But then there are those like De La Guéronnière. Trapped in his stubbornly Parisian body is an inner child who still remembers growing up in his parents’ Bordeaux vineyard. “When the city becomes too much to take, people feel the need to get back to nature. Planting grape vines helps them to reclaim their identity.”

That’s hard to argue with. When it comes to urban jungles, Paris is one of the densest. The city’s constant stream of tourists, carefully orchestrated facades, crowded streets and weighty history leave little room for anyone – let alone a bottle of wine – to breathe. So when people here are looking for a drop of authenticity, they raise a glass of the local cru. At least, that’s the contention of Jean-Louis Testud, deputy mayor of Suresnes. “People don’t move here from the city; they come from other parts of the country. Almost every region in France has a vineyard. Ours gives us a sense of identity; it’s like the soul of our city.” Testud is proud of the small tract within sight of the Eiffel Tower that produces a drinkable chardonnay. It’s only sold in a few restaurants at the foot of the slope where the vines grow, but what counts is not so much its commercial value as its role as social lubricant, a kind of ambassador for Suresnes.

“Here water is reserved for cooking potatoes,” a poster reads near the entrance to Jacques Mélac’s restaurant, a stone’s throw from Ménilmontant in the 20th arrondissement. Inside his grapevine-covered bistro, Mélac produces wine from grapes grown by Parisians in their gardens – a product, he jokingly remarks, that resembles the city itself. “It’s somewhat cloudy, with a pleasant, slightly astringent taste – not bad,” he offers. A bit of an understatement, I think as I choke on Château Charonne’s vinegary bite. Mélac admits he makes better wine at his own vineyard in Corbières: “Winemaking isn’t the same here because each vintage has its own particular character. Wine made in the world’s most beautiful city cannot help but be exceptional.” People smile at the joke, but there is a kernel of truth to it. Wine produced from the tiny vineyards in Paris and on Île-de-France is only sold on the premises to a small group of insiders, but it tends to help the conversation flow – and becomes an easy excuse for Parisians to get to know each other.

Like almost every historical site on the planet, Montmartre has sacrificed its soul to the golden god of tourism. The people you meet here can seem almost as fake as the decor – until you walk down the Rue des Saules and stumble upon its vineyard. Parisian wine may not be as sophisticated as, say, a fine Burgundy, but the message in its bottles calls up a more authentic Parisian spirit. In vino veritas, indeed. 

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