Part 7 (1/2)

The scene is an agreeable house in the Vaucluse region of Provence, within a stone's throw (and sometimes we wish we had done) of Peter Mayle, author of A Year in Provence A Year in Provence. The house has some land attached. On that land are vines. The vines are cultivated by a local farmer who, by way of rent, hands back a certain amount of the wine he makes from them.

It is late summer, shading into early autumn. We arrive back from the nearby village to find a case of bottles in the porch. They are unlabeled but clearly contain white wine. We prepare a modest lunch and open a bottle: what fun! The vin vin doesn't come more doesn't come more du pays du pays than this. than this.

We share a bottle with our companion: it is unsophisticated, slightly sweet, but otherwise nothing to complain about. But we notice at the end of lunch that there is none of that gentle elevation you'd expect, none of that feeling that it's siesta time and not a moment too soon. Maybe (we think) it is simply weak. We open another bottle. We drink it. We look at each other.

”Anything?”

”No. You?”

”Nope. Stone cold sober.”

Hmm. We wonder whether we are somehow fooling ourselves and this is grape juice. We decide on an experiment. We pour a gla.s.s into a small pan and heat it to a little below boiling point, then light a match and hold it over the pan. There is a gentle paf paf and a blue flame ignites. and a blue flame ignites.

Grape juice does not give off anything that, when heated, bursts into flame.

We repeat the experiments-both the drinking experiment and the flame experiment-several times over the next few days, with identical results. At the end of the process we have three pieces of information: 1. The stuff is made from grapes; of that there is no doubt.

2. When heated, it gives off a volatile and inflammable hydrocarbon.

3. That hydrocarbon is not alcohol.

Perhaps this is some new experiment in winemaking. If so, it seems unlikely to catch on. If any reader can explain precisely what this agreeable but perplexing beverage actually was was, they might be good enough to write in to the publisher and let us know. The prize will be a bottle of the fabled wine of Antipaxos.

Who wrote an elegy to a winegla.s.s?

THERE IS SOMETHING about the sight of an empty gla.s.s that can move the soul to poetry. Sometimes the more sensitive of the company can be moved to recite the closing ruba'i of Omar Khayyam: about the sight of an empty gla.s.s that can move the soul to poetry. Sometimes the more sensitive of the company can be moved to recite the closing ruba'i of Omar Khayyam: And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pa.s.s Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Gra.s.s, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made one-turn down an empty Gla.s.s!

How does one top that? As always, we have the answer. A simple reference to a poem addressed simultaneously to a winegla.s.s and extolling German wine should do the trick, and we have just the thing: ”Auf das Trinkglas,” by Justinus Kerner, a doctor, city medical officer, and author of a treatise on animal magnetism.

Here it is, in all its glory: to the drinking gla.s.s of a dead friend to the drinking gla.s.s of a dead friend.

O wondrous gla.s.s, you empty lie, Which he he would raise with joyful hand; would raise with joyful hand; The spider now around you spins A web of somber mourning-band.But now you fill for me anew Moon-bright with gold of German vines And in your deep and holy glow I cast my solemn trembling gaze.What in your depths I may discern Is not for every human heart But in that moment, I well know That friend from friend can never part.And in this truth, my dearest gla.s.s, I raise, and drain you joyfully!

And see the mirror'd golden stars Clear-cupp'd in your most precious blood.The silent moon moves o'er the vale, The solemn midnight bell doth toll.

The gla.s.s is drained! The holy note Sounds yet within thy crystal bowl.

It is, of course, somewhat better in the original German. But it's certainly worth its weight in one-upmans.h.i.+p, and if you encounter any resistance, you can add that it was set to music by Schumann (Kerner-Liederreihe, Op. 35, No. 8). What was the ”gold of German vines” that the dead friend ”often raised with joy”? Oh, probably a riesling, we'd say; wouldn't you agree?

What was the Judgment of Paris?

THERE WERE, of course, more than one, so the answer depends on which one you mean. The first judgment reportedly took place more than three thousand years ago on Mount Ida, overlooking the Troad, the region in north west Asia Minor whose capital was the city of Troy. Eris, the G.o.ddess of Discord, had not been invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis (later the parents of Achilles). In anger, she threw a golden apple labeled ”To the Fairest” into the midst of the guests at the wedding feast. The guests included the twelve immortal G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of Olympus, and three of the G.o.ddesses claimed it: Hera, queen of the heavens, wife of Zeus, and inferior only to him in power; Athena, G.o.ddess of war and wisdom; and Aphrodite, G.o.ddess of love and beauty. Zeus wisely refused to adjudicate among them, advising them to seek out Paris (then disguised as a herdsman on Mount Ida, but in reality a son of Priam, the king of Troy) and present their claims. The three G.o.ddesses appeared before Paris, told him what they wished him to do, and agreed to accept his decision. Hera promised to make him the ruler of all Asia; Athena promised him victory in all battles, as well as wisdom and beauty; and Aphrodite promised him the fairest woman in the world as his wife. Paris awarded the golden apple, the Apple of Discord, to Aphrodite, and thereby won the eternal hatred of Hera and Athena for himself and for all Trojans. Aphrodite's promise was kept: Paris did acquire the fairest woman in the world, Helen, the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, but only by stealing her and taking her with him back to Troy. The war against Troy was fought to recover Helen, possessor, according to Christopher Marlowe, of ”the face which launched a thousand s.h.i.+ps and burnt the topless towers of Ilium.” With the two outraged G.o.ddesses, Hera and Athena, on the side of the Greeks, the destruction of Troy and the extinction of its royal family were tragically ensured. of course, more than one, so the answer depends on which one you mean. The first judgment reportedly took place more than three thousand years ago on Mount Ida, overlooking the Troad, the region in north west Asia Minor whose capital was the city of Troy. Eris, the G.o.ddess of Discord, had not been invited to the wedding of Peleus and Thetis (later the parents of Achilles). In anger, she threw a golden apple labeled ”To the Fairest” into the midst of the guests at the wedding feast. The guests included the twelve immortal G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses of Olympus, and three of the G.o.ddesses claimed it: Hera, queen of the heavens, wife of Zeus, and inferior only to him in power; Athena, G.o.ddess of war and wisdom; and Aphrodite, G.o.ddess of love and beauty. Zeus wisely refused to adjudicate among them, advising them to seek out Paris (then disguised as a herdsman on Mount Ida, but in reality a son of Priam, the king of Troy) and present their claims. The three G.o.ddesses appeared before Paris, told him what they wished him to do, and agreed to accept his decision. Hera promised to make him the ruler of all Asia; Athena promised him victory in all battles, as well as wisdom and beauty; and Aphrodite promised him the fairest woman in the world as his wife. Paris awarded the golden apple, the Apple of Discord, to Aphrodite, and thereby won the eternal hatred of Hera and Athena for himself and for all Trojans. Aphrodite's promise was kept: Paris did acquire the fairest woman in the world, Helen, the wife of Menelaus, king of Sparta, but only by stealing her and taking her with him back to Troy. The war against Troy was fought to recover Helen, possessor, according to Christopher Marlowe, of ”the face which launched a thousand s.h.i.+ps and burnt the topless towers of Ilium.” With the two outraged G.o.ddesses, Hera and Athena, on the side of the Greeks, the destruction of Troy and the extinction of its royal family were tragically ensured.

The second Judgment of Paris was rather less earthshaking-except perhaps to those closely involved. A young Englishman, Steven Spurrier, owned a wine shop in Paris called Caves de la Madeleine; in addition, he and an American colleague, Patricia Gallagher, together ran a wine school, l'Academie du Vin. As a way of making the school better known, they set up a compet.i.tion between French and California wines. They wanted to bring the rapidly improving California wines to the notice of the Europeans, but Spurrier confidently expected the French wines to win. The year was 1976, the bicentennial of the American Declaration of Independence, used by Spurrier as the publicity handle to bring the compet.i.tion to public notice.

It was decided that the compet.i.tion would concentrate on white burgundies versus California chardonnays and on French Bordeaux wines versus California cabernet sauvignons. Of the eleven judges, nine were French, with Spurrier and Gallagher the other two. The wines were tasted blind. To the anger, astonishment, and chagrin of the French judges, a 1973 California chardonnay from Chateau Montelena and a 1973 California cabernet sauvignon from Stag's Leap Wine Cellars, both from the Napa Valley, were ranked first in the compet.i.tion (the second places were taken by, respectively, Meursault Charmes Roulot 1973 and Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1970). At least one of the French judges demanded the return of her scorecards-Spurrier refused-while another explained the red wine rankings by arguing that American wines matured more quickly than did their French counterparts and therefore the latter would not show as well that early in their cycle, thus rendering the whole exercise null and void. The French and California wine worlds were shaken. The Greeks of the ancient world had considered the destruction of Troy, with its attendant slaughter and desecration of sacred places, as signifying the end of the Age of Heroes; this had been caused by the Judgment of Paris. There were those who saw the outcome of the second Judgment of Paris as the equivalent destruction of the over wors.h.i.+pped reputations of the heroes of Bordeaux.

In 2006 Spurrier again thought that it would be amusing to have a Franco-California compet.i.tion, during which exactly the same red wines, now aged by a further thirty years, would be matched against one another. This time there were two juries, one sitting in California and one sitting in London; their marks were combined to produce the eventual winners. A California wine again came first: this was the Ridge Montebello 1971, which had come fifth in 1976; the second place went to Stag's Leap Wine Cellars 1973, the winner in 1976. It was decided that the white burgundies versus chardonnays tasting, however, should not try to replicate the earlier contestants, as the wines could not be expected to show well after thirty years. It was also decided to look at a recent vintage for the reds, so five Bordeaux wines from 2000 and one from 2001 were tasted against six California cabernet sauvignons from, variously, the 2000, 2001, and 2002 vintages. The result for the white wines was that a French wine, Puligny-Montrachet Les Purcelles 2002 Domaine Leflaive, came first; the next four were California chardonnays, with the wine from Chateau Montelena, whose 1973 had won in 1976, coming seventh. As for the younger vintages, Chateau Margaux 2000 came first by a considerable margin, with the next four places filled by California wines; the wine from Ridge came third, while that from Stag's Leap Wine Cellars came fifth.

There was satisfaction in mea sure for both sides in this second tasting. On the one hand, the results demonstrated that outstanding California wines could age well, a notion about which the French were extremely skeptical in 1976 (and the Americans a bit fearful). On the other hand, in 2006, younger French wines came in top in both the compet.i.tion between burgundies and California chardonnays and that between younger Bordeaux and California cabernet sauvignons. Honor was saved.

Whatever happened to the Nicolas vans?

TALKING OF PARIS ... Things come, and things go. Mostly we don't notice, but a recent Internet forum raised the question: What was around when you were twenty-one years old that has completely vanished now? ... Things come, and things go. Mostly we don't notice, but a recent Internet forum raised the question: What was around when you were twenty-one years old that has completely vanished now?

Our first thought was: Paris.

Nonsense, of course. Paris is still there. But it is not the same Paris; in a few short years, the city has entirely changed. Now it is a modern European capital, in many ways indistinguishable from any other modern European capital. But back in the 1970s it was palpably different. It smelled different, it looked different; it even sounded different. The majestic peculiarity of its Citroen cars, so idiosyncratic that even their hydraulic fluid was different, made from vegetables. The zinc zinc in every cafe on every corner. The hats the policemen wore. The idea of starting the day with a poussecafe. The ability, unthinkable to an Englishman, to get a drink in every cafe on every corner. The hats the policemen wore. The idea of starting the day with a poussecafe. The ability, unthinkable to an Englishman, to get a drink whenever you wanted one whenever you wanted one. The cheapness and ubiquity of perfectly drinkable wine. The pervasive and evocative smell of black caporal tobacco. The list is endless.

But the first thing that occurred to us about the Paris that has gone is: whatever happened to the Nicolas vans? They were like British milk trucks, and every morning they would hum and rattle along the streets delivering the unpretentious but marginally drinkable Nicolas table wines, not to restaurants and wine merchants and bars, but to people's private houses. The wine truck would draw up, the wine man would hop out, a couple of bottles would be deposited on the step or handed to the house -holder or concierge concierge, and off he would glide again, to stop again a few doors down.

It was, perhaps above anything else, the great signifier of French exceptionalism and savoir-vivre savoir-vivre. In Britain, what you got delivered to your home by a man in an electric vehicle each morning was milk, which was healthy and pure and good for you. In France? Wine. Wine that they would drink with their dinner whether there was company or not and even if n.o.body had died or had a baby. Wine that was so much part of life that it arrived automatically, like a staple.

Now we see that the Parisians were right, and wine is indeed a staple: a staple, in correct moderation, of good living, of good fellows.h.i.+p, of the daily pleasures of the table and the home.

But what have they decided among themselves? Have they changed their minds? Whatever has happened to the Nicolas vans? Whatever has happened to the Nicolas vans?

Why did the sommelier weep?

THERE ARE TIMES in every life, no matter how well regulated, when we might wish that we were paid to do what we love. For the wine drinker, the glitter of a sommelier's tastevin-a mere spoon to the outside world, a hard-won badge of honor as n.o.ble as an episcopal miter to the wearer-is enough to set off a fantasy of spending one's life moving, with a certain affable dignity, among pleasant and appreciative diners, recommending a wine here, commending a choice there, guiding the novice and exchanging a few words of mutual respect with the connoisseur. in every life, no matter how well regulated, when we might wish that we were paid to do what we love. For the wine drinker, the glitter of a sommelier's tastevin-a mere spoon to the outside world, a hard-won badge of honor as n.o.ble as an episcopal miter to the wearer-is enough to set off a fantasy of spending one's life moving, with a certain affable dignity, among pleasant and appreciative diners, recommending a wine here, commending a choice there, guiding the novice and exchanging a few words of mutual respect with the connoisseur.

But the sommelier's life is not always an easy one. Indeed, the sommelier himself is less frequently seen than previously, as dining out becomes less of a truly special occasion, and as restaurants themselves slug it out in increasingly compet.i.tive markets.

Yet there was a time when any eating house that thought itself more than a mere chop house or bistro would have its sommelier, and none more so than those once bleakly grand, now slightly faded, ”Business and Commercial Hotels” that stood, immovable as an alderman's watch chain, in every large British city.

It was in one such hotel that we dined alone one evening. The dining room, which magically smelled as British hotel dining rooms were meant to smell-of gravy, soup, damp, and the poetry of Philip Larkin-was half full; all except one of the occupied tables was taken by a pair of men doing business. It was sad to see these probably harmless chaps spending an evening in the Midlands rain telling lies to each other (”We're very confident in the prospects statesidewise”), while the one couple, a man and a woman obviously married and equally obviously not to each other, attracted such glances of loathing and envy that we half expected to see them run shrieking from the room.

There was, of course, a sommelier: a worn-down, rotund, small man with a hairdo reminiscent of Dirk Bogarde's in the last reel of Death in Venice Death in Venice. He moved sadly from table to table like a miniaturized Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k, gloomily dispensing wine from the lower end of the list to people who swilled it around the gla.s.s, swigged at it, and declared whether or not they liked it. This was, of course, lese-majeste of the first order: according to the old school, the sommelier's job is to protect his customers from a dud bottle of wine, whether because they are about to make a poor choice or because something is wrong with the bottle they've been brought.

But this sommelier had been ground down over the years until he projected himself not as an expert guide, but as a mere delivery system.