Lente, lente currite noctis equi. It only seems five minutes ago that I was devoting this column to the most important intellectual problem in the western canon — the oenophile’s equivalent of the Matterhorn — which red wine to drink with grouse. But the immortal gods are relentless; Phoebus Apollo has spurred on the seasons and, once again, a shy young grouse graces my plate. To eat one so soon after the Twelfth — is this not culinary paedophilia? Should I not be on a register?
Well, gentle reader, I overcame my inhibitions, especially as the succulent infant, compensating in sweetness for the grosser tastes of hanging, was accompanied by a Vosne-Romanée 2002, Premier Cru les Rouges, Dme Jean Grivot. In tribute to the wine, the conversation turned to the late Auberon Waugh. In his era, Burgundy could be a very different drink. Pinot noir is a great and subtle grape. It can also be furtive, elusive and teasing, as befits its caressing femininity. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Why not: thou art every bit as fickle.’
In Bron’s young day, Burgundy was equally unpredictable. Many vignerons, unwilling to tolerate feminism in their vineyards, summoned reinforcements. If the pinot noir was complaining of a headache, throw in other local grapes with plenty of body, or even some Algerian plonk. The results varied. Thirty years ago, some thoroughly inadequate wines appeared under serious Burgundian colours. But there were also black, resonant, deep-lain Burgundies, often brought to market by the house of Avery in Bristol, which fully justified the vignerons’ legerdemain. The EU has put a stop to all that, which is a pity. Clearly, if a wine claims to be made from pinot noir harvested at the relevant Burgundian domaines, that should be an honest statement. But why should the Burgundians not be allowed to blend as they like, so long as they declare the fact on their labels?
Thinking of Bron took me back to circa 1990 and much the worst mistake he ever made. Usually, his wine offers in this magazine were massively reliable, but there was one exception. He must have been drunk at the time. How else would he have recommended a peach champagne?
Robert Cranborne (as he then was) bought some. He rapidly regretted the purchase. Even his wife and daughters would not drink it. But there was a solution. During a Bournemouth party conference, he was giving lunch to some Eastern Europeans. For the previous few decades, they had been half-starved and wholly thirsted. After all those years drinking nothing better than rotgut made from old car tyres, they would surely be delighted with peach champagne?
So they might well have been, but for a hideous strategic error. Robert also invited Nicholas Soames. Having seized a foaming beaker in his massive fist and then pronounced a number of toasts, of varying obscenity, Soamsy married the liquid to his lips. A quarter of a way through the first almighty glug, he appeared to discover a lawful impediment. There was a volcanic splutter, such as might have erupted from Leviathan if Jonah had gone down the wrong way: ‘Eeuugh, this is disgusting. Robert, how could you ask us to drink it?’ Curiously enough, Nicholas did not stop doing so. After draining the first glass, he thrust out his receptacle. ‘Robert, this is filthy. It’s quite revolting.’ With that, he seized a bottle, overflowed his glass, sconced the contents, and continued to excoriate them.
The dilemma of the peach champagne was solved. It disappeared as if it had never been. But some bewildered East Europeans had to be persuaded that it had indeed been delicious, and that Nicholas Soames had merely been indulging in the English sense of humour.
So, of course, he was. Nick Soames is the English sense of humour.
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