20 million bottles can't be wrong
Jonathan Ray on why champagne is still regarded as the real thing R.S, SURTEES's bucolic hero, John Jorrocks, declared that 'champagne certainly gives one werry gentlemanly ideas', and there is no doubt that I felt delusions of grandeur stirring within me the other week as I strolled towards the little private plane that sat shimmering on the tarmac at RAF Northolt, waiting to whisk me Champagnewards. I had been asked by my old chum George Atkinson-Clark, the managing director of Ruinart UK, to accompany him and a quartet of other scribblers to Reims to sample the company's new non-vintage Blanc de Blanes, launched in the UK last week. I jumped at the chance: Ruinart is the oldest of all the champagne houses — founded in 1729 — and it produces excellent wines, second only to the mighty Bollinger in my affections.
Our mode of travel appealed to me greatly. On my last visit to the region a few months ago, I had slummed it in steerage on a scheduled flight to Paris and thence by train to Reims. On this occasion, however, I was using London's premier celebrity airport, just as the royal family, movie stars and returning Great Train Robbers do. Not only that; our swanky little eight-seater plane wasn't going to leave until we decided that we were ready, and to slake our thirst George had, very thoughtfully, stashed a case of champers in the hold.
This, I felt, was the height of glamour, and envious friends had been basking in my reflected glory all week. I nicked my wife's Ray-Bans, brushed all my teeth and prepared to look cool. Sadly, there were no paparazzi to witness our departure, but not wanting to waste the aloof and enigmatic look that I had been practising for days, I threw the solitary RAF corporal on duty a no-autographsplease glance to which, bafflingly, he
responded by saying, 'Feeling all right, matey?'
It began to go wrong for me quite quickly, the essential trouble being that in all the excitement I had completely forgotten that I'm terrified of flying, and really had no business at all being in a shoebox on wheels, several thousand feet up in the blustery — very blustery — air. As my stomach tried to batter its way past my epiglottis, I remembered the response of a fellow aerophobe who, when asked why he never flew, replied, 'I prefer terra firma, and the firmer the less terror.' It was hot, it was noisy, it was cramped and, boy, it was bumpy. My Ray-Bans disappeared on hitting the first air-pocket, and my composure did likewise on hitting the second. My glass of chilled rosé champagne was no solace at all, largely because most of it ended up in my lap and I hadn't the strength to cope with the proffered refill. I was beginning to find being glamorous rather hard work.
But glamour is what champagne is all about. We Brits remain in the grip of a love affair with bubbly, and we continue to be champagne's largest export market. In 2000 we drank more than 20 million bottles of the stuff, and, as a trivia-loving wine buff told me recently, that meant a champagne cork was popped once every 1.5 seconds throughout the year. I was surprised, largely because there are now so many other excellent sparkling wines on the market to choose from, the best of which are better than many champagnes: top-quality Blanquette de Limoux or sparkling Vouvray from France, for example, Pelorus or Deutz from New Zealand, Green Point from Australia, Mumm Cuvee Napa from California, or even — titter ye not — the remarkable Nyetimber from Sussex, a sparkler of great style which has been festooned with awards.
But we continue to drink champagne because of its lustre and allure, not necessarily because of its quality. Of course, houses such as Bollinger, Krug, Roederer, Ruinart and Veuve Clicquot, to name a few, make superb wines of the highest rank, but they bear little relation to the many raw, acidic wines that masquerade under the name of champagne, and that do nothing to enhance the region's reputation.
A straw poll among friends in the wine
trade suggested that almost none of them would feel hard done by if obliged to drink sparkling wine instead of champagne, but they were unanimous in admitting that were they to give something fizzy to someone else — especially someone on whom they had designs — they would invariably buy champagne, because the name, the image and the very idea of champagne are special. It is this, one could argue, that has led the Champenois to be rather complacent of late, as they continue to rely on the fact that it remains slightly infra dig to serve mere sparkling wine instead of champagne at celebrations.
The point is that champagne, whatever its quality, still spells glamour and, despite the claims of other sparkling wines, no birthday, wedding, christening or Valentine's Day seduction is complete without it. It is perceived as the sexiest and most enchanting of drinks, and when the person sitting on your sofa allows you to pour them a glass of rosé champagne at 1 a.m., you just know that you've cracked it. Even uncorking a bottle is suggestive, and I well remember my late uncle instructing me in the art. 'It should come out, not with a loud report, dear boy, but with the sigh of a well-satisfied woman.' he declared, smirking. (Not that he knows what that sounds like,' muttered my eavesdropping aunt over his shoulder.) It is true that fine champagne has a knack of making one feel good about oneself in a way that no other drink can — with the possible exception of a perfectly made dry martini — and that it gives an instant lift to the spirits. Noel Coward, when asked why he drank champagne every morning at breakfast, replied, 'Doesn't everyone?' But for the best results one's consumption of it needs to be conspicuous: envious glances need to be drawn. As Tony Blair recently demonstrated, there's no point in wearing Calvin Klein underwear if nobody knows. Similarly, what's the point of drinking champagne if nobody notices? I would drink one of the handful of great champagnes at the drop of a hat, but I would tolerate one of the lesser, all-grindno-pepper ones only if I thought that someone was watching. In the privacy of my own home, I would rather have a bottle of Green Point, thank you very much, unless, of course, I had a bottle of Bollinger RD or Dom Ruinart handy.
We had a stomach-churningly bumpy flight back to Northolt. One of our party spent the entire journey hunched over an expectant sick-bag while we sat watching him nervously, knowing that as soon as he succumbed we would all follow suit in shoe-splattering unison. Nevertheless, I reflected, I was on a private plane, I was drinking chilled Ruinart rosé and, my intense discomfort and queasy stomach notwithstanding, I would rather brag to my mates about this trip than the time I took a Network South East train to Nyetimber.
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