"It's free energy," he cried. "If I had a son, the two of us could handle fifteen hectares with two horses. I've even offered to teach some of the young local vignerons to work with horses, but they're not interested. I think it's a shame to lose these old techniques."

Marcel is far too good-natured to feel sorry for himself, but his single regret is his lack of offspring. His first marriage, in 1970, was childless and ended in divorce. When he remarried in 2004, it was too late for children. In between there were a few wild oats to be sown, but he was occupied mostly with work. The already generous helping that he had on his plate increased in 1971, when the town council voted him mayor of Lancie. This was an honor for a young man of only twenty-seven, of course, but the honor came at a price, because there was and is a central fact about French small-town politics: in exchange for the exalted t.i.tle and the tricolor sash, the mayor is the one who is expected to do most of the work and to take all the criticisms. That Marcel was able to hang on in the office for twenty-four years was testimony not only to his capacity for work but his patience, too-and his firmness in enforcing the rules.

"They used to call me The Sheriff when I was mayor. I made some enemies. That didn't always make life simple, either."

It was during this long period of involvement in local politics that Marcel enjoyed a brief moment of fame, as the result of his one and only experience of compet.i.tive sport. In 1985 for a lark he accepted an invitation to join a Bordeaux-to-Paris bicycle race of French mayors. Never in his life had he partic.i.p.ated in any such race before, and he was totally ignorant of specific training and racing technique, but he was strong, he was determined, and he knew how to pump the pedals. Faced with a pack of fancy city gents on fancy bikes, the Beaujolais peasant put his head down and worked-first and last race ever, and he won it-French national champion of mayors at age forty. The 615 kilometers were to be covered within a twenty-four-hour period, and he came in first: twenty-one hours.

By then, he had already developed his own very particular commercial style, building a customer base by direct individual contact. Quite apart from the high quality of his wines, his affable nature, his perpetual good humor and his willingness to go the extra mile-quite literally-built him an extraordinarily loyal clientele, because he offered an additional service: he delivered. Marcel finally got his long-awaited truck driver's license when he bought a secondhand tractor-trailer rig big enough to stash as many cartons of wine as he needed for his customers, anywhere in the country. Customers led to other customers, and at any time of the year his old white truck might have been seen rumbling over the back roads (by principle he avoided expensive toll roads-a penny saved is a penny earned) from Brittany to Alsace, Normandy, Picardy or wherever else anyone wanted the wines he was selling. Marcel the wanderer kept long, frugal hours, sleeping in the truck, eating his sandwiches in the cabin and dropping off his orders at any time of day or night because, on the road as at home, he never slept much. Over the years, clients accustomed themselves to his unpredictable hours and unorthodox delivery system: cases of Beaujolais delivered to their doorstep at three or four in the morning with the bill on top, to be paid at their leisure.

Marcel was Marcel. That was just how he did things. In Brittany he sponsored uniforms for a local soccer team by offering the players T-shirts emblazoned with a fetching slogan: MARCEL PARIAUD EN BEAUJOLAIS. It was a clever little bit of marketing, because the simple word "Beaujolais" could have been construed as an incitement to drinking, and thereby fallen afoul of France's draconian laws against publicity for alcohol. His simple ident.i.ty, on the other hand, could hardly be contested. The T-shirts weren't nearly as sumptuous as a first-cla.s.s trip on the TGV or a three-star dinner with Paul Bocuse, but small-town athletes in the middle of nowhere in Brittany were glad to have them, and word got around that Marcel was a good man who sold good wine. And he was accommodating, too. If for some reason his wine didn't live up to expectations, he might push his service-oriented commercial approach to the point of offering something entirely novel in the wine business: a take-back guarantee. One evening, as we were sampling different years of his Morgon and Beaujolais in his caveau caveau, he told me about a customer in Saint Brieuc.

"He hadn't paid me for the cartons of 1995 that he had ordered," he explained, "and I couldn't understand why. When I came by to see him the next year, he said the wine had a strange taste. Well, it turned out that he had stored the cartons next to a radiator in his kid's room. Never mind, I said, I'll take it back and give you some others. I'm happy I did it, too, because after I put those cartons in proper storage, they came right back. They're perfect now. I'm still drinking them."

Seeking to accommodate his clientele further, he extended his reach by registering as a negociant negociant after some of his customers asked him to bring both Beaujolais and wines from outside the region. Sure, no problem. His was a decidedly small-time operation compared to Duboeuf, Jadot and the others, but it turned a tidy little profit, and he was beginning to feel like a real capitalist when disaster struck in 1994. It arrived in the form of two bailiffs rapping smartly on his front door. They had come on behalf of a couple of banks, they explained, to seize his furniture, his bed and anything else of commercial value they could find, including his wine business. after some of his customers asked him to bring both Beaujolais and wines from outside the region. Sure, no problem. His was a decidedly small-time operation compared to Duboeuf, Jadot and the others, but it turned a tidy little profit, and he was beginning to feel like a real capitalist when disaster struck in 1994. It arrived in the form of two bailiffs rapping smartly on his front door. They had come on behalf of a couple of banks, they explained, to seize his furniture, his bed and anything else of commercial value they could find, including his wine business.

Marcel had been too accommodating, it turned out-not just once but twice. Two friends had asked him to stand as guarantor for loans they were negotiating. The first was his banker, who wanted to retire and open a bar in Ma.r.s.eille. Who would not back a loan to his own banker? Marcel signed. The other, a local man, planned to set up a bottle-washing business serving the wine industry. He already owed Marcel 125,000 francs, so that sum could be put toward a share in the new business. Marcel signed for him, too. Bad luck: both men went bust. Finding the beneficiaries of those loans insolvent, the banks behaved as banks do, and turned against the guarantor. Nothing personal, you understand, the bailiffs explained. You can demand the money from the friends you signed for. That was no comfort, and there was no way out-a signature was a signature. Over the next seven years, laying out increments month by month, Marcel paid back his friends' debts: somewhat more than $400,000 in capital and interest.

"I learned the hard way how business works," he said, smiling ruefully. "But I left this affair with my head held high and my honor intact."

My honor. It is difficult to overstate the absolutely central importance of the concept of honor for the Beaujolais peasantry. It is painful to lose money, to be sure, but dishonor in the community is intolerable. That, too, is a reminder of the old ways, and the cynical dealings and financial hanky-panky of big-money hustlers will always remain an inexplicable mystery to these people. Less than ten years after Marcel's catastrophe, two new incidents-far more sensational, these ones-would be underlining that importance, when first the collective Beaujolais winemaking community and then Georges Duboeuf in person would be suffering grievously for honor unjustly impugned.

For the moment, though, the order of the day was to celebrate the debts expunged. Marcel did it the best way possible: he got married. Nathalie Joanton was a northerner, a girl from Picardy, a radiant, fresh-faced blonde who had been working as a hairdresser when Marcel met her while on one of his delivery rounds. She moved down to Lancie in 1994, but there was no question of marriage just then, not with the debts and their various legal complications hanging over Marcel's head. They officialized their union in 2004, when Nathalie in white and Marcel in his Sunday suit trotted up to the Lancie mairie mairie (town hall) in Marcel's best secondhand buggy, pulled by Hermine. Splendid in her tricolor sash, (town hall) in Marcel's best secondhand buggy, pulled by Hermine. Splendid in her tricolor sash, Madame le Maire Madame le Maire read out the ceremonial republican marriage p.r.o.nouncement with appropriate gravity while Marcel mentally mouthed the familiar words along with her. He had performed the same ceremony himself, dozens and dozens of times. read out the ceremonial republican marriage p.r.o.nouncement with appropriate gravity while Marcel mentally mouthed the familiar words along with her. He had performed the same ceremony himself, dozens and dozens of times.

"You know," Marcel said, grinning enormously as he recalled that trip to the town hall with Nathalie, "I clearly remember my father telling me about the two things he had learned in life. Never get into politics, he said, and never marry without a contract. So of course what did I do? I got married twice without contracts, and I became mayor."

With Nathalie, a new project had arisen. Across the road from the Pariaud family house, on the other side of the village, there was the ruin of an old sheepfold and, on a rise above it, a deserted and slightly less dilapidated two-story stone house, both for sale and not too expensive. Marcel snapped them up, brought out his mason's tools again and set to work, back into the rhythm of ten straight hours of masonry. Over the next few years he transformed the tumbledown sheepfold into a two-story, L-shaped building with four rooms on top and kitchen, dining room and storage s.p.a.ce below. Tourism was bound to be growing in the Beaujolais, he reasoned, and modern, well-equipped rooms inside picturesque old stone would make an attractive bed-and-breakfast. As he withdrew progressively from working his vines, the B and B could provide a nice supplement to his state pension and send him and Nathalie into old age with something like security. Just to make sure that tourists would come and then pa.s.s the good word on to their friends, he added a heated swimming pool and one more room, larger this one, equipped as a studio. The Pariauds' Pet.i.t Nid de Pierre (Little Stone Nest), entirely run by Nathalie, is now Lancie's best B and B, and Marcel is working on making the old house comfortable for the day when he and Nathalie move in. When they do-no date determined yet-he will have a deeply satisfying view from the upper windows: his own mini-hotel compound overlooking vines stretching away toward Fleurie and Chiroubles, the medieval turrets of the Chateau de Corcelles looming in the distance and Belgian, Dutch and English tourists splashing in his pool. Not bad for a peasant who left school at fourteen. Characteristically, though, Marcel appraised his good fortune modestly-it was mostly, he insisted, the result of luck and timing.

"I had it easy because I got started just when Beaujolais was beginning to be popular. I feel sorry for the young guys who are just starting out now. It's tougher and tougher to be a vigneron these days. There are a lot of new problems that I never had-compet.i.tion from foreign wines, overplanting and oversupply, the government's anti-drinking programs and the police controls on the roads, all that. Me, I'm all right. I've got enough to live on, and I'm basically retired. But I pity the guys who've got themselves in debt up to the ears for land and equipment because they wanted to make wine. Their future's not clear."

Marcel and I were once again in his caveau, caveau, dining on dining on boeuf bourguignon boeuf bourguignonthat Nathalie had prepared for us and drinking his muscular 2003 Morgon with it. Although it might have been reasonable to suspect the judgment of a man whose idea of having it easy was his lifelong habit of nonstop work from sunrise to beyond sunset, Marcel's sympathy was not misplaced. By the time the twentieth century had creaked over into the twenty-first, the salad days of the French winemaking community had come and gone. The woe was largely apportioned out among the brotherhood, but it was felt with particular distress in the Beaujolais, because the peasant vignerons, poor cousins of the trade, had grown accustomed to being invited to the front parlor and having a bit of money in the bank. Now those whose vines grew in marginal terroirs terroirs, or who did not possess Marcel's strength, exuberant good health and nose for vinification, found to their stupefaction that bankruptcy was a very real menace.

Fashion was changing, as it always does, and in the great traditional markets for Beaujolais in France, England, Germany and Switzerland, the wine of the gamay grape-especially Beaujolais Nouveau-was edging toward the dreaded category of been there, done that. Sales were picking up abroad, especially in more exotic markets like j.a.pan, China, India and Russia, but in spite of this, primeur primeur production had dropped to one-third of the total of all Beaujolais wines by 2006. The edge was off the novelty. production had dropped to one-third of the total of all Beaujolais wines by 2006. The edge was off the novelty.

The trouble was not limited to Beaujolais alone. Far from it: almost everywhere in France except for the haughty, insanely expensive growths of super prestige, vignerons found themselves with unsold stock on their hands as the world spiraled once more into a situation of oversupply. With the new century, an entirely different situation had arisen. Thanks to vigorous, enterprising new winemakers in the United States, Latin America, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and elsewhere, the French monopoly on high-quality wines was under attack from all sides. The result was paradoxical: more and more people around the world were learning to appreciate good wine even as the French themselves were drinking less and less of it. And now, in large part thanks to the enormous influence of the American wine critic Robert Parker, the heavies-the dour, brooding Beethovens-were leading the pack of popularity. In the din, the melodies of the sprightly Vivaldis were being drowned out.

Within the cacophony of this overcrowded wine marketplace, primeur primeur fell into an uncomfortable position. For as long as anyone could remember, it was Beaujolais Nouveau that had stood as the archetype of the Vivaldi category of wines, but it became a victim of its own success-exactly like the music of the Red Priest himself. When fell into an uncomfortable position. For as long as anyone could remember, it was Beaujolais Nouveau that had stood as the archetype of the Vivaldi category of wines, but it became a victim of its own success-exactly like the music of the Red Priest himself. When The Four Seasons The Four Seasons reached the point of commercial exploitation where it was simultaneously wafting out of elevator loudspeakers in Omaha and Singapore and innumerable points between, it was soon condemned to that special purgatory reserved for Things We Don't Do Anymore. With that, a fundamental truth got eclipsed: elevators and cell phone rings notwithstanding, reached the point of commercial exploitation where it was simultaneously wafting out of elevator loudspeakers in Omaha and Singapore and innumerable points between, it was soon condemned to that special purgatory reserved for Things We Don't Do Anymore. With that, a fundamental truth got eclipsed: elevators and cell phone rings notwithstanding, The Four Seasons The Four Seasons was still a terrific piece of music, a superb and thoroughly estimable contribution to the European cla.s.sical tradition. So it went for was still a terrific piece of music, a superb and thoroughly estimable contribution to the European cla.s.sical tradition. So it went for primeur. primeur. When too many people-especially too many "other" people-had latched onto the pleasure of a gla.s.sful of red fruit and field flowers as of the third Thursday of November, that pleasure became obsolete and somehow unworthy for those wine lovers who had been there earlier. When too many people-especially too many "other" people-had latched onto the pleasure of a gla.s.sful of red fruit and field flowers as of the third Thursday of November, that pleasure became obsolete and somehow unworthy for those wine lovers who had been there earlier.

But that was not the end of the vexing story, because the primeur primeur phenomenon proved to be a double-edged sword for the rest of the Beaujolais. With each new market it conquered, the juvenile wine created such a stir of publicity that, year by pa.s.sing year, people unconsciously began to identify Beaujolais Nouveau with the totality of the area's wines, forgetting that they were not one but thirteen: Beaujolais, Beaujolais-Villages, the ten phenomenon proved to be a double-edged sword for the rest of the Beaujolais. With each new market it conquered, the juvenile wine created such a stir of publicity that, year by pa.s.sing year, people unconsciously began to identify Beaujolais Nouveau with the totality of the area's wines, forgetting that they were not one but thirteen: Beaujolais, Beaujolais-Villages, the ten crus crus-and then primeur primeur, too, like a jolly little bonus. But the baby wine, the little newcomer to the Beaujolais family, had a big voice, and that famous third Thursday of November crept surrept.i.tiously into the public consciousness as the signal for a one-time celebration. Especially in foreign lands, too many of these seasonal drinkers a.s.sumed that after downing a gla.s.s of Beaujolais Noveau in November they could drop the wine of the gamay grape until the following year.

That was very bad karma for the crus. crus. Wandering through those granite-speckled hills from Saint-Amour in the north to Brouilly in the south, I began hearing how distressingly these growths-rarer, more complex and more expensive-were suffering from the obtrusive presence of their cheerful little cousin. Sure we're Beaujolais, the vignerons of the Wandering through those granite-speckled hills from Saint-Amour in the north to Brouilly in the south, I began hearing how distressingly these growths-rarer, more complex and more expensive-were suffering from the obtrusive presence of their cheerful little cousin. Sure we're Beaujolais, the vignerons of the crus crus were saying, but we're also Moulin-a-Vent and Fleurie and Morgon and Chenas. Our wines are exceptional, were saying, but we're also Moulin-a-Vent and Fleurie and Morgon and Chenas. Our wines are exceptional, vins de garde vins de garde that can keep for years and years. People should realize they can't compare them to that can keep for years and years. People should realize they can't compare them to primeur primeur, and they shouldn't expect to be able to get them for the same price, either.

Most of these vignerons diplomatically refrained from using that fraught adjective "better" when they spoke of their wines, but of course that's what they meant. And they were right, too. Beaujolais Nouveau never pretended to be anything more than a little wine, a gla.s.s of fun, and not even the most chauvinistic producer would dare claim that his sunny, fruit-juicey primeur primeur could match the depth and complexity of the ten could match the depth and complexity of the ten crus crus-same region, same grape, same methods of vinification, but the wines were totally different. Even so, the baby wine with the big voice had tended to blur distinctions, creating the erroneous perception that Beaujolais-all Beaujolais-was about the same: an amusing wisp of a wine that was enjoyable, but not really to be taken seriously.

I had a nice occasion to see just how misguided this perception could be when, in June of 2006, I joined a tasting in Paris to which Georges Duboeuf had invited the elite of France's wine-tasting establishment. Two winners of the World's Best Sommelier contest, Olivier Poussier and Philippe Faure-Brac, were there, along with one Meilleur Ouvrier de France (Master Craftsman in Wine), a couple of newspaper wine specialists, and the famously outspoken critic Michel Bettane, author of France's most incisive wine guide. Georges had brought samples of all the crus crus with him, but the object of the tasting was not to put his guests through one of those blind which-one-is-which routines. He wanted to make a point about misperceptions of Beaujolais. All he asked his guests to do was to comment on their appreciation of differentyears of production-as far back as thirty years, as it turned out, because his first samples dated from 1976. with him, but the object of the tasting was not to put his guests through one of those blind which-one-is-which routines. He wanted to make a point about misperceptions of Beaujolais. All he asked his guests to do was to comment on their appreciation of differentyears of production-as far back as thirty years, as it turned out, because his first samples dated from 1976.

On the face of it this should have been an absurd exercise, because common wisdom had long ago decreed that Beaujolais wines do not keep longer than two or three years at the most. Common wisdom took a beating that morning as the wines succeeded one another. From the very first samples-Brouilly, Morgon and even one "ordinary" Beaujolais, all of them bottled in 1976-the adjectives flying around the spitting buckets were straight from the book of hyperbole usually reserved for grands crus grands crus: "elegant," "distinguished," "complex," "delicate," "structured," "balanced" and, perhaps most pertinently, "surprising."

Surprising, indeed, that Beaujolais wines could be so good and hold their strength so well after so many years, but Bettane only shrugged. He had known the secret all along. A man who takes great pleasure in knocking down popular misconceptions, he had already told me a thing or two, over lunch a few months earlier, about how and why the wines of the Beaujolais had become so deconsideres deconsideres in comparison with those of the officially pedigreed n.o.bilities. in comparison with those of the officially pedigreed n.o.bilities.

"The tragedy," he explained, "is that the Beaujolais was administratively connected to Burgundy, and the dealers-les negociants-were all Burgundians. These people liked hierarchies, and they decided once and for all that the gamay was an inferior cepage. cepage. They are the ones who established the notion that Beaujolais was a lesser wine that had to be sold much cheaper than even the cheapest of the Burgundies. So it was the They are the ones who established the notion that Beaujolais was a lesser wine that had to be sold much cheaper than even the cheapest of the Burgundies. So it was the negoce negoce that established these hierarchies, and unfortunately sommeliers and others in a position to form people's opinions have been raised with these same ideas." that established these hierarchies, and unfortunately sommeliers and others in a position to form people's opinions have been raised with these same ideas."

Bettane was not saying that all Beaujolais was wonderful; in fact he energetically railed against unscrupulous merchants who had sold poor, thin stuff that they picked up for a pittance, profiting from the renown that Duboeuf and other quality dealers like Louis Tete and Jadot had brought to the wines. But his central argument was that the pricing system had gone all c.o.c.keyed over the years.

"Duboeuf himself has been guilty in this-the simple fact is that he is selling the best wines too cheaply! Selling a Moulin-a-Vent for only 20 percent or 30 percent more than a primeur primeur is a monstrous error, because it is worth much more. In the old days, a high-quality Moulin-a-Vent used to go for the same price as a Gevrey-Chambertin-Villages. I started buying wines when I was twenty, and at that time a Moulin-a-Vent commanded the same price as a Mercurey First Growth or a Crozes-Hermitage. Now the Crozes-Hermitage costs two and a half times more. Beaujolais is underrated today because people don't know it well enough." is a monstrous error, because it is worth much more. In the old days, a high-quality Moulin-a-Vent used to go for the same price as a Gevrey-Chambertin-Villages. I started buying wines when I was twenty, and at that time a Moulin-a-Vent commanded the same price as a Mercurey First Growth or a Crozes-Hermitage. Now the Crozes-Hermitage costs two and a half times more. Beaujolais is underrated today because people don't know it well enough."

As an element of proof, he reached back considerably further than Duboeuf had done with the samples he brought to Paris-nearly half a century further, in fact-to recount an experiment he had organized by asking Beaujolais vignerons of his acquaintance to open some of the oldest bottles from their cellars. "At the Chateau des Jacques, I drank a 1929 Moulin-a-Vent that was absolutely sublime-you could have easily mistaken it for a Chambertin. Another time I had a 1929 Morgon that was better than the Romanee Saint-Vivant or the Chambertin of that same year. I've got two bottles of 1911 Morgon in my cellar right now. I'm just waiting for the right occasion to uncork them. So yes-Beaujolais can be a truly great wine. In my opinion, if you look at the quality/price ratio, Moulin-a-Vent is the best deal you can get in French wines."

Frank Prial, the pope of American wine critics, went even further than Bettane. "I agree that Moulin-a-Vent is the best buy in French wines," he said without hesitation, "but I would include all the crus. crus. Moulin-a-Vent is usually the best, but Morgons from the Cote de Py can be even better in some years. And Chenas is a real sleeper. It's right next to Moulin-a-Vent, and shares much of the same Moulin-a-Vent is usually the best, but Morgons from the Cote de Py can be even better in some years. And Chenas is a real sleeper. It's right next to Moulin-a-Vent, and shares much of the same terroir. terroir."

Prial, whose astute and eminently readable wine articles in the New York Times New York Times were educating American readers on the subtle joys of the grape when today's generation of young critics were still in oenological swaddling clothes, has been around the business long enough and has popped enough corks to be able to offer some fairly trenchant illusion-killingof his own. "The great thing about Beaujolais for me," he said, "is its consistency when compared with Burgundy. Great Burgundy is much superior to Beaujolais, but you simply can't count on it and, truth to tell, it isn't 'great' very often. Even the finest producers let you down regularly. Worse, the prices are outrageous even when the wine is mediocre. There are years when a $12 bottle of were educating American readers on the subtle joys of the grape when today's generation of young critics were still in oenological swaddling clothes, has been around the business long enough and has popped enough corks to be able to offer some fairly trenchant illusion-killingof his own. "The great thing about Beaujolais for me," he said, "is its consistency when compared with Burgundy. Great Burgundy is much superior to Beaujolais, but you simply can't count on it and, truth to tell, it isn't 'great' very often. Even the finest producers let you down regularly. Worse, the prices are outrageous even when the wine is mediocre. There are years when a $12 bottle of cru cru Beaujolais will beat out $150 bottles from Vosne-Romanee, Bonnes Mares or Chambertin." Beaujolais will beat out $150 bottles from Vosne-Romanee, Bonnes Mares or Chambertin."

Prial's comment recalled an anecdote recounted by Pierre-Antoine Rovani, the former specialist of Burgundy wines for Robert Parker's Wine Advocate. Wine Advocate. Commenting on a 2004 tasting of a varied selection of unidentified wines, he singled out a 2003 Moulin-a-Vent from Duboeuf that had completely hornswoggled both him and his fellow Wine Nerds. Commenting on a 2004 tasting of a varied selection of unidentified wines, he singled out a 2003 Moulin-a-Vent from Duboeuf that had completely hornswoggled both him and his fellow Wine Nerds.

"Not a single member of the group guessed Beaujolais," he wrote, "believing it was a top-flight Hermitage or Burgundy. Bravo!"

So, paradox again: if many Burgundy wines were apparently more expensive than their inherent worth, at the same time a lot of Beaujolais wines were too cheap. Extraordinary: after more than six centuries, the protectionist anathema against the gamay grape launched by Burgundy's Philip the Bold in 1395 still holds fast. For the lean of wallet and pocketbook, this situation looks very much like an opportunity to be turned to advantage. If any of us had any brains, it would appear, we would all dash out and stock up forthwith on Moulin-a-Vent, Fleurie, Chenas, Morgon or their sister crus, crus, leaving the great Burgundy growths and the n.o.ble Bordeaux chateaux to Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and our friendly neighborhood investment bankers. leaving the great Burgundy growths and the n.o.ble Bordeaux chateaux to Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and our friendly neighborhood investment bankers.

After decades of tastings in company with Georges Duboeuf, his colleagues and vignerons too numerous to count, my education in the nuances of character and quality among the several wines of the Beaujolais has been fairly comprehensive, but none of this offered the sense of historical satisfaction that was delivered in another session, very recent this one, in the gloom of the huge, vaulted sixteenth-century cellar of the Chateau des Jacques in Romaneche-Thorins, the very place where Michel Bettane had enjoyed his instructive encounter with a remarkable 1929 Moulin-a-Vent.

Duboeuf City Romaneche most certainly is, but this time it was not Georges who led me down the stone steps to where the wine lay, but rather his friend Pierre-Henry Gagey, boss of the rival wine house Louis Jadot. The historical satisfaction of the occasion lay in the fact that Jadot is a Burgundy company par excellence, based in Beaune and producer of some of the finest, most expensive growths of the Cote d'Or-but when (perhaps inspired by Duboeuf's tremendous success) they decided to establish their own official outpost in the Beaujolais, it looked very much like an act of commercial contrition. They were admitting that Beaujolais was OK, after all. In effect, the company was making amends for Burgundy's having been so beastly about the gamay grape for so long.

Jadot made a first tentative venture south when it began buying acreage in Beaujolais-Villages vines in 1987; then the house followed that with the purchase of Chateau des Jacques in Romaneche nine years later, then Morgon's Chateau Bellevue in 2001. With each of these purchases, Philip the Bold could distinctly be heard spinning in his fancy necropolis in Beaune, because that made it official: gamay was vile and noxious no more. The mountain had come to Mohammed.

How right Jadot was to have done it. The wines I tasted that afternoon-after a white Beaujolais of the chardonnay grape I was treated to a magnificent procession of wines from the Jadot properties in Beaujolais-Villages, Morgon and Moulin-a-Vent-all of them rich and round, succulent with mature fruit and balanced with the acidity and the tannin to allow them to hold for years and years. They were little short of stupendous, and I was not surprised when Gagey a.s.sured me that Jadot took the same painstaking care with a $10 Beaujolais as they did with a $300 Chambertin. But his earnest sincerity only led me in the direction of subversive thoughts. With stuff like this, I couldn't help wondering, how could they manage to sell their top-of-the-line Burgundies at prices twenty or thirty times dearer? And when, at almost the very moment when I was tasting these fabulous gamays, the news emerged that the price of Bordeaux's great Chateau Petrus, jewel of Pomerol, had just topped $3,000 for a single bottle, my thoughts grew considerably more subversive. If it was hard enough to swallow the notion of a Chambertin being thirty times "better" than these wonderful bottles Gagey had uncorked for me, was I now to accept that a Petrus was somehow three hundred times three hundred times better? This was ridiculous. Any wine lover with half a palate, I was certain, would gladly take three hundred of Jadot's wonderful gamays against a single Petrus. Bettane and Prial had spoken lucidly: sn.o.bbery and the cash flowing from wine investors had created some very weird imbalances in the market. better? This was ridiculous. Any wine lover with half a palate, I was certain, would gladly take three hundred of Jadot's wonderful gamays against a single Petrus. Bettane and Prial had spoken lucidly: sn.o.bbery and the cash flowing from wine investors had created some very weird imbalances in the market.

Like Duboeuf, like Rougier, Bosse-Platiere and, indeed, like everyone involved in the promotion and sale of Beaujolais, Jadot agreed that the region had been chastened by the explosive rise of foreign compet.i.tion on the world wine market, but added that this very chastening had been salubrious in its effect: it had gone a long way toward eliminating the worst wines from the commercial circuit and persuading producers to lay off overreliance on the chemical industry for growing their grapes.

"Beaujolais wines have never been as good as they have become over the past five years or so," he insisted, and the samples he poured for me that afternoon easily bore him out. With quality of that standard, with the shared enthusiasm that greeted Duboeuf's selection at the Paris tasting session, with the kind of commentary delivered by connoisseurs like Bettane and Prial, it is always galling when Beaujolais wines are misapprehended as they frequently are, and all the more so when the disparagement arrives from within the camp, in France itself. In 2002, all the latent dread and insecurity that had been stalking the region's vignerons came together in a single flash point when a nasty little affair erupted like an echo of Philip the Bold's anathematizings. Starting from next to nothing, it blew out of all logical proportion and reached a point that threatened to do terrible damage to the reputation of the entire Beaujolais region. Around Beaujeu, Belleville and Villefranche it was known as l'Affaire Lyon Mag l'Affaire Lyon Mag-or, in its most painful labeling, as l'Affaire Vin de Merde. l'Affaire Vin de Merde.

Lyon Mag is a glossy monthly similar to hundreds of other "city" magazines around the world, offering a predictable mix of local coverage- politics, sport, pocketbook economics, women's pages and the like-and a young, ambitious editorial staff with a marked penchant for seeking out the sensational kinds of stories that tend to boost newsstand sales. In the summer of 2002, after Beaujolais producers had requested a governmental subsidy for sending to the distillery one hundred thousand hectoliters of unsold wine from the weak 2001 vintage, the magazine opportunistically splashed an article denouncing the request, in the name of defending taxpayers' interests. The key to the article was a quote from Francois Mauss, a somewhat obscure Parisian wine personality: "They wanted to make money at all costs, and they are perfectly aware of selling a is a glossy monthly similar to hundreds of other "city" magazines around the world, offering a predictable mix of local coverage- politics, sport, pocketbook economics, women's pages and the like-and a young, ambitious editorial staff with a marked penchant for seeking out the sensational kinds of stories that tend to boost newsstand sales. In the summer of 2002, after Beaujolais producers had requested a governmental subsidy for sending to the distillery one hundred thousand hectoliters of unsold wine from the weak 2001 vintage, the magazine opportunistically splashed an article denouncing the request, in the name of defending taxpayers' interests. The key to the article was a quote from Francois Mauss, a somewhat obscure Parisian wine personality: "They wanted to make money at all costs, and they are perfectly aware of selling a vin de merde. vin de merde. As a result, the Beaujolais producers don't deserve state a.s.sistance." As a result, the Beaujolais producers don't deserve state a.s.sistance."

Vin de merde: s.h.i.t wine. The quote was heaven-sent. AN EXPERT ACCUSES, the magazine breathlessly headlined, "Beaujolais, It's Not Wine." It was tendentious, mean-spirited stuff that picked up on all the old rumors, prejudices, jealousies and stereotypes that had been laid out against Beaujolais for centuries-in effect, kicking someone who was already down. But the ploy worked like magic, better than anything the editors could have hoped for: the vignerons snapped at the bait. Wounded in their pride, already punished by flagging sales, the growers' community saw red and reacted unthinkingly to defend its honor: sixty-three village and regional trade groups got together and sued Lyon Mag Lyon Mag for denigration of their product. for denigration of their product.

With that, the ball got rolling, and soon it was out of control. The lawsuit turned a meretricious little article in an unimportant provincial magazine into a national cause celebre. The Parisian press picked up the story, and from there it went international. As the most widely recognized name in red wines, Beaujolais had always made good copy, so this was much too good to miss. Within twenty-four hours, Beaujolais = Vin de Merde Vin de Merde had flashed around the world. Duboeuf was depressed and horrified by the producers' gaffe, because he guessed very accurately the path that the whole dreary business would be taking over the next few months. had flashed around the world. Duboeuf was depressed and horrified by the producers' gaffe, because he guessed very accurately the path that the whole dreary business would be taking over the next few months.

"They should never have filed that lawsuit," he told me. "All they're accomplishing is to spread the calumny around the world. Things were already bad enough. Now they've made it much worse."

It happened exactly as he had feared, and through the next weeks and months he gazed in stunned disbelief at his fellow countrymen great and small as they a.s.siduously engaged themselves in a national exercise of shooting themselves in the foot, while at the same time sinking the Beaujolais. In first judgment and appeal, Lyon Mag Lyon Mag was twice condemned and heavily fined, which unsurprisingly caused the national press and civil liberties groups of all ilk to leap to defend the cause of freedom of the press. Meanwhile, a venomous political squabble was developing between the United States and France, whose national administration seemed h.e.l.l-bent on destroying the last shreds of more than two centuries of American affection for the land of was twice condemned and heavily fined, which unsurprisingly caused the national press and civil liberties groups of all ilk to leap to defend the cause of freedom of the press. Meanwhile, a venomous political squabble was developing between the United States and France, whose national administration seemed h.e.l.l-bent on destroying the last shreds of more than two centuries of American affection for the land of liberte, egalite and fraternite. liberte, egalite and fraternite. President Jacques Chirac was at his pompous best in displaying undisguised contempt for President Bush and threatening to use his Security Council veto against any UN help with the Iraq adventure. (The idea was right, the diplomatic manner wasn't.) At the same time, his talented mouthpiece, Prime Minister Dominigue de Villepin, declaimed elegant polemics against America in general, and before anyone knew quite what was happening everything had spun into caricature: Uncle Sam was a warmonger, the entire French nation had been transmogrified into cheese-eating surrender monkeys, and Freedom Fries were just around the corner. Along with everything else French, sales of Beaujolais plummeted in the United States. President Jacques Chirac was at his pompous best in displaying undisguised contempt for President Bush and threatening to use his Security Council veto against any UN help with the Iraq adventure. (The idea was right, the diplomatic manner wasn't.) At the same time, his talented mouthpiece, Prime Minister Dominigue de Villepin, declaimed elegant polemics against America in general, and before anyone knew quite what was happening everything had spun into caricature: Uncle Sam was a warmonger, the entire French nation had been transmogrified into cheese-eating surrender monkeys, and Freedom Fries were just around the corner. Along with everything else French, sales of Beaujolais plummeted in the United States.

It was in this poisoned atmosphere that the Cour de Ca.s.sation, the French supreme court, finally threw out the earlier judgments against Lyon Mag, Lyon Mag, on the perfectly reasonable principle that the European Convention on Human Rights explicitly shielded freedom of speech. That ended it. The episode had proven to be nothing more than a useless, costly exercise in emotional gesticulation, one that made Beaujolais look silly around the world and gave undeserved honor to on the perfectly reasonable principle that the European Convention on Human Rights explicitly shielded freedom of speech. That ended it. The episode had proven to be nothing more than a useless, costly exercise in emotional gesticulation, one that made Beaujolais look silly around the world and gave undeserved honor to Lyon Mag Lyon Mag as a doughty little bastion of freedom of the press. "Undeserved" because Mauss, the man at the origin of the affair, was furious at the magazine for having pulled a sensational story from thin air by manipulating him and his words-the traditional sin of low-flying journalists masquerading as crusaders. as a doughty little bastion of freedom of the press. "Undeserved" because Mauss, the man at the origin of the affair, was furious at the magazine for having pulled a sensational story from thin air by manipulating him and his words-the traditional sin of low-flying journalists masquerading as crusaders.

"You've got to know the truth," he told me urgently. "They called me at ten or ten-thirty at night, and we spoke about all sorts of things for almost an hour and a half. You know how it is when you talk on the phone, you let yourself go a little, so yes, I did say that those one hundred thousand hectoliters were vin de merde, vin de merde, but I was only referring to them, not all Beaujolais. When I finally saw the article in the magazine, I said d.a.m.n-I've been had! I adore Beaujolais, and I absolutely didn't want to say that the producers were no good. If they had consulted me before filing that lawsuit, I would have presented them a formal apology. What came out in but I was only referring to them, not all Beaujolais. When I finally saw the article in the magazine, I said d.a.m.n-I've been had! I adore Beaujolais, and I absolutely didn't want to say that the producers were no good. If they had consulted me before filing that lawsuit, I would have presented them a formal apology. What came out in Lyon Mag Lyon Mag didn't at all correspond to what I felt about Beaujolais wine." didn't at all correspond to what I felt about Beaujolais wine."

Three years after the start of this doleful affair, Duboeuf had cause to be horrified yet again, when an internal audit showed that the chief of the impressive new winery he had built in 2002 had lamentably screwed up his job, mixing together different crus crus that were meant to be stored and sold separately, then compounding the bungles by mixing Beaujolais-Villages in with certain that were meant to be stored and sold separately, then compounding the bungles by mixing Beaujolais-Villages in with certain crus. crus. (With everyone harvesting at once over a few mad, hectic days and grapes arriving all day long and well into the night, it was perhaps understandable that fatigue would take its toll and cause a mess, but this one was of truly awful proportions.) Ironically, the errors came to light because Georges had installed a computerized tracking system that followed each batch of grapes from vineyard to bottle. On learning of the screwup, he immediately suspended his employee and blocked the wines in vats before they could be bottled. Blocked or not, though, the mixes const.i.tuted a breach of AOC rules. The matter came to the attention of the local tax and customs authorities, and the zealous new Villefranche prosecutor decided to make an example of Duboeuf. Once again (With everyone harvesting at once over a few mad, hectic days and grapes arriving all day long and well into the night, it was perhaps understandable that fatigue would take its toll and cause a mess, but this one was of truly awful proportions.) Ironically, the errors came to light because Georges had installed a computerized tracking system that followed each batch of grapes from vineyard to bottle. On learning of the screwup, he immediately suspended his employee and blocked the wines in vats before they could be bottled. Blocked or not, though, the mixes const.i.tuted a breach of AOC rules. The matter came to the attention of the local tax and customs authorities, and the zealous new Villefranche prosecutor decided to make an example of Duboeuf. Once again Lyon Mag Lyon Mag splashed a big story-Beaujolais always made good copy, but Beaujolais splashed a big story-Beaujolais always made good copy, but Beaujolais and and Duboeuf was even better. DUBOEUF ACCUSED OF FRAUD, the headline shouted, and at length the case came to a trial. Despite the fact that the 2,090 hectoliters involved-less than 1 percent of his output-had remained in-house and unbottled, Les Vins Georges Duboeuf was fined 30,000 euros, or about $36,000, for "trickery and attempted trickery." This looked like doubtful justice at best, but Duboeuf was not going to make the same mistake as the producers who sued Duboeuf was even better. DUBOEUF ACCUSED OF FRAUD, the headline shouted, and at length the case came to a trial. Despite the fact that the 2,090 hectoliters involved-less than 1 percent of his output-had remained in-house and unbottled, Les Vins Georges Duboeuf was fined 30,000 euros, or about $36,000, for "trickery and attempted trickery." This looked like doubtful justice at best, but Duboeuf was not going to make the same mistake as the producers who sued Lyon Mag Lyon Mag and see the humiliating story dragged out over years of appeals, judgments and further tendentious articles. He swallowed hard, shut up, downgraded all the litigious wines one notch, selling the and see the humiliating story dragged out over years of appeals, judgments and further tendentious articles. He swallowed hard, shut up, downgraded all the litigious wines one notch, selling the crus crus as Beaujolais-Villages, and the Beaujolais-Villages as simple Beaujolais. In both cases, the wines had been enn.o.bled by the mix with higher-value stuff, then sold beneath the price they would normally command, so the company took a beating and some customers got a good deal. But what counted most was this: although Les Vins Georges Duboeuf had been found guilty of unauthorized procedures, Georges himself was declared innocent. Honor was intact. as Beaujolais-Villages, and the Beaujolais-Villages as simple Beaujolais. In both cases, the wines had been enn.o.bled by the mix with higher-value stuff, then sold beneath the price they would normally command, so the company took a beating and some customers got a good deal. But what counted most was this: although Les Vins Georges Duboeuf had been found guilty of unauthorized procedures, Georges himself was declared innocent. Honor was intact.

XI.

WHITHER BEAUJOLAIS?.

GLOBALIZATION AND THE RANSOM OF SUCCESS.

As satisfying as it was for honor to be proven and to walk exonerated from a courtroom, the economic consequences of bad publicity remained imponderable, and after the successive attacks of l'Affaire Vin de Merde l'Affaire Vin de Merde and and l'Affaire Duboeuf l'Affaire Duboeuf, the Beaujolais was in something like a state of shock: unpleasant, baffling new forces had come to cloud the optimism that had swept over the region in earlier decades. Dealers and vignerons alike could understand and accept that their wines were encountering fierce new compet.i.tion from abroad, but what mystified and troubled them was to discover so much cold antipathy coming from the French themselves, the same ones who only a generation earlier had raised Beaujolais nearly to the status of a national treasure. What had gone wrong? The peasant smallholders of the Beaujolais were supposed to be the good guys, les bons pet.i.ts gars, les bons pet.i.ts gars, brave little villagers taking on their rich and powerful compet.i.tors with the magic potion they brewed from the gamay grape. Certainly some among them had resorted to easy outs, grown and overgrown grapes in ill-suited grain terrain and dumped poor quality wine onto the market-there wasn't a wine area anywhere in the world where hustlers hadn't been similarly cutting corners-but they were exceptions. Why should the finger be pointed only at the Beaujolais? Why this vendetta? brave little villagers taking on their rich and powerful compet.i.tors with the magic potion they brewed from the gamay grape. Certainly some among them had resorted to easy outs, grown and overgrown grapes in ill-suited grain terrain and dumped poor quality wine onto the market-there wasn't a wine area anywhere in the world where hustlers hadn't been similarly cutting corners-but they were exceptions. Why should the finger be pointed only at the Beaujolais? Why this vendetta?

Over and over again as I rambled around villages and vineyards I met the same uncomprehending headshakes and heard the same comparison between France and the United States brought forth: in America you admire success and try to emulate it; here, they hate you for it and try to tear you down. And then there was the matter of Lyon. That really hurt. The wonderful, easygoing old town astride the confluence of the Saone and the Rhone was France's version of Chicago, the second city, with its own particular culture, history, folklore, slang and accent. It was the anti-Paris, laughing and insolent where the capital was pompous and self-important, comfortable with its frank accent on good living and sensuality where Paris was ambitious, proud and just a bit paranoiac; and, best of all, it was the national epicenter of good eating and good drinking, the gourmet's earthly paradise of food and wine, where great chefs like Paul Bocuse and Jean-Paul Lacombe were much better known and admired than whoever happened to be mayor of the moment-and this marvelous place had turned its back on Beaujolais. It was distressing, incomprehensible. In the wine country this abandonment was felt like the breakup of a love affair, and not one that ended by mutual consent but rather by unilateral rupture-the Beaujolais had been jilted. Dismayed, the vignerons discovered a character trait in the Lyonnais that they had never suspected: they weren't necessarily always so jolly, after all, les gones les gones. They could be downright spiteful when they put their minds to it.

One drizzly April afternoon I drove down to Lyon to see for myself how bad the situation was. In a personal survey of no statistical value whatsoever, I visited ten cafes and bars in the vicinity of the sumptuous Part Dieu food market on the left bank of the Rhone, lifted a few gla.s.ses and asked a few bartenders and clients their opinion of Beaujolais wines. My first observation was that certain overriding national character traits always dominate: the French will be the French, whatever region or microculture they inhabit. As a kind of preamble to any opinion emitted on any subject, it was postulated by general agreement that (1) everyone always cheats, and (2) in any case the press is rotten and never tells anything but a pack of lies, so you can never really tell what's what. The vote on that was unanimous. That being said, Beaujolais was out, definitely out. And what was striking-astonishing even-was the degree of antagonism: not a single one of these bars was even serving Beaujolais. not a single one of these bars was even serving Beaujolais. Lyon, the city that had been identified with the wine of the gamay like none other, had decided that it would now drink Cotes du Rhone. More than a mere change of fashion, this was a major, implacable pout. Lyon, the city that had been identified with the wine of the gamay like none other, had decided that it would now drink Cotes du Rhone. More than a mere change of fashion, this was a major, implacable pout.

"The Beaujolais people should have paid more attention to their French clients instead of the foreign market," sniffed the boss of a bar called the Aristo. Bingo-that was half the reason for the pout right there. The other half was articulated bluntly in another establishment a few blocks away. "Beaujolais is much more expensive than Cotes du Rhone," explained the owner of the Bra.s.serie du Palais as he poured me a generous ballon ballon of his 2003 Belleruche. "The quality-price ratio is better with this." of his 2003 Belleruche. "The quality-price ratio is better with this."

So it was about money, after all. But that wasn't the whole story. Emotions were involved, too, and a good deal more than most people realized or would admit. Beaujolais-our Beaujolais, the wine we Lyonnais just about invented-had gone off and danced with other partners, then had the nerve to raise its prices. The big man behind the bar in the Bra.s.serie du Palais delivered a final cruel announcement like a knockout punch. "I inherited this place from my mother," he said with satisfaction. "When she had it, its name was Le Beaujolais."

Relaxing with a pre-lunch gla.s.s of Macon white in his comfortable Art Deco house near the university in downtown Lyon, Professor Garrier added a third angle to the explanation. "Toward the end of the last century there were two or three years when a lot of mediocre Beaujolais was produced. It was coming out acid and sometimes mildewed, while the Cotes du Rhone was OK. The old generation of vignerons from the days of les trente glorieuses les trente glorieuses hadn't always updated their equipment and had gotten a little bit sloppy about maintaining their installations. Not many of them were as scrupulous as Georges Duboeuf, so the result was poor wine. Add that to the sn.o.bbery of the Lyonnais-since the j.a.panese like our Beaujolais so much, we won't drink it anymore-and you've got a very powerful negative argument: hadn't always updated their equipment and had gotten a little bit sloppy about maintaining their installations. Not many of them were as scrupulous as Georges Duboeuf, so the result was poor wine. Add that to the sn.o.bbery of the Lyonnais-since the j.a.panese like our Beaujolais so much, we won't drink it anymore-and you've got a very powerful negative argument: l'amour trompe. l'amour trompe. Infidelity in love." Infidelity in love."

A few months after my lunch with Professor Garrier I dropped in on Michel Rougier, director-general of InterBeaujolais in Villefranche. As it happened, he was gazing at a selection of withering anti-wine articles and postings on his computer when I walked into his office. As the man whose job was to represent both the growers and the dealers, he was sorely vexed by what he was seeing.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said and sighed. "Yes, we're in a time of crisis now, and I'm afraid its going to last a number of years. Look at this." He made a gesture of disgust toward the screen. "The political cla.s.s has been manipulated by health professionals. Now they're acting as if alcohol is a medicine, or a drug to be regulated. It's almost as if they want to prohibit wine. But we're Latins, not binge drinkers like the Anglo-Saxons or Scandinavians. We don't go out and get drunk on Sat.u.r.day night. We drink regularly, but reasonably."

Undeniably, Rougier had a point. While the consumption of wine is an integral part of the French daily social routine, drinking alcohol fast and deep to get seriously drunk is not viewed as normal or acceptable behavior. Early in my years in France-the mid-sixties-when the average per capita consumption of wine was still over one hundred liters a year, a journalistic colleague of mine, himself no stranger to the charms of alcohol, was moved to a lapidary observation: "You know," he said with something like confraternal admiration, "I've rarely seen a Frenchman completely drunk. But then again I've rarely seen one completely sober, either."

That's changed. Today, average per capita consumption has dropped to less than fifty liters a year, and there are more and more French men and women who spend their entire lives dead sober. The decline in wine consumption has been slow but c.u.mulative. Until recent times, the only signs of any anti-drink campaigning that anyone might have encounteredwere the work of vaguely prohibitionist do-good organizations that bought advertising s.p.a.ce in busses and metro cars where they installed a clumsily drawn cartoon of a sad little girl addressing an admonition to her staggering father: "Papa, ne bois pas, pense a moi." Daddy, don't drink, think of me. The campaign was remarkably ineffective.

Meanwhile, out in real life on the highways, French drivers reveled (or shrank in terror, depending on their psyche) in an environment that brought to mind images of a giant automotive pinball machine: enforcement of speed limits was virtually nonexistent, stop signs and red lights were viewed as optional and alcohol tests were unknown except ex post facto, at the sites of serious accidents. Priorite a droite Priorite a droite-the horse-and-buggy rule obliging the car on the left to cede right of way to the car on the right-seemed to be the single, overriding rule that everyone knew by heart, and it was viewed as a driver's absolute ent.i.tlement, whatever the circ.u.mstance. Naturally, this caused mayhem at poorly marked crossroads, because drivers habitually entered them at breakneck speed. Lacking a national superhighway grid, the routes nationales routes nationales of the old three-lane geometry, ideal for head-on collisions, were a murderous travel adventure. Successive French administrations, alarmed at the cost to the nation of road deaths and maimings, finally took a look at the figures, saw that their country was leading Western Europe as the most dangerous place to take to the highway, and decided to do something about it. The statistics were awful, it must be said. In the ghastly record year of 1972, 18,113 persons were killed on French roads. The first and most noticeable reaction of the authorities was to rush construction of what is now an admirable and thoroughly modern superhighway system. After that, the cops were given new powers and new equipment. By 2001, road deaths had fallen to 8,000, then down to 4,975 in 2005. of the old three-lane geometry, ideal for head-on collisions, were a murderous travel adventure. Successive French administrations, alarmed at the cost to the nation of road deaths and maimings, finally took a look at the figures, saw that their country was leading Western Europe as the most dangerous place to take to the highway, and decided to do something about it. The statistics were awful, it must be said. In the ghastly record year of 1972, 18,113 persons were killed on French roads. The first and most noticeable reaction of the authorities was to rush construction of what is now an admirable and thoroughly modern superhighway system. After that, the cops were given new powers and new equipment. By 2001, road deaths had fallen to 8,000, then down to 4,975 in 2005. Le tout-repressif, Le tout-repressif, the new national policy was called: the crackdown. With automatic flash-camera radars installed throughout the country and speed traps and random gendarme checks becoming generalized, French drivers finally began resigning themselves to maybe obeying the traffic laws. the new national policy was called: the crackdown. With automatic flash-camera radars installed throughout the country and speed traps and random gendarme checks becoming generalized, French drivers finally began resigning themselves to maybe obeying the traffic laws.

At the same time, the dreaded balloon became a fixture of everyday road life: the unannounced ambush by a squad of gendarmes, the smart military salute and the polite but totally imperative request to blow into the balloon. Anything more than the equivalent of a couple of gla.s.ses of wine led to a forced wait by the roadside to get the alcohol rate down, and a few points off the twelve-point driver's license. Higher rates meant immediate suspension of the license, immobilization of the car in situ and a trip to the gendarmerie or commissariat for a much longer sobering-up wait-in a cell or holding room this time-and loss of the license for up to six months. It was draconian and painful, but there was no arguing with the statistics of dramatically fewer road deaths. In the face of that, it was difficult to argue that people ought to be able to drink as much as they wanted at lunch or dinner and carry on with their lives as before. Professionals of wine were caught in an ethical and semantic bind.

"Everything's changing," said Rougier despondently. "The police, the market, the compet.i.tion, the consumers, the techniques of production, the cepages cepages, the public's tastes-everything. Tradition doesn't hold anymore."

There it was. Ad lib, Rougier had summed up the predicament facing winegrowers in every corner of France except a few niche producers of specialty wines and, of course, those with happy names like Petrus, Richebourg, Krug or Yquem. The ones at the very high end were sitting as pretty as ever, but the vast middle ground was an overcrowded sea of trouble. Everything's changing Everything's changing. And it never stops changing, either-that's what was so unsettling about it. The primeval soup called globalization is a fantastic machine for creating wealth, variety and innovation, but it is also a kind of monster, a dog-eat-dog combat that permanently threatens the status quo. It is a very unsettling thing, and a great national debate rages in France, where the tug of tradition is strong, about how to come to terms with it. Nothing is sure anymore, nothing is safe, whether here or anywhere else-and that goes for every kind of enterprise, whether wine, warplanes or widgets. If everyone can do anything and sell it anywhere, the inescapable corollary is that today's darling is in permanent danger of being tomorrow's discard.

Seething at the bad news on his computer screen, Rougier railed against "les vins body-buildes," the powerful, tannic Beethovens that had come to worldwide favor at the expense of less muscular stuff, while stubbornly predicting that drinkers around the world would soon tire of this strong medicine and return to the subtler, less overwhelming charms of the gamay grape. "Those heavy wines will finally become undrinkable," he insisted. "Beaujolais is a wine for drinking drinking, not for winning complexity prizes at tasting sessions. With our cepage, cepage, we can't make heavy wines. Beaujolais is going to be the wine of the third millennium." we can't make heavy wines. Beaujolais is going to be the wine of the third millennium."

But he didn't really sound all that sure of himself. There was a lot of whistling in the dark going on in the Beaujolais. As 2006 moved into 2007 the region boasted fewer than thirty-five hundred individual exploitations, compared to five-thousand-plus in the glory days, and the number looked certain to drop even further. Even though the Beaujolais had not been nearly as overplanted as the vast Bordeaux region, it was looking at a probable loss of a further quarter of its acreage under vines. New measures were hastily installed to allow desperate Beaujolais vignerons to double their yields pe