Some of the World's Finest Mead Is Being Made Inside These Catacombs

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Some of the World's Finest Mead Is Being Made Inside These Catacombs

Crawl one hundred feet down inside the cold, damp tunnels of Paris's legendary Catacombs to taste some of the finest booze.

Filou leads the way down a small, steep staircase. A few feet behind the 10-year-old beagle, his owner Audric de Campeau tells his story: "When I realized that the temperature remains stable 100-feet underground, I immediately thought it would be a perfect place to install the casks." Down in these catacombs of the Left Bank in Paris, whose exact address is kept strictly confidential, Audric is not aging wine or champagne, but mead, an alcohol made with honey that's known for being "the oldest alcoholic beverage made by man."

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In a quasi-uninterrupted stream of consciousness, Audric tells his tale, scratches his head, lifts his hat, comes and goes, and hesitates for a moment before declaring: "Come on, let's have a taste!" He opens his casks, plunges in a pipette, and empties its contents into flat-bottomed glasses. It's 9 AM, and the tasting of the first and only mead produced entirely in Paris is taking place inside a dark tunnel. The aromas, sugar, and alcohol—just over 15 percent—hit the palate, opening up my barely awoken taste buds. It's pretty good, actually, even without a croissant.

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There are two different versions of Audric's mead here—one that's aged in an oak barrel, the other in a sherry cask. "I wanted to make a bold mead. First, I decided on the residual sugar, about 120 grams per liter, the equivalent of a sweet liquor like Sauternes. The second factor is the barrel-aging. The oak provides tannins, and later, brioche and leather, while the sherry gives notes of macerated cherries, which are already present in the honey."

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Audric is happy with the results of his first real batch, which spent 16 months in these four casks. He installs tubes and fills up 25-liter vessels that he'll bring back to his place in order to perfect his beverage. "The question now is whether I should do an assemblage. But that'll be decided later at a table surrounded by oenologist friends and whisky specialists," shares the producer.

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The idea of producing mead has been bouncing around this tall guy's head since 2014, after watching pots and pots of honey pile up in his cupboards. The man is no novice when it comes to honey or bees.

In 2008, he found out there were beehives installed in the heart of Paris, on the roof of the Opéra and the Palace of Luxembourg. Without hesitating, he requested space on prestigious roofs: the Musée d'Orsay and Invalides.

At age 15, when his middle school buddies were dreaming of getting a scooter or the latest PlayStation, he asked for 15 vines for Christmas in order to produce his own Champagne. He planted them at his parents' house in Champagne and set up shop alone. "My parents are not winemakers, but the terrain was good, there was sunshine, and I just thought, What a trip. If I manage to make a bottle, that'd be really cool!" The following year, he doubled his production to 30 vines, then 50, and so on, until he reached over 400. "Depending on the year, I can yield between 300 and 400 bottles a year. I do everything from A to Z."

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And that was just the beginning of Audric's projects at the De Campeau country house. Followed by a vegetable garden, a chicken coop, an arboretum with 250 varieties of trees, and soon, another light bulb went off: installing a beehive. There was just one small obstacle—his father is allergic to bees. Somehow, the tenacious adolescent got his way and installed his first beehive in the back of the garden. "I was self-taught, just like with the vines. I looked things up on YouTube and in books. I'm anxious by nature, and when you're handling a hive, you can't be nervous, otherwise they can feel it and sting you, so I had to learn to relax. I still managed to get attacked in the face a few times because I was being an idiot. Once you're stung, though, you still have to keep going."

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While studying Medieval philosophy at the Sorbonne, the young Parisian spent his weekends in the country taking care of his vineyard, his vegetables, and his bees. In 2008, he found out there were beehives installed in the heart of Paris on the roof of the Opéra and the Palace of Luxembourg. Without hesitating, he requested space on prestigious roofs: the Musée d'Orsay and the Invalides. If anything, the guy's got gall. Maybe a little too much, in fact, as the head of military government in Paris never responded to his first letter, convinced it was a colleague's prank. "I pay a little rent," explains Audric, climbing up the stairs that lead to the beehives, pulling on Filou's leash.

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Up on the roof, a few hops away from the Eiffel Tower, he presents his hives, already apologizing for not being able to open them. "Last weekend, I took them out, but right now with the cold, it could damage them." His Parisian bees work hard; better than the ones in the country. "The floral diversity here is incredible. It's thanks to the horse chestnut trees, the orange bushes, the Japanese pagoda trees, and all the flowers that were planted between the 17th and 19th centuries, which really don't belong in Paris. And most importantly, we get flowers as early as February with rosemary, and as late as November with ivy. The pollution is minimal, and there are no pesticides. Also, this view is such a privilege," he says, pointing at the Eiffel Tower, "that I don't even count my hours. My back hurts, but I pay my friends in honey and mead."

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In 2011, a job change pulled Audric away from the capital. "Tag-Heuer offered me a job in marketing, tripling my salary, but it's based in Switzerland. I said yes, obviously, but I had to make round trips every weekend starting in the spring. After a while I thought I'd have to choose: either have a successful career or follow my passion." After ditching the marketing job in 2013, he dedicated himself full-time to his apiarian pursuits. He produced his first pots of Miel de Paris and began supplying a few prestigious restaurants such as Guy Savoy.

Since his time in Switzerland, urban apiculture has become very popular there, influencing him to develop his latest idea, Citizen Bees, which aims to facilitate beekeeping in the 21st century. Among other things, it's an app that allows both professional and amateur beekeepers to keep track of their hives from a distance. You can control the weight, external and internal temperatures of the beehive, and have access to an accelerometer and some mics. "I told myself that one day, everyone will know how to place a beehive on a roof and manage the inherent risks involved in urban apiculture, so I had to create added value. A year and a half later and 50,000 euros in loans, I created the first beehive connected in real time. I'm the only person to have done this in the world. I already have customers, and I'm certain it's going to explode," he says enthusiastically. It should certainly create new jobs and hobbies, though no app yet can keep you sting-free.

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In Paris, his mead is sold exclusively at the Grande Épicerie, right next to his Miel, which is also found at Fauchon and several other boutiques. "I'm committed to artisanal production, nothing industrial, and no, I'm not just saying that for marketing purposes. My wife and I painstakingly label and number everything. It's a passion project more than anything."

Audric climbs into his 4x4, which is filled with bottles and perfumed with the scent of mead. With Filou, the beagle, on his lap, he says goodbye: "OK, friends, I gotta go. I have to get back to Switzerland by dinner, because we have guests tonight and I promised I wouldn't get home too late."