Dictionnaire amoureux de la gastronomie - Gastronomy lovers' dictionary
Christian Millau sings the praises of Chantal Comte's Rums in his
One day, in the depths of the excellent cellars of La Tour d'argent, I came across a bottle for which, even now, if it still exists, I would be prepared to organise a hold-up with a few faithful fellow connoisseurs. A rum from the turn of the eighteenth century, such as you might find in the holds of buccaneers, sea-wolves or slave-merchants who would use it for bartering on the coasts of Africa.
I respect cognac, I am drawn towards pear brandy when it comes from Brana in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, I have a deep admiration for the great chartreuse of Tarragone, but the two passions of my life as a drinker of alcohol (or at least that small part of which remains in my memory) are Bas Armagnac and Rum. Old, of course, and, if at all possible, very old.
Personally, I have to admit that age, the fear of blowing into a bag (or a ballon in French, which ironically is also the name of a drinking glass from which one would rather empty the contents) and some medical irritations have led me to betray and abandon these things I adore. At least, not entirely as, fortunately, from the very depths of a voluptuous past, from time to time rises a flame which awakens my old instincts and causes me to dip my nose into one of these 42 or 43 degree wonders.
Just as, the other day, at Michel Guérard's, the excellent wine waiter Julien, whose silhouette brings to mind a fine Demi-John from Bas Armagnac or Martinique, completely floored me without a single blow when he poured me a finger of an old rum which I had never heard of until then, in spite of my extensive experience navigating the waves of this great sugar syrup of the Caribbean. My response burst from me instantly: Ah Ah Oh Oh to culminate in a Thank you God! which conveyed the best of my religious fervour.
The French drink almost as much rum as they do whisky and more, it seems to me, than cognac, which they send to wet the whistles of Asia, and yet, they only know the less noble forms of rum: a supermarket liquid served in time of war to troops in the trenches to give them some courage for the job in hand and to condemned men, together with a last cigarette, on their way to the scaffold. In time of peace, it serves as an ingredient for punch, for grogs to combat colds and as a sauce for the famous rum baba.
They pass by those genuine treasures, whose immense beauty can be appreciated without the need to pour out a full glass. A mere drop at the end of a good meal and we're off to the islands where the sea is as smooth as a mill pond or silky as a pureed dream as Saint-John Perse would sing.
I speak, of course, of rhum agricole, the only rum which can reach perfection. Vesou rum made from distilled fresh sugar cane juice, crushed, pounded and fermented. I don't disdain white rhums agricoles, that is the un-aged ones, direct from the still between 55 and 65 degrees, and which are often called Grappe blanche (White bunch). They are used as the base for Martinique punch, Planters, etc., but when they have been left to age in oak barrels (old bourbon barrels from the United States), for at least three years and even up to ten years during which time they lose several degrees of alcohol, take on their amber colour, their bouquet and the aromas which wrap the mouth with their velvet, then the race is on for the aficionado to find that rare and sometimes fabulous pearl.
A five year old rum is already very, very admirable under the Caribbean sun the aging process is more rapid than in France - , but when you have had the good fortune to taste a rare and fantastic rum. you want nothing more.
Until the next discovery, and now, at Eugénie -les - Bains, a rum which I have never heard of and which has just rewoken my long dormant instincts; the Travellers Tree (l'Arbre du Voyageur), one of the most beautiful vintages of the little Depaz plot on the slopes of the Montagne Pelée, which is allowing a passionate young woman, by the name of Chantal Comte, to win over the most famous chefs of France to the cause of old rums.
This collector, who also produces wine at the Château de la Tuilerie, in the Costières de Nîmes, travels the Antilles in search of absolute rarities which she then bottles. Another of her finds is the Golden Tower (Tour de l'Or) whose vanilla, ripe citrus, mint, cedar and soft spices blend in a perfect harmony of fierce tenderness. When the last of the one thousand four hundred bottles of this extract of delight has disappeared, Chantal Comte will already have discovered, in Martinique, Guadeloupe, Guiana or, why not in the ancient British colony of Guyana, some other hidden treasures.
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