Cognac
January, 1981
Cognac is said to be the most familiar French word. It is also one of the least understood. Popular notions of what cognac might be range from a cunning Gallic aphrodisiac to a chic synonym for brandy. Since it's distilled from wine, cognac is brandy, but of a vastly different pedigree--and vive la différence. All the brandy that may legally be labeled cognac comes from a tiny sector of France roughly one fourth the size (continued on page 228) Cognac (continued from page 149) of Rhode Island called the Charente and Charente-Maritime départements. Cognac sits squarely in the center and lends its name to the celebrated brandy of the region. There's no mistaking this place--you'd know you were there even blindfolded. The subtle, seductive arôme du cognac enfolds it like a benevolent aura, and aroma is what cognac'sall about. One's first awareness of cognac, any cognac, is of the heady bouquet. You don't drink the stuff so much as breathe it. In fact, passionate cognacophiles can tease a prime sample for a half hour or more--swirling and sniffing, patiently probing for shy nuances, cajoling the regal spirit into surrendering its innermost depths of perfume before, finally, imbibing the lambent elixir.
No other spirit presents the intense, complex, suffusing bouquet and staying power that cognac offers. But why, of all places, should this unprepossessing spot on the globe be midwife to such a superlative product? The cognaçais, with becoming modesty, give the credit to le Bon Dieu for providing all the natural elements required for cognac. If so, God truly moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. The chalky soil, loaded with lime and pebbles, is about as fertile as the sandbox in a kids' playground. It wouldn't grow a decent radish. The vines are scraggly, yielding dismal, acidic, low-alcohol wines--scarcely fit to drink. Yet, by some strange alchemy, this surly brew is transformed into the singular nectar known to the world as cognac.
The unique distillation is a factor. Everything is geared to heightening the organoleptic impact of the final product. French law dictates that distillation must be completed by March 31, while the wine is in its bloom of youth--fruity and unoxidized. The wine is neither filtered nor racked but distilled on its lees, so that none of the minute, flavor-giving particles are lost. Most pertinent is the stubborn adherence to the alembic still, an inefficient medieval instrument with but one saving grace--it retains more of the essential flavor components than sleek, modern column stills. Though exacting, the procedure is quite simple. Wine is heated in an onion-shaped pot until it vaporizes. The steamy vapors are run through a coiled copper pipe, or serpentine, then condensed back to liquid form by the application of cold water. At this point, it is rank and murky, with only a 28 percent alcohol content--56 proof. If you're curious about what the original brandy of Charente was like, it was this brouillis, or first distillation. It wasn't until late in the 16th Century that cognac approached its present form, when a compulsive producer, intent on capturing l'âme du vin--the soul of wine--introduced the idea of a second distillation. La bonne chauffe merely repeats the process, running the spirit through the alembic again, but this time it comes off clear, with 70 percent alcohol, compared with 28 percent for the brouillis.
So a primitive double distillation is one of the fundamentals of cognac. Another is antiquity, and that's where the great merchant houses enter the picture. Only they can afford the lengthy aging in casks, the venerable blending stocks and the three to five percent evaporation loss every year. This emission, called the "angels' share," equals the total annual cognac consumption in the United States, a staggering swig--but unavoidable. Cognac ages only in wood, not in glass, no matter how long it stays in the bottle. Only Limousin or Troncais oak is permitted, ideally cut from 100-year-old trees, and it's a question as to which contributes more--the wood or the wine. Casks are juggled and the brandy transferred periodically to get the optimum level of extract into each batch. A young distillate usually spends some time in new cooperage, but within a year, it is transferred to old barrels. Lesser grades are given more time in new oak and the better cuvées moved quickly into seasoned casks. The type of cask is also related to the style desired. Firms marketing light, delicate, less tannic cognacs use virtually all seasoned barrels.
The virtuosos of cognac are the maîtres de chais, and their skills--passed from generation to generation--may be the most important ingredient in a bottle. The major shippers maintain huge inventories from different zones, vineyards and years, including vintages that predate the United States of America. These rarities are stored in glass demijohns, not oak, to prevent further evaporation and excessive woodiness. It is the master's job to fashion this kaleidoscope of flavors and aromas into a harmonious blend. If a TV camera were smuggled into a master blender's quarters, it would show an urbane gentleman in a business suit, seated behind a desk, not unlike a high-powered corporate attorney. Instead of legal tomes, his walls are lined with a reference library of bottles. More than likely, he'll be swirling brandy in a blue, four-ounce tulip-shaped glass barely one third full. There are sound reasons for every apparently random detail. Swirling liberates the bouquet; blue glass masks the color of the sample so it won't affect perceptions. Even the size of the glass is calculated. It's easier to warm cognac in a small glass that fits comfortably in the hand, thus releasing more vapors. Nothing is left to chance.
With total concentration on the contents, the blender thrusts his nose into the glass and inhales searchingly. His educated proboscis will pick up any off flavor, in which event the entire lot is discarded. Another quick sniff grades and positions the brandy and a few drops on the tongue confirm the olfactory judgment. Swallowing is considered bad form, except when the sample under consideration is a grand seigneur. After the brandy is expelled, the finish, or aftertaste, is noted. Is it harsh or bitter? Balanced? Does it break up quickly or linger persistently on the palate, filling the mouth with waves of intriguing flavors? After forming his opinions, the master prepares his cuvée, selecting this sample for its aroma, that one for finesse or elegance, yet another for body--like a weaver choosing strands for a tapestry. And, like an exquisite tapestry, the finished blend will be a complete, integrated work of art.
The care lavished on the contents of a bottle doesn't carry over to labels, which seem to be the handiwork of a Philadelphia lawyer. With several exceptions, the jumble of stars and cryptic initials have no official standing, being an accumulation of history, tradition and crude merchandising. The first heavenly symbol appeared sometime in the 19th Century after a bountiful harvest--during which a comet streaked across the heavens. A star was placed on the label to commemorate both events. Next year's harvest was equally good, so what the hell--add another star, Pierre. After that, it was star wars with galactic adornments aplenty and labels looking more and more like astrological charts.
The letters VSOP, or variations thereof, are a tribute to Great Britain's importance in cognac. They stand for Very Superior Old Pale. Locals of the cognac region have their own droll interpretation, insisting VSOP means Versez Sans Oublier Personne, or "pour without omitting anyone." Friendly, those Charentais.
Despite its rigid supervision of growing and production, the Bureau National Interprofessionnel du Cognac is not as strict when it comes to labeling. It's their contention that a cognac appellation on a label is the ultimate guarantee (concluded on page 263) Cognac (continued from page 228) of authenticity and quality. Nevertheless, Gérard Sturm, cognac's world-wide spokesman, offers these broad guidelines for American consumers. Three-star, VS or VSP cognacs average five to ten years in age, with the youngest brandy being no less than three and one half years old. They sell for $10 to $15 a bottle. VSOP, VSEP, VSO and VO average 12 to 20 years in age, with a minimum of five and one half years. These generally go for $18 to $22. Blends labeled Napoleon, Cordon Bleu, Triomphe, Vieille Réserve, XO, Extra, Anniversaire, et al., run an average of 25 years and more, a few exceeding 50 years, according to Sturm. These run from $30 to $65 a bottle, and the trend is up. Four recent product introductions are in the stratosphere: Delamain's Très Vénérable goes for about $60 to $100 per bottle, Hennessy's Paradis lists at $125, Courvoisier VOC in a Baccarat decanter lists for $110 and Rémy Martin's Louis XIII, also in Baccarat crystal, is $300 per bottle. There are several designations that do enjoy legal status. The phrase Grande Champagne or Grande Fine Champagne on a bottle indicates that all the grapes came from the premier growing zone, the Grande Champagne. Fine Champagne means that the grapes were grown in the two top zones, the Grande and the Petite Champagne regions, with more than half from the Grande Champagne.
Inevitably, such fanciful terminology lends itself to abuse, and many cognac symbols are appropriated by ordinary brandies to give a spurious aura of class. Three stars or ten stars on a bottle of brandy are meaningless. Grande Cognac is not from the Grande Champagne zone, and such phrases as Négociants à Cognac or Mise en bouteille à Cognac, of themselves, do not guarantee the contents to be cognac. The most flagrant offense in that regard is "Napoleon." Every five-buck brandy flaunts the Little Corporal's name prominently. But Napoleon brandy is not Courvoisier cognac, nor is St. Rémy brandy Rémy Martin cognac. Caveat emptor!
The consuming public seldom imbibes enough of any one cognac to form an impression of a house style. Yet every major firm has a distinctive flavor profile, by which it's characterized among professionals and, indeed, appraises itself. A rundown of the styles of major shippers may give you an insight into which producers are most likely to flatter your palate and satisfy your taste buds.
Rémy Martin considers itself a "natural cognac," adhering to time-honored, traditional procedures. Thus, the end product offers both flavor and complexity, without tannin or woody notes intruding. The body is silky and just a mite to the light side of medium. Rémy concentrates on its VSOP--Fine Champagne, using only grapes from the two top crus. It's an estimable bottle, smooth and fragrant, and good value for the money. As a rule of thumb, the additional cost of older blends is quite modest, compared with the extra finesse and dimensions of flavor they offer.
Courvoisier is rather full-bodied and round without harsh edges. It has good color and flavor, with an appealing oaky-vanilla bouquet, making a definite impact on the senses. Napoleon, as mentioned, is a name that has been misused in brandy circles, but the Courvoisier people inform us that Napoleon visited the Château Courvoisier and favored the pride of the house. Legends aside, Courvoisier's Napoleon is authentic cognac and an exemplary product.
Hennessy runs the gamut of grades, including a VS or 3-Star, according to a company spokesman, because one can't be "just in the old-cognac business." Hennessy will sacrifice fruit for balance. It recently reformulated its VSOP for the American market, replacing it with a lighter-style VSOP. With available reserve stocks, Hennessy is planning to sell more of the higher-priced cognacs. Its XO is a suave number.
Martell, the top-selling cognac in the world, is clean, with grapy, spicy-oaky notes prominent in the bouquet. Martell brandies lean to richness, being moderately full in bouquet and body. Its hallmark brand is the Cordon Bleu, an aristocratic, aged proprietary that merits the kudos it receives.
The big four dominate the U.S. markets, but there are more than 800 cognacs produced in the Charente. A number of the more worthy reach our shores, though some are not widely available. Château de Fontpinot, Delamain, Hine and Ragnaud are well rated by cognac fanciers. Bisquit, Monnet, Otard and Prince Hubert de Polignac have staunch admirers. And there are interesting shopping possibilities among such additional quality brands as Camus, Comandon, Denis-Mounié, Eclipse, Gaston de Lagrange, Marnier Lapostolle, a well-aged bottling affiliated with the Grand Marnier people, Mumms and Salignac.
There are also a handful of little wonders, adored by the cognacscenti, in extremely limited distribution. Expensive French restaurants occasionally pour them by the glass and that's your best opportunity to sample them. The list includes Jean Danflou Grande Champagne Extra, Madame Gaston Briand Grande Fine Champagne, Croizet Age Inconnu, by the family firm that bottles the cognac for Paul Bocuse and the Troisgros brothers and Rémy Martin's 250th Anniversary Cognac, Cuvée Anniversaire--a special bottling that's very scarce.
Cognac is undeniably the finest brandy in the world. And there are times when only a splash of cognac in a snifter will do: as the finale to a sumptuous banquet, before bed on a frigid night with a warm friend, to celebrate that big break when it finally comes or when you're indulging yourself lavishly. But cognac is versatile, lending itself to a variety of ingratiating applications, as a glance around the world demonstrates. Yugoslavs, for example, prefer it as a before-dinner aperitif. The Chinese consider cognac an aphrodisiac and quaff it with meals--cutting it with water and drinking it like wine. The British traditionally take cognac with soda or water in a highball. And in the Charente, they have a neat little trick all their own: After drinking their post-prandial coffee, they pour a jolt of cognac into the warm cup and sip it as a digestif. Soviet boss of all bosses Leonid Brezhnev drinks cognac any time he can get it, apparently. On a French air-force jet, going from Paris to Marseilles, Brezhnev asked for cognac--and was upset to learn it was a nyet on military craft. On the return trip, diplomatic considerations prevailed and a bottle of the pride of Charente was placed on board. Leonid did it justice.
Nor is cognac any stranger to the shaker. Among the classic cognac cocktails are the sidecar (equal parts cognac, Cointreau and lemon juice); the king's peg (cognac and chilled champagne); the stinger (two parts cognac to one part white crème de menthe); cognac old fashioned (cognac, a little sugar, a good dash of bitters and fresh fruit if desired); cognac sour (merely substitute cognac for the whiskey in your favorite sour recipe and dig the flavorful difference). Cognac also mates beautifully with black coffee and with liqueurs. And for a bright, allegedly therapeutic aperitif, you might try Sturm's Magic Bullet: Shake 2 ozs. fresh orange juice and 1 oz. cognac briskly with ice. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass--and sip. It will certainly charm you, even if it doesn't cure anything.
A votre santé!
"No other spirit presents the intense, complex bouquet and staying power that cognac offers."
"Every major cognac firm has a distinctive flavor profile by which its product is characterized."
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