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.