It's just as well he wasn't born in his cellar. No midwife would work in such conditions. The floor is scattered with a bewildering flotsam of bald tires, traffic cones, sponges, beer bottles, bags of cement. Wading through the detritus, Reynaud takes out a little wooden ladder, climbs three steps, taps at a bung with his hammer, and plunges a pipette into an old foudre, or large cask. Perched on his ladder, he pours red wine into my glass (which has a base this time). It's the 1993 Rayas, which Reynaud professes to find disappointing. He doesn't think much of recent vintages in the southern Rhone, in fact. He picked no grapes in 1991, and claims to be underwhelmed by his 1992, 1993, and 1994 vintages.