At 6:30 this morning the wine was delivered. I didn't hear it arrive, though I had left a cheque taped to the front door, and knew it was coming sometime before dawn. It was the sound of the car turning around on the gravel drive that woke me. I made it to the front window in time to see a battered white utility van, an old Citroen maybe, rolling slowly towards the front gate.
I found the wine stacked neatly by the kitchen door, a thank you note placed on top where I'd find it. A note with no fuss, quiet, like the delivery itself. Thank you for your confidence.
Though I missed the delivery man, I wasn't worried about letting him in the house while we slept. I know him. I know the time he spends pruning, clearing, picking. Keeping the weeds down. There's something respectable about a man who knows how to keep an old tractor running. Then there's the cellar time, that strange transformation from farmer to culinary magician. That's how I see it; but he lacks my hubris, and sentimentality.
I didn't order much: a couple of cases. Six rosé d'Anjou, six Anjou rouge. A mixed case of Coteaux du Layon. The Anjou was under 5 euros, the most expensive SGN just under 13. The quantity was unimportant, the winemaker would have delivered starting with any 6 bottles. He thanks me, for my confidence.
I would have liked to meet with him this year, if only to shake hands. But he needed to get an early start. It's nearly 2 hours drive from the vineyard to my house, then an hour and a half to a delivery in Caen, another 2 to Laval. Onward from there. It's hard to imagine making much money that way, given the cost of gas in France. Of course there is no delivery charge. But times are hard. His father, and his grandfather, taught him to work to keep the vineyard going for his two kids.
Some people say that it's a good thing that so many small producers are going out of business. The market rules, if you can't compete, you're out. They say the overall quality will be improved. The consumer will benefit from a more homogeneous product. It's an ocean of swill, anyway.
Maybe they don't see the struggle. Perhaps they haven't met someone like the man who quietly spent his day battling to stay afloat, haven't met his wife or mother, the only staff there is to welcome clients, or seen the kids playing in the courtyard. They prefer to laugh about strikes and surrender. Well, the winemakers I know here do neither. Many are struggling, but like a man making an important delivery, they quietly do what it takes to get the job done.
-E