Duck under a low beam and step into the blackness of Vallein Tercinier's ancient cellar, and for a moment, your muscles tighten instinctively: It's the type of close yet cavernous space where you might expect to encounter a hibernating bear. As your pupils struggle to adjust, the only indication of the room's purpose is the unmistakable angel's share, the ambrosial aroma of Cognac, hanging in the damp air and coating your lungs with every breath.
The proprietor, Stéphane Roudier, is apologetic, first for the appearance of his aging stillhouse, then for the lack of heating in this unseasonably cold winter. “We have no investors,” he explains. “There's no money.” He and his wife, Catherine Tercinier-Roudier, own and operate Cognac Vallein Tercinier, as her family has since 1850. She is the fifth generation to run the business (her brother and two nephews farm the land), taking over for her father, who took over for his father, and on and on, each new wave apprenticing for decades until, finally, it's their time. In the coming years, another nephew will succeed the couple. Cynics might dismiss the generational aspect as a conveniently charming story—nice, but unrelated to the quality of the product—and if Vallein Tercinier were in the business of making, say, peanut butter or bicycle tires, they might be right.
But in Cognac, tradition is everything. Roudier and Tercinier-Roudier would be the first to tell you theirs is a
