A Super Second Wine, A Second Rate Me

Last night I drank my first 100 Parker pointer and it was, every drop, a perfect wine.  Because of my own deficiencies, I like to think that there is nothing duller than perfection – just think of the perfect images of Greek gods – Zeus, perfection personified, yet, with his rippling torso and smooth marble skin he’s not sexy is he? But I am wrong about the perfection thing, for this wine sparkled in its perfection, exuding elegance and energy.

So why all the despondency?  At breakfast, the men with whom I’d drunk the wine could barely stop for breath let alone butter their toast – all because of THAT wine.  “THAT wine if she were a woman, would be aristocratic, a Cambridge graduate, a beautiful Parisien.” I reached for more pastries and felt like a tart.  I topped up my coffee as their fantasies continued and hoped for a caffeine high.  My thoughts went back to the night before…

I was passed a glass of red to sample. It was a light, brick red, all the purple, bruised hues of youth had disappeared, to be replaced by autumnal tones.  It had to be Bordeaux.  Vintage Bordeaux. You just know (although you won’t say, just yet, just in case) There’s a connection at first sight, between you and the wine glass.  The smell confirmed my hopes (it’s definitely Bordeaux) that smell of music rooms, of reeds and resin, and dusty ivory keys. But the aromas and flavours of fruit were still present.  Blackberry, curranty fruit pointed with a blue stained finger to the left bank where Cabernet Sauvignon dominates the blends.

My eyes and nose powered through the gears, pedalling through possibilities, I couldn’t settle, I had to take a sip. It was so sturdy and yet so sweet, the evidence from the palate pushed my thoughts towards Pauillac.  And the vintage? It must’ve been an amazing year for the fruit to resonate still, hints of fresh fruit, amongst flavours of dried fruit and powdered spices, and there was an eerily fresh floral perfume, an autumnal wine smelling of spring?  The palate was exquisite, the tannins woven in so intricately, holding the fruit and acid together like lace, or a silky web, there was something so feminine, or feminist, about this wine - outwardly delicate yet possibly dangerous, the sweetness and the floral aromas belying subtle, and once very powerful tannins.

The finish was powerful too, there was no escaping this wine, not even when the glass was empty, the memory of the aromas and flavours lingered – just as I was to find out at the breakfast table the next morning. We’d all gone to sleep thinking about her, and awoke to talk about her.  Unforgettable.

The wine was Chateau Pichon-Longueville Comtesse De Lalande 1982. A legendary wine from one of the best vintages of last century.

So Parker has a point, some things are perfect, and compelling and profound in their perfection.  And when my green eyed monster departed the breakfast room, I was simply glad to have known her, I doubt I’ll get the chance to meet her again – and sadly I think, for my frail self esteem, it’s probably for the best.