Pierre-Jean , Château De Fesles, and a Bottle of Bonnezeaux
It was cloudy and cool and rain hung heavy in the air as I drove past the stone church in the center of Rochefort-sur-Loire, where I'd just met with Florent Baumard. Pierre-Jean Sauvion had told me to meet him at Château De Fesles in Thouarcé, which was only 20 minutes heading southeast. I wanted to drive along the river, and so I drove over the bridge and along the road in what seemed to be the right direction. The road narrowed and cut through another tiny hamlet of houses, many with signs for tasting rooms hanging from gates overgrown with flowers and vines. The road narrowed to a dead-end path. I found a place to reverse and drove sheepishly back the way I'd come, past a few gaping schoolchildren standing under shaggy pine trees. I found a small park with picnic tables near some shops in the center of an unknown village. I sat at one of the picnic tables in the misty air and looked at the beech leaves on the ground. I ate a picnic lunch of leftover baguette, chicken rillettes, cornichons, and a bruised pear. A woman got out of her car and I asked her if she knew how to get to Thouarcé. She called her husband over and he gave me directions. I thanked them, wiped the baguette crumbs from my lap, and hit the road.
My GPS still wouldn't pick up Thouarcé, so I called Pierre-Jean. He gave me the name of a small adjoining town and agreed to meet me there. Rain was coming down lightly but persistently as I pulled into a grocery store parking lot, and saw Pierre-Jean emerge from his car. He was the same energetic, wiry man with warm brown eyes and a wide smile I remembered from his visit to Imbibe months before. It was a relief to see a familiar face after my days of schlepping solo back and forth across the Loire. I hopped into his passenger seat and he drove off towards Château De Fesles, talking a mile a minute. We pulled into a pale gravel drive with stately trees yielding to manicured grounds and a lovely château with adjoining winemaking facilities and vineyards stretching into the distance.
Pierre-Jean offered me an umbrella, gallantly refusing my offer to share. We strode around the grounds as he told me all about the history of Château De Fesles, and how he came to make wine there. He makes wine all over the Loire, under different labels. He lives in Nantes, in Muscadet, which is where I was supposed to visit him my first day in the Loire, but I got off on the wrong train stop, then I took a train in the opposite direction to where I was going (after I also told an elderly French lady to get on the wrong train with me.)
Pierre-Jean talked rapidly, in perfect English, with a very French and somehow very British accent. He's an excellent salesman and tour guide, rattling off witticisms I remembered from him visiting Imbibe. His wine spiel didn't detract from his sincerity, and though he seemed impish and funny, there was immense kindness and dedication in his manner. He showed me all of the winemaking equipment, the stainless steel tanks and the wooden barrels and the wine presses being hosed out by winery workers.
We drank through his Château De Fesles line, and then revisited his Sauvion line we sell at Imbibe. The Chinon in particular stood out: gravel, moss, red berries -- crackly with nervy energy like a thunderstorm on the horizon. Electric, elegant, and dark yet utterly drinkable.
The best were yet to come: a vertical of Bonnezeaux, the sister appellation to Quarts de Chaume, famous for the purity and elegance of its Chenin dessert wines. Rather than the miniature Bordeaux bottle shape of Quarts de Chaume, these were in elegant, slim bottles, like mini Rieslings. We tasted the 2011, 2010, and maybe the 2008 and 2007? The vintages have faded since 2016 has slipped into 2017 and now 2018. I do remember they were transcendent, like eating peach and honey ice cream in a sun-dappled forest, sunning yourself on a rock with your feet dangling in an icy stream. Of course Pierre-Jean recommended serving foie gras alongside, like a proper Frenchman, but also told me he loved a glass of old Bonnezeaux with a cigar. I'm not a cigar gal but maybe one day I'll try the combination.
Pierre-Jean began rummaging in an old cabinet, muttering to himself.
"It should be here--surely the other group didn't open it? No, surely not. Ah!" he pulled out a large brown glass bottle, unlabeled, with cobwebs clinging to it.
"This is a Bonnezeaux from--well, I don't know exactly the year. It is at least 20 years old! Do you want to try?"
"Yes! Yes, I do."
He gently eased the cork out and poured the deeply golden wine into my glass. I sniffed, taking in the scent of the most luscious, drippy peaches, the kind that rip away from the pit effortlessly, as well as honeysuckle, candied orange peel, candied ginger, and a darker undercurrent, mysterious and stony, a dripping, echoeing cave lit with flickering candles, the smell of flowers, spices, honey, and fruit sweet and thick in the air.
I blinked and came out of the cave, looking at Pierre-Jean. He was looking at me, waiting for my reaction.
"It's a beautiful wine," I said. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
We took some selfies with my selfie stick, acquired by Katie back in Paris from a hawker outside the Louvre. Pierre-Jean was bemused, never having used one. I'd gotten some practice on the route to Coteaux de Loir, at my picnic outside an unknown château, so I was pretty much an expert.
He drove me back to my car in the rain. I promised to come again, and to visit him in Nantes next time, and see his home turf of Muscadet.
I drove back to Angers in the rain, boarded the train to Saumur, and made my way slowly back to my air bnb through the damp, luminous gloom of a sunset. I paused on the bridge over the river, looking at spires of the grey limestone city crouched on the opposite side, with the château presiding above. I ate the last of my baguette and chicken rillettes. I was starved. Darkness was falling as I walked through the town center. I stopped at a café for a glass of Chenin. I sat at a table on the near-deserted street and watched the odd passerby. It was my last night in the Loire. I didn't want it to end.
I slowly wound my way up the steep hill, past the château, and tucked myself into bed under the eaves of the cottage with window boxes and a back garden with lavender drying on the table. My host, the sweetest woman, rose early with me, and had a full spread of tartine and coffee, with homemade plum, cherry, and fig jams. The café au lait was milky and served in a small bowl.
I gulped it down, we jumped in her car, and drove to the train station. The castle, the worn limestone buildings, the ancient river streaming slowly beneath flashed past. I stared hard at all of it, trying to emboss the outlines into my mind. I almost missed my train again, like a moron, standing scrutinizing the screens trying to sort out which platform I needed to go to. My host, who had already said goodbye, must have little faith in me, because she reappeared, and rushed me to the correct platform in the nick of time. I thanked her, scrambled aboard, found my seat, and watched the Loire fade away into empty fields on the way back to Paris.
