That French wine is still considered among the best in the world is mainly thanks to views from abroad, which keep the holy oenological liturgy going. It is said that Chileans, South Africans, Australians, Californians, and even the Chinese and soon the Swedes make wine of equal (even sometimes – in some people’s view – better) quality. Yet, French wine is heavily shot-through with a long and rich cultural identity which it is difficult to transcend. We will never see, unless it’s in a low-budget B-movie, a Hollywood actor pour himself a glass of cheap plonk or slurp from a beer can when the role requires him to play a person of refinement. A close-up of a bottle complete with label bearing its beautiful, “classic script” lettering, the charcoal silhouette of a chateau, even if in ruins, are all that is needed to make clear the prestige and class of the proprietor, an always cultivated gourmet, who may also occasionally be a criminal and a cannibal.
It would be good if this symbolism could continue to be perpetuated for years to come by the English, Americans, Australians, Chinese, Swedish, and even the Norwegians. We can expect nothing from the real proprietors of the domains; they are too busy imitating the rest of the world, with baseball caps firmly affixed to their heads and a tinny in their hands.
Before Halloween comes to replace Carnival, we have time to make ourselves costumes that are better than the real thing… And let’s not heap curses on the Anglo-Saxons: they have never wanted to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or amble along the avenue of the Champs Élysées only to meet with the hideous view of Canada-Dry yobs, who look like hillbilly rednecks, but whose English is more broken than that of real Mexicans: Las Vegas already has all of that, and some machines for fleecing tourists aren’t only there to relieve you of generous tips; sometimes they give you something back.