The good ghost in the wine cellar

In St. Bris, France, they hoist a glass of golden chablis to the late Louis

Author: By Bud Collins

Date: SUNDAY, September 14, 1997

Page: M17

Section: Travel

But Mme. Bersan, the stooped, elderly proprietor of this cave to end all caves -- pronounced ``kahv,'' meaning wine cellar -- assures us that the count does not stray west of Transylvania, and prefers corpuscles to claret. While her winding, unevenly-floored sub-basement may seem spooky and ominous at first to visitors, it is, in truth, a humanitarian tunnel of French love for viniculture where glorious burgundies are stored and aged. Both red and white.

Nevertheless, a ghost does lurk in the dank, chilling, rock-walled corridors three stories under St. Bris. It is none other than Louis Bersan, madame's late spouse, dead for some years, whose tricornered hat decorates a dim-bulbed wooden chandelier. His demise came when Louis was somehow trapped in the now unused elevator shaft. Since this was also his haunt while he lived as an enthusiastic overtime-toiling product tester par excellence, he was missing for eight weeks before madame noticed her beloved's absence. Then he was discovered differently stiff.

Now he surfs the webs: the cobwebs mournfully veiling a sinister atmosphere that abruptly turns benign and jovial once our guide, Leigh Wootten, uncorks a few bottles lying unimposingly in dusty, seemingly disorderly piles.

``Don't worry. Louis is a good ghost, believe me,'' says Wootten, captain of the Belle Epoque, who has vanned his passengers away from the barge's Yonne River route for a few hours to fortify their sea legs with the local elixirs. ``You'll love Louis's chablis, especially since there's so much bogus chablis floating, shall we say, around the US. Look for the label `appelation controle' when you buy French wine to make sure it's the right stuff. Louis is, I'm sure, pleased that you're quaffing some of his.''

So are we, hoisting goblets of the golden house chablis and dusky pinot noir with cries of ``Here's to Louis!''

``May he watch over the casks, vats, and bottles into eternity,'' salutes Bill Pfister. ``So far, I'd say he's doing a delicious haunt job.''

Chablis, the namesake village of this small parcel of the Burgundian wine region, isn't far from St. Bris. ``The soil is rich in limestone and crushed seashells, a distinctive nurturer of the grapes,'' says Wootten. From the river he had driven us over undulating green hills between the stitching of vineyards, cherry orchards, and clumps of forest and into town. Pointing to the Bersans' grapes, he said, ``We're going where they're headed -- underground. To the cave where they're pressed and stored, awaiting their time.''

Behind an unimposing wooden door next to madame's office at street level, the sun vanishes and the cramped, gloomy descent begins. Adopting a crouch as cranial defense, you and the temperature go lower and lower, and you wish you'd brought a sweater.

``Some sections of this network of tunnels date back to the 11th century,'' Wootten says. ``One stairway goes up into the church. Built centuries ago, probably so the priests could slip down for a nip now and again.''

``For communion purposes, of course,'' says Laurie Smith.

Wootten says that even though Germans occupied the town during World War II, they were never able to find the best stuff. ``Louis had his hiding places in this warren, and he left enough of the ordinary wine in view to keep them happy.''

It is a happy band that Wootten leads back from the depths to sunlight, and to his barge, all nicely Chablis'd. Louis's cavern is adjudged a very worthy pit stop.