In our Burgundian village of Auxey-Duresses, my wife and I and some expat friends put together a rock ’n’ roll band we call The Auxey Morons. We’ve got an idyllic rehearsal space in the middle of the vines, far from any neighbors, overlooking a pond—the kind of place where, had we the time and the talent, we would write our grand opus. We don’t have much of either, so it’s more of a good excuse to get together, blow off steam, and get down to some music. To mark the excitement of our first post-confinement practice, I brought along a mixed case of Jean Foillard’s cru Beaujolais, and we all promptly dug in. The cork popped first from the Corcelette, and just like that, it was gone. “This cherry pie’s so damn good it’s a crime,” I could imagine Agent Cooper’s voice exclaiming, summing it up more eloquently than I. We quickly moved on to a few bottles of Côte du Py, named for Morgon’s famed extinct volcano, and Jean’s flagship cuvée. Despite our best efforts at moderation, it, too, went in a flash, with its irresistible sparkle, pepper, and iron. Onward we went to the full-on charm offensive of Eponym’, and by then Foillard was bringing out the sleeping Beaujolais in all of us. Laughter, joy, and camaraderie took the stage, and nothing else mattered much. By the time we got to Woodstock, I mean Fleurie, the dark black juice and spicy Saint-Joseph-style nose just sent us flying . . . or swimming, at least, in the pond. Thanks, Jean, and thank you, Beaujolais, for that. Sometimes these days, it’s needed.