MI had my first sip of champagne during the France exchange in eighth grade. My school’s sister city was in Gueux, a town surrounded by vineyards in the heart of the historic province of Champagne.
Of course, a visit to a winery was part of the sightseeing program. I was surprised how naturally we were all handed a tasting glass. When it came to alcohol, liberal as they were, my parents were pretty strict. So I enjoyed this moment. More precisely: more the mature feeling than the taste of the champagne itself.
Later, when I met friends (secretly) for a pre-party, we drank sugary cocktails and sticky sparkling wine. I remembered champagne as bitter and somehow musty. It took me a while to appreciate the subtle, tart taste. Today, many years later, I like the French sparkling wine much better than its German and Italian counterparts, which are often too sweet for me.
Pick-up with Magda (standing) and our author (blue kepi)
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Image: Verena Carola Mayer
Last year on New Year’s Eve I stuck a picture of a vineyard on mine VisionBoard (Visualize your dreams to make them come true!) that I make with a friend every year. Why? I love good food, I want to know where food comes from. I already had a contact for my vision: a family-run champagne estate in Gyé-sur-Seine, which I discovered last year on my way home from Brittany.
In mid-August I got the email I was hoping for: The harvest will start at the beginning of September, am I still interested? Almost a year later, my second visit to Gyé-sur-Seine: barely 500 inhabitants, 60 winegrowers, 15 cellars. It can hardly be overlooked that the people in this region live off champagne. The road leads past a huge stone cork, followed by a meter high champagne bottle.
Renoir found his second home here
Gyé-sur-Seine announces itself with a stone plaque in the shape of a champagne flute. A historic grape press stands on the main square. Around the church, town hall and Épicerie, the only shop in town. The stone-walled houses, the gently flowing Seine, the surrounding vineyards – no wonder that the painter Auguste Renoir found his second home and countless motifs in the neighboring village.
The family home also looks like it was straight out of an Impressionist painting. A château with wrought iron balcony bars and weathered shutters. When I arrive, the landlady Véronique, a woman in her early 60s, is busy in the kitchen, which is located next to the main house in a low extension. The long tables are already set for dinner. She greets me like an old friend – even though we’ve only met once, a year ago at that. Since I can’t stay the entire eight days but only half of the time because of private appointments, she didn’t put me up with the other helpers who sleep in the attic rooms above the kitchen. I stay with her daughter and her family in the former barn, which they converted into a stylish loft.