Today, The New York Times has yet again given us something to celebrate.  Our regular readers know how much we enjoy and respect this newspaper thanks to how they use their own, “uncontaminated,” criteria when discussing the issues of The Land of the Basques.

And not only are we celebrating their talking about us, but even more so because they’re discussing the Northern Basque Country, and more specifically Irouléguy wines.  These Basque wines have bewitched the newspaper’s wine critic, Eric Asimov (who suprised us earlier with a spectacular articule about Basque cider), and he wrote an amazing article about it, including some fantastic photos, in the Dining & Wine section.

The New York Times article is the consequence of a love that arose five years ago in a rather curious way.  The writer just happened to “run into” a Northern Basque wine, and he was captivated by it, and given how he tells it, his love has only grown as he’s gotten to know even more wines from this corner of the Pyrenees.

And it is also clear that our distinguished visitor also enjoys Basque cider, as can be seen not only in his earlier article that we brought you, but also in the quote at the end of this one.

The New York Times – 29/7/2014 – USA

Splendor in Solitude The Wines of Irouléguy, in French Basque Country

vinos-Irouleguy-the-new-york-times
A century ago, phylloxera, a ravenous aphid, devastated Irouléguy’s vines. Grapes were not grown on a meaningful scale again until 1984, when Étienne Brana, whose family distilled eau de vie, planted a vineyard on red sandstone and began to make wine independent of the local cooperative. Markel Redondo for The New York Times

On a Saturday morning, this village in the French Pyrenees seems like any other small French town. Shoppers wend through the outdoor market while tourists snap photos. But resounding above the ordinary fray are the cries of young men playing pelote, a game akin to jai alai. On an outdoor fronton, or court, adjacent to the market, using a basket shaped like a scimitar, they hurl a hard ball against a wall; it ricochets skyward at incredible speeds, sometimes flying onto the street, obliging passers-by to keep their heads up. Taking it all in, you realize that St.-Étienne, in the heart of Irouléguy in French Basque Country, is a different kind of place.

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