by Julian Schultz
julian@oxfordwineroom.com
The hot sun glowered from the azure sky
and broiled the extensive green-grassed, colorfully flowered meadow of the Rhode
Island estate on this bright summer’s afternoon.
Uncustomary camaraderie added festivity to the annual Paulée picnic of
the usually reserved members of the Besotted Bacchanalians of the Unquenchable
Thirst. I was among the 65 members and significant others who comported
ourselves with counterfeit hail-fellow-well-met greetings, perfunctory
handshakes, insincere embraces, inconsequential chattering, superficial smiles,
mirthless laughter, and perfunctory kisses.
But no staid demeanor, no dour faces this afternoon as we gathered
about the huge ice filled tub that held the white wines – sparkling and still
-- and the long table with sentinels of red wines, both from different
countries. With wine glasses in one hand and hors d’oeuvres in the other we
inspected the bottles that were labeled with the names of their contributors.
Woe unto him responsible for an “inferior” wine!
Acceptable to the occasion were only acknowledged prestigious wines.
Acknowledged by whom? I mused. Just what determines a wine’s prestige? I
wondered. Yes, I read pontificating wine writers, egotistical wine evaluators,
self-conferred wine experts who bestow their assumed God-given gift of wine
expertise upon our credulous minds. Yes, we accept their imprimatur of this
wine’s prestige and of that wine’s plonk…often before we taste the wine.
Oh, what fools we mortals be!
I came to the picnic with a candidate for membership into this renowned
wine organization. He brought the ugly bottle…an Italian Bolla wine. And
thereby hangs a tale.
The
hierarchy of solemn red-robed, cone-hatted inquisitors had already interviewed
him. He ridiculed the process as being so ludicrous and artificial and pompous
that he considered his withdrawing his application. I asked him to explain,
although I had been similarly interviewed many years before.
This
is Jack Mack’s story:
“In my salad days when I was fresh and green my nose was always in
textbooks for chalk-fingered, tweedy professors who wore three-piece suits or
sport jackets and ties/bow ties in the early ‘60s and, yes, their trousers
were pressed. Today they look like skid row bums. I did not relish the agony of
their examinations.
“Later, when I gave tests, always without enthusiasm, I sought to
ascertain how much the students had learned – not what they didn’t
know. I designed my questions to give sharper focus to their knowledge and
to add to their information. No probing for the irrelevant that the graduate
would forget or discard in the world of reality.
“With these thoughts remembered, I traveled to Providence to be quizzed
on the world’s wine and wine growing regions by black-ringed-hollow-eyed,
ghastly white-faced, merciless interrogators. I could well imagine their
malevolently wringing their hands at the gleeful prospect of skewering me with
their questions. I was to taste a variety of blind-bagged wines, be questioned
about them and be expected to evaluate them in detail. I would be asked to
discourse on the history of the Besotted Bacchanalians organization.
“What specific questions would they ask? Should I elaborate my answers?
I decided just to relax, to enjoy the wines, and to not restrain my replies.
“A voice that echoed from the crypt asked me about the origin of the
name ‘Chambertin’. I swung away at that fat pitch like a home run slugger
jumping on a t’ree-an’-nuttin’ fastball in the groove.
“I said it derived its name from a farmer named Bertin in whose field,
or ‘champs’, the grapes grew. And I add gratuitously that the wine was
reputed to have been a favorite of Napoleon. A voice in dry muffled monotone
advised me to please answer succinctly.
“I protested that there was more, and I didn’t heed the injunction to
stick to the facts, ‘only the facts, Jack Mack.’ So I continued as the room
became ominously silent.
“Did you know,” I
continued, “that when Napoleon marched to the Chambertin vineyards from either
direction, he commanded his troops to halt, to do a left-or-a-right-face to
overlook the row of vines, to honor the fields with a volley of rifle fire, to
stand rigidly at attention and hold an extra long salute, and then in sweet song
to extol the magnificence of Chambertin wine before they marched on?
“The impatient examiner thumped the table and snarled, ‘that’s
fine, Mr. Jack Mack. But just answer the questions…and fetter your truant
tongue!’
“Wait a minute, I’m not finished yet,” I insisted, and I resumed my
explanation, a full wind now blowing my sails: ‘Alexandre Dumas – he of
Monte Cristo fame – also loved Chambertin and partook of it frequently with
literary friends. He insisted that one rule be followed: Guests were required to
kneel bareheaded before the bottle when it was set on the table and to silently
pray long life for lovers of Chambertin and, likewise, long life for the wine.
Now…here’s another story about ---”
I interrupted, saying the wine was Montrachet not Chambertin that Dumas
revered.
Jack’s narrative was in full flight now; he nodded agreeably,
“Whatever you say, Julian! Anyway, you should have heard one exasperated
interrogator croak hoarsely, ‘Enough! That’s damned well enough already! We
don’t want to hear any more! For god’s sake, when are you going to shut up?!
Just clam up and now answer yes to the following questions’:
“In
solemn, ominous tones: ‘Do you renounce all inebriating, debilitating grain
spirits and blue-collar, low-life’s quaffing beer?’
“I answer ‘yes’, and a bell tolls. Next question was, do I scorn
all wines that cost under $13.99 and all wines, except German whites, that are
under 11 percent alcohol? I nod, yes, and a bell tolls again.
“I am asked if I pledge to espouse with heart, soul, and male organ the
grandeur of only the noble grapes…I am now tired of all this stuff and
nonsense and shout, ‘Yes, yes! I do, I do! I swear it before God and Monica
Lewinsky!’ An ear-bustin’ blare of bugles resounds throughout the room and
an eye-popping flourish of nude strumpets dance into the room through one door,
with bouncing breasts and buttocks, and out from another door before – curses!
-- I was able get a protracted prurient look. This indicated that I was
confirmed as a Bacchanalian-in-waiting.”
Interrupting our conversation was an enraged and agonized scream from His
Most Besotted Grand High…High-Bacchus. He clutched aloft a bottle of red wine:
“What varlet, what vermin, what worm, what cockroach, had the temerity to
include -- to include…to include…this ugly bottle…a…a…a…a Bolla
wine?!!!!!
He clutched at his heart, his face turned ashen gray, his well-trimmed
short red beard of stiff formal cut became suddenly white and hung limply from
his chin.
Jack Mack jumped on a chair and declaimed for all of us to hear that he
proudly had brought this stupendous Bolla wine, and in no way should it be
confused with Soave Bolla; that this Bolla ‘Creso’ Cabernet Sauvignon 1996,
$26.99 after discount, was world class with assertive aromas and flavors of
black stone fruits, cassis, vanilla, nuts, chocolate, cigar box, pine, prunes,
oak, burley-Q strippers’ sweat, and sweet leather – a considerably complex
wine to die for and take to heaven with you.
Stony silence as three physicians were administering to the Grand
High…High Bacchus. One doctor approached Jack and said that the Grand
High…High-Bacchus might well be on his way to the pearly gates, and did Jack
have another bottle handy for the Grand High…High-Bacchus to take with him.
Jack turned to me and, shaking is head, said, “This organization may
not be comfortable for me. Too goddamned pretentious. Since I arrived all I’ve
had to listen to are supercilious stuffed shirts and stuffed blouses, whom I
can’t abide, especially as some of them remind me of me. These primping
palateers are big-league wine snobs who flaunt big egos and disdain me as an
amateur.
“Some of these people are professional wine snobs. I can’t
countenance their avidly discussing among themselves, but loudly enough to be
overheard, terroir soils and climate and vineyard lie, yeast strains,
barrel preparation, vineyard quality ratings, and the peculiar sexual
proclivities of winemakers’ mistresses.
“Some invited guests here are members of an uppity Boston wine club
with their self-important wives, one of whom announced they were fanatical
Champagne aficionados and that anyone who wasn’t one was a bare-assed country
bumpkin in the elite world of wine. Was she sneering at me?
“Later I chortled with derision when I observed her furiously swirling
her glass of sparkling wine – a sin of the highest magnitude because it
hastens the departure of the wine’s fizz and foam. As you know, with still
wine – yes, to raise the bouquet. But never with bubbly.
“I retreated from this group and joined the Bacchanalians. Knowing that
I was a potential member, they asked for my comments about some wines that I was
sipping. Some members became hysterical, others looked at me disapprovingly,
when I said that the Australian Magill Shiraz was equal- or superior- to a Rhone
Cote Rotie Syrah. I demurred, smiling, saying that I don’t drink wine labels
or reputation.”
As lovely music wafted through the meadow, Jack turned to me: “Listen,
Julian, to that piped in classical music – elegant, reflecting the sought
after ambience of this picnic. That gives me an idea. I think I’ll play wine
snob one-upmanship with the annoying Bacchanalians I just left and stick a pin
into the balloons of their inflated egos. Come along and listen.”
Jack approached the group of members he had just left, asking innocently,
“Wouldn’t you agree that Loire’s Marquis de Goulaine Muscadet style is
Mozart, Mondavi’s Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon is Brahms, and New Zealand’s
Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc is Chopin’s Preludes and Nocturnes?”
Jack and I turned away to conceal our laughter as we observed their
saucer-d eyes, gaping mouths and heard their wheezing gasps for breath. I patted
his back and whispered, “You kicked ass all right, Jack.”
We approached the wine table, where the Grand High…High-Bacchus seemed
to have recovered. Grimacing, he addressed Jack: “Well, old chap, I will taste
your er…ugh…Bolla whatever.”
He inspected the “Creso” cab. Feigning reluctance, he sardonically
rolled his eyes and hesitantly poured a small spill into his wine glass.
Frowning with concentration he sighted, swirled, sniffed…hesitantly
uncertain…tasted with trepidation, swallowed. His eyes flew open. His face
became blood red. Purple veins protruded from his forehead. He staggered. He
opened his mouth to speak; no words came forth. He reeled, and to prevent his
falling clutched onto bare mid-riffed, mini-mini skirted Lola Awlwayz Liessupine.
He poured an increased amount into his glass; slowly sipped the larger
draught; involuntarily jerked himself rigidly, stone ossified erect. The
observing physicians rushed to him. One asked with deep concern what was wrong;
another doctor tried to take his pulse; the third doctor tamped his forehead
with a cold wet napkin from the ice bucket.
The Grand High…High-Bacchus impatiently waved them away and addressed
the crowd that had gathered:
“This wine, this Bolla wine, this Italian parent of…ugh…Soave
is…is…is magnificent! Magnificent!! Mag-nif-i-cento!!! What a divine wine
revelation has been bestowed upon us this day.”
His beard restored to its normalcy, he turned to Jack and extended his
hand. “I humbly apologize to you, old chap. There is a lesson for all of us to
be learned here this afternoon: Don’t permit taste palate pooping prejudice to
pooh-pooh the propensity of your palate and abrogate your spirit of wine
adventure.”
The Bolla bottle was snapped from the table and eager wine glasses were
proffered for what were miniscule pours. Sustained applause, wine toasts, and
hearty congratulations were directed at Jack.
Jack, deeply moved, said that…well, after all, he guessed he wouldn’t
withdraw his application for membership.
The ringing phone roused me from my
dream in my deep midday nap. It was good friend, good physician Dr. Bob
Ouellette. “Get ready now,” he said. “I’ll be picking you up for this
afternoon’s Chevalier du Tastevin Paulée picnic, and don’t forget to bring
a Chambertin – only a Grand Cru, mind you.”
Wine Pick: Bonny Doon’s The Heart has its Rieslings 2002, around $15.
Sweet, tart, crisp with zinging acidity, it has sufficient sweetness to keep it
properly balanced. Nose and palate luxuriate with aromas and flavors of pear,
green apple, mango, kiwi, and grapefruit. One taster agreed it had subtle lemon
candy nuance.
Wine Pick: Rancho Zabaco Sauvignon Blanc 2002, around $20. Enjoy aromas
of lime peel, lemongrass, and sweet pea that are matched to flavors of
grapefruit and passion fruit and are enhanced with subtle mineral underlay. With
unusual elegance, character and length, this expressive interpretation of the
varietal grape is a cut above others. Trace of semillon adds complexity.
Wine Pick: Wolffer Estate La Ferme Martin Merlot 2000, around $13.50.
Superb wine from New York’s chic Hamptons vineyards, this medium-bodied,
traditionally- crafted soft red wine offers loads of rich fruit, velvety tannins
with hints of spice, tobacco and black pepper. An eye-opening, palate-quickening
revelation from our East Coast!
Wine Pick: Midnight Cellars Chardonnay 2000, around $15. This 13.9
percent biggie is perfectly balanced with ripe fruits, fruit acids, spices,
creamy viscosity and texture. Revel in its lively zesty acidity, superb fruit of
apples, citrus, and tropical fruits. Judged the outstanding wine in local
domestic chardonnay tasting last fall.
Wine Pick: Terra d’Oro Syrah 2000, around $18. This is some
wine, all right, all right! Meaty, smoky bacon-like aromas and flavors combine
with ripe black fruits and complex spices; balanced with acid underlay and
tannin spine. Ready for current drinking, this syrah is also a keeper. Highly
recommended.
Email Comments to Julian at:
julian@oxfordwineroom.com