Alexis Lichine’s Wines of France, a work of subtle comic genius

La Mission-Haut-Brion claims that it is responsible for getting St. Vincent into trouble. It seems that St. Vincent, the patron saint of vintners, had not been in heaven very long before he was attacked by a terrific thirst and had a yearning to taste again the great wines of France, the Burgundies, the wines from the Rhône Valley and the Loire, beady Champagne, and delightful Bordeaux. He applied to the powers that be for leave of absence, presenting such a pathetic mien that his request was granted provided that he come back on time. There is little doubt that he intended to, but when the time was up, St. Vincent was still down on earth, busily tasting wine. They found him in the cellars of La Mission-Haut-Brion, drinking lustily, not just drunk but hopelessly plastered and in no condition to make a journey anywhere, least of all where there might be danger of shocking cherubs and setting a bad example. St. Vincent was turned to stone on the spot, and you can see him there today, mitered cap awry, eyes bleary, and still clutching a rather dilapidated bunch of grapes.

Alexis Lichine

this picture of some public art at New York's Rockefeller Center has nothing to do with Alexis Lichine. I just like it.

I borrowed a copy of Alexis Lichine’s Wines of France from my dear friend Cesar on our recent trip to New York. It was sort of a random occurrence. We had just returned to his apartment from a restaurant and were chatting in the hall among his collections of ancient Portuguese and Spanish tiles and large collection of unusual walking sticks. The library is also housed in this same entryway (they maximize the use of space in New York). That’s where my eyes ran across this marvelous book.

This particular one is a hardback published in 1969, though it is the fourth printing. The original came out in 1951. To me it is remarkable, not for the wine information, which naturally has fallen somewhat out of date, but for the amusing and delightful writing style. Lichine is a subtle comic genius. Take this, for example, from the introduction, “A Frenchman drinks wine because he does not drink water.” There we go. Simple.

Nowadays, we’re all concerned about our health. This was no different in 1969 (or ’51). Here is Lichine on the French anxiety about foie, or liver trouble:

In France, foie trouble is the favorite disease, as popular a conversational topic as ulcers in the United States. One of the standard Franco-American conversations is that of a Frenchman explaining to an American what liver trouble is, and that all Frenchmen don’t have it, and the American explaining what ulcers are, and that all Americans don’t have them.

Foie trouble comes from eating or drinking too much, and every Frenchman can give you a long list of foods that are very bad for the foie: eggs, fats, butter, spinach, shellfish, sauces. This explains why the French never eat eggs for breakfast, although they are perfectly all right for lunch and dinner—perhaps the classic example of Gallic logic. But a Frenchman will add that one thing never bad for the foie—not in a million years—is wine. Sauces, yes, even though sauces are the basis of French cooking. But wine, never.

Isn’t that so like we humans?

Lichine’s not always kind though often gentle in his criticisms. Here he is describing a charming visit to the town of Chablis:

On the left side of the square is the Hôtel de l’Étoile, completely repaired now. The owner, M. Bergerand, a towel tied bandana-fashion around his neck, tall chef’s cap atilt on his big head, big white apron clinched around his bulk, urges you to try the specialties of the house: a terrine of rabbit to be eaten with a glass of Chablis, écrevisses, which are crayfish swimming in Chablis, Burgundy ham in a reddish sauce laced with Chablis, slices of veal cooked in Chablis, chicken poached in Chablis, or a soufflé served in scooped out oranges, to be followed by a coarse, leathery marc made from distilled Chablis. He’ll be only too glad to tell you that oysters and fish aren’t the only things that are good with Chablis, and to give you his recipes, printed on little slips of paper, to prove it.

I adored saying “Chablis” over and over so much that I read this quote aloud to Heguiberto in a kind of ecstasy.

Here, perhaps, a more pointed Lichine emerges. Speaking of the famous Bordeaux sub-region of Sauternes, where the legendary sweet wine is made, he says of one producer, “La Tour-Blanche has a tower all right, but it is brown, with a red tile roof, and has no present function, even as a symbol.” Ouch.

Or about Dijon, in Burgundy:

Dijon used to be famous for its food, but today it is known principally as the world’s mustard center, and mustard is a condiment that spoils the taste of great wine.

Or on Champagne:

Although some people feel that Champagne should be reserved for launching ships, most feel a pleasant surge of excitement as the wire muzzle is twisted off the cork and it is slowly pried loose, the expectant pause giving way to happy chatter as the cork pops, the wisp of smoke curls up, and the sparkling wine foams into tall glasses. Many frown on the practice of allowing the cork to pop, but others believe that the pop is half the fun, and that Champagne makers are more tolerant about this than the connoisseurs, merely suggesting that the cork should come out into your palm and not go flying across the room.

Even in praise, Lichine can crack me up. Here, writing on the über famous Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, he says, “The greatness of the wines would lead you to expect that the cellars of the Domaine would have marble columns and perhaps a choir chanting in one corner…”

I started my series of quotes with a saint’s tale, so shall finish with another. Writing again on Burgundy, a personal favorite it appears, he describes the stern St. Bernard, who “did not believe wine should be drunk for pleasure. Cluny, in the heart of Burgundy, and for some centuries the greatest church in France, came in for some harsh criticism from St. Bernard, largely because the monks drank so much and obviously enjoyed it.”

Well, obviously I enjoyed drinking up this incredible book. Wikipedia has a fascinating biography of the writer. Lichine sounds like he had a romantic and eventful life: fleeing Russia with his family during the Revolution when a mere child, working as a reporter in France, serving as an American Military Intelligence officer in WW2, marrying and divorcing a Countess, owning wineries and vineyards in Bordeaux and Burgundy, and so much more. Plus he was a marvelous writer. He died in 1989, age 76, from cancer.