The Wheat of Virgin Spaces

Spent most of last week judging at the International Wine and Spirit Competition, the oldest, largest and most prestigious competition of its kind. We tasted several different categories: eau-de-vies, other fruit spirits, cachaca, pisco, flavoured rums, anisettes….and of course absinthe. Everything is tasted absolutely blind, from identical numbered glasses - the identity of the winning medalists is not revealed, even to the judges, until the results are publicly announced. In marked contrast to the usual situation elsewhere, the general organisation and running of the competition is quite awesomely efficient. Of course there were disagreements and strongly held opinions, but I was struck by the degree of unanimity amongst the judges - who came from the UK, Switzerland, France, Austria, Germany, Italy and South Africa - when it came to the top products. 

The place to drink this in Paris is the wonderful Alsatian restaurant “Aux Deux Canards” - try it with the pan fried fois gras.

Rouge Gorge - The recipe:

8 parts Cotes du Rhone, 5 parts good quality gin - Tanqueray or Hendricks, 3 parts Crème de Mure. Mix well, and serve slightly chilled in a brandy glass.

The combination sounds strange, but the perfume of the gin combines with the violet aromas of the Rhone wine and the fruitiness of the Crème de Mure to create an absolutely bewitching - and lethal - cocktail.

To Auvers-sur-Oise, where a small absinthe antiques market was held at Marie Claude Delahayes’ Musee d’Absinthe. All the usual crowd were there - small time dealers, collectors looking to exchange duplicates, bemused onlookers who’d wandered off the street. As is often the case, the interesting business was done in private, away from the tables…

Auvers-sur-Oise, about 45 minutes north of Paris, was the home of Van Gogh - he’s buried, alongside his devoted brother Theo (who only survived him by a year), in the small cemetery on the hill above the village. Near the cemetery are the fields where he painted many of his most famous works - and the crows he often depicted still come out at sunset and fly low over the grass. It’s an odly unspoilt and touching place - although close to Paris it’s hard to get to by train or bus, and so has been spared the worst of the tourist onslaught.

After a week distilling in Pontarlier, we spent our final night in the region at Le Soliat, an isolated fondue hut perched at the end of a dirt track on the edge of the Creux du Van precipice, high in the mountains above Couvet -  a magical place, where the spirit of La Fee Verte vibrates in the mist, and the names of absinthe makers a century ago share space on the smoke stained timbers with those of a more recent vintage…