The a.n.a.logy to parenthood is axiomatic, but it is no less true, and you see it again and again. Take Paulo Cinquin, for instance. He is a sixtyish, tough-talking, illusionless reformed hippie, distinguished by a huge shock of graying black hair, piercing ice blue eyes and the impatient, no-nonsense manner of a CEO who would fire his own mother for the good of the company-but he insists on growing the seedlings himself for his vines in Regnie, and every year at harvest time he sleeps for ten to twelve nights in his cellar to keep constant watch over the baby wine bubbling away in his vats.

And then there was Saint Joseph. Joseph Boulon he was by the administrative records, but his intemperate, some might have said dissolute ways-he enjoyed a touch of the grape-had gained him the angelic sobriquet. His place of business was a remarkably unkempt farm-vineyard in Corcelles-en-Beaujolais, complete with the wooden shoes, the picture-postcard slothful cat and the imperialistic rooster strutting at liberty. In spite of or because of the disorder, Saint Joseph had the talent for producing, year in and year out, a perfect Beaujolais that caused envy kilometers around. When I first plunged into the penumbra of his caveau, caveau, I discovered a meager, gaunt little man in a sweaty undershirt with a Gauloise dangling from his lip, seated next to a gas-fed s.p.a.ce heater whose orange glow was directed against the wall of a big storage vat containing an important part of his newly fermented wine. I discovered a meager, gaunt little man in a sweaty undershirt with a Gauloise dangling from his lip, seated next to a gas-fed s.p.a.ce heater whose orange glow was directed against the wall of a big storage vat containing an important part of his newly fermented wine.

"Il a la fievre," Boulon said. He's got a fever. Boulon said. He's got a fever.

I never did get the news about how well or how quickly Baby 1978 recovered from its infant catarrh, but if anyone could have pulled that batch back to health, I am confident that it would have been Joseph Boulon. It was people like him who const.i.tuted the first basic address book-a few dozen names-that underpinned the young Duboeuf's early steps in the business of buying and selling the wines of the Beaujolais. There would be a lot more of them in the future, along with a modic.u.m of twists, turns and detours on the path to success, and it was not until he had reached the age of thirty-one that the company called Les Vins Georges Duboeuf came into official existence.

That did not mean, though, that he wasn't keeping himself busy- au contraire, he never stopped. But he did slow down a bit in 1957, just long enough to persuade Rolande, the pretty, dynamic baker's daughter in Julienas, that she would be better off as his wife. Rolande knew plenty about wine because her mother's family were vignerons who produced their own Julienas. When her father wasn't baking baguettes and croissants, he tended his own little vineyard, too. And there was something else, something unusual about her character: she was the only person in the world who was willing to work as hard and as long as Georges Duboeuf. Well, almost as hard and long.

VII.

ONE OF US.

A CHAMPION FOR THE BEAUJOLAIS.

The Beaujolais harvest was small in 1957, a mere 240,000 hectoliters (the vines had suffered from the hail and deep frosts of the previous year), but the quality was excellent. Things were coming along nicely that year for young Georges Duboeuf, too.

At twenty-four he was just out of the army and freshly married to Rolande. He and his bride had set up in a wing of the family house in Chaintre, and the Duboeuf Freres Pouilly-Fuisse was selling well. His head was full of addresses for splendid wines both red and white, and thanks to Paul Blanc, he was becoming more and more widely known in French restaurant circles as a courtier courtier (wine scout or broker) of unusual talent. He had already been selling to Lichine for a couple of years when he and Rolande loaded the Citroen Tube with six hundred bottles of Pouilly-Fuisse and a mattress and clattered off across the Ma.s.sif Central to make his first personal delivery to Bordeaux. The great man wanted to meet him at home in his fiefdom. (wine scout or broker) of unusual talent. He had already been selling to Lichine for a couple of years when he and Rolande loaded the Citroen Tube with six hundred bottles of Pouilly-Fuisse and a mattress and clattered off across the Ma.s.sif Central to make his first personal delivery to Bordeaux. The great man wanted to meet him at home in his fiefdom.

Georges had no idea what to expect when he was ushered into Lichine's office, and so, logically enough, he began by speaking about his Pouilly-Fuisse. Lichine said no, let's not bother with that. I'm busy with journalists and distributors this afternoon, but we have to talk. This evening you'll come to dinner at the Prieure, and you'll spend the night at Chateau Las...o...b..s. I've got a nice room for you. The scene was like a general interviewing a newly arrived private. Refusal was out of the question for Georges, all the more so since he and Rolande had been expecting to spend the night in the back of the Tube after liberating it of its bottles. That was why they had packed the mattress.

Lichine was no dummy. He already knew all about the excellence of the Pouilly-Fuisse from Chaintre, and he had been hearing a lot about the talents of this Duboeuf boy. Now, sizing him up in person at dinner, he listened intently as Georges described his custom bottling operation. Even for an illusionless old pro like Lichine, hearing Duboeuf expatiate about wine was an impressive and edifying experience. "Georges," he exclaimed, "that's exactly what I'm looking for! You're going to handle the Beaujolais and Maconnais for me. You go to the domains, bottle the stuff and send it to me in Bordeaux. I'll put the labels on and sell it. I only want domain wines-Moulin-a-Vent and Fleurie to start with, along with Pouilly-Fuisse. After that, we'll see."

The delivery of those six hundred bottles turned into a two-day sojourn in Margaux, during which Georges took the full atomic blast of Lichine's hospitality, charm and salesmanship. Bordeaux-the money, the sophistication, the power-was dazzlingly different, miles above the little peasant world of the Beaujolais-Maconnais. For Georges, that first visit was a commercial coup de foudre coup de foudre (love at first sight), as if destiny had meant him to work with Lichine. An entire new universe of business prospects was dancing in his head when he and Rolande took their leave of Prieure-Lichine. (love at first sight), as if destiny had meant him to work with Lichine. An entire new universe of business prospects was dancing in his head when he and Rolande took their leave of Prieure-Lichine.

That night, the Duboeufs parked the Tube in a village in the Ma.s.sif Central and bedded down on the mattress. When Georges awoke the next morning and, scratching and yawning, slid open the Citroen's door, he found that they were installed smack in the middle of the town's open-air market, making an embarra.s.sing new attraction of themselves for early morning shoppers, between a butcher and a fishmonger. It was a salutary humbling after the glitter and luxury of Margaux, and a reminder: there was a lot of work to be done.

Over the next years Georges scouted so perspicaciously in the Beaujolais that a second promotion arrived: Lichine asked him to expand the operation and do the same throughout the whole of Burgundy. This unlikely collaboration of contrasting Franco-American temperaments was to last for a couple of decades, enriching both men and bonding the two in a solid friendship that lasted until Lichine's death in 1989. Most importantly for Georges, it established a first-cla.s.s reputation for him among wine distribution professionals. Although he remained virtually anonymous to the wine-buying public in America during most of that period (while the labels were all Lichine's), the people who ordered and sold Burgundy and Beaujolais knew where it was coming from. When Lichine reoriented his operation to concentrate on Bordeaux wines alone, the distributors were already primed for Georges to step right in and take his place with Beaujolais wines, now under the Duboeuf label.

As yet, though, all that was in the future. For the moment, as he and Rolande motored homeward, east-northeast over the twisting roads of Central France, Georges' business was still a shoestring operation, about as small as one could be: himself as wine prospector and bottler, Rolande as wife, a.s.sistant and all-purpose factotum. When Georges ran the bottling machinery, it was Rolande in her blue workman's blouse who watched over the bottle-washing apparatus. When Georges was off scouting and tasting, she handled the phone, accounting and billing; and when they began hiring, it was Rolande who washed the employees' work clothes and cracked the whip to encourage them to work as hard as Georges and herself. Or maybe just half as hard; that would be enough.

The French were still drinking about 150 bottles of wine a year per capita in those days, and it was a comfortable seller's market-a good time to be in the wine business, then, but that didn't mean it couldn't be improved. Georges had an idea, one that he had been caressing for several years. It centered on the pot Beaujolais, pot Beaujolais, the graceful, thick-bottomed gla.s.s carafe containing exactly forty-six centiliters of gamay wine, mandatory accompaniment to the exertions of the graceful, thick-bottomed gla.s.s carafe containing exactly forty-six centiliters of gamay wine, mandatory accompaniment to the exertions of boules boules players, source of inspiration for countless hacks, poets and dreamers in bars in and around Lyon, the very one that the abbe Augustin Ponosse always emptied like an honest man as he made his parochial rounds in Clochemerle. Why not, Georges reasoned, sell Beaujolais in a bottle shaped like the players, source of inspiration for countless hacks, poets and dreamers in bars in and around Lyon, the very one that the abbe Augustin Ponosse always emptied like an honest man as he made his parochial rounds in Clochemerle. Why not, Georges reasoned, sell Beaujolais in a bottle shaped like the pot pot? His innate sense of commerce told him that the novelty would be a hit with the wine-buying public, and events were to prove him entirely right. In 1957, though, there was a problem: no such bottle existed, and it would cost a lot of money to have one made.

The amount Georges needed to get the bottle made was 500,000 old francs, or somewhat less than $2,000. For any well-established company, or just a normally prosperous private citizen, raising that amount of money would have posed no particular problem, but even so, $2,000 was not a negligible sum in 1957. Considering inflation and the inevitable debas.e.m.e.nt of currencies over the years, its value would be at least ten times greater than today. It would have covered, for instance, a year's tuition at an Ivy League college of the time, or bought a quite respectable new car.

Georges drew a sketch of his ideal bottle, compromising with the realities of commerce by bringing its capacity up from forty-six centiliters to half a liter, and took it to several of the gla.s.s manufacturers who had plants around the wine area. All of them but one, a little company in Chalon-sur-Saone, turned him away with more or less polite expressions of refusal: not worth it, no market for it. The company in Chalon at least took him seriously enough to quote him the 500,000 franc figure, but the matter was pretty much academic, because Georges didn't have anything close to that amount of cash. He did did have enough money, though, to pay a local craftsman to turn him a wooden demo model of the bottle on his lathe. That was step one. Step two was obviously to round up the funds, but the banks weren't lenders in those tight-credit days before free-flowing commerce. There was another way-the old way, the same informal, clannish Beaujolais solidarity system that had allowed him to make his early deliveries with Constant Charbonnier's Juva 4. Georges went to see Le Pere Vermorel. have enough money, though, to pay a local craftsman to turn him a wooden demo model of the bottle on his lathe. That was step one. Step two was obviously to round up the funds, but the banks weren't lenders in those tight-credit days before free-flowing commerce. There was another way-the old way, the same informal, clannish Beaujolais solidarity system that had allowed him to make his early deliveries with Constant Charbonnier's Juva 4. Georges went to see Le Pere Vermorel.

Fittingly enough, Old Man Vermorel lived in Vaux-Clochemerle itself. I've heard Georges tell the story of Pere Vermorel more than once, and each time, unfailingly, his voice takes on a dreamy, tender tone as he remembers the time and the man, because everything he loves about his native land is reflected in the duality of person and place as it was that afternoon: the steep, snaking climb up Vaux's rue Gabriel Chevallier, the church with its ma.s.sive square clock tower and Romanesque portal, the boulodrome, boulodrome, the little bistro Chez la Jeanne, between the bakery and the chateau-and, of course, Old Man Vermorel. If anyone could advise him on how to get his bottle done, he would be the one. the little bistro Chez la Jeanne, between the bakery and the chateau-and, of course, Old Man Vermorel. If anyone could advise him on how to get his bottle done, he would be the one.

"He was extraordinary: a perfect vigneron's face, round, red-cheeked and mustachioed, a straw boater on his head and a cellar master's ap.r.o.n over his belly. He had a house up on the ridge overlooking Vaux, and his wife was a former schoolteacher. Monsieur Vermorel was the village sage, like the unofficial priest or mayor. People used to come and consult him for advice on family matters, inheritances and the like. He would receive them up on his terrace, and then after having a talk you would always go down and drink a canon canon with him at La Jeanne's place. with him at La Jeanne's place.

"So we talked and I had my drink with him and we talked some more, and that was all there was to it. A few weeks later I got a letter from him with his check for 500,000 francs. 'Get your bottle made,' he wrote. 'Pay me back whenever you can.' And that's how I started my business."

With that, the Duboeuf couple left Chaintre for new quarters in the village of Romaneche-Thorins, squeezed between the slopes of Moulin-a-Vent and the N. 6 main highway. Georges had his bottle made, patented the design and ordered the first consignment. It was then, late in 1957, that he had an uncharacteristically bad idea-or, rather, a very nice idea that proved disastrously impossible to carry out.

L'ecrin Maconnais-Beaujolais, he called it-the Macon-Beaujolais Showcase. Reasoning that his years of prospecting had acquainted him with the best that the region had to offer, he persuaded forty-five top vignerons to join him in a hybrid joint venture (essentially a winegrowers' union, the first ever in the Beaujolais) for commercializing their wines. On paper, it looked perfect: the best vignerons, the best wines and a dynamic young man-a peasant and vigneron himself, not a bourgeois like the dealers whose arrogant ways had humiliated their caste for so long-to sell them. Georges would put the skill of his nose and palate to the task of selecting the best of each man's vats, come around with his equipment to bottle them, then label and sell them with the individual vigneron's name, under the Showcase logo.

The promise of the name on the label signified a recognition and legitimation of a sort that had never occurred before in the Beaujolais, certainly not for the smallholders that Georges had discovered in his wanderings. My wine, my name-my ident.i.ty. Vigneron pride of personal accomplishment had never been taken into account before, but Georges saw it day after day as he sniffed, tasted, spat and entered into erudite discussions of yeasts, temperatures, fermentations, fungi, phases of the moon, rainfall, the north wind and all the other countless imponderables that each winegrower juggled in his own way to give birth to the expression of his talent and care that came once a year and once only-his sole professional chance to say: this is me. Considering how systematically and for how long the gamay grape and Beaujolais wines had been held in contempt by their wealthy confreres to the north and west, their sense of affronted dignity was all that much stronger. From his first juvenile turns of the grape crusher's crank, the winemaking experience had taught Georges to never underestimate the motivating power of peasant pride. For the vignerons who signed up with L'ecrin, L'ecrin, the personalized labels meant respect long overdue; and the prospect of their wines being sold to the widening list of restaurants clamoring for the Duboeuf super-selection was very much like a consecration. the personalized labels meant respect long overdue; and the prospect of their wines being sold to the widening list of restaurants clamoring for the Duboeuf super-selection was very much like a consecration.

"In a way, you could say that the dealers in the old days acted like medieval lords," Georges reflected some years back as he thought back on his early days in the trade. "The peasant winegrowers were in a hopelesssituation with them. As a winegrower myself, I revolted, and I was right to do it."

Georges always keeps a little supply of jotting paper or index cards in his shirt pocket to note down ideas and reminders, and his progress on the climb from zero to becoming the region's top dealer and most widely respected wine expert can be traced directly back to these little slips of paper. One that he jotted down for himself was a personal code of conduct. It offers a revealing peek at the altar boy scruples that never quite abandoned him in adulthod. Eventually he had it printed out in black-and-white: * * Never trick or deceive a vigneron, especially if he is naive. Never trick or deceive a vigneron, especially if he is naive. * * Never humiliate him, especially if he is of modest means. Never humiliate him, especially if he is of modest means. * * Always give him the respect that he and his wines deserve. Always give him the respect that he and his wines deserve.

Words of that sort that can sound dangerously hokey or meretricious in the cut-and-thrust world of modern business-after all, the eternal rule of all business everywhere is to buy low and sell high, and entire advertising and PR staffs are hired to disguise or sugar that central fact- but Duboeuf is dead serious. He speaks with such grave sincerity that it would require a misanthrope of Olympic-level cynicism to doubt him. The forty-five vignerons of ecrin ecrin sensed the same thing as Paul Blanc, Lichine and all the others who dealt with him over any length of time. It was the George Washington syndrome: Georges Duboeuf could not tell a lie. sensed the same thing as Paul Blanc, Lichine and all the others who dealt with him over any length of time. It was the George Washington syndrome: Georges Duboeuf could not tell a lie.

The vignerons believed him, and they believed in in him, in spite of his youth. His energy and dedication were impressive, he was a straight talker, and he had good ideas: his new bottle, the him, in spite of his youth. His energy and dedication were impressive, he was a straight talker, and he had good ideas: his new bottle, the pot, pot, was a beauty, already widely praised by the restaurant trade. In short, everything augured well for the new a.s.sociation when it got under way. That was the theory, anyway. Unfortunately, practice didn't follow theory, and the was a beauty, already widely praised by the restaurant trade. In short, everything augured well for the new a.s.sociation when it got under way. That was the theory, anyway. Unfortunately, practice didn't follow theory, and the ecrin ecrin proved to be a quixotic bust. No sooner had Georges swung his little troop into action than he got that sinking feeling and began to realizewhat experience ought to have taught him already: each one of the forty-five vignerons was in love with his own wine and expected it to be promoted with the utmost vigor, sold first and in greater quant.i.ty than the others. Manager of the operation, Georges took the blame when it didn't happen. proved to be a quixotic bust. No sooner had Georges swung his little troop into action than he got that sinking feeling and began to realizewhat experience ought to have taught him already: each one of the forty-five vignerons was in love with his own wine and expected it to be promoted with the utmost vigor, sold first and in greater quant.i.ty than the others. Manager of the operation, Georges took the blame when it didn't happen.

For three exhausting years he plugged along in the three separate functions that he had a.s.sumed for himself: selecting his wines batch by batch; bottling them at the property; then trying to sell them equitably, giving each member of the a.s.sociation equal time and attention and paying each producer individually according to the number of his bottles sold. His brainstorm was going nicely, too-by the third year of activity he'd reached the magic plateau of a million bottles of ecrin ecrin wine sold. That should have made everybody happy, but it didn't. The multiple, cross-referenced system that Georges had invented was complicated to begin with, but the hurt feelings, the jealousies and the suggestions of favoritism that it generated increased the complications exponentially. wine sold. That should have made everybody happy, but it didn't. The multiple, cross-referenced system that Georges had invented was complicated to begin with, but the hurt feelings, the jealousies and the suggestions of favoritism that it generated increased the complications exponentially.

"Vignerons will be vignerons," said Georges with a fatalistic shrug. "They quarreled then the way they quarrel now. Nothing's changed. Everyone wanted to be first. Chiroubles thought I was favoring Morgon, and Morgon didn't like what I was doing for Fleurie. And so on and so on."

Finally it was all too much. The unantic.i.p.ated fourth function of playing nanny to a querulous pack of Gallic artistes artistes of winemaking overwhelmed his patience and gifts for diplomacy. He threw up his hands and resigned. By 1961 the of winemaking overwhelmed his patience and gifts for diplomacy. He threw up his hands and resigned. By 1961 the ecrin ecrin was finished. was finished.

It was time for a serious reappraisal. At age twenty-seven, his worldly advantages were several: a dwelling house and a grime-sided old workshop building with adjacent storage sheds in Romaneche-Thorins, purchased three years earlier for the ecrin ecrin; a devoted, industrious wife, baby daughter Fabienne and newborn son Franck; the beat-up Citroen Tube; a fat address book for top-level wines; the Lichine connection; the unanimous respect of Beaujolais and Maconnais vignerons; and the placement of his wines in an enviably high number of prestigious restaurants throughout France. A nice little niche. A man could live comfortably enough with that.

Circ.u.mstances, though, were not shaping up for Georges Duboeuf to remain in a little niche. For one thing, Paul Bocuse had come into his life. The future emperor of French cuisine had not even earned his first Michelin star yet-that was to come in 1962, followed a year later by a second one and then, in 1965, by the third-but it was inevitable that Paul Blanc's grapevine would finally lead Georges to the Lyon suburb of Collonges-au-Mont-d'Or, home of this force of nature seven years his senior and infinitely more schooled by natural inclination in the art of public relations, publicity and the care and handling of the press.

Paul Bocuse had always carried a lot of s.p.a.ce around with him: big personality, big aura. Apart from his unsurpa.s.sed native talent for the preparation and presentation of food, he also possessed a sunny, sybaritic disposition, prodigious reserves of energy and an easy, unforced charisma. In many ways he was Duboeuf's opposite: a robust, spontaneous, frequently brash extrovert and something of a h.e.l.ler where Georges was careful, meticulous, reserved, reined-in. But each man sensed the uncommon human and professional qualities of the other, and the comradeship that developed between them was virtually instantaneous. Best friends, they would soon be roaming the world together with their wives, on vacations that were partly professional inspection and comparison tours (restaurants, vineyards), partly establishing business contacts and partly the simple pleasures of ground-level ethnology among the mysterious inhabitants in enormous automobiles and wooden houses on the other side of the Atlantic: Bocuse fastidiously peeling a hot dog with his Opinel pocketknife; Duboeuf sticking his learned nose into a gla.s.s of foxy New York State wine and keeping a straight face.

Naturally, Bocuse stocked his wine cellar with a range of Duboeuf Beaujolais and maintained it there right through and into his ascension to the gastronomic firmament of three Michelin stars. This was relatively unusual. Many three-star restaurants considered the prestige level (and the profit potential) of the wine of the gamay grape to be below their lofty standards. The old prejudices hang on hard.

Where Bocuse led, others followed. His enthusiastic endors.e.m.e.nt spread Duboeuf wines beyond Paul Blanc's network into his own more extensive one, the elite world of France's haute cuisine establishment, then around Europe, and eventually America and j.a.pan, too, because this was a man of singular influence. More and more frequently now, Duboeuf's name was appearing on wine lists of serious restaurants everywhere. Clients liked the prices, liked the look of the elegant oval labels Georges had designed and, most of all, liked what they were drinking. The news got around.

But there was more: it was one thing when Bocuse pa.s.sed the word to his fellow chefs-the likes of Jean and Pierre Troisgros, Roger Verge, Michel Guerard, Paul Haeberlin-but quite another when he corralled and oriented the herds of international journalists who flocked to Collonges-au-Mont-d'Or, eager to meet this chef whom everyone was talking about and who, before long, would be known as one of the princ.i.p.al founders of the movement called nouvelle cuisine. Majestic in his brilliant white, floor-length ap.r.o.n, his high starched toque (chef's hat) and his imperial manner, Bocuse force-fed them poulet en vessie poulet en vessie and and loup en croute loup en croute, poured Brouilly down their throats until they gagged with pleasure, then sent them on to Romaneche-Thorins to meet the man he was already describing as le roi du Beaujolais le roi du Beaujolais (the king of Beaujolais). (the king of Beaujolais).

"Formidable!" Paul would exclaim. "Extraordinaire!" Off the scriveners went, and for the first time there was an opportunity for them to write about the personality Georges Duboeuf himself and not just the wines he sold. A short exposure to the man made it obvious that Bocuse's recommendation was not a line of bogus goods, but they found it too frustratingly difficult to make good striking copy from this Duboeuf guy. At the time, he was a mere courtier, courtier, a small operator compared to the major a small operator compared to the major negociants negociants, so there was no particular money angle to write about. He wasn't funny and outrageous like Bocuse, so the eccentricity angle didn't work, either. Deprived of easy outs, the press usually fell back on the wines. Some of the more discerning ones even picked up on an interesting phenomenon lying just over the horizon: the growing popularity of the new wine, the one that the growers called primeur. primeur. But the real story of Georges Duboeuf-his intelligence, his encyclopedic knowledge of wine, his pa.s.sionate love for the Beaujolais countryside, his quiet determination, the sense of ethics and esthetics that gripped him, his essential role as advisor to vignerons, his prodigious capacity for work, the almost painful sincerity that drove him-remained largely undiscovered. But the real story of Georges Duboeuf-his intelligence, his encyclopedic knowledge of wine, his pa.s.sionate love for the Beaujolais countryside, his quiet determination, the sense of ethics and esthetics that gripped him, his essential role as advisor to vignerons, his prodigious capacity for work, the almost painful sincerity that drove him-remained largely undiscovered.

When the journalists left, Georges turned back to work, as usual. The more he had, the more new work developed. He began hiring his first personnel well before age thirty-a few warehous.e.m.e.n, drivers and freight handlers, others to man the bottling line-but the specializations were very much open-ended. As often with young enterprises, everyone did a bit of everything, including the boss, and what they didn't know they learned by improvising.

"He took me on even though I didn't have any qualifications," said Jean Bererd, a seventy-five-year-old retired vigneron from Le Perreon who in 1962 became one of Georges' earliest employees after he threw his back out defying gravity as he clung to his winch plow on the steep slopes of the climb up to Vaux-en-Beaujolais. I met Bererd in company with his son Bruno, forty, in the handsome salon-style caveau caveau of his house, a few dozen yards behind the church in Le Perreon. As usual-as always with the vignerons of the Beaujolais-one of the first subjects to arise was Duboeuf's legendary capacity for work. of his house, a few dozen yards behind the church in Le Perreon. As usual-as always with the vignerons of the Beaujolais-one of the first subjects to arise was Duboeuf's legendary capacity for work.

"He was always in the office before anybody else, of course, and stayed much later, too-really an exceptional worker. When the bottling line broke down, we went to see him and he came and fixed it himself-took off his jacket, fixed it, then went back to the office for more paperwork, or out to the vineyards to taste more wine. He was like that all the time. Never stopped.

"He was young, but he was born to lead, not follow. That's why he left the ecrin ecrin. You could see it immediately-a very big personality. We liked him a lot. He knew how to motivate people without ever raising his voice. Rolande, she did raise her voice sometimes, but she kept on us. She was everywhere. Strong, tough woman. She worked almost as hard as he did."

"Aw, Duboeuf's just a normal guy," cracked Bruno. "He's twice as old as me, so he works twice as hard."

From the very first day of his career-that seminal meeting with Paul Blanc in Thoissey-Georges had recognized a special kinship with restaurant professionals, particularly chefs. Almost unfailingly, the natural complementarity of wine and food was reflected in the relations between the men and women who had built their lives around either discipline; the kitchen and the cellar understood and respected each other immediately and instinctively, without need for the conventional diplomatic niceties and mannerisms that are de rigueur in most sectors of French society. With the Michelin red restaurant guide his indispensable companion as he delivered bottles and took away empties, Georges frequented a good number of the elite of the French culinary establishment and bonded effortlessly with them: fellow artisans on their way up in the world. None of them gave him more work in those early days than Jean Ducloux, owner and chef of the wonderful two-star restaurant Greuze in the riverside city of Tournus, twenty miles north of Macon.

He was a case, this Ducloux, an authentic character of the Beaujolais-Burgundy region, a brusque, no-nonsense, hustling entrepreneur of the old school who had been everywhere and done everything in a cooking career that had begun on the day he turned thirteen. He had a voice like a foghorn, a pugnacious in-your-face manner, a command of slang like a French version of a Damon Runyon character, and a jet-black wig covering the pate that had gone bald overnight after he lived through the terror of discovering himself in the middle of the impact zone of an American bombardment of Lyon in 1944. Ducloux had built up a thriving catering business that he ran simultaneously with his very traditional Escoffier-style restaurant, and his specialty was feeding gourmet meals to large-often very large-numbers of diners. Wherever a lot of people wanted to sit down and eat together, Ducloux was prepared to go there and feed them. Equipped with an army surplus field kitchen left over from World War I, a jeep to pull it and a small fleet of accompanying trucks, he led gastronomic caravans that crept at 25 mph through the Burgundy countryside like a circus, trailing fragrances of onion soup, roast veal and snails in garlic, b.u.t.ter and parsley. In young Georges Duboeuf he found his preferred purveyor of wine, because Georges' Beaujolais and Pouilly-Fuisse were authentic gems of the region, reasonably priced and always available. They were always available because Georges never said no to a Ducloux order, even if he had to deliver it himself-which he chose to do rather frequently, because joining Ducloux's circus was like briefly playing hooky from the routine of normal work and entering another reality, one that had a touch of magic to it. There was more than a bit of theater to the lunch and dinner celebrations that Ducloux organized, and the soft-spoken, impa.s.sive young wine scout harbored a secret pa.s.sion-his carefully concealed gra.s.shopper side-for the world of spectacles. In time, he would be doing some serious organizing of them himself.

"Ah, la la," he said, recalling these heroic days of his professional youth. "I did dozens of events with Jean, and it was always an adventure. Once he did a dinner for two thousand people in Montceau-les-Mines. I opened two thousand bottles of Beaujolais that day all by myself, one by one. Jean was an important client for me, and a friend, too. So I took good care of him." he said, recalling these heroic days of his professional youth. "I did dozens of events with Jean, and it was always an adventure. Once he did a dinner for two thousand people in Montceau-les-Mines. I opened two thousand bottles of Beaujolais that day all by myself, one by one. Jean was an important client for me, and a friend, too. So I took good care of him."

One bottle of wine for each person at the table was just about the minimum in those days. Neither traffic cops, Breathalyzers nor the systematic pursuit of boozy drivers had yet come into practice, and the Renaults, Peugeots, Talbots, Simcas and the ridiculous little 2CV, the Citroen Deux Chevaux, the engineering aberration with the sewing machine engine, the corrugated sheet metal body and baby carriage suspension, rocked and rolled around French highways with an ethylic abandon that would be unthinkable today.

The country was booming in the sixties, the first decade of the great postwar expansion that was to see Paris leading Europe into its future as one of the world's most muscular economic powerhouses. France had been chased out of its North African colonies, had happily pa.s.sed the hot potato of Vietnam over to the Americans and, under the astonishingly theatrical leadership of Charles de Gaulle, was insistently a.s.suring the world that it had rea.s.sumed its rightful place as a great power, exploding an atomic bomb here, then a hydrogen bomb there, building missiles, launching nuclear subs, walking out of NATO in high dudgeon and thumbing its nose simultaneously at Washington and London, all the while gesticulating on the global stage, in the grandiloquent manner that would be imitated half a century later by Kim Jong Il of North Korea. In short, it was a time for thinking big.

Down in Romaneche-Thorins, far removed from the seat of world events, Georges Duboeuf took the cue. He saw opportunity beckon when he learned that Pierre Crozet, the local negociant negociant, had decided to put his business up for sale and retire. He decided to go for it. Crozet's operation was only a relatively small-time affair compared to powerful negociants negociants like Piat, Mommessin or Thorin, but even so the purchase of a wholesale wine dealership was a heavy investment, vastly more so than anything he had undertaken before, and well beyond the folklore of Beaujolais self-help or the ministrations of Old Man Vermorel. As matters resolved themselves, though, there was a nice little historical pirouette, because the solution he found for raising his seed money did hark back to Vaux and Pere Vermorel, after all. Georges knew that he had a trump card in his possession, one that was seriously coveted: his like Piat, Mommessin or Thorin, but even so the purchase of a wholesale wine dealership was a heavy investment, vastly more so than anything he had undertaken before, and well beyond the folklore of Beaujolais self-help or the ministrations of Old Man Vermorel. As matters resolved themselves, though, there was a nice little historical pirouette, because the solution he found for raising his seed money did hark back to Vaux and Pere Vermorel, after all. Georges knew that he had a trump card in his possession, one that was seriously coveted: his pot Beaujolais- pot Beaujolais-his patented pot Beaujolais. patented pot Beaujolais.

The graceful little bottle had shown itself to be extremely popular with his bread-and-b.u.t.ter clients of the restaurant trade, and it was going well in the United States, too, under the Lichine label. It was no secret in the trade that Charles Piat, the most important negociant negociant of the Beaujolais, was dying to get his hands on it. Piat was convinced that it had potential for sales of greater scope than either Lichine or the little of the Beaujolais, was dying to get his hands on it. Piat was convinced that it had potential for sales of greater scope than either Lichine or the little courtier courtier Duboeuf had been achieving, and he had elaborated a plan to market it with a new wine, different from anything else he had done before. Georges got together with Piat, and they struck a deal: for 6 million old francs, he ceded all proprietary rights to the Duboeuf had been achieving, and he had elaborated a plan to market it with a new wine, different from anything else he had done before. Georges got together with Piat, and they struck a deal: for 6 million old francs, he ceded all proprietary rights to the pot. pot.

Charles Piat had guessed right. Filled with the wine he named Piat d'Or, an ingratiating, easy to drink, slightly sweet, gold-colored concoction created specifically for the foreign market in this new packaging, the pot pot was hugely successful. Critics and wine sophisticates almost unanimously panned Piat d'Or as a wine, often gracing it with adjectives like "ghastly," but for first-time drinkers its soft, uncomplicated fruitiness was all seduction, and the was hugely successful. Critics and wine sophisticates almost unanimously panned Piat d'Or as a wine, often gracing it with adjectives like "ghastly," but for first-time drinkers its soft, uncomplicated fruitiness was all seduction, and the pot pot went on to sell upward of 35 million bottles a year. The basic white Piat d'Or was later joined by a red variety, and the profits of this marketing coup made a hefty contribution to the erection of a monument to Charles Piat's perspicacity, the new company building that dominated the scenery on the main N. 6 highway just south of Macon, a giant, gray, windowless cube that fairly shouted out to pa.s.sing motorists that Piat was the big dog, number one in the Beaujolais. went on to sell upward of 35 million bottles a year. The basic white Piat d'Or was later joined by a red variety, and the profits of this marketing coup made a hefty contribution to the erection of a monument to Charles Piat's perspicacity, the new company building that dominated the scenery on the main N. 6 highway just south of Macon, a giant, gray, windowless cube that fairly shouted out to pa.s.sing motorists that Piat was the big dog, number one in the Beaujolais.

Had Piat been able to peer a bit more deeply into the future, though, it is not so certain that he would have made the deal for the pot, pot, because there was something of the kiss of death about the transaction. Today the giant gray cube is nothing better than an anonymous warehouse and the Piat company doesn't exist anymore, having been absorbed into an English conglomerate. It is Duboeuf who is number one now. From time to time, he rents s.p.a.ce in the warehouse. because there was something of the kiss of death about the transaction. Today the giant gray cube is nothing better than an anonymous warehouse and the Piat company doesn't exist anymore, having been absorbed into an English conglomerate. It is Duboeuf who is number one now. From time to time, he rents s.p.a.ce in the warehouse.

The company officially known as Les Vins Georges Duboeuf came into existence in 1964, when Georges changed his status and professional card from courtier courtier to to negociant-eleveur, negociant-eleveur, a fully fledged wholesale dealer, a.s.sembler and preparer of wines. In spite of the rather grand t.i.tle, he was only a minor curiosity within the club of Beaujolais and Burgundy dealers, a niche player specializing in direct sales to the high-end restaurant trade. But the move from independent wine scout to an officially registered dealership at last made Duboeuf respectable, moving the banking establishment to deem his company worthy of being trusted with small-business loans: there would be no more trips to Vaux for raising cash. With his account boosted by an infusion of funds from the Credit Agricole bank, Georges set about increasing his reach. One of his first acquisitions was a big old Renault truck with opening side panels, recently retired as government surplus after years of service as a traveling X-ray and blood-donor unit. Georges had it cleaned up and fixed up, installed a portable bottling chain in the back, painted it Good Humor Ice Cream white, added his name in big red letters and hitched a white trailer behind it for carrying all the miscellaneous gear that this operation required. With that, he was in possession of the best and most modern mobile equipment for estate-bottling in France. a fully fledged wholesale dealer, a.s.sembler and preparer of wines. In spite of the rather grand t.i.tle, he was only a minor curiosity within the club of Beaujolais and Burgundy dealers, a niche player specializing in direct sales to the high-end restaurant trade. But the move from independent wine scout to an officially registered dealership at last made Duboeuf respectable, moving the banking establishment to deem his company worthy of being trusted with small-business loans: there would be no more trips to Vaux for raising cash. With his account boosted by an infusion of funds from the Credit Agricole bank, Georges set about increasing his reach. One of his first acquisitions was a big old Renault truck with opening side panels, recently retired as government surplus after years of service as a traveling X-ray and blood-donor unit. Georges had it cleaned up and fixed up, installed a portable bottling chain in the back, painted it Good Humor Ice Cream white, added his name in big red letters and hitched a white trailer behind it for carrying all the miscellaneous gear that this operation required. With that, he was in possession of the best and most modern mobile equipment for estate-bottling in France.

As much as anything else, it might have been this nifty bottling truck-the red flag-that focused the minds of the region's established dealers. They watched in alarm as Georges branched out from his niche clientele to wine retailers throughout the country, around Europe and finally worldwide, while simultaneously developing an innovative mail-order business. For the previous ten years or so, he had been the polite young man from Chaintre and Romaneche who quietly went about his quiet little business. Now he wasn't playing that game anymore, and he had that lean and hungry look.

"They tried to take away his clients, of course," Papa Brechard told me with a chuckle. "They made some pretty heavy threats to a few of the vignerons; they sent flyers around and they put pressure on some of the courtiers courtiers who worked with him, but eventually all that just petered out. Trying to undersell Duboeuf didn't work because Georges wasn't interested in the low end of the market. What the other dealers didn't realize back then was that it was already becoming an honor to sell your wine to Duboeuf, because everyone knew how good he was, and how tough about quality. He only took the best. And he was one of us." who worked with him, but eventually all that just petered out. Trying to undersell Duboeuf didn't work because Georges wasn't interested in the low end of the market. What the other dealers didn't realize back then was that it was already becoming an honor to sell your wine to Duboeuf, because everyone knew how good he was, and how tough about quality. He only took the best. And he was one of us."

That "one of us" is a mantra that returns again and again in the Beaujolais whenever a visitor takes the trouble to go to the smallholder vignerons and talk with them about their life, their land and their craft. The contrast between their homey little caveaux caveaux and the palatial tasting rooms and presentation cellars of the big-money Bordeaux chateauxcould scarcely be greater, and the personalities invariably follow suit: hands unsullied by physical labor, natty and stylish as an English toff, the typical Bordeaux owner reflects the lofty, world-weary ennui of his wealthy cousins on the other side of the Channel, while the Beaujolais peasant is a pure representative of and the palatial tasting rooms and presentation cellars of the big-money Bordeaux chateauxcould scarcely be greater, and the personalities invariably follow suit: hands unsullied by physical labor, natty and stylish as an English toff, the typical Bordeaux owner reflects the lofty, world-weary ennui of his wealthy cousins on the other side of the Channel, while the Beaujolais peasant is a pure representative of la France profonde la France profonde-muddy shoes, bleus de travail bleus de travail (work overalls) and calloused hands. The fact that Georges Duboeuf had been born to exactly that same world and had sweated at the same vineyard ch.o.r.es raised his prestige among winegrowers far above any status that the (work overalls) and calloused hands. The fact that Georges Duboeuf had been born to exactly that same world and had sweated at the same vineyard ch.o.r.es raised his prestige among winegrowers far above any status that the negociant negociant establishment could hope to achieve. Knowing as well that he tasted wine twice as fast and twice as accurately as anyone else only added to their esteem for him. establishment could hope to achieve. Knowing as well that he tasted wine twice as fast and twice as accurately as anyone else only added to their esteem for him.

"There's an amazing bond of loyalty between him and vignerons," reflected Marcel Laplanche at his vineyard in Blace, at the limit of Beaujolais-Villages country. "He always takes the trouble to come see them in person, and they respect him for being so difficult about quality. He bargains hard on prices, but he's fair, and there's a tremendous prestige attached to selling to him. What it means is that he's chosen you, you see? When Duboeuf buys your wine, it's the sign that you're in with the best. It's like winning a medal. Sometimes people criticize him, but you know why? They're jealous."

Few winegrowers of the Beaujolais are as intelligent, energetic or articulate as Nicole Des...o...b..s Savoye in Villie-Morgon-yet another of those strong, admirable women that the region seems to breed. Blonde, dainty and remarkably attractive, she does not look one bit like a person who spent most of her girlhood at hard physical labor, but such was her destiny as daughter of the late Jean Ernest Des...o...b..s, another rare personnage of the Beaujolais, a man renowned as much for his floral, surprisingly delicate Morgon as for the roguish ribaldry of the caveau caveau that he lovingly decorated himself. Des...o...b..s was one of Georges' earliest discoveries, and from the moment he became a that he lovingly decorated himself. Des...o...b..s was one of Georges' earliest discoveries, and from the moment he became a negociant negociant he bought Des...o...b..s' entire yearly production. Nicole maintains the tradition today and is enormously proud to see Papa's name continuing to feature prominently on the label. She happily admits that both she and the wine she makes are "Duboeufalized." he bought Des...o...b..s' entire yearly production. Nicole maintains the tradition today and is enormously proud to see Papa's name continuing to feature prominently on the label. She happily admits that both she and the wine she makes are "Duboeufalized."

"Whatever anybody says, it is Georges Duboeuf who made Beaujolais what it is today, and who gave it a worldwide reputation," she proclaimed roundly, popping the cork on a bottle of her delicious 2003 Morgon and pouring me a gla.s.s without so much as a by-your-leave. "He is very, very close to the vignerons-he's devoted his life to them. If there's something that isn't quite right with our wines, he lets us know right away. At harvest time when we begin vinifying, I bring samples of the mout mout (must, the young juice turning to wine) to him in Romaneche every day, and I check in with his lab two or three times a day. Georges is always watching over how our wines are developing. Not many people outside the Beaujolais realize how important his advice is for us. Plenty of times he has saved a vigneron's year. He (must, the young juice turning to wine) to him in Romaneche every day, and I check in with his lab two or three times a day. Georges is always watching over how our wines are developing. Not many people outside the Beaujolais realize how important his advice is for us. Plenty of times he has saved a vigneron's year. He knows. knows."

Smiling with filial affection, Nicole surveyed the unmistakably masculine decor of the caveau caveau that her father had bequeathed her for receiving visitors-the gravel floor, the lineup of lacquered barrels, each one marked with the name of a that her father had bequeathed her for receiving visitors-the gravel floor, the lineup of lacquered barrels, each one marked with the name of a parcelle parcelle of his vineyard, the walls covered with photos of Papa and Grandfather, of Duboeuf, of Bocuse and other great chefs, the pile of naughty business cards with the corny old "happy feet" drawings (his toes pointed down, hers up) that might have drawn an " of his vineyard, the walls covered with photos of Papa and Grandfather, of Duboeuf, of Bocuse and other great chefs, the pile of naughty business cards with the corny old "happy feet" drawings (his toes pointed down, hers up) that might have drawn an "ooh, la la" in the fifties-and conceded that she had a.s.serted her feminine prerogatives firmly enough to have taken down the somewhat more explicitly naughty ill.u.s.trations with which Jean Ernest had been pleased to decorate his walls. Even with Nicole's editing of the decor, though, every inch of the caveau caveau still bespoke a man in love with his trade, his place in the world and the work of his hands. With his daughter, it was no different. still bespoke a man in love with his trade, his place in the world and the work of his hands. With his daughter, it was no different.

"Look," Nicole went on. "I know wine. At age fourteen my father told me I had to drop out of school and come work with him in the vines. The school director came looking for him, saying I was a good student and that I should continue in school. At the time, my ambition had been to become an airline stewardess-that was very fashionable then-but my father refused. 'She's the only child we have,' he said. 'She has to work with us in the vineyard.' So I did it. I worked between the vines with a pick and a hoe; I grafted the vines, and in the winter I pruned them. When I told Mother my feet were cold, she told me to put straw in my boots. We worked all the time, right through Sat.u.r.day, when my girlfriends were out having fun. It was hard work. Too much. I vowed I would never marry a vigneron-but that's exactly what I ended up doing.

"With all that experience, though, Monsieur Duboeuf knows my wine better than I do, and he works harder, too. The other day he called me at half past noon. He had just gotten back from Tokyo at 4 A.M. that morning, but he was in the office. There aren't many people who can do that. He's much harder on himself than he is with anyone else. He created his company from nothing, and he runs it like an act of love. It makes him sick to see vignerons in trouble. He gets letters every day asking him if he wants to buy their wine or even their vineyards. He's basically a very straightforward, uncomplicated person who works for the good of the Beaujolais. So, yes, I admit that I'm Duboeufalisee. Duboeufalisee. And, yes, I put him on a pedestal. We all do." And, yes, I put him on a pedestal. We all do."

Nicole's blue eyes positively flashed defiance, as if daring any person present in flesh or spirit to deny the least syllable of her addition of the Duboeuf qualities. Nor was her tribute all that exceptional: hero worship of the man is pandemic in the Beaujolais. It is a curious and very unusual situation, certainly one that I have never encountered before, not where businessmen are concerned, at any rate. Capitalists anywhere may be respected for the jobs they create, the boost they inject into an economy, the skill with which they manage a company, or their civic actions, but even so they remain basically distant stick figures, more symbolic than real: the boss, the CEO, the owner, the guy who manufactures widgets and rides in a corporate jet. Who ever could feel a direct human bond with a Henry Ford or a Bill Gates? But Duboeuf is a good deal more than just the leading VIP of the region where he was born and raised, because in his person he incorporates and represents the projectionof what his fellow citizens like to see as the best qualities and virtues of their microculture. The standing he enjoys in the Beaujolais is more akin to the admiration usually reserved for sports heroes who have led particularly brilliant and unblemished careers, like a Pele, a Jackie Robinson or a Cal Ripken. It has not yet been demonstrated that Georges Duboeuf can walk on water, but there's more than a hint of Robin Hood in his story. Il est des notres Il est des notres (he's one of us). (he's one of us).

In the forty or so years that I have been frequenting the area, I have met no more than two or three persons between Macon and Villefranche, his compet.i.tors included, who ever had anything but praise for Duboeuf, and usually of the extravagant sort that Nicole Savoye p.r.o.nounced. (The reproaches of the rare grousers were so lacking in specifics that it was easy to discount them as examples of envy or simple cussedness, like those salon gourmets who will tell you they had a bad meal at Paul Bocuse's restaurant.) Beyond the limits of the Beaujolais, though, in Paris, Lyon or Lille, plenty of individuals who have never met Georges Duboeuf will express deep suspicions of him. The instinct to pillory anyone at the top of the game seems to be almost engrained in the national character here. That gets Michel Rougier's dander up, but good.

"The French hate success," he spat. "They can't stand it. If someone reaches a certain position, rather than being inspired to emulate him, all they want to do is bring him down to their level. Americans admire success, but the French are jealous of it. They're envious and petty."

As well known as they are for criticizing other nations, the French can do a pretty fine job when they turn it on themselves, too. At this exercise, Rougier was something of an artiste. artiste. As director of InterBeaujolais, he ran the organization that represents the combined interests of growers and dealers. Born and raised in Lyon, he was a purely urban type who parachuted directly from the world of business to manage the little Beaujolais bureaucracy in Villefranche, and his appearance was about as un- As director of InterBeaujolais, he ran the organization that represents the combined interests of growers and dealers. Born and raised in Lyon, he was a purely urban type who parachuted directly from the world of business to manage the little Beaujolais bureaucracy in Villefranche, and his appearance was about as un-folklorique as a wine professional could possibly be: the same earnest manner, rimless gla.s.ses, gray suit and conservative tie whether he was arguing with government emissaries, hosting a Beaujolais visit by Hillary Clinton or drinking a as a wine professional could possibly be: the same earnest manner, rimless gla.s.ses, gray suit and conservative tie whether he was arguing with government emissaries, hosting a Beaujolais visit by Hillary Clinton or drinking a canon canon with vignerons in the bowels of a with vignerons in the bowels of a cave cooperative cave cooperative. But Rougier's administrative experience and unsentimental eye brought him to some pitiless conclusions to explain the seemingly irresistible rise of young Georges Duboeuf's company.

"Today there are only five negociants negociants left in the Beaujolais," he explained. "There were twelve or fifteen of them when I started work here twenty years ago. What happened to the others? I'll tell you what. They went under because the guys used to wrap up their work day at nine o'clock in the morning. They knocked off and went to the local bistro and sat around all day long drinking left in the Beaujolais," he explained. "There were twelve or fifteen of them when I started work here twenty years ago. What happened to the others? I'll tell you what. They went under because the guys used to wrap up their work day at nine o'clock in the morning. They knocked off and went to the local bistro and sat around all day long drinking canons canons and bragging to each other about what great businessmen they were. They were taking it easy. But Duboeuf was working." and bragging to each other about what great businessmen they were. They were taking it easy. But Duboeuf was working."

There it was again. The work leitmotif returns unfailingly in conversations about Duboeuf, again and again. Sooner or later, it seems, every wine professional in the Beaujolais is confronted in one way or another with Duboeuf's nonstop zeal. Michel Brun got it on his very first day on the job. Brun is an energetic and remarkably good-natured jack-of-all-trades who knocked around Les Vins Georges Duboeuf for more than thirty years in a variety of jobs ranging from bottling technician to sales director, but his original a.s.signment was chef de chai chef de chai (cellar master). (cellar master).

"August 25, 1966," he said. "I'll never forget it. I was supposed to start work at eight in the morning, but since I was new I thought I'd make a good impression by showing up half an hour early. I got there at seven-thirty, but the boss was in his office and he had already unlocked the cellar door. So next day I got there at seven o'clock. Same thing. Next day I tried six-thirty-same thing again. I gave up after that. A man's got to sleep sometime."

A few days on the job were enough for Brun to learn what most winegrowers of the Beaujolais already knew: if you wanted to reach the boss himself, all you had to do was dial the company number at five in the morning. Duboeuf the CEO kept peasant hours.

The wine trade was then entering an odd, hectic and often rather messy period. Simply put, the French had had it too easy for too long. Coasting along for years with little serious compet.i.tion, growers and dealers became accustomed to selling their wines more or less automatically, and that made plenty of temptation to cut corners. Around Villefranche and Belleville the bistro braggart negociants negociants of the sort that Michel Rougier decried could content themselves with buying and bottling the mediocre as well as the good, because sales of Beaujolais were on the rise in France, next door in Switzerland and Germany and across the Channel in the British Isles. Presently they would be ranging out across the pond to America, then in the other direction, on to j.a.pan. Beaujolais appeared to have squared the commercial circle: a first-rate wine that wasn't expensive, wasn't pretentious and didn't seek to intimidate new buyers with a complex pedigree. Even its name was a salesman's dream: euphonious, musical and easy to p.r.o.nounce, it had a lilt that evoked images of lighthearted fun. Magic: everyone everywhere in the world could enunciate the three syllables of bo-jo-lay. And it was of the sort that Michel Rougier decried could content themselves with buying and bottling the mediocre as well as the good, because sales of Beaujolais were on the rise in France, next door in Switzerland and Germany and across the Channel in the British Isles. Presently they would be ranging out across the pond to America, then in the other direction, on to j.a.pan. Beaujolais appeared to have squared the commercial circle: a first-rate wine that wasn't expensive, wasn't pretentious and didn't seek to intimidate new buyers with a complex pedigree. Even its name was a salesman's dream: euphonious, musical and easy to p.r.o.nounce, it had a lilt that evoked images of lighthearted fun. Magic: everyone everywhere in the world could enunciate the three syllables of bo-jo-lay. And it was good good, too.

Or rather, most of it was good. A serious image and quality problem was developing for French wines in general, because in the seventies a wave of scandals swept over the country, implicating not only fly-by-night hustlers but also a few reputable dealers who could not resist the opportunity of repairing bad years and turning a quick profit via the simple expedient of transforming their worst wines, acidic and low in alcohol, by mixing them into batches of cheap, potent vins medecins vins medecins (doctor wines) from the Midi, Sicily, Spain or Algeria. Over the years several doc.u.mented cases of chicanery appeared in Chablis, Muscadet and Bordeaux, but few were as blatant as the Burgundy dealer who was caught flogging to gullible Americans some sixty-four thousand bottles of (doctor wines) from the Midi, Sicily, Spain or Algeria. Over the years several doc.u.mented cases of chicanery appeared in Chablis, Muscadet and Bordeaux, but few were as blatant as the Burgundy dealer who was caught flogging to gullible Americans some sixty-four thousand bottles of grands crus grands crus (great growths) that were nothing but plonk bought for cheap in other regions and tarted up with sweeteners to appeal to Yankee tastes. (great growths) that were nothing but plonk bought for cheap in other regions and tarted up with sweeteners to appeal to Yankee tastes.

Of course Beaujolais had its doses of cheating, too. At different times, both Duboeuf and Papa Brechard, the two men most trusted to represent Beaujolais integrity, guardedly told me-"guardedly" because one doesn't spit in the soup, and they were careful to avoid naming names-of dealers who in the past had obviously imported doctor wines to beef up their sickly local stuff or who had brazenly stuck fantasy Beaujolais labels on the doctor wines without even bothering to mix in a bit of Beaujolais. Crooks will be crooks, and the games were not exclusively French. Duboeuf pointed out that before the UK joined the Common Market there had been little to prevent unscrupulous English entrepreneurs, unbound by European regulations, from brewing up lakes of phony Beaujolais that they hawked at unbeatable bargain prices on their domestic market. Their innocent customers, treating themselves to a gla.s.s or two of wine to accompany their baked bean sandwiches and bangers and mash, may well have wondered how it was that so many people could say Beaujolais was such a lovely wine.

There was a particularly painful irony implicit in these swindles. As much as any other factor, it was Duboeuf's tireless scouting for the best batches of wine from the best vignerons that created the burgeon