In order to reach our first appointment in Alsace on time, we leave Champagne just before dawn. We need to drive about 300 km east, to the picturesque medieval hamlet of Bergbieten. Jetlag takes hold, and I sleep soundly during our three-hour drive. As I wake to the noise of my own stomach grumbling, Michael chides me for missing the scenery.

VVW does not work with Michael’s two Alsace producers. Although I am anxious to sample their wines and walk the vineyards, I am even more excited to experience the region’s cuisine. The bon vivant/gourmand contingent at the shop holds this food, from bistro to three-star, in the highest regard. Their tales of culinary bliss have me chomping at the bit.

Anne-Marie Schmitt greets us at the gate to the Roland Schmitt compound. In France, many producers press, ferment, age and promote their wines from the same buildings in which they live. Such structures typically enclose a central courtyard, and house multiple generations, sometimes in addition to extended family, workers, and occasional renters.

The winery bears the name of Anne-Marie’s late husband. Her son, Julian, now makes their wine. He is my age, and already in charge of an up-and-coming property. He is also a husband, and a father to a three year-old girl, Naomi. His maturity and accomplishments thus far amaze me, and I feel a little bit behind the curve. He leads us to the underground fermentation room, situated directly below the kitchen. We taste through their entire 2008 production, from a delicate and floral dry Muscat, to a sweet and spicy Gewurztraminer Vendage Tardive, as well a dozen Rieslings and Pinot Gris in between. Most have not yet finished malolactic fermentation. I am struck by the fact that, even in infancy, they clearly display many of the aromas and flavors that define their respective varieties. Julian describes a few of the vineyard sites that he hopes to purchase. Michael and he discuss the American market for Alsace wines. I try my best to take detailed notes and offer insightful commentary, but hunger pangs distract me from the task at hand. I smell our meal-to-be through the floorboards above.

Back above ground, I instinctively head for the source of the aromas, but Julian redirects me to the tasting/sales room. “We must try the 2007s!” Under any other circumstances, his enthusiasm would charm me--but I am starving. We sit, and I slump in my chair. Jacques, Anne-Marie’s second husband, joins us, and instantly picks up on my low blood-sugar situation. (He is, after all, a doctor.) He suggests that Alsace wines show best alongside Alsace dishes, and Anne-Marie returns with a platter that sets the room abuzz: foie gras poached in gingered broth, foie gras on raisin compote (made with grapes from the family vineyards), pickled white asparagus, and prosciutto-wrapped prunes. I am saved. I quickly down my portion of each treat, and Jacques insists that also I take his. I feign shyness, then concede. The silky mouthfeel of the liver complements the round body of the late-harvest Gewurztraminer; the salt of the ham plays against the sweetness of the Riesling. I thank Anne-Marie for preparing such a wonderful meal. “But we’ve just gotten started!” Jacques exclaims.

Our party moves upstairs, to the dining room, where our first course awaits us: filet of pickled herring in cream sauce, served on a bed of steamed potatoes, onions, and apples. I no longer feel the need to eat, but I happily clean my plate, as does Justin, in a gesture of gratitude to our hosts. As soon as Anne-Marie clears the dishes, she produces yet another: braised rooster in mushroom gravy, with fresh spaetzle. She proudly offers me the choice cut, a thigh that is bigger than my two fists combined. I muster a smile and nod, then turn to exchange a concerned glance with my cohorts. This is a lot of food. We tuck in, albeit a bit more slowly. The flavors are intense and rustic; the textures are rich and hearty. I feel a caloric coma coming on, and struggle to swallow my last bite. Michael, the seasoned professional, shows no sign of fatigue, and pours himself another glass of the 1993 Roland Schmitt Riesling.

To my dismay, a cheese platter soon lands on the table. Justin wisely declares “lactose intolerance.” Before I can decline, Jacques cuts for me a wide slice of each of the six selections. I push the pieces around on my plate in an attempt to convey my fullness. He pats me on the back, points a finger into the air, and offers up some advice, “Today, you eat fromage. Tomorrow, maybe only a sandwich.” (I can only hope!) I comply.

By this point, I realize that my best chance for survival lies in physically removing myself from the room. I stand to excuse myself, explaining that I “really should call my mom to let her know that I got to France safely.” I bolt for the hallway, but Anne-Marie, with warm apple tart in hand, blocks my exit. Jacques suggests that my mother would be happier knowing that I am eating well and staying out of the cold. I return to the table. “Of course,” he boasts, “thanks to Anne-Marie, we eat like this every day!” I run a quick calculation and decide that, if he’s telling the truth, Jacques should weigh about 300 pounds.

Our afternoon appointment tasting is at Bott-Geyl, in Beblenheim. I spend the better part of our trip in the back seat, curled into a fetal position, making a mental checklist of the symptoms of gout. Justin remains silent, with his arms wrapped around his stomach. Michael, actually invigorated by our meal, chatters away, makes a few phone calls, and lets us know that we can look forward to yet another wonderful traditional dining experience at our next stop.

We arrive just before sunset. Winemaker Jean-Christophe Bott meets us with a sense of urgency. Night is falling. He places the importance of terroir above all else. If we can’t get a feel for the soil, how can we possibly understand the wines? He directs us to follow his car in ours, and we head down the road, toward Kayserberg. We stop ten minutes later, mid-slope, and emerge into the cold, crisp air. A few patches of snow linger on the frozen ground. Jean-Christophe gestures north, to the steep, shadowy, vine-covered hills behind him. “You see Altenbourg, Furstentum, and Schlossberg.” The lay of the land makes sudden, serious sense to me. I spin around and look south, to the bottom of the valley. Through the vines, I see Domaine Weinbach!

We head back to Bott-Geyl, arriving just in time to watch the inauguration. Dinner begins with a simple salad and a lightly truffled Jerusalem artichoke velouté. Things are looking up, until Valerie, Jean Christophe’s wife, tells us that she has prepared a traditional Alsace dish for us to enjoy next. “Baeckoffe” (spelled phonetically, as best as I can manage) is a sort of Sunday stew made of pigs’ feet, lamb and beef, cooked with carrots and potatoes, for about 12 hours. The pot hits the table with a thud, and my stomach spasms. She lifts the lid, and Jean-Christophe spoons no less than a pound of food onto my plate, “Too bad you have just one day in Alsace! You must come back next year.” I will need that long to recover, but I will return nonetheless.