Already a subscriber? Log in
I phoned it on landing, and asked for Serge July. ‘Do you mean Georges Joly?’ Perhaps I did. Put through, I told him that I was a colleague of Frank Johnson’s. ‘Ah, Monsieur: mon vieil ami Johnson. Bienvenue à Paris. Qu’est-ce que vous faites pour diner ce soir? Je vous propose un petit restaurant du quartier.’ Good old Frank, I thought, and I asked if I could come round that afternoon with a cahier: it might be an idea to work through a few complexities before we both got dined. Although there was a gracious ‘bien sûr’, M. Joly seemed surprised, On arrival, I knew that something was wrong. This was not the editorial office of a left-wing newspaper. I pressed on. Mitterrand had just been out-voted 11 to one at a European Council. What was going on? The alarmed expression on my interlocutor’s face was rising towards panic. ‘Pourquoi vous me demandez ça?’ I said that our friend Johnson had told me that he was a very distinguished editor, able to unravel the intricacies of French foreign policy. ‘C’est vrai, je suis redacteur, mais d’un journal de cuisine et de bons vins. Politique: je m’y intéresse peu et je n’y connais rien.’ Poor M. Joly had mistaken me for a friend of Hugh Johnson, the wine writer. Before he could summon the men in white coats, I made my excuses and left, with a final placatory inquiry: where could one find three-rosette cooking at one-rosette prices? As if trying to appease the wolves pursuing the troika, he almost flung a couple of guide books at me. Alas, they did not answer my question.
The search for the three in one extends to wine. How can we replace the first growths — and indeed the seconds — now priced beyond all affordability? There is one partial solution. In France, there are strict regulations as to how much a given vineyard can bottle under its own name. Fortunately, the Frogs are not always as insouciant about rules as we Rosbifs claim. Good wine-makers have a lot of defrocked wine. Inevitably, many of those bottles never travel far. Too many locals know their true value. So does the publisher of Everyman books, David Campbell.
At Everyman, David has a French assistant who says that her name is Dominatrix. During the shooting season, she does have to ensure that David will occasionally visit the office. Sultry, pouting and subtle, she has the soul of Edith Piaf in the body of Jeanne Moreau. When visitors become too bewitched, she mentions her boy-friend. He is in the Foreign Legion. He is two metres tall.
David himself is a sort of French foreign legion. He has not only visited the hauts-lieux, he knows the ‘B’ roads. His love for France has been reciprocated, by the award of the Légion d’Honneur, and by contacts which enable him to acquire declassified wines. He helps to run From Vineyards Direct, an outstanding source of reasonably priced wine. At the moment, they are offering bottles that can only be sold as Pauillac, Margaux and St Julien. They are defrocked Pichon-Longueville Baron, Palmer and Ducru-Beaucaillou. He also has a Sauternes, Haut Charmes, which is made by Yquem. At a fraction of the price of their siblings, these are all bargains. There is only one disappointment. Apropos defrocking, Dominatrix is not involved in From Vineyards Direct.
Also in Society
Also by Bruce Anderson
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in