Last night we shared a dozen Whitstable oysters. Rather small ones, so I added some fried sausages like Madame Cassin used to in Bordeaux, long ago; the local tradition. Unlikely combination; hot sausage and cold oyster, but it works. With brown bread and butter. And…. our Saint Tropez Rosé.
Barbara is mad keen on all Provence rosé. For me though, it’s not so much the taste as the memories. Especially here; I mean…Saint Trop! Young Brigitte Bardot in ‘And God Created Woman’. No, I never met her, but she was why school-leaver me knew France was the place to go and Saint Tropez must surely be the centre of the universe.
I drove there in my Transit to see wine-college mate Remy Ott. Couldn’t afford his family’s illustrious wine but his uncle ran the St Trop poste/tabac and yes, he knew BB well. Close as I got until we started working with the village’s co-op winery. One of their members apparently had vineyards right outside Mlle. Bardot’s place. But the farmers just shrugged… rare to find a vineyard of theirs that isn’t next to some famous person’s pile. Doesn’t affect the flavour, does it? No, but does put pictures in your mind. Travelling by wine. Actually been to Saint Tropez? … that eternal traffic jam? the ludicrous yachts? the frantic poseurs? Little Tinseltown on the Med? Skip that. Go by wine instead. Sip and see our horny-handed, weatherbeaten old winegrowers tending their tiny ancestral vineyards, beside the blue Mediterranean sea, totally oblivious to bling all around them.
Salut mes Braves!
