I ONCE SPENT a memorable day at the home of Pierre Pagès, a respected restaurateur who had been born the son of a poor baker in the Cérvennes Mountains. We stopped in front of a luxuriant vine: 'Clinton!' he spat. 'You know, it was not vinegar they put on that sponge they passed up to Christ, it was Clinton!'

This was -a decade or so ago, when allusions to the controversial president of the United States were irresistible. Clinton vines had come to France from America along with Isabella and Noah - the grape that allegedly made hair grow on the palms of your hands. They were intimately linked