Secret to writing in Europe

Summing up the discipline to write a “casual” blog entire for a handful of unintentionally scrutinizing eyes -- following a long day -- can be daunting. However, writing in France this summer taught me a few tricks of the trade.

When one pictures famous writers who escaped to Europe for inspiration – or European writers draining taps of creativity from sidewalk cafes – one common thread remains: alcohol. And I’m legal to drink here.

Continue reading before giving into shock and exasperation.

My visit last summer to the Schnapps Museum in Vienna taught me absinthe is absolutely NOT the way to go considering it’s the most vial liquid I’ve ever consumed. I’m also no hard-core drinker, and I only tolerate beer. As for me, I’ll take my kicks from champagne – or settle for a fine white or rose wine.

Tonight I had a local Alsatian Riesling opened last week during a picnic with Dad at the Orangerie. Now I feel like blogging. (Lie: this blog remained half finished for posting until Friday night.)


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I’ve got about as much ground to cover in writing as kilometers transversed by my dad and I in ten days.

In case you’re wondering: that’s a lot.


For the record: I like wine better than French moutarde.

I arrested my last entry right before my dad and I stopped on the Cote d’Or wine road between Beaune and Dijon.

Quick refresher—we were on our way after lunch toward Dijon and then back home to Strasbourg so I could go to work the next morning.

At our hotel we’d seen a rather classy advertisement for Château de Marsannay, a local wine producer.

http://www.chateau-marsannay.com/

Their “warehouse” was a fairly new stucco building that was made to look decently rustic. We walked inside and a tall (unusual!) slender Frenchman who reminded me of a young Tom Hanks (by young I mean in his mid-30’s) greeted us. He hurriedly asked us to wait while he finished up a large tour group buying cases of wine. We went into their side room and sure enough within 10 minutes all the tourists found themselves packaged up like wine bottles and transported on the moving bus.

That left me, my Dad, and Tom Hanks look alike.

Not only did this guy kind of look like Tom Hanks, but he was purposefully comical in his presentation of the wine house. He made a few semi-funny jokes, starting with a statement that he’s all set because he’s had his lunch, wine, and cigarette for the day. All a Frenchman needs for good health. He asked us to wait a few more minutes and then this short, happy women (about 30) comes in rolling a bike. She was wearing a summer top that had a glitter tank top underneath. She asked a question and Daddy responded “I don’t speak English” and she gave him a funny look, then he said, “wait! I mean I don’t speak French” and she said “Oh that’s good, I don’t either!”

She was so bubbly, and just exploded how she’s from Vancouver, just started making her own wine as a hobby, was in Dijon and the tourist office rented her the bike and told her to go here, and she just got married to someone in the military in Paris, they took a huge tour around Europe, and now he’s in Afghanistan and she’s returning to Paris to go home, and somehow managed to throw in “isn’t this cool?”, “where are you from?” and “oh it’s hot out there!”

She was a whirlwind of happiness. Often times people with this kind of exuberance annoy me, but she did it in a way that was just mesmerizing. As usual, I compare people to breeds of dogs. This newlywed from Vancouver was 100% Jack Russell terrier.

Our tour started, and the tour guide began explaining everything. He had my favorite combination of traits: informative, full of factoids that help you to be educated about whatever you’re touring – in this case wine – but he was an interesting individual full jokes and sarcasm that translate only partially.

He’d make comments about “you Americans don’t know about hectares, you have silly acres!” etc.

He sent us down into the cellar to tour walk around while he got a glass of water. It took the women from Vancouver 2 minutes to see the entire damp cellar. Cellar tours in the wine country suck, because the caves (wine cellar in French) they take you to I can tell are in reality only for show. While the champagne region’s houses take you into their functioning, ancient cellars their tastings are a joke. You just get a complementary glass and leave.

In the wine region, you compare many different varieties and levels of quality. You also get the personal commentary from the tour guide which often comes with their opinions. I always find what their honed taste intriguing. They way they describe the variations also fascinates me. They talk about mosaics of flavors, blends of fruit, coupling levels of dryness, aromatic qualities, age, and atrocious seasonal years.

By the time the tour guide re-appeared along with two couples from New Zealand, Jack Russell Canadian had accidentally found herself some wine we weren’t supposed to get into.

Tom Hanks took us into the tasting room, that had 6 different candle lit wine barrels showcasing the best assortment of wines I’ve ever compared.

Of course, we started with the white and then a rose before moving onto the classic reds. He assured us we would not be offended if we spit it out into the buckets on the sides or dumped whatever was remaining in our glass. He said our taste buds may become fatigued and that was normal.

I thought this was silly: until the end of the tour.

He was full of insight, especially for the novice, so expect to see a sidebar of the tips I learned during the tour.

After the tour was over, and I’d consumed more red wine than I’ve ever had in my entire life combined, we departed.

We swung through Dijon, but didn’t have very much time. Headed back to Strasbourg, got Dad all checked into his bed and breakfast, then I got up for work the next day.

Work Week with Daddy

While I ran reactions at work, Daddy ran off to see Haut Koenigsburg (the castle I went to a few weekends ago) in Selestat. I’m assuming he had fun and actually made it out of the bed and breakfast. We’ll just have to take his word.

Spicing up the lab

During the many, accent laden conversations I have with Vivian and Jeremy I’ve discussed the merits of spicy food. As do the majority of the French population, they argue that spice takes away from the flavor and just paralyzes your taste, thus inhibiting the pleasures of eating.

Or as they put it: spicy food is gross.

I’ve explained how much I miss spicy food in my diet and how they probably couldn’t handle it without crying.

Testosterone is universal. They protested.

Well I had my dad bring salsa. My mom found some microwavable queso dip and sent along a bag of Tostitoes to compliment the Texas salsa.

During lunch, I put the bag out on the table and opened the salsa.
Jean, who likes spicy food, dug right in and said now he either needs a beer or a margarita.

Jenny took a bite and thought it was too spicy. She did however love the chips because she said they were light and crisp as opposed to the dense ones you can buy in France.

Mamadou, Dinesh, and Josaphine took a “dip” and were frightened away.

That left the boys. Jeremy took one chip, dipped only the corner in very lightly, and then said “oh, not spicy.”

I said you didn’t eat any.

What’s funny, is Vivian and Mamadou did the same thing. Barely touched the chip in, and said “oh, ok.” I think it scared them.

Jeremy I think actually kind of liked it after awhile, whereas Vivian wanted nothing to do with it. Though he claims it’s not because it’s too spicy – he just doesn’t like it.

Vivian insisted I go ahead and heat up the queso, which I did. You know the French enjoy cheese.

As soon as it was ready, Vivian tried it, got a funny look on his face, and tried it again. Jean came back into try and Vivian commented with a horrified look on his face “C’est bizarre!”

I think it greatly intrigued him yet repulsed him at the same time.

There ends my effort to educate the French on the pleasures of spice.

Le Clou

For our first venture into local Alsatian cuisine, I took Daddy to a Vinstub down by the cathedral. These restaurants specialize in a few local dishes, are usually family owned, and serve only local wine.

The interior was warm, French Country, and cozy. We ordered a small pitcher of wine and Daddy got some type of meat (can’t remember) in a mustard sauce with roasted potatoes while I got a knuckle of ham with sauerkraut. You can see the mixed French-German influence of the region.

Our meals were delightful. His mustard sauce wasn’t too overpowering and my ham was so moist and tender the fat just melted right off to leave perfectly pink morsels.

I think this gave Daddy a very positive experience with French food.


Afterwards we walked around downtown before heading back.


Work in progress

The rest is in the works, calm down.