Hills of Priorat
I Awake to old men laughing in the street after leaving the first floor cafe underneath my terrace window. Second floor room. Enter cafe below. Bartender serves as desk clerk. I exchange my key for cafe double and one euro. This is a double espresso with a big packet of sugar if you are to order this in Ohio.
Transportation is an issue now. Tour, tasting, and lunch scheduled at 11:30 in the mountain village of Gratallops. It is now 9:00.
Cut to 1:30 am the evening previous. Walked to train station. Night desk clerk informed me no trains run to Gratallops. Suggests taxi, or potentially bus station. 25 minute walk to other end of Tarragona. Back to bus station. I was here at 4:00 pm. No bus to Gratallops. Walk back to my hotel/cafe on La Placa de la Font.
Return to 9:15 am. Two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Clos de L´Obac. Go to Hertz to rent a a motorcycle or car. 40€. This would shave two days off of my trip. Return to train station across the street to check departures. I am running out of options. Speak in polite Castillian Spanish to ticket agent. A train runs south from Tarragona to Zaragoza at 10:00 am. It stops at Pradell, just 5 km from Gratallops. Sold. Have 45 minutes to kill.
Call Carles Pastrana, my contact at Clos de L´Obac. Arrange to be picked up at Marca Falset station. Pradell stop is an isolated grain elevator far from the bodega. I am wearing a green shirt and tan pants. Carles asks what color my shirt is, but fails to enquire about the tan pants.
Proceed to kill 40 minutes. Internet cafe to check email, blog responses, NyTimes.com, ThisModernWorld.com, and MyEuropeEggTimer.com - otherwise know as my bank account - to pass the time. Leave for train station early. I have been burnt before. The "Layover in Madrid" taught me this lesson.
All goes well. Carles, clad in a faded yet crisp denim shirt, arrives at Marca Falset train station. We engage in spirited discussion concerning the progression of new grape varietals introduced to Priorat, the role of wine critics in his work, and his "open the bottle and let it speak for the wine" philosophy of winemaking. This was the characteristic I admired most in the winemakers I met in Priorat. They viewed their work as that of an artist or philosopher in the medium of grape.
Much as Rodin searched to derive ideal nature of the human form from an unhewn piece of marble the sincere artist winemaker attempts to chisel away to the ideal form of a certain grape removed from the vine for a given period. A craft, centuries old, passed down through the generations by the region´s inhabitants.
Carles was passionate about his wine. "If you make shit wine and critics convince people that shit wine is best and everyone buys it, it is still shit wine." His wonderful 2001 Miserere proves this theory to be true. This was no shit wine. Dust flew from the wheels of the truck as we navagated a tight corner on the way up a steep hill on the way to the bodega. It was in the tasting room of Clos de L´Obac where I was introduced to a young man in a grape stained white t-shirt, sun-scorched arms and purple hands. He had just returned from picking grapes on the finca.
I bid farewell to Carles and headed off down a dusty road with the young man in the grape stained t-shirt. We quickly became friends. I asked him about life as a winemaker. He asked me about life in the United States. This is a common question. The most common question, however, always concerns your opinion regarding the outcome of the upcoming presidential election. For a moment I thought about how I should be back in the United States.
The road led further into the rocky slopes of Priorat to the small picturesque village of Porrera. It was here that I learned the unkempt grape picker who brought me into town was the owner of Cellar Juan Simo. I ended up sorting grapes, making wine, tasting wine and telling stories with he and his six man crew until far into the night.
Cut to 1:15 pm as Gerard Simo and I pull into the small village of Porrera where Cellar Juan Simo and Vall Llach were located. Gerard gets a call on his mobile informing him that he is to meet a wine collector from the US on the village square. His name is Jerry an he is from Cincinnati. I lived there for a time as well.
A television news crew interviews a man in his early 50s wearing jeans and work boots in front of a dry riverbead crossed by a small stone bridge in the center of town. Cincinnati Jerry and I exchange small talk as we wait for the mayor to arrive. Cincinnati Jerry works for GE. We are introduced to the mayor - and winemaker from Vall Llach - after he is finished with his television interview.
You can tell Salustiano Alvarez is the mayor as he says hello to everyone on our way to lunch. We are treated to a traditional Catalan three-course meal. A hearty soup with lentils, chorizo, and lardons is followed by tender pork ribs with roast peppers and a rich tomato sauce. Salustiano proudly discusses the local fare of his city and quickly exchanges the red table wine for a bottle of his 2003 vintage. It was a nice meal finished with roasted nuts, flan, and strong cafe with ample sugar.
A most pleasing excursion followed our meal. Salus, Cincinnati Jerry and myself travel into the mountains where Salus checks the Garnacha to determine if they are ready for harvest. The view is incredible. The steep rocky slopes give life to 80 year old vines straining deep into the earth for the little water allocated to both flora and fauna alike here in Priorat. Salus collects a small plastic bag full of grapes to both taste in the truck on the ride back and examine in the laboratory at the bodega. Cincinnati Jerry and I collect photographs that we will save longer than the wine.
The crew from Juan Simon had still not arrived back from the finca when we returned to Porrera. Jerry returned in his rental car after we share a cafe double with ample sugar. As I finished my cafe the gang stormed into town with a tractor pulling a trailer full of grapes. They washed down the sun with a cold Estrella Damm. A few minutes of rest and we were ready to return to the Bodega and crush the Garnacha.
Over the groan of the auger pushing the stems away from the lucky grapes that make their way past the careful hands of the selection table the crew trade macho jabs at one another to pass the time. As an old man enters the room the number of "mierta" grapes that are thrown on the floor increases drastically. It seems that Gerard´s octogenarian uncle still has some clout in the quality control department at Cellar Juan Simo.
When the work was done and the sun buried deep behind the steep, rocky Hills of Priorat I sat down for an Estrella Damm with the six men who pulled the grapes from the field. This was the time that made traveling worth while for me.
Transportation is an issue now. Tour, tasting, and lunch scheduled at 11:30 in the mountain village of Gratallops. It is now 9:00.
Cut to 1:30 am the evening previous. Walked to train station. Night desk clerk informed me no trains run to Gratallops. Suggests taxi, or potentially bus station. 25 minute walk to other end of Tarragona. Back to bus station. I was here at 4:00 pm. No bus to Gratallops. Walk back to my hotel/cafe on La Placa de la Font.
Return to 9:15 am. Two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Clos de L´Obac. Go to Hertz to rent a a motorcycle or car. 40€. This would shave two days off of my trip. Return to train station across the street to check departures. I am running out of options. Speak in polite Castillian Spanish to ticket agent. A train runs south from Tarragona to Zaragoza at 10:00 am. It stops at Pradell, just 5 km from Gratallops. Sold. Have 45 minutes to kill.
Call Carles Pastrana, my contact at Clos de L´Obac. Arrange to be picked up at Marca Falset station. Pradell stop is an isolated grain elevator far from the bodega. I am wearing a green shirt and tan pants. Carles asks what color my shirt is, but fails to enquire about the tan pants.
Proceed to kill 40 minutes. Internet cafe to check email, blog responses, NyTimes.com, ThisModernWorld.com, and MyEuropeEggTimer.com - otherwise know as my bank account - to pass the time. Leave for train station early. I have been burnt before. The "Layover in Madrid" taught me this lesson.
All goes well. Carles, clad in a faded yet crisp denim shirt, arrives at Marca Falset train station. We engage in spirited discussion concerning the progression of new grape varietals introduced to Priorat, the role of wine critics in his work, and his "open the bottle and let it speak for the wine" philosophy of winemaking. This was the characteristic I admired most in the winemakers I met in Priorat. They viewed their work as that of an artist or philosopher in the medium of grape.
Much as Rodin searched to derive ideal nature of the human form from an unhewn piece of marble the sincere artist winemaker attempts to chisel away to the ideal form of a certain grape removed from the vine for a given period. A craft, centuries old, passed down through the generations by the region´s inhabitants.
Carles was passionate about his wine. "If you make shit wine and critics convince people that shit wine is best and everyone buys it, it is still shit wine." His wonderful 2001 Miserere proves this theory to be true. This was no shit wine. Dust flew from the wheels of the truck as we navagated a tight corner on the way up a steep hill on the way to the bodega. It was in the tasting room of Clos de L´Obac where I was introduced to a young man in a grape stained white t-shirt, sun-scorched arms and purple hands. He had just returned from picking grapes on the finca.
I bid farewell to Carles and headed off down a dusty road with the young man in the grape stained t-shirt. We quickly became friends. I asked him about life as a winemaker. He asked me about life in the United States. This is a common question. The most common question, however, always concerns your opinion regarding the outcome of the upcoming presidential election. For a moment I thought about how I should be back in the United States.
The road led further into the rocky slopes of Priorat to the small picturesque village of Porrera. It was here that I learned the unkempt grape picker who brought me into town was the owner of Cellar Juan Simo. I ended up sorting grapes, making wine, tasting wine and telling stories with he and his six man crew until far into the night.
Cut to 1:15 pm as Gerard Simo and I pull into the small village of Porrera where Cellar Juan Simo and Vall Llach were located. Gerard gets a call on his mobile informing him that he is to meet a wine collector from the US on the village square. His name is Jerry an he is from Cincinnati. I lived there for a time as well.
A television news crew interviews a man in his early 50s wearing jeans and work boots in front of a dry riverbead crossed by a small stone bridge in the center of town. Cincinnati Jerry and I exchange small talk as we wait for the mayor to arrive. Cincinnati Jerry works for GE. We are introduced to the mayor - and winemaker from Vall Llach - after he is finished with his television interview.
You can tell Salustiano Alvarez is the mayor as he says hello to everyone on our way to lunch. We are treated to a traditional Catalan three-course meal. A hearty soup with lentils, chorizo, and lardons is followed by tender pork ribs with roast peppers and a rich tomato sauce. Salustiano proudly discusses the local fare of his city and quickly exchanges the red table wine for a bottle of his 2003 vintage. It was a nice meal finished with roasted nuts, flan, and strong cafe with ample sugar.
A most pleasing excursion followed our meal. Salus, Cincinnati Jerry and myself travel into the mountains where Salus checks the Garnacha to determine if they are ready for harvest. The view is incredible. The steep rocky slopes give life to 80 year old vines straining deep into the earth for the little water allocated to both flora and fauna alike here in Priorat. Salus collects a small plastic bag full of grapes to both taste in the truck on the ride back and examine in the laboratory at the bodega. Cincinnati Jerry and I collect photographs that we will save longer than the wine.
The crew from Juan Simon had still not arrived back from the finca when we returned to Porrera. Jerry returned in his rental car after we share a cafe double with ample sugar. As I finished my cafe the gang stormed into town with a tractor pulling a trailer full of grapes. They washed down the sun with a cold Estrella Damm. A few minutes of rest and we were ready to return to the Bodega and crush the Garnacha.
Over the groan of the auger pushing the stems away from the lucky grapes that make their way past the careful hands of the selection table the crew trade macho jabs at one another to pass the time. As an old man enters the room the number of "mierta" grapes that are thrown on the floor increases drastically. It seems that Gerard´s octogenarian uncle still has some clout in the quality control department at Cellar Juan Simo.
When the work was done and the sun buried deep behind the steep, rocky Hills of Priorat I sat down for an Estrella Damm with the six men who pulled the grapes from the field. This was the time that made traveling worth while for me.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 10:59 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home