We were sitting in the square in Sancerre. The company was illustrious, at least for this part of the wine world. We were drinking beer at the Vacheron’s cafe and the Vacherons, Rogers and Mellots — the kings of Sancerre — were all around. That’s when the Harley pulled up. The guy driving it, wearing the leather Harley coat in the June heat, looked like Leif Ericson. His big toothy smile sprouted from his bushy blond/red beard.
That was the first time we laid eyes on Didier Dagueneau. He was in his early 20s. His energy was infectious, his mind that of a whirling dervish. He was brilliant, passionate, wildly stubborn, alternately incredibly generous and wildly obstinate. His genius was born out of childhood anger. Each day when he climbed on the Harley, careening around the tight turns of the eastern Loire’s country roads, he was taking risks few would take in a lifetime. He took the same risks in his vineyards and winery, and those wines remain some of the most astonishing dry white wines we’ve ever tasted — quite certainly the most remarkable Sauvignon Blancs in memory.
So it didn’t come as a great surprise to us when we learned of Didier’s passing. He was flying a small plane, no doubt taking to the skies as he took to the hairpin turns. We had been told that Didier loved flying, just as he loved all the risks he took in his too short life. Those who stayed close to him, (we saw Didier for the last time in the late 1990s), said that Didier had calmed down, had become more measured. Perhaps that’s so. When we heard of the plane crash, we were saddened. But then we thought of the young Didier Dagueneau, the guy we met that June afternoon on the square of Sancerre and we smiled. Then we laughed as Didier would have laughed when we thought of the trip we took together to the eastern Loire in 1986, well before the Dagueneau Silex and Pur became collector wines.
We left at 6am. Didier drove a used Citroen Prestige and we weren’t 20 kilometers from Sancerre before we began wondering if we’d be returning in one piece. The speedometer hit 160 km/hr in no time. Didier had a 10am tasting set up at Chateau de Fesles in the Anjou and he didn’t want to be late. The owner thought he was going to have a quick tasting with a young vintner from Pouilly-sur-Loire. But Didier had something else in mind and he had already decided that he wouldn’t leave the Chateau until he had what he wanted.
We pulled into Chateau de Fesles 10 minutes early. Didier had made record time. The entrance was Loire Valley majesty with carefully trimmed hedges bracketing the long driveway and gardens full of June flowers. There was little that Didier detested more than the stuffed shirt decadence of the old time wine world. Nonetheless, he left the Harley leather in the Prestige, adopted the infectious smile that could melt a crowd and rang the bell outside Chateau de Fesles.
The proprietor, M. Boivin, showed us some of the Chateau which was beginning to show plenty of wear around the edges. The commercial flavors of the day had moved away from the hard-edged, acidic dry wines of the western Loire, just as the market for sweet wines had gone in the tank. Didier asked questions from time to time, feigning interest in the Chateau. He asked questions about the vineyards and the wines. He complimented Boivin graciously on the magnificence of his property. But it was all a set-up. Didier had brought us to Chateau de Fesles for only one reason — to taste the 1947!
By noon, M. Boivin was glancing at this watch. Lunch time. But Didier wasn’t moving. He just turned the conversation from one viticultural topic to another, taking care to complement Boivin at every turn. Didier adopted an almost Inspector Colombo tack with Boivin. Each time Boivin opened a wine, assuming it to be the last, Didier would take his time, smelling the wine with feigned interest, commenting on the honey and beeswax (Didier had already managed to move Boivin into the sweet wines), making a comment like “Ahh, oui. Le 1976 est vraiment excellent, mais moins de botrytis que j’ai imagine. Je voudrais bien goute comment vous avez fait en soixante-quatre.” (Ahh, yes. The ’76 is really excellent, but less botrytis than I imagined. I’d would be very interested in tasting how you did in 1964.’) And so it went. M. Boivin missed his lunch. He couldn’t escape. By 3:30 — we’d already been at the Chateau for five and a half hours, tasting for over four hours — Didier saw his opportunity. Brimming with pleasure, complementing M. Boivin for his graciousness and the grandeur of his wine, he dropped the bomb. “M. Boivin. Qu’une chose. Est-ce-que on peut gouter le ’47. J’ai entendu que c’est une merveille.” Boivin glanced at his watch, then at Didier’s smile. Dagueneau had him exactly where he wanted him and Boivin went back into the cellar for the 1947.
When we got back to the car, Didier was agitated. “Quel con. Ca nous a pris 6 heures pour le faire ouvrir. Pas aussi bon que j’ai imagine non plus.” (“What a jerk! It took 6 hours to get him to open it and it wasn’t as good as I imagined!’)
