Throw the wine geeks out! (or, summer is for pink wines)

Real Men Drink Rosé is the the title of the latest post on Kermit Lynch Wine Merchant's Inspiring Thirst blog. Yes, indeed they do; especially the dry, minerally charged rosés (the opposite of tutti-fruity) imported by this iconic Berkeley importer.


Even us ragtag, everyday-is-a-bad-hair day winos can think pink without our bumhood being challenged. Blue skies and beating suns this time each year always make me think of a long departed, newspaper cartoonist friend of mine named Harry Lyons, who could always be counted on for an encouraging word; and not just during the countless hours we shared at a certain dark bar we frequented some years ago in Hawai`i.

Harry penned a series of articles called The Vagabond Gourmet for the same restaurant industry publication (long defunct) I wrote for; and my all-time favorite was one he called "Wine Bums" – about the scourge of the “Gallic dandies” who once dominated the sommelier profession in the sixties and seventies:

Not very long ago, a guy whose only felony was craving red wines with his fish course was made to feel like a buffoon and pariah. Wine stewards would turn in their keys before they’d serve the dreaded, bastard rosé wine. And to bring you wine “on the rocks?” It is to laugh. In short, diners whose tastes in wines and service requirements differed from the dreary norm were considered on the same social level as the bleary, bearded hobo with feet wrapped in newspaper and cigar stub on a toothpick, cooking his beans in a can over a fire while swilling Muscatel from a jug in a pager bag… bums!

And yes, the late, great Harry Lyons that I knew in the eighties brazenly drank all his wine on the rocks (Burgundy, Chablis or Vin Rosé, he never discriminated), which even I wouldn’t dare in those days. Despite his calling himself a “wine bum,” we both knew that in reality he was more of a connoisseur than so-called connoisseurs. Like a true connoisseur, he consumed his wine with knowing relish, rather than with self-conscious superficiality.

I like to think we’ve evolved far beyond those dark, old days of “fine dining” and “continental cuisine,” when sommeliers (like me) wore velvet bows, cummerbunds, chains and ashtrays over their frilly tuxedo shirts, and when much of what was called service entailed “teaching” customers the proper ways to enjoy food or wine (or as Harry often put it, “the hoary old matches that originated in Europe”), but oft-times I wonder... especially in this day and age of 100 point scores, and the obsessive prattle of wine geeks and collectors, unknowingly (or so it seems to me) fueled by lifestyle magazines and journalists determined to pigeonhole wine into neat, little quality categorizations suitable for Consumer Reports. Shut up and drink your wine!

Where have all the wine bums gone?

Harry Lyons was ahead of his time, but he probably wouldn’t have given a hoot about all this anyway. He'd just order up another round for all, asking for another side of rocks for his jug wine rosé!


A FEW OF MY FAVORITE ROSÉS (AND PINK WINE FOODS)

Summery pink wines taste great by themselves, and are even better with food – from hobo style weenies on toothpicks, to endless Babette-like feasts among babbling foodies. The following are my favorites, which I suggest with one caveat: never, never buy a bottle that is over two years old. For pink wines, dry or sweet, it’s always the-fresher-the-better…

SoloRosa (California) – Now here’s an idea whose time has come: a North Coast brand specializing in exactly one wine – a bone dry rosé. And no, it’s not a “Rhône Ranger” or anything gimmicky like that, but rather a serious winery, sourcing sangiovese, merlot and occasionally some syrah from the Russian River and Napa Valleys that are grown for the express purpose of producing the finest, juiciest pink wine possible. The good news is that it’s been a winner – avoiding the rough, burnt out, annoyingly overripe taste of many North Coast rosés of the past. Instead, SoloRosa is consistently rich and refined, neither light-weight nor heavy, with creamy, barrel fermented textures underlying usually an intense mélange of raspberry, cranberry and strawberry fruitiness, with just enough citrus-like crispness to keep things honest.

One of the easiest things in the world for good dry pink is salmon – cast iron or charcoal grill charred, simply brushed with butter, or lavished in ponzu marinades or even sweetened soy glazes. But despite its dryness, SoloRosa’s fruit qualities are luscious enough to balance almost any chili spiced meat, red or white, as well tearfully hot dishes like Jamaican jerks, Cajun blackened or chili specked Thai shrimp, or pork coated in Szechuan spices. This is one wine that can be put to work; which, of course, is what SoloRosa has been about since its noble inception.

Bokisch, Lodi Rosada (California) - Produced from garnacha (a.k.a. grenache), which tends to express more of a strawberry fruitiness; and Bokisch's is as fresh as they come. In the best Southern French and Spanish tradition, this a completely dry style of rosé, exuding a bell ringing varietal fruitiness with cranberry/pomegranate-like zip, its body full yet fluid on the palate. Naturally Hispanophile grower/vintners Markus and Liz Bokisch would suggest Spanish style tapas, although the wine is great sitting on patio table by its lonesome. I've enjoyed the Bokisch with marinated shrimp and fresh chopped chile spiced guacamole in one of those restaurants where they mix the avocado in an oversized stone mortar at the table for you. Given my Hawaiian island inclinations, I also think this would be dynamite with simple fried little fish (like anchovy and sardines) and rice seasoned with everything from Japanese furikake (chopped seaweed and sesame seed seasonings) to pickled ginger, umé (sweet-sour plum), soy, and sesame seeds.

Rosé di Regaleali (Sicily) - The world owes Italian wine importer Leonardo LoCascio a debt of gratitude for discovering this perennial winner and bringing it to America. Made from indigenous Sicilian grapes, this is always a completely dry rosy colored wine, and its juicy, fleshy, mouth-watering flavors allow it to cross all kinds of food barriers. Red barbecued chicken is a no-brainer; so is meatloaf in an herby, mushroomy or tomato-laced gravy, or anything pink like salmon or half-rare tuna

Robert Sinskey, Carneros Vin Gris of Pinot Noir (Napa Valley, California - Although very little of this precious fluid is made each year, I was pleased to discover (during a meeting with Rob Sinskey last year) that this full fledged Biodynamic© winery is determined to keep this wine in its portfolio. Especially since this is this is as refined as a pink wine gets, yet always more exuberant than the occasional sightings of Marsannay rosés (also made from pinot noir) coming out of Burgundy each year. Speaking of which, whenever you find a recent vintage of French rosé from Marsannay, Chinon (made from cabernet franc) or Cassis (primarily from grenache), praise the lord and buy the bottle; and I would spend more time talking about such delicacies if their supply in the U.S. were more consistent. Typically, the Sinskey vin gris is very pale in color, bone dry, lithe, delicate, and bursting with fragrant, red fruit with rose hip tea-like suggestions: not something you have to think twice about with summer pastas in fresh herbed marinara or cold shrimp with sweet-spicy cocktail sauces; and although it's not exactly everyday (unless you live in Plan du Castellet like Mr. Lynch), some duck confit, cornichons and olive oil drizzled rockette would be nice.

Charles Melton, Barossa Valley Rosé of Virginia (Australia) - My first taste of this seriously bone dry and full structured pink wine was in one of L.A. star chef Joachim Splichal’s restaurants – matched with foie gras with rhubarb and strawberries! With fireworks, drums, and entire symphonies going off in my head, the wine’s luscious, cherry-bright fruitiness made this powerful dish even richer and more decadent. How many rosés can do that? Every year Charles Melton’s grenache based Rosé of Virginia is as rich and full as a pink wine gets. Therefore I suspect that it could do just as well with grilled fish with chutney, squab with figs, duck with plum sauce, or any other dish that combines meats and natural fruits.

The iconic Kermit Lynch (Berkeley, 2009)

Château de Trinquevedel, Tavel Rosé (Rhône Valley, France) - Imported by Kermit Lynch, this is the richest French rosé I know; firmly dry, yet effusively fruity, giving deep, full, lip smacking flavors just hinting at wet stones and green leafy herbs. Wines like this easily handle grilled chicken, roast turkey, squab, pigeon, and any game bird, especially with generous sides of squash and root vegetables.

Domaine Tempier, Bandol Rosé (Provence, France) - Also associated with Kermit Lynch, and produced by the Peyraud family, who has inspired legions of American gastronomes like Richard Olney and Alice Waters. Yet this is pink wine, not the stuff of royalty. What you will always find in Domaine Tempier’s rosé is something remarkably fresh, flowing, bone dry yet forwardly fruity – the essence of miniature sweet strawberries rolling across the tongue – finishing with a soft, stony smoothness. If you think ”Provence” when you pop a Tempier – ravioli and ragout, salt cod (or brandade) and anchovy, pesto and aioli, ratatouille and bouillabaisse, chicken with 40 cloves of garlic, etc. – you really can’t go wrong. In a pinch, Château de Pibarnon also makes an excellent Bandol Rosé – even dryer and firmer than the Domaine Tempier’s, but no less soulful.

Our Dinner with Thomas Jefferson (1823)

Thomas Jefferson's botanic and culinary contributions to the American heritage, and his interest in wine and viticulture, are all well known. Often forgotten, however, is the significance of these devotions to his prescient political and socioeconomic convictions; thoroughly entwined with the same inspirations we read in the Declaration of Independence. Hence, this tale, told with post-millennial hindsight:

The letter arrived, twenty years earlier in 1823, as the winter frosts beneath the tulip maple and white pines surrounding our Georgia mountain homestead began to thaw. It read:

Dear fellow vignerons,
We share a mutual interest in the fruits of the vine…

The letter went on to explain its provenance:

Recently I have been enjoying bottles of your Mother Vineyard Muscadine, as generous gifts from Nicholas Ware, the distinguished Congressman from Georgia. I wish to learn more about how you produce a wine of grace and honesty. Indeed, the Mother Vineyard seems to shout, “I am a proud American.”

At the end it was signed:

I am with great esteem, your most obedt, humble servt,
Thomas Jefferson

… the very same Thomas Jefferson: third President of our United States, former Secretary of State, author of our Declaration of Independence, architect, archeologist, gastronome, Renaissance man, and we are proud to say, flattering fellow farmer and family friend.With the letter came an invitation to dinner and lodging, to which we immediately responded with enthusiasm, as we had long put off a visit to close family members residing in nearby North Carolina. In any case, a request from one of the greatest of our Founding Fathers made the journey an immediate necessity!

So we shall never forget that mid-day in July of 1823, when our horse and carriage passed over the bridge at the foot of Monticello, the “little mountain” serving as Mr. Jefferson’s five thousand acre plantation. We cannot promise that our recounting of conversations, two decades after the fact, is word-for-word, but please bear the circumstances in mind: since they remain the highlight of our lives, what came to pass has been permanently imprinted by both countless retellings, and the ever growing fondness of those memories.

At an hour arrange previously through correspondence, we were met at the bridge by a middle-aged gentleman of lean stature, kind eyes and a strong, narrowing chin: Captain Edmund Bacon, the longtime overseer of Monticello. Alighting from his chestnut sorrel, Captain Bacon bowed and introduced himself and his horse, Peacemaker, saying, “Welcome to Monticello, the very heart and mind of Mr. Thomas Jefferson!”

Engaging him in kind, we boldly inquired as to the meaning of his cryptic greeting. Captain Bacon’s reply, expressed with some bemusement: “You will find it to be no mystery, but on the contrary, something plain to see everywhere you shall go – that Monticello is not simply a mountain upon which my famous master as resided following long service to his country.

“Monticello is a living, breathing extension of Mr. Jefferson’s passions, hence his heart, and the science and rationality with which he has always undertaken to answer the endless questions springing from his mind – which I assure you, is keener than ever, despite his advanced age of eighty years, and his consuming taste for spirits of the vine, which he has told me is the purpose of your visit. So then, are you representatives of the wine trade?”

Not exactly, we explained, for we are ourselves plantation owners; coming from the foothills of Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, not far from Fort Peachtree along Chattahoochee River, where businessmen grown fat on the revenue from railroads have recently taken to calling Atlanta. In our own home we endeavor to ply multiple industries; notably fruit and nut orchards, timbering, and a modest bit of horse husbandry.

“We actually make wine for pleasure," we told Captain Bacon, "although we are not opposed to sharing the wealth with neighbors and friends of influence... but insofar as the hard labors inherent in the stewardship of a mountain plantation, we are eager to see how much more, besides wine and grapes, we have in common with Monticello.”

“Oh, I believe you will find quite a bit!” Captain Bacon jovially replied. With that, he led us slowly up a winding road for approximately a country mile, steadily climbing about another 300 feet in elevation as we neared the top. Passing through patches of native woodland between industriously farmed wheat, oats, rye, rooted vegetables, and mixtures of row crops on the lower slopes, we were surprised to see corn in just a few small patches; and no tobacco, a commodity still synonymous with Virginian and Caroline plantation life.

Responding to our observation, our guide explained: “Quite some time ago Mr. Jefferson banished the leaf, which he calls a ‘slovenly business’ despite the profit possible in its addictive properties, after becoming disenchanted with the harmful effects the growing of it has on the land. The same for corn, which like tobacco, requires year-round attention to the detriment of other food crops Mr. Jefferson deems essential, as well as on the raising of livestock we consider of equal importance.

“Subsequently, Mr. Jefferson insists on year-round rotation of crops; an action that enriches the earth, bids defiance to droughts and insects, yields in abundance and of the best quality. Ultimately, this wholesome balance nourishes a populace of even stronger constitution. The farms that you see here, and eastward across the Rivanna River another four miles where the property ends, are divided into forty acre parcels, each managed by families or individuals belonging to our enslaved population.

“While slaves they may be, we purchase the crops and livestock that they raise on their own, and the rest they may sell to neighbors or in nearby markets, for fair prices contributing to personal income. In return, they are happy to follow Mr. Jefferson’s directives concerning the farming of Monticello.”

Searching our eyes to glean a hint of discomfort, after being apprised of this most unusual relationship between master and slave, Captain Bacon added: “I may as well give warning, before you meet the great man himself: no servants ever had a kinder master than Mr. Jefferson. Whether or not you may agree, he does not like slavery – I have heard him talk a great deal about this during all the time I have known him, which is well nigh twenty years. He believes the institution of slavery to be a bad system, and he has prophesied that it will soon bring our country into a ruinous divide.”


Before fully contemplating the gravity of Captain Bacon’s insight, we found ourselves distracted by our approach to the top of the mountain, catching our first sight of the majestic dome crowning the Monticello home, followed by the dramatic emergence of a spectacularly tall (at least 18 feet), glass doorway – as if signifying the transparency of the man and his property – between four white columns. To either side of the pathway leading to the door were two young little-leaf lindens, already stretching their lanky, darkly creased limbs to the sky, the sunlight sparkling on the green leaves, quivering in the quickening breeze.

But before passing between the lindens, Captain Bacon turned our carriage onto a graveled pathway veering to the right, through a tunnel of several dozen mulberry trees. “Mr. Jefferson calls this Mulberry Row for obvious reasons,” according to our guide, “but in order to prepare you further for your meeting with Mr. Jefferson, I wish to lead you past the house’s north pavilion which disguises a row of stables, a carriage and ice house beneath, and is connected to the schoolhouse you see at the end.

“This allée shall take us into Mr. Jefferson’s ‘Grove’ – his vision of how natural landscaping should appear. Apart from native woods, there are well over one hundred other species of trees, collected from the world over, planted on the plantation. The Grove consists primarily of Mr. Jefferson’s ‘pet’ trees, all native of America, and this is where he frequently goes to meditate, read or write.”

As our guide pointed out the wild crab, chinaberry, umbrella magnolia, aspen, red cedar ("this tree, to encourage the population of Mr. Jefferson’s favorite bird, the mockingbird,” according to Captain Bacon), and other species we can no longer recall, we could not help but be enthralled by such an arboretum, which most layman would mistake for completely wild except for the high trimming of branches and glades cleared of enough undergrowth to create an airy atmosphere, and occasional stumps left to enhance the impression of “living” rooms.

Turning back towards the house, the roundabout took us past a handsome stand of sugar maples (“unfortunately,” according to Captain Bacon, “our winters have proven too mild for their saps to rise”) before reaching the pavilion on the south side of the house, where the path entered another tunnel of mulberries where we beheld a row of stone and log structures, all serving to sustain the life and independence of this mountain community.


In contrast with the busy sounds of birdlife and smell of greenery and honeysuckle carried on winds whistling through the trees on the north side of Mulberry Row, the din and smells of the south side were dominated by the activities of enslaved as well as free laborers, emanating from over a dozen buildings; including a carpenter’s shop and sawpit, a joinery for the estate’s skilled masons, a blacksmith’s and nailery (“our one industry of outside commerce,” according to Captain Bacon), a storehouse, smokehouse and dairy, several log dwellings for both enslaved and free workers, and finally a larger stone house under a slanted roof identified as the weavers’ cottage.

Once past the cottage, Captain Bacon directed our attention to a level terrace of row crops, woven into its own marvelous cloth of multiple colors and textures, stretching a thousand feet along the mountaintop’s southern flank. The colorful runner was broken by numerous teepees of climbing peas and edible flowers, tall grey mounds of sharp leafed thistles we soon learned were called artichokes, and a red bricked pavilion capped with white Chinese railings, standing like a castle turret at the very center of the supporting rock wall: a breath taking sight against the vivid blues and greens of the landscape leading to Virginia’s Blue Ridge, skirting the horizon. “This,” our guide announced, “is Mr. Jefferson’s vegetable garden, although he often refers to it more descriptively as his kitchen garden, and sometimes even as his outdoor laboratory.

“But you may find the plantings just below the garden walls even more interesting,” said Captain Bacon, pointing to seventeen beautifully espaliered row of grape vines, sitting on seventeen terraces on the south facing slope. Before we could speak, Captain Bacon raised a hand to interrupt, saying, “I shall not utter a word on this matter – not so much because I know you are also seasoned grape growers, but because I know Mr. Jefferson would prefer that the subject of viticulture be addressed at his pleasure alone. This, after all, is why you are here!”

After graciously allowing us few minutes to stroll down to take a closer look at the garden – one row of staked bushes particularly caught our eyes, for they bore unidentifiable but plump, exotic looking red and yellow fruits – and then closer to the wall looking down upon Mr. Jefferson’s vineyard, Captain Bacon pulled out his timepiece, and tapping a finger to the glass, he said, “we have passed two o’clock, which means that in less than an hour you are to be called to dine with Mr. Jefferson.”

Led through the glass doors, we felt as dwarfed by this perfectly symmetrical, Roman inspired mansion as we already were by the beauty of the mountain itself. Immediately upon entering the high ceilinged front hall of Monticello – bedecked with artifacts of native Indian tribes of the west, maps of lands far (as Africa) and near (a historical map naming only eighteen states), skins of strange animals and enormous jaw bones of beasts that no longer walk the earth – we were approached by a perfectly attired Negro man of less than average height, but whose head of receding grey hair was held high by an almost impossibly erect posture: Mr. Burwell Colbert, Mr. Jefferson’s personal butler, and director of Monticello’s enslaved household staff.

Greeting us with a bow and modest smile, Mr. Colbert escorted us through a doorway to our left, where Martha Jefferson Randolph awaited us in her sitting room “office.” Mrs. Randolph, we had previously learned from Captain Bacon, was also the former First Lady during Mr. Jefferson’s two terms of presidency, since her own mother (Martha Jefferson) had passed away years before. At Monticello Mrs. Randolph retained the same position as head of the Jefferson household; while living at that time on the upper floors of Monticello (Mr. Jefferson’s chambers were alongside his study and library on the first floor) with the youngest of her eight children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren.


"Welcome," she said, seizing our attention with perceptive eyes, clearly enunciated words underscored by a strongly defined jaw. “I am afraid that you have arrived without a moment to spare, since my father is a notoriously punctual man who expects the same of all of us, no matter what the circumstance. Of course, I hold Captain Bacon responsible, but if you will follow me...” Leading us across the hall past one doorway and to the next, she turned, smiled and said, “it is our pleasure to offer you the Madison Room – this room named as such because July is one of those few, cruel months when former President and Mrs. James Madison are not occupying it themselves. I am sure they will not mind your borrowing it during the week’s end.”

We gasped as we peered into the gaily wallpapered room, brilliantly lit with natural light, even to the farthest edge of its double sized bed, ensconced within an alcove built into one of the room’s multiple walls. “To save you the trouble of counting the sides,” Mrs. Randolph said laughingly, “this is an octagonal shaped room – a design of my father’s that has successfully achieved his desired end… we say there are no dark corners in the Madison Room. While Mr. Colbert sees to your travel trunks, I beg you to freshen yourselves with the water and towels provided, and I shall return to collect you in five minutes time.”

A few minutes later, standing in the even more brilliantly sun-lit Parlor, looking westward through glass doors and over-sized windows at a rounded expanse of grass bordered by English style flowerbeds, the momentous occasion arrived when we finally met Monticello’s maker. Entering from his adjoining private chambers, and walking briskly across the room’s handsomely polished parquet floor – as timber growers, we could not help noting its flawlessly joined beech and cherry – Mr. Jefferson enthusiastically hailed us by name.

His handshake was strong without being oppressive, and his hazel-flecked grey eyes set with deepening lines, probing our own. His forehead, as formidably high in person as it is in portraiture, was paler above the brows, telling of considerable time spent under the sun protected by a brimmed hat; a circumference of permanently protruding grey hair extending just below the ears reinforcing that fact. We were also struck by not so much his famous height – towering over six feet and two inches – as by his perfectly proportioned, lean figure, and the regal angularity of his profile, belying the kindness in his voice.

We were flattered to hear him say, “I have been so looking forward to your visit, as it is a rare occasion when I am able to fully indulge in my interests in wine.” Turning his head, he said, “Ah, well done, Mr. Colbert, perfect timing as usual,” speaking to his butler standing with a silver tray bearing four cone shaped, finely etched glasses filled with a straw tinted wine, glimmering in the natural light reflecting off the room's high (20 feet, by our estimation), eggshell white walls. Handing a glass first to Mrs. Randolph and then to us, Mr. Jefferson smiled and proposed, “Let us toast to our shared devotion to the grape with this wine called Champagne.”

We had heard of this wine from France, but were surprised that these glasses were not brimming with bubbles, and so we asked about this. “What you are speaking of is mousseaux – the sparkling style of wine now being produced in Champagne,” said Mr. Jefferson. “This is Champagne nature,” pronouncing the second word as nah-tewr, “which I take to be the purest expression of the region. I am not so fond of the sparkling styles, despite their fashionable status outside of France, because for me the bubbles distract from the natural taste of Champagne grapes, and the limestone crusted vineyards in which they are grown. And besides, sparkling Champagne is never brought to a good table in France. It is the quieter, most subtle, long-lived non-mousseaux that is most esteemed by every real connoisseur.”


Our senses aroused by this marvelous, tongue prickling wine, we inquired about the reputation of the Jefferson presidency for Champagne diplomacy. “The opening of a Champagne bottle, sometimes with the flick of a saber, has always been my favorite way to cultivate friends and mark special occasions,” said the former president. “Oh, how many wigs were tilted when I first introduced this tart, truth bearing serum from France to the stuffy state dinners in Washington.

“But it has caught on well, I daresay; for since then my dear friends James Madison and James Monroe have faithfully stocked the President’s House on Pennsylvania Avenue with at least five hundred new bottles each year. You see, they have both been wise enough to retain me as their wine consultant,” he added, with mischief in his eyes. “In France, wine consultants are called sommeliers. At the age of eighty, which I reached this past April, I might very well be the oldest sommelier in recorded history.”

We marveled, not so much because of the privilege of being hosted by this towering yet self effacing figure of a man, but more by his seemingly boundless store of energy and enthusiasm, putting most of us less than half his age to shame. But Mr. Jefferson quickly changed the subject, raising his glass to say, “To new friends and old friends… to our distinguished visitors from Georgia, to Monsieur Dorsay, the producer of this exquisite Champagne, and to Monsieur Louis his trusted homme d’affaires.” We shall never forget that unusual toast, citing individuals we were never to meet, yet whose acquaintance were nonetheless met through the sharing of this penetrating wine. Was it the wine’s spirit putting forth these suggestions, or Mr. Jefferson’s eloquence? Indubitably, it was both.

“I have further good news,” the President announced. “Besides conversation pertaining to one of our shared interest, the cultivation of grape vines, we can look forward to a dinner prepared by Honoré Julien, the Presidential Chef de Cuisine during my eight years in residence on Pennsylvania Avenue. The Chef arrived only last week on a busman’s holiday, for I have asked him to share cooking recipes for some new varieties of vegetables with Mrs. Fossett, who has been in charge of our kitchen at Monticello since my retirement in 1809.

“Chef Julien has also spent quite a bit of time in our garden, experimenting with produce still unfamiliar to him, if you can imagine that. You know, we still grow over two hundred and fifty types of vegetables, and at least thirty classifications of fruit, at any given time here on the plantation. I admit that much of this is for academic reasons; but tonight, it will most definitely be gastronomic!”


While Mr. Colbert replenished our glasses, Mr. Jefferson proposed, “now, do you enjoy a hunt for treasures?” Responding with pleasure, we were led down a stairwell to view both parts of the Monticello Cellar – one for storing bottles of wine and beer, the other mostly for casks (and the fermenting) of beer and cider – where we were encouraged to explore and help make a selection for our dinner. Needless to say, with our expertise relegated to the produce of our own state, we were not prepared to choose without the guidance of the nation’s first wine connoisseur, and his advice was graciously provided.

“The number of treasures kept here,” he stated while guiding us through the cool, candlelit bottle cellar, “has whittled down considerably in recent years. I may no longer be quite as afflicted with a disease of acquisition, yet I still hold wine as a necessary of life.” He laughed at his next anecdote, recounting how John Adams – his old friend, sometime rival (and our country’s second president) – had occasionally implored him “to stop all wine shipments except for the Bordeaux, for mercy’s sake, or you shall be ruined!” Mr. Jefferson added, “I can no sooner cease inquisitions into new and adventurous wines that I can of seedlings of ornamental flowers, useful vegetables or more practical fruits.”

As we stood before a row of oddly shaped bottles lying to one side, Mr. Jefferson continued his narrative with a wave of his hand: “My fellow vignerons, I bring you to bottles of Catawba, from the Ohio Valley as well as the great state of New York; next to them, bottles of Scuppernong from North Carolina, which I believe is similar to your Georgia grown Mother Vineyard Muscadine that I have enjoyed so much. These may not be the finest wines in the world, but they are ours, borne of American soil. My palate is a democracy, for I admit to having little patience with those whose tastes are enslaved by a tyranny of sameness.


“I can usher you through time and the most distant space without leaving this room,” he explained. “Like here, in this corner, where I keep sweet wines made from Muscat grape, raisined under the sun; wines still being made today in the same fashion appreciated centuries before by the ancient philosophers. Imagine the legions of Roman foot soldiers, roaming the earth as conquerors, but finding themselves conquered and absorbed in turn by each new culture; and you can understand why it is easy to develop a taste for wines such as these in my cellar.

“I also confess that my tastes have recently evolved well beyond that of great crus of France, or famous growths of Germany, for reasons of economy; yet never before have I been more satisfied,” he said, while pointing to bottles of Vin de Perpignan, Bellet, and Muscat de Rivesaltes from Southern France, Albaflor from the island of Mallorca, a Muscat from the Grecian island of Samos, Pacaret from Spain, Carcavellos from Portugal, and Lachrima Christi, Tokai, and Eleatico from Italy.

Leading us to another corner, Mr. Jefferson wiped the dust from an even more primitively shaped bottle. “See this wine? It is called Nibiule, seldom seen outside its native Piemonte in Italy. This wine is as brisk as the Champagne in our glasses now, yet has an astringency recalling the famous red wines of Bordeaux. Yet when I open a bottle, I also think of the deep golden brown colors of the city of Turin, the muscular currents in the river Po, and even the nightingales that sang outside my window when first I sipped this wine. That is what a wine such as Nibiule will do to even the most unimaginative of men. These are my memories, of course. As for yourselves, you may very well find in it the silkiness and sting reminiscent of sweetly aged Madeira, which as fellow Southerners I am sure you well know.

“Speaking of which, my years spent in France explains the predominance of French wines in this cellar, for France is as much the cradle of great wine as it is of many of our ideals of government, notions of philosophy, and of course, fashion and cuisine. We learn much from France; although we still have much to learn from our own vast continent, which is why the first order of business when I entered the highest office was to commission the successful, historical expedition led by fellow Virginians Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. I am so proud of the knowledge they brought back. But please do not mention this to Monsieur Julien tonight – he might still be under the impression that we are trying to build a France here in America, when it is the opposite that is true.

“If anything has come from my long, unrequited affair with France, it is the conviction that wine is not something drunk for inebriation, nor to just wash down food. Wine is a food in itself. A la bonne cuisine, if you will, as wine sustains both mind and body; and even at its simplest, the soul as well. I have no scientific proof, but I am convinced that someday wine will be found to be the reason why people in France live longer lives than people in the rest of the world. It is because good wine is, or rather should be, very much a part of every healthy diet. As essential to our nourishment as the bread we bake, the cheese we monger, our game and fish, lettuce and peas, and the livestock and poultry we endeavor to raise to our satisfaction.

“But my point must be qualified: when I speak of wine, I speak of good wine. The mark of a civilized nation is production of quality, not mediocrity; and lest you think otherwise, price has nothing to do with quality. I believe quality to the measure of the grape and land that can be tasted in a wine, and how much of himself that a winemaker puts into it. As it is, life is too short to drink mediocre wine; and someday the efforts of America’s vignerons, such as yourselves, may inspire even the French. It may take another two hundred years, but the teacher may very well become the pupil!

“But until then… ah, now we are here. These are my few remaining bottles of 1784 Margau; next to it, 1779 and 1784 Hautbrion,” which he pronounced as oh-bree-on. “For Hautbrion there is a special, almost private place in my heart; and these are two of the finest vintages of the last century. Nature’s God smiled upon the Bordelaise in 1779 and 1784. Hautbrion is a Bordeaux château located in a township called Graves, taking its name from deep beds of gravelly soil in those vineyards – perfect for the black, thick skinned grapes cultivated there.

At that point, we heard a bell sounding faintly in the distance. “Let us cease our mental travels and repair with due haste back upstairs; for it is now three o’clock, and it wouldn’t do for the master of the house to be late to his own ceremony. But today we shall dine differently. In collaboration with my daughter Martha, and granddaughter Mary, Chef Julien has contrived a menu in which wines will be served with each course, à la française. Therefore, although our entire family at Monticello usually partakes of the main meal in the Dining Room, they shall be dining separately from our party today, which will include just you, Martha and myself.

“Your choice of wine for our final course is difficult, is it not? So may I prevail upon you by suggesting this bottle of 1787 Laffitte for our dinner?” We lifted the heavy, dusty, manfully shouldered bottle in his hands, bearing our host’s personal mark in whitewash, Th. J. Upon our agreement, Mr. Jefferson winked and said, "Your taste is better than you know."

Passing once more through the Parlor, with its multitude of portraits of great men (we recognized George Washington, Benjamin Franklin and Isaac Newton) hanging as high as eighteen feet up on the walls, we entered the lower ceilinged Dining Room where Mr. Colbert awaited us, standing against a strikingly deep yellow colored wall. Mrs. Randolph also greeted us with a smile, standing behind her chair at the table. Taking our seats following her signal, we remembered being told of Mr. Jefferson’s penchant for inventions; and so we started the dinner conversation by inquiring of his famous “wine dumbwaiters.”

“If you look very closely to each side of the fireplace,” he pointed with two open hands, “you might notice the doors to two boxes, although they are well concealed. I designed these elevating shelves to bring wine directly up from the Cellar, eliminating unnecessary interruption should we find the inevitable need for replenishment. Martha and Mr. Colbert are more familiar with the Monticello wine inventory than I am; and so as my guests, you will be provided access to a wines of your liking by simply communicating with either one of them.”

“Is Monticello always so generous with its guests?” we asked, knowing that Mr. Jefferson's stream of visitors was famously unrelenting. “One thing I know about gentleman farmers from Georgia,” Mr. Jefferson laughingly said, “is that moderation is part of their nature. Forgive me for saying this, but no one shall ever be the league of my good friend, the Marquis de Lafayette. After his last visit, our stock of drinking red wines was so depleted, I needed to send out an emergency call to my agents for immediate replenishment!”

At that moment Mr. Colbert began serving the first course, appearing almost magically on shelves built into a revolving wall: a classic oxtail consommé à la française, in bowls of stark white French porcelain set upon intricately painted Chinese show plates. We were pleased to see the golden colored wine that the white gloved Mr. Colbert had prepared for service with the soup, properly chilled and decanted into cut crystal after being piped from the thirty gallon cask we had our own man deliver the week prior to our arrival to Monticello. Coming all the way from Georgia: our family’s specialty Muscadine wine, vinified from the indigenous American grape also known as Scuppernong. We had never tasted our own wine in such a grand manner, which seemed to elevate its quality.

We watched Mr. Jefferson first raise the wine to his nose, and then sip with practiced curiosity. “It is sweet and strong, like syrup from a tree entwined with honeysuckle, and very much alive,” he observed, “and also perfectly suited to Chef Honoré’s beef, onion and mirepoix laden soup, which he tends to cook down to a natural sweetness of its own. In Washington I always used to say that if anyone can take ten gallons of perfectly good, meaty stew and turn it into a tiny puddle of intense, clear broth, it is the President’s Chef. Not a model of economy, but I cannot complain about the excellence of his taste buds, and I believe he would also say the same thing about your wine.

“So what can you tell me of your wine’s lineage?” Mr. Jefferson inquired. Repeating the description of our plantation life shared earlier in the day with Captain Bacon, we added these salient facts: how our grandparents were among the families arriving from North Carolina to the foothills of Northeast Georgia, once the domain of native Cherokee tribes had begun to abate; and how they had brought along with them heirloom cuttings from the legendary “Mother Vine,” growing on Roanoke Island off the Carolina coast.

“The Mother Vine is now said to be at least two hundred years old,” we told Mr. Jefferson, “and its two feet wide trunk and canes, which climb through surrounding shrubs and the tops of cedars for nearly a half a square acre, are most certainly proof of that. Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have found this very same plant growing during his first expedition of Roanoke in 1584.”

With that, Mr. Jefferson took a second, more generous draught, and said, “Oh, this is a wild domestic wine to be for sure, but not without its own breeding – something I thought even before knowing its compelling history. But please, do tell, how do you keep your wine from exuding the rough, bitter, coarse taste that I have found in most other wines made from our native American grapes?”

“Our own instinct for flavors of moderation,” was our explanation; and at greater length than what we have recorded here, we spoke of how experience with making wine from these vines led us to practice severe winter pruning of canes, all the way down to the vine’s stump, and the cropping of clusters in the summer just after the berries turn from a hard green to a greenish-gold. “We learned long ago that when vines are allowed to grow unchecked hither and yon, the result is loose, excessive, uneven sized bunches of uneven quality; and Muscadine is one vine that loves to climb where it pleases, no matter what we may try to do with it. “

In our winemaking practices, we went on to explain, we also practice moderation. Whereas most wines made from Muscadine, or Scuppernong, are fermented with the grape’s infamously thick skin and large, bitter seeds, before adding our sugar warmed in water, we prefer to separate the juice from the solids once they have tread upon them. “Our customs do not reflect any genius,” we admitted, “but rather a history of more error than success, and commonsense of the sort that might do Benjamin Franklin proud.”

"Then to you, to your sensible decision to learn from rather than repeating an error, and to the generous Mother of Vines, I salute!” exclaimed Mr. Jefferson, tapping his glass to ours. Turning to his butler, he asked, “Mr. Colbert, please send Monsieur Honoré out to the dining room to meet our guests, if he isn’t overly inconvenienced, and prepare for him a glass of this beautifully untamed Muscadine wine. I shall also like to ask what he plans to do with those early ripening tomatas plucked from kitchen garden.”

“Tomatas?” we could not help but ask, not ashamed to admit our ignorance of such a fruit. “I am not surprised that you do not know of the tomato,” said Mr. Jefferson, “for it is an herbaceous, not entirely attractive plant first discovered in South America, but unaccountably grown strictly for ornamental purposes here in the states as well as in Europe, even though it has been over a century since its introduction to the Northern Hemisphere. When Captain Bacon brought you out to our garden earlier today, you had probably seen our tomato bushes, tied to stakes and putting forth silky skinned fruits of numerous shapes and colors.

“It was in Washington when I first began the slow process of convincing my own cook, Mrs. Fossett, that its fruit does not come from the poisoned tree, as so commonly believed; and in fact, the tomato is perfectly delicious – as miraculously sweet as your wine, but tasting more of a vegetable despite its resemblance to a monstrously large berry.

“I am proud to say that we have made much progress. Last summer we enjoyed a generous crop of a reddish, amusingly flat and irregular variety called the Spanish tomato, which we used to take liberties with a recipe for gaspacho, the traditional cold soup of Andalusia in Spain. Our version calls for finely minced tomato, which we flavor with lemon, garlic, chopped cucumber and chile pepper. It was so good, I would not be surprised if a hundred years from now no recipe for gaspacho will be without the tomato.

“We have distant cousin named Mary Randolph, now living in Washington, who while growing up was tutored by my father, Peter Jefferson. Mary, as it were, is also Martha’s sister-in-law, and she is writing a cookery book (The Virginia House-wife, 1824) as we speak, which we understand will contain numerous recipes for the tomato. Martha, would you care to tell our friends about one of the recipes Mary has shared with you – the one she is calling catsup?”

Mrs. Randolph’s response: “Of course, Mr. Jefferson… catsup is a purée of the tomato, to which we add vinegar, cane sugar and crushed allspice. The condiment has an Oriental accent, but is quite good spooned over grilled meats and, even better yet, the type of thinly sliced, crunchy potato frite Chef Julien often prepared for us at the President’s House.”

“The combining of an Asian sauce and French style potatoes,” Mr. Jefferson pondered. “Can you imagine something like this ever becoming a staple in the United States? We have seen stranger things…”

Then a fair, white haired but hale, rather melancholy looking man in a starched, spotless white smock, and reddish burn of sun on his cheeks, approached the table; and Mr. Jefferson heartily introduced us to “Honoré Julien, who long ago consented to leave the comforts of his home in France in order to cook for kings, Congressmen, generals, diplomats, several presidents past and present, and evidently, scoundrels from all walks of life.”

To which the Chef replied, while accepting his glass of Muscadine from Mr. Colbert and bowing, “Monsieur Président, Madame Randolph, madame et monsieur Géorgie, bon après-midi… the pleasure is mine.” Turning to Mr. Jefferson, “If you are curious about the tomatas, sir, they were used to quite good effect in the consommé you are enjoying as we speak. If you will now excuse me, there is a second course to finish.” And with an expressive arch of his greyish-white brow and another deeply respectful bow, he took his leave. “Thank you, my friend!” Mr. Jefferson called, as the Chef hurriedly departed.


“Such is the respect I retain from someone who has been feeding my curiosity in the arts culinaire for over twenty two years,” mused Mr. Jefferson, almost to himself. “Each morning during our years in Washington, the Presidential Butler – my dear, departed Etienne Lemaire, who was himself an accomplished chef – would take a cart with Chef Julien through the markets of Georgetown. I, myself, had accompanied them on a few occasions, observing how they poked and prodded their way in search of the freshest produce; including, sometimes, the underestimated tomato. Being Frenchmen, Etienne and Honoré would have it no other way; but Georgetown is not Paris, so I suspect it was not always a satisfactory expedition for them, and I often wondered if their diligent efforts were fully appreciated by our guests in the President’s House.

“Yet it is here in the Virginia countryside that I believe we are achieving the culinary ideal -- a gastronomic amour de soi, or abiding self-respect, to borrow from Rousseau’s phraseology – for here at Monticello, our sustenance is not characterized by farm-to-market, but rather by farm-to-table: a sufficiency of self that I fear is quickly becoming a casualty of our own making, in our quest for capitalized rather than productive society. Although without a doubt, most of my political colleagues today would argue that production of capital itself, rather than foodstuffs, is the key to a healthy economy. I have been accused, especially by our Federalist friends, of thinking backwards on this. They call me agrarian, a hopeless libertarian, even obstructionist. I do not fear the labels, but I fear the path our country has taken.

“These are the concerns I have taken here to Monticello in my retirement years. I worry for the true independence of Americans just as I worry for acceptance of the tomato and other unsung fruits, such as cranberry and whortleberry, as well as for vanishing timber like white pine, copper beech and hemlock – trees I fear are being taken for granted as they are cleared from the land, often for little reason apart from the fact that they are there for the taking. But I will say this: if anyone can show the world how to respect the lowly tomato, Monsieur Julian can!”

Warming to the occasion, we raised our own glasses to Mr. Jefferson, saying: “If anyone can show the world how to respect wine as a food – something that belongs on every table alongside the tomato – it is you, sir, and we propose a toast of our own. The ideas you illuminate on a daily basis are like once in a lifetime epiphanies for the rest of us. No deed seems to pass as insignificant for you; and by recognizing merit in what we do each day, you draw attention to a profundity the world would otherwise never know. So we say bravo to you, and here is to the greatness of the small deeds, the ugly tomato, the humblest of wines, and to the best of friends!”

We did not believe for one second that the Sage of Monticello needed a farming couple from the Georgia hills to clarify his mission in life. But the agreement of sentiments helped raise our table to a higher plane, and the rest of our meal progressed in this fashion: touching upon minutest matters of our shared interests – primarily farming, wines and viticulture – as if they were of no less importance than issues of government and diplomacy. And indeed, they were to us.

Although Mr. Jefferson is quite the connoisseur of all foods, he spoke of how many of his dinners at Monticello of late have consisted primarily of vegetables, and fewer and fewer meats, as he has made a conscientious effort to translate his horticultural obsessions into culinary practicalities. “Vegetables constitute my principal diet,” said Mr. Jefferson, “and I believe Honoré’s next two dishes may very well convince you to do the same.”

True to his prediction, we were enthralled by the subsequent course of startling simplicity: plump, round, short grains of rice cooked in chicken stock, butter, aromatic thyme and pungent, cone shaped mushrooms; over which Mr. Colbert poured a green colored olive oil, good enough to drink by itself. The accompanying wine: Blanquette de Limoux –- a softly dry, slightly sparkling (a quality Mr. Jefferson defined as pétillant), humus and sweet apple scented white wine, with such an affinity for this rice dish, we were briefly tempted to pour this over the dish as well.

“Our recent spate of rain and humid days has been good for wildflowers, and my trusty servants tell me that morel mushrooms are sprouting generously in Monticello’s native woods,” Mr. Jefferson volunteered, “but it is the rice in this dish – a variety known as aborio in Northern Italy, where I found it – that makes the more telling tale, for it may very well become a carriage for positive social change in our country.”

“In what way?” we asked. Sipping his Limoux, Mr. Jefferson continued his narrative: “I began to bring in varieties of short grained rice from Europe quite some time ago because they are better suited to growing in dry upland environments; and also because Europeans consider these types of rice to be of superior quality, while spurning what is produced in our own country. My other hope was that someday we might reduce our dependence on the long grain varieties of rice suitable to malaria-ridden swamplands, typifying the lowlands of the Carolinas. There, you find an industry that has only remained solvent through the unrelenting expansion of slave labor, and unconscionable treatment suffered by slaves to sustain this culture.” “Something,” we were almost ashamed to add, “that also plays a major economic role in the low country of Georgia.”

“Alas,” said Mr. Jefferson, “I have been unsuccessful in encouraging this industry, especially in light of the fact that importation of foreign cultivars is still banned by our government; and in fact, is punishable by death – one of the more despicable examples of misuse of government. Yes, I secretly carried the seeds of aborio in my pocket at great personal risk; yet here we sit, thoroughly enjoying this decidedly delicious rice!”

After clearing the shallow dishes that held this dangerous rice, Mr. Colbert immediately filled the empty spaces with our next dish: a bedding of an unusually long, bitter (like peppercorn and walnuts), frilly edged green lettuce, along with little halves of sweet and tart, bright yellow berries and two colors of nasturtium blossoms, all drenched in a very dark, wine-like vinegar sweetened by onions and chopped tarragon. The piquant clash of flavors both shocked and pleased us.

“My friends from Georgia,” said Mr. Jefferson with a degree of drama, “allow me to be the first to acquaint you with the raw taste of the tomato. This yellow variety was once erroneously called ‘love apple.’ Does it not excite the mind and the palate, especially when wrapped with the leaves of rockette on your plate? In Southern Italy, rockette is called rucola, although I have also heard it called rugula – the Italians have a way of never agreeing with themselves. Whatever you wish to call them, these wild lettuces, so plentiful, accommodating in any soil, and so nourishing, do just as well under the Virginian sun, as I am sure they would in any state of the union.”

Mr. Jefferson’s butler suddenly appeared in the room with a tall, graceful, brown colored bottle. “Here, here, Mr. Colbert, please bring along the petite sized glasses for our next wine, a German hock, made from a highly prized, fragrant grape I have heard tell called Weisser. This is from the vineyard of the castle Johannisberg along the Rhine, where I am told the Weisser vines are usually the first in the region to bud, just as the blinding snow is melting from its riverside slopes.”

As Mr. Colbert tumbled the gleaming, green-golden wine into our glasses, Mr. Jefferson continued, “Ah, thank you for personally bringing this bottle from the ice house, my dear man. Aristocratic hock such as this always needs a good chill. My friends, please let its sweet and sharp taste wash down the sweet, sharp and bitter flavors of your salad. Now do you see why I say wine is a food?"


At this point, we began to wonder if we should be brazen enough to ask for pen, fountain and paper so that each new, fascinating taste and idea could be recorded. We did not do so, of course, but instead chatted in leisurely fashion deep into the night (the following day, Mrs. Randolph, as it were, was kind enough to furnish us with the names of the dishes and wines, written out by her daughter). There were, in fact, several interims of complete silence, as was Mr. Jefferson’s wont, while we savored our courses; which only reinforced our memories, allowing us time to give pause for thought. At that point we had sat at the table for over an hour, and it would be another two before we left it; for surely, the length of time helped our minds avoid the deleterious effects of the numerous bottles. Good wine and company is indeed civilizing.

The hock was followed by the first of three wines from the Burgundy region of France, which Mr. Jefferson was apt to refer to as Bourgogne, pronouncing it as boar-goyn. First, a clear, pale golden colored, cool and dry tasting Meursault; served just before the arrival of dumplings made with fresh spinach and cheese, resting upon a shallow pool of clear hen broth. “In Meursault only white wines are made,” Mr. Jefferson related, “as there is too much stone in the soil for proper growing of red wine grapes. On such slight circumstances depends the condition of man.” And for a good minute or more we observed a silence, absorbing the wine’s subtle taste of stones and citrus, accompanied only by echoing taps of our spoons along the flat bottom of the bowls.

At this stage of our dinner we seized the opportunity to ask of Mr. Jefferson’s own ventures into grape growing. “The heart has a mind of its own,” he began. “I believe that sooner or later every serious lover of wine seeks to plant his own grapes, and even make his own wine. My first venture as a vigneron began with a selection of Vitis vinifera, the European family of grapes, planted in Paris at my home on the Champs-Élysées during my service as Minister to France, some thirty-five years ago. Paris was unsuitably cold, of course, for the full ripening of wine grapes, and the results were anemic. No matter – I was not so easily discouraged in those days.

“In 1807 I brought here to Monticello rooted cuttings of no less than twenty-four different varieties of European grapes, planting exactly two hundred and eighty-seven vines in a fashion faithful to vineyard practices observed in France. They all expired, and have since been replaced with native American vines, including your Vitis scuppernong, which our trusted foremen, Gardener John and Great George, have permanently trained on espalier style fences. Happily, the American vines are thriving, over the graves of the French, but our cellar fermentations are now relegated to excellent beers and apple ciders. I am afraid to say, at this point in my life, that the task of finding the scientific solution to the root rot making American soils so inhospitable to vines of European descent shall be left to a future generation.”

With a distant look in his eyes betraying disappointment in his viticultural defeats, he continued to reflect: “I have no doubt that in the United States we can, and will, grow European style wines in our soils, and it will happen much sooner than even our friends in France might predict. What is there to stop us? We have everything the French have – the porous terroir, the seasonal climates, and perhaps much more. We could make as great a variety of wines as are made in Europe; not exactly the same kinds, but doubtless as good.

“In the meantime, Mr. Colbert, let us pick up our spirits by beginning our next wine, still another Bourgogne, but this time a red. In ready compliance, the butler poured a pale, brickish wine that tasted sprightly on the tongue, and seemed so magnificently perfumed that Mr. Jefferson blurted out, “Oh, my petite jolie brune… my prettiest ‘little black haired girl.’ Please enjoy this very famous red hailing from the vineyard of Vougeot.

"At this point,” declared Mr. Jefferson, stopping to breathe the wine in through his lips, “we need not bend down to our knees. But it is well known that Napoleon Bonaparte, the General who would be Emperor, ordered his troops to salute the ancient walls surrounding the vineyard of Vougeot each time they passed by. I hold it that Vougeot, as well as Beaune and Chambertin, are the three red wines of finest quality from the region of Burgundy. Because of the delicacy of these wines, I have always gone through great pains and expense to see that they are transported only in the best season, as they do not withstand great heat or great cold during their voyage across the sea.

“The Vougeot’s mere presence at our table is miracle enough – the bidding for the hands of these beautés in the annual charitable auction in Beaune has grown quite fierce – and so let us see what dish Chef Julien has planned to honor it with. I have asked him to surprise us.”We were indeed surprised, as the Chef himself re-entered the Dining Room carrying a large, ornate, covered crock, setting it upon a sturdy, portable table attached to casters, and wheeled closer to the table by Mr. Colbert. The butler then raised the lid to unveil a steaming stew of veal morsels. No one spoke, but rather savored the anticipated taste from the emanating smells and gently ringing notes of the butler’s silver ladle against the white bone china bowls. Oh, the culinary drama.

All along, standing beside Mr. Colbert, Chef Julien sustained his air of near nonchalance, hands held casually behind his back, while explaining in his melodious, French accented voice: “Madames et monsieurs, I present to you this dish that combines the Parisian tradition of veal braised for hours with the most tender assemblage of fines herbs, carrots, early peas, parsnips, turnips, rutabagas, and slivers of celeriac and beets at our disposal in the famous ‘hanging’ gardens of Monticello, thanks be to God, the rich soil, nourishing sun and rain He has provided here in Virginia. Even in France we are not always so blessed.

“In this pot-a-feu you will find that it is the use of tendron – the cartilaginous, ribbed portion of the veal – that turns this broth to lightest silk yet feel of flesh in the texture, necessary to match the light and delicate yet meaty nature of Vougeot rouge. I call this ‘French-American Cuisine,’ or shall we just say ‘Virginia Cuisine?’ Whatever is decided, it would be in long overdue hommage to the bounty of the New World. To you, Monsieur Jefferson, my apologies once again for turning you away from the persuasion of the pure vegetable diet. But I am sure you will be pleased all the same. Bon appétit!”

With that, we sat shocked still once again, to witness Mr. Jefferson rise from his chair, quietly clap, smile, and bow; and in response, seeing Chef Julien bow even more deeply in turn. Will the world ever know the devoted respect shared between a great President and Chef? Will future generations know that it was in the botanical laboratory called Monticello where one of the first, truly definitive, sophisticated American cuisines was born? Needless to say, this is why we have finally determined to tell our story, as best we can remember. Although the “best,” we soon learned, was still to come.

As Mr. Colbert poured the next wine – our third Bourgogne, a red wine labeled Beaune, which we found similar to the Vougeot, but sturdier and fuller to the taste – we were surprised to see put before us a dish of sturgeon, swimming in a butter sauce thickened with wild mushrooms, veal glace, bits of wood smoked bacon and rosemary needles, because even we were not accustomed to the service of fish following a meat course.

“This is what I love about the French,” Mr. Jefferson reasoned. “Honoré does not fear serving a fish with a manly red such as this Beaune because he has placed this white fleshed fish in the context of ingredients, such as mushrooms, pungent herbs and glace, which are more appropriate for red wine than for white.” We found that if ever a match was meant to be, it was this robustly prepared sturgeon and Beaune.

The next course was a sort of long, curling, ribbon shaped macaroni in a lavish, creamy, thyme scented brown sauce, coating long slivers of rabbit meat. “Mrs. Fossett,” the President spoke in reference to the ranking officer in Monticello’s kitchen, “has indulged my appetite for this Italian staple by making good use of a machine of my own invention, that flattens the macaroni into sheets of more consistent width. Otherwise the serving of macaroni in Monticello might be as rare as Christmas.

“Now Mr. Colbert returns, and he shall pour one of my favorite red wines from Italy, called Artiminiano, which comes from one of the regions of Tuscany, known as Chianti. The name of the grape used to make this wine translates as ‘blood of Jove.’ I believe that my favorite red wine from Italy, called Montepulciano, epitomizes the great strength and asperity – like the heat of the Italian sun rushing to the head – inferred by the grape’s name.



“In Chianti, my merchant tells me, they are starting to blend other grapes to lighten, or shall we say ‘domesticate,’ the ‘blood of Jove.’ He also tells me that more and more of the wines sold as Chianti are not even grown within the time honored boundaries constituting Chianti. Such is the sad state of affairs when wines become popular; and greed supplants artistry and, worse, honesty. All we can hope for is that wines like this – not so muscular as Bordeaux, not delicate like Burgundy, but very much… Chianti – survives the more pernicious instincts of men in commerce.”

After further discussions pertaining to the difficulty of separating tyranny from humanitarianism in the history of the arts, particularly in respect to the historic power of the Medici family, Mr. Colbert entered the Dining Room with a round, high sided dish with a protruding crust: clearly an English style pot pie, only with more of a French style pastry crust, flaky, light and buttery. We found it plump with the meat of pigeon and pig’s ear, discreet chunks of potato, miniature cubes of carrots, and pillowy soft green and white lima beans.

“Ah, I see that Honoré has ‘improved’ upon the traditional meat pie,” Mr. Jefferson observed – “a far cry from what we were raised on in Edgehill, where my oldest grandson, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, now lives. While Mr. Colbert serves us our pie, let me do the honor of presenting our next wine: a humble red called Cahors, also known as the ‘black wine’ of South-West France.

“I cannot describe Cahors as a refined wine, but it is as savory as meat pie – or cassoulet, as people in Cahors would have it – with a sort of rib sticking strength. Its other virtue is that it is cheap, which I mean in a very positive way. The most satisfying wines are those that deliver flavor with thrift. This is why I have always fought for reduction of taxes on wine imports, for the sake of making the civilizing aspects of wine more accessible to the general populace. No nation is drunken, I say, where wine is cheap; and none sober where the dearness of the wine substitutes ardent spirits as the common beverage.”

Somehow the discussion of wrongs steered towards another topic of mutual interest: the preservation of trees unwittingly driven towards demise. “When I was President I wished I was a despot that I might save many of these beautiful, noble trees native of our land. The unnecessary felling of just one, perhaps the growth of centuries, seemed to me a crime little short of murder.” Discussing the great variety of species we observed upon entering the Monticello estate, he reflected, “I am too old to plant for my own gratification, but I shall do so now for posterity.

“Speaking of which, now let us now turn to a wine that may indeed be one remembered for posterity: the 1787 Laffitte that we have carried up from the cellar together, and which I see Mr. Colbert has carefully transferred from bottle to decanter while we have been gnawing away at the politics of trees.” Observing the solemnity of the moment, we watched the white gloved butler pour from the decanter into our glasses.

How shall we describe this Bordeaux? There is a popular English poet, John Keats, who tragically died before his twenty-seventh year not long before (in 1821). Whether or not he died satisfied with his lot, perhaps he, too, had once experienced the dizzying power of Laffitte, for he wrote

O, for a draught of vintage! That hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

The poet also sang of a purple-stained mouth, and if at that point during our dinner in Monticello our lips and chins were indeed impolitely smeared, we are sure God granted forgiveness. “Mr. Jefferson,” we asked, “would it be possible that a wine of such sturdy perfection could be even better a hundred years from now?”

Without hesitation he turned to us and said, “What is the point? It is good tonight, and we may not awaken tomorrow. I fully intend to consume my few remaining bottles of 1787 well before I meet the Creator. Otherwise, should a bottle or two somehow escape a journey up from the Monticello cellar, some fool one hundred and fifty years from now will pay a thousand times more than this wine is worth on the scale of human pleasure, just because it says ‘Laffitte’ or because it bears my initials,” he said as he pointed to Th. J. on the bottle.

“Oh, I can imagine how it might happen, say at the end of the next century. There would be a roomful of people, so-called connoisseurs of wine, waiting to taste a drop each of this 1787. A smug but officious butler will transport the bottle in its cradle into the room, trip and fall, and what little left in the bottle will go seeping through the shards. And it will serve them all right, for even a grand vin for the ages is never meant to be coddled or ‘collected.’

“The only wine ever worth such worship was already consumed at the banquet in Cana, if such a banquet ever took place. I might be roused from my grave, knowing wine of any sort is obscenely dealt and traded for reasons other than why we are here tonight, joined by common affection for the pleasures of wine, food, conversation and friendship.”

Moments later, the Dining Room door swung open once again as Chef Julien entered followed by a tiny, black skinned, grey haired woman holding a small china bowl. Behind her walked still another Negro woman; this one slightly taller, with loose, tightly tied, grey speckled hair, walking with her hands clasped, her black, almost gypsy eyes turned to the floor. Bringing up the rear, Mr. Colbert solemnly carried an oversized platter bearing a roasted leg of lamb, placing it beside the china bowl laid on the movable side table.

“Hear, hear,” clapped Mr. Jefferson, waving towards the tinier woman, “it pleases me to introduce Mrs. Edith Hern Fossett, who along with her assistant standing beside her, Miss Fanny, was ably trained by Chef Julien and Etienne Lemaire during our years at the President’s House. If you will, Monsieur Honoré, would you please tell our friends from Georgia what you, Martha and Mary have planned for our main course?”

“Mr. President, it is my pleasure to say that Edith and Mademoiselle Fanny have butchered this beautiful gigot, or little leg of spring lamb, of perfect size following the many courses in tonight’s dinner. After marinating the leg with one of the master’s bottles of hock – first, making sure to taste it, of course, to ascertain its soundness – as well as bay laurel, juniper, peppercorns and mirepoix, the gigot was roasted à la française, preserving a rosy pink color at the center.

“Mrs. Fossett also carries the most unusual side dish; unusual, she tells me, at least for Monticello. As you know, I have been spending more time in the garden than in the kitchen. Thus, I became determined to make use of three varieties of legumes, known as lentils, that Mrs. Fossett and Miss Fanny tell me have been less appreciated than other legumes favored by the family here at Monticello – the haricots verts, scarlet runners, and the little white kidney beans that Mrs. Fossett prepares in her delicious brown sauce oignon. Yet for me, the tiny, flat lentil beans are just as noble, and I picked three in sufficient quantity from the garden: red lentils, which I believe are commonly eaten in Persia, yellow lentils from the British colony of India, and then my sentimental choice, the green puy from République française. Since I could not decide upon which color I liked best, I combined all three and cooked them with salt pork, a rendering of stock from the lamb bones, pearl sized white onions, parsley and lemon scented thyme.“But please,” said the Chef as he finished placing the pink colored meat sliced from the bone by Mr. Colbert onto our plates, “do not let us keep you. Bon appetit!"

After conversing a few minutes after the main course plates were cleared, Mr. Colbert entered the room with short, narrow glasses and a bottle of a wine long favored by both the President and by our family in Georgia: Malmsey from the island of Madeira, the essence of caramel, cream, sun dried fruits and honey.


Once the sweet-salty taste of the Malmsey was allowed to scrub our palates, Mr. Colbert returned with another set of glasses, and poured a light golden colored wine called Fillotte – a sweet wine from the Bordeaux region of Barsac, tasting of honeyed cream, candied lemon and dried apricots. Moments later, the butler brought little white plates from the revolving serving door, placing one before each us. Once before us, we could see what was on top of each plate: a cold, plainly white, gelatin dessert Mr. Jefferson introduced as blancmange, upon which Mr. Colbert spooned purple tinged white clouds of a raspberry cream.

“The simplest of desserts this may be,” explained Mr. Jefferson, “but Fillotte needs little to complete it. Blancmange is a Bavarian delicacy made from sugar, cream, and finely ground almond. At the height of summer we enjoy it with fresh peaches, but this raspberry cream is just as fine. Oh, but here comes Mr. Colbert again with still another sweet condiment: a gooseneck of sauce sabayon – simply, beaten egg yolks, sugar and white wine – to enjoy with our creamy blancmange and Barsac.”

As the light from the long, tapered candles flickered, and the sky visible through the double glassed windows turned from brown-gold to deep blue, we could tell that Mr. Jefferson had finally grown tired, as were we. The difference being that he was more than twice our age! Rising to his feet, with Mrs. Randolph beside him, he began to take his leave, saying: "We have enjoyed much fine cookery and wines, both of which have long been indispensable to my health. Now my body informs me that it has been sufficiently fortified.

"Martha and I invite you to join us for breakfast at precisely ten minutes after eight; and afterwards, I must attend to renovations being done in the Dome Room. During the interim, my granddaughter Anne will show you our flower beds along the West Lawn, now approaching full bloom of summer. Following that, I hope you will enjoy an exploration of our fruit orchards – which include thirty-eight sub-varieties of peach! – accompanied by the good Captain Bacon, and also Great George, if he is not predisposed.

“But before retiring to the Madison Room, we implore you to revisit with Mr. Colbert in our most honorable suite," said Mr. Jefferson, pointing to the Tea Room in the alcove adjoining the Dining Room. "He shall be decanting one of the last bottles of my favorite sweet red wine, called Calcavallo – a rare unbrandied Port – and serving it with a blue-veined cheese from France, a fig paste made from trees growing at the foot of our garden wall, and lavender honey purchased from one of our more enterprising farmers here in Monticello.

“Ah, there goes the eight o’clock chime on the grandfather’s clock, and I also hear a newly arrived book on architectural design calling me to my bedside.” Clasping his hands, we thanked our host, suddenly stooped from the length of the day’s nonstop activities

“May I leave you two with one last thought?” he asked. “Determine never to be idle, for it is wonderful how much may be done if we are always doing. As for me, what I must now do is go quietly into the night. Adieu!”


REFERENCES

Dining at Monticello, Edited by Damon Lee Fowler; Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc., 2005

The Gardens of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, Peter J. Hatch; Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc., 1992

The Virginia House-wife (Facsimile Edition), Mary Randolph; University of South Carolina Press, 1984

Thomas Jefferson Foundation, Inc.; www.monticello.org

Thomas Jefferson on Wine, John Hailman; University Press of Mississippi/Jackson, 2006