Emily Campeau writes I am 37 years old and have already retired twice. I’m now thriving in my third—and hopefully final—career path, crafting wines with my partner in our small winery named Wein Goutte, located in Franconia, Germany.
My Pal
I encountered my first memorable bottle in the early morning. Those were the liquid days, but on that particular time I had indeed slept the previous night, staying away from the dive bar where a flock of bras were hanging from a large alligator attached to the ceiling—our regular post-service spot.
The coffee machine was conveniently located near the restaurant’s door, and every cook would swing by on their way in, desperate for caffeine, carrying around a body heavy with overwork and not yet fully awake.
I came in early despite the fatigue. I needed the extra time to put a sous-chef face on—a person of reference and trust—even though I did not know how I would make it to service in seven hours. Ah yes, coffee (and a side of ibuprofen).
I made myself a double espresso with the cheap beans—the good stuff being reserved for guests only—and noticed a small bottle with an intricate label lingering next to the machine. Not a rare sight, since one of the main upsides of working in a Trendy Wine Place in Tribeca was that we could taste wine on a regular basis. We tried exceptional wines, but were condemned to drink shit coffee; the owner, who enjoyed wearing a scarf in the dining room even in July, would draw these incomprehensible lines in the sand.
I picked up a glass, poured a taste from the small bottle and swirled the brown liquid around. It smelled like mid-October: dead leaves and dirty ground, the return of roasted food, a mouthful of caramelized nuts, dried shiitakes.
This wine commanded my attention—and as a kitchen person, attention was not something I had a large stock of. The palate had an unexpected raciness, a small electric bite that hit you right behind the wisdom teeth. It tasted like the essence of time.
It was not our first encounter, but that morning, at long last, I took notice of the arrival of Palomino in my personal pantheon.
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I get bored easily and lack focus. So, I naturally became best friends with the grape that has—what seems to be— infinite personalities. Looking back on this decade where I was a hurricane, I can now see Palomino being a reliable friend standing by me through it all.
After two hardcore years, I reached a breaking point and left the Wine Place. I had lost interest in trust and reference and my sous-chef face no longer fitted me—or truth be told, I may have forgotten it under a sticky table at our usual aforementioned bar, where I spent too much time drinking flat beer and flirting with hot cooks from nearby restaurants. I dusted myself off and began a second career in wine service.
The study of Palomino in general, and sherry in particular, is the kind of rabbit hole my spicy brain loves passionately. I dove straight into it and have not come out yet. The grape has since never ceased to amaze me. It is multi-faceted, like a disco ball shining in the Andalusian sun. It absorbs terroir like no other, and spits it back out in stories of heat, chalk and sea spray—stories so varied you may have enough for a lifetime of sipping.
“Ever had brown wine?” is how I would approach tables with a magnum of Amontillado (Bota 96, Equipo Navazos), in my newly appointed job as the head sommelier of a Montreal restaurant. Introducing unsuspecting guests to the magic of aged Palomino, the beauty of flor and the centuries of tradition, is a story I never tired of repeating, condensing it under three minutes before the plates hit the table; roasted guinea fowl, grilled oyster mushrooms, covered in shavings of Quebec-grown hazelnuts.
During my time as a sommelière, all shades of my beloved grape graced the pages of our wine list—from sharp and saline unfortified white wines, to the darkest of sherries.
I remember them all.
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When my relentless impulsivity (some call it intuition) brought me to my third career at the dawn of my 30s, I moved to the countryside and started making wine. I wasn’t sure what role Palomino would carve for itself in this new chapter, until I realized that since I now lived in Europe, accessibility was a few clicks away.
We continued collecting memorable moments; a chilled magnum of Manzanilla Pasada in the fridge door during harvest, linear Finos paired with many dishes starring homegrown vegetables; and all sorts of unfortified whites, seasoning conversations long into the night.
But it is in my time of worry that Palomino flips me back into clear view.
Now and then, I fall out of love with wine. For this I only have myself to blame—turning your passion into your work is a risky move if you want to keep the fire burning. The industry sporadically wears me down; people taking months to reply to emails that could make or break our future, the shameless bro-ification and rampant sexism, the quality of the wines not being enough to stay relevant in a field that gets more cutthroat each day. Climate change, rainless summers, gallons of sunscreen, unrelenting heat, hail, frost, fungi, and that one horse fly spinning around my head that might be my official tipping point to the dark side.
When I want to throw it all away, it’s time.
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Our basement is chaotic, overflowing with bottles, jars of pickles and freezers full of summer abundance. But in that one little corner to the left, I know I can always find Palomino in one form or another. At the first scent of the amber liquid I selected for this evening’s apéro, she appears: the young cook with unfocused dreams, waiting for bitter coffee. When I take my first sip, the sommelière clocks in—swirling the wine, categorizing each component. The warmth of the wine courses through me, and we all merge into one.
One dedicated, stormy, Palomino-loving woman.
The photo is the author's own.
