#tom squitieri

Mine could not wait to indulge.

This is more than a tour. It is a culinary tour de force. The mustard here is a travelogue for all the senses, testing and taking your skin, your eyes, you nose and then the tongue. It is nothing less than a crescendo of senses to the explosion of mystery and intrigue that rapidly flows on a whitewater rapids-like journey to taste.

To visit the world’s best family-owned mustard facility is a step into culinary heaven. In Beaune, France — itself a masterpiece of gastronomical and sensual pleasures —  the Edmond Fallot mustardy is the last great independent mustard mill in Burgundy. This gem has been in the Fallot family since 1840 and the treasure remains in its original location, 200 meters from city center on Beaune.

“We are very proud of it,” Marc Desarmenien, today’s Fallot family patriarch, tells me after I make it through the factory. “In our family, we always have loved good and fine foods.”

He knows what the family faces in the tough competitive world of fine cuisine condiments. “We have to innovate all the time to create an interest in our brand of Mustard,” Desarmenien says. “We associate good and natural ingredients in our products and that’s what the consumers love today.”

I had just missed National Mustard Day — a seemingly perfect time to visit and savor — yet that did not diminish the welcome of Desarmenien or the sumptuous stroll of the senses.

A quick walk from town center of Beaune brings you to 31 Rue du Faubourg Bretonniere, where the mustard masterpieces await. Gaze at more history while walking past La Belle Epoque, a hotel created from an old French trading house, and then past the La Dilettante bar, where nervous staff plead with customers to be quiet at night so as not to disturb the neighbors.

There are no such concerns at the Fallot mustardy. At the unadorned archway entrance there always seems to be dozens of eager visitors waiting for a tour, excited voices babbling in anticipation. No one seems content to queue when the gift shop calls with all styles and sizes of mustard and vinegar.

As they bubble about, I proceed.

Riboteau leads me past old milling equipment into a small elevator that soon deposits me into a brightly colored corridor. Within a few steps, the floor begins to vibrate and wisps of water spray at me from the sides. It reminds me of a ride called Noah’s Ark in my hometown amusement park in Pittsburgh.

It is not for amusement, however. This is your chance to be one with the mustard seed, to get a sense of what they are going through in their first steps to becoming mustard — shaken and washed, but not crushed, Riboteau says.

The Fallot mustardy is the only mustard manufacturer to mill the mustard seeds with stone grinders. This is one way of the natural methods embraced and, as Riboteau says, helps maintain all the gustatory qualities of the seed in the paste. Soon the good stuff will commence.

Mustard is both a world-wide delight and a proudly toutedregional staple. Many in Beaune will urge you to eat meals that permit mustard the opportunity to announce its rich taste and companion powers — from that of a partner with charcuterie and bread ranging up to heartier mates such as poulet de Bresse, a locally raised whole chicken.

When mustard makers began moving towards mass production in the 1970s, Fallot stuck to its historical ballast and stayed the course of craftsmanship in its own way to preserve the true mustard.

For example, Desarmenien helped spearhead the cultivation of mustard seeds in Burgundy. That that culminated one decade ago when the Fallot Burgundy Mustard won the protected designation of origin indication (PDO).

That means the seeds come from local cultivation, are mixed with Burgundy white wine and the final product is made in Beaune – an unmatched culinary trifecta, many will proclaim.

That also means you can — in a sense — walk back in time and swap mustard with the Dukes of Burgundy, who set the firm recipe for mustard during the Middle Ages. Burgundy exists now as a culinary entity and not political, yet its reach — from wine and to this mustard — extends around the world in a way the Dukes could not begin to imagine. Ballpark franks and pretzels may not genuflect, though they should.

According to local history, until World War Two mustard was cultivated in woodlands. At the time, a large number of charcoal kills were used in Burgandy and the discarded ashes from charcoal burning  — rich in potash — were a natural boost for mustard seeds.

When the plant reached maturity, the seed was gathered and sold to the Dijon region’s mustard makers. Then the large number of charcoal producers and smaller population level was a combo that permitted mustard seed cultivation to sufficiently supply the Burgundy mustard producers. That changed dramatically when demand for charcoal for industrial use plummeted. Left were fewer charcoal burners and fewer seeds cultivated, forcing mustard maker to seek supplies elsewhere — even to go outside of France to Canada and the United States,.

 There was a second setback when in the 1960s  disease hit the vines that produced the grapes that were the source of the juice mixed with mustard seed. Fallot used to mix verjus – an acidic “green” juice of under-ripe Burgundy grapes — with the ground mustard seeds.  Today, with that bitter juice long gone, they use white wine and vinegar.

Any difference in taste is a secret known to only a but a few, with this guest not among those in the know.

Riboteau directs my eyes to the various workers — only 20 in the entire factory — as they maneuver the seeds and then guide the finished mustard and its languid flow from the mills to vats and jars.

“We perpetuate the tradition of making good Mustards, using the best seeds from Burgundy and using millstones to crush them,” Desarmenien says. “It guarantees an artisanal process. We prefer to produce the best than to produce the most.”

Because the Fallot mustard has earned the protected appellation, there is a second process where the husks of the seeds are removed, Riboteau tells me. That means the first happy consumers of the Fallot magic are not always human, but the cows and rabbits that receive the husks and other detritus.

My ears and nose are still embraced by the mustard’s capturing tease.

Fallot offers two tours that include a history of mustard and a look at production. Those not on the tour are encouraged to visit the tasting room, where pumps offering many of the 30-some mustard options are available to try. All are available for purchase.

Good luck trying to select.

All the mustards belong to Burgundy’s culinary heritage and are of the highest quality producing traditional and original flavors.

I wanted to try all of them, and then try them again. So I did. And then I still could not choose which eight to pack in a travel box. I left that to Riboteau. Aux Noix, Au Pinot Noir, A La Truffle de Bourgogne, Au Basilic, Au Vin Jaune du Jura, Au Safran and Mustarde de Bourgogne — names are as tempting as the taste they deliver.

You have no chance. So enjoy. All hail the new Duke of Mustard.

BIO: Tom Squitieri is a three-time winner each of the Overseas Press Club and White House Correspondents’ Association awards for his work as a war correspondent. He reported from all seven continents, always writing as a voice for the voiceless. www.redsnowltd.com @TomSquitieri

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There are automatic lights where my office is now.  You walk in the room, the lights come on. Then, if there is no movement for a period of time, they go out. Much more efficient – and also, like a silent guard dog, they let you know when someone has entered an otherwise empty floor.

All others were gone long ago from the office. The holiday week was in full recess, the big deal was complete and those who had to come had finished and were on their way.  I was riding what passes to be a creative streak and, in reality, was wondering about the end of this year and the specter of next. 

I was not leaving just yet. I was hoping for one last visitor.

The faint sound of the elevator door opening teased.

And then the lights came on.

He walked slowly across the room, shaking his head, muttering at the technology and the glitz. I had to smile, knowing the onslaught I would soon receive.

Lights guided him, as if he were on the catwalk, to my little office overlooking the busy intersection.

He had not visited for a few years. I felt his absence deeply.

“Hello Tomaso. Still have your hair I see,” the Old Geezer said.

“Hello my friend. Have a Torrone.”  I knew that would surprise him. One of his favorites. A nod to Chuck, my colleague, for his thoughtfulness.

“Ahh, I see you finally learned how to break the ice,” he said with a smile. 

He looked around the office, the signs of mementos of a professional tennis team and disparate clients, of photos from the past and present, gorgeous children, red high tops and tattered hats, and then at the blinking computer and the words I was writing.  “I know, the fiscal cliff,” he said with a smile. “How dramatic the words they create, and how undramatic and useless the actions.”

He looked at the photos of McCain and I, laughing at his ranch during the 2000 race, and of Nader before one of the biggest crowds of 2000, reminding me to demand justice, and then most striking, the two page newspaper report of Kerry’s acceptance speech, in which he signed not just to me but wrote a small speech to my children on his desire for a better world.  And now he will be the next secretary of state.

“Remember how Larry said what a great journey it has been,” the Old Geezer reminded me as he gestured to Kerry. “He was correct.”

Yes, I said, and look at this.  I pulled open my drawer and showed him the “Markey for Senate button” I had kept since 1984, when Kerry first ran for the Senate and Markey staged a last-minute pullout. “Full circle,” I said and we both laughed loudly for the first time.

I wish it was that easy to turn back the clock, I said. He nodded slightly and pinched my cheek, like my grandmother used to do.

“So a fiscal cliff,” he said.  “I can see you are full of the rage at what is not happening.”

Indeed, he was correct. Like the lesson of life and history ignored. The problems in the economy and the world are apparent and nothing was done about it, at least until the last minute. Only the Jeep was a last minute solution that worked; when it comes to the economy, cut and paste is a failure.

It was as if the Old Geezer read my mind. “My goodness, the clarity you are achieving in your older age. Alas, too bad it was a distant relative in your youth,” he laughed hard.

“You are right, Old Geezer. In those days my idea of a fiscal cliff was pondering how so many females could navigate so well on 4 to 6 inch heels. That was the cliff that amazed me,” I said.

He chuckled again. A record.

I went on.  “This has been a few sad years for sure, as if the world turned upside down again. So many mothers and relatives of friends have died and moved on, so many hearts gone cold in this city. Good meaning men and women have given up or moved on. Chuck Hagel being pilloried for being a thoughtful person. More reporters killed and imprisoned everywhere. The upheavals keep going. It gets defeating at times.”

He said nothing, so I went on. “Your mind and heart are reeling still. We all know it comes but it still hurts and always will. For wonderful moms and dads and friends. I have to believe there is a heaven even if we do not grasp. That soul, that energy, that love, that wisdom does not disappear. Nature is real, that is certain, and instincts and energy. Somehow we all get reunited with all those who are part of us. That rainbow bridge.”

He nodded as he looked out the window. “You always managed good views, Tomaso,” he said.

Had he heard me? Or is he too now sadly drifting away to that next field of life?

Silence for a few long minutes. Then he spoke. “As you breathe so do they, Tomaso.”

 “I know and feel also.  Our good friends Dan Inouye and Warren Rudman left us this year, two souls of substance, clarity, fairness and determination. They cared about others and their world, not just themselves.”

“Inouye’s death even managed to bring bipartisanship among the Senate, Imagine that Tomaso.  A Christmas miracle. Of course, only in words. As Reid said, ‘Daniel was the best senator among us all. Whenever we needed a noble man to lean on, we turned to Sen. Dan Inouye. He was fearless.’  And McConnell, said  ‘He was the kind of man, in short, that America has always been grateful to have, especially in her darkest hours, men who lead by example and who expect nothing in return’,”

“Incredible. Talk about turning the clock back.”

 Then it was my turn.

“Sen. Rudman was a wonderful person, a great senator, a mentor, a patriot and an example of how to stand up for things that are important. He was fair and decisive and left the world a better place - he never gave up. His guidance and examples on how to be truthful to one’s beliefs, strong in the face of challenge and fair in an unfair world left a solid, deep impression,” I said.

“You could walk into Senate offices back then and when I walked into Sen. Rudman’s office for the first time, I felt a difference. There was the usual hum of activity, but there also was a spirit in the energy in much of the staff. I later realized it was because of the trust that Sen. Rudman gave to people and the inspiration produced by his actions. He actually could be discreet and subtle, yet it was his unabashed candor that provided the inspiration and indirect mentoring. He stuck by those who he believed in, regardless of party or profession, and he challenged those needing challenged and debate.

“I always remember him at this time of year, of a favorite story from his staffer and my pal Bobby, off a blustery winter day in Washington, as he stood with Sen. Rudman on the curb waiting the light to change and permit crossing the street.  The winter was brutal to the staffer, all bundled up and shivering yet Sen. Rudman stood sans overcoat, unmoved by the frigid blasts. Buffeted by various winds of war and political struggles, Mother Nature was hardly a bother.  He stood there thinking about the next step, both in crossing the street and in crossing the next mission. It could have been summer,” I said.

“Why is it the folks who should be president never seem to want it?”

“Well some do,” the Old Geezer said as he pointed to the photos on the wall. He was right. Of course.  Through the muck there is the straw that spins into gold.  If we keep trying.

“It’s not all bad Tomaso. Remember 40 years ago? It was the Immaculate Reception. Then anything seemed possible. And 40 years later George still manages to attend every Pirate opener. Hope springs eternal!”

It sure did then, I said. Why was it different then?

“It wasn’t,” the Old Geezer said. “You just knew less and dared more. The Cicco rule had not hit and you still believed.”

I like to think I still do, Old Geezer, I said. And, I noted, “there is lots of joy at baseball games this year. Again. And Shelly’s laugh. And some good breakfasts.”

“You’re getting better at it,” the Old Geezer said with a smile. “And Flash is still Flash and New York is still New York. Dixon's eyes are still from when you first learned to drive a standard. Casablanca is still the best movie and Kathryn has that anniversary ready to celebrate in Morocco. And your two great kids, thankfully, look like their mom!  Now let’s get out of here before all these bars in this sleepy town close.”

I went ahead to the elevator but he lingered. “I’ll be right there,” he said.  As I waited the lights did something they never did before: they flickered on and off as if in Morse Code.  And though very, very faint, I thought I heard the Old Geezer say quietly “Happy holiday. You didn’t stop. Neither will we.” And suddenly the wind increased outside.

We were silent in the elevator, then headed out onto Connecticut Avenue. We gave a pious nod to St. Matthews Cathedral next door, then peered at the sky. It was Rudman weather. The Old Geezer and I looked at each other and took off our overcoats for the walk to the press club.