In the late 1680’s French Protestants fled to South Africa
to escape religious persecution.
They
settled on the edges of the Dutch East India Company’s pit stop to India.
Employed as farmers, they produced food and
wine for the ships going to and from India.
Amongst those immigrant farmers was one of my ancestors.
To this day the town of Franschhoek, named
for the immigrants, likes to pretend they are part of France.
In Stellenbosch winemakers make the wine, but
in
Franschhoek Vignerons do.
There is
even a museum dedicated to the French Huguenots.
A few years ago I went to have a look at my
heritage.
They charged an entry fee of
R5!
R5!!!!!
Surely my heritage is worth more than
that?
A measly R5!
People should be glad to pay ten times that
to learn about my roots.
Parking is more
expensive than that in the town.
It has
become a playground for the well-heeled.
So they have a festival in an overpriced town an hour from Cape Town to
celebrate the storming of a mostly empty prison.
And I
went.
Attracted by the very good food and improving wines of the
valley and the promise of a French corner market. Not so much the boules
tournament or the barrel rolling competition.
Corner market under delivered on its promise.
It was here that I first noticed all the
stupid red berets.
I explained to Curly
that I will not be publicly associated with her should she wear a beret.
Turns out the feeling were mutual.
We had time before the wine tent opened, so we
strolled into town and to a
chocholatier (chilli chocolate and just plain went
into the bag) and a bookshop.
Got
Gangway, a very little known book by Brian Garfield (also wrote James Bond
novels for the Fleming Trust) and my absolute favourite
Donald E Westlake.
Then to a liquor store that has some empty
first growths and some locked away stuff in an amazing underground wine cellar
with water flowing in little canals to regulate temperature.
Worth a trip if you want some good and
unusual wines.
Or if you just want to
see a spectacular cellar.
By now the town has
filled up a bit and we mosied up to the wine tent.
A queue up the hill was our next stop.
When eventually we got through the gates, I saw
Dieu Donné beer, but the weiss
was sold out and the pilsner tasted as if the lines were not properly cleaned
since day before.
Although a very big tent, it was still overcrowded. Yet more sad berets and the stereotypical
striped French outfits. At one stall the
wine dispensers wore French maid outfits.
The black and white tops that also form a short skirt type thing. Legs clad in black stockings (even one
fishnet!) In between was something I can
only describe as bloomers made from old flour bag material. I asked Curly what they were for and she
reckoned it was there precisely why I don’t want it to be there. I tried to convince her to trade outfits, but
cooperation was not forth coming. Must
not speak ill of her though, she carried all purchases for the day until I
bought the coffee.
At the stand of
Le Quartier Francais I had the chance to buy
their famous lamb burger from Ms Janse herself.
The burger lived up to reputation, even if it
was a simplified show special.
They also
had bitterballen.
In the end we bought
50 of them and I ate 87.4% of them.
They
were better than ones I ate in Belgium and I even took some to work the next
day.
Lovely stuff.
From the wines we tried the shiraz from Porcupine Ridge (as
big brother
Boekenhoutskloof was not there).
Cape Chamonix did not have their chardonnay there.
Had a Sauvignon Blanc with either
long barrel time or barrel fermented that was
good.
The bubbles at Cabriere, M
ôreson and Morena worked for both
of us.
My companion for the day liked
the
Allée Bleue olive oil. And,
no
she didn’t taste half a glass.
The Shiraz bubbles from
Solms-Delta was
surprisingly good.
My previous
encounters with the style at Ntida and Camberley did nothing to convince me the
style has merit. We missed the barrel rolling competition.
On purpose.
It emptied the wine tent and created some semblance of space.
With Curly carrying almost everything, after buying wine,
the enthusiasm to stick around waned.
At
some point during the afternoon there was an intention to buy wine from
Vrede en Lust, but luckily we missed it.
Luckily,
as we then tasted wine at the cellar on the way back.
The stupid French maid’s outfits were on
display here as well.
Still no success
with the outfit swapping idea.
 |
| We had the outside view. From vrede and Lust Website (and tasting room) |
It turned out to be a bit of a Damascus moment for my
companion. We sat on a bench on a stoep overlooking a
vineyard and the mountains guarding the Franschhoek valley while tasting our
way through their range. Jess is a
lovely pink rosé (1)
that goes very well with strawberries.
She is also a 21 year old whose father owns a winery. Her kinship with strawberries I have no
knowledge of. A situation that is
unlikely to change. Sarah is either her
sister or an unwooden (2) chardonnay. Two Jesses and no Sarahs joined my
stock. The Sauvignon Blanc was the 2010
and while nice, not wow.
Turns out Marguerite is not another sibling, but the
daughter of the original owner who eventually married a slave. The story might have been fuller told if I
had not insisted it should be 25 words or less.
In the wine tent it was the then unknown Marguerite that elicited a
response “Very nice; for a white wine. I
could drink this.” So it came to pass
that a dead French women who could not keep her hands off the help started a
confirmed red wine drinker on the road to insight. The wine in question is a barrel fermented
Chardonnay born in 2010. In a few years
time I will visit my two Marguerites and hope my love for them won’t be
diminished.
In a moment of rampant imagination the Viognier was
named: Viognier. Simply named and simply delicious. While the Woman-likes-Reds was tempted by
Jess, charmed by Marguerite, this functionally named liquid paved the road to
Syria’s capital. She took four home
while I took one each to accompany Jess and Marguerite.
Enter Mocholate stage right.
A Malbec with coffee notes. No
overt Arabica here, rather a subdued hint of something coffeeish. Our server claimed that it is a winter
wine. To be enjoyed in front of a
fire. The Syrah she explained was a more
serious wine. It should be drunk with
more serious meat. “I thought all meat
were serious,” came from my left. I
couldn’t agree. I’ve encountered viennas
that were quite frivolous.
A Bordeaux blend called Boet Erasmus (yes as in the rugby
stadium. Another relative of the owner)
showed promise to age a few more years.
We had the 2008 vintage. Some of
this were also planned to join the trip home.
And then the 2004 Classic appeared.
Also a five way Bordeaux blend, but ready to drink. Drink lots of. A case each was inevitable.
In the end a good day out.
I will be back in the valley for the bubbles festival in December. Sooner if the bitterballen are on the
menu.
(1) Yes
I know. Rosé tend not to come in other colours.
(2) Sometimes
it is not worth correcting people. It
spoils the funny.
