Cognac

All of the cognac négocianss are confronted by misconceptions which they would like to dispel. No matter how often they state the fact, they can't get people to remember that cognac cannot mature in the bottle. It is not a living organism like wine, which does change in glass. Brandy takes on the gentle virtues of old age only in the oaken cask.The age of a brandy, therefore, is its age when it went into the bottle. Dusty, cobwebby, encrusted old bottles are no conclusive sign of antiquity, A seventy-year-old brandy in a bright new bottle is correct and consistent from a négotiant's point of view, but his overseas customers yearn for further signs of old age. The new type of cork, which comes out without a corkscrew, is taboo for old brandies, because the overseas buyer insists upon the ritual of pulling the cork and sniffling it critically.

The age and quality of brandies has long been indicated on the bottle by a series of stars and cryptic initials. Three stars is the classic symbol of a reliable brandy the world over. Older brandies reflect the early English influence. Following the three stars comes V.O. (Very Old), V.S.O.P. (Very Superior Old Pale), and sometimes V.V. SOP (Very Very Superior Old Pale). But where most phases of brandy have been standardized, these markings have not. Each négotiantcan go his own merry way.

The shapes of the various brandy bottles are no more standardized than the age classifications. The slender, high* hipped bottle used for the three-star classification is a fixture, but beyond this the glass containers reflect many facets of French individualism. Some are stubby flagons, others arc as slender as an Alsatian wine bottle. Some have graceful sloping shoulders and others arc distinctly fantusie, modeled after a Viking ship, for example.

There couldn't be a more agreeable moment for travelers in the Charente than this animated month of October. But very few outsiders will be on hand to watch the harvest and the hum of activity which follows it. The Charente, alas, is one of the least known and least visited parts of France, which might be all right for the garden variety of tripper, but which is a crying shame as far as the erudite readers of this magazine are concerned. To them, a visit to hospitable Cognac will prove a memorable experience. Thar word “hospitable” is used advisedly, because on every side we saw evidence of it. Over and over again the négotiants assured us that they wanted visitors to see their plants, their cbaix, and their country distilleries.

Cognac itself is a pleasant provincial town. There arc a few picturesque old houses and some nice little hillside streets. But the main attractions are the large cognac plants and their cbaix. You can just about choose your own favorite brand and find some charming gentleman to show you about the place. There is no linguistic barrier, either, for the gentry of Cognac all speak English. and usually impeccably. The one thing to remember is not to pull out a eigarette during the visit. There has never been a major lire in a Cognac warehouse, but there could be, and the potential fireworks arc staggering. The visitor will see barrels of brandy, fresh from the distillers, being poured into vats, then blended and transferred to other barrels, which are destined for long years of slumber in near-by. fungus-smudged sheds. There follows a labyrinth of enormous vats, where blends are aging, waiting to be filtered before arriving at the last vat in the line. Here it waits, until orders come in for it to be bottled. The bottling is the only highly active procedure in these silent establishments. An elaborate switchboard of silver-lined copper pipes has been contrived to bring the blends down to the bottling machines. The bottling, labeling, and finally the boxing of brandy is the last step before it is loaded on trucks on route to the four corners of the world. The names burned on these wooden cases are exciting lessons in geography—Hong Kong, London, Tokyo, Tananarive, Quebec, Caracas, Stockholm, Aden, Sydney. Wherever men are civilized or lonely, that is where cognac goes. It is an elixir treasured by eminent men also. Before the last British elections a prominent firm in Cognac received instructions from its London agents, requesting that twenty-four bottles of its finest cognac be set aside in special decanters and held for further instructions. After the elections, a second telegram was received—“Please ship the 24 bottles to Winston Churchill. 10 Downing Street. London.” The British Prime Minister could wish for no better gift to celebrate his victory.

The great names of cognac aren't assertive in their own city, for some strange reason. More than one visitor has arrived expectantly, wandered around a bit, and then asked in perplexity, “But where are the brandy houses?” They may be emblazoned in neon splendor in Piccadilly Circus and the place de I'Opéra but they are very coy in Cognac, and almost invisible. This extraordinary reticence is a form of good manners, one supposes, and the visitor is advised to consult the nearest policeman, café keeper, or best of all, the Bureau National du Cognac, on a little side street just south of the place François Prenier, if he wishes to find a famous brandy house. This anonymity is difficult to explain, but it is not to hide from visitors. Everywhere we went we received the same assurance—the latchstring is out to interested pilgrims to the shrine of Cognac brandy.