Fraternity-Testvériség, 1958 (36. évfolyam, 1-11. szám)
1958-01-01 / 1. szám
8 FRATERNITY Generally, in his notes he used California standards, not those of his native Hungary, for comparison. At Dijon, in the Burgundy country, he was glad to arrange an exchange of vines with the city’s botanical garden, which had 600 varieties; but he noted that the public markets sold fruits inferior to those of California. The precious, vine-covered hills of the Cote d’Or, he found, had soil “red and gravelly, containing a good deal of limestone, similar to our Sonoma soil, which also exists in almost every county in California by millions of acres.” At Hochheim, in Germany, he went through a large champagne establishment directed by one Herman Dresel. By questions he discovered this was a brother of Emil Dresel, his neighbor at Sonoma. He made an offer to a young cellar superintendent employed in the place “to come to California to put up for me a similar establishment, if not so great in extent, at least producing as good wines.” When he went down into the cellars of the Duke of Nassau near Steinberg, and of Prince Metternich at Johannisberg, and sampled their ancient wines by candlelight, he knew he was tasting perfection that as yet had no California peer. But the Prince’s sweeping view from his terrace was another thing. “The Prince may boast of the view from his palace, as I can from my ranch in Sonoma”, Haraszthy wrote, “or, rather, I may boast of having scenery equal to that of the Prince Metternich. It is true that I have no River Rhine, but in its place there lies the St. Pablo Bay.” He knew the language of all the people he met, but apparently did not realize that this was unusual in an American. So after he had straightened out a misunderstanding between the German conductor and a Russian woman passenger on a train between Frankfort and Mayence, the black-bearded linguist was surprised at their surprise on learning he was from California. The two Haraszthy men crossed the Alps by carriage and mule, keeping their revolvers handy at the older man had learned to do in the mountains of California. On the other side, in the wine town of Asti, in Italy, the hills were “no higher than Telegraph Hill in San Francisco.” The wines at Asti were “pleasant”. Father and son went from Genoa to Marseilles by boat, then across France by train. They changed cars at Cette, a town that was anathema to all honest wine men. “Cette”, Haraszthy reminded, “is the great manufacturing place of spurious wines, millions of gallons of imitations being made here, of every brand in existence, and sold to all parts of the world.” At Bordeaux Haraszthy had a feast of winery visits. He inspected a building where prunes were being packed for export. “Why”, he wrote, “do not we Californians and brother planters try this trade?” Going south from Bordeaux, the Haraszthys crossed Spain by train and diligence. This was a rough journey of eight days, full of dust, hunger and sleeplessness. But near Malaga they freshened up and made a round of vineyards, learning how raisins were dried and how the “very heavy and very sweet” Malaga wine was produced. The Colonel and his son then hurried back to Paris, going by boat to Marseilles and from there by train. Haraszthy had left orders for vines and fruits in the vicinities of Heidelberg, Genoa, Bordeaux and Malaga.
