Roz Lawson writes I fell in love with wine while helping a friend paint the inside of an old farmhouse that would be let out as a holiday home. It's in Bordeaux, surrounded by vineyards. We'd go to a local supermarché, buy wines of different quality and price - and taste them blind. It was a revelation!
Studying the Diploma, I really caught the wine bug. I gained valuable experience working in a boutique French wine shop and as a 'runner' at the Decanter World Wine Awards. I now own and run the South London Local Wine School.
Merlot: from zero to hero
The highlight of the wine year had come around again: the day when Dionysus invited all the wine gods and goddesses to his grand palace for an evening of opulence, celebration and revelry.
Merlot had arrived early. Sitting in the lush vegetation of the gardens in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, he looked glum. He wasn’t looking forward to the party, if truth be told. The sprightly goddess Sauvignon Blanc shimmied over and sat next to him. “Looks like we’re a bit early!” she said. He replied: “Of course. But the party won’t get going until Cabernet Sauvignon arrives.” “That’s true”, she said, “but then it will be fun!” He didn’t reply, eyes fixed on the sun setting over the horizon. “You don’t enjoy these things, do you?” she asked. After a pause he said: “It’s always the same. People are polite to start with, but when the dancing begins, I’m never picked as a dance partner. I’ve been told I’m boring. I get reminded about the movie Sideways, with people saying ‘If anyone dances with Merlot, I’m leaving.’ It’s embarrassing.” The goddess didn’t know how to respond to this. She caught a glimpse of Pinot Noir, who had just arrived, and shimmied away.
Later, in the palace, the volume was increasing as excited gods and goddesses mingled. Chardonnay and Pinot has already started dancing, waltzing across the room in an elegant and complex swirl, their costumes sparkling as they caught the light from the chandeliers.
The Douro gods bounced from one group to another with the energy of a rock festival mosh pit, with the Touriga brothers, tall and strong, attracting glances from several of the younger goddesses.
Merlot avoided the goddess Riesling, as he’d borne the brunt of her acerbic wit too many times. Piquepoul’s words often stung as well. As a group of goddesses walked past him, Merlot heard her say to the others: “Well, dancing with Mer-low was certainly a low point for me last year!”
Marsanne, Roussanne and Viognier were listening intently to suave and stately Syrah, who was telling a joke that seemed to involve two men arguing about baguettes and kangaroos. Syrah was impersonating the two men, effortlessly switching between a French accent and an Australian one, eliciting peals of laughter from the goddesses.
More and more couples filled the dancefloor. Merlot watched from the sidelines. There was still no sign of Cabernet Sauvignon, who was expected to lead the main dances. Merlot resented his half-sibling, not just because Cabernet was more popular, but because he always stole the limelight. If something good happened, then people remembered that Cabernet had been there, even if he hadn’t. Even when Merlot had done all the work, Cabernet got the credit. It just wasn’t fair.
Merlot went to freshen up. He’d just been wearing his shirt in the afternoon sun, but now he put on his dinner jacket and an expertly tied bow-tie, and smoothed down his hair. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he had to admit that he looked good in formal attire. His dark eyes sparkled, and he almost smiled.
Back in the dancehall, there was a nervous chatter going on. Cabernet Sauvignon had still not arrived, but someone was needed to start the formal dances – the elaborate, complex dances which involved the entire group moving in synchrony, following the lead of the wine god. Tradition held that it had to be god (not a goddess), they had to be of a certain age, and must have years of experience from past events. Dionysus would have the final say.
Merlot met all the criteria, and he knew the subtleties of the dances inside out. In a moment of rash abandon, he approached Dionysus. “I can lead the dances”, he said, before he really knew what he was doing. Dionysus looked puzzled. But it was getting late, and he couldn’t wait for Cabernet Sauvignon any longer. He gave Merlot his blessing.
Tentative at first, Merlot led the group through the first dance. The gods and goddesses followed as he swirled and circled, moving around the room with strength and grace. As the volume of the music and the tempo increased, everyone started to relax and enjoy themselves. With partners rotating, there were some unusual combinations – distinguished Nebbiolo twirling a giggling Glera, and a nervous Gamay captivated by a voluptuous Viognier. But it all worked, and the energy and excitement continued to grow.
The next dances were just as complex, and just as much fun. Merlot continued to lead the group, moving in time with the intoxicating rhythm. He looked as though he had done this all his life.
There was a brief pause for the dancers to catch their breath. Now the Grand Dance would begin, the swirling, twirling culmination of the evening. Again, Merlot knew all the moves, all the steps, all the phases of the dance. The music started and he took the first few steps… and saw Cabernet Sauvignon run into the room. Merlot didn’t stop – he couldn’t. He was buoyed by the positive energy of the dance, and relished the responsibility of leading the group. But he put his hand out to welcome Cabernet into the maelstrom of circling gods and goddesses, and they led the dance – together.
Merlot had proved his individual prowess, showing he had the strength to lead the dance. Now he and Cabernet led together, their different styles blended to lead the group in a dance of balance and complexity, energy and elegance, to a tumultuous crescendo and shrieks of joy.
And at last, Merlot did smile, knowing that they’d created something that would be talked about for many years to come, and would improve with every telling.
The image, submitted by the author, is a photograph of Le Cotillon by Charles Henry Tenré (d 1926).
