France and My Introduction to Champagne
In Australia, the United States, and the United Kingdom—where I completed my medical and anthropological education—Champagne was always associated with celebration. Birthdays, weddings, academic milestones. I never particularly enjoyed it, perhaps because of my ignorance, and perhaps because what I was often offered was sparkling wine masquerading as Champagne.
France changed all that.
In France, Champagne is not reserved for achievement. Many households keep a bottle on hand, ready to be opened when a friend drops by unexpectedly, or during the late-afternoon apéro, when conversation matters more than occasion. One of the first lessons I learned was that Champagne is a social bond. It marks presence, not success.
There are said to be more than one million bubbles in a single glass. Champagne’s effervescence comes from a second fermentation in the bottle—la prise de mousse—as yeast consumes sugar and releases carbon dioxide into the wine. The bottles are stored upside down for months so that the spent yeast collects at the neck. Even the physics of drinking matters: chilling Champagne reduces the alcohol carried within each bubble.
The BBC once offered practical advice for enjoying Champagne properly: choose a narrow flute to retain CO₂, avoid aggressively washed or perfumed glasses, pour slowly into a tilted glass, and don’t wait for a special vintage—Champagne is alive, and time lets its sparkle escape.
I confess I enjoy the ritual of Champagne served before a long flight. Settling into my seat, I hear:
“Dr Y, would you prefer a blanc or a rosé?”
It is best enjoyed early, before cabin pressure and dry air dull the senses.
I have been associated with France since 2006—nearly two decades of food, drink, and friendship. Among its many gifts to me is a palate shaped not by celebration, but by companionship.
Une flûte, s’il vous plaît.
