Discovering True ‘Joie de Vivre’

I’m a pretty happy person. At least I’ve always considered myself to be. In fact, it takes much less to make me happy than it does for many others. I’ve never been one for fancy clothes or extravagant jewelry, luxury hotels, or anything beyond economy class seating on long-haul flights. When it comes to food and wine, basic blocks of cheese and inexpensive Loire Valley reds tend to call my name. Point blank, I’m simple. And I’m happy with all of it. Even as I get older, happiness still tends to come pretty easy for me; though it wasn’t until the other day that I truly experienced a whole new level of this so-called French joie de vivre.

I’m lucky enough to come to France as often as I do. And every time I’m here, it seems to somehow get better. I leave, thinking it’s impossible that anything could possibly top the trip I’ve just made, return shortly after, and continue to have my mind blown time and time again. So what is it about this place that relentlessly pulls us Americans back in for more?


Paris, 10th Arrondissement

Simple. It’s the joie de vivre. No, not the stereotypical image of a millennial woman with her hands in the air, baguette in one hand, passport in the other, all with a flawless Eiffel Tower backdrop to match her totally unplanned striped shirt and high-waisted pant get-up. No, the real joie de vivre goes so much deeper than this, past the immaculate Hausmannian style architecture and hashtag nofilter Instagram photos of flawlessly placed food.

Joie de vivre is defined as the joy of living, the delight in being alive, an exuberant enjoyment of life, the sense of being weightless, carefree. In a technology-fueled, social-media addicted, workaholic culture like the one we have in the States, this simple state of happiness actually becomes much harder to reach. We never power off, we never shut down, and we certainly never stop comparing ourselves against the people to our left and right– or even worse, on the other side of the screen. I’m not saying this state of happiness is impossible in America, and I’m definitely not saying that it doesn’t exist. It’s just rare– and much harder to achieve.


Parc Montsouris. August 2017.

We can read about it all we want, look up photos, or even take those ‘really long’ ten day vacations across the pond to witness it ourselves, but until you actually come and live it, joie de vivre simply remains a patchworked phrase sewn onto a pillow at Home Goods. In France, simple pleasures are almost harder to avoid than find. There’s a certain happiness that comes from plucking a ripe tomato the size of a golf ball directly off the vine and biting into it, letting its juicy red flesh dribble down the front of your chin. Or the basic act of walking into a boulangerie on a random weekday morning, the smell of baking bread and flaky butter wafting through the air, causing your eyes to flutter shut and soak it all in, simply out of reflex. And there’s something irreplaceable about going to a market and buying a bottle of wine directly from the winemaker himself, handing him a 5 euro bill and still receiving change, the rough calluses of his hands scratching up against your own as he places the bottle that he quite literally made himself into your palms. Joie de vivre, simple pleasures.


Croissant aux Amandes et Chocolat

This past week, I went down to Châteauneuf-du-Pape to visit a winemaker I’ve known for some time. Rather than walk through the vines and relentlessly sip, spit, and take notes, we prepared a lunch from the family garden and sat on the terrace, sharing a simple meal over effortless conversation. We plucked basil from the garden, snipped the leaves with scissors over the tops of our sliced tomatoes drenched in olive oil– that yes, the family also made in addition to our afternoon labelless bottle of rosé, and sopped it all up with fluffy, seven-grain baguette. With stomachs full and summer sun beating down on us, our eyes wandered to the garage; two short minutes later, I was jumping on the back of the motorcycle in front of us, helmets strapped to our heads, engine hissing loudly as we pulled out of the gravelly driveway.



The wind whipped against my cheeks as the bike hit 120 km/h, my knuckles turning white from the relentless grip around my pilot’s waist. Endless rows of vines flew by as we mounted our way through all of the surrounding Provencal villages, stopping every so often for a beer or an iced tea. Lavender intoxicated my senses, an unavoidable yet quite pleasurable side effect of a motorcycle journey through the region. By the end of the day, we’d scaled the entire slope of Mont Ventoux, chilly mountain air replenishing my lungs from the numerous times my breath had been taken away throughout the journey. On the descent back down, I closed my eyes and breathed it all in, releasing one of my arms from the tightness of my own grip, letting the breeze find its way into the sleeves of my denim jacket, a sense of pure freedom and weightlessness that I’d never experienced up until that moment.


A view from Mont Ventoux

To go to Châteauneuf-du-Pape as a wine journalist and not taste through even one lineup of wines could almost be considered a sin, and I’m sure many of my industry colleagues will have their own opinions on what a ‘waste of a trip’ I made. But I lived. And I regret none of it.

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Joie de vivre

The Liquid Gem I Found at a Sunday Market in Paris

Of all the places I’ve had the chance to visit, there is nowhere quite like Paris– and within Paris, there is nowhere quite like the market. Fortunately, for desperate market goers, there’s pretty much a marché open every day of the week, though it might not be the one closest to you. For succulent fruits and veggies, ‘Parisian’ (Made in China) trinkets, and fresh, creamy cheeses, learning the Parisian market schedule is crucial; Marché Bastille Thursdays and Sundays, Belleville Tuesdays and Fridays, Marché Monge Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays… you get it. This past Sunday, I did like the Parisians do and headed over to Bastille, coins clinking in my pockets and empty sac in hand, ready to scour out the good deals from the great ones. To my surprise, I got more than I bargained for.


Marché Bastille ; 06 September 2017

Quite literally, in fact. Three avocados, a box of juicy strawberries, a brick of chevre studded with tangy cranberries, and a bottle of wine, all for less than ten euros. However, it’s the latter that is really the vein of this petite histoire. I didn’t go to the market with intentions of buying wine; in fact, I was actually looking forward to checking out my local neighborhood wine shop the following morning, completely set on drinking Aperol spritzes in the parc Buttes Chaumonts for Sunday night apéro; though when I read Val de Loire printed across the top of the small white tent, my curiosity couldn’t contain itself.


Market Finds

An older gentleman stood behind the small array of bottles; judging by his demeanor and engagement with the man beside me, I assumed he had something to do with the juice placed carefully between us. He greeted me with a hearty bonjour, proceeding to explain basic details about the wines in front of me; cépages, different cuvées, the usual. Upon revealing my career in writing about wine, his face lit up, immediately disclosing that he indeed makes said wine, and that the winery is his family business. Grabbing a bottle, he showed me the more ‘traditional’ label, depicting a small house made of stones: ‘This was where my father began making wine,’ he said, proceeding to ask more questions about just what I do. The conversation ended with an invitation to his winery in the Loire, an e-mail address scribbled in my notebook, and of course, a bottle of wine placed between my hands.

From the cuvées set in front of me, I chose the Romorantin Vieilles Vignes; at a mere 4,50, the wine seemed like a steal. In reality, I’d payed more at Monoprix a basic bottle of Chenin just the night before. Romorantin is sadly somewhat of a lost grape. Once extremely popular in France, the variety currently only finds itself in the Cour-Cheverny AOC of the Loire. It’s genetically related to Chardonnay and Aligoté, producing full, mineral-driven wines. As much as I intended to save the wine for a few days, I knew it probably wouldn’t happen. Spoiler alert, it didn’t.


My Sunday prize!

I cracked the wine that same night, just before my best friend arrived at my apartment. I couldn’t believe the liquid gold that was inside. The wine was mouth-coating and full, with a creamy viscosity that overtook my entire palate. Baked yellow apples and honeyed golden fruit dominated the palate, with a tingling acidity to balance it all out. How could this gem possibly cost less than five euros? I sipped and savored, staring out my window, knowing that in that moment, life couldn’t possibly get any better than this.

Just a few short minutes later, a light knock came from my front door. My best friend showed up, baguette in hand, and we shared a glass of that same wine together at my kitchen table. To my surprise, the impossible did indeed occur: life, along with said wine, did continue to get better.

A Diamond in the Rough on Long Island’s North Fork

The North Fork of Long Island leaves a lot to be desired. There, I said it. Yes, it’s beautiful and yes, you can eat some really damn good corn, but when it comes to wine, the place has got a long way to go. And this isn’t entirely the region’s fault. Compared with the rest of the world, the North Fork is relatively young and still trying to find its footing in the wine world. Couple that with the fact that the region turns into a rich people’s playground come Saturday and Sunday and you’ve got yourself a certified shit show. Now I can deal with a shit show to a certain extent, and I can deal with bad wine if the situation is dire– but I definitely can NOT deal with a shit show and bad wine simultaneously. Thankfully, there’s a light at the end of New York’s mansion-studded, vineyard covered tunnel.


Photo via Paumanok

Founded in the early 1980s, Paumanok Vineyards has remained in the Massoud family hands for over three decades. Ursula and Charles Massoud, original proprietors of the estate, come from Kuwait; despite the fact that alcohol was technically illegal, underground consumption was huge. Though as the North Forker reports, most underground consumption consisted of hard spirits, making wine a relatively rare commodity to be found. Charles always had a dream in his heart to pursue his love of wine; one day, after the family’s big move to Connecticut, he saw an ad for the up and coming winemaking scene out on Long Island. He knew this was an opportunity not to be missed.

Fast forward thirty years later, and the entire family plays a role in Paumanok’s 100+ acre estate; the three sons, Kareem (winemaker), Salim (logistics manager), and Nabeel (vineyard manager), always wanted to take part in the project. The winery uses only estate fruit, consisting of Chardonnay, Riesling, Chenin Blanc, Sauvignon Blanc, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Petit Verdot.

I ventured out to Paumanok a couple weeks back with a few of my cousins for a birthday celebration (yes, we were that group celebrating a 21st birthday, and no, there were no limos, crowns, or tiaras involved.) Upon my first sip of our tasting flight, I was immediately reminded of why I loved the family’s wines so much. Their current release Dry Rosé is crisp and thirst-quenching, and I’m sure the fact that it’s a Cabernet Franc dominant assemblage made my heart skip the extra beat that it did. Oh, and it’s also available in kegs, so on premise accounts and environmentally friendly consumers, this one’s for you.


Our birthday group on the terrace, Festival Chardonnay in hand

The Unoaked Chardonnay was probably the biggest surprise of the day. Fermented and aged in stainless steel, the wine remains extremely clean and mineral driven, with notes of green apple and zesty salinity. This was a favorite amongst our group; in fact, this was the first bottle that we agreed to drink on the outdoor patio, leisurely sipping beneath the hot sun.


Dry Rosé

As always, the winner of the day remained the Chenin Blanc. Juicy, mouthwatering, and full of bright stone fruit flavors, I couldn’t help but fall in love with the wine all over again. Slow, cold fermentation in steel tanks preserves the fresh, thirst-quenching flavors we all crave on those hot, summer afternoons. For me, this bottle alone holds the standard to which other wineries in the region should seek to be at.

For serious wine drinkers headed out east, make sure Paumanok is the first stop on your list. And when you do, make sure to bring me back a bottle of Chenin upon your return.