Theoe Larroque is standing behind a white tablecloth in St. John's Restaurant, four thousand miles from home.

Theoe is young, tall, handsome and hails from a small village in the south of France, a region known as the French Tuscany. It’s lovely, he says, sunny, both flat and hilly. Fava beans, rabbits and clover grass flourish between the rows of grape vines.

"It's one of the most beautiful villages in the world," Theoe said.

Four hundred years ago, his family began planting vines there. Their Mas d'Oustry vineyard dates back to the 16th century.

"I am generation number 16," he said.

As a boy, he would sit on his grandfather's lap as they drove the old car to the vineyard, a brown dog tongue-sniffing out the window. Early years in the vineyard led to hours of "contemplation."

What did he see there? What did the vineyard teach him?

"What really matters in life," he said in his best English. "Not fancy places but the natural way of life."

The natural way of life ...

Last week, Theoe, his father and nearly 20 other European growers brought their wine to St. John's, part of a nine-city road trip through the American South, thanks to Mary Taylor Wines.

Tastings and dinners, from Charleston to Savannah to New Orleans, and last week's event at St. John's, which included an early afternoon tasting and evening five-course meal.

"Wine is not a luxury product in France. It’s like water and milk," said Mary Taylor. "Why should wine be expensive? You should always have a glass of wine with every meal. It’s a tragedy if you don’t."

She imports wine produced from the smallest of small families and growers - folks like you and me - from Italy, Portugal, France, Spain.

Her labels are elegant, but simple. No varietals listed. Only place and family. All selling for $20 a bottle.

"I want people to know the person behind the wine," said Mary Taylor.

The natural way of life ...

Up walks Remy Larroque, Theoe's father, the 15th generation of growers.

"Sharing," he says, in French. "Wine is about sharing."

Remy Larroque remembers a day before "modernization", when family and friends were bonded. The vineyard held this together.

"It is a journey and about the people you are meeting along this journey," he said. "Sharing is the key when we are talking about wine.

"Because we share, we reach the United States and are now talking with you. Sharing is really the key to everything in our daily work."

Wine is about sharing ...

The natural way of life ....

It sounds romantic, yes?

And easy to picture: a Kodachrome moment around a long French table, wine flowing from multiple bottles, food in big bowls, everyone talking and laughing in flowing dresses and white shirts on a green, candled terrace.

But what, exactly, is being shared? Remy's wine isn't free. It costs money. That's selling, not sharing, right?

What did the French father and son mean? Is it possible they were both pointing to something bigger than the postcard image?

Maybe a bit was lost in translation; Remy's English was as limited as my French.

Maybe not.

Moments later, someone across the room - a separate grower, a separate conversation - echoed Remy.

"I'm from Bourdeaux," said Heloise Pacaud.

Heloise manages a small, family-owned cooperative winery that's 90 years old. Around 80 families own the winery, which includes 1/2 hectare to 50 hectare vineyards.

Guess what she's about to say?

"I also love sharing," she said. "Wine is conviviality. It is something you share. It is family and friendship."

The word "share" comes from Old English scearu, which meant to cut or shear, as if dividing oneself or one's portion with another.

Scearu also referred to the groin, the place where the body splits into two legs.

A share was also part of a plough - the broad blade - thus ploughshare.

To cut. To shear. To split. To ... share.

What is being shared, exactly? What is natural about shearing or cutting or splitting?

What are these European wine growers hinting at?

"It is very hard work. I wish people knew that more and evaluate that. It is not a soda you’re buying," said Heloise. "It is families behind your work."

And that's when it began to make sense.

She said families, and my brain went carouseling with images of our Food as a Verb friends:

Of Letty and Curtis Smith at Circle S Farms and Aubie Smith's strawberry farm in Ooltewah. The Hernandezes on the far side of Monteagle. The Midway Mushrooms guys on top of it.

From Meigs County to Tuscany, it's the same story.

No, Heloise, you're right: it's not soda.

It's something else.

The night prior, I'd opened a Bourdeaux, recommended to me from Caleb Kneip, wine director at Imbibe. It cost $19.99, easily the best $20 bottle of red I can remember buying.

Standing there with Heloise, I realized - with Sarah's "hey look" nudge - lo and behold, this was her wine.

Hand outstretched and smiling, the woman - wearing a beret and blue Converse - ran the collective who grew the grapes that became the wine I was enjoying.

A veil was lifted. A part of Heloise and her Bourdeaux was now in me. This deeper sharing only happens through connection.

So, of course, I smiled. ("I want people to know the person behind the wine," said Mary Taylor.) On the ledger sheet inside my heart, there was more connection than disconnection now.

That's the natural way of life.

(Something similar happened to Sarah. Walking through the event, she stopped mid-stride; spotting a bottle she recently shared with friends. "One of the best I've ever had," she said. Three feet away, the man who grew the grapes.)

It's Easter, with the Last Supper story still circulating in the spiritual air.

Jesus, it seems, was a foodie: bread and wine were parting gifts for his mates. The bread and wine became a medium, a vessel, for connection. Through them, life is shared. Life is remembered.

This stretches beyond Christianity. The grapes share their fruit to become wine; the soil shares its elements to help the grapes grow. The sun, rain, the million microorganisms and insects that show up, sharing. The farmer shares her labor and his care. It all rubs together - choose your verb: ferments, interacts, mixes, marries - this sharing of one aspect of life with another.

And, within the sharing, a multiplication. More is gained within the shear. This is the terroir of theology, a statement as biological as it is spiritual.

A foodie, perhaps, but Jesus was no snob. This can happen at any table, from Michelins to convenience stores.

Remember: as a boy, Theoe, having steered the old car into the vineyard from his grandfather's lap, would spend hours "contemplating" the natural way of life.

What did he see?

Where can we find it here, four thousand miles away?

Story ideas, questions, feedback? Interested in partnering with us? Email: david@foodasaverb.com

This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.