Make Mine a Double: Why Women Like Us Like to Drink (Or Not)

The Good, the Bad, and the Bubbly

102 pamela katz ฀ t The Good, the Bad, and the Bubbly the path to great champagne is littered with dead men, Fran- çoise Duhamel reminds herself with a wicked smile as she fastens her seat belt and pulls it tight. She rarely flies, rarely leaves her vineyard, and already misses the wide stone terrace of her chateau where she stands every day, chin held high, dark eyes blazing over the estate her family has owned for more than a century. As the plane rolls ominously toward its inevitable takeoff , Françoise distracts herself with thoughts of these accommodating men who died so suddenly, and so conveniently, allowing women to transform champagne into something cool, light and elegant, not to mention beautiful—it was Clicquot’s widow, his veuve, who created the champagne everyone loves. Given the facts, Françoise thinks angrily, how did her stubborn grandfather dare to decree that a woman could never inherit the House of Duhamel? Françoise declines the cheap, foul-tasting champagne being offered by the flight attendant. To drink that swill would dishonor her past. To justify his insistence on the patriarchal line of the domain, Françoise’s grandfather always proclaimed the authority of the monks who invented the first champagne—Dom Perignon being the most famous pedant among them. These monks were hardly angelic, just a horde of robed celibates competing with Jesus. Hard to outdo a man who turned water into wine, but they came close by turning black grapes into white bubbly. White bubbly without the bubbles. The monks suppressed the glorious effervescence, foolishly considering it a flaw. Fashion- The Good, the Bad, and the Bubbly t 103 ing the drink in their wizened image, they not only drained the passion out of the juice, they left a huge lump of dead yeast sitting in the bottom of the bottle. A hundred years later, the Veuve Clicquot took care of that—she removed the unsightly fungus and let the beauty of the bubbles be. After Clicquot came Veuve Pommery, who politely attended her husband’s funeral, wept for five minutes, and then marched into his cave to remove the sugar those sour old monks so sadly lacked. She gave birth to the Brut, which was far more memorable than any of her children, Françoise thinks with particular spite. Pommery paved the way for Veuve Bollinger, whose spouse died very young, giving her decades to refine the process until, well, Françoise. I am also a veuve, minus the dead husband, the thrice-divorced Françoise fumes. And I’ll survive as champagne women have survived for more than 200 years. Françoise was born and raised in the House of Duhamel. She managed the tastings by the time she was sixteen, and she was only twenty-six years old when her grandfather died. He bequeathed the house to his aging vineyard manager, but she contested his will and compensated for her “unnatural” place in the succession by working harder than ten men. She sold record amounts of wine, won more prizes than her grandfather had, and proved she deserved the land she’d fought to inherit. And she’d like to keep on owning it, the fifty-year-old Françoise seethes, invoking the veuves, so much smarter than the monks— women who braved droughts, war, and disease, who survived and prospered, and whose pantheon she’s desperate to join. Which is why she’s flying to America with her hat in hand, hoping a rich businessman from Houston can solve her woes. Nothing, Françoise admits, absolutely nothing could be more humiliating than seeking salvation from a box maker in Texas. t฀ ฀t฀ ฀t One hour after landing, an impeccably dressed Françoise charges briskly toward the entrance of Harry Stone’s surprisingly 104 t p a m e l a k a t z elegant home. She’d rather not endure a personal encounter, but if she has to meet yet another wife, she will. She’s met so many, they blur together in her mind: the great cook, the beautiful children , the unbearable hobby—tapestry, quilting, baking; she’s seen it all. Françoise buttons her slim Chanel jacket and arranges the collar of her silk blouse. Elegance is her suit of armor, but her high heels soon sink into the gravel path, throwing her off balance . Before she has time to steady herself...