MUM
Dinner of the decade
I FIND it difficult to convince people of the hardness of the wine writer's lot — the physical and mental slog of vertical and horizontal tastings, the rigours of foreign travel in the company of PR persons selected for their sweetness of character and total ignorance of wine, above all the demands on the constitution exerted by frequent elaborate meals. I was reflecting on this at one such occasion recently, a dinner held at Sotheby's by the five pre- miers grands crus classes of the Medoc and Graves, with the great sauternes, Château d'Yquem.
We started with a tasting of a couple of relatively recent vintages (Latour showed the 1982 and the far-from-ready 1970) of the five great red châteaux. Subtle scents not connected with the wines swirled round the tasting rooms, and it was hard not to be distracted by Jerry Hall's legs, seeming, to the overheated imagination, to stretch up to the skylight. All the same, it was fascinating to contrast the subtle, civilised, ripe balance of Haut-Brion 1979 with the sheer power and extravagant bouquet of Latour 1982 and the sheer stylishness of Mouton-Rothschild 1981.
At dinner, cooked by Michel Roux, there was a procession of magnificent vintages, starting with the suave, mellow Haut-Brion 1961, moving through Mar- gaux 1953, exquisitely perfumed and per- fectly formed, Latour 1952, strong, firm and concentrated, Mouton-Rothschild 1949, the claret which made that old wine writer's cliché, the blackcurrant bouquet, leap out of the grave, back to Lafite 1945, a wine of regal authority and balance. It was an embarras de richesses if ever I have known one.
There was no embarrassing a blonde girl, with legs even longer than Jerry Hall's, and the sort of glasses with clear lenses which the heroines of Fifties Amer- ican films remove at an appropriate mo- ment to show they are not dull secretaries after all. `This wine of yours isn't at all bad,' she said to Philippe Cottin, directeur d'exploitation at Château Mouton- Rothschild. 'But it's not as good as the wine my father makes.' Following a polite enquiry from M. Cottin about the siting of her father's vineyard, she explained, `Oh no, he doesn't have a vineyard. He buys grape concentrate from Boots and fer- ments it in a bucket.' Later she made a
beeline for Comte Alexandre de Lur- Saluces, owner of Chateau d'Yquem, whose sensational, exotic 1970 vintage was served with the tarte tatin. 'Are you staying around in London for a few days?' Unfor- tunately not.' What a shame, you won't be able to come to my exhibition of rubber sculptures. I was just thinking we could make an exchange — one of my sculptures in return for a few cases of your wine.'
Those not seduced by the rubber sculp- tress could listen to Lord Gowrie waxing lyrical about the great flowering of French culture in the period between 1870 and 1914. Quite what this had to do with the premiers grands crus classes, which all started producing wine in the late 17th century and in the 1870s were fighting phylloxera, was anybody's guess. In fact the whole event was splendidly purpose- less, a celebration of splendour for splen- dour's sake.
Or so it seemed at the time. Later I realised that the châteaux were celebrating the end of the most prosperous decade in the history of wine, and especially of bordeaux. Anyone who goes there now must be amazed by its Xanadu-like aura of infinite wealth. Nature has blessed Bor- deaux with the most remarkable run of vintage in its history; 1989 has capped a glorious decade with the earliest harvest since 1893, and levels of sugar not seen in the lifetime of most vinifiers. Whether this will make it the vintage of the century is another matter. M. Godin, regisseur at Chateau Pichon-Lalande, thinks flatly to the contrary: '1989 is another 1982 — rich, fat wines, very full and attractive when young but overripe and lacking acidity.' I somehow doubt that such lonely voices of caution will have much impact when the 1989s open en primeur in the spring. Proprietors at several châteaux told me they were receiving orders for 1989 before the grapes were even picked, something unprecedented. `I just hope people round here don't go mad and bump up the prices too high,' commented Anthony Barton, a shining example of restraint. `The trouble is, they are people who don't need much encouragement to go mad.' When there are other people mad enough to pay £30 or £40 a bottle for wine not even in a bottle, I suppose you cannot entirely blame them.
Harry Eyres
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