Meursault

In Sydney, a taxi driver claims to hold the political pulse of the nation. In Burgundy, they know the nuances of the impending  harvest. Tomorrow is the first day of the 2018 grape harvest.

Our driver conversed with Moritz authoritivly on each Beaune appellation and the time required to complete the harvest.  As the outskirts of Meursault approached, we simply sat back and admired the the vineyards and the diminishing rays of the setting sun.

Le Soufflot is different. The exterior resembles a  modern factory and the interior is completely bereft of soft furnishings.  Our table however, was minimally laid with cutlery and superb wine glasses with the slimmest stems possible.  Few tables were occupied and I began to feel sorry for a bearded 30 something who looked to have been stood up.

Moritz eagerly scanned the wine ledger with a passion only a true oenophile could muster.  His reaction suggested we were in for a remarkable evening.  The five dishes described in our fixed menu would require some serious wine matching.  My layman knowledge of burgundian wine was restricted to an awareness they produced exquisite red wines. Prior to meeting Moritz I had no idea how great Burgundian whites were.

Le Soufflot began to fill up, with our sole diner suddenly joined by five companions.  The remarkable 1996 Pommard Clos des Epeneaux was soon joined by its '98 sibling and a 93 Nuits Saint Georges.  Great wine begats good neighbours and it was soon a party with three tables sniffing and sampling various appellations and vintages. My favourite dish involved a soufflé of nettle over salmon. The waiter, unlikely in checked shirt avec tattoos, paid us due preference, but not excessively.

It all began to get a little blurred and Alicia and Kim announced they were catching our return taxi back to Beaune.  Being altruistic, I offered to stay and accompany Moritz when the hour occurred.  The party moved to the table nearest where our (no longer) sole diner, described to the nth degree the Alsace riesling Moritz had thrown into the mix.  He, we shall call him Guy, was a sommelier!

Our quaffing companions were, in the main, Americans and they were kind enough to give us a lift home.  Despite the nights excesses, Moritz held up a passing pair of mobile gendarmes just long enough for our chauffeur to flee the breathalyser.