The gay and provocative word “champagne” stirs up a variety of impressions, all of which probably distill down in essence to the picture of a dazzling blonde in a tub of bubbles or a mustached gentleman in Maxim's drinking from Gaby Deslys' slipper. To the gourmet, however, the word has a triple connotation. Le champagne is the incomparable sparkling liquid perfected by Dom Pérignon, which, for centuries, has been the world's accepted wine for ceremonies, weddings, and assorted festivities. La fine champagne is something very different —the aristocrat of brandies, originating in the Charente in southern France. It has nothing whatever to do with the wine of the same name, or with the province, which is becomingly feminine: La Champagne.
It is this last which is the theme of today's appetizing travelogue. La Champagne is one of the larger French provinces, stretching from Belgium to Burgundy, from Lorraine to within twenty-five miles of the gates of Paris. If you are eastward bound from la ville lumière, you automatically go through the Champagne. In the north, this province is heavily wooded. Here is a large part of the Argonne, a name which is permanently inscribed in American history. In the south, it flattens into the département of the Aude, a peaceful country of wheat fields, sheep-dotted pastures, and small factories specializing in women's bonnets; then it becomes hilly in the Haute-Marne. Between these two extremes is the area which concerns us most—a wide strip of chalky land whose soil and climate contrive to produce the magic of sparkling wine.
The white chalk of the Champagne is as celebrated as the cliffs of Dover and is almost as dramatic, especially if one takes the trouble to visit the trenches of World War I near Reims. The wide, meandering gashes still cut through the white chalk of the three famed Monts de Champagne—Cornillet, Téton, and Blanc. The trenches art tumbled in, weed-grown, and stained with time, but there are still tumultuous acres of them, eloquent of the bitter four-year struggle which ended here in the summer of 1918. The Monts de Champagne, churned by years of shellfire, presented a hopeless reclamation project, and the French have left them just as they were.
South of this scene of desolation rises the Montague de Reims, a darkly wooded promontory whose lower slopes are luxuriantly carpeted with vineyards. These fruitful hillsides were within easy gun range during those four years, but the mere threat of German cannon was not enough to deter the winegrowers. They tended their vines as usual, with the front-line trenches stretching out beneath them and clearly visible. When September came, there were always willing French soldiers to help pick the grapes.
Beyond these bounteous heights is the Valley of the Marne, an immortal strip of territory which could serve as a symbol of French heroism in 1914 and again in 1918. The grim days seem far away now, for it is a peaceful valley of rebuilt villages and prolific vineyards. But Belleau Wood and many another shrine of unforgotten men still serve as reminders of the valiant destiny of the Marne.
Stretching southward from this river near Epernay is another valley, called the Côte des Blancs, where many of the noblest white grapes are grown. These three grape-laden areas, the Montagne de Reims, the Valley of the Marne, and the Côte des Blancs, produce about 90 per cent of the grapes used by the vast champagne industry. They are unforgettable places to visit, whether you are an oenophilist, a plump ex-doughboy, or a mere enthusiast for French landscape—and cooking.
One senses a group cordiality in the Champagne country which is very heartening. Everyone in the champagne world seems to be in a hospitable mood, from the humblest vigneron to the titled owners of the immense wine cellars dug deep in the chalky earth. They welcome you to their vineyards, their caves,—and their more-than-adequate hostelries, and publicize the fact. Such a cordial spirit has found an enthusiastic acceptance, to judge by the throngs of foreign automobiles, particularly from Holland and Belgium, which rolled over the Champagne countryside during the past summer.
The matter of visiting the wine cellars (there are supposed to be a hundred and twenty miles of them cut in the subterranean chalk) has been greatly facilitated. A visit to the Syndicat d'Initiative in either Reims or Epernay acts as an open-sesame to the cool splendors of many champagne caves—temperatures a perfect, constant fifty degrees. If you wish to test your stamina, Moët and Chandon have sixteen miles of cellars in Epernay, while Pommery and Greno can slow you through eleven underground miles in Reims. Here indeed is a cooling and refreshing pause which no billboard can offer—with some golden bubbles at the end of the trail. In view of the open-armed French hospitality, a visit to the champagne cellars is probably the foremost attraction of the region, after the incomparable Cathédrale de Reims.
Yet there are few places more heartening to the wine enthusiast than the Valley of the Murne on a bright midsummer afternoon. The little river is insignificant, but its sloping banks are packed deep with superbly tended vineyards. These same chalky hills have been producing their treasure since the dim days of history, at least as early as the year 280, when the Emperor Probus ordered vines planted in the valley. François I, who had a nose for good wine, and Henry VIII of England had their personal vineyards on the slopes above Ay. Dom Pérignon, the inventive cellar master of the Abbaye d'Hautvillers, was a comparative late-comer to the scene. He did not invent champagne, but he did something just as important—he found the secret of retaining its sparkle in the bottle. You can visit the abbey where the good monk made his discovery, a pious pilgrimage for a gourmet. It is on a country road just north of Epernay.
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