Philip K Liao writes Philip K. Liao is a Taiwanese American writer/director/producer. He is currently based in Los Angeles and creates content and media pertaining to the wine world. He is passionate about merging his interests in filmmaking and food and wine.
A Toast in the Fog
We drank the special wine in paper cups. It was my mother’s birth year. We were on a trip to the mountains of Taiwan, the foothills of Xueshan, where giant juicy pears are grown. About 10 of us, our closest family and friends, gathered in the den of the Airbnb we had rented high up in the mountains. In the winter, it seemed like there was always a perpetual fog and a wet cold that chilled you to the bone.
It was my duty to open the wine, I had brought a Durand for the moment. First you screw in the corkscrew, then finesse the prongs to surround the cork. You feel the cork compress slightly, hear the squeak of metal against glass. I wiggled the contraption back and forth gently but with force, held my breath, and pulled.
Intact! In one piece. Seepage up half of the cork but at least it came out whole. It read, Marchesi di Barolo 1958. As people watched me work, a hush fell around the room, but once that cork cleared, it was like a break in the sound barrier. Chattering, clapping, exhales. All around me people questioned whether it was drinkable. Surely a 65-year-old wine would be undrinkable by now.
“Can wine age that long? I’ve never had wine that old before.”
“Is it drinkable?”
“Is it poisonous?”
But immediately after popping the cork, the scent of tertiary aromas permeated the air – leather, earth, mushroom. And yet, also some red fruit, strawberries, and raisins. I knew the wine was still alive and had life to give.
During the trip, everyone treated my mother like a delicate petal, as if at any moment she would fall and just disintegrate in front of us. This was a woman who just a few years ago casually walked up 5,000 steps at Mount Tai in sandals. Admittedly, she looked weak these days, having endured surgery and then months of chemotherapy. But it was her birthday, and she felt strong, determined enough to take this trip.
As I decanted for sediment, the wine looked faint, dusty, devoid of the richness of color, of life. I looked at my mother – skin pale, wig barely fitting onto her now hairless head, cheeks sunken in. Yet you could still see the sparkle in her eyes – and like the wine, she was holding on still.
As I slowly poured into everyone’s cup, I got to my mother and she held out her cup, hesitatingly. I’ll never forget looking into her eyes; both of us became a little teary. She gave me a sheepish smile. The thought ran through my head that perhaps she shouldn’t be drinking at all. But it seemed cruel to all cheer around her, drinking her birth wine, on her birthday. So, of course, I poured her a little taste.
We then held our paper cups up and cheered, “65 years young.”
We all took a sip and there was just silence for 60 seconds, only the soft sound of rain tapping against the wood roof and wind gently knocking on the windows.
“Not bad. A little like soy sauce,” an uncle spoke out.
People began exclaiming that they had never tasted anything like this before. They didn’t know wine could age for this long and that it was still drinkable, no it was good.
I looked at my mother and she momentarily had a far-off look in her eyes, almost tranquil, clearly in thought, clearly with emotion. It was almost as if with every sip, she was recounting memories of the past, with every sip, reliving her life all over again. She snapped back to reality when I asked her,
“What do you think?”
“Very nice.” She replied. “A hint of strawberry.” And then she smacked her lips.
I agreed with her. Still with structure, but certainly a mellowed Nebbiolo. Beautiful and clear with complexity.
We drank, we ate stewed duck wings and other snacks. Music played over the speakers as we enjoyed each other’s company until the late hours of the night. Other bottles were opened and poured, but my mother only had the Barolo, and she held onto her cup like it was giving her life. Eventually people started nodding off and retiring to their rooms. I helped Mom to her bed, gave her a hug and wished her a Happy Birthday.
I held her hand. She smiled at me, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
It was a good trip. And the last trip. I think about that night often. I’ll never look at another Barolo the same way. As I look upon the remaining half-case I had purchased at auction, I can’t help but admit that this wine has outlived my mother. I’ve thought about what to do with the remaining bottles - drink them on her birthday, drink them on Mother’s Day, but honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just open one when I’m missing her the most.
The image, titled 'Fleeting', is the author's own.
