Blind tasting explodes a lot of myths about wine that should well and truly have been exploded by now – usually bald claims about the impossibility of identifying a certain wine, or about other wines being unmistakable, or about how the New World is not a patch on the Old, and so on. I am always especially fascinated by the result of group blind wine tastings, where the conclusions of several people in relation to a wine presented blind say more about it than 100 back-labels ever could. Sunday was no exception, when I presented a bracket of 6 to this year’s batch of blind tasters at Oxford. Here are my notes on the wines, together with what the group said.
2006 Grove Mill Sauvignon Blanc (Marlborough, New Zealand)
Very pale, with a green tinge and appealing clarity. The nose is pungent, showing intense grassy aromas and a certain celery-salt herbaceousness. The palate is very clean and high in acid. Although it shows some tropicality, it is definitely at the herbaceous end of the spectrum, finishing with a clean mineral streak. All but one of the 10 or so of us there identified it as Sauvignon Blanc, but interestingly only two put it in New Zealand, and only one in Marlborough. Of the others, Sancerre was the common consensus, but personally I thought it was classic Marlborough (although of course I knew what it was beforehand). I do, however, see the point of the one candidate who placed the wine in Pouilly Fumé, which to me is the vigorous, slightly aggressive appellation that most closely approaches New Zealand in style, although personally I didn’t pick up any of Pouilly Fumé’s characteristic smokiness on this wine.
2004 Domaine Roches Pouilly Fuissé
Mid gold. On the nose, a heavy influence of New French Oak, manifesting itself in heady aromas of butterscotch and caramel, with some faint stone fruit and candied orange underneath. In the mouth the wine is as round and voluptuous as any number of fatties that Gok Wan can try to make look good naked (except with the curves in the right place for a change). I suspected that everyone would put it in the New World, but happily all but one had this squarely in Burgundy. An oxidative hint together with the heavy oak influence led one person to speculate that it was white Rioja. Close, but no cigar. I’ve made that mistake myself on a couple of occasions, but the oak was clearly French and there was none of the spicy, sherryish character that one associates with white Rioja.
2005 Hugel Gewurtztraminer (Alsace)
Light and clear, with a tinge of green, and hanging quite heavily in the glass, as one would expect. Highly aromatic – pear, lychee and orange zest on the nose, with rosewater and Turkish delight joining in on a fairly unctuous, oily palate, finishing slightly bitter. No prizes for identifying this one – and a good thing too, because everyone got it right.
2006 Wild Rock ‘Cupid’s Arrow’ Pinot Noir (Central Otago, New Zealand)
Mid- to dark-red, but still translucent. The nose has some dusty new oak on it, together with some sweet red fruit and a bit of alcoholic heat. The palate shows forward non-descript red fruit, together with pinot’s sappy greenness. Of the majority who correctly identified it as Pinot, only one had it in New Zealand, the others placing it in Burgundy, probably on account of the lack of purity on the nose rather than because it was stellar in any way. One had it in Beaujolais, although to me it wasn’t at all confected, as would be usual there. Interestingly, two very good tasters had it as Cotes du Rhone. Personally I would probably never have thought this, although it’s an interesting guess. I always think of Grenache as being heavy and “purple fruits” dominant, although I admit this is usually the case where it is heavily blended with other heavyweight Rhone grapes. One quickly forgets that in the more generic Rhone appellations, the wines can become thin in both colour and flavour, bringing Grenache closer to Pinot than one would usually expect to occur.
2006 Chapoutier ‘Les Meysonniers’ Crozes Hermitage
Dark red-purple. Jammy, confected nose, with the palate showing crunchy purple fruit, blackberry, boiled lollies and a tiny hint of white pepper. Guesses were all over the shop with this (only one person correctly identifying it as Crozes), but this is pretty unsurprising given how young the wine is. Its voice is nowhere near broken yet – the 2004 was still on the shelves only a matter of weeks ago. Interestingly, a critical mass of people mistook it for Loire Cabernet Franc. This surprised me, but I can sort of see the case for it now, with the tight, crunchy fruit, high acid and a certain leafiness to it as well.
2002 Petaluma Coonawarra
Ah, the welcoming scent of home. Opaque. Loads of mint on the nose, over layers of dusty oak and rich cassis. Cedarwood comes through on the palate with rich brambly fruit, dense fruit layers and ripe tannins. A unanimous verdict for Australian Cabernet Sauvignon (which of course it was), although interestingly the merlot content is virtually absent on the palate despite forming 49% of the blend. Happily for me, everyone said they liked it (most thinking it was the best wine of the tasting), even though they knew all along that it was Australian. No prejudices in this year’s group. That’s what I like to see!
Afterwards we went to the Anchor for dinner. Thumbs up for the steak and kidney pudding; thumbs firmly down for the thin, acidic Barbera d’Asti on the wine list.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
In defence of being "an accountant"
I have wandered the Earth a troubled soul for the last month or so. You see, I felt personally wounded when Ch’ng Poh Tiong wrote in last month’s Decanter magazine “I’ve always thought that great pinots are loved by poets and masochists and that cabernets are preferred by accountants and new millionaires.” As one who, when forced to make a decision, sides with the cabernet lovers, my throat began to tighten and tears began to well in my eyes, having effectively been told by a fairly well respected wine writer that I was no more than a new-money, Zegna-suit wearing, Subaru-WRX driving, Aqua-di-Gio smelling, Tony & Guy visiting, lowbrow-highbrow piece of filth. I haven’t been so crushed since Renee Dodd came up to me in the playground in year 4 and said “You’re ugly.”
I’ve always thought it was pretty self-serving for the pinot crowd to play the Emperor’s New Clothes “Not everyone is capable of experiencing all that finesse” card. We claret-o-philes should just band together and say the same thing. “Oh, claret is way more complex then Burgundy… you just don’t appreciate it”. Notwithstanding this, I had to face facts. Was I really going to spend the rest of my days unable to appreciate the alleged zenith of the wine world? Would I be forever unable to witness the poetic soul of red Burgundy? And how much Burgundy had Ch’ng Poh had to drink before he wrote this article? I suspect that anyone capable of writing “Pinot is a more philosophical grape. Not just any philosophy but that of the Tao… The cabernet…is more Confucian, more conservative, more of an ‘obey your emperor and father’ sort of wine” must be at least slightly too charioted by Bacchus and his pards to have meant it in complete seriousness.
Then I woke up this morning, and like a lightning bolt, it hit me. “Wait on a minute, Ch’ng Poh, mate”, I thought, “Most poetry is fucking shithouse!” And then I felt rather jolly for the rest of the day.
Oh, yes, if Burgundy is anything like most of the poetry I’ve read in my life, you can have it. In Paris a couple of years ago I went to a poetry reading at Shakespeare & Co, a place where wannabe poets and novelists gather on Sunday afternoons to drink free tea out of vases and jam jars (which I must admit is rather fun) and read out stuff of theirs to any idiot who will listen. I was chatting to a woman with a sock on her head who lamented continuously about how her one-eyed dog, Mont Blanc, kept getting rejected from auditions to star in dog-food commercials. Luckily (or so I thought) this little story was interrupted for a reading of a poem from a woman who had just returned from Amsterdam. It went “Whores in the window! Whores in the window! Fat ones! Skinny ones! Whores in the window!” So courageous. So evocative. Oh yes, it really takes a special type of person to appreciate that sort of nuance.
Unfortunately, recalling this experience only gets me half of the way there, because of course just because there are people out there who think they’re clever because they can explain that “fate” is an anagram of “feat”, this doesn’t negate the obvious greatness of the Yeatses of the world, who without doubt have vinous equals in Burgundy. I will admit that I can recall specific Burgundies on specific occasions that were nothing short of legendary – entirely individual wines that simply could not be imitated. For example, I recall a 2000 Nuits St Georges 1er Cru Clos de l’Arlot (I don’t recall the producer) – the first serious Burgundy I had tried, and that has lived with me ever since. Brick red, with a leafy, almost cabernet like nose (ironically), with a hint of ash. The palate was rich and full, with pepper, bacon and dark fruits with a warm hint of chocolate on the finish. Finesse and power. Fruity, yet savoury. Warm but delicate. It was a wine that changed with every sip. Yet of the 53 pinot noirs that I have bothered to write tasting notes of over the last 2 years (leaving the mound that I didn’t bother with), I can count on the fingers of less than half a hand the other Burgundies that have impressed me as much. Against that, of the 100 cabernets I have written tasting notes for over the last 2 years, I have been moved in a similar way more times than I can remember. True, no particular wine stands out the way that Clos de l’Arlot did, but that’s probably a case of “too many good clarets” rather than the Burgundy being so much better.
So at the end of the day, if I have to sit through 52 whores in the window before I get one terrible beauty being born, then I’m afraid I will walk away from those odds, thanks, particularly since there’s so much good stuff on offer in the Bordeaux stable. True it is that an annoying number of new money accountants buy it, but be that as it may, the exotic perfume of an old Margaux could easily challenge the poetry of a Gevrey Chambertin, and where in Burgundy will you find something to trump the orotund voice of majestic, structured Pauillac, saying “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair”? Bordeaux is SO much a safer bet than Burgundy, and pays out equally handsomely, whether in the poetry stakes or otherwise.
This is particularly relevant because I am not yet someone who has unlimited wealth to spend on Grand Cru Burgundy and classed growth claret, and I’m not currently in a position even to drink much on weekdays. So when I open a bottle of wine, I want it to be fucking good. I don’t want to run the risk of its being some £40 mouldy thin piss that poets say smells like “truffles” when it really smells like cardboard.
But don’t take my word for the above. It was, after all, John Keats himself who said “Let my friends drink a case of claret around my grave.” If it was good enough for him, then it’s good enough for me.
I’ve always thought it was pretty self-serving for the pinot crowd to play the Emperor’s New Clothes “Not everyone is capable of experiencing all that finesse” card. We claret-o-philes should just band together and say the same thing. “Oh, claret is way more complex then Burgundy… you just don’t appreciate it”. Notwithstanding this, I had to face facts. Was I really going to spend the rest of my days unable to appreciate the alleged zenith of the wine world? Would I be forever unable to witness the poetic soul of red Burgundy? And how much Burgundy had Ch’ng Poh had to drink before he wrote this article? I suspect that anyone capable of writing “Pinot is a more philosophical grape. Not just any philosophy but that of the Tao… The cabernet…is more Confucian, more conservative, more of an ‘obey your emperor and father’ sort of wine” must be at least slightly too charioted by Bacchus and his pards to have meant it in complete seriousness.
Then I woke up this morning, and like a lightning bolt, it hit me. “Wait on a minute, Ch’ng Poh, mate”, I thought, “Most poetry is fucking shithouse!” And then I felt rather jolly for the rest of the day.
Oh, yes, if Burgundy is anything like most of the poetry I’ve read in my life, you can have it. In Paris a couple of years ago I went to a poetry reading at Shakespeare & Co, a place where wannabe poets and novelists gather on Sunday afternoons to drink free tea out of vases and jam jars (which I must admit is rather fun) and read out stuff of theirs to any idiot who will listen. I was chatting to a woman with a sock on her head who lamented continuously about how her one-eyed dog, Mont Blanc, kept getting rejected from auditions to star in dog-food commercials. Luckily (or so I thought) this little story was interrupted for a reading of a poem from a woman who had just returned from Amsterdam. It went “Whores in the window! Whores in the window! Fat ones! Skinny ones! Whores in the window!” So courageous. So evocative. Oh yes, it really takes a special type of person to appreciate that sort of nuance.
Unfortunately, recalling this experience only gets me half of the way there, because of course just because there are people out there who think they’re clever because they can explain that “fate” is an anagram of “feat”, this doesn’t negate the obvious greatness of the Yeatses of the world, who without doubt have vinous equals in Burgundy. I will admit that I can recall specific Burgundies on specific occasions that were nothing short of legendary – entirely individual wines that simply could not be imitated. For example, I recall a 2000 Nuits St Georges 1er Cru Clos de l’Arlot (I don’t recall the producer) – the first serious Burgundy I had tried, and that has lived with me ever since. Brick red, with a leafy, almost cabernet like nose (ironically), with a hint of ash. The palate was rich and full, with pepper, bacon and dark fruits with a warm hint of chocolate on the finish. Finesse and power. Fruity, yet savoury. Warm but delicate. It was a wine that changed with every sip. Yet of the 53 pinot noirs that I have bothered to write tasting notes of over the last 2 years (leaving the mound that I didn’t bother with), I can count on the fingers of less than half a hand the other Burgundies that have impressed me as much. Against that, of the 100 cabernets I have written tasting notes for over the last 2 years, I have been moved in a similar way more times than I can remember. True, no particular wine stands out the way that Clos de l’Arlot did, but that’s probably a case of “too many good clarets” rather than the Burgundy being so much better.
So at the end of the day, if I have to sit through 52 whores in the window before I get one terrible beauty being born, then I’m afraid I will walk away from those odds, thanks, particularly since there’s so much good stuff on offer in the Bordeaux stable. True it is that an annoying number of new money accountants buy it, but be that as it may, the exotic perfume of an old Margaux could easily challenge the poetry of a Gevrey Chambertin, and where in Burgundy will you find something to trump the orotund voice of majestic, structured Pauillac, saying “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair”? Bordeaux is SO much a safer bet than Burgundy, and pays out equally handsomely, whether in the poetry stakes or otherwise.
This is particularly relevant because I am not yet someone who has unlimited wealth to spend on Grand Cru Burgundy and classed growth claret, and I’m not currently in a position even to drink much on weekdays. So when I open a bottle of wine, I want it to be fucking good. I don’t want to run the risk of its being some £40 mouldy thin piss that poets say smells like “truffles” when it really smells like cardboard.
But don’t take my word for the above. It was, after all, John Keats himself who said “Let my friends drink a case of claret around my grave.” If it was good enough for him, then it’s good enough for me.
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