Just outside the shop door rested a Spad, a Sopwith, and several WWI German aircraft. All gorgeously restored. All in flying condition.
The French can be so civilized. The fridge door is opened to reveal a very nice collection of beer, which we're offered to choose from as we like.
We're talking with a man who's restoring a very early aircraft. He's been to the Reno Air Races and speaks very passable English. I ask him what he's working on and he shows me a wing that was built in America, but broke when the plane flipped ass over teakettle. He showed me how the forces along the wing were not distributed correctly and how the French design was different, being tapered to the ends where the American version was straight box sectioned to the bitter end.
The woodwork was beautiful on the French made wing. It reminded me of the woodwork that my father does. When I share this observation with our Beer Giver he brightens up and says that the very best aircraft woodworkers tend to be luthiers, just like my father.
I need to back up. Before we get to this point in our adventure we stop off for a bite to eat.
OK. So les rognons that Sylvie is having are cold. That's not fun. But all the rest is pretty darned nice.
We're having lunch with our friends at a restaurant that they've known for many years. The original owner is still running the resto. It's like an "event" center. The place is sprawling. From the kitchen three out of four plates were spot on perfect. The wine (a Bourgogne) is tasty.
As we're eating Sylvie relates how her father's cave was transferred to another family location after he died.
The French can be so civilized. The fridge door is opened to reveal a very nice collection of beer, which we're offered to choose from as we like.
We're talking with a man who's restoring a very early aircraft. He's been to the Reno Air Races and speaks very passable English. I ask him what he's working on and he shows me a wing that was built in America, but broke when the plane flipped ass over teakettle. He showed me how the forces along the wing were not distributed correctly and how the French design was different, being tapered to the ends where the American version was straight box sectioned to the bitter end.
The woodwork was beautiful on the French made wing. It reminded me of the woodwork that my father does. When I share this observation with our Beer Giver he brightens up and says that the very best aircraft woodworkers tend to be luthiers, just like my father.
I need to back up. Before we get to this point in our adventure we stop off for a bite to eat.
OK. So les rognons that Sylvie is having are cold. That's not fun. But all the rest is pretty darned nice.
We're having lunch with our friends at a restaurant that they've known for many years. The original owner is still running the resto. It's like an "event" center. The place is sprawling. From the kitchen three out of four plates were spot on perfect. The wine (a Bourgogne) is tasty.
As we're eating Sylvie relates how her father's cave was transferred to another family location after he died.
The subject of wine came up when I asked her if she could taste the difference between les vins ordinaire and the Good Stuff. I know. It's a loaded question. But of course! the French will tell you they can tell the difference. Still, I wanted to explore the topic a bit over lunch.
Sylvie's father, from the sounds of things, was rather well to do and upwardly mobile. I could have things confused but he might have been reaching for the Classe Bourgeoise. It apparently takes time and dedication. One of the many aspects of living at a certain level of French society is having as fabulous a cave as financially possible. His was pretty amazing.
The cheese plate arrives and we continue our Wine Topic.
There was an inondation one year that was so severe that water flooded the caves in the area and floated the dead man's entire wine stock. Horror of All Horrors, the water unglued every single affiche from the bottles! This meant a bottle of '45 Rothschild was virtually indistinguishable from any other great Bordeaux vintage from other well known chateaux. Being upwardly mobile, one would expect more Bourgeoise preferred Bordeaux than Bourgogne which are favored by Socialists, and such was the case of her father's cave.
What year and which chateau was in those bottles was anyone's guess. So what to do with all that Great Unidentifiable Wine? Sylvie and her mother talked things over. It was evident there was nothing for it but to open whichever bottle was at hand and drink it with an evening's meal.
Such an adventure that must've been, knowing these were all incredible vintages from famed chateaux, and having only ones taste buds to trust and to guide. I'll have to ask Sylvie sometime how long it took she and her mother to enjoy all the things that had lost their labels when they floated merrily around la cave.
Lunch was too soon finished. It was time to visit the Jean Salis aerodrome and the civilized gent who offered up a couple beers and an interesting conversation about woodworking and the Reno Air Races.
