As some of you know, we went on a trip to France this summer. In the last installment, we spent the night in Bourges. The next morning, we decided to head into Sancerre before heading south to the Dordogne, where we were going to be spending the first week of our vacation. In case you missed them, here are the first few articles about the trip:

Part One       Part Deux       Part Trois       Part IV       Part Five     Part Six      Part Seven

We went out and grabbed a couple of croissants (the boys were already asking for croissants on the second day–I was so proud) and a bottle of Yop and we were on our way to Sancerre.  Just a quick drive and we were seeing signs for wineries pop up all over the place.  First for Menetou-Salon and then Sancerre.  Just out of town, we pulled into a nice little winery called Domaine Fouassier for a quick tasting.  We were the only ones there at first (it was only just past 10, after all) and we were able to go through all the wines.  They were good, but nothing really to write home about (yet here I am writing…).  We bought a couple bottles, I guess to be nice, figuring that we would be drinking them while we were in Dordogne.  Upon leaving, one of our friends was interested in getting some goat cheese, for which the region is also well-known.  The proprietor looked at me rather cross-eyed as if to say “You moron, you can’t swing a dead cat without running across a goat cheese provider.”  She didn’t say this, of course, but she did say that we should go to a neighboring town (Chevignol) home of the famous Crottin de Chevignol.  As we were heading out the door, I asked if she could suggest another winery that we could visit.  Without much hesitation she said: “Henri Bourgeois est bien à Chevignol aussi.”  Good enough for me.  Off to Chevignol, only about 10K away.

Chevignol was a tiny little town—one of those towns in France that appears to be stuck in time—it certainly did not appear as though there had been anything ‘new’ built any time in the last couple of centuries.  Our first goal was the cheese shop which was rather easy to find:

Inside they had a rather amazing selection of goat cheese.  To be honest, I really do not like goat cheese, in fact I find it rather repulsive (just keepin’ it real, here folks). A lot of people seem to go all gaga over it, though, and since I am seen as this huge Frenchie wannabe, I try and go along to maintain the persona.  Since it requires me to down a whole lot more wine to compensate for the taste of the cheese, well, it might end up being a net benefit.  I guess I should just keep my mouth shut and move on.  Crottin de Chavignol is famous throughout the goat cheese world, but I do not really get it.  My French is certainly not what it used to be (but is not ‘bad’ by any means), but I had to look up “crottin” again because I remembered the word meaning ‘horse dung’.  Not exactly mouth watering.  I thought about asking my son, who goes to a French immersion school and is fluent in French, but I decided against it.  First, his French is getting to a point where it is as good if not better than mine.  When I make a mistake, he never lets me forget it (‘Remember that time when you said le pizza?  What were you thinking?!?’). Second, if I happened to be correct, he would never let that pass either since he is only nine and his father just said ‘horse dung’ (he likely would have asked what ‘dung’ meant and when I told him ‘poop’ he likely would have chortled the rest of the trip).

So I looked it up:

‘Animal Excrement’

I consider that a win over my son even though he was not involved–you have to take them when you can get them.

Add that the first crottins were supposedly made by pouring the curdled milk into the leg of an old pair of trousers, and I was not really feeling it.  Imagine for a moment how that conversation went:

“Hey Pierre, what should we do with this curdled milk?”

“Mon dieu! The milk curdled? Papa is going to be faché!  We better hide it and vite!  Ummmm.  Get naked, we’ll use your pantalons, Jean-Claude…”

I’m guessing that when it started to reek, they decided they needed to dispose of the evidence, but it smelled so strong that Papa would surely find it.  So they did what my three year old does: eat it. Voilà! A new gastronomic discovery.

Necessity is the mother of invention?  Perhaps, but idiocy is the step-mother of culinary creations.

Last, but not least, the crottins that do not quite make the grade, for whatever reason, are put into a covered ceramic pot and they sit there, undisturbed, for about six weeks.  Not refrigerated at all, just in the pot.  Then they sell them (and people buy them)!  These are called ‘crottins repassés’ (‘passed over horse dung’ for those of you scoring at home).  Just looking at them makes you want to hurl.  Being the stupid jackrabbit that I am, I put my big old beak down in the pot and took a whiff.  I am pretty sure I passed out, but I do not remember.

In the photo above, those are all Crottins de Chevignol, which differ by how long they have been aged (sorry, no photos of the repassé). This photo is note worthy since it is virtually the same angle as the one on Wikipedia.  Initially, I felt a sense of pride having taken the exact same photo as the one on Wikipedia.  Then I realized that might actually be pathetic.  And it is a picture of goat cheese after all.  I was much more excited about the other side of the store:

I said I am not a fan of the goat, but I am a huge fan of the cow and the sheep and this shop had a ton of both.  This photo does not do it justice—it made Whole Foods look like a bunch of amateurs (which some of you might already believe, but you can write your own post about that if you like).  They also had my single favorite cheese ever: Époisses.  If you have never had the opportunity, at its best, the cheese smells a lot like my grandfather’s feet when really ripe (which is the way you want it) and the smell will quickly fill the room with the cheese requiring a spoon to serve.  It demands a white Burgundy as an accompaniment, which is also a good thing, a really good thing.  Unfortunately, an Époisses costs between $20-25 each in the States, so it is only a special event kind of thing (OK, for me to buy an Époisses, I consider ‘Wednesday’ sufficient to classify as ‘special’ but the cost cuts into the wine budget, so not a net negative, but close). At this store they were 5€ (about $6.50).  Should have bought two, but settled for one.

When we left, I asked the lady at the counter if she had any suggestions about wineries to visit in town.  She suggested Henri Bourgeois (check), but could not remember the name of the other winery she really liked (maybe the horse dung cheese was eroding her memory).

We went outside and I immediately saw a winery whose name I recognized: François Cotat.  From what I could recall, he was a fine producer, so I thought we would give it a shot before we hit Henri Bourgeois.  I checked the door: locked.  We milled around for a bit (many wineries are mom and pop kind of places, so maybe they were in the back, checking on their horse dung cheese).  As we were leaving, a very sweet old lady passed and looked at me kind of funny.  I asked if she were Madame Cotat, to which she replied “Oui”.  I asked if we could have a ‘petite dégustation’ (a little tasting).  She asked if I were one of their regular customers.  When I replied ‘non’ she apologized, but said then we could not.  This took me aback a little as the French are generally such poor business people so inviting that they want to pour their wines for anybody who wants to try them (even when they know you are not going to buy anything).  I thought about asking how one could ever become a regular customer if you were never allowed to taste the wine, but I didn’t.  As I have stated before, I am a wuss.  And the lady had a cane.

Off to Henri Bourgeois.