The House of Krug

A flute symphony

Jon Ashworth

IT IS a tradition in the Krug champagne family that a newborn baby is kept from its mother until a few drops of Krug have touched its lips. Only then will the child be passed to its mother's breast. In Britain they'd probably arrest you on the spot, but this is France where such antics tend to be met with a Gallic nod of approval.

They say you never forget your first taste of Krug. I had mine ten years ago over breakfast at Cliveden, scene of much fizz- inspired debauchery over the years. My companion had enthused breathlessly about this special elixir, with its tiny bub- bles and golden hue. Maturing in oak casks, she said, gave Krug a rich, buttery flavour quite distinct from other cham- pagnes. It went down a treat with bacon and eggs.

Less palatable was the commotion that greeted us on our arrival at Cliveden. Tele- vision crews and photographers were fight- ing over various B-grade celebrities who went scurrying through the portal like rats up a drainpipe. There to greet them were two slight, bespectacled men; the one quiet and dignified, the other animated and belli- cose. My companion elbowed me in the ribs. 'The Krug brothers,' she hissed. 'Be polite to them.' Such was my first encounter with the House of Krug.

It was some years before I met the Krugs again. The ballroom at the Berkeley Hotel in Belgravia had been transformed into the perfect English garden, with trimmed hedgerows and 20ft silver birch trees. Masked waiters weaved through the crowd bearing Krug on silver trays. But the effect was spoiled by the guests: as ghastly an intake of hangers-on as you are ever likely to find. Peter Stringfellow sipped Krug with a starched Ivana Trump. Nearby, Sam Fox thrust out her ample bosom, glass in hand, while Koo Stark flirted with some mer- chant-banker types. Tara Palmer-Tomkin- son must have been in there somewhere.

Henri Krug, the elder of the two broth- ers, was in his usual place by the door, wel- coming revellers in his dignified, self-deprecating way. Equally predictably, Remi Krug, his playboy sibling, had plunged into the thick of this champagne maelstrom. I found him tucked away in a bower with Valerie Campbell, mother of Naomi. The guests, one suspects, were just there for the party.

Such are the ironies. At £70 a bottle, Krug's survival as a business depends on keeping in with the `glarn' crowd. If Henri Krug, the elder statesman, would sooner be at home in Reims, he understands the value of publicity. As for Remi, Tramp and Annabel's are home away from home. He embraces the role of globe-trotting ambas- sador, partying the nights away with Kate Moss or Claudia Schiffer.

In the world of champagne producers, it is the Krugs who are the celebrities. More than 30,000 people owe their living to an industry steeped in historic traditions. The Champagne region, north-east of Paris, has seen more than its share of excitement over the years. Epernay, built on a termites' nest of tunnels in which champagne is stored, has been destroyed or burnt more than 20 times. Reims has been slap in the path of invading armies from the east from Louis XIV's wars with the Habsburgs to the first world war, when the Marne river valley witnessed sus- tained clashes. Many trace the name cham- pagne to the Latin Campania — or Land of Plains — which sums up the local country- side. Others think it derives from the Celtic kann pan, 'the white country', after the chalk exposures seen everywhere.

Champagne is made from only three grapes: Pinot and Menieur, both black, and the white grape, Chardonnay. A small amount made from green grapes only is called blanc de blancs. Pink champagne is made by adding a little red wine, or by leav- ing the crushed grapes in contact with their skins for a time. Once bottled, the wine is left to mature for three years or more, with bottles turned daily in a process called remuage. Krug does this by hand, but most champagne houses do so mechanically. Bon viveurs have the choice of larger vessels including jeroboams (equal to four bottles), methuselahs (eight bottles) and the splen- didly named nebuchadnezzars (20 bottles).

The champagne growers enjoyed a wel- come fillip in the millennium celebrations, but luck is not always with them. The reces- sion of the early 1990s plunged the industry deep into crisis, with sales hitting a low of 214 million bottles in 1992, compared with a typical annual output of 280 million. Things have recovered but it is a delicate balancing act. Of all the sparkling wine produced around the world, in Chile, Aus- tralia, South Africa and elsewhere, cham- pagne speaks for only about 12 per cent of sales and the producers are keenly aware of the competition. This is why champagne houses like Krug make such a show of courting the rich and famous. Make it expensive enough, the theory goes, and the wealthy will find it irresistible.

There could be something in this 'baby' thing. Joseph Krug, one of a long line of Krugs, made it to the ripe old age of 98. He never learnt to drive, and used to walk and cycle everywhere, yomping through the Alps and peddling furiously around the Champagne district. His son, Paul, father to Henri and Remi, was tasting until his death, in October 1997 at the age of 86. The Krug brothers have some way to go. Henri, 63, and Remi, 58, run the place between them, with Henri looking after blending and pro- duction and Remi in the role of roving salesman. Two of their children have joined them in the business. Henri's son, Olivier, is in charge of commercial and marketing matters. Remi's daughter, Caroline, has spent the past two years in New York,

`It's time for a 90s revival.' where she is 'Madame Krug' in America.

The Krugs live almost 'over the shop' in a sort of French version of Dallas, with vari- ous wives, cousins and grandchildren to lend a hand. Remi explains, 'We have sepa- rate houses, but connected. There is my father's house, where my mother, now 88, still lives, then next to it my brother's house. It's like a horseshoe shape, and my house is connected to that. We have our gardens, partly separated by a small wall which gives a certain independence and privacy. I bene- fit from Henri's roses, he benefits from my trees, and when I weed at the weekend and Henri is mowing his lawn, we can chat over the wall.' Home is behind the cellars, two minutes' stroll from the office.

Krug's three biggest markets are Italy, the UK and America, necessitating trips to glamorous destinations. Remi has a knack for this: as a young man, he did his national service on a patrol boat off Saint Tropez, when others were being dispatched to Algeria. Where Henri is 'the nose and the palate', Remi describes himself as Krug's `voice'. Krug Grande Cuyee, he will tell you, is a blend of 20 to 25 different wines from six to ten different vintages, inviting comparisons with a symphony. It is like Mozart, like Don Giovanni, like Beethoven. You will hear this a lot from Remi.

Alas, this is no longer a family-owned affair. The Krugs sold out years ago to Remy Cointreau, the name behind Piper Heidsieck, although they carry on as though they own the place. In 1999, owner- ship passed to LVMH, the French luxury- goods group behind Louis Vuitton luggage and the Givenchy and Kenzo fashion labels. Krug — but how humiliating! finds itself under the same roof as Moet et Chandon, Dom Perignon, Pommery and Veuve Clicquot. But that does not make Krug any less desirable. There is no Krug formula, and its secrets will be passed on from father to son, as they have been for six generations. Pop stars will carry on reaching for those slender-necked bottles. Krug parties will continue to pack in the famous and not so famous. And when those babies come along, the Krugs will be ready with their champagne flutes.

Jon Ashworth writes for the Times.