So
I look at the wine rack in the kitchen the other day, and there is a
bottle in it which I have no recollection of purchasing. It's
normally pretty easy to see what's in the rack and what's not,
because the rack (as a rule) has almost nothing in it on account of
me drinking everything before it gets a chance to stop moving, let
alone age in a horizontal position. No more than five bottles in a
rack that can hold forty-eight results in clarity and a simpler life.
Except
that this time, I squint at the rack's contents and what do I find
but a bottle of 2002 Nuits-Saint-Georges, which, frankly, scares the
lights out of me.
'Where
did this come from?' I bleat at my wife.
'I
have no idea,' she says. 'Is it something special?'
'Is
it something special?' I repeat. 'Well, it's only a 2002
Nuits-Saint-Georges. Where the hell did we get a bottle of
Nuits-Saint-Georges from?'
My
first inclination is to assume that we've stolen it from a shop or
from someone passing through the house. My next inclination is to
assume that we've inadvertently bought it, only we would never
inadvertently buy anything that looks even half-way classy, given our
unshakeable belief in the sovereign benefits of living a hairsbreadth
above the poverty threshold. Then I start to wonder if I'm not
over-reacting, allowing myself to be bullied by the bottle just
because it has a smartly-printed label, a cork and a date. What do I
know about Nuits-Saint-Georges, anyway? It might be famous for its
pretentious demeanour and crappy taste.
I
dig out my Ultimate Encyclopedia of Wine
(1996 edition) and check out what it has to say about
Nuits-Saint-Georges. A 'Tough, broody wine that usually needs at
least five years to soften', is the bad news, but the good news is
that Nuits-Saint-Georges is 'Among the best buys in Burgundy' if you
get a decent one. Panting slightly, I then turn to the terrifying
World Atlas of Wine (1985
edition, reprinted) for additional, if hopelessly out-of-date,
confirmation. Jackpot, as it turns out: 'The quality is very high and
consistent: they are big strong wines.' I close the book with a
triumphant slap, before going off to check out the internet prices of
such a fabulous drink. Turns out we're looking at anything between
£30 and £70 a go, depending, and so I go back to my own bottle and
stare at it in wonder.
Then I remember: it is a fantastically
kind thank-you present from a family friend.
'It's from Patrick,' I announce,
importantly.
'Of course it is,' says my wife.
'I knew that,' I say.
I
carry on staring at the bottle. The problem is, now we've identified
its provenance, what do we do with this stupendous thing? Kingsley
Amis would argue that it must be drunk with food, but what kind of
food? Where is there a meal intimidating enough to serve this drink
with? I cooked a joint
of beef the other day and even that simplest of dishes turned
supertough, an epic of chewing as if we were trying to eat the
Goodyear dirigible. PK (natch) would decant it with full honours, and
drink it with or without food from a baby's-head-sized wine balloon,
striking attitudes as he went. I am half-minded to binge on the whole
thing and see what happens: I might break through to the 5th
dimension; I might go blind. In the end, I do nothing, of course. It
is just too significant a drink for me to handle. It is beyond my
competence.
At
which point I realise that I am already drinking something quite a
lot better than I am used to. It's red. It's had a moment to breathe.
I'm getting a nice musty, almost seaweedy nose, good balance of
tannins and acidity, entertaining finish. There is also a date on the
label and I had to pull a cork out to get at the grog in the first
place. Mildly horrified, I inspect the bottle further. It turns out
to be a Médoc,
Château
Haut-Bana. What on earth is that?
Did I buy
this? It costs the thick end of £9, almost twice my Platonic budget.
I am caught in the middle of The
Ipcress File
and I am not Michael Caine.
'Where
did this come from?' I bleat at my wife.
'Not
again,' she says.
CJ
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