Of fine wine and prose
For me, drinking an exceptionally fine wine is almost lustful. It’s a guilty pleasure in the almost forbidden and yet there is a noble beauty in its humble roots. Agriculture at its finest: simple grapes, fruits of the soil, coaxed lovingly to deliver the most precious of nectars. In its indulgent expense and ever-so-fleeting quality, a fine wine turns me into a character of Nabokovian quality. Observant, almost voyeuristic, desire burning, cheeks flushed, coy yet awestruck with some dumbfounded innocence, a warmth not far from love, frustrated at the finality of resources, appreciative of the uniqueness, grateful for the chance.
I can’t help but feel like Van, falling in love with Ada for the first time on that balcony. He observed the “classical beauty of clover honey, smooth, pale, translucent, freely flowing” — the texture and viscosity reminiscent of beautiful legs of wine running down the sides of the glass. “She considered him. A fiery droplet in the wick of her mouth considered him. A three-colored velvet violet, of which she had done an aquarelle on the eve, considered him from its fluted crystal.” It’s that urge that stems from sight and smell that prickles your lips as you gently swirl the liquid, inhaling the distinct perfumes.
As you bring up the glass to your lips, it’s much like your first kiss — clumsy and intoxicating. “Very lightly he let his parched lips travel… It was the sweetest, the strongest, the most mysterious sensation that the boy had ever experienced; nothing in his sordid venery of the past winter could duplicate that downy tenderness, that despair of desire.”
Dramatic as it may seem, one never forgets the incredible oenological moments. And, much like Van, the desire is progressive, cumulative. Everything else seems like winter in comparison. I can’t afford to indulge in this activity of fine wine on a regular basis, but the beauty of a great wine is that even for those with pockets so deep, each experience is singular and ephemeral. No two bottles are ever really the same. The moment you share with others at the table, at that time, drinking out of that very same bottle is what the French would call “insolite,” or a truly unusual encounter on the brink of wonderment.
Back to my days in Paris: at my first few classes at Le Cordon Bleu, the sommelier proudly announced that the reason why French wine was so great was that it was all in the hands of God, starting with the terroir, or the absolutely unique quality of that particular parcel of soil and the micro-climate that forms in the luscious, soft rolling hills. The absence of irrigation, allowing the vines to be at the mercy of the weather: “If it’s a bad year, so be it!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. “But a good year … it’s legendaire.” Legendary vineyards are gifted with the all the right conditions, producing exemplary wines and yet in this system the humble ones can also benefit from unpredictable and good savoir-faire, creating their own exceptional vintages.
Chateau Margaux has to be one of the most iconic vineyards in the world. Producing wines since the 12th century under the name La Mothe de Margaux, it is also one of the original four wines in Bordeaux to receive the Premier Cru status in 1855 and found diehard fans in the likes of Thomas Jefferson and grumpy old Ernest Hemingway, for whom it was a preferred companion: “I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was Chateau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company.”
The elegance of the chateau itself is unmistakable and a reflection of the wine. I remember on a rather blustery day walking through the vineyards of Margaux, my companion and I stumbled on the chateau. Empty yet regal. Closed up for the summer, dormant before the arduous harvest.
A few weeks back I had the privilege of attending a vertical wine tasting of Chateau Margaux’s wines at Shangri-La Makati’s Red, organized by the wildly epicurean brothers behind Bacchus International Inc., Alex and Clifford Lichaytoo. Thibaud Pontallier, the son of the chateau’s winemaker Paul Pontallier and representative for Chateau Margaux in Asia, held our hand throughout dinner, graciously explaining with enthusiasm each wine with restraint in order to allow us to discover for ourselves.
The Pavillon Blanc 2009 was a surprising revelation. Young yet sophisticated, pure Sauvignon Blanc with a rather unexpectedly rich and heady nose. Exotic fruits brightened by hints of citrus, like the young Tahitian women in Paul Gauguin’s paintings. Paired with a creamy lobster and scallop that had a controversial touch of vanilla, the nostalgic world of French colonialism collided happily in the mouth.
The dinner went on to showcase the Pavillon Rouge 2006, which reminded me of an agreeable dinner companion: not so complex and puts you at ease. Then came a parade of complexity leading all the way up to the Chateau Margaux 1989.
The Chateau Margaux 1999 had to be one of my favorites that evening. Black fruit, spices, an elegant young woman shining with confidence. It drank like an old friend or lover, whose complexities and stories were so familiar, enjoyable and yet still always exciting. It was a rather happy pairing with the bourgeois dish of duck breast and lentils. Again, familiarity cooked to tender perfection with the lusciousness of a pan-seared foie gras. My compliments to the chef, as it is difficult to get that crisp caramelized outside and tenderly pink inside.
Up for the battle of my heartstrings was the 1996. It is apparently Thibaud and his father’s preferred vintage. According to an anecdote in TheWineDoctor.com, Paul Pontallier, who is about to become a father again this year, told his wife sadly that the vintage was not going to be all that exceptional. But the weather changed and so did the vines. The most striking is its aroma — truly perfume-like, florals surpassing the fruits. Extremely feminine and arousing. A woman who is captivating, difficult to understand and whose heart is not easy to capture, but the right man can unravel all her mystery. I personally felt that it wasn’t her time. That perhaps she had not wanted to completely unveil herself to me. Jonathan, my fiancé, was completely smitten, on the other hand.
The much-awaited and heralded 1989 was excellent in its own right but outshone by the two younger vintages. The nose again more developed, a distinct minerality that I enjoy but not unlike a more mature, sophisticated lady, charming only when she feels like it, mostly aloof and regal, waiting for her chosen moment to shine. She wasn’t ready to come out of her boudoir and needed a few more moments before making a spectacular public appearance. I did, however, enjoy the pairing with the Emmenthal soufflé, as a good cheese can stroke the wine’s ego with a velvety cloth.
The evening ended in song, as the young Pontallier serenaded us with some French music. Cheeks were red and flushed, a tinge of silliness was in the air, along with the high of good wine, good food and good company. To quote Pontallier, “The difference between a good wine and a great wine is that a good wine gives you pleasure and a great wine gives you emotion.”
The same goes for food and people. And amidst the passionate, sometimes borderline forgivably pretentious discussions on wine, chefs, and food critics, there definitely was lot of both.
