Grape Expectations Page 13

  Chapter 11

  Digging Grapes

  'Il faut le sortir maintenant,' said Lucille urgently. Our oenologist had tasted the merlot wines that were still on their skins. They had finished fermenting a couple of days before and she had encouraged us to keep them on the skins for more extraction until her next visit. Now I could see from her face that we had gone too far. We had to run the free-run wine off and press the juice from the remaining grapes fast.

  That evening Sean attacked the relatively simple first part; running the free-run wine off the must. The grape 'must' is the skins and pips – and juice that is still inside the skins, rather than the free-run juice. He ran the wine out of the fermentation vat by gravity into a giant sieve placed in a 1,000-litre bucket, then pumped it into a new vat for maturation. Once the free-run was just dripping he left the dregs to drain slowly through the night, getting up regularly to check that everything was going according to plan.

  The following day we tackled the next phase; digging the grapes out to transfer them to the press so we could extract the press wine. Press wine typically represents a fifth of the total red wine produced but it can be a key part of the blend, offering more colour and tannin than the free-run wine. This step required extreme caution because killer carbon dioxide is given off during the fermentation and it lurks unseen inside the vats.

  To chase the gas out I positioned two house fans above the vats. It was Heath Robinson but it worked. Then I moved the wine paddle (like a single-sided canoe paddle but made of food-grade plastic, used to stir wine), digging tools and cleaning equipment to the back wall so we had more room to work.

  Like many things over that harvest period, digging grapes was more difficult than it looked. Just moving the must pump into position under the vat's front door was near impossible since it was so heavy. The must pump is like a miniature harvest trailer; about half a metre high and wide and a metre long with a wide but short auger in its metal belly. This auger is sufficiently powerful to pump hundreds of kilograms of grape must up the harvest pipe into the press. When the must pump is in motion it looks peaceful, but one false move and it could remove a hand or a foot or worse. Its powerful auger will crush and macerate anything that gets in its way – just like what the harvest trailer did to part of Sean's finger. Once it was in place we would climb inside the enormous vat and dig the grapes out of the vat directly into it. Sean and I tried to push it into position while John held the pipe and the electrical wire.

  'Push,' yelled Sean.

  'It's too heavy,' I said.

  'Just do it,' he growled. I nearly whacked him over the head with the wine paddle.

  He pushed me out of the way and gave it a massive shove, wedging it into position. John looked surprised at Sean's behaviour. He and Peta-Lynne knew something was wrong between us but they put it down to harvest stress and finger trauma. I was having serious finger trauma myself keeping my middle finger from jamming itself in front of Sean's nose. Instead I stood back and counted to ten to calm myself. We needed to work as a cohesive team for a hazardous operation like this. Next, we connected this dangerous beast to the harvest pipe that had thumped John and me a couple of weeks before. I felt skittish.

  With the must pump in position we could dig the must from the vat into it then pump the must up to the press. Sean opened the door of the vat and a small avalanche of fermented grapes fell neatly into the pump. It was perfectly positioned. He dragged a little more of the must using our food-grade winery fork – enough to fill the belly of the must pump – then switched it on and pumped the mass up to the press. Each small success with equipment we had never used was a milestone. We took a moment to congratulate ourselves then took turns digging grapes out of the front door of the vat. The recent death of our neighbours was a constant reminder of how potentially deadly our new occupation was.

  Too soon it was time for someone to get inside the vat. That someone was me since Sean was still effectively one-handed. I was scared stiff.

  'How am I going to get in?' I asked nervously.

  'Climb over it,' commanded Sean. The vicious must pump was too heavy to move out of the way each time we got in and out.

  My hand, stained red with wine, was shaking as I leaned over to test the vat's air with our BiC lighter. The flame remained strong which meant that the air was probably clear enough of carbon dioxide to be safe to enter. With Sean ready to pull me out if necessary, I clambered in. Rather than killing me, it smelt like a giant Christmas pudding. I wondered for a second if that was the smell you got just before you died – I love Christmas pudding. There was no time for philosophising. I pushed my white sterilised boots deep into the 50-centimetre-thick layer of grape must so there was no chance of slipping out into the deadly pump and dug then pushed the marc (or pressed must) to Sean at the vat door. About ten minutes later Sean demanded a turn. He had decided that he could dig despite his injury, if he covered his bandaged hand with a plastic bag to protect it from splashes.

  I demanded that he unplug the must pump, horrified and scared as I was of its potential to eat body parts. He scoffed at the notion saying it was turned off at its switch. Still inside the tank and not moving until he acquiesced, I explained, as calmly as I could, that someone could fall onto the switch and turn it on mistakenly. Unplugged there was no risk. John gave him a look that said 'unplug the pump' and he did. We changed places – clambering awkwardly over the must beast.

  The wine from the Upper Garrigue grapes was pressed by late afternoon and the ton of leftover skins and pips moved from the press to the entrance to our property. Leftover grape skins and wine sediments are given to state-owned distilleries for production of industrial alcohol. This 'forced gifting' is an ancient tax on French winegrowers. The distillery would collect the marc from the entrance to our property with a truck equipped with a small crane.

  We had done a full day's work but we still had to press Hillside; waiting was not an option now that the wine was run off.

  It was in an underground cuve – the one I had nightmares about. We had to move the must pump down to the horror cavern. The harvest pipe had to be moved too, and now it was gorged with grapes the weight was immense. We couldn't move it.

  'This can't be right,' I said.

  'Stop complaining and pull,' snapped Sean.

  We all heaved again but the Serpent would not budge. I pictured us working all night.

  'What about pumping water through to push the grapes out?'

  Sean glowered at me.

  'It's worth a try,' said John.

  Several litres of water and a few minutes later we had an empty pipe. My idea had worked. Sean harrumphed and I marked up a small winery success.

  Grunting with exertion we got the pump onto the tractor forks and Sean took it down to the cavern. The harvest pipe was attached to the pump then pushed up to John who was waiting at the trapdoor, tied on for safety. As soon as he had the top of the pipe I ran up to help him pull it up while Sean struggled to keep it in position below. We lifted it up over the press and tied it securely. John received a tap on the head, a gentle reminder from the pipe about who was boss.

  It was dark when we started the second dig. Strangely, after the nightmares I had had about it, I now found the underground vat cosy and comforting. Our lantern hung down, providing a warm yellow glow on the beautiful red walls. The smell of Christmas pudding was delicious and the exertion of the digging combined with the low-oxygen air was elating. I wanted to stay longer but Sean made me get out since it was unadvisable to work in that environment for more than ten minutes. We took turns digging while John handled the Serpent on high.

  At about ten that night we finished the dig and started pressing. Sitting on old plastic crates watching the press do its work, we paused for a glass of Saussignac dessert wine and an ice cream. The endorphins from hard physical work, the successful pressing of our first vintage of red wine and the divine taste created a moment of elation that helped to ease the difficult parts of the day. P
eta-Lynne, who had brought us our dinner to eat on the run a little earlier and had been monitoring progress every half-hour, joined us to savour the moment. The girls were safely asleep. Once the pressing was finished we took in the silence of the winery, enjoying the delicious smells of fermentation and the call of the barn owl. The cleaning of the press and the vats could wait.

  On Lucille's visit the following day I toured the Saussignac vineyard with her. We tasted and collected sample grapes as we walked.

  'Collecting samples is not something oenologists do but today it is pratique,' said our serious oenologist, underlining the clear delineation of roles so essential to French life. 'I think you could do your first pick at the end of next week.'

  'I don't know how we will do that with Sean one-handed. His parents leave tomorrow. I couldn't do it alone.'

  'C'est vrai. But it would be a pity to lose it. C'est très joli.'

  The botrytis noble rot was not what the average person would call pretty. The grapes were shrivelled and mottled; grey, yellow and black; many were furry… but they tasted heavenly. The Botrytis cinerea attacks the grape skins, creating little perforations that allow the grape to shrivel and concentrate its juices without losing its freshness. In the process the 'noble rot' imparts delectable honey, almond and apricot flavours and creates a wine that is deliciously concentrated.

  'What press will we use?' I asked, as much to myself as to Lucille.

  We had planned to borrow a manual press from a neighbouring winemaker but Sean needed to collect it with the tractor – which remained out of the question given the state of his hand. To use our electric press we needed a minimum load. Saussignac has to be hand-picked selectively over a minimum of three picks. Because the botrytis develops at different rates on different bunches you pick only the grapes that are at the level of development you want – this means picking selectively multiple times through the same vineyard. For most winegrowers it is three to five picks spread over several weeks from late September to early November. I had no idea how much yield we would get from our selected rows at each pick.

  'You should ask one of the other Saussignac producers. Someone experienced. I am not a specialist in liquoreux,' said Lucille. Liquoreux is the French word for a botrytis-style dessert wine like Saussignac or Sauternes.

  'We want to do a light Saussignac, something around eighteen to twenty,' I said, surprising her with my knowledge on the subject. We wanted to make our wine slightly less sweet than the average Saussignac, which was around 21 or 22 potential alcohol (also known as 'must weight' – a measure of the amount of sugar in grape juice, which indicates the amount of alcohol that could be produced if it is all fermented to alcohol, rather than left as residual sugar). This meant we needed to pick to have a level of around 330 grams of sugar per litre. Of this, around 200 grams would become alcohol, creating a level of 12 per cent and the rest would remain as natural residual sugar in the wine.

  'Be careful,' she said in her typical cautious manner. 'It's easy to make a mistake and land up with too little sugar to be AOC Saussignac.'

  At my request Thierry Daulhiac, the president of the Saussignac appellation, came round that evening. We walked down to Lenvège and he tasted a few grapes then pulled out his refractometer. I had bought one for Sean the week of the finger amputation; we hadn't used it yet. Thierry took a bunch of grapes in his fist and squeezed the juice expertly over the screen. He looked into it then passed it to me.

  'C'est déjà au dessus de vingt-cinq. Tu vois?' (It's already over twenty-five. Do you see?)

  I nodded sagely.

  'C'est joli. Très joli. Very pretty, yes, even more pretty than mine.'

  I was getting the idea about the 'pretty' term, an indicator of the quality of the noble rot rather than physical beauty. I was taken aback by the disarming honesty that allowed him to admit this to me, an outsider without a clue. He walked along the rows looking at the grapes.

  'There is enough for you to press it in the electric press, I think. Anyway, if there isn't enough there are ways to fill it.'

  'How?' I asked.

  'A rice bag for example, or autrefois, in the old days, they used straw.'

  'Where would I get a rice bag?'

  'I don't know. You'll have to ask someone who uses the same press, perhaps the Sadoux.'

  'How should we pick to get a result of eighteen to twenty?'

  'Perhaps the best way is to do a medium pick on the first pass, then check the level and on the next pass adjust the pick to compensate.' We walked down a row and Thierry showed me which bunches he would take – brown or mixed gold and brown showing good botrytis – and which he would leave – gold or green and gold – to get a medium result. I tried to imprint the images in my head. Thierry's boyish face spread into a wide ironic grin.

  'Enfin, it's not easy.'

  It looked easy for him. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he had such an easy confidence in the vineyard, a confidence that comes from years of experience. He sensed, almost by instinct, what the grapes he picked and squeezed onto the little screen of the refractometer would offer in sugar concentration.

  'So, are you going to do a little Saussignac?' he asked.

  'Ça dépend. With Sean injured it's not easy.'

  'Sans doute. But it's very, very pretty. Enfin, it would be a pity to lose it.'

  That evening I called Pierre Sadoux to find out about the press. Pierre-Jean, his father, answered and I introduced myself.

  'We might not have enough Saussignac to fill the press,' I explained. 'I know you have the same presses so I wondered if you could suggest a solution.'

  'C'est difficile, oui,' replied Pierre-Jean, not offering a solution.

  'Do you have any suggestions?'

  'You could borrow a press that can take a smaller load.'

  'Hmm, but Sean is injured so moving a press won't be easy. Thierry Daulhiac mentioned straw.'

  'Oui, c'est vrai. You can do that. But you must make sure that the straw is in perfect condition. It must be from this year and not old straw.'

  I remembered the Barses kept hay for their sheep so I called Bernard. He agreed that we could collect a bale if we needed one on the day.

  That Monday the Saussignac producers union held a day for wine professionals and journalists to experience picking noble rot at Château Le Chabrier. The gentle picking operation was followed by tasting of Saussignac wine from each of the producers present. As we tasted through the wines I told Richard Doughty, an organic producer we had met a few times, about Sean's finger amputation.

  'He was lucky,' said Richard. 'A good friend of ours, a Saussignac producer, died when he fell into a harvest trailer ten years ago.'

  I felt sick to my core, horrified that the winegrower accidents we had read about were so prevalent among people we now knew. I resolved to give Sean another lecture on taking care.

  We sat down to lunch at two large tables set up in the entrance hall of Château Le Chabrier, a seventeenth-century hunting lodge. Melt-in-the-mouth pâté toasts and succulent figs with Roquefort blue cheese grilled on top were served as the starter to accompany a flight of different Saussignac wines. If that wasn't enough to seduce the invited wine professionals, pork roasted with prunes and Saussignac followed. Joel the Jolly, seated next to me – fortunately unarmed – told me he had cooked it. He proudly admitted to keeping the water gun in the car at all times, and then laughed heartily as he recounted a story of leaving rotting steak under the mayor's car seat. The mayor took a week to track down the disgusting stench. Leaving aside stinking steak, this pork dish was the best pork I had ever had. I was convinced that Joel was joking about having cooked it. Thierry assured me it was true and some sleuthing in the kitchen revealed that it was.

  The cheese board that followed was a voyage of flavours from the region and beyond; Échourgnac, the wonderful cow's milk cheese with walnut liquor made by nuns in the Dordogne, Cabécou, the local goat's cheese, an enormous round of Brie de Meaux and a selection of
blue cheeses. The grand finale was a luscious apricot and almond tart. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Matched with a young Saussignac, redolent of apricot compote, it was sublime.

  I went home in time to help Sean finish off the day's winery work. It was the twilight of the Feely seniors' stay. We had been through one of the most intense periods of our lives and were closer for it. The next morning I said a tearful farewell to them and Sean took them to the airport while I got on with the winery ward round.

  Sean walked back into the winery just as precious cabernet sauvignon shot onto the winery wall.

  'What the heck's going on here? Why didn't you wait for me to get back?' he demanded.