All in Food & Wine
The Rhône river, like our Mississippi, divides the southern coast of France about equally into east and west. East leads to Provence and then the Riviera and eventually Italy; west, to Languedoc and then Roussillon and eventually Spain. Because more people have heard of Marseille, Saint-Tropez, and Monaco than have heard of Sète, Agde, and Collioure, the eastern half of the coast is blessed, and to an equal degree beset, by visitors and their money.
Marc Lanza looked at his watch. “I hope they haven’t forgotten me,” he said, although it was not yet ten minutes to noon.
The dining room table next to us was set with an unfussy, candlelit care. In a shallow marble basin, like a sort of altar, a decanter of brick-red wine sat next to the bottle from which it had been poured.
Marc wore his hair, black like marinated olives, pulled back into a tiny bun. A man steeped from the cradle in the traditional cooking of Provence. Standing straight, I could tuck his massive head under my chin, but he had a burly topheaviness that suggested a wrestling match would likely go his way.
An American couple living in a remote fold of southern France longed to become part of the local community. Then they got a thrilling invitation to a winemaker’s blending session.