Last night’s engagement with the Burgundian staple now throws me into recollection, eagerness, to go back. Thinking of those streets, the pastries, the dinners, sounds surrounding the historical vestiges. The river, the walking, my midnight scribbling sessions in the hotel room, looking down on a dormant set of French roads. So, am I a “Pinot guy?” No. I’m a Paris guy, a Burgundy guy, a town of Beaune guy. This is what I try to convey to people when talking about wine, especially guests: wine is moments, an occasion, and, eventually, memories. Still daydreaming about my next walk down Montparnasse, my next crêpe and morning Paris mocha...
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