Mercier was founded in 1858 by a young entrepreneur by the name of Eugene Mercier. He was 20-years-old when he started the Mercier champagne house. Mercier was a forward thinker and believed in the power of advertising. To further his reputation as a world-class champagne maker, he built the world’s largest wine vat for the 1889 World Exhibition; it took 150 oak trees to construct the vat which held the equivalent of 200,000 bottles of champagne.

After our Mercier tour we continued up the road to see the castle once owned by the Mercier family. Yes, the castle. I have to admit, it was all a bit surreal. On our way back, we stopped at Castellane and managed to nab two spots on the final tour of the day where we learned a bit more about how champagne is bottled, packed and shipped.

Of course one of the highlights from our day was the several glasses of champagne Big Papa and I enjoyed.  As with all true champagnes, our glasses held a blend of three grapes – Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, and Pinot Meunier. Smooth fine bubbles, a bit of fruit aroma and a touch of toast and apple on the palate.  Delicious!

I must say I was a bit sad to leave lovely Epernay and would have liked to continue tasting our way through the rest of town. But we did buy a small bottle of bubbly to bring home, and have an occasion in mind for when we’ll pop the cork!

Remember gentlemen, it’s not just France we are fighting for, it’s Champagne!
~Winston Churchill, 1918

Want more fizz in your day? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Filed Under: Food, Travel Tagged With: Castellane, chalk, champagne, Dom Perignmon, Epernay, France, Mercier, Moet and Chandon, monk, Paris, Perrier-Joet, river Marne, World War I

A monk and a fish

January 20, 2010 by Beth Shepherd

Thwap goes my hand, as I smack it down hard on the table, leaving one mortally wounded fruit fly. A remaining undamaged silvery wing twitches a bit before I flick my fingers and send the fly sailing over the table’s edge to its demise.

Big Papa shakes his head. “I guess you haven’t completed your transformation to Buddhism.” He follows with, “There goes my grandmother.” I hang my head. “Yes, you’re right.”

BarkhorWe sit in silence for a few minutes waiting for our meal to arrive at St. Clouds, one of our favorite Seattle neighborhood restaurants. Soon Big Papa is reveling in ribs swathed in barbecue sauce while I savor mussels bathing in coconut milk. Twenty or so mussels nestle inside my bowl. By Buddhist interpretation I am devouring a small village.

Steamy broth sends tendrils of heavenly spiced aroma to tickle my nostrils. I close my eyes, remembering. Mere days ago we sat at a café in Lhasa, Tibet.

The memory seems surreal, yet I can almost see the soft afternoon light filtering through the window of the café as I hold a warm cup of Masala tea in my hands. Its milky spicy fragrance surrounds me.

Outside the window, earnest merchants in the Barkhor haggle with persistent tourists over the price of prayer wheels. Weathered pilgrims chant while circumambulating clockwise around Jokang Temple. Smoke rises from branches of juniper placed on outdoor incense furnaces and mingles with the intense sweetness of yak butter candles.

As the sun slowly lowers itself to the horizon, the light becomes warmer and shadows are more pronounced. Magic hour is nearly upon Lhasa. Soon the walls of Jokang will be set ablaze in glorious hues of gold. Brilliant purples will creep into the turquoise blues of the sky.

I draw in a final sip from my cup, long and slow, letting hints of pepper and cinnamon dance on my tongue. Big Papa and I head outside, through the Barkhor, to the marketplace with our guide, Tenpa. We move alongside the throngs, cobblestones underfoot. Though there is no urgency in our steps, I feel as though I’m being swept through a canyon, one buffalo in a herd of many.
Prayer FlagsLegend tells that in 647 A.D. the first Tibetan king, Songtsen Gampo, built the Jokhang Temple. Its magnificence quickly attracted thousands of Buddhist pilgrims. As a result, a trodden path appeared which grew into Barkhor Street.

Turning to the right, we amble along Zang Yuan Road, passing Jokang Plaza and then a Tibetan prayer flag shop.  Sewing machines whir and nimble fingers connect the blue, white, red, green, yellow flags, which will soon adorn buildings, streams and mountain passes. Each color, arranged from left to right in specific order, symbolizes one of earth’s elements, blue for sky, white for air and wind, red for fire, green for water and yellow for earth.

A monk and a fishA short distance in front of us, a monk swathed in a vibrant burgundy robe squats on a corner step. A bucket of fish, nervously swimming figure eights in their tight quarters, sits at his feet. The monk watches the fish intently, glancing up on occasion. He is slim of stature with ruddy bronzed skin and broad cheekbones. Wizened eyes peer upwards in our direction as he tilts his head. “Just a moment,” Tenpa tells us as he scurries over to the monk. We watch him press a few coins into the monk’s hand.

Tenpa rejoins us but says nothing. Walking a bit further down the street we ask, “What just happened?” He tells us, “That monk purchased those fish from Chinese Muslim merchants who sell them to be eaten. Tonight, on his way back to the monastery, he will stop and release the fish back into a stream.” Tenpa pauses for a moment and takes in a deep breath. “I gave him a bit of money to help with the cost of the fish.”

Big Papa and I think carefully about what we’ve just heard. We have seen Tenpa and other Tibetans eat meat, yak mostly, but occasionally chicken or pork. However, it has not escaped our notice that none of the cafés or restaurants we’ve visited list fish on the menu.

Later, during dinner, we ask Tenpa to help us understand why Tibetans eat yak, but not fish. He looks straight at us and says quite matter-of-factly, “Taking a life for such a small amount of meat is a waste.” His voice is tinged with slight annoyance. I’d venture he’s been asked questions like this innumerable times by countless travelers. It must puzzle and frustrate him that Westerners don’t comprehend this distinction.

MerchantsA moment passes and I catch Big Papa’s gaze. I know exactly what he is thinking. With us, we’ve brought several items which we intend to give as gifts to our guide Tenpa and our driver Chimmi, at the end of our trip. A box containing smoked salmon was selected with Tenpa in mind. Although we’d heard Tibetans did not eat meat, we somehow rationalized that fish would be acceptable. In the U.S. there are many who identify themselves as “vegetarians,” and will not touch meat from a cow, chicken or pig, but will happily dine on seafood. For many years, I was one of these vegetarians.

What a rare treat, we thought. Smoked salmon transported all the way from Seattle. Certainly not something you would find in mountainous central Tibet. Little did we imagine that our carefully chosen gift might be received as an enormous insult by our gracious guide.

That night, back at the Shangri-la Hotel, we tuck the smoked salmon deeper into our suitcase, and our innocent ignorance along with it. By the time we’ve returned home, it is one well-traveled smoked fish, having flown 13,442 miles, the distance from Seattle to Lhasa and back again, not to mention the multi-day side trip all the way to base camp at Mt. Everest. This fish has been from below sea level to the top of the world.

I blink and open my eyes, returning to the moment. Big Papa is elbow deep in his luscious ribs. Outside the window, rain is pouring down fiercely. I see green and trees. I know the mountains behind the clouds are not the Himalayas. At tables on all sides of me, people are speaking English. I take a long, slow sip from my glass of northwest Pinot Noir just as I’d sipped Masala tea in Lhasa. A second glass, filled to the brim with tap water and ice, is right in front of me. It is the first time in nearly a month that I’ve been able to safely drink water that is not bottled. Discarded mussel shells lace the rim of my pure white bowl, like a necklace.

Om Mani Padme Hum. The words reverberate just below the surface of my conscious mind. I contemplate the meaning of this chant I heard hundreds, if not thousands, of times during our trip. According to Buddhists, this six syllable mantra means, “in dependence on the practice of a path which is an indivisible union of method and wisdom, you can transform your impure body, speech, and mind into the pure exalted body, speech, and mind of a Buddha.” After a journey of many thousands of miles in this life, I still have many miles and many lives left to travel.

Check out the WanderFood Wednesday series for more great food postings!

Filed Under: Travel Tagged With: Barkhor, Buddhist, fish, Jokang Temple, Lhasa, monk, Mt. Everest, Shangri-la Hotel, Songtsen Gampo, Tibet, vegetarian, Zang Yuan Road

Some might fend off a mid-life crisis by leaving the comforts of their corporate salary to jet off to a deserted island. Others might buy a Jaguar. I’ve chosen to dive head-long into my 50s and beyond by becoming a first-time parent. At any given moment you might find me holding a camera, a spade, a spatula or a suitcase. Or my little girl's hand. Adopted from Armenia, she puts the Pampers and Paklava into my life.

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