A wine tasting with a difference
The local wine tastings I irregularly attend are as interesting for the effect of the wine as their quality. Last night we had a private cellar evening where attendees brought their own wine as well as the wine tutor.
There were ten present and at first a certain awkwardness as the wine tutor was preparing the charcuterie and cheese and no introductions could be made.
The lady next to me who was painfully thin spent the intro time on her mobile.
Another pair of males joked loudly.
An American with a shaggy beard who reminded me of the old broadcaster Fyfe Robertson had nervous body language.
Another mother father and son were involved in a Sussex winery co-op. A pair joined late, the woman proved to be highly knowledgeable.
The unease continued as the wine co-op group produced a local white and pink fizz – you are not allowed to call it champagne though Sussex fizz regularly wins competitions over the well known champagne marques.
The American had produced 4 bottles of sumptuous Gevrey Chambertin a high class burgundy. Burgundy has replaced Bordeaux as the high-end wine, so much so that a hectare of vineyard there goes for £50 million.
The American was asked to describe the wine. Rather nervously before dropping his bombshell he warned us that we may be offended. He certainly won over his audience.
He then lost them as he described the taste as like cunnilingus, elaborating that you start in the forest of Gevrey Chamberton and work your way through the smell of rotten leaves.
The group was less offended than aghast.
In my view the American had passed the tipping point you always reach when drink liberates or, some would say, unleashes coarseness. There is a neurological explanation for this: the censor in the brain is dulled by the alcohol.
The wine tutor moved the discussion swiftly along and I suspect the American was deeply embarrassed. He should have been.
I chose a Californian Cabernet Sauvignon on the basis that I had three others in my cellar, it was original, and at £12.50 sensibly priced.
At the end the American produced two half drunk bottles of Marc de Bourgogne, a rougher Cognac distilled from the Bourgogne grape or – in one bottle – leaves. We were spared more anatomical/sexual comparisons but its high alcohol content sent the group over the edge.
By 9.00pm I was happy to leave, always mindful that in an inebriated state I might either leave something behind or, worse, fall. It was an odd event. Some of the tips were of use – the thin lady White Burgundy from Morrisons at £8.50 was a snip.
Yet the evening left a strange after taste.
