So
another week goes by, and what have I drunk? A bottle of Waitrose's
bargain own-brand gutbucket rosé, which looked the part and was
great for about five seconds; and after that was like windscreen
washer additive, and yes, I have drunk windscreen washer additive,
lots of it. Then, a bottle of low-end CDR, in an attempt to put the
horrorshow of a couple of years ago truly behind me. This was so-so,
therefore an improvement on the rosé, but still tasted of sucked
pennies and coal gas. Finally a Riesling which crept in from
somewhere, again okay, but not really what I wanted, unless what I
wanted was flat Appletiser from a bottle the shape of a hoover
attachment.
I
look yearningly at my bottle of Sipsmith and contempate a zesty G &
T, but the great gin project has stalled, on account of the fact that
the Sipsmith is so expensive and precious, I can't bring myself to
drink any. It just sits there in its bottle, like ambergris. And the
whisky we nowadays acquire in catering-sized carboys leaves me a bit
cold, so nothing doing there.
Then,
a chance of redemption. What do I see written up in one of the freesheets which litters the morning train? Orange
wine.
Orange wine, as in leaving the white grape skins to macerate with the
juice, creating a salmon blush, rather than wine made from oranges;
which I could go for, too. Apparently, 'This trend has translated
into the mainstream', causing 'mass-market retailers' to stock 'more
than one variety of the amber nectar'. Well, if
there's one thing I love, it's a trend which translates into the
mainstream. These translating-into-the-mainstream orange wines are
'grippy', 'soft', 'approachable', 'earthy', 'honeyed' and 'completely
different'. They look fantastic in the pictures, tainted and
unnatural and oddly Victorian. They come from Georgia. Or Croatia.
Almost the first thing I do, several days later, is try and buy some.
I
check out a nearby M&S - the retailer mentioned in the newspaper
piece as stocking this stupendous drink - and they have scores of
presentable-looking wines, but nothing orange, and, now I think about
it, why would
they? I look around helplessly, as if I've lost something that
matters to me. I may even be talking aloud. Who, actually, wants
orange
wine?
Only someone utterly craven with boredom would give it more
than ten seconds' thought. But I have not only given it valuable
headroom, I have failed to observe one of the most basic rules of
wine-buying: that anything publicised in a newspaper will be
unobtainable the moment you take an interest in it. I know
that. If I could kick myself without flattening a nearby stack of
modularised M&S crostini
I would.
How
many times, I say to myself, aloud or under my breath, do I need to
be reminded that wine writing inhabits a parallel universe: one in
which cars are road-tested by magazines, but can never be ordered
from the manufacturers; non-existent programmes are earmarked as
essential by the TV guides; completely inaccessible holiday
destinations are routinely endorsed; must-have smartphone apps can
only be downloaded from the planet Neptune. It all comes back to that
pitiful convention, almost universally observed, which asserts that
much of the appeal of wine lies in its otherness, its refusal to be
bound by the normal laws of supply and demand - part foodstuff, part
artwork, part myth, wholly conoisseurial, real and abstract at the
same time. Obviously, if I thought anyone was reading Sediment,
I would try and do the same, and give them some preposterous fictitious hot tips just for the sheer heartless irony of it, but that's not
going to happen any time soon. So I am the mug punter, and I remain the mug punter.
Only
good thing: when I get home from the orange futility, I find that my
Bro-in-Law is set to do another of his booze runs. Yes, it's
horrorshow time again, only this
time I am going to get him
to pick the booze, because he is level-headed guy who knows his way
round a discount wine mart, and this
time
we are going to get through it unscathed. Orange wine! I can laugh at
the idea now!
CJ
Next
week - Cane toad wines: get ready for the great taste of summer
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