The Glass of Wine...

It was probably my fourth night in Tours. I had gone out for my first run, around the lake a few laps, and had recently returned home, Chez Puissant, to clean up before dinner. As I had only been there a few bleary days I was still becoming accustomed to the rhythms and workings of the household (and the dreaded jetlag). I walked down from my room and joined the the Puissants, and my fellow students, Mary and Camillo, for dinner.

Before dinner was ready we sat and chatted. Monsieur Puissant, smiling as usual, discussed the ongoing French radio broadcast and I threw in an occasional child-like observation as Madame puttered about the kitchen beside the dinner table. I had not eaten since lunch and after my run I was starving. In my normal life I tend to eat something nearly every two hours and I was still not yet accustomed to eating three major meals with basically nothing in between (now, I have hidden a cache of nuts in my room so I can eat, squirrel-like, when the need takes me). The room smelled heavenly with layers of various flavors wafting about, so thick one could almost taste the air. Madame opened a pot on the stove and ladled into a heavy serving bowl a thick puréed vegetable potage. She placed it on the middle of the table and announced for us to serve ourselves. I greedily filled up my crockery to the top for after a chilly run it acted as a glorious restorative. As usual, we had pieces of a golden brown baguette to accompany the soup. I felt a couple of more years melt off of me as I finished my bowl. If it got any better than that I'd soon be wearing diapers. I silently praised my French colleague, Anne, for recommending Tours.

As usual, our conversation continued with anecdotes about our various backgrounds, the Puissant's experience with other students, our days at school, and so on. Once we finished the soup we cleared the table for the main course. Madame Puissant returned from the stove with another, larger, cauldron-like pot and brought to the table her beef bourguignon. Talk about glorious (sorry, vegetarians). Again, she placed this on the middle of the table and she gave us the unneeded commanded for us to start serving. As I ladled a spoon about the size of Rhode Island onto my plate Monsieur Puissant realized something was missing...he disappeared from the table and we could hear the sound of glass clinking and he returned with an unlabeled bottle of red wine--the bottle without the label is the sign of a local vintage, a vin ordinaire or a vin du table.

This is what I had been waiting for...I had been in France for days and had not yet had any wine at their household. Yes, that is true. I thought perhaps that either the Puissant family did not drink or that since one of my fellow students was under age (17) that we would not see any wine at the table. We already had small water tumblers on the table and it soon became obvious that we should finish off our water so Monsieur Puissant could refill our glasses. I obeyed the unspoken command and soon had a four-ounce glass of a dark cabernet in front of me...after the somewhat salty soup, the run, and the pairing of the wine with the main meal I was very thirsty and what better way to quench one's thirst than with a gusty swig of a local French wine?

My palate was satisfied. The wine perfectly balanced the bourguignon, the formidable chunks of succulent beef, the glorious local mushrooms sautéed in butter, and the tender pearl onions . I took another drink and continued to eat. Conversation was a bit more muted during the main course but it scarcely mattered as the food filled our thoughts instead. I looked up from my plate and noticed that my "wine" glass was two-thirds empty (always the pessimist). I looked askance at the other glasses and saw that the others had scarcely touched theirs. And, then searching further around the table I noticed that the unlabeled bottle had mysteriously departed for some place of refuge. Monsieur Puissant had put the bottle away.

I've rarely been so sad. I ruefully looked at my thimble-size serving of wine that remained and realized that I had to make do with that. I tried a few tactics...holding up my glass to the light and swirling the half ounce remaining, commenting how tasty the wine was, and finally slurping the last few drops...all to no avail. As the meal continued and as I chewed on the glorious stew (and then the salad and then the dessert course of four different strong and zesty cheeses, including roquefort) it became apparent that the bottle of wine had made its guest appearance and had then returned to some hidden strongbox and would not return for the evening. Quel dommage!

Of course, the Puissants would not have minded if I had asked for another glass but just being there a few days and not yet knowing the family's norms and boundaries I did not want to look like the besotted American alcoholic.

But from now on I'll never drink wine that fast again. I promise.