I was pleased to see this item. It was an obvious step but one is
always grateful to discover others have come along to the same
conclusion.
From first settlement and Johnny Appleseed, every pioneer planted
apples. Most were likely wild or so close as to not matter. This
melange of trees found a home in every fence row as the fields were
established. Orchards were created to generally produce home brew as
the most of the apples themselves were inedible. If edible they were
put in storage for the winter.
The result is that any local grower can produce a interesting and
unique cider that will attract customers. The tools are obviously
now in place and this is encouragement. We will see many more and
all will be unique to a locale.
The quest for the
perfect cider apple
ADAM LEITH GOLLNER
FRELIGHSBURG,
QUE. — Special to The Globe and Mail
Published Tuesday,
Oct. 23 2012
The apples in
Christian Barthomeuf’s orchard aren’t like other apples. This
quixotic cider pioneer tends a collection not of McIntosh and Royal
Galas, but of rarities and wildlings. It’s what gives his Clos
Saragnat ciders their distinctive touch, a taste he describes as très
flyée – way out.
A lanky, mop-topped
60-year-old, Barthomeuf grows a scant 600 apple trees here in
Frelighsburg, in Quebec’s Eastern Townships. Many of them have no
name, being peculiarities he found in nearby forests, on the sides of
roads, or in people’s backyards. Some are orange, others
black-purple, others with red-flecked flesh or blushing pink
interiors. One tastes like grapefruit and fennel salad; another is
indistinguishable from a potato; one is so waxy and floral it feels
like biting into a Crayola filled with rosewater.
We sample one of his
unidentified blue-green crabapples: “Hmm, great acidity, nice
tannins,” he muses, chewing. “Rich, very odorante. It might
give a sweet aroma as a cider. No idea what it’s called, though.”
Barthomeuf, while not
a household name, deserves to be: He invented ice cider. Industry
leaders Domaine Pinnacle and Face Cachée de la Pomme both launched
with him as their cider-maker, but his personal production exceeds
theirs in terms of quality, if not quantity. Clos Saragnat has
received dozens of gold medals, as well as awards and accolades from
such diverse sources as the Governor-General, Gwyneth Paltrow and
high-brow food journal The Art of Eating.
What makes them so
good?
“It’s just these
apples, that’s all,” he reiterates. His ice ciders, as well as
his sparkling ciders, are fully organic, unsulfured and
chemical-free. The result is incredibly good – and equally scarce.
(His distributor, La QV, long ago gave up attempting to improve
sales.) Clos Saragnat’s premium bottling, L’Original, is only
available at his farm or select high-end restaurants. The price point
is steep: 200 ml bottles of his basic Avalanche cuvée cost $27.40 at
the SAQ, the Quebec liquor agency. Back vintages are more (if he’s
willing to part with them).
Although ice cider is
his creation, Barthomeuf essentially makes cider the way it used to
be made, centuries ago, by curious pioneers with a spirit of
experimentation. He moved here from France in the 1970s, and focused
on viticulture until he discovered a fondness for unlikely apples.
One of his prized finds comes from a tree he spotted on the side of a
nearby highway. He first noticed it one winter, covered in fruit. For
two years, he’d ogle the tree each time he drove by. He finally
decided to graft it and now calls the resultant apples “Route
237s.”
Clos Saragnat is not
the only cidery making a return to proper raw materials: County Cider
in Ontario’s Prince Edward County works with rough gems like
Bulmer’s Norman and Tremlett’s Bitter. Sea Cider on Vancouver
Island in British Columbia uses American heirlooms like Newtown
Pippins and Winter Bananas. Merridale, also on Vancouver Island,
cultivates a range of European cider-specific varieties like the
Dabinett or the Hauxapfel. And Farnum Hill in New Hampshire has
famously rediscovered Jefferson’s favourite apple, the Esopus
Spitzenburg.
What sort of cider
would they get if they used regular apples?
“The sort that would
be like wine made from table grapes,” Barthomeuf responds.
He’s right: We don’t
drink wines made with Thompson seedless nor do we buy pinot noir
grapes in the supermarket produce aisle. Real cider apples need to be
acidic, tannic and high-flavoured. Not meant for eating out of hand,
their personalities give ciders complexity.
Unlike the majority of
ice-cider producers, who store pressed apple juice outside when the
temperature goes below freezing, the progenitor insists upon using
apples that stay on the branch into the winter months. Battered day
and night by the elements, their exteriors turn brown and leathery,
and the sugars concentrate within the flesh. Caramelized and burnt by
the sun and wind, these snowy apples yield a nectar of surprising
depth and refinement.
Table apples just
can’t go there. By the time of my visit, most nearby orchards have
already picked their crop; acres stand barren against an autumnal
backdrop of countryside foliage. “The McIntosh falls off trees by
the end of September,” Barthomeuf says with a shrug. It’s now
mid-October, and he hasn’t even begun his harvest yet. (Whatever
apples end up falling off the bough are fed to his horses or the
flock of Toulouse geese that tend his herbicide- and
artificial-fertilizer-free fields.)
The diversity of
Barthomeuf’s ragged assortment means that even in difficult years
such as this (plus-30 heatwave in March followed by subzero
temperatures in April), some of his apples do better than others.
Pre-settlement varietals have their benefits. Nevertheless, the
weather has already destroyed 50 per cent of his 2012 harvest.
To make up for it, in
the next couple of months, he’ll be releasing a 12-year-old cider
made entirely out of wild, icicle-covered apples he collected while
walking through the woods. This backpack cuvée, called Pomme des
Bois, tastes ridiculous – powerfully concentrated, yet still crisp
and fresh.
He’s also looking
forward to seeing how his crop of Madame Langevins will turn out. The
apple is named after a neighbour with a tree in her yard she asked
him to propagate. Barthomeuf picks one and runs his hands along its
amber, thick-skinned exterior. “This will be my first taste of a
Madame Langevin,” he says, and excitedly bites into it. Juice
spurts out, but he keeps the apple in his mouth, holding it there
with his teeth. For a moment, I imagine it must be so tough and
starchy he can’t actually get all the way through. He closes his
eyes. I can’t gauge his reaction. Is he dismayed? But no, he merely
wanted the full organoleptic experience.
His eyes pop open, and
he looks into mid-air, apple still in mouth. He spreads his arms and
leans back with a “you gotta be kidding me” gesture. He takes the
apple out, chews a few times, and beams at it with happiness.
“What’s it like?”
I ask. In lieu of an answer, he turns it over, wipes it off, and
hands it to me so I can sample the other side. I oblige. The texture
resembles that of a raw Jerusalem artichoke, but its sweet-tart juice
is shot through with a delicately musky flavour. Different, but
definitely good. It would make for a fantastic cider. “Madame
Langevin,” he nods, thrilled. “Très flyée.”
The Fruit Hunters, a
documentary based on Adam Leith Gollner’s book of the same name,
will be released in theatres on Nov. 23.
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