I’ll just say it, this wine kicked me in the teeth. Fresh out the bottle, my mouth is dryer than the Sahara. This scorched earth drowned in tannins, doused in acid was a liquor that should not be had alone. It is bolder than any Barnard woman and I don’t say that lightly. This is a wine that’s made me think, and I’m certain, this is what darkness tastes like.

Grown from the mind of Alain Brumont, this Madiran redefined the appellation known for pretty appalling wines. He’s designed a glass that is purely a product of its environment by rejecting insecticides, watering his vines from the fresh spring, and allowing the local flora to grow between the rows, blending with the vines. His grapes are graded, counted, and pruned by hand; his bunches thinned to amplify the sun exposure. The technique is sublime, but it’s the Tannat that’s really on display.

Native to the region, this grape flaunts its categorical power so much so that it’s often blended with Cabernet Sauvignon or Cabernet Franc to temper its authority. Brumont’s employs 20% of the Sauvignon, which is in line with the AOC’s 60% Tannat minimum. It’s common to introduce oxygen during the winemaking process to soften this tannic and alcoholic grape. This bottle does so with barrique aging in up to 80% new oak barrels for about fourteen months.

Even though I was assaulted, my initial impression is that this is one for the cellar and the decanter. It’s an earthy, Southern fire; the smoke blending with the underripe blackberries, sour cherries, and a dash of allspice. You can feel and smell the flames, so much so that this would be perfect for Boston’s arctic climate. Then again, this birdy flew South for winter, and thankfully I’m getting to enjoy this with mom’s garlicky roast with braised potatoes, and warm gravy topped with crispy bacon.

It’s astounding to think that forty years ago Château Montus was abandoned with no vines to offer. Alain Brumont, having dedicated his life to winemaking, acquired it one year after taking over his family’s Château Bouscassé. His father forced him to leave school at sixteen to work and that he has, tirelessly. Brumont’s devotion to his region and in turn Tannat has motivated him to find the right terroirs to support his grapes. Château Montus offers the Tannat vines a red clay topped with galets rouges, large, round, reddish rocks, which produces spirited, Herculean wines.

This Madiran has waited nine years for me, and frankly, it could have waited for another. Wines like these will age beautifully, and I’m going back to NOLA Wine Merchant to grab a few more bottles for future winters. Straight up, I’ve tasted darkness, and I am all the more better for it.

The Malbec really influenced my wine itinerary and I became determined to canvas South Western France, but today I realized my mistake. I took a quick trek to NOLA Wine Merchant, which specializes in the Old World, only to remember how business works – you need a supply that meets the demand in a financially efficient manner. Sud Ouest is brimming with a potpourri of wines, not all of which are known nor sought out by the average consumer, thus this will be quite the quest to find them.

To sweeten the deal, the last administration left us with a swag bag of taxes, specifically a 25% toll levied against French, Spanish, German, and U.K. wines. This of course was revenge for the European subsidies granted to Airbus, which the United States took as an assault against Boeing. I will add that Boeing admitted to knowing there were issues with the 737 Max, which killed 346 people over two plane crashes. My wine habits should not be at risk due to their morally corrupt and economically compromising decisions, but as always, I digress. These tariffs are imposed upon the shopkeepers and restauranteurs and ultimately levied against my bank account.

I can’t be the only one to notice that we are in a pandemic. Restaurants and small business should be protected and not taking a hit for corporations such as Boeing. While the last administration perceived this favorably, as it will drive consumption to domestic and New World wines, some of us like to get our fix elsewhere. Like Côtes de Gascogne, an IGP (indication géographique protégée), which is a region with less strict winemaking guidelines than an AOC, situated in Armagnac. It’s predominantly known for its white wines which makes up 90% of production. I had my heart set out on finding a Colombard, a local grape, but given the state of the world, I shan’t complain about what I did stumble upon.

Biscaye Baie, settled in the soul of Gascony, nestled between the Pyrénées and the Atlantic, grown in terreforts, a siliceous soil made up of white clay and limestone, produces a Sauvignon Blanc I can only describe as an adult SweeTART. It’s crisp citrus notes marry sharp granny smith apples with a lingering taste of steely, candied lemon rinds. It’s a silky wine that persists long after the glass and would pair beautifully with a dozen raw oysters. Today I’m having it with Kao Pad Poo (ข้าวผัดปู) a Thai Crab Fried Rice, who’s seafood freshness, onion sweetness, and Thai spiciness is offset beautifully by the wine. It’s aromatic creaminess is a result of cold maceration, a process of soaking the grape skins with the juice prior to fermentation to enhance the color and flavor, as well as aging sur lie with batonnage for a month, which simply means to to age the wine in a vat of dead yeast and to stir for thirty days. As questionable as that sounds, it produces a full, velvety texture that plays nicely with the acidity.

Initially, I was disappointed when I came across a Sauvignon Blanc, which is native to neighboring Bordeaux; I was keen on finding a Gascogne original. Though after my first glass, I went hunting down the receipt. The price was staggering, taxes be damned, because for such a complex wine I expected to pay more. In fact, after a bit of research the entire region feels underpriced. 11th century Gascony, under British rule, exported millions of bottles to the island. Once France regained control their favor shifted as the Bordelais saw Gascon wines as an economic threat and instituted the polices des vins forbidding the exportation of wines from its ports until a majority of Bordeaux’s own bottles had been sold. The once prized and popular Gascogne saw its notoriety plummet as Bordeaux became world renown.

My mother calls me a wino, but through the sarcasm I know she’s thinking alcoholic. Given I grew up in New Orleans, a city where people drink like fish, that’s a fair presumption, but if I’m honest there was a point in my life when I hated wine.

In 2015, I flew to Aix-en-Provence for a semester abroad, and quickly realized that the French drink wine at every meal, but breakfast. I tried to get behind it, but I really couldn’t see the appeal of rotten grapes. So, I did what anyone would do and took a wine class. After a few weeks I found a craving for something other than incredibly sweet, white wines that favor grape juice. I found my palette and continued to expand it over the years.

More recently, I find myself drinking less wine; perhaps it is the pandemic and the desire not to bottom out into a wine-filled pit of despair. That aside, I’ve had a craving to recommence my studies and dive headfirst into the bottle. First, a refresher; a quick tour around France to reacquaint myself with where my journey began.

A few weekends past, my sister directed me to a local wine shop, Spirit Wine, where the shopkeeper was super knowledgable. It was actually this visit that inspired me to get back into my craft, yet I digress. I immediately sought out a Malbec something fruity from Argentina, but my sister groaned. Looking to appease my company, I asked the merchant if he had a French Malbec, something more approachable, a bit drier and spicier, which led us to Clos La Coutale. A vignoble that predates the French Revolution, situated in Cahors, where the vines were planted by the Roman Empire in 92 A.D.

Throughout the Middle Ages, the Black Wine of Cahors was sipped in the halls of Aliénor d’Aquitaine and England’s Henry II, Avignon’s Pope John XXII, Russia’s Peter the Great, and beyond. It earned its title of “le Vin Noir,” due to it being the darkest, one of the strongest, and most tannic of its age. This popularity lasted until the mid-1880s, when the Great French Wine Blight, ravaged the vines with a phylloxera infestation. These parasites damaged over 40% of French vineyards and decimated Cahors. If that wasn’t enough, the winter of 1956 brought a lethal frost that required 99% of the vines to be replanted.

It wasn’t until 1971 that Cahors received it’s AOC (appellation d’origine contrôlée), which specifies the standard for wine from the region and in turn yields brand value. The Cahors AOC requires its wine to be made of at least 70% Malbec, known locally as Côt or Auxxerois, thus these vines were replanted alongside Merlot and Tannat.

Malbec is a thin-skinned, dark grape that is incredibly sensitive to climate. It’s prone to frost, pests, and rot; it needs sunshine but not too much and a dry clime to produce delicious, full-bodied wines. Clos La Coutale sits south-west facing on the Lot Valley, protected from the cold winds, in alluvial soil of gravel and limestone, which produces the calcium carbonate that rewards us with acidity and structure.

After six generations of refinement, Philippe Bernède’s current blend is 80% Malbec and 20% Merlot, followed by a one year nap in oak barrels. This deep rubied wine was sweeter than expected, reminiscent of chocolate and cherries. Though there is a balance as the dark fruit flavors, their tangy pits, and the mineral-rich soil crescendos into tannins. While I would have killed for a bowl of piping hot cassoulet with this glass, I was relegated to a roasted brussel, bok choy, and onion bowl topped with guac and a seared salmon filet. Given the buttery salmon and the pungent, chard veggies, the alcohol hitting the back of my throat was a welcomed accompaniment.