My husband came home with a bottle of 1998 Gróf Degenfeld Tokaji Aszú 5 Puttonyos. We met in 1998, just about an hour from the Degenfeld estate in Tarcal, in Hungary's Tokaj-Hegyalja region. He had clearly been thinking about this bottle for a while. I, meanwhile, had to decide what to serve with it. A cheese plate wasn't going to cut it. Not for this one. Gróf Degenfeld Wine Estate and Castle Hotel | The Terézia Chapel (Theresa Chapel), Tarcal, Tokaj-Hegyalja region, Hungary have written about my foie gras obsession before. More than once, probably. So when the question of what to eat with this Tokaji came up, there wasn't much deliberation. Foie gras it would be. Only this time, instead of buying it ready-made, I decided to make foie gras torchon myself. This seemed like a good idea until I was standing in the kitchen with a very expensive duck liver, a pair of tweezers and absolutely no certainty that I knew what I was doing. Torchon means cloth in French. The foie gras is seasoned, rolled into a cylinder, wrapped in cheesecloth, cured and briefly poached. The finished torchon can be sliced into neat rounds, with a texture that's quite different from a pâté: smooth, delicate and firm enough to hold its shape. I followed J. Kenji López-Alt's recipe for Serious Eats, with a few adjustments of my own. Making the torchon You need good foie gras, a scale, cheesecloth, kitchen twine, patience and, as I discovered, a bamboo sushi mat. The first job is the fiddly one: separating the lobes and removing the veins with tweezers. The liver needs to be soft enough to work with, which makes the whole operation feel rather like handling very expensive Play-Doh. Mine looked a bit of a mess by the time I had finished. Apparently, this is normal. You can push it back together.Then come the salt, sugar, pepper and a little brandy. This is not the moment to improvise wildly with the quantities, so I stuck to the recipe. Rolling it into a cylinder was another matter. The bamboo sushi mat turned out to be surprisingly useful, helping me coax the liver into something resembling a proper torchon rather than a lumpy sausage. I wrapped it in cheesecloth, tied it tightly with butcher's twine, tightened it some more and put it in the refrigerator. A day or two later came the brief poach, followed by an ice bath. Then more tightening, back into the refrigerator and another night to set. By the next day, I could finally unwrap it and slice it. A thin knife warmed in hot water did the trick. It looked good. More importantly, it tasted good. Rich, smooth and delicate, with just enough structure to make those lovely little rounds. I served it with toast, a little relish and some jam. Nothing complicated. The foie gras had taken quite enough of my attention already. The final result And then there was the Tokaji The 1998 Gróf Degenfeld Tokaji Aszú 5 Puttonyos was deep gold in the glass, with honey, dried apricot and a touch of orange peel. At twenty-eight years old, it had developed beautifully without losing its freshness. The acidity was still there, balancing the sweetness and giving the wine plenty of life. With the foie gras, it was exactly what I'd hoped for. The wine's sweetness worked with the richness of the liver, while its acidity kept the combination from becoming too heavy. A little toast, a slice of torchon, a sip of Tokaji. There's something lovely about opening a wine that connects so directly to a place and a time in your own life. And there is another little piece of history in that bottle. When this wine was made in 1998, the Degenfeld family had only recently returned to Tokaj. After losing their estates after the Second World War, Count Sándor Degenfeld returned in 1994 and acquired an estate in Tokaj; the family rebuilt the winery and produced its first harvest in 1996. So this was still a young estate finding its feet, making a wine that would eventually sit, twenty-eight years later, on our Thanksgiving table in Calgary. Not a bad journey for a bottle. As for the romance, my husband gets full credit. I just made sure it had foie gras. Egészségedre! - To your health. Cheers! Happy sipping and savouring!

👩‍🍳 - Jump to recipe, but fair warning: you’ll miss all my brilliantly unnecessary (and deeply entertaining) ranting. Fall has arrived, which means it's time to put away the salad ambitions and get serious about food that comes in a bowl. And if there is one thing Hungarians are very good at, it’s taking that bowl of comfort food very seriously. Yes, we can be a little confident about things. We have a tendency to believe we invented all the good stuff, and naturally, our paprika is the best. Obviously. We can argue about plenty of things. But gulyás - pronounced GOO-yahsh - is one of those things Hungarians tend to claim without much hesitation. It’s Hungarian. Of course it is. Except, like most food with a few centuries behind it, the story is a little more complicated than that. Better known around the world as goulash, gulyás is more than just a bowl of soup. It started in the pastoral world of the Hungarian Great Plain, became associated with Hungarian national identity, crossed borders, changed along the way, and eventually gave the rest of Europe a word it could use for a whole family of paprika-scented stews. That's a pretty impressive career for a pot of soup. And yet, ask ten Hungarians for the “authentic” recipe and you'll get at least twelve answers. Someone will insist it absolutely must contain caraway. Someone else will tell you that's nonsense. There will be an argument about csipetke, those tiny pinched dumplings. Someone will have very strong feelings about potatoes. Or paprika. Or whether the beef should be browned. By the end, everyone will agree on only one thing: everyone else is making it wrong. That's gulyás for you. There is no single recipe carved in stone. There are family versions, regional versions, restaurant versions and whatever your grandmother happened to make while telling you that nobody knows how to cook anymore. The History of Gulyás Hortobágy shepherds cooking in a cauldron | 1958 I can’t pretend that the Magyars arrived in the Carpathian Basin carrying a finished gulyás recipe in their saddlebags. It would make a wonderful origin story. Unfortunately, history is rarely that cooperative. What we can say with more confidence is that gulyás grew out of the pastoral life of the Hungarian Great Plain, the Alföld. Cattle herders spent long stretches away from settled communities, moving with their herds and cooking outdoors over an open fire. Their kitchen was necessarily simple: a fire, a knife, a few practical ingredients, and a large iron cauldron — the bogrács. The meat was close at hand. Everything else had to travel well. And dinner, ideally, happened in one pot. Even the name points back to this world. Gulyás means cattle herder - a word still used in Hungarian today. The dish took its name from the people who spent their days tending the herds, cooking outdoors on the plain, rather than from an aristocratic kitchen or a carefully written recipe. A quiet tanya on the Hungarian Great Plain (Alföld), with the iconic Nine-Hole Bridge (Kilenclyukú híd) in Hortobágy. And the early versions certainly weren't the paprika-heavy gulyás we know today. Because paprika came later. Paprika originated in the Americas and reached Europe through several routes, including the Ottoman world and the Balkans. It gradually made its way into Hungarian cooking and became increasingly important during the 18th century. By the time Hungarian cooks were turning paprika into one of the defining flavours of the national cuisine, the old pastoral meat dish had acquired a very different identity. And, because apparently I have things to say about paprika, I've devoted an entire article to it. I'm not saying it's my magnum opus. But I'm also not saying it isn't one of my more important contributions to civilization. You can read my paprika oeuvre here. Then things got interesting. During the late 18th and 19th centuries, Hungarian national identity was taking shape, and food became part of that story. Dishes associated with rural Hungary, the Great Plain and ordinary people suddenly had a much bigger cultural job to do. Gulyás, pörkölt and paprikás all became part of the emerging idea of Hungarian food. And there is a lovely irony here. These weren't grand aristocratic dishes. They were associated with herders, peasants, rural life and the Great Plain. Precisely because they were associated with rural Hungary rather than an aristocratic court, they became useful symbols of Hungarian distinctiveness within the Habsburg world. They looked Hungarian. They tasted Hungarian. And, importantly, they weren't Austrian. National Goulash Competition and Shepherds’ Gathering Hortobágy, Hungary, 2022 Look, there's nothing Austrian about this guy. Those indigo gatya are about as far from lederhosen as you can get. No alpine hat, no suspenders, no questionable amount of felt. We're in Hungary, people. And this is the 21st-century version of the dude. Now imagine him 250 years ago. The large animals behind him are our very own szürkemarha — Hungarian Grey Cattle. With their enormous horns and slightly prehistoric appearance, they are hard to miss. The breed is now protected as part of Hungary's agricultural and cultural heritage and is officially recognized as a Hungarikum. But the Grey Cattle were more than a picturesque backdrop. From the Middle Ages onward, they became an important Hungarian export, connecting the Great Plain to a much larger European trading network. Along those routes, people, money, goods and ideas moved in both directions. I'm not suggesting a Hungarian cow wandered into Vienna carrying a recipe for gulyás. Although that would make an excellent children's book. By the 19th century, gulyás and its relatives were appearing in cookbooks, dictionaries and restaurants, and the food was increasingly treated as distinctly Hungarian. The modern gulyásleves - literally “goulash soup” - developed along the way. The name carried forward the memory of the herdsman's dish even as the recipe, terminology and setting changed. So the soup in your bowl today isn't some perfectly preserved recipe, carved in wood and embroidered in silk, passed down unchanged from a 12th-century herdsman. Lovely story. Probably not how it happened. Its roots are pastoral. Its ingredients changed. Its terminology shifted. And eventually, the dish became a national symbol. Then the 20th century gave goulash another strange little career. After the suppression of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, the Kádár era brought a more consumer-oriented and economically flexible form of state socialism. The Western nickname for it became “Goulash Communism.” From herdsman's cauldron to national identity to political shorthand. Not bad for soup. Gulyás vs. Pörkölt So how did we get from a pastoral meat dish cooked by herdsmen to the thick paprika-heavy stew that much of the world now calls “goulash”? This is where things get confusing. Historically, gulyás, pörkölt and paprikás weren't always separated into the neat categories we use today. The terminology shifted, recipes overlapped, and regional usage wasn't always consistent. But if you're sitting in a Hungarian restaurant today, the distinction matters. Gulyás is soup. Pörkölt is stew. The gulyásleves most Hungarians would recognize today has a rich, savoury broth, chunks of beef and plenty of vegetables: potatoes, carrots, parsley root and celery root, with csipetke depending on the cook. Hearty, absolutely. Thick, no. The broth is the point. Pörkölt, on the other hand, uses relatively little liquid. It's a thick, paprika-rich stew built around meat, onions and paprika. Beef, pork, chicken, lamb, mushrooms — almost anything can become pörkölt. My personal favourite is csirke pörkölt. Its close relative, csirke paprikás, is the dish better known internationally as chicken paprikash. Same extended family. Very different things in the bowl. And if you're in Hungary and want to understand the difference, forget the argument. Order both. Have the gulyás as your first course and the pörkölt as the second. Problem solved. Menza, Budapest Goulash Goes Travelling The thing the world calls “goulash” isn't necessarily Hungarian gulyás. This is where I first ran into the goulash problem: I was researching food pairings for Lagrein from Alto Adige, and goulash kept appearing as a suggested match. I was intrigued. Then I discovered Goulash Triestino on a family trip to Trieste. Notice something? The goulash is a stew. I told ya. Goulash Triestino at Trattoria Al Moro Trieste | Traktoria Rustiko | Sbecolez Osteria And yes, it makes perfect sense. Trieste spent centuries inside the Habsburg world, and its goulash reflects that Central European history. It is a stew, and while it feels familiar, it isn't Hungarian gulyás. Tomatoes and rosemary can show up. Sometimes there is creamy polenta or gnocchi instead of bread. Suddenly you're somewhere else. That's what happens when food travels. Across Central Europe you'll find Austrian Saftgulasch, Czech hovězí guláš, Slovak guláš, German Gulasch and plenty of other relatives. They aren't simply Hungarian gulyás copied into another language. They're dishes that developed elsewhere, carrying a name and some culinary ideas that travelled across borders and were adapted to local tastes. The name travelled farther than the original dish. Schnitzel met a similar fate. A Few Rules Gulyás cooked in bogrács, Hungary Now, before I completely ruin my “nothing is fixed” argument by giving you rules, let's establish something. There are plenty of legitimate variations of gulyás. Families argue about them. Regions argue about them. Cooks argue about them. I am perfectly happy to join in. But corn, eggplant, okra and tofu? That's where I'm drawing the line. This is not a vegetable free-for-all. There are potatoes, carrots and celery. There can be csipetke. And yes, people will still argue about the rest. There is babgulyás, the bean version, which adds beans and makes an already substantial bowl even more substantial. And there is caraway, depending on who you ask. Which, of course, means someone will tell me I'm wrong about that too. Traditionally, and still today, especially in summer, gulyás is often cooked outdoors in a large bogrács, gently bubbling over an open fire. Restaurants get in on it too, especially the touristy ones. And yes, sometimes your soup arrives in its very own little bogrács. A little theatrical? Sure. But I kind of love it. What to Drink with Hungarian Gulyás Gulyás is hearty, but I wouldn't automatically reach for a huge, tannic red. There's already plenty happening in the pot: beef, onion, paprika, caraway, vegetables and broth. I want something juicy, savoury and reasonably fresh. Something that joins the conversation rather than taking over the table. Hungarian Wines Kadarka is where I'd start. Light-bodied, spicy and relatively low in tannin, it doesn't fight with the paprika. It has enough character to keep things interesting without making the whole meal feel heavier than it already is. Kékfrankos — known as Blaufränkisch elsewhere — works too. It brings more structure, lively acidity, dark fruit and spice. Still fresh enough for the dish, but with a little more muscle. If you want to dive deeper into Hungarian grapes, traditional wine regions and the wines themselves, I have a very lengthy article for you here. You've been warned. Beyond Hungary - If Hungarian wine isn't available Blaufränkisch, Austria: Technically the same grape as Kékfrankos, but Austrian Blaufränkisch can be wonderfully peppery, juicy and savoury. Enough structure for the beef without turning the paprika into a wrestling match. Gamay, Beaujolais, France: A very good choice if you like lighter reds. Juicy, fresh and low in tannin, with enough savoury character to work with paprika and caraway. Go to Morgon or Moulin-à-Vent if you want a little more depth. Mencía, Bierzo, Spain: This is where I'd go if you want something darker without going heavy. Black and red fruit, herbs, pepper and good acidity, usually without massive tannins. Zweigelt, Austria: Another easy match: juicy red fruit, peppery spice, fresh acidity and moderate tannin. It won't bully the stew. Cinsault, France: Soft, fragrant and not particularly tannic, with red fruit and spice. Particularly nice if your gulyás is on the more paprika-forward side. The rule, if there is one, is pretty simple:Don't let the wine make the gulyás heavier than it already is. Now, let's make gulyás. Gulyásleves - Traditional HungarianBeef Goulash Soup Serves 4-6 | PREPARATION: 30 min | COOKING TIME: 2-3 hours The Meat - For the Love of Gulyás, Read This Please, do not buy the little plastic tray of pre-cut “stew meat”. You know the one. A mysterious assortment of beef cubes, trimmed within an inch of its life and packaged as though the label were an actual cut of beef. It isn't. It's basically the butcher's way of saying, “Here are the bits we couldn't sell as anything else. We've cut them into cubes, so now they're a product”. Buy a good piece of beef chuck and cut it yourself into generous bite-sized pieces. Yes, you have to get out the knife. This is not a hardship. It takes about five minutes, and your gulyás will thank you. Chuck is my first choice because it has the marbling and connective tissue you want for a long, slow simmer. That collagen melts into the cooking liquid while the meat becomes tender and juicy instead of turning into little cubes of boiled disappointment. Beef shank is another excellent choice, especially if you like a broth with plenty of body. Beef cheeks are wonderfully rich, and cross-cut shank works beautifully. Brisket is another option, although it is generally leaner than chuck. Whatever you buy, look for some fat and connective tissue. This is not the moment to choose the leanest piece of beef because you have suddenly decided stew should be virtuous. Gulyás is slow food. Give it something to work with. And although beef is probably what most of us picture first, gulyás isn't limited to beef. Pork shoulder and mutton have their place in Hungarian cooking too. Just please don't buy the pre-cut stew meat. Ingredients For the soup: 600 g / 1.3 lb beef chuck or shank, cut into 2–3 cm (¾–1¼ inch) cubes 1 large onion or 2 medium onions, finely diced 3 cloves garlic, minced 2 large carrots, sliced 1 large parsley root, sliced (or 1 large parsnip, if parsley root isn’t available) 1 small celery root or 2–3 celery stalks, sliced 2 to 3 medium-sized potatoes, peeled and diced 1 small tomato, diced 1 Hungarian wax pepper or green bell pepper 1 tbsp sweet Hungarian paprika powder ½ tbsp hot paprika, optional 1 tbsp salt or to taste 1 tsp ground caraway 2 bay leaves, optional 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper 2 tbsp lard or neutral oil 2 tbsp fresh parsley, chopped 2.5 L / 10½ cups water, approximately For the csipetke Csipetke means “little pinched pieces” —- small pieces of firm egg dough pinched off by hand and added directly to the soup. 1 egg 80 g / ⅔ cup all-purpose flour 1 tsp salt Instructions: 1. Start the base Heat the lard in a large heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Add the onions and cook until soft and translucent, about 5–7 minutes. Remove the pot from the heat and stir in the sweet paprika and, if using, the hot paprika. Add about 150 ml / ⅔ cup water and return the pot to low heat. Cook gently until the onions and paprika form a thick, glossy base. Paprika burns easily. Don't rush this bit. 2. Add the beef Add the beef and stir thoroughly so it is coated in the onion-paprika mixture. Cook for a few minutes, just until the meat begins to lose its raw colour. Add the salt, black pepper, caraway, garlic, tomato, whole pepper and bay leaves. Cover and simmer gently for about 1½ hours, or until the beef is beginning to soften. Check the pot occasionally and add a little water if the mixture starts catching on the bottom. You want the meat cooking gently in a concentrated, paprika-rich base at this stage — not swimming in soup yet. 3. Add the vegetables and water Once the beef is beginning to become tender, add the carrots, parsley root, celery root and potatoes. Add enough water to make a generous, brothy soup — approximately 2.5 L / 10½ cups in total, depending on the size of your pot and how much liquid has already cooked away. Bring back to a gentle simmer. Cook for another 40–50 minutes, or until the beef and vegetables are completely tender. Taste as you go. The cooking time is a guide; tenderness is the boss. 4. Make the csipetke While the soup is cooking, combine the egg, flour and salt to make a firm dough. Pinch off tiny pieces with your fingers. They don't need to be perfectly identical. In fact, they shouldn't be. Set them aside until the soup is nearly ready. 5. Finish the soup Add the csipetke to the simmering soup and cook for about 8–10 minutes, until the little dumplings are cooked through. Taste and adjust the salt and pepper. Add the fresh parsley toward the end so it retains some of its flavour. Serve hot, with plenty of broth in every bowl. And preferably a piece of bread nearby. Because you are going to want it. A Bowl of Gulyás, Then Something Sweet Gulyás can easily be a meal on its own. A hunk of fresh bread is never a bad idea, particularly when there is that much paprika-scented broth sitting in the bowl. Something pickled on the side is also very welcome for a little acidity. And then, if you're building a more traditional Hungarian meal, things can take a decidedly sweeter turn - and they usually do. Gundel palacsinta, Budapest | Strudel House, Budapest | Mákos Guba Restaurant, Budapest | Túrógombóc, Horgonyzó, Tiszalök Palacsinta - Hungarian crêpes, thin and tender, usually filled with apricot jam or túró, the slightly tangy fresh cheese that turns up everywhere in Hungarian cooking. Or, if you want to make things properly decadent, there’s the Gundel palacsinta: walnuts, chocolate sauce and a little rum, made famous by Budapest’s century-old Gundel restaurant. Rétes - strudel. Mákos guba - poppy-seed bread pudding. Túrógombóc - sweet cottage-cheese dumplings. In other words, you have a bowl of beef, potatoes, carrots and paprika, mop up the last of the broth with bread, and then someone brings out pancakes. Apparently, this is what we call moderation. And this is where Hungary's famous sweet wines get their moment, too. A glass of Tokaji alongside the sweet course is a pretty convincing argument for saving room. (I couldn’t very well write about Hungarian dessert and leave Tokaji out of it.) Egészségedre! - To your health! - Cheers! Happy sipping and savouring!

When people daydream about a year sabbatical in France, they usually don’t picture themselves in the Alps. Paris, yes. The cafés, the grand boulevards, and the monuments. Or maybe the Côte d’Azur. Now, if you’re going to France specifically to learn about wine, Haute-Savoie probably isn’t the first place that comes to mind. It’s high, it’s Alpine, and it’s much better known for mountains, lakes and skiing than wine. We, however, ended up in the Alps. Well. Almost. We were closer to Grenoble, but let’s not let geography get in the way of a good story. My husband spent a season at Domaine Dupraz in Savoie, working long days in the vineyards, coming home tired and obsessed with the mountains. One day, he stopped to take in the view and, in his charmingly limited French, told the winemaker, Maxime: “Wow. What an absolutely gorgeous view you get to enjoy every day!” Maxime looked at him, puzzled, and replied in his equally charmingly limited English:“These are just some peaks.” Just some peaks. Because, yes, to Maxime they were just the mountains. He sees them every day. They’re there when he starts work, there when he goes home. Since he was a kid. Just some peaks. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over that. Domaine Dupraz Domaine Dupraz is a family-run estate in the Reposoir area of Apremont, with vines climbing steep hillsides at around 350 to 450 metres. The Dupraz family has been here since 1880, passed from father to son, and the estate has been certified organic since 2021. They make Altesse and Mondeuse, but Jacquère is really the heart of the place. The winemaker calls it a “mirror of the terroir”, which sounds a little grand until you’ve actually stood there and looked around. "some peaks" | Photo credit: Domaine Dupraz, Apremont, Savoie, France Bastille Day, Closed France and the Pétanque Club That year, when my husband was working in Apremont, July 14, Bastille Day, fell on a Saturday. You know, the French national holiday when everyone celebrates liberté, égalité, fraternité. We thought it would be a perfect day for a little adventure, just the two of us. The kids were off in Hungary with friends, and we’d already been in France for a few months, so naturally, we thought we knew what we were doing. The car was full of gas, we had snacks packed, and off we went into the mountains. Of course, everything was closed. Still, Chignin was beautiful. The village sits at the foot of the Bauges Mountains, surrounded by vineyards and those enormous Alpine views that make you almost forget, for a moment, that you’re hungry and nothing is open. Almost. But as luck would have it, we came across a group of gentlemen in the middle of their Bastille Day celebrations. They were the local pétanque club - oui, oui, men throwing metal balls around with the sort of concentration you’d expect from people negotiating a peace treaty. They welcomed us as if we were old friends. We were a little surprised, actually. Coming from a big city, we were used to people being rather more reserved with strangers. Here, apparently, you could just wander into a village pétanque game and be welcomed into the group. And then came the wine. Local wine. Quite a lot of it, actually. Mais oui, who needs dinner when there’s wine in a park? Thanks to the boules club, I ended up tasting several local wines. It turned out to be a much better introduction to Savoie than the carefully planned wine education I had imagined beforehand. And naturally, we took a family photo to commemorate the day, because apparently nothing says “romantic getaway” quite like an impromptu wine party with a bunch of friendly French guys playing pétanque. So, What Exactly Were We Drinking? Altesse, Jacquère, Mondeuse and Persan sound less like grape varieties and more like the cast of a Belle Époque cabaret. You can almost hear the accordion. These are grapes that belong to the landscape: the mountains, the steep vineyards, the cool Alpine climate. The y are crisp, lively whites, and reds that can be surprisingly light on their feet, and a whole collection of local varieties that seem to have completely ignored the international wine industry’s memo about becoming famous. Good. Jacquère Jacquère is probably the grape that best represents the Savoie I remember. Light white, fresh, crisp and very easy to drink. Not a lot of fuss. You’ll find it in wines from Apremont and Abymes, often with citrus, green apple and that clean, almost stony freshness you want from an Alpine white. Altesse or Roussette There’s more weight here with these whites. More texture. You can get honey, nuts, ripe fruit and sometimes something a little exotic. Roussanne or Bergeron in Savoie Another white. Roussanne is a Rhône grape, but in Savoie it’s traditionally known as Bergeron. Chignin-Bergeron can be quite a different animal from Jacquère, richer, more textured, with stone fruit, floral notes and that slightly waxy quality. Chasselas Chasselas - particularly around the French side of Lake Geneva, it’s delicate and floral white, usually quieter than some of the other Savoie whites. I know Chasselas from Switzerland, so finding it here felt a little like running into an old acquaintance in a completely different neighbourhood. Mondeuse Mondeuse is the red grape I most associate with Savoie. It makes dark, peppery wines. It doesn’t taste like Burgundy, and it certainly doesn’t taste like Northern Rhône Syrah. I have nothing against either of those wines - au contraire! But I don’t need Mondeuse pretending to be something else than the Alpine red. And there are also Gamay makes lighter, fruitier reds, and Persan, one of those old varieties that has started to make a bit of a comeback. The Appellations Savoie wine can appear under several appellations and crus, including Vin de Savoie, Apremont, Abymes, Chignin-Bergeron, Arbin and Roussette de Savoie. There is also Crémant de Savoie for sparkling wines. It sounds like a lot, and it is, particularly if you're trying to understand the region from a Calgary wine shelf rather than standing in a vineyard looking at the mountains. But that's also part of the fun. Savoie isn't a region where you can walk into a wine shop and casually choose from an enormous wall of familiar labels. Much of the wine is consumed close to home — by locals, by skiers, by people who have spent the day in the mountains and have sensibly decided that wine is part of the recovery process. I fully support this logic. The result is that Savoie can feel strangely elusive once you leave the Alps. And that's a shame. Finding Savoie Wines in Calgary In Calgary, I’d start with the independent wine shops. Metrovino Fine Wines and Market Wines are good places to look if you’re after the less obvious French bottles. Sometimes the best wine education is the one you never planned on having. Ours just happened to involve a metal ball, a village park, a bunch of French guys and no dinner whatsoever. Santé! Wines from Domaine Jean-François Quénard and Domaine de la Chancelière, both in Chignin, Savoie and the Mondeuse grape Happy sipping and savouring!