Went to a
wine tasting last week, hosted by a Master of Wine. There are only about 300
around. Fancy that!
It was held
in a local church hall where, by some remarkable quirk of irony, the next room
was booked for a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.
You could
spot the ones coming in to the tasting; they looked happy and full of
expectation for a boozy good night out. The sad expressions turning left headed
for the AAs knees up. We were under strict instructions not to leave any half
bottles or undrunk wine hanging around, although the aromas wafting over next
door on a hot evening must have seemed like the Temptation of Christ.
As I helped
put out the cheese and biscuits the organiser’s wife ruefully looked at the
gathered throng quaffing their tasting sample of a Spanish prosecco and
commented-
“I wonder if
some of us lot will eventually turn up next door”. Hmm.
Anyway,
alcohol and stories do go together rather well and this chap was full of them,
recounting an old codger at a port tasting, who, swilling a sample round his
mouth and preparing to spit out, missed the spittoon and splattered the back of
another chap in front of him. To cover his embarrassment he shamelessly
exclaimed, “Corked!”
Apart from
the speaker, nobody there was doing any spitting, but then they never do. When
I tried it once at the choral society’s wine do I was roundly told off for
wasting “damn good claret” by an ageing bass.
By the end
of the evening we were all pretty much singing from the same song sheet. As I
listened to the speaker drone on about vinification, volatile esters and
residual sugar, I wafted off into a reverie about my eldest’s career prospects.
Now he works on the edge of viticultural possibilities, in a very prestigious
wine emporium in London.
Twirling and
sniffing a delicious Chateauneuf du Pape I found myself stoked up with
alcoholic ambitions for my offspring. All mothers do, but my matchmaking
machinations would put Jane Austin’s mère Bennett’s in the shade. What if my
little Pip were to marry some Estella with a couple of hundred premium hectares
to her name? It would have to be a top end estate, none of your lower case
Chiantis or second division Fleuries. Better Google the Bordeaux chateaux and
research eligible offspring.
I’m
not having my boy marrying into any old plonk.
What, Wine
snob? Moi?
No, no, not
at all. I always go for quality.
I’d promise
to stay sober for the wedding and then look forward to bouncing a couple of
first growths on my knee. And should granny’s babysitting duties be curtailed
due to her increased instability, and the residual effects of imbibing copious Merlots over the years, well they can
always send me to a luxury nursing home.
As long as I keep getting regular visits and deliveries of cases of my Grand
Cru claret I’d be quite happy. Emulating old Lily Bollinger, I shall, “Only drink champagne when I’m happy, and when I’m sad. Sometimes I
drink it when I’m alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I
trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never
touch it – unless I’m thirsty.”
They say the
life expectancy is longer for those who occasionally indulge, rather than
teetotallers.
Well, best
to shuffle off this mortal coil with a smile on one’s face. As long as I don’t
end up like the Duke of Clarence, who drowned in a Butt of Malmsey.
Bet he
wasn’t expecting to enjoy a wine tasting quite like that.
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