Bastille Day in Franshhoek

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, Môreson 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.