All I learned about Swiss wine I learned from a French guy

The Frau has a French friend who lives in Switzerland. Let’s call him Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude really loves wine. Can you blame him? He’s from Burgundy.

Jean-Claude collects international wines, never mind the border limitations. His idea of a vacation is to go vineyard hopping and wine shopping. He has over 800 bottles of wine in his wine cellar in Ehrendingen. You don’t eat dinner at his house without the proper wine for the proper course.

You could say Jean-Claude is a wine snob. It’s not exactly Pommard or nothing, but unlike The Frau, he’s not going to show up at The Picnic Etude in Baden with plastic cups and a Robert Mondavi. He pimps his picnic with proper wine glasses and wine courses—even when he knows he’ll be dining al fresco with Baby M, who uses a picnic blanket like a dance floor.

Baby M or not, “plastic cup” is not in Jean-Claude’s vocabulary. But surprisingly, “Swiss wine” is.

For those who also like hiking through vineyards,
the wine trail in Graubuenden is beautiful
(and stroller friendly!)

Swiss wine, as many know, does not have much of a reputation. This is mainly because unlike cheese and chocolate, Swiss wine is not exported. All the more reason you should drink it when you are in Switzerland. Where will you find the good stuff? Jean-Claude (and now The Frau) shop at Cortis. Or if you’re looking for delivery, there is a new start-up called Wiine.me (however, it has not yet been Jean-Claude tested or The Frau approved).

In any case, here are some Swiss wines to try.

Sottobosco, Rosso del Ticino 2010 (By far The Frau’s absolute favorite Swiss wine, Merci, Jean-Claude, for the introduction.)

Gewürztraminer, Svizzera Italiana 2011

Assemblage Rouge Reserve Hurlevent,Les Fils de Charles Favre, AOC Valais 2011 (This wine is usually available at COOP and Manor.)

Anyone else want to share their favorite Swiss wine?

The French Are Right (sometimes)

Over the weekend I had the opportunity to attend a wedding celebration in Zurich. My favorite part (besides seeing friends) was the dessert buffet. There was chocolate mousse. There was vanilla mousse. There was strawberry shortcake. There was apple strudel. And there were cream puffs. So of course I took some of everything.

While we Americans piled our plates high with sweets the French guy sitting next to me had taken just one chocolate mousse and put it in the center of his plate. He shook his head at our indulgence and told us that it was better to enjoy just one small thing than stuff yourself silly. In other words, he was very French and we were very American.

It was only the next day that I realized sometimes the French are right.

The Bread Oven Room

As we are planning a short trip to Paris with possibly a to visit Monet's Garden (my idea of course), I have been looking for places to stay in the Vernon area, which is 45 minutes outside of Paris. This email is one of the best I've ever received from a B&B. It helps if you have a small knowledge of French. Here is is the reply I received last night:

Dear XXX

Thank you for your message,
I have the bread oven room available for the 2 nights.
The price is 80 euros per night for 2 persons included breakfast.
I wait for your confirmation.

Sincerely.
Mrs Pain


In case you're still wondering what the heck is so funny, it's the name, Mrs Pain (which means "bread" in French), commenting about her bread oven room. I almost feel like I'm part of a fairy tale here, maybe a French version of Hansel and Gretel would be most appropriate.

Something to see in France

It's been a month since I went to Provence, but I forgot to write about something amazing that I saw.

While I've been to France four times in the last seven years, I had yet to witness a French person being remotely grateful (or even pleasant) to an American, even though without our grandfathers, they'd be speaking German.

So imagine my surprise, to be wandering Arles, only to run into a gigantic rock with 2 American soldiers' pictures on them. Yes. There is an actual monument to honor two Americans. You are not mistaken in what you have just read. The monument honors two Lieutenents who crashed in Arles in 1944 while defending France during WWII. "City of Arles Grateful Recognition, For our liberty," read the stone.

I almost did a double take. But it was real. Of course, it took the city 58 years to bring themselves to admit such a thing (the rock was dedicated in 2002). But even so, that's a big step for the French and I appreciate their efforts.

Never mind being Van Gogh's town, it's the whole rock thing that definitely makes Arles the best city in France, at least for an American looking to soothe their soul a bit after being treated like Merde by the French. I highy recommend it.

Excuse me, does anyone here speak French?

I have to say that overall, the French people are much more pleasant in Provence than in Paris. Most of the people I dealt with in Provence were very friendly and put up with my attempts at the French language in addition to my embarrassing German “Dankes” (which have become unfortunately somewhat automatic no matter what language I am attempting to speak).

Case in point was this woman at the McDonald’s in Avignon. I ordered my breakfast in French, and she knew exactly what I wanted, but when it came to options within my order she would simply bring out the three tea choices for me to point to, instead of having to discuss. Same with the jam options. Each time, I was shown the selection and could point. It was really quite pleasant and very kind of her to make this effort.

My traveling buddy and friend, who speaks excellent German, Chinese and English, but alas, no French, had a bit more difficulty with McDonald’s breakfast menu. So this kind French McDonald’s employee went as far as taking down the huge cardboard sign that hung overhead so my friend could point to exactly what she wanted. If this isn’t hospitality, I don’t know what is.

So the last day of our trip, when I am just about to write in my journal about my misconceptions that all French people hate anyone that isn’t them, we go to an ice cream shop in St. Remy de Provence.

As my friend ordered a citron crepe, I studied the ice cream choices. I was so enthralled with the fact that they might have bubble gum ice cream, (as always, key word being “might”) that I failed to notice that my friend was upset.

The ice cream man had given her a cup of citron ice cream. But she wanted a citron crepe. But she couldn’t express this with anything other than a look of frustration and a “no.” I would have helped her, except my French was not exactly top of mind after two years of German study, not to mention the fact that I was too enamored with the thought of bubble gum to fully focus on the complexity of the situation.

As my friend stood hopeless and upset at her cup of lemon ice cream, the ice cream man, who had obviously grown up in Paris, said to the other people waiting to order in as sarcastic as the French language can get,

“Excuse me, does anyone here speak French?”

A man next to me chimed in with a hearty “Oui.”

So the ice cream man proceeded to help the “Oui” man. Finally after a painful few minutes he got back to my friend, dumping her scoop of citron ice cream back into the tub while his wife got me my bubble gum ice cream with a scowl. So finally my friend did get the crepe she wanted but failed to get a fork and knife with which to eat it with.

“How am I supposed to eat this,” said my friend angrily.

Luckily I knew the word for fork so I said I would get her a fork even though at this point eating with her hands would have been a much more recommended option.

So I went inside and finally the French woman scowled at me.

“Avez vous une forchette?” I said.

“Ooh, UNE FOURchette…” she said, correcting my French pronunciation meanly. But she obviously understood me as she produced a fork along with another scowl.

Needles to say, I left the shop as pissed off as my friend. It’s not like I wasn’t trying to speak their language. What is wrong with these people? After all, if it weren’t for our grandparent’s generation, they’d be speaking German.

As I pictured that possibility, I couldn’t help but smiling as I sampled my ice cream. It was bubble gum after all. And that made it slightly easier to possibly consider forgiveness.