by Jeseppi Trade Wildfeathersome people drink the grape
some stomp
while others live in the chilly cob webbed cellars
in which the grapes mature.
sour sweet or bitter,
all together
this is a humorous vignette of ...
French Wines Under The Feet
The following is a one act comedy by Jeseppi Trade Wildfeather in three scenes:
"Tasters", two sophisticates, Madame Madame Du Bonsiorchek,
a Zza- Zza Gabor clone, argues with her escort, Monsieur Pedimental,
at a wine tasting event somewhere in the world.
"The Stompers", two humble grape stompers,
squishing in a round calf high vat, press their views, and ...
"The Cellars", inside the lush Chateau,
the traditional count and countess of the ancient estate,
tell the seller's side of the grapes.
Scene One
The Tasters
Madame Du Bonsiorchek.
[tastes] Mmmm ...This is definitely Chateau du Cavalmard 27.
Monsieur Petimentál.
mmmm- yes-I think you are right. But, I am certain you mean 37.
Mdm. D.
No Monsieur. 27. Can’t you taste the leather?
Mn. P.
No madam. There isn’t the slightest hint of leather in this wine. And so, given this unique bouquet, it is obvious that it was made during the ownership of the Count du Cavalmard. His workers were too poor to have sandals, and so, ... 37!
Mdm D.
Are you telling me that I, Madame Du Bonsiorchek, do not know leather?
Mn. P.
Oh no ... I am not saying you do not know leather, I am simply saying there is no leather in this wine.
Mdm D.
What do yo know about wine? When I found you were on a park bench painting frozen pigeons in Cracow drinking Thunderbird out of a paper bag trying to stay warm.
Mn P.
What difference does that make? The true artist was found.
Mdm D.
All you ever painted were pigeons.
Mn P.
I beg your pardon I was known for my pigeons.
Mdm D.
Yes, by the police. You offended so many people they threw you in jail to get you off the streets.
Mn P.
Well my offensive pigeons are what made my book famous.
Mdm D.
What book? You call that a book! You didn’t know anything about pigeons, and you knew less about wine.
Mn P.
The book says that the taste of leather can tell you the exact year of a fine wine.
Mdm D.
Whose book ... your book ... French Wines Under the Feet? They burned your book! Your book got us thrown out of the country. Believe me there is leather in this wine. Take another taste.
Mn P.
Oh, so now you are giving over to insults. You know Petimentál need only taste once.
Mdm D.
You have never once tasted a good wine. Years of Thunderbird and Ripple have destroyed you. I, on the other hand, with my delicate rich and sensitive taste buds can detect the slightest hint of leather. I might even be able to tell you the brand of sandal worn by the beggars that stomped the grapes.
Mr P.
They don't wear sandals to stomp grapes!
Mdm D.
Of course you fool, they take them off!
Mr P.
Exactly. And that is the very reason why this is 37. The ph is too alkaline for stompers to have had been wearing sandals.
[points to page]
Mdm D.
If you insist on using your own book as a reference to your stupidity, permit me to point out an exception to your theory about this wine.
[fumbles through pages] Here it is on page 8 in the beginning of the last chapter.
It reads:
“The absence of the scent of leather does not always suggest that leather sandals were not worn. In 1937, fine French wines suffered a distinct loss in quality when the majority of stompers went over to wearing rubber thongs."
... and thus giving rise to the writing of your stupid book, ‘French wines Under The Feet!’”
[Monsieur Petimentál has been trumped, and is left with a look of exasperation, while the dominant Madame Du Bonsiorchek throws her nose up in the air, tosses the book and walks away."]
End of scene one.
Scene Two:
The Stompers
Characters:
Ethyl Archer, a British expatriate working in France.
Luigi, Italian from Puglie doing the same.
Setting: One late afternoon in a vat at the Chateau du Cavalmard.
Ethyl:
Had enough stomping for one day, Luigi?
Luigi:
The padrone says he's got another four bushels. He's gonna pay my feet time and a half today.
Ethyl:
Well, I don’t know about you, but these old clods have had enough for one day. Soon as we finish this batch I’m gonna go air them out on my new ottoman for a while, and taste test last years reserve Beaujolais, if you know what I mean. [snickers]
Luigi:
You gotta go ... that’s ok. Better remember that the padrone want’s you to touch everything we do.
E: I say, it is rather nice to be needed. But, it wasn’t always that way with me, Luigi. No, life has treated me a mite hard, I should say.
L: So, why the padrone, he say, you gotta touch everything? What, you feet, they different than mine?
E: Well, I’ll tell ya. These here are the most unique feet in all of France.[looking down]
L: That’s for sure! 'Scuse me, but, you no Cinderella!
E: Well, I beg your pardon. These here feet is no ordinary feet. These be Archer feet, in the best sense of the word.
L: What do you mean, “archer” feet? You can play soccer?
E: I’ll have you know that I come from a long line of cobblers. My great grandfather made the first pair of water proof boots for old Cromwell himself.
L: Next time you see him ask him to make a pair for you and me, eh?
E: Aye! A sense of humor have ya, I can see! Yes, I’m an Archer, and proud of it. But, it wasn’t always so. You see, when I was born my father, God rest his soul, took one look at my feet, and literally collapsed right there. Midwife had to revive him. Used the same smelling salts she'd just used on my poor old mum after she down. Sad day when I was born! I was the black foot of the family. First, they said, in the long line of Archers, known for having perfect feet. It was horrible, I tell you.
L: Somebody cursed you feet.
E: Luigi, you would have thought so. Oh, they tried everything on me, you know. For years, I was secluded. Why, people didn’t even know I was born, or that I even existed. Never went to school. I was beaten on account of my feet. That’s how ashamed of me they were, ashamed, all of them, I tell ya. And, ridiculed! Mocked for these here feet, the very feet God gave me, Luigi.
L: Pecatto! Too bad for you.
E: Oh they tried, they did. But, it was no use. Fifteen years, doctors and therapists. You’ll never know. Some quack scientist sold the research he did on these very feet, guinea pig that I was, and fool besides. If I can remember, I think he sold it to Reebok. Made millions. And, I never saw a shilling. No, not even one bawdy copper. Could have used a little spare change back then. I would say.
L: Yeah, me too.
E: Had to become a maid. Uneducated, as I was ... a stupid maid with flat feet and all. On my feet, day and night, scrubbin peoples dirty houses. England is a caste system still, I would say. I was doomed, because of my feet, to be poor and never get ahead. All my life I dreamed what it would be like to have a nice pair of feet.
L: Eh, lookeh, you life, she’s not that bad. I mean ... you gotta good job. You health, and the weather here is no bad.
E: True ... True. But that doesn’t change the system, and the system’s what’s gotta change, I tell ya. And, believe you me it has everything to do with ya feet. I know it, cuz, I’m livin proof of it. Why, how do you think all these people got to be so wealthy? It was on account of their feet.
L: You mean not because of you brains?
E: Beggin your parden, Luigi, no, not yours. [laughs] But, your feet underneath is what really matters in the world. Oh, but they‘ll never say it. They're too ashamed. They’ll drink the wine though, that they will, and plenty of it. It all started in the army. And, I know the reasons why, I learned it as an Archer. You had to be able to march. And, it took feet to march. Therefore, the ones with the best feet survived, and the others ... well.
L: They stomp grape. Capisco!.
E: I wonder. Yes, and the better your feet, the farther you could march. And marching is what made great heroes in those days before they had jeeps. Alexander the Great was known for having had perfect feet. Conquered all of the Middle East and Europe. And, Julius Caesar ... perfect feet on him, I would say. Some believe he was actually British, and couldn’t wait to return home. Grandfather used to say he might have even been an Archer. Imagine that? Perfect feet, he had, old Julius. They stabbed him, poor bloke, jealous of his feet, they were. And then, there was Napoleon. Perfect feet. Might have been a mite short. But, he had the feet of someone twice his size, I tell ya, and that's what made him famous ... marched everywhere. Winter feet he had like Washington's. Now, if you had winter feet back in those days you were certainly destined for great things. He conquered everything in his path, pacing all about as he was known to have.
L: Ma non ho capito...I don’t understand. I thought they used to ride horses.
E: Horses? Shmorses! They never rode any horses ... only for the paintings, or when they was mounted on top of them hills, so they could enjoy the view while everyone down below was fighting and getting themselves killed. No, no, they walked just like everybody else, and, up front, besides, all disciplined as they were, I might add. Kept their feet good and healthy. It was their own private little secret. See, not everybody knows this, but, I’m wise to it, even more now, Luigi. My family always knew it, too. They used to service their feet all the time. Generations of expensive wealthy boots was known to have marched right through our little shop, indeed. Why, that little shop has paintings hanging on square centimeter of every wall, right up to the rafters, as I recall. There be paintings of my ancestors measuring the feet of all the famous Lords and Ladies of history dating back to William the Conqueror, even past. Charlemagne, too, who couldn’t even sign his own bawdy name. Imagine! But, you should have seen his feet, ye should. They're all right there hanging. Glo-rious feet he had. His feet were his signature, I would say. And, we have all the paintings to prove it.
L: Michaelangelo. What kind of feet he have?
E: [Thinking] No idea. Had he the feet of old Lorenzo, I'll guarantee, we'd have no Sistine Chapel today. And, good thing too. With that look in David’s eyes, he'd have surely chiseled the whole world back then.
L: Maybe you right! [laughs]
E: Oh, I know it! And, so they went from military heroes to statesmen, to governors, becoming wealthy on account of their feet. Started their own little caste, and all, I would say.
L: But you family got such good feet ... how come you no rich?
E: I knew you’d get around to that one sooner or later. Seems, every few generations that one accursed archer with feet like mine arrives, and it’s always a bawdy scandal. And you're always the first and the worst. A cryin shame, I should say.
L: In Italiano ... it’s a "virgonia!". In my family, it’s another part of body that's broke. And, that’s why I’m here.
E: Looks like we both been sporting around big problems a little below the waste, huh, Luigi. [chuckles]. Well, I finally got fed up with all of it, I tell ya. I had it up to here. Everybody having nice feet, and boasting all the time, but me. I’d like to boast a little about something besides scrubbing peoples dirty toilets. I couldn’t take it any longer; them bawdy, scummy toilets. So, I sees this ad in the London times one day. It reads: “Flat feet wanted, good pay, plenty of fresh fruit to eat - free.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was flabbergasted! So, I rung them up. And, here I am today, happily employed, sweet grapes all around, and, all the wine I could ever hope to drink. And, my feet, here, are finally beginning to pay off. Yes sir, after all those years of suffering and shame.
L: [Looks at his feet] You think I got any hope?
E: I would say! but, wait, there’s more. Luigi, last year a little book was published by this professor by the name of Giuseppe Pettimentál, bless his soul, called, “French Wine Under The Feet.” Have you seen it?
L: But, what book?
E: You should, I’ld say, especially in the business we’re in,and it's only eight pages long.
L: I’m no read English that well.
E: You know, Luigi, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing since. I've been saying it all along, but, no one would believe me, or listen, only insults and rejection. But, now, out comes the red carpet for me whenever I return home to visit. I should say! But, who needs them now. I needed them back then when all I had were these two flat feet to rub together, and not a bawdy single shilling to my name. Now, all of a sudden I’m an Archer again, face in the papers, and all. They all want me back home, now, so, they can paint my picture, and hang it in some dusty old corner. It’s a cryin shame I would say, all them years of misery. [reflects briefly] No, I’m happy here. And, you are, too, Luigi.
L: I know! You phone ... she rings all the time.
E: My heavens, I should say. Wineries all over France and Italy, as well, are after these here feet.
L: But, why everybody she want’s you feet.
E: I’ll tell you, it's on account of my feet's PH.
L: PH?
E: Right, PH. Gives off a rare chemical. So, when I step on the grapes - what these here feet do is starts the grapes right away, so they put me into the grapes instead of the stomach acids of some nasty old sheep. Not the most desirable source of starter, I might add. Not when compared to my feet.
L: Like they use to make the cheese?
E: Right you are! Even got a few dairy farms knocking at my door as well, I should say. It’s all made me quite famous. After the labóratory tests, now, they say my feet are rare. And, likewise, I might add, the wines they produce, thank you. And, the Arches never knew it. No, not even the slightest inkling, we're right and you left, they thought ... never knew their feet would ever come to this. French wines under the feet of Ethyl Archer, [looking dazed, speaking softly] ... are what all them wealthy folks are tasting these days, I should say.
L: You don't say?
E: Oh yes, I do say, Luigi.
L: You do?
E: I should say, I do!
End of Scene two.
*********
Scene Three -
The Cellars
The third scene takes place in the drawing room of the Chateau du Cavalmard estate of Monsieur Miserlet. The Count and Countess are having a discussion about the fate of their wine.
Cntss: Your ride, monsieur, it was pleasant?
Cnt: Naturally, Madam. One more week and the sugar will have finished it’s sacred work.
Cntss: I had Enric oil your saddle yesterday, how did it feel?
Cnt: It felt supple and moist just like your lovely ...
Cntss: [cuts him off]. That will do! Fifi is in the parlor, and her ears are bigger than your mouth.
Cnt: I beg ....
Cntss: Oh please, begging is for old winos.
Cnt: ... your pardon, Fifi is no spring chicken, she’ll be forty seven in March.
Cntss: Forty seven range fed years, true.
Cnt: Maybe, that’s why. She is too organic to find herself a suitable mate.
Cntss: What’s wrong with organic? It is our most precious resource.
Cnt: Oh, how I wish that were true.
Cntss: No ... you are going over to plastic corks!
Cnt: How many times have I told you never to say “plastic” in the house. It’s bad luck. I could never defile the grape with plastic, [sobs and mutters something in French] ... no matter how much money we can save. Strictly out of the question; we would loose the Berkeley account.
Cntss: Thanks to Monsieur Petimentál?
Cnt: Oh God, that’s another sound that haunts me. I have heard that the Bilderbergers have placed him on their agenda. They are livid. Two members have already committed suicide. Their schedule for world conquest are on hold until the Tavistock psychiatrists can come up with a decent solution. Last I heard he was being considered a terrorist. Many are planning to see him tortured for this outrage.
Cntss: Seems a bit extreme, wouldn’t you say?
Cnt: Extreme? When you and I are leading guided tours of rich Afghani poppy peddlers up and down the Le Torr’Eifel, you will understand what extreme means. His little book is a guided missile aimed directly at the most ancient edifices of French viniculture. He is a slovenly liberal, socialist, proletariat, Bolshevik snorting around petite bourgeoisie swine who know nothing about wine. At the rate he is going ...
Cntss: I’m sure this will all blow over quite soon.
Cnt: Yes, ... like Hiroshima, as well as our delicate, privileged lives.
Cntss: Are you forgetting that we still possess the Archers?
Cnt: They are the starters, but the sandals they wear will be the end of us.
Cntss: No one understands, or believes this gibberish about leather and rubber, my love. The sophisticates truly understand the grapes.
Cnt: Yes, but, Berkeley sophistication is about ecology, Hinduism, and free speech, none of which makes rubber in our wine tasteful unless, of course, it had something to do with conservation. Hmmm. [Thinking].
Cntss: But, there is actually no rubber in the wine.
Cnt: Oh, here we go again. How many times must I tell you how little difference that makes. Stalin’s chief propagandist used to say, “All news is lies, and all propaganda is disguised as news.” Today, slander is the only propaganda fit to print. Unfortunately, it speaks louder than logic.
Cntss: I doubt that will ever happen. Nothing that is done in Berkeley ever reaches the mainstream news.
Cnt: That’s true, and that must be why they were forced to invented the internet.
Cntss: The Berkeleyites are logical thinkers, and among the worlds most brilliant educators who know wine.
Cnt: Since when did brilliant, logical thinkers know anything about fine wine?
Cntss: Since our shipping company convinced you to step up advertising and production for the Berkeley market just after their 9-11 celebrations in 2001.
Cnt: But, now they will use the computer and the internet to delete us. Once the news begins appearing in blogs our wine will be cooked. We will be forced to change the label, and try to recover our losses posing at Trader Lou’s as a no name, two buck chuck. But, everybody will know. How heartbreaking! Our distinct taste, once our pride and joy, will become a curse, a dead give away.
Cntss: [At the computer] Wait till you see what’s coming up on Google under “rubber sandals”. On second thought, forget it ... you better wait.
Cnt: We should have quit when they arrested your cousin Pierre, the waiter, in Palo Alto as a terrorist last year. I am afraid we might be next.
Cntss: Miserlet, I have heard that in that region, many people’s private practices actually involve rubber, as well as leather. Is that true?
Cnt: Yes, Countess, I have heard this, but there is a huge difference between wine and fetish. [thinking, then surprised] You may be right! In fact, I hope you are. Perhaps, we should think about manufacturing medical wine. In this way, we can be government certified and protected.
Cntss: That’s absurd. If worse comes to worst, I’d go over to the Catholic Church, rather than some abominable fetish market. I may be a bit cruel, but, I still have some fear of God left. In the long run, Holy Communion seems much more stable.
Cnt: You mother would love that. God rest her soul.
Cntss: Except, we could loose Archer?
Cnt: Lose Archer? What, will she die?
Cntss: You know how Protestant she is? If she ever thought “her” wine was to be used in a Catholic Mass.
Cnt: That’s the only way we can loose her? You had me worried. Last week I brought her in, and showed her all the paintings. As soon as she saw the mole she wept, and kept saying, “I knew it! I knew it!” Her family has been here for so many generations she has no choice. Now she knows it, and believes she has inherited her glorious labor here forever.
Cntss: You fool, Miserlet! You divulged the secret?
Cnt: But, but ... I had to ...
Cntss: How awful! That’s why she has had so many calls and invitations to other houses, and especially from the big cheeses. I was wondering why she has been bragging so, lately. Now she will want money, vacations, medical and everything. And, if she, then all the rest. Miserlet, we are ruined. You have ruined us either way!
Cnt: Relax, Countess. I knew that. If she ever stuck so much as a toe in the cheeses it could spark the next world war. Even the Bilderbergers would be unable to stop it. You and I know it’s her feet that has made our wine popular for generations. And, unfortunately, now she knows it, which means we will have to give her something more that room and board as you say. But, I was taught that during a brief period in the thirteen hundreds Archer feet started cheese, and when the rats ate it, that certain bacteria wreaked havoc with their immune systems, thus giving rise to the Bubonic Plague.
Cntss: Good Heavens! No!
Cnt: Today, however depopulation is becoming cheaper, cleaner on the environment, and quite profitable, since today it takes a great deal of time, and expense for medical care to help sick people die healthy.
Cntss: But, I thought that the Bubonic Plague ravaged Europe rather rapidly.
Cnt: True, because back then there were no antibiotics. Today, they simply mix the Archer strain of bacteria with, say, some harmless sheep disease, and that cheese now becomes a doomsday machine to quietly wipe out thirty percent of Russia, the Middle East and Eastern Europe slowly over the next ten years.
Cntss: That’s preposterous! Where did you hear of such a thing?
Cnt: Our U.S. publicist was a board member in some high level population control organizations with Charlton Heston, and good friends with the man who invented a database for IBM. Said his name was K.R. something. But, he gone now. .
Cntss: Miserlet, this worries me. Who else knows about her ph besides us.
Cnt: I ws afraid you would ask. [shows her a letter] They want to make a deal.
Cntss: The Pentagon? How did they find out?
Cnt: Our dear Monsieur Petimentál was forced to come in from the cold when he was living in Cracow. Look here in this picture taken at his book opening in Amsterdam, who does she look like? [showing newspaper]
Cntss: No! [covering her mouth] Bonsiorchek.
Cnt: What was he doing with her? All of France knew about her when she was exposed except Petimentál. Why because Petimentál is Italian. Petimentale. Imagine ... eight pages? I'm sure a secret coded document to the Pentagon disguised as a book on wine which ruins us at the same time. How simple, even fundamental. How Italian.
Cntss: Oui, monsieur, nothing is that simple for a Frenchman.
Cnt: Countess, if you only knew how easy it is to control the world through one’s taste budds, you would be amazed. The bankers know it. That's why they own the best wines.
Cntss: So, Petimentale has exposed us, threatens our very existence, and knows nothing about wine?
Cnt: Oh no, just the contrary, my dear. I am saying never fear, or allow your insecurity to dominate you. Perhaps it is time to change labels ... to shift from chaos toward sanity. I can see it. How about bright yellow orange with a purple flip flop on it which says diagonally in sixty four point: "Organic THONG Wine." Then a picture of rubber trees, and the lush vines side by side. We must remember our time tested ancient rule to keep it in the family. We’ve all been together this long one way, or another since the very beginning. We will stay ahead of the times. Think of it: "Cavalmard, a “thong” wine of distinguished taste." They will love it.
***********
The End
Utterly Inane
