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patricelecointre · 9 months

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Pour un séjour sur les Coteaux du Layon !

A CHAVAGNES dans LE MAINE ET LOIRE, La Maison d'Hôtes de Charme "L'ANCIENNE BOULANGERIE" vous accueille à mi-chemin entre Angers et Saumur, partez à la découverte des Troglodytes, des Châteaux de la Loire, des parcs et jardins. Allez à la rencontre des vignerons angevins et profitez des paysages viticoles. Les propriétaires vous accueillent toute l'année en formule chambre d'hôtes ou en formule gîte (15personnes) en privatisant la maison et le jardin avec piscine. A DECOUVRIR SANS ATTENDRE SUR http://www.trouverunechambredhote.com/fiche.php?aid=187

#ValdeLoire #Vignobles #Charme #Evasion #Decouvertes #Sejours #Hebergements #Gites #Chambresdhotes

#evasion #france #calme #decouverte #hebergements

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sangfe · 1 year

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🧀CHEESE OF THE DAY: QUARK🧀

•Made from pasteurized cow's milk

•Country of origin: Australia, Austria, Belarus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Germany, Hungary, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Russia, Sweden and United States

•Family: Cottage

•Type: fresh soft, artisan

•Texture: creamy and smooth

•Rind: rindless

•Colour: white

•Flavour: mild, milky

•Aroma: milky, sweet

•Vegetarian: yes

•Coagulant: non-animal rennet

•Synonyms: Tvorog, Twaróg, Quarck, Qark, Tyros, Tyr, Turo, Tvarog, Topfen, Plattekaas, Kwark, Kvark

Quark (or quarg) is a traditional, creamy, vegetarian, fresh dairy product tracing its origin to German-speaking and Eastern European countries. It is known by many names, chief among them being творог in Russian, tvaroh in Czech and Slovak, topfen in Austria, kwark in Dutch, kvark in Denmark and kvarg in Norway and Sweden. Quark is said to be a cross between yoghurt and cottage cheese.

This fresh, soft, white curd cheese is prepared from pasteurised cow's milk with a small amount of rennet added to achieve a good, firm curd. However, traditional quark is a purely fresh dairy product and does not make use of rennet.

It is moist, snowy white in colour with a subtle taste and smooth & soft texture. Its texture is similar to that of cream cheese, pot cheese or ricotta, with a fat content ranging from low to medium. Quark is usually sold in plastic tubs with most or all of the whey. The flavour is reminiscent of sour cream with the seasonings of herbs, spices or fruits. The quark makes a great base for many recipes, such as cheesecake, pasta, creamy sauces, sandwiches, salads and desserts. It pairs well with Champagne, White sparkling, Pacherenc-du-vic-bilh White, Coteaux-du-layon White, Monbazillac White and Cadillac White.

Quark is also produced outside their respective native countries, such as in Australia and the United States.

Love me some Aussie Quark.

#cheese #cheeseoftheday #quark #cowscheese

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lesdomainesquimontentbourges · 2 years

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Un Rhum à boire avec du foie gras ? C’est possible avec @offrian_rum Un rhum du panama qui a vieilli 4 ans dans des fûts de chêne blanc américain ex-bourbon sous climat tropical. Puis un “finish” de 8 mois (continental) en fûts de chêne français de coteaux du Layon 1er cru Chaume AOC. Jordan Obry, l’un des créateurs nous explique que : “Le défi a été de trouver un jus qui porterait la puissance et le style Offrian mais tout en laissant la place à des fûts de vendange tardive de Chenin blanc de s’exprimer, et surtout en évitant de mettre du “sucre sur du sucre” . https://www.instagram.com/p/CiBIjtvsxk9/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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askwhatsforlunch · 4 years

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Sweet Wine and Honey Poached Pears (Vegetarian)

These Sweet Wine and Honey Poached Pears make a delicate, falvourful, light dessert, which is also delightfully warming. Happy Monday!

Ingredients (serves 2):

2 medium pears, not too ripe (they need to be firm to hod their shape)

3/4 cup sweet white wine, such as Coteaux du Layon or Sauternes

1/2 cup water

1 1/2 tablespoon pure, raw honey (something woods-y like heather honey, or if you like a strong flavour, chestnut honey)

1/2 plump vanilla bean

Using a vegetable peeler, peel both pears; set aside

In a medium saucepan, combine sweet white wine and water. Add honey. Finally scrape seeds off the vanilla bean, and stir into the saucepan, along with the empty pod. Bring to a slow boil over medium heat, stirring to mix.

Once the honey is melted, add pears to the pot. Cook, about 3 minutes, then turn the pears, and cook, another 3 minutes. Then, reduce heat to medium-low, cover with a lid, and simmer, 10 minutes. Finally, remove the lid, reduce heat to a low flame, and simmer, about another 10 minutes, gently turning the pears in the wine and honey syrup every now and then, so they cook evenly, until they are tender.

Serve Sweet Wine and Honey Poached Pears warm.

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wineninja · 3 years

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【ブログ更新しました！】飲んだワイン　ドメーヌ・ダンビーノ/コトー・ド・レイヨン・ボーリュー1976　7点 https://ift.tt/3lwybAC

#フランス #ロワール #飲んだワイン #Coteaux du Layon Beaulieu #d'Ambinos #コトー・ド・レイヨン・ボーリュー #ドメーヌ・ダンビーノ

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vinhosemsegredo · 4 years

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Quando pensamos numa região francesa com tamanha variedade de vinhos, estilos e solos, além da extensão do rio Loire em todo seu percurso, percebemos melhor o conceito de terroir e sua interação com clima, solos e uvas.

panorama geral da região

O Loire tem aproximadamente 57 mil hectares de vinhas com cerca de 50 apelações de vinhos. Seu percurso ronda perto de 800 quilômetros de extensão. Suas quatro cepas e quatro vinhos principais são pela ordem: Cabernet Franc, Chenin Blanc, Melon de Bourgogne (Muscadet), e Sauvignon Blanc. Por estas características seus melhores vinhos são brancos (41% à base de Chenin Blanc, um pouco de Muscadet e Sauvignon Blanc), tintos e rosés (43% à base de Cabernet Franc), e 14% de espumantes (localmente chamado de Fines Bulles).

De toda a produção, os franceses ficam com 79% (253 milhões de garrafas) e a exportação fica com 21% (67 milhões de garrafas), provando que os franceses entendem de vinhos de estilos variados e são muito gastronômicos. Os outros países não entenderam totalmente a questão, tendo muito a fazer em termos de exportação, sobretudo em países de terceiro mundo.

Clima Atlântico sendo rechaçado ao longo do continente

Na região atlântica do Muscadet a infuência marinha é muito grande. À medida que vamos caminhando para Angers e Saumur, esta influência vai diminuindo com maior impacto do clima continental. Aqui estão sobretudo as apelações Muscadet, Savennières (Chenin seco) e os famosos Coteaux du Layon, englobando Quarts de Chaume e Bonnezeaux.

A geologia comandando o terroir

Neste contexto, temos total infuência do maciço armoricano (massif armoricain), uma das mais antigas geologias com rochas ígneas do tipo granito, mica, e gneiss. Gera vinhos delgados e de muita boa acidez como o Muscadet. Em relação à Chenin Blanc, cepa do médio Loire, sob a ação do xisto (rocha metamórfica), gera Chenin Blanc seco de incrível acidez e mineralidade como o Savennières. Já os doces Coteaux du Lyon com incrível acidez gera vinhos profundos e equilibrados. Os Quarts de Chaume e Bonnezeaux são vinhos intensos e profundos, segundo padrões do Loire.

Em contrapartida a região de Saumur e sobretudo Tours estão amplamente dominados pelo calcário da bacia parisiense (massif parisien), uma bacia sedimentar. Os vinhos têm muito boa acidez, mas são sutis e delicados. É o caso dos tintos à base de Cabernet Franc, e os Chenins sob a denominação Vouvray.

É facil fazer a experiência de um quarts de chaume com um vouvray moelleux. Os dois são Chenin Blanc, mas um de xisto, outro de calcário. O Quarts de Chaume vai parecer mais intenso e robusto, enquanto o Vouvray vai parecer mais delicado e elegante, embora com ótima acidez. Apesar da aparente fragilidade, o Vouvray suporta envelhecimento em garrafa bastante prolongado, por anos. É a expressão mais fiel dos vinhos alemães na França. Foto abaixo.

um de xisto, outro de calcário

a personalidade do calcário

O da esquerda feito no Valle de Uco, Argentina, o da direita, um típico Cabernet Franc de Tours. A leveza e a mineralidade dos dois são notáveis. O primeiro de uma área específica do Valle de Uco, Guatallary, é um terroir aluvial com presença de calcário ativo importante. O segundo nesta região de Tours, o calcário se faz presente, mostrando leveza e elegância. Em terras distantes entre si, o calcário une estilos de vinhos semelhantes. O primeiro é importado pela Grand Cru e o segundo importado pela World Wine (uma referência desta apelação). Fotos acima.

Cabernet Franc

No caso da Cabernet Franc, a mesma coisa. Apelações como Chinon e Bourgueil de Tours, sobretudo, são de uma delicadeza que a Cabernet Franc não encontra em outras paragens. É o solo calcário comandando o estilo delicado e elegante do vinho. Já os tintos de Saumur-Champigny são dominados mais pelo xisto que encomtrar em Saumur, portanto um pouco mais intensos e estruturados.

bem típico da apelação

Sauvignon Blanc

No caso do Sauvignon Blanc do extremo Loire, bem a leste, as apelações Sancerre e Pouilly-Fumé são muito interessantes. A própria apelação Pouilly-Fumé em determinados solos lembram os bons Chablis pela mineralidade, embora de cepas diferentes. Num destes solos calcários, temos o Kimmeridgiano ou Kimméridgen, o qual são solos de animais marinhos (ostras, sobretudo) calcinados na rocha. São os solos encontrados em Chablis e na própria apelação Pouilly-Fumé, que conferem aos vinhos a incrível mineralidade.

muito típico de Vouvray

Um belo espumante elaborado pelo método clássico com notas de mel e brioche, lembrando alguns champagnes. Importado pela Mistral.

Fines Bulles

Podemos dividir os espumantes em apelações mais conhecidas e regionais. Por exemplo: Anjou e Cremant de Loire. No primeiro, o solo é dominado por xistos, conferindo aromas de damascos e mel, e uma presença mais floral da Sauvignon e Chardonnay. São espumantes mais densos que os demais. Já Cremant de Loire, os solos são muito variados, mas os espumantes costumam ser mais estruturados que a média da região.

Os espumantes de Saumur vêm de solos de transição com um pouco de xisto e a maioria calcário. São espumantes de médio corpo com notas de frutas brancas, amêndoas grelhadas e baunilha.

Por fim, os espumantes de Touraine e Vouvray. São feitos pelo método champenoise, sobretudo os Vouvray. As notas são de mel, brioche e frutas em compotas. São delicados e elegantes, regidos pelo calcário.

vinho verde típico com leveza e off-dry

Este Vinho Verde elaborado pela Adega Guimarães dá uma boa ideia de tipicidade, frescor e leveza. Trazido pela importadora Grand Cru.

Vinho Verde x Mucadet

A região do Vinho Verde em Portugal tem influência oceânica e origens antigas do mesmo maciço que a região do Nantes, Maciço Armocariano, ou seja, granito. Só que esta região está na latitude 41 a 42 N, enquanto Nantes, a região do Muscadet está na latitude 47 N. As uvas também não são as mesmas. Enquanto na região do vinhos verdes, temos Arinto, Trajadura, Loureio e Azal, entre outras, a região de Muscadet tem uma só uva que se chama Melon de Bourgogne, uma uva bem mais discreta. Com isso, a região dos vinhos verdes com uvas mais aromáticas e latitude mais baixa, consegue elaborar vinhos aromaticamente mais expressivos, embora conserve leveza e acidez. Já a região do Muscadet, bem mais fria e uma uva menos expressiva, dá vinhos mais discretos aromaticamente, também com muita acidez. Portanto, o perfil do vinho em termos de leveza e frescor se conserva nos dois casos, pelo subsolo granítico.

Vinhos e Solos Quando pensamos numa região francesa com tamanha variedade de vinhos, estilos e solos, além da extensão do rio Loire em todo seu percurso, percebemos melhor o conceito de terroir e sua interação com clima, solos e uvas.

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ber-bonfamille-lyons · 3 years

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It’s Not Christmas Till Somebody Cries || The Bonfamilles-Lyons

Summary: Ber tells his father the truth at Christmas. It goes.......... as well as you can expect. So, badly.

@simba-bonfamille-lyons

@lou-bonfightme

@marie-a-bonfamille

tw: anxiety, panic attacks

BERLIOZ:

Christmas was nearly over.

All in all, it wasn’t a horrible one. He’d had worst Christmases-- the first few one with his parents divorced sprang to mind, when the fights were fresh and it was always a war to figure out who would get the children for the longest. At least there was only one parent to deal with this year, and Pere was, honestly, the low maintenance parent. If he were to ever had someone stay at the cabin, it should be Pere. And he’d been a respectful guest, though Berlioz had never gotten over waking up and coming down to his father sitting at the table, legs crossed, paper in hand, coffee steaming in one of his and Simba’s novelty mugs. He didn’t look like the same man on the television. Like the man in the paper. Like the man in the crisp suits who missed more birthdays than he had ever made.

Sitting at Berlioz and Simba’s table, he almost looked like a real father.

And so maybe that was why Ber had put off the whole reason for this visit. He thought about telling him at breakfast, and then telling him at dinners. He considered Christmas Eve, then chickened out and thought, yes, he’d wait until after the holidays entirely-- until December 26, in the last few hours before they had to take Hector to the train station so he might catch his flight home.

And so Christmas came-- The Bonfamille-Lyons house bustled with people-- Marie and Lou and Nounou, Sarabi, Kiara, Ashlee. They ate cinnamon rolls and exchanged gifts. They lit a fire in the fireplace. Berlioz tried to help out for Christmas dinner and he was soon sent away, to drink whiskey with Pere and Lou on the front porch. They ate again. Ashlee left to go see her friends, and the sky grew dark.

Now they gathered around the table for the third time in one day (so much bloody eating at Christmas) as Simba made to cut the pies, plural, because of course Simba had made many, many different pies.

“You know, I realized,” mentioned Pere as he put down his small cup of black coffee on its saucer. “I don’t think your mother called today, oui? Did you talk to her last night?” He addressed all three of the Bonfamille children, his eyes darting from one to the next.

Berlioz slouched a little in his chair.

MARIE:

Marie had been sort of dreading this Christmas, if she was being honest.

On the one hand, she could be at home, with no responsibilities. She could simply enjoy the season, take part in the festivities, and spend the day lounging around in her designer Christmas jumper, sipping wine and eating one sweet treat after the next.

But then, see, the running away from her coronation had happened. And the divorce. The scandal. Marie was quite sure that eyes would be on her, and not in the way that she liked them to be.

But as the day had crept closer, Marie had had another revelation entirely: with Maman gone, and Papa spending the holidays with them instead, the focus would not be on her, but on Berlioz — even if Papa didn’t realise it. Marie was very talented at putting her foot in her mouth; her worry about any negative attention she might garner was now replaced with worry about ruining the entire day for her (half) brother.

She had done her best to relax, and for the most part, she had — she had spent the day lounging, drinking and eating much as she had planned to. It only came to a screeching halt the very second she thought they had got away with it. When Papa asked if they had heard from their mother at all.

Berlioz slouched, but Marie sat bolt upright, sipping at her glass of Coteaux du Layon. “I spoke to her last night,” she confirmed, smiling a little too brightly, speaking a little too quickly. “She told me to let her know how we liked our gifts — I’ll have to text her.”

TOULOUSE:

This was an incredibly bad idea.

Toulouse had told Berlioz this. The holidays were not the time to reveal familial secrets long ago buried. It was the one time of year where everyone, by the power of something higher, had to actually act decently to one another. Even Hector and Adelaide, after a few years, could only stand to be in the same room with one another during the holidays. And before their marriage had fissured irreparably, it was the only time where they managed to keep the fighting to a minimum and their house became a ceasefire, no-man’s-land. For just a fortnight or so--the Bonfamille manor would be peaceful. The holiday--enjoyable.

It was Toulouse’s favorite time of year for that reason. Also, because he adored buying gifts for his family and Christmas was when he really was able to show off his skill (and how much he cared.) Though, he’d been a bit behind this year, considering he’d spent most of December sleeping on a couch and waking up every two hours when a baby cried.

He was exhausted and he could see the storm brewing on the horizon. Lou just wanted to go back to the Acheron’s and curl up by the fire. At least there the only electric energy was everyone’s bone-tired, waiting in the stillness for the next baby to start crying.

That was a much better stillness than the stillness that followed Hector’s question.

Toulouse’s brain was sluggish, so he was not quick to jump in with an excuse. However, Berlioz was going to be utterly useless and Marie looked as if she was just about ready to jump out of her skin. He sighed, watching their father for a moment, before answering himself.

“She told us she would be busy most of the day, with Claude and Grandpere and Grandmere, I rang her earlier this morning before coming over here.” He had not, but as dutiful eldest son, he would have usually--and it was an easy lie, considering he had not come by until later in the morning.

“She said to say hello and happy Christmas to you.”

BERLIOZ:

His siblings lied for him.

Well, he actually had no idea if Marie’s was a lie at all. He had not told anyone to shun Maman the same way that he was shunning her. They didn’t have to as far as he was concerned; she hadn’t lied to them about their father’s identity for over twenty years of their lives. But he had also known that as soon as Lou found out that the fissure in their family would widen, Lou jumping to Berlioz’s side at once. There’d only been a few seconds where he’d been unsure. Where he thought, maybe, Lou, who loved their mother so dearly, might try to make an appeal.

There were times over the past months where he almost wished he had. What would have been different? Maybe Berlioz would listen. He listened to Lou the most out of anyone. (Not that he listened all that much.)

But too late now. He heard Lou’s lie and couldn’t help but look at Pere while he said it, the jumpiness suddenly alive in Berlioz’s skin. His hands fidgeted under the table. He thought about reaching for Simba, but his husband had both hands up, one of which was shoveling a generous helping of pie into his own mouth.

And so he rubbed at his knees and stared at Pere, who didn’t look at Ber at all.

“Ah yes, le petite Claude,” said Pere, humming for a few moments, flashing a loose smile at the mention of their cousin who had, of course, no relation to Pere at all. “I was surprised about her plans until I remembered about Claude. She means to make him her next project, I’m sure.” He chuckled a little at his own joke, which was not a joke, because his parents were very good at saying exactly what they wanted to say.

“She’s actually spent quite a lot of this year in Paris, hasn’t she? As if he were her own son! I was surprised she did not fly home after news of the coronation. My apologies on her behalf, mon petit coeur.” Hector reached over to pet Marie’s hand.

Berlioz felt himself sink just a little more.

MARIE:

Marie looked at Lou, and took another sip of her wine. So perhaps her answer hadn’t been the best, but at least Toulouse was there to set things straight (ish), and she had at least done better than Berlioz, who apparently found the tabletop extremely interesting.

It shouldn’t be so difficult to talk to her dear Papa — Marie was a daddy’s girl and she always had been, and usually conversation was fairly easy even though, admittedly, she maybe didn’t talk to him as much as she should. This year had just been so busy, and Hector was always fully booked anyhow. Part of what Marie liked about their relationship was that her father wasn’t overbearing, and showed his affection by buying her gifts.

She looked up when Hector reached over to pat her hand, smiling back at him, her thoughts momentarily shifted away from not putting her foot in her mouth. It was probably a good thing that Maman had not flown home after all; she would only have had to book a flight straight back.

Marie wondered if this was what she should do. That is, shift the focus from their Maman to herself, because Marie was very good at stealing the spotlight from her siblings usually, and maybe this time it would actually be appreciated.

“Well, it’s alright, given how things went....” Her gaze flicked from Ber to Lou, and then back to her father. She was very much making a martyr of herself here, she hoped they could appreciate that. “I know she would’ve made a big fuss, and that wasn’t what I wanted, after all that. Myself and Toulouse have been getting along quite well — with NouNou’s help, of course.”

TOULOUSE:

Toulouse’s expression pinched as his father laughed.

See, Hector and Adelaide were very good at putting on faces. They were, after all, the people who had taught Lou the same thing. Hector was better at concealing than his mother, but Adelaide was better at manipulating--using her emotions like the flash of feathers on a bird of paradise, to draw someone in.

Hector’s jokes did nothing to lighten the atmosphere. If anything, everything became more tense. Perhaps it was only Lou who felt it, but he also felt Marie’s gaze darting about like a startled starling. And Berlioz was so stiff that Lou was afraid he was suddenly going to snap entirely in half. And Lou, too, merely pushed his pie about on his plate (it was far too sweet for him anyhow). His shoulders were tense. Despite the potential truth to his father’s words and Lou’s own anger at his mother, that old protectiveness flared up in his chest.

For Hector should know that when it came to it, Lou took his mother’s side in most things. Historically, in almost every argument and disagreement, because Lou was not immune to his mother’s flashy feathers and crystal tears. Especially when the only way his father showed true emotion was in thunderclaps of anger. He preferred his mother’s soft heartbreak. It was easier to stomach than his father’s rage.

“Yes, Marie handled the whole thing beautifully,” Lou complimented his sister, raising his wine glass towards her before taking a small sip. “Maman has been dealing with so much the last year, besides.” And in this, Lou’s words were truer than he meant and they reflected back to him in a way that made him feel rather uncomfortable--suddenly worried about betraying his mother.

But no, she had betrayed them all first.

BERLIOZ:

As Marie began talking, Berlioz relaxed, if just a little. He sat up again, picked up his fork, cut off a piece of his pie. He didn’t really eat it though, just kinda pushed it around his plate as some of the apples escaped. Couldn’t get them all on his fork at once. He kept trying anyway, an expert in turning the most mundane tasks-- checking his phone, fixing his coat zipper, even eating-- into something of a production. He’d mastered this form of invisible performance as a child. Though his father used to complain about it-- don’t play with your food, he’d say. Or, stop fidgeting, Berlioz. Or, pay attention, Berlioz.

But Pere wasn’t looking at him anymore. This was fine. He’d just get through dessert, and right after, he’d nip into the study maybe and tell him then…

And then Lou said what he said.

Ber’s head jerked up, eyes widening just a little. His brother had not meant it; he either thought it was innocent enough or… maybe he was actually trying to tell Pere to fuck off, that he didn’t know waht he was talking about, except for the fact that Pere was still Pere, and like a shark smelling blood in the water…

Ber watched his father raise a curious eyebrow. His eyes glinted.

“Dealing, has she? And what is taking up all her time this year, eh? Another fundraiser for the London Philharmonic?” He laughed mockingly. Maman’s little passions always paled in comparison to Pere’s, according to Pere.

“Is that why she emailed me about you, Berlioz? You’ve been dodging her charity too?”

Ber stiffened. His fork clattered to his plate. “She emailed you?”

“Yes. She wanted to know if I’d heard from you. I figure she was trying to rope you into something, eh? Playing a gala for her friends? She never learns.”

“No, uh…”

“Good on you for not humouring her.”

And much like Lou, those words poked something sensitive in Berlioz-- that tender place that used to run to Maman, that once played the piano in hopes of earning her kisses and compliments. “It’s not like that at all,” he said too sharply. “She just didn’t want me talking to you.”

The mocking smile on Pere’s face faded. “Excuse me? And why not? What the hell have I done to that woman now?”

And Berlioz could say anything now. Or he could say nothing. He could shrug and let the rest of his family chime in-- let Lou defend Maman instead, or let Marie disengage the situation with a compliment or a graceful shift back to her. Even Simba might jump in, if Ber gave him space, tell Hector to shut up or offer him whiskey or something.

And so when Berlioz spoke, he didn’t know why he did. If it was revenge against Pere for his spite. Or if it was revenge against Maman. Maybe it was both those things, and six months of holding, and waiting, and sinking, and he was tired of being the one to squirm when it was everyone else’s fault but his. He’d just been born. So -- yeah. Fuck this bullshit game of his parents’ he’d been forced to play for his entire life.

“She didn’t want me to tell you she cheated on you twenty-three years ago,” blurted Berlioz. “And that I’m not your son.”

Quiet.

Berlioz watched his father’s smooth, practiced face, waited for it to break the way that he knew it could break. But the first crack happened in his knuckles instead, as they tightened around his utensils. Then, very slowly, as if that beautiful silver was made of glass, he set both knife and fork down.

“Is that a joke?”

“Yes,” Berlioz said, then automatically: “I mean, no. It’s just kind of a joke that neither of us knew all this time, so. Yeah, it’s-- it is kinda funny, isn’t it?” His mouth was just moving now. “I think it’s really funny.”

Pere’s eyes jerked away from Berlioz to his other two children. “What is he talking about? Did you know about this?”

“I’m talking about being a bastard son,” said Berlioz. Wow, he could not shut up. This had never happened to him before. He felt kinda giddy. Was he having a panic attack? Was this a new, fun way to have a panic attack, like, with his mouth only?

“Berlioz!” Pere snapped at him to shut up. Ah, there it was. The yelling. But Berlioz wasn’t scared at all, had expected this, and so he leaned back and shrugged.

TOULOUSE:

Toulouse had not meant his misstep to be so grievous as it was. There had been a part of him that was frustrated and wanted to push back at his father. Besides, Toulouse was right. It had barely been over a year since Tantine had died. Their mother’s only sibling. Despite himself, Lou felt the pity for his mother deeply where Tantine was concerned and he worried about his mother. It had always been Lou’s job to worry about his mother. Even when he had been young, he would sometimes catch her in the kitchen late at night, staring into her drink, in her warm, fluffy robes. And even before he’d been old enough to articulate it, he had known his mother was sad. So, he would crawl into her lap and let her stroke his hair and kiss his head.

His father had never been so vulnerable. Even now, he was more stone than man to Toulouse. He had learned much of his own statuesque personality from his father, though, he liked to think that he did it better. Could maintain it for longer.

And he never yelled.

As soon as Berlioz snapped, Lou saw the rest of this playing out, as if Berlioz was their mother and Lou was a child again. Sometimes, the dishes would rattle first, signaling the Earth’s unsteadiness. He was thrust so suddenly backwards that for several precious seconds, he lost control of his tongue. A part of his brain said that he should intervene, say something—help.

By the time he’d sorted himself out, he’d heard Simba—who he frankly forgot was sitting there—say Berlioz’s name very quietly.

His father shouted, like a whip cracked across the dining room table. Lou stiffened and his eyes cut towards his father, his expression stone. He looked very much like his father, the two of them mirrors of each other in anger.

“Hector,” Simba hedged but Lou cut him off. He didn’t turn his attention to Simba, but the tone of his voice made it clear that Simba should have no part in this conversation.

“Yes, I knew.” He purposefully did not confirm that Marie had known. Hopefully, Hector would assume, as was often the case—that Marie had had no idea. “It has not been long. Maman kept it from all of us.”

MARIE:

Marie had to pick her jaw up off the floor. Not literally, of course, but she did find herself sat with her mouth hanging open, and she had to close it with a reminder that it was not ladylike to gawp. She almost felt justified this time, though. Berlioz had really lost it. Well and truly.

Marie did feel a little bit sorry for her dear Papa, though. It wasn’t his fault that their mother had done what she did (well, perhaps it was, but Marie was not delving too deep into the complications of the matter), and this perhaps wasn’t the best way to tell him, but it was too late. It was out there now. And Berlioz just kept on talking, words spilling out of his mouth, more than Marie thought she’d ever heard him say in one go before.

Her father’s shout made her flinch, ever so slightly. Took the shine off of Berlioz’s outburst.

And Marie did so consider sitting there quietly, minding her own business, admitting nothing — she did so hate to upset her father. But the fact of the matter was that she had known. And she hadn’t said anything, because it had not been her place to do so. For once, Marie had minded her own business.

“I knew too,” she admitted quietly, when she felt her father’s gaze trip over her brothers and land squarely on her. “But — not for long.” She echoed Lou’s words, her eyes flitting over to him, and away again. “It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

BERLIOZ:

Berlioz was waiting for his terror to find him.

Usually his terror was the first thing, slinking in like a kind of helpful bogeyman-- reminding Berlioz to hide, whether it meant sinking under the table (like he used to do as a kid) or simply locking up tight. With the anger sharp and cold in his father’s bright eyes, he figured any second now, the terror would pound like a headache. He’d realize what he’d just done. He’d done exactly what he hadn’t wanted to do: make a scene, ruin Christmas, cause a fight.

But his terror didn’t come. He glanced from Lou, who was calm and stubborn, and Marie, who was small and awkward. That was strange for her-- he felt bad about it, actually, but still his terror didn’t rush in.

He hardly even heard Simba. He wasn’t worried about Simba, anyway. Maybe he should be. Maybe he should be at least a little worried about what the fuck he had just done.

“How long?” Pere demanded.

“A couple of months.” Ber said.

“Months?!”

“I dunno,” he said. “I think.”

“You should have told me. You should have told me first--merde.” The chair scraped against the floor as Pere pushed it back, up onto his feet at once. His entire face twisted, the lines on his forehead carved deep. And for the first time now-- now Ber tensed. His hand flew out and grabbed at the table, like he could stop Pere from ripping off the tablecloth.

Instead, Pere grabbed the back of the chair and knocked it to the ground with another curse. Berlioz flinched. Slowly, the white noise began to fill his ears, like Pere was twisting the volume on a television, louder and louder.

TOULOUSE:

Toulouse’s gaze snapped to Marie as she spoke and he felt something uncomfortable twist in his stomach. His wolf was twitching its nose and flicking its tail inside of Lou’s chest. These days, Lou found the wolf comforting most of the time. It was a gentle thing, unless it had a reason not to be and he trusted those reasons, listened to the wolf. He found it easier to listen to it than to not. There was a respect that he had for it and its instincts. Except in moments where human emotion was too trite and complicated for the wolf to comprehend.

The wolf saw his father’s twisted face and thought only: danger. It made Lou’s heart rate tick up slightly and he wanted to get up himself, to cross over toward Marie and stand in front of her. The wolf wanted to let out a rumble of a growl.

Objectively, Lou knew that his father would not hurt anyone. That he was all hot air. The Bonfamille temper had a bark that was far worse than its bite.

All the wolf saw was the bite.

Hector’s chair scraped against the floor and Lou’s followed. He stood, the wolf looking through his eyes at the man on the other side of the table, calculating. Too far for the human to reach, but an easy leap for the wolf.

Across from Lou, Simba had also risen as Hector did and now the three of them stood, the perfect points of a triangle.

Someone’s silverware clattered to the floor but otherwise the air was tense and suspended. Perhaps they could all fold these emotions and memories back. They were all adults now. Hector was on the same plane as Toulouse, as Berlioz, as men. The Bonfamille children were no longer that. With just one breath they could all sit back in their chairs and resume their dessert.

The sound of the chair slamming on the floor shattered the illusion of containment. It cracked through the dining room and echoed against the high ceilings. Despite himself, Lou flinched, feeling himself shrink slightly. It had been so long since Lou had had to confront his father’s twisted anger. He had forgotten that to face it, one had to be as still and strong as a wavebreaker against the ocean.

Simba, however, did not shrink back. Instead, he seemed to get bigger as he took a step, almost behind Berlioz’s chair now. The movement caught Lou’s eye and he turned his head slightly to stare at this new element to the equation, uncertain of what it meant.

“Hector,” Simba said again. He didn’t raise his voice, but the word was as firm as stone. “Sit down.”

“Simba,” Lou breathed out, but cleared his throat slightly when his brother’s husband turned to look at him. “This isn’t your concern.”

“It bloody well is, Lou,” Simba told him harshly. “This is my house. Now, everyone just--sit down.”

MARIE:

Everyone was up on their feet, the whole room seemingly poised for some kind of fight, and Marie herself hit with two very distinct, and very different urges. The first was to get to her own feet, to try and make herself heard above the bickering from Lou and Simba and her fathers shouting; she could go up to her papa now and remind him that it was Christmas, to ask politely that he not ruin this day for her. The second was to sit quietly, like a lady would do, and step in only when the time was right; not to make a spectacle of herself, or lower herself to their level, but to take the higher ground and keep her cool.

(A third instinct might have been to hide behind her eldest brother, as she had so often done when she was younger, just a little girl, and family functions had gone south. But Marie was not so little now, and she had her own head on her shoulders. Even if her papa’s shouting did frighten her, just a tad, she would not cower.)

In the end, she favoured the second option, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as her brothers snapped at each other. “Simba’s right,” she said, looking to Lou, begging him not to make things worse with her gaze. “Lets all just— calm down.” It wasn’t often she played peacekeeper, and the words felt a little clunky coming from her mouth. “Papa, s’il te plaît,” she addresses Hector, smiling sweetly in the way that usually got her exactly what she wanted. “Your chair,” she gestured to the spot where it had once been. “We can talk — can’t we?” She looked between her brothers, dragging them along with her.

BERLIOZ:

Simba and Lou both stood up at practically the same time. Berlioz, meanwhile, rocked forward, his elbows hitting the table as he dragged both his hands over his face and then through his messy curls, simply messing them up further. He knew where this was gonna go though: downhill. The chair was the first crack in the dam, and now the pressure would grow until it was too much. And then it would all fall down.

Berlioz didn’t think he’d expected anything different. Maybe that was why he just blurted it out in the end. He could blame his delivery when Pere sneered at Berlioz and abandoned him here at the table. It would not hurt so much as waiting until that perfect moment-- to sit down with Pere and explain it all in-depth, not only how he found out but how difficult it had been to even gather enough courage to tell other people. How scared he was. When had he ever shared that kinda thing with his father anyway?

This followed the script. It was better. He’d prepared for rejection, and here rejection was.

Berlioz lifted his eyes, that white-noise feeling in his hands. He rolled his fingers into fists and put them under the table.

But Hector wasn’t looking at Berlioz at all.

“Calm down?!” he spat and then switched into French effortlessly, probably in an attempt to leave Simba behind. “I learn all three of my children are keeping secrets behind my back and you expect me to be calm?”

“It’s not their fault,” Berlioz said in French, quietly.

“Of course not! It’s Adelaide’s!” Hector snarled. And finally he looked at Berlioz and he jabbed a finger toward him again--

Berlioz flinched, pushing back into his chair so it slid on the tile.

“And don’t you worry! I will make her pay for this. She will pay for every single year she hid this, forced us all to live this lie.” He barked a laugh out of nowhere; a manic thing. His hand scraped through his receding pepper hair. “Oh, the news will love to hear this! It will be a celebration in the Libération offices! I will make it so she will not step foot in any of her precious theatres, her galas. She will not have a friend left in all of France when we are through.”

Berlioz’s jaw dropped a little, a different horror dawning slowly, but dawning nonetheless. He’d miscalculated. He’d actually been-- too self-absorbed. To think that his father would think this news was about Ber at all.

“Pere, I….I...please, I--I don’t want anyone to know--”

“Oh, they will know! They have to know, after all this time.”

TOULOUSE:

Toulouse had done what he did best when his father went off like this--he turned to stone. He felt the gates around his heart close up tight, his whole chest restricted, shutting down everything but essential functioning. It made it easier to bear the brunt. And Toulouse was used to bearing the brunt. He did it on purpose. He bore it so his siblings didn’t have to.

Only this time, his tactic did not work, because there was nothing that Lou could say to protect his little brother from their father’s ire. It was not Lou that was the bastard, though he wished--if only to take the burden from Ber. He could shoulder it better, he believed. And even if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter, if he could keep the pain of it from Ber. If he could keep their father’s twisted betrayal and revenge from Ber…

But his jaw was locked shut. He was terrified to speak. Would he make it worse for his brother if he did? Was it worse not to say anything at all?

He watched as Simba batted Hector’s hand away from Ber, like a cat. Not that Hector noticed, he was already moving it to his hair, laughing. And in that moment, Lou saw a reflection of himself that made him queasy enough to reach out and grab the back of his chair.

It was Simba’s voice--Simba, the one factor here that hadn’t been accounted for, that couldn’t be accounted for. He was an enigma to the Bonfamille argument formula. Just enough so that it cracked part of Lou’s hard outer shell.

“Who--who will know, what?” Simba asked and when Lou looked at him, he found his brother-in-law’s gaze on him.

“My father intends to tell the tabloids about Berlioz’s lineage,” Lou informed him bluntly and concisely. He felt his father’s gaze flick towards him.

“What? Hector,” Simba said sharply. “That’s entirely uncalled for. Think about your son. And what that will do to him.”

MARIE:

Marie’s eyes widened, staring at her father like he’d grown a second head. Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise that he would threaten to tell the press back home. As ridiculous as it might seem to anyone else, to any other family, the Bonfamilles were well aware of what the press could do to you, how they could affect your everyday life.

Marie saw it going like this: Hector would tell whichever tabloid he decided to give the best exclusive to, and with their father’s and their mother’s reputations combined, it would sell. Soon the whole of France, or at least, those who concerned themselves with this sort of gossip, would know the truth. Adelaide would flee, Marie thought. She wouldn’t turn to face the music. Wasn’t it a Bonfamille prerogative to take flight? She would not come back to Swynlake, either, she would go somewhere else, and her children would be left without her for even longer.

And then there was Berlioz. Poor, sweet Berlioz, who would never be able to hold the weight of all those eyes on him, holding their magnifying glasses over his head. Marie had done it before, Lou too, but…

“Papa, please,” Marie interjected, only now feeling the urge to get to her feet, to run to her father’s side and take his hand like she always did. She could convince him, she thought, she was his little girl— but she had a feeling this would not help her now. “Simba’s right, it isn’t fair to Berlioz. Can’t you just… just talk to Maman?”

BERLIOZ:

“Like she talked to me?!” Hector snapped, drawing his hand from his daughter’s. “No. This is not a lie she can hide from, not anymore. I am-- I’m sorry, Berlioz, I am.” And his father’s voice had evened out, though it was still firm, the voice he used to discipline. “But this is not just about you. This is about doing the right thing, and I will not live under her pretenses.”

Meanwhile, the static feedback grew louder, filling in any crack inside of Berlioz that he’d normally use to hide. But static noise was its own kind of blanket, its own kind of shield. He should fight against it. He had his exercises lined up in his brain, the sort of thing he’d been working on for years now and gettin’ rather good at it too. Breathing, counting, reframing. But right now there was only one thing that Berlioz wanted to do--

Sink. Disappear. And yes, flee. In this moment, Berlioz understood his mother better than he ever had before. She would run from this news, and so would Berlioz. Where, he wondered? Would Swynlake be far enough? Should he go south, find someplace sunny, be one of those rich kids who rented a yacht and drank until the ship sank? What shore would he wash up on then? Would Simba come with him? Couldn’t ask, could he-- think of Ashlee, think of Kion…

These new people in his life used to feel like pillars, but now they were anchors, keeping him in a place he did not want to be.

His brain settled there: I do not want to be here.

Berlioz stood up. “Yeah, okay.” He licked his lips. Shifted from foot to foot, like a rocking boat about to turn over. He felt Simba next to him but couldn’t hear him. Instead, there were just--everyone’s eyes.

“Okay, you do that then.”

And he left the table, moving swiftly toward the porch as quickly as he could.

“Berlioz!” called his pere, but Berlioz’s hand was already on the door. The sound of it twisting was like a gunshot, aimed behind him. He shut the door hard.

#para #simber #berlou #berrie #the bitchy bonfamilles

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noksi33 · 4 years

Photo

Je viens de retrouver ces photos de la jambe de Florent le tourangeau. ✌️ Fait en Octobre 2018. —————— Merci à vous 2 pour les bonnes bouteilles de Coteaux du Layon et Chinon ! 🍷🍷🍷😎 Au plaisir de vous revoir ! 😘 —————— Booking pour Novembre : 📩 [email protected] Objet : Point Ornament —————— #noksi #noksitattoo #pointornament #pointornement #dotornament #dotornaments #ornamentaltattoo #talismantattoo #talisman #bordeauxtattoo #bordeauxmaville (à Bordeaux, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDJGLJuhVeV/?igshid=25fkz63xwe75

#noksi #noksitattoo #pointornament #pointornement #dotornament #dotornaments #ornamentaltattoo #talismantattoo #talisman #bordeauxtattoo #bordeauxmaville

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albarouss · 3 years

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Des vins de l’Anjou

Ce n'est un secret pour personne que le Chenin Blanc Val de Loire passe un moment. Mais alors que les appellations historiquement importantes dédiées au raisin, comme Vouvray, ont constamment produit des interprétations classiques pendant des siècles, une grande partie du battage médiatique de nos jours se situe plein ouest dans une bande de terrain de la Loire moyenne connue sous le nom d'Anjou-Saumur. Pour la majeure partie de l'histoire récente, ce domaine avait une double réputation. D'une part, il s'est avéré des quantités considérables de blancs et de rouges inintéressants étiquetés comme Anjou de base ou Anjou-Villages avec quelques rosés demi-secs. De l'autre, elle abritait les appellations des vins doux de la Loire - des styles de desserts comme les Bonnezeaux et les Coteaux du Layon. Une exception notable? Le petit hameau de Savennières connu pour ses styles profondément minéraux de Chenin sec. De nos jours, Anjou-Saumur est un véritable foyer pour la production de vin naturel, que ce soit parce que les vignobles étaient plus abordables pour les jeunes vignerons qui débutaient ou parce que la communauté a créé un solide réseau de mentors et de mentorés. C'est également là que se déroule chaque année la foire bruyante et souterraine des vins naturels appelée La Dive Bouteille. Et il ne s'agit pas seulement de Chenin Blanc. Ces agriculteurs-vignerons ont défendu les raisins rouges locaux méconnus de la région, comme Grolleau, et ont amélioré leur jeu en ce qui concerne le Cabernet Franc, produisant des versions qui peuvent rivaliser avec Chinon (la référence rouge au blanc de Vouvray) Beaucoup de ces vins sont déclassifiés en Vin de France, évitant le système d'appellation formel, il n'est donc pas toujours facile de dire sur la base de l'étiquette d'où ils viennent. Mais si le terroir où poussent les raisins affecte sans aucun doute l'odeur et le goût des vins, il ne faudrait pas trop penser à ce qu'il y a dans le verre. Ici, 7 blancs et rouges frais et délicieux d'Anjou-Saumur: NV Agnès & René Mosse 'Moussamoussettes' Vin de France (32 $) Les succulents Chenin Blancs des anciens propriétaires de chais Agnès et René Mosse, devenus vignerons, ont été parmi les premiers à attirer l'attention des connaisseurs de vins naturels, mais leur pét-nat jubilatoire et coucher de soleil est l'exemple parfait de la Loire décontractée. . Fabriqué à partir de Grolleau Gris et de Gamay, il a un goût de pêches et de poires mûres, avec un zing à base de plantes qui le rend parfait pour l'heure de l'apéritif ou en sirotant au bord de la piscine. 2014 Benoit Courault 'Guilbourg' Vin de France (34 $) Benoit Courault a passé ses années de formation à travailler avec le célèbre vigneron Eric Pfifferling du Domaine L'Anglore à Tavel avant de retourner dans sa Loire natale pour démarrer son propre domaine. Son exploitation rustique et biologique comprend le travail du vignoble à cheval, un minimum de sulfites, sans collage ni filtration. Cette mise en bouteille à 100% de Chenin Blanc provient d'une parcelle de sol schiste près de la maison de Courault et est aussi riche en fruits que minérale. 2015 Mark Angeli 'La Lune' Vin de France (37 $) Ce corpulent Chenin Blanc est issu de vignes cultivées en biodynamie dans la zone des vins doux de Bonnezeaux. Il est déclassifié en Vin de France parce qu'Angeli le fermente à sec (et parce qu'il n'aime pas les réglementations rigides du système d'appellation de la France), bien qu'il conserve les qualités de fruits en couches, miellées et exotiques et le parfum de fleurs sauvages des vins vendangés tardivement de la région. 2014 Eric Morgat 'Fidès' Savennières (52 $) Eric Morgat a débuté à 25 ans en achetant et en restaurant des parcelles abandonnées dans l'appellation Savennières. Maintenant, il cultive ses 14 acres de vignes de Chenin Blanc en biodynamie et associe ses meilleurs terroirs à cette mise en bouteille intensément minérale et savoureuse. 2013 Domaine des Sablonnettes «Les Copains d'Abord» Vin de France (18 $) Grâce au travail de vignerons artisanaux comme Christine et Joël Menard du Domaine des Sablonnettes, l'ancien cépage Grolleau local (pourtant très décrié) regagne du terrain dans le Val de Loire. Cette interprétation subit une courte macération et est mise en bouteille sans collage ni filtration, mettant en évidence son acidité naturellement vive, cours œnologie Valence sa texture légère et vive et ses fruits rouges parfumés aux herbes. 2015 Olivier Cousin 'Pur Breton' Vin de France (23 $) Olivier Cousin a été l'un des premiers à adopter la vinification sans additifs dans la Loire. Certains le connaissent peut-être comme le fermier biodynamique barbu qui travaille ses vignes à cheval. D'autres se souviennent de sa détermination alors qu'il combattait le système d'appellation français au sujet des lois d'étiquetage il y a quelques années. La plupart se contenterait de goûter à ses rouges vibrants et énergiques, y compris ce Cabernet Franc sauvage et poivré. 2015 Château de Brézé 'Clos Mazurique' Saumur (18 $) Le terroir de choix du Château de Brézé sur calcaire tuffeau a fait la renommée de ses vins dans toute l'Europe dès le XVIIe siècle. Aujourd'hui, sous la direction organique d'Arnaud Lambert, le domaine connaît une renaissance. Recherchez l'un de ses Chenin Blancs minéral, mais ce rouge à base de Cabernet Franc, plein de fruits mûrs et de notes de silex, est un étonnant.

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shiftdrinkspdx · 5 years

Video

Pétillant Coteaux du Layon Hits All Day Happy Hour This is experimental, attempting to recreate an accident from 2003 when a case of Vouvray Moelleux arrived with unintended bubbles in each bottle. It was surprisingly delicious. While our version might not be everyone’s cup of tea [lightly effervescent, sweet Chenin] or might even be considered sacrilegious [not exactly AOC-approved], it is unique and only seven bucks. Drink it with a cheese snack and call it a day.⁣ ⁣

#Shift Drinks Happy Hour For Everyone

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adelinedevil · 5 years

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( @destrvctions )

[ ADELINE DE VIL → CAIN BEAUFORT | SENT ] fine, you weren’t that boring or ordinary. [ ADELINE DE VIL → CAIN BEAUFORT | SENT ] you should thank this coteaux-du-layon for this honesty. it might be the best coteaux-du-layon i’ve ever tasted, and i’m more than glad i still have bottles of it left in my cellar. i might have drank this one all by myself. [ ADELINE DE VIL → CAIN BEAUFORT | SENT ] which is what i deserve, considering the fact that i’m the one who bought the bottles, but still.

#( texting. )#( starter. )#( conversations. )#( ft cain jonah beaufort. )

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winenoodle · 3 years

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Château Soucherie, Coteaux du Layon Chaume 1996

Rosenthal Wine Merchant, New York NY. Twenty five years on. Green-gold. A whiff of vellum on the nose, and striking for its combination of mineral and nobly sweet characteristics. Caramelized grass, greengage, quince, a lick of hive buzz and a candle-wick smokiness. Something savory percolates as a subtext, its notoriously high acidity now quelled by high sugar and time in bottle. Long and…

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claire76-blog1 · 6 years

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Premier jour au bureau

Journee du 5 Mars 2018

Aujourd’hui c’est la rentree au bureau. Je suis tres contente et un peu stresse a la fois.

Mon nouveau lieu de travail. Je suis au deuxieme etage. C’est des grands open space a tous les atages.

L’agence de recrutement m’a offert des petits cadeaux pour mon premier jour.

Je rentre bien fatiguee de ce premier jour mais on celebre avec un petit Coteaux du Layon.

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askwhatsforlunch · 4 years

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Sweet Wine and Thyme Roast Chicken

My sister doesn’t drink much wine. She likes a Mojito or a good Whisky cocktail, she only drinks Champagne in a Soupe Champenoise (oh, I should post a recipe for this one of these days!) or a Kir Royal; but she’s not too keen on red or white. Or this is what our parents thought, because the other day I asked her: “And what about sweet wine? You don’t like sweet wine either?” She has a sweet tooth, my sister has! It turned out, in her twenty-seven years of life she did not recall drinking sweet wine! It’s true Mum and Dad are keener on red, and I prefer dry white and rosé, but we do enjoy our sweet white wine, too! There were six bottles of Côteaux du Layon in the basement, so I thought this would make a good start for Jules to try; and I used some of it to roast this beautifully juicy Sweet Wine and Thyme Roast Chicken! And guess what, Jules is keen on sweet wine alright! Happy Sunday!

Ingredients (serves 4):

4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

2 large garlic cloves

6 sprigs fresh thyme

salt and freshly cracked black pepper

4 medium potatoes

4 carrots

a pinch coarse sea salt

1 1/4 cup sweet white wine, such as Côteaux du Layon or Sauternes

Preheat oven to 225°C/435°F.

Place a large baking dish on the stovetop, over a medium flame. Add two tablespoons of the softened butter, and let it melt. Peel garlic cloves, and flatten them with the back of a wooden spoon. Once the butter is melted, add garlic cloves and four of the thyme sprigs to the baking dish, and cook, stirring often, a couple of minutes. Remove from the heat.

Season the inside of the chicken with salt and black pepper; place one of the garlic cloves and remaining thyme sprigs inside it, as well. Then, sit chicken in the middle of the baking dish. Rub remaining butter generously all over the bird. Sprinkle with salt and cracked black pepper.

Peel potatoes and carrots. Halve potatoes, and cut carrots into thick chunks. Scatter potatoes and carrots all round the chicken, and sprinkle the vegetables with coarse sea salt. Finally, pour sweet white wine all over the chicken and vegetables. Place baking dish in the middle of the hot oven, and roast, at 225°C/435°F, one hour, until the chicken’s skin is a deep brown colour and crispy, and the potatoes and carrots, beautifully roasted.

Serve Sweet Wine and Thyme Roast Chicken, with chilled Côteaux du Layon.

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vinhosemsegredo · 4 years

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Botrytis Cinerea

Os vinhos botrytisados sempre foram os preferidos entre os vinhos doces pela peculiar transformação que passam os cachos de uvas durante o período da ocorrência do fenômeno. Fenômeno este que ocorre em algumas poucas regiões do planeta associado às condições climáticas bem específicas. Deve haver uma alternância de insolação e névoa com a natural umidade da região, geralmente na presença de rios…

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