Stéphane Michel writes A Belgian oenophile living in the UK since 1990. Aiming, and mostly succeeding, to always keep the passion for wine just beneath the job, health and a happy marriage.
Impromptu Perfection
The debate raged long into the night – had it just been too early for the quality to shine through? I remember how the legs slid effortlessly with each rotation. There was no ink yet; this would come later, in bucketloads. For now, it was about purity and simplicity, but clearly with enormous potential and a hint of fragility. Fragility, the downside of which we had just discovered. Fragility the rest of the line-up then tried so hard to compensate for. The red was so vivid under the bright light. There was so much there, so much to give, so much to hope for but in the end, tears, only tears. Big, fat uncontrollable tears. The wine? Sorry, no… this was football. Argentina had just won on penalties and David Beckham, despite his youthful brilliance, had seen his petulance send England home.
There are certain emotions and twists of fate that only sport can create. Memories of that night will stay with me forever, but not just because of the compelling 120 minutes of drama. It was also the night I understood the hedonistic pleasure a wine can give, particularly when enjoyed without the pomp, without meticulous attention, without intellectual focus, without pretence. Impromptu, just for pleasure, in all the wrong settings but for all the right reasons.
It was 1998; I had just discovered the joy of scouring the wine catalogues of the revered London auction rooms and occasionally spotting a potential bargain (those were the days!). My friend and I had secured a small mixed lot of early-eighties Moutons which had sold cheaply due to its lack of provenance and haphazard bundling, and on that fateful day in June, my friend was coming over to pick up his half of the loot. It was also match day for England as they took on Argentina in the last-sixteen round. The excitement was building up in the streets; white vans had their St George’s flags draped on their mirrors; and the refrains of Three Lions and Vindaloo played endlessly on blaring radios.
My friend arrived and admired the bottles he had purchased. When I offered that we watch the match together, I could tell he wanted to but was evidently torn at the sight in front of him. Indeed, like many a young bachelor with no common sense, I had prioritised the purchase of a large TV and surround-sound system over the procurement of any suitable furniture. The wonky sofa or the floor were the only two options. Should we go to the pub, drink beer and get caught in the wave of public euphoria or should we kick back, albeit uncomfortably, enjoy the big screen and drink wine? Thankfully, he decided that this was as good a place as any, and more importantly, that he would open one of his newly-acquired bottles for the occasion.
As we pulled the cork, I recalled my grandfather’s passion for the unique labels that had adorned Mouton bottles since 1945. Some of his favourite École de Nice artists had featured at some point, and a 1981 bottle featuring a work by an acquaintance of his was his pride and joy. I wondered then how a small painting on a label could possibly change one’s perception or affinity for a wine? Yet, somehow it did. I now accepted this fascination as I marvelled at the 1983 bottle in front of us. A tiny, well-dressed solitary figure stood in the middle of a beach-like landscape, with the pale blue sea isolated from a thin strip of dark teal sky by a layer of thick white cloud on the horizon. This image created an aura of introspection, solitude and reflection - a perfect parallelism to how we should appreciate this fine bottle.
As we then turned to the food, a cursory glance at the fridge revealed a frightening outcome – there was nothing but bangers and mash. But, but… we were having Mouton! How could this happen? The match was starting imminently; the wine was already open and breathing and the shops were probably closed anyway. No change of plans was possible; we were past the point of no return and a sacrilegious crime was about to be committed. Or was it? The next couple hours turned into a tussle between the wine and the TV, each vying for attention and superlatives to be thrown at them. The football was dazzling, emotional and captivating. But as the Pauillac opened up, revealing its elegant silkiness on the palate and its beguiling tertiary aromas of tobacco and cedar on the nose, it too demanded pause and consideration. Parker had called it “austere” and suggested it would never be great or legendary like some other vintages. To me, this was other-worldly.
Could the wine have been better paired than with sausages and mash? Of course. Should we have sat properly at a table? Possibly. Could we have been more reverential in our vinous focus? Certainly. But the incremental gain in olfactory and gustatory pleasures would never have compensated for the loss of that special moment. Drinking such a fine wine in such uncouth conditions. The intoxicating action on the TV. The tension. The drama. So much sensory joy. An electric atmosphere. The groans of conceding first, the joy as we turned it around and took the lead, the lows of their equaliser, the shock at the red card, the new highs as we battled on to extra-time, the tension of penalties and finally the deep throes of defeat. All with an ethereal glass of Mouton 1983 in hand to heighten the senses.
It was the most magical of evenings. You couldn’t plan it and you could never re-create it. I tried so hard to make the moment last that I even poured the very end of the bottle with the dark, crusty vestiges of time plummeting heavily into my glass. As I waited for the sediment to sink so that I could perhaps rescue one more delicate sip and capture one last glimpse of this perfect night, millions of England fans across the nation also let their emotions settle and prepared for another vintage, another campaign, another hope, another four years of anticipation.
