Controversy fermenting?

When I first began research on my story about the French cork production and marketing process, I was under the assumption that talking to wine makers, cork producers, and wine drinkers would steer me right in the middle of brewing controversy.

Or would it be fermenting?

Thus far, I’ve spoken to four different individuals involved somewhere along the lines of French cork practices, and have come up with four unique voices to my story.

My French andEnglish vocabularies have grown exponentially this week, thanks to visits with oenologists concerning agglomerated corks to prevent the “goût de bouchon.” 

Exactly, or, “tout à fait.”

Antoine Tixadore, President of Travet Liège, a cork production company in Rivesaltes, says that natural cork will always be what the French consider the best choice for wine bottle closures. Agglomerated corks are a close second, and synthetic and screw caps fall somewhere behind those. 

Jean-Marie Aracil of the French Cork Federation agrees with Tixadore, but adds that certain younger wines opt to use screw-caps because they don’t need to be kept as long. The French wine market has learned to adapt to this demand, even though it isn’t steeped in tradition.

Today, after our wine tasting (I’ve lost count at this point how many we’ve had), my conversation with Pierrick Harang of PH Wines took a completely different turn, as finally my search for an opposing view became fruitful. Harang uses primarily screw-cap tops. He spoke passionately about how he wasn’t worried about using unconventional (to the French at least) methods.

“I know my wine tastes good because it is good wine,” Harang says. “I won’t have something like cork taint convince my clients otherwise.”

Harang shares his low-calorie wine, Mini, with the group. He uses primarily screw caps.

It seems that French traditions are giving way to change, albeit slight. What’s more surprising is less people than I originally thought seem to be bothered by it.

Tradition still thrives, however, in the forests at the base of the Pyrénées, where Francisco and his team of Spanish cork harvesters still use a simple axe to strip the cork bark off the trees.

Standing in the middle of a well-kept, tranquil forest near Les Boulous, I watch the old man hack away at the trunk with a certain grace and artistry. He never misses his marks, and although he puts a lot of strength behind his methodic blows, he removes the outer layer of the tree delicately and cleanly.

Put a cork in it

If you’re reading this with the preconception that the French are wine fanatics and fiercely proud of it, you’re right.

But it took me two weeks in Perpignan, three tastings, and several conversations with locals to realize just how much they care about their wine. 

My colleagues and I spent the last week digging up potential story ideas for our video and feature text assignments during our month-long stay in the city. After several failed attempts at finding a topic that would satisfy both my need for vivid visuals and captivating words, I stumbled upon one that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

Cork (yes, the one used in wine bottles) is one of the staple products of the region. The processing period takes place throughout the year, but harvesting starts in July. Just like that, my luck had changed.

After doing a little bit more research (and of course, with the aid of our Wonder Woman hostess, Florence Delseny-Sobra), I learned that the French are finding themselves in controversy over the cork business. Demand for the natural, traditional, 100% cork stopper is dropping elsewhere in the world in favor of cheaper, more convenient synthetic stoppers or screw caps.

To the French, this is a travesty. Delseny-Sobra mentioned that the sound of a cork popping open is “all part of the magic” of drinking wine. There are museums and associations dedicated to the traditional way of producing cork, and many vendors in the area, like Alexandre Rieu of Albera-Nayandei, will not sell their wines with any other stopper.

“The French are very worried about losing their traditions,” Rieu said. “They are not open-minded about other methods. They want to be the best in the world.”

I have a meeting on July 8^th with Antoine Tixadore who manages and owns Travet Liège, a local cork processing plant. I’m both anxious and excited to hear what he has to say about the business he seems to be so intimately intertwined with. He seems quite enthused to have the opportunity to tell his side of the story. 

One study I’ve come across states people’s perception of taste does not change between the corked, synthetically corked, or screw-capped wine, something that the French seem to be starkly adamant about.

As a Canadian wine-drinker, I’m content with sampling the best that the South of France has to offer. So far, I can’t tell the difference between a natural corked rosé from a screw-capped Chardonnay. Here’s hoping that somewhere along the interview process, these wine connoisseurs and cork buffs will provide some professional insight in how to train my palette to notice the slightest “gout de bouchon.”

Cheers, or should I say, “Vive la France!” 

Alexandre Rieu of Albera Nayandei wines provides us with samples of his famous sparkling wines.

Place de la Comédie, Montpellier, FR.

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."

Ben Franklin

Less is more dans une petite ville

The North American lifestyle is notorious for its size; everything from our food portion sizes, to shopping malls, to populations and density is big. We live our lives in excess. 

The people of Perpignan, France, do not. 

My eyes have been opened to a number of differences since our arrival more than a week ago, but nothing has registered as much as the realization that the lifestyle I’ve left behind in Canada has been grossly blown out of proportion. My life is great in Canada, of course, but I keep catching myself, wondering why the simplicity of Perpignan is so beyond my grasp.  

We eat more than we need to, stress ourselves out more than is healthy, and generally rush about our lives looking out for number one, forgetting about the small (and important) stuff. 

Here, it’s the polar opposite. The coffee I drank the other day at the market in Place de la République is a third of the size of my chosen double-double at Tim Hortons. Stores close at 7 p.m. or 8 p.m. during the week, and Sundays are a true day of rest with very few stores open (including one pharmacy, on a rotating schedule). 

The size of a regular coffee served at Place de la République

At first, the relaxed lifestyle of the French came as an annoyance to our excited, fast-paced, North American group. A week later, I’m starting to take pleasure in discovering just what the people of Perpignan have figured out. 

Last night I took a walk with two girls in the program. It was after 8, the stores were closed, and we had nothing to do. We ventured to a side of town I hadn’t come across yet. There we found people strolling through a beautiful park, people sitting on benches enjoying the Perpignan Fountain (which apparently has an amazing light show), and others walking their dogs.  

I can’t remember the last time I took 20 minutes out of my day in Toronto to take a quiet walk and just enjoy my surroundings. 

Here, everything appears simple. People sit for a long time at meals, enjoying each other’s company. They walk leisurely no matter where they’re going and genuinely just enjoy life. It’s a concept that shouldn’t be so hard to understand, but seems to get lost in the over-stimulated lives we lead back home. 

Florence Delseny Sobra, director of the Académie de Langues France Méditerranée, the language academy where we are studying, said that she wants “to live here and die here.” I think living here for a month will make me realize more and more, day by day, that maybe living a good, enjoyable life doesn’t just appear simple; it actually is.