By Richard Harvey
Authenticity is a slippery eel. How to spot it when you think it shows up? Sadly, in 2020, with terms like “fake news” and “alternative facts” currently in vogue, we must remember that the thing called “news” was once professionally researched and facts were, well… facts. Now, the world is seemingly a vast Sargasso Sea of eels…
Thankfully, authenticity still exists, and I have certainly met (and know) people who are thoroughly themselves — for better or worse. There are people the world over, artists or agriculturalists (or any endeavour of expression for that matter) who are and who create things that are an unbridled expression of a zero bullshit approach to life. A very beautiful example of authenticity I encountered prior to my wine career was not a wine producer (there are many profoundly authentic growers out there who I now have the privilege to know), but a wine shop owner. Moments spent in his alchemist’s shop of wonders have informed my entire career.
Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Besse was a Parisian wine merchant (or caviste, if you like) whose small shop on the Rue de la Montagne Ste. Geneviève in Paris I first stumbled into in 1978. I was struggling to see how far I could stretch the meager funds that I had slaved to accumulate for what I hoped would be a lengthy sojourn in France. However, having really just discovered the joys of French wine in situ, time was not on my side…
In his eponymous shop, M. Besse and his unseen twin, Chaos, ran the show, and these two demigods were unfettered by any thought of order or predictability. On the main floor, a dusty and fabulously expensive 1911 Château Lafite Rothschild (1911! Reggie! The year of the bloody comet that was, don’t you know, old chum?!?) could be found cuddling up with a bottle of Corbières selling for a sum only slightly north of zero. I’m sure that even at 1970s pricing, the Château Lafite would have (just like the comet) been far from the reach of my empty, hitchhiking, slum hotel-dwelling pockets. (JBB smilingly sold me the cheap Corbières, its price approximately 75 cents).
Downstairs chez JBB was a perfect example of a real cave à vins. Seemingly carved into the very bedrock of this Parisian hillside street, the capharnaüm (a great French word equivalently colourful in English: a “shambles”) found in the basement defied any concept of apparent reason or oversight — but it held treasures of unspeakable rarity. Just don’t try to find anything yourself! Ask M. Besse, s’il vous plait.
Anyone who thought that JBB was negligent or confused would also fall for any of the simple tricks of La Fontaine’s fables of the conniving raven or fox. This diminutive man, classically-clad in his beret and bleu de travail (workman’s overalls), knew the exact location, prices and pedigree of EVERY bottle in the shop. Like some sort of a Jacques Cousteau of the cellar, JBB was a grand homme, and a smiling, welcoming, modest teacher, plying his trade dressed like a farmer or a bricklayer…
M. Besse would receive a penurious student from the nearby Sorbonne, an impoverished Canadian traveller, or an habitué of the high fashion clothiers of the Faubourg St. Honoré with equal grace and alacrity. His legendary stocks of wines of princely price and lineage were always well rounded out with delicious, captivating wines from seemingly mythical appellations such as Jasnières and Jurançon, priced at a point of accessibility. The obscurity of these regions assured their reasonable price, and the truly authentic farmers behind the wines delivered the magic of these under appreciated jewels.
And these wines were magic! They sang the soul of French wine with a much more real, throbbing heart than many of the elitist standard-bearers of the “grands appellations” and JBB recognized this excited curiosity in his customers. Fortunately for people like me, he saw that the future lay in encouraging new wine lovers by inclusion (if they were willing to be adventurous), rather than by simply kissing the asses of those who disdained anything below the status of Grand Cru Classé Bordeaux, and to Hell with the penurious person with only a thirsty passion.
With the unconsciously stored-away inspiration of JBB (I was not yet aware in 1978 that I would devote my life to wine), and with the birth of Metrovino, it meant we could start our quixotic quest to introduce Calgary to the delicious, the pure, the odd and wonderful wines from some of the most authentic winemaking families in France.
In 1996, JBB departed this world, hopefully conveyed to some well-stocked and irrigated Paradise. I enjoy the fact that Metrovino was born in that same year, and I also like to think that a little of the ghost of M. Besse came to reside within our humble walls. Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Besse held his well-stocked fortress for roughly 50 years, so Metrovino has some way to go yet!
Jean-Baptiste Besse. Caviste. Bloody rock star…
