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Postcard from the boulevards: A (very) short wine history of Paris and its lost vineyards

While drinking wine in Paris you an often forget it was once the centre of an important wine region itself. But the traces are still there if you know where to look.

For a wine lover, a trip to Paris is a tantalising prospect.

The gamut of French wine lies before you. Producers you’ve never heard of, wines you’ve always dreamed of, cavistes to be explored, rarities to be unearthed – and all much cheaper than you can find at home.

Beaujolais, the Rhône, Auvergne, Bordeaux, the Loire, Savoie and Champagne, the great regions of France are paraded before you on every wine list.

You will not, however, find much if any wine produced in Paris or the Île de France itself. We do not think of this northerly part of France as wine country today.

But, if you ascend the butte Montmartre and head down its northern slope you may stumble across a peculiar historical oddity – a working vineyard.

It’s a last reminder of what was once a thriving viticultural region based around Paris – and it’s not the only hidden vineyard in the city either.

The vine-covered hill

Like a lot of wine regions, viticulture in and around Paris came with the Romans and then grew through the Middle Ages hand in hand with the Church.

Maps show that, at its height, as much as a quarter of the land in parts of the Île de France, particularly down the Seine west of Paris, were planted with vines.

It then declined with phylloxera and competition from wines around France which could be brought in by the new-fangled railways.

Of course, the urban footprint of Paris used to be considerably smaller than it is today. The urban sprawl didn’t really reach Montmartre until the late 19th century.

Until that point it was a convenient hillside whose slopes were perfect for viticulture. For several centuries, to be a ‘Montmartrois’ was to be a wine producer or vineyard worker.

The vines even spilled off the hillsides into the flatter surrounding land. One district of the 18e arrondissement to this day is referred to as ‘Gouttes d’Or’ which is the old vineyard name.

Viticulture went into steep decline on Montmartre in the 18th century and the current vineyard dates from 1932.

The grapes from the Montmartre vineyard – largely Gamay and Pinot Noir – are apparently vinified in the basement of the mayor’s office which is a delightful detail; I’ll see if I can get a visit one day.

I’d also like to take part in the harvest. I wanted to this year but it wasn’t feasible in the end. Maybe next year.

There’s still a harvest festival every year on the second weekend of October. The top of the butte is taken over by wineries and food concessions from across France for the weekend of the festival though, so something to add to your itinerary – if you don’t mind crowds (and Montmartre is always very crowded now).

The last remnants

But if you feel like stretching your legs and maybe getting an excuse to visit some new areas, there are a few other little vineyards tucked away around the city too.

I came across one in Belleville in the 20e arrondissement a few months back. Apparently vines attached to an abbey in medieval Belleville formed the Clos Guinguet and the white wine produced there gave its name to the popular Parisian wine gardens known as ‘guinguette’ – cousins of Vienna’s heuriger for those who’ve been to one.

Vines had disappeared from Belleville by 1860 and the current vineyard was planted in 1992.

The city website has a handy little page which points out the other three sites with a little history about each.

Decline and fall

Although the wines of l’Île de France once graced the tables of French royalty (proximity is its own reward), the region was struck by multiple challenges from which it never recovered.

The growth of Paris and the need for real estate slowly but surely took its toll in areas (the last vines around Bastille were lost to a railway line in 1900) but, as mentioned above, the phylloxera blight was the real killer.

It came to l’Île de France relatively late – the 1890s – but accelerated the downfall of an industry already in decline. The railways meant wines from around France, especially the immense vineyards of the south, were reaching Paris’s swelling population faster and in greater quantities.

And with a further drop-off in production post-phylloxera, those other regions took over for good. By 1950, a century of decline had reduced 45,000 hectares of vines (in 1850) to practically nothing at all, remembered only by district or street names. That’s a vineyard roughly equivalent to modern Beaujolais and Roussillon combined.

But one source of wine was replaced by another.

Le Beaujolais est arrivé!

The creation of canals connecting France’s major waterways from the 17th century onwards had given the wines of Beaujolais an early leg-up in the Paris market and they became as ubiquitous in the bistrots of the capital as they were in the bouchons of Lyon.

Sometime in the late 1940s or early 1950s (exact dates are somewhat vague) merchants and producers selling in the wholesale market of Les Halles, began pushing Beaujolais Nouveau soon after the harvest.

A local tradition went national. By the 1970s (apparently, again who can really say?), the phrase ‘les beaujolais nouveaux sont arrivés!’ was ringing through the streets.

And it still does today. Or, at least, bars and shops put up flyers that say the same thing. I passed a very convivial evening down at one of my local cavistes sampling a good four or five and very good they were too.

I’ve always said I’m glad that Beaujolais nouveau is back in vogue – supported by wines that are actually good and fun to drink.

Roll on next year, I intend to drink deeper of both traditions and continue to find more traces of Paris’s vinous past.


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