It was a white Mercedes van and luckily I occupied the passenger seat next to her, and the two British women in back with their haughty Liverpool or northern dialects, I couldn’t tell nor did I care. My left ear yearned to hear more from the driver while my right ear tried to protect itself from the faux aristocratic noise in back by producing emergency earwax.

Thankfully we stopped before the wax dripped, arriving at the first Vineyard in St. Emilion, Chateau Soutard. Monsieur Pierre owned the land and walked us out to see his skinny one – or two vined “babees” and how he nurtured them without insecticides or irrigation.  “You mean to tell me that you just let nature take its course on your vines and don’t protect them from the forces of nature?”

“Monsieur, your nom is?”

“Carson”

“Monsieur Carson, we believe in our unique terroir, how you say, soil, climate and topography unique to the fertile land here on the right side of the Garrone.  That is what makes our wine unique in the world, filled with a varied character emboldened or subdued by the changing climate year to year.  Not only that, the government doesn’t allow us to use insecticides, fertilizer, or irrigation.”

“I see, well, you can only hope that Mother Nature favors your babees more than your competitors.”

“Exactement.”

The British lasses ignored our technical conversation and asked Delphine when we would have tea and if they could go inside out of the sun.  She smiled and told Pierre it was time to go in to the chateau for the tasting.  Thank God, I thought, could use some elegant Bordeaux. I tasted the various wine selections, bought a bottle that I loved while trying not to ogle at our cute little tour guide.  She loved the tasting as well, and her delicate hand took the wine to her eager lips and tongue with expert hand – mouth coordination, sipping, swirling then spitting into a spittoon with a sound that made a clang.  Yes, a clangy spittoon played from our dark – haired French tour guide’s high velocity spit.

“Pity to waste the wine Delphine, why don’t you just swallow?  It’s not too much.”

Her knowing smile caused me to wish I hadn’t said anything and instead just acted less American.

“Remember Carson, I have much driving to do yet for you, and you don’t need a drunk French driver, N’est-ce pas?”

I thought perhaps she was right, but then a night on the banks of the Garonne later with some wine – facilitated female companionship would be a tour bonus that the brochure would never print.

The British girls continued to ignore me and talk about tasting white whine, I mean wine in the middle of Bordeaux country and that thought nearly caused me to slumber while standing. Thankfully Delphine’s rhythmic hips mesmerized me into lock step like an American joining the French Foreign Legion.

Next stop was lunch in village square, surrounded by the ancient walls of castle St. Emilion. Never saw an ancient 10^th century castle and I touched her age – blackened stone walls gently.  “Monsieur, why do you touch her walls?  I’ve never seen that before?”

“Uh well, I guess I’ve never touched a man – made structure that old before, since American architecture is so young in comparison, and the history within, just envelopes me with wonder about Knights, and maidens and…”

“I know, but we must go eat now.  We have an hour to go before our next stop on the opposite side of the Garonne.”

Sitting across from Delphine, I was lucky to get most of her attention, but she graciously instructed the chatty British girls about the best wine selections with the food on the menu written in French on small blackboards carried by young waitresses, eager to please patrons.

“But for you Carson, I recommend the duck salad, coeurs de canard. C’est tres bien.”

I wondered why she recommended that dish for me not them.  Hopefully it was because it was an aphrodisiac that she preferred or actually more realistically, she knew I was stumbling with the menu despite my only partial French knowledge.

“Sure why not.”

The richness of the flavor of the small little duck hearts in the salad is difficult to describe, but combined the tenderness of soft shell crab with the delicacy of well- cured elk, kind of I guess. Damn it, I can’t describe it, but despite my initial trepidation, I thanked her for the duck heart selection.

We arrived at a larger chateau in Haut – Medoc, on the left side of the river in Margaux.  I was slowly learning to discern the different tastes of the Cabernet/Merlot/Cab Franc and how it differed on each side of the river.  Waiting in the tasting room of the chateau while the British girls talked about how they missed their boyfriends and loved the chardonnay, I surveyed the nearly 20 different cheese selections adorning the table with a wine selection in front of each cheese.  Hunger didn’t seem as important as the wine, but the smell excited my taste buds into controlled salivation.  Delphine knew we were waiting too long for the Chateau hostess.  “My friends, the hostess will be here shortly.  She’s an older lady, owns the business, still working hard on day to day operations.”  She looked at her watch.  “Be patient, she said she’ll be here soon.”

She entered the stone – walled tasting room and she sure as hell wasn’t old.  She walked and I guess I stared, couldn’t help it, but I smiled as I did it.  Her lean legs poured into her molded jeans as only feminine perfection could.  Then of course, there was the blue echarpe wrapped around her white neck, dangling down her silk blouse, bouncing perfectly with her curves as she sauntered toward us. Thankfully, I controlled the quiver in my lower lip and my earwax stopped dripping. She wouldn’t appreciate that, I’m sure.

“Bonjour, sorry I was late, but my mother is out pruning, so she asked me to fill in. “My name is Audrey.”

Absolutely no reason to be sorry, I thought. Mummy can prune all day for all I care.

She showed us each cheese and which wine goes best with the cheese type, and I remember none of it, actually.  I appreciated the fact that she had such a deep knowledge of cheese and taste with wine, but I still couldn’t get that picture out of my head of her merciless runway walk.  How could she do that in those tight jeans?

We drank, and I made a mistake.  She gently scolded me, damn it.

“Monsieur, what is your name?”

“Carson.”

“Monsieur Carson, don’t hold your wine glass under the bowl, it will warm it up and effect the taste.  Please hold it on the stem like this.”

I knew that of course, but I looked at Delphine, and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.   Guess she pegged me already as an uncultered American male animal.

And yes, goddesses spit too.

We finished with the tasting in Audrey’s family chateau and I bought some wine from her while the British girls walked out into the sunshine.  I tried to talk to Audrey in French and she giggled at my mistakes, correcting me only when it made no sense. I had to get to the point, so I did it in English, a language she spoke almost as well as I did.  “I’m here a few days in town, and would be honored if you would join me for dinner, of course, at your favorite restaurant, with your favorite wine, since I am new to the area, but an attentive listener.”

“Oh, merci beaucoup!  Unfortunately, I have ze plans for this evening, but who knows about those things you know.  She wrote down her number on the chateau company card and slipped it into my wine bag with an impressive slight of hand.

“Au revoir Carson.”

“Au revoir Audrey.”

We arrived back in downtown Bordeaux, said goodbye to sweet Delphine who told us she would pick us up tomorrow morning for more touring.  Then, as I walked to my hotel the British girls finally came over to me.  “Carson, would you like to join us for some drinks tonight?  We went to a nice bar last night.”

I thought about it a little, my mind having difficulty extricating Audrey from my short-term memory, then said, “What the heck, sure, why not!”

 What trouble could they get me into?

SRC © 2014