Boozehound (33 page)

The first G’Vine gin, Floraison, relied heavily on floral notes. Paul Pacult published a positive four-out-of-five-stars review, but wrote that he wished the distiller would “elevate the alcohol level” and “tone down the floral aspects one notch.” So Robicquet adjusted the recipe for his second gin, the wonderful Nouaison, which has a stronger juniper kick. “Pacult said we needed more juniper and a higher alcohol content. So we gave it to him. We’ve left him no choice but to give us five stars,” Robicquet said, with a wink. Pacult winked back, giving them four stars again in
Spirit Journal
, only this time adding, “if I bestowed half stars, which I don’t, I’d rate Nouaison Four and a Half.” D’oh!

But the gin market was swiftly becoming saturated, and Robicquet was already brainstorming in different spirit categories. “All the know-how is grouped here in Cognac,” he said. “People here know how to distill, how to bottle, how to express the greatest qualities of a product. If they can do it with cognac, there’s no reason why they can’t do it with any other spirit.”

During my visit, Robicquet was checking out an experiment involving merlot grape flowers. After several attempts, he’d finally been able to extract the flavor he wanted. The success moved him nearly to tears, and he broke out champagne for his staff. “What will you do with this?” I asked. “Make another vodka?”

“No,” he said.

“A gin?”

“No.”

“An aperitif?”

“Who knows?” he said. “Something new.”

A year later, I would meet him at Tales of the Cocktail. He would be presenting a tequila, in partnership with Carlos Camarena of El Tesoro, in which the tequila has been aged in Sauternes and cognac casks. A French tequila?

While in Cognac for La Part des Anges, I visited one day with Patrick Peyrelongue, the president of Delamain Cognac. Delamain is located in the small town of Jarnac, along the Charente River. A telltale black fungus that lives on cognac vapors coats most of the building facades as you walk the narrow streets.

Peyrelongue took me on a tour of his cellars. The key to making cognac, like many spirits, is in aging and blending. Delamain, like most houses, buys barrels of wine or eau-de-vie from growers, like the Rebouls. As with Calvados and its Pays d’Auge, Cognac has a sweet spot region within its AOC called Grand Champagne, and Delamain only uses wine from grapes grown in Grand Champagne. At a certain stage, the casks are sealed with red wax and locked in a room with two keys, one for the distiller and another for the BNIC (
Bureau National Interprofessionnel du Cognac
), the authority that governs the cognac industry. “I cannot get into my own casks,” Peyrelongue said.

Peyrelongue popped open a cask dating from 1952 that was not locked up and poured me a glass. I tasted in the cool cellar. It was unbelievably smooth, and the hard-to-place rancio flavor and character were unmistakable. And it hadn’t even had a chance to open up yet. “That’s the magic of cognac,” he said. “Early on, you take an undrinkable wine, and then you age it in a barrel. And fifty years later, you have a cognac like this. With a glass like this, you can spend a whole evening with it, warming it, smelling it, seeing how it changes. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to find a cognac like this, unless you want to pay so much money.”

In his office, we tasted through much of Delamain’s portfolio. The youngest cognac they release is an XO, which averages twenty-five years or more in the barrel. Consider that for a moment: even a cognac that has aged for two decades would not be ready for that blend. “It’s still too young for us. Too much wood still,” Peyrelongue said. Then we moved on to the Très Vénérable. “Very delicate, like a flower. When women say, ‘Oh, I don’t like cognac, it burns.’ I tell them to try a glass of this.”

“How much is this cognac?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Peyrelongue said, with a dismissive wave.

“No, really,” I said. “What price do you sell this for?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Now, for the record, I can tell you that the Delamain XO goes for about $100 and the Très Vénérable for about $250. Why I can find that in three seconds on Google but the president of the company didn’t know is a mystery. Peyrelongue’s indifference to price continued to bother me for the rest of my visit to Cognac.

On the afternoon before the auction, Delamain’s neighbor in Jarnac, giant Courvoisier, held a press conference to unveil its L’Essence de Courvoisier, which would go on sale in only one store in the world, Harrods of London, for £1,800 (about $2,850). I immediately texted my editor: “Hey, Courvoisier’s showing off a cognac that costs £1,800. Can I expense one?”

“Yeah, sure,” he very snidely texted back. “Why not pick up two?”

Meanwhile, the crowd was gushing over the Baccarat crystal decanter suspended on a metal hoop. “Look at the bottle! How gorgeous!”

“But what about the liquid inside?” I asked.

“It doesn’t really seem to matter,” grumbled one of the other journalists. This is my main beef with expensive cognac in particular. Much of the perceived value is in the limited edition crystal decanter, with designs by Baccarat or Erté or Sèvres or whatever.

There is a delusional aspect to the cognac category’s marketing, with its air of unattainable affluence and sophistication on one hand, and on the other, its dogged attempts to connect cognac with the general consumer. Only an hour before the unveiling of L’Essence de Courvoisier, the master distiller told me that Courvoisier Exclusif, which retails at around $45 to $50, was the best for mixing and that “bartenders like to use it behind the bar.” First of all, there are definitely better mixing cognacs than this at the same price, or cheaper. But beyond that, if I want an affordable alternative, I can use a good brandy from somewhere else—say, a $25 Asbach Uralt from Germany or the best Spanish brandies at around $30—to mix in a Sidecar or a Stinger. When I suggested noncognac brandy alternatives to the representative for BNIC, the cognac authority, he said, “Ouch.”

This is not a knock on cognac, which I enjoy very much. But the cold, hard reality is that good cognac is expensive. An investment, really. But at what return?

I don’t know if I got any answers that night at the big La Part des Anges auction. The affair was black-tie—though in my case and the case of the other journalists in attendance, black-tie meant “wear a jacket for god’s sake, and just don’t embarrass yourself!”

The affair was on the banks of the Charente River, and boats ferried people across to the party. The Summit cocktail was served outside, amid dancing water, a string quartet, fireworks, and a shirtless man who danced with fire. Then we all went inside a gigantic tent for dinner and an auction. Through dinner, I was sitting with some people from Rémy Martin, a local car dealership, and the owners of a local bed-and-breakfast. But then, oddly, some condensation formed on the tent above me, and it started “raining” inside—on my head.

So as the auction was beginning, I decamped to another table, where some fellow writers were sitting with Alexandre Gabriel, the president of Pierre Ferrand. Gabriel’s American wife, Debbie, laughed at me over the rain at my table, and said, “You’re like Charlie Brown!”

More than a dozen cognacs went for more than $1,000 that night. I witnessed a Dupuy Folle Blanche sell for €2,700, a forty-year-old Delamain for €3,000, a 1975 Hine for €3,200, the Frapin Très Vieille Grande for €5,000. Martell in a crystal decanter painted with twenty-carat gold got snapped up for €5,500.

During the bidding, Gabriel had opened up a very special bottle of Pierre Ferrand, the seventy-year-old Ancestrale, and poured a few of us a glass. This was a real pour, too, not like the usual quarter-ounce pours that we usually do professional tastings with. This was a true glassful, to drink. And after about half an hour, another glass. Ancestrale does not have the pedigree of, say, the cognacs that were being auctioned at La Part des Anges, but it’s certainly no slouch. If you find it for sale, it’s usually got a price tag north of seven hundred dollars. Of course, being a professional, I’m happy to answer your questions about it. Was it amazing? Yes. Impossible to describe? Yes. Worth it? Hmm … that’s not so straightforward.

Finally, a silly statue of an angel sold for €4,000, and the auction was over. No dancing afterward. No more drinks. Just
adieu, bonsoir
! “Well, it’s not Paris,” someone said. Gabriel could see that the journalists’ night, however, was probably not over. There was still about half the bottle of Ancestrale left, so he asked me if I wanted to take it with me. “Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “And I must be drunk. Because I’ve never given a bottle of Ancestrale to anyone that I’ve just met. But you seem like a man of good taste.”

At that, I nearly doubled over with laughter. If you only knew, sir, I thought. Yes, dear reader, it’s been quite a long, boozy road from my suburban Jersey youth to being the sort of man to be trusted with a bottle of seven-hundred-dollar cognac. Even here, having had my job for three years, and being looked to as some sort of expert on the topic of booze, I still felt like an imposter. I still felt like that kid sneaking a bottle of sambuca out of my parents’ cabinet.

I shook hands with Gabriel, tucked the bottle under my coat, and walked out of the tent. I crossed the bridge over the Charente and stepped onto the bus that would take all of the journalists back to the town of Cognac. I settled into my seat and opened up my coat. Yes, to my disbelief, I was still sitting there with a bottle of seventy-year-old cognac. In Cognac. Every once in a while, I have a moment like this, when I need to pinch myself in wonder if this is really my life.

So what did I do? Well, old habits die hard. Dear reader, I popped that Ancestrale open and took a big, big swig—straight from the bottle. And then I smiled and took another one. Then I saw one of my fellow journalists sitting next to me looking very, very jealous. So, of course, what else could I do? I passed the bottle across the aisle. “Cheers,” I said. Before long, it was all gone.

A Round of Drinks:
Apple of My Eye

Says Christian Drouin, Calvados producer, “I am always amazed when I go into a bar in the United States and the man or woman behind the bar takes my product, thinks for a few minutes, and then makes a cocktail on the spot. And usually the result is very interesting.”

APPLE BRANDY OLD-FASHIONED

Serves 1

This drink wonderfully showcases your choice of apple brandy. Whether you use a Calvados or a domestic product such as Laird’s apple brandy or Clear Creek Eau-de-Vie de Pomme, the spirit’s unique characteristics and flavor profile will come through
.

1 teaspoon pure maple syrup

2 dashes Angostura bitters

2 ounces apple brandy

Combine the maple syrup and bitters in an old-fashioned glass, then add the apple brandy and 2 or 3 ice cubes. Stir gently for 10 seconds.

Adapted from a recipe by Misty Kalkofen of Green Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts

DELLA MELA

Serves 1

This drink features the brown, bitter, orange–flavored Italian soda called chinotto, which turns out to be a perfect companion for apple brandy. It allows for a wonderful, uncloying apple flavor to come through and smoothes out the brandy’s rougher edges
.

4 ounces chinotto soda, preferably San Pellegrino brand

1½ ounces apple brandy or applejack

1 thin orange slice, for garnish