Why does Chateau Palmer have an English name?

THE SHORT ANSWER to this question is, because an Englishman named it after himself. Before this is condemned as unwarranted self-aggrandizement, however, it should be remembered that from the end of the seventeenth century, it became something of a habit to add one's own name to an estate that produced very good wine-the renaming of Branne-Mouton as Mouton-Rothschild in 1853 is but one example. Major-General Charles Palmer was born in the city of Bath Spa in 1777 and was educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford. When he was nineteen, his father purchased a commission for him in the 10th Hussars, the Prince of Wales's Own, which was a light cavalry regiment. He served throughout the Peninsular War from 1807 to 1814, and fought at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. In February 1811, he became aide-de-camp to the Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent, the future King George IV. In 1813 he became lieutenant colonel of the 23rd Dragoons (heavy infantry), colonel in 1814, and major general in 1825. In 1814, after Napoleon's first surrender, Palmer arrived in France with the British commander in the Peninsula, the future Duke of Wellington. Parliament had voted Palmer 100,000 "as the representative of his father," John Palmer, who had invented the system of mail coaches, thereby providing a safer and more regular method of delivering the post. Palmer was to use this to buy property in France. to this question is, because an Englishman named it after himself. Before this is condemned as unwarranted self-aggrandizement, however, it should be remembered that from the end of the seventeenth century, it became something of a habit to add one's own name to an estate that produced very good wine-the renaming of Branne-Mouton as Mouton-Rothschild in 1853 is but one example. Major-General Charles Palmer was born in the city of Bath Spa in 1777 and was educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford. When he was nineteen, his father purchased a commission for him in the 10th Hussars, the Prince of Wales's Own, which was a light cavalry regiment. He served throughout the Peninsular War from 1807 to 1814, and fought at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. In February 1811, he became aide-de-camp to the Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent, the future King George IV. In 1813 he became lieutenant colonel of the 23rd Dragoons (heavy infantry), colonel in 1814, and major general in 1825. In 1814, after Napoleon's first surrender, Palmer arrived in France with the British commander in the Peninsula, the future Duke of Wellington. Parliament had voted Palmer 100,000 "as the representative of his father," John Palmer, who had invented the system of mail coaches, thereby providing a safer and more regular method of delivering the post. Palmer was to use this to buy property in France.

Palmer was known in London as a ladies' man. In France, he was dazzled by a beautiful young widow, Mme. Marie de Gascq, who wished to sell her late husband's estate in the Medoc, Chateau de Gascq. This was primarily a fine vineyard-it had no chateau as such. The story goes that during a three-day coach ride with her from Lyon to Paris-which has been referred to as "turbulent"-she convinced Palmer to purchase it. He did so, for the attractive price of 100,000 francs, and immediately renamed it Chateau Palmer. (David Peppercorn takes a more austere view, suggesting that Palmer's attention was directed to the property by one of the courtiers courtiers-brokers-of Bordeaux.) He threw himself into developing and extending his property, buying over the following seventeen years land and buildings in the communes of Cantenac, Issan, and Margaux. Indeed, by the time he sold it, it had grown from a small property to become one of the larger estates of the Medoc.

According to Captain H. R. Gronow in his Reminiscences and Reflections Reminiscences and Reflections, published in parts from 1862 to 1866, Palmer supplied samples of his wine at a dinner for the Prince Regent to taste, in the hope that he would make it fashionable. Unfortunately, this did not work: the Prince preferred his usual version of claret fortified with some Hermitage, and he advised Palmer to experiment and make some better wines. According to Gronow, General Palmer, feeling it his duty to follow the advice of the Prince, rooted out his old vines, planted new ones, and tried all sorts of experiments, at an immense cost, but with little or no result. He and his agent, in consequence, got themselves into all sorts of difficulties, mortgaged the property, borrowed largely, and were at last obliged to have recourse to usurers, to life a.s.surances, and every sort of expedient, to raise money ... the acc.u.mulation of debt to the usurers became so heavy, that he was compelled to pa.s.s through the Insolvent Court.

There is an alternative version, partly based on Palmer's obituary in the Gentleman's Magazine Gentleman's Magazine of 1851. After the war, Palmer lived primarily in England: in 1808, at the death of his father, he succeeded him as the mayor of Bath and as the local MP, a position he held, even during the war, from 1808 to 1826 and again from 1831 to 1837. He also inherited the proprietorship of the Theatre Royal, Bath. His estate in France, which he spared no expense to develop and improve, was managed by his of 1851. After the war, Palmer lived primarily in England: in 1808, at the death of his father, he succeeded him as the mayor of Bath and as the local MP, a position he held, even during the war, from 1808 to 1826 and again from 1831 to 1837. He also inherited the proprietorship of the Theatre Royal, Bath. His estate in France, which he spared no expense to develop and improve, was managed by his regisseur regisseur, Jean Lagunegrand, whose salary was as high as that of any of his profession in the Medoc. Palmer concentrated on promoting his wine in England, taking advantage of his connections at court and his charm. Because of its increasingly high quality, "Palmer's claret," according to Gronow, was much sought after by London clubs, and was particularly appreciated by the Prince Regent. This makes sense, given that Palmer had been aide-de-camp to the Prince and later his crony even before the prince became King George IV, and joined him in his love of fine food and wine. (This relationship, however, does not preclude the prince's having possibly told him that a bit more stomach in the wine would make it even better.) Even after the death of the King, Palmer spared no expense in providing himself and his friends with gastronomic feasts. This increasingly ruinous way of life was partly responsible for his reluctant decision to sell Chateau Palmer.

There was more to it than his desire for good dinners, of course. He had devoted much of his capital to developing Palmer, and it was now producing a great wine. But the high cost of running the estate was aggravated by economic difficulties in France as well as by the high duties, which damaged trade. His financial position declined alarmingly, and his wife left him; he lost his seat in Parliament. Things were brought to a head by a run of bad vintages, and in 1843 he sold Chateau Palmer. His death in 1851 prevented his seeing its inclusion in the 1855 Bordeaux cla.s.sification. Unfortunately, the fact of Chateau Palmer being in receivership in 1855 and thus in the throes of reorganization was, according to Edmund Penning-Rowsell, probably responsible for its relegation to the second half of the troisieme grand cru troisieme grand cru cla.s.sification (the reorganization of Mouton-Rothschild in 1855 may also have been responsible for its listing as only a cla.s.sification (the reorganization of Mouton-Rothschild in 1855 may also have been responsible for its listing as only a deuxieme cru deuxieme cru). It is arguable that its quality should have accorded it a position at the top of the deuxieme crus deuxieme crus, a position that many critics and wine lovers believe it deserves today. Its highly regarded quality was underlined by the fact that the new owners did not change the name.

Can the war on terroir be won?

ONLY IN THE MINDS of romantics and New Age pastoralists is Nature benign and in any way on our side. It may be a truism to remind ourselves that we are a part of nature, and that nature doesn't give a fig for us; equally, it is at best euphemistic and at worst delusional to talk of "saving the earth." The earth will shrug us off if we become too troublesome, and do perfectly well without us: what we mean, really, is saving our own sorry skins. n.o.body knows this better than farmers, and few farmers know this better than the wine growers of Australia, where a combination of circ.u.mstances has threatened to halt, and even throw rapidly into reverse, the extraordinary way in which Australian wines have conquered the world over the last couple of de cades. of romantics and New Age pastoralists is Nature benign and in any way on our side. It may be a truism to remind ourselves that we are a part of nature, and that nature doesn't give a fig for us; equally, it is at best euphemistic and at worst delusional to talk of "saving the earth." The earth will shrug us off if we become too troublesome, and do perfectly well without us: what we mean, really, is saving our own sorry skins. n.o.body knows this better than farmers, and few farmers know this better than the wine growers of Australia, where a combination of circ.u.mstances has threatened to halt, and even throw rapidly into reverse, the extraordinary way in which Australian wines have conquered the world over the last couple of de cades.

It seems extraordinary that an underground ocean, its origins lost in the darkness of geological deep time, could affect the price of wine today on the other side of the world; but that world is increasingly and inextricably interconnected, however, and sometimes the past comes back to bite us.

The fertile southern tablelands of Australia-including the great wine-growing regions along the Murray and Darling rivers-lie upon just such a subterranean sea. Once they thought it came to the surface, and expeditions were launched to find the so-called Great Inland Sea, at the cost of many lives. The quest was in vain. The Great Inland Sea doesn't exist. But its legacy does. Beneath the soil lie deep deposits of heavily salt water. For millions of years, it simply didn't matter: native species evolved to cope with the salinity of the soil, and plants and geology lived in balance.

But then came the Europeans, and with the Europeans came European crops-particularly the grain and the grape. These, unable to handle the salt levels, needed irrigation, and the rivers were there to provide it. But the cost was high. The water for irrigation sank lower than the natural freshwater from the rains; as one farmer put it, we were pouring three feet of fresh water on land designed to cope with ten inches. And so the freshwater leached down, dissolving the lower levels of highly salty earth and seeping into the salt.w.a.ter tables. Fresh and salt began to mix, and the salt.w.a.ter rose to the surface or into the waterways. The results were potentially catastrophic: as one water engineer told us over ten years ago, "By the time you've realized the problem, you've missed the boat for the solution."

And just to make absolutely sure that we realize the indifference of nature, the "Big Dry" of 2007 posed an equal threat to the region's wine growers, promising to halve the 2008 grape harvest from 2 million metric tons to between 800,000 and 1.3 million. Australians seldom refer to "drought," preferring to talk about "a bit of a dry spell," but at the time of writing, the D D-word was being bandied about freely.

Yet there is something about viticulture that brings out the best of human ingenuity. Partly it's the sheer figures involved today. Australia earned $1.9 billion from wine exports in 2006, exporting 176 million gallons, 40 percent to Britain and 30 percent to the United States. The majority was exported by Australia's largest wine company, Southcorp, which owns well-known labels such as Penfolds, Lindemans and Rosemont Estate, and nearly 2.5 million acres of vineyards (and whose biggest single customer is the U.K. supermarket chain Tesco); but individual winemakers, as well as selling to the big shippers, are producing small but increasingly high-quality house wines of their own.

[image]

This is currently all under threat: some growers are allowed to take only 10 percent of the water they would normally use for irrigation. As crop yields fall, prices increase; the good-quality, ma.s.s-produced "clean-skin" wines that Australia has become famous for will no longer be such excellent value. There is no way out of the economic loop.

Yet the reversal of the salination process in the Murray/ Darling Basin has been hailed as an example to the rest of Australian agriculture. Tammy Van Wisse, of the Murray Darling Rescue project, described salinity as "arguably the greatest environmental threat facing Australia today. No one is immune. Salinity is spreading like cancer." The farmers of the Murray River have seen that cancer halted by a combination of engineering works and the management of water flows, and a national campaign is now encouraging the planting of perennial crops, trees, and salt-tolerant species such as Atriplex amnicola Atriplex amnicola and a hybrid gum tree whose name clearly explains its most prized quality: the Saltgrow. Individual vines are drip-fed water-each one gets precisely what it needs and no more. and a hybrid gum tree whose name clearly explains its most prized quality: the Saltgrow. Individual vines are drip-fed water-each one gets precisely what it needs and no more.

Whether it will be enough remains to be seen. But the two commonest phrases among Australia's farmers are "no worries" and "she'll be right." These originated from a time when even the simplest of things was a big worry and whether she'd be right or not was always questionable. The Australians know what they're talking about. But nature is a hard taskmistress, and the war on terroir terroir goes on. goes on.

How did steam drive Toulouse-Lautrec to absinthe?

THINK OF A fin-de-siecle French cafe and the chances are you think not of wine but of absinthe, a strange spirit invented by the inappropriately named Dr. Pierre Ordinaire in 1792. He offered it as a panacea; containing the egregious-tasting anise and, more important, wormwood (which contains a psychoactive compound, thujone), absinthe was modestly successful. fin-de-siecle French cafe and the chances are you think not of wine but of absinthe, a strange spirit invented by the inappropriately named Dr. Pierre Ordinaire in 1792. He offered it as a panacea; containing the egregious-tasting anise and, more important, wormwood (which contains a psychoactive compound, thujone), absinthe was modestly successful.

But what happened in the next hundred years that caused absinthe first to triumph, then to be seen as a threat to health and French civilization? And why did the French government eventually ban it from sale in France, a ban that continues to this day?

First, it should be said that absinthe is perhaps not the most benevolent of drinks. Taken to anything resembling excess, thujone has a tendency to cause a strange disorientation and even hallucinations. Not for nothing was it nicknamed La Fee Verte La Fee Verte-the Green Fairy.

Nor do artists' representations of its devotees inspire great joy. Manet's painting of 1867 shows a solitary absinthe drinker, with s.h.a.ggy beard, tall, battered hat, and a strange smeared expression, beside his gla.s.s of absinthe: the drink has taken on the louche louche-the pearlescent milkiness that the spirit acquires when mixed with water. He himself, like the room he's in, is out of focus: brown, blurred and bleary. Nine years later, Degas's Absinthe Drinkers Absinthe Drinkers are faring no better: they sit side by side on a hard bench before cold marble tables, both looking ahead, disconnected from the world and from each other. Perhaps the most dispiriting is Pica.s.so's 1901 painting: an angular and seemingly anguished woman in a blue dress, her thin arms and bony hands wrapped around herself. In front of her are the absinthe gla.s.s and a blue water fountain; otherwise she is as utterly alone as can be. The only glamorous absinthe painting we know of is by the Czech artist Viktor Oliva. It hangs in the Cafe Slavia in Prague and shows us a man in evening dress gazing at the human-sized figure of the curvaceous, alluring are faring no better: they sit side by side on a hard bench before cold marble tables, both looking ahead, disconnected from the world and from each other. Perhaps the most dispiriting is Pica.s.so's 1901 painting: an angular and seemingly anguished woman in a blue dress, her thin arms and bony hands wrapped around herself. In front of her are the absinthe gla.s.s and a blue water fountain; otherwise she is as utterly alone as can be. The only glamorous absinthe painting we know of is by the Czech artist Viktor Oliva. It hangs in the Cafe Slavia in Prague and shows us a man in evening dress gazing at the human-sized figure of the curvaceous, alluring fee verte; fee verte; in the background, another smartly dressed man is approaching-a friend, perhaps, who will find little companionship in the drinker, who is already in a world of illusions. in the background, another smartly dressed man is approaching-a friend, perhaps, who will find little companionship in the drinker, who is already in a world of illusions.

[image]

Not, then, a companionable drink; not a promoter of commensality or conversation. The paintings of absinthe drinkers depict it more as a drug than as a drink, more like opium than like wine.

To find out the reason for the absinthe craze, we need to wind the clock back to the North American colonies of the seventeenth century. The French colonists in Florida first experimented with Vitis vinifera Vitis vinifera, the European wine grape. It was not a success, and they did not quite know why. But in due course they had more luck with native grapes.

They continued experimenting with hybrids, but the idea that vinifera vinifera was no good in America persisted, despite its doing well in California. was no good in America persisted, despite its doing well in California.

Unknown to them, the French Americans had made a mistake. The problems with vinifera vinifera were being caused by an aphid, the North American grape phylloxera. This, they failed to notice, was for a number of reasons. One is that phylloxera kills European grapes by injecting a poison into the vine, which swells and eventually kills the small roots. It behaves differently on North American vines, living mainly on the leaves, where it causes harmful galls but affects the roots much less badly. Another aspect of its behavior is that, feeding on the roots of were being caused by an aphid, the North American grape phylloxera. This, they failed to notice, was for a number of reasons. One is that phylloxera kills European grapes by injecting a poison into the vine, which swells and eventually kills the small roots. It behaves differently on North American vines, living mainly on the leaves, where it causes harmful galls but affects the roots much less badly. Another aspect of its behavior is that, feeding on the roots of vinifera vinifera, the phylloxera aphid will rapidly abandon ship when the osmotic pressure in the now-diseased root falls. Dig up the dead vine and there's nothing to see: the aphids have long gone.

Viticulture is an international business, and almost from the outset, European growers were experimenting with American vines. Yet there was no hint of phylloxera until the early 1860s, when Pujault, in the Languedoc, fell victim to a malade inconnu malade inconnu, an "unidentifiable sickness." This spread from vine to vine, and by the third year most were inexplicably dead, their roots decayed and blackened.

In 1868 the pharmacist J. E. Planchon, a hero of the French wine industry, discovered the link between the small yellow aphid and the dying vines. But as so often, opinions varied, and many believed the aphids were an effect of the disease, not the cause. It wasn't until 1870 that the American Charles V. Riley demonstrated that the phylloxera aphid was responsible for the leaf blight on American vines and and the root disease in Europe. Furthermore, the odd life cycle of the aphid made the usual methods of attack ineffective. Laliman and Bazille came up with the idea that eventually worked: grafting the root disease in Europe. Furthermore, the odd life cycle of the aphid made the usual methods of attack ineffective. Laliman and Bazille came up with the idea that eventually worked: grafting vinifera vinifera onto resistant American root-stocks. It was not a new idea-the Spanish had been doing something similar in Mexico since the early sixteenth century-but it worked, and the Herculean task of reconst.i.tution began throughout France. onto resistant American root-stocks. It was not a new idea-the Spanish had been doing something similar in Mexico since the early sixteenth century-but it worked, and the Herculean task of reconst.i.tution began throughout France.

The effects of phylloxera were dreadful for small French wine growers, many of whom emigrated-to the eventual benefit of the world's wines. At the time of the outbreak, too, wine growers were responding to skyrocketing demand by overplanting, growing inferior grapes, and growing them in unsuitable terrain. Much of the quality of today's wines, and many of the varietals we now take for granted, might simply not have existed had it not been for the phylloxera aphid. To call it a blessing in disguise is over -egging the pudding, unquestionably; still ...

But back to the cafes of Paris. The first thing to happen when phylloxera began its devastation in France was that wine became scarcer and the price went up. The vie boheme vie boheme of Paris, on the other hand, was not about to stop. It simply needed another fuel, and absinthe won the day. Centered upon the Moulin Rouge in Montmartre, at the heart of the Parisian red light zone, so marvelously chronicled by the stunted, aristocratic, ungainly, and hopelessly alcoholic Toulouse-Lautrec, the absinthe craze spread unstoppably. Even if not drunk in the form of Toulouse-Lautrec's of Paris, on the other hand, was not about to stop. It simply needed another fuel, and absinthe won the day. Centered upon the Moulin Rouge in Montmartre, at the heart of the Parisian red light zone, so marvelously chronicled by the stunted, aristocratic, ungainly, and hopelessly alcoholic Toulouse-Lautrec, the absinthe craze spread unstoppably. Even if not drunk in the form of Toulouse-Lautrec's terre-tremblant terre-tremblant-"earth shaker," made of half absinthe and half cognac-but consumed in the usual way, with five parts of water slowly dripped through a sugar lump held in a pierced spoon to provoke the louche louche and sweeten the bitter taste of wormwood, absinthe was an unforgiving drink. In 1910, the French drank 9.5 million gallons of the stuff, and the Swiss banned it. In 1912, the Americans banned it, and in 1915 the French government decided that, far from being a specific against malaria for the troops, it was responsible for ma.s.s desertions from the trenches; that, together with pressure from the French wine lobby, anxious to regain its status as provider of the national drink, meant that the French banned it, too. and sweeten the bitter taste of wormwood, absinthe was an unforgiving drink. In 1910, the French drank 9.5 million gallons of the stuff, and the Swiss banned it. In 1912, the Americans banned it, and in 1915 the French government decided that, far from being a specific against malaria for the troops, it was responsible for ma.s.s desertions from the trenches; that, together with pressure from the French wine lobby, anxious to regain its status as provider of the national drink, meant that the French banned it, too.

The draftsmen of the French law had, however, made one tiny mistake: they had banned the sale of absinthe in France but not the manufacture. After a ruling from the U.K. government allowing British companies to sell absinthe in any European country where it was not specifically banned, La Fee La Fee absinthe went into production in Paris. absinthe went into production in Paris.

We asked how steam had indirectly driven Toulouse-Lautrec to absinthe. Recall that the French colonists had been experimenting in Florida since the mid-seventeenth century; recall, too, that vines had been across the Atlantic for wine-growing experiments for much of the time since then. Why was it only in the 1860s that phylloxera first began its devastation of the French vineyards?

The answer is almost certainly that it was only after 1838 that regular steamship crossings of the Atlantic were established. In the days of sail and the early days of steam (the first steamship to make the crossing, the Savannah Savannah, in 1819, only had a tiny 90 hp auxiliary engine), the voyage took just under a month: too long for the aphids to survive. By 1838, the Great Western Great Western took half that time, and the subsequent generation of iron-hulled, screw-driven steamships competed furiously for the Blue Riband for the fastest pa.s.sage. took half that time, and the subsequent generation of iron-hulled, screw-driven steamships competed furiously for the Blue Riband for the fastest pa.s.sage.

Finally, because of the speed of the new steamships, the aphids could survive the transatlantic voyage. The stage was set for disaster, and disaster came onstage and made its bow.

When is rot "n.o.ble"?

THERE IS A fungus with a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality that grows on grapes: fungus with a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality that grows on grapes: Botrytis cinerea Botrytis cinerea. Given the right autumn weather conditions-cool misty mornings and warm sunny afternoons-the result can well be botrytis bunch rot. If the grapes are unripe or damaged, the result is the disastrous gray rot, which can destroy both quality and quant.i.ty. If, however, the grapes are white, ripe, light-skinned, and healthy, the result is likely to be "n.o.ble rot" (pourriture n.o.ble in France, in France, Edelfaule Edelfaule in Germany). Grapes affected by n.o.ble rot look disgusting-shriveled, dotted with light brown spots, and covered with a gray dust that looks like ash (hence in Germany). Grapes affected by n.o.ble rot look disgusting-shriveled, dotted with light brown spots, and covered with a gray dust that looks like ash (hence cinerea cinerea). Thin-skinned grapes such as Furmint, Riesling, Semillon, and Chenin Blanc are particularly susceptible to n.o.ble rot, and each of them also has the necessary acidity to balance the intense sweetness of the botrytized juice. They can produce glorious wines, among which are Hungarian Tokaji Aszu, German Beerenauslese and Trockenbeerenauslese, and French Sauternes and Quarts de Chaume (from the Loire). The grapes develop this condition individually, so grapes on the same bunch shrivel unevenly. This means that pickers have to walk through the vineyard time and time again (tries), picking the grapes one by one. Unavoidably, wines made from these grapes are expensive.

Grapes affected by n.o.ble rot produce some of the greatest and longest-living wines in the world. The oldest is Tokaji Aszu, which comes from northeast Hungary. The story goes that in 1650, the priest on the estate where the old castle of Tokaji stands, who was also the winemaker, delayed the harvest because of the fear that the Turks were about to attack. While the bunches hung on the vines, some were attacked by the fungus. They were then pressed and fermented separately from the other grapes, and the result was a wine of unexpected flavor and character, which rapidly became the wine of kings and a diplomatic weapon in the hands of the Austrian emperor, who took over the estates as his own.

In Germany, the first making of a wine from botrytized grapes is traditionally attributed to Schloss Johannisberg in the Rheingau in 1775. It was owned by the abbot of Fulda, and the grapes could not be picked without his permission. The winemaker looked at the grapes and sent a courier to Fulda to tell the abbot that on the day the courier returned to the Schloss Schloss, the grapes would be ready to be picked. The journey there and back normally took fourteen days, but for reasons that n.o.body knows, the journey this time took much longer. By the time the courier did return, the grapes of Schloss Johannisberg were rotten. Nevertheless, wine was made, and, stunned by its sweetness, acidity, and floral spiciness, the abbot and the winemaker agreed that this wine, which was probably a Beerenauslese, should be made whenever it was possible.

In France, there is less conviction as to when botrytized wines were first produced. The utterly delicious wine Quarts de Chaume in the Loire, possibly the longest-lasting wine in the world, has arguably been made since the medieval period; those of Sauternes have been produced since the eighteenth century. It is a curious fate for the other wines that Sauternes is the most widely known, since they are at least as delicious. Does this reflect the power of public relations?

How would rhinos do conjuring?

YES, IT IS a strange question ... but no, we have not taken leave of our senses. In fact, it's our senses that lead us to ask the question, and in particular, the most important sense in judging wine, which also happens to be our weakest: the sense of smell. a strange question ... but no, we have not taken leave of our senses. In fact, it's our senses that lead us to ask the question, and in particular, the most important sense in judging wine, which also happens to be our weakest: the sense of smell.

We'll keep the rhino in the back of our mind for a moment. Let's think about ourselves first. We are, primarily, creatures of sight. Hearing comes second; then taste, touch, and, finally, poor underprivileged smell.

Yet smell is more important than we think. When we taste wine-or, indeed, anything else-all we can really taste are five basic categories: sweet, sour, salt, bitter, and umami umami, the last a j.a.panese word for what the Western palate might describe as "meaty" or "savory" and found, for example, in miso, Roquefort, ketchup, mushrooms, and broccoli.

[image]

Those five are the only things we have taste buds for. Everything else we think we're tasting, we're actually smelling.

And in comparison with most mammals, we're pretty appalling at it.

Not our fault: our olfactory lobe is a shriveled little thing, withered away by thousands of years of evolution. But to improve upon our pathetic nasal patrimony, we need training. A Master of Wine's nose is cultivated, by years of practice and experience, to make fine differentiations that mystify the beginner, who may suspect either trickery or a sort of exquisite boasting. The vocabulary of wine writers has become an object of satire, with its knowing murmurings of pencil shavings and raspberries, of leather and petrol, apples, hay, blackcurrants, and indeed (some say) the drift of aircraft hydraulic fluid from the top of a good gewurztraminer.

But what other choice is there?

One of the problems we face is that, being visual animals, so many of our words are based on visual experience. We all know when something's green or rusty or sun-bleached, when it creeps along or rushes past in a blur, whether it's tall or round or angular.

But we can only summon up words to describe smells by comparing them to something of which we already know the smell. The problem isn't just for wine writers: restaurant reviewers, for example, struggle terribly to describe the taste (mostly, of course, the smells) of what they are eating, and resort to talking about how it was cooked, how it looked, what was in it, and what the dining room was like. The late John Diamond, journalist and husband of the celebrity cook Nigella Lawson, had almost no repertoire of descriptive language for food; his wife observed calmly over lunch one day that it was "a little dispiriting to be married to a man whose only responses to what you fed him were 'Yum' or 'Ugh.' "

The other profession that needs an accurate vocabulary of olfaction is, of course, the "noses" or perfumers whose art or craft surrounds us all the time, mostly unnoticed unless we encounter something particularly strident. (A perfume called Giorgio Beverly Hills was popular in the 1980s. It had all the subtlety of a military bra.s.s band exploding in a thunderstorm, and induced one of New York's grander restaurants to have a subtle but unmissable sign on its door reading "No Pipes, No Cigars, No Giorgio.") Interestingly, perfumers go about it in a different way from oenophiles. Instead of dismantling the olfactory picture in terms of what it reminds your readers or listeners of, you build it up from individual ingredients you identify by what they remind you you of. of.

The budding perfumer, for example, will be handed a tiny phial of concrete de jasmin concrete de jasmin and asked to do two things: first of all, to write down in a notebook the and asked to do two things: first of all, to write down in a notebook the first thing she thinks of first thing she thinks of when she smells it; and, second, to describe it in relation to other smells and sensations. The scientist-turned-perfumer Luca Turin, the subject of Chandler Burr's when she smells it; and, second, to describe it in relation to other smells and sensations. The scientist-turned-perfumer Luca Turin, the subject of Chandler Burr's The Emperor of Scent The Emperor of Scent, quotes the fragrance scientist Gunther Ohloff on the rare and precious ambergris. Ohloff, who, he says, "probably knew more about ambergris than anyone before or since," calls it "humid, earthy, fecal, marine, algoid, tobacco-like, sandalwood-like, sweet, animal, musky and radiant."

But the actual entry under ambergris ambergris in Ohloff's notebook is something we don't know. It's private. His notebook is the most valuable-and the most personal-doc.u.ment a perfumer has. Entries in Ohloff's notebook is something we don't know. It's private. His notebook is the most valuable-and the most personal-doc.u.ment a perfumer has. Entries there there are very different. Here are some real ones: "the inside of an expensive lady's handbag;" "the sandstone dugout when I was little;" "wet hay;" "the crowd climbing up to Great Zimbabwe;" "the crush bar at the Royal Opera House;" "sunlight on old tarred ships' ropes;" "toffee apples at the Goose Fair;" and "teenagers' deodorant." are very different. Here are some real ones: "the inside of an expensive lady's handbag;" "the sandstone dugout when I was little;" "wet hay;" "the crowd climbing up to Great Zimbabwe;" "the crush bar at the Royal Opera House;" "sunlight on old tarred ships' ropes;" "toffee apples at the Goose Fair;" and "teenagers' deodorant."

Who would have thought that they refer, respectively, to orris root, vetiver, coumarin, castoreum, dihydromyrcenol, immortelle sauvage immortelle sauvage, Maltol, and the dreadful Calone?

Ambrette, nitro musks, rose absolute, geranium, civet, menthyl lactate, sandalol, linalool, oakmoss, geraniol ... the list runs into thousands of raw molecules, with more being captured by gas chromatography and "heads.p.a.ce technology" (you put a lid over, say, a flower and t.i.trate its essence) and synthesized in ma.s.sive multinational fragrance houses such as Firmenich, IFF, and Givaudan. And the would-be "nose" has to know them all and be able to retrieve them from his or her olfactory memory.

So the world of perfumery is a topsy-turvy version of the wine connoisseur's olfactory landscape. A perfumer will sniff a fragrance and think, "Rotten grapefruit, grandma's kitchen, the garden at La Masure, macaroons, oak bark, wet gra.s.s, tomcats," and, from this, compile the list of ingredients that went into it. The wine lover has no such luxury. She knows knows what went into it: grapes. And so the language must work backward, from the gla.s.s to the outside world. what went into it: grapes. And so the language must work backward, from the gla.s.s to the outside world.

The good news, of course, is that it can be taught. Once you have had your attention drawn to the odor of crushed violets at the base of Chanel No. 5, you will always notice it there in future. Once you know that petrol scent of a good Riesling, you will be able to identify it on the spot. Sometimes, of course, it doesn't help; the hydraulic fluid of a gewurztraminer is something you'll just have to take our word for.

And what does a rhinoceros have to do with the subject? Simply this: a rhinoceros lives in an olfactory world. Eyesight is way down on his list of useful senses. Even time is different for the rhino, who inhabits a sort of spectral world, a world in which the instantaneous demarcation between what's here now and what was here a moment ago simply does not exist. Where we see an empty room, a rhino would smell it crowded with ghosts, olfactory shadows of varying degrees of translucency. His impressions of the world alter not with the speed of light but with the speed of evaporation. Conjuring would mean nothing to a rhino: we see the dove disappear, but the rhino could smell it clearly, hidden in the false bottom of the magician's table.

So we might take a leap and presume that if rhinos had speech, their vocabulary would be heavily laden with words defining the tiniest distinctions between different smells and the way they blend and linger.

It's impossible to imagine what such a language would be like, of course, but that is in a way what wine writers are trying to achieve. No wonder they sometimes struggle.

To cork or not to cork: that is the question A CORKED WINE is produced by the action of fungi on cork in the presence of chlorine, and is recognizable by the powerful mushroom, musty, or moldy aroma. Among the general wine-drinking public, there is no agreement on just how many corked bottles of wine there are, although everyone agrees that there must be lots of them. At the 2002 International Wine Challenge, for example, of the 12,000 bottles from around the world that were entered, 4 percent were corked-480 bottles. Even worse, at a 2008 tasting of the 2004 Cha.s.sagne-Montrachet Premier Cru (Blanc) organized by the magazine is produced by the action of fungi on cork in the presence of chlorine, and is recognizable by the powerful mushroom, musty, or moldy aroma. Among the general wine-drinking public, there is no agreement on just how many corked bottles of wine there are, although everyone agrees that there must be lots of them. At the 2002 International Wine Challenge, for example, of the 12,000 bottles from around the world that were entered, 4 percent were corked-480 bottles. Even worse, at a 2008 tasting of the 2004 Cha.s.sagne-Montrachet Premier Cru (Blanc) organized by the magazine The World of Fine Wine The World of Fine Wine, at which almost all of the top producers were represented, nearly 25 percent of the wines were either corked or oxidized. If one in four cans of baked beans was found to be faulty, there would be a huge outcry.

[image]

The question is, what should be done about it? There are currently three main ways to close a wine bottle: natural cork, plastic stoppers, or screw caps. Natural cork-the bark of Quercus suber Quercus suber, the cork oak-gradually replaced wooden stoppers, beeswax, or oil-soaked rags beginning in the early seventeenth century (although cork stoppers had been known to the Romans, the knowledge was lost during the medieval period). For its defenders, only natural cork ensures the proper aging of a good wine. They argue that minute quant.i.ties of air seep around and through the cork, allowing the wine to mature gradually, but that the tight fit of plastic corks prevents this. Who knows? There are as yet no publicized results of long-term comparative research to support their argument. Nevertheless, there is widespread agreement that for wines with the potential for long aging, such as the great clarets, Rhone wines, Italian Barolos, or German and Alsace rieslings, natural cork should be used.

However, in the early 1990s, supermarkets became tired of the high proportion of corked bottles and put pressure on producers to find an alternative. Over the following few years, more than ten different types of synthetic cork crowded onto the stage. There are substantial problems with plastic: there is some loss of flavor, technically known as "scalping;" there can be plastic taint; plastic-stoppered bottles lose sulfur dioxide too quickly, thereby encouraging oxidation and premature aging; and plastic corks are hard to extract from the bottle and impossible to push back in. As David Bird has written in Understanding Wine Technology Understanding Wine Technology, "There are those who would say that it is a pointless product-it is trying to imitate natural cork, which itself has imperfections." The main problem is aging. After eighteen months, the state of the wine in a plastic-corked bottle does begin to decline, but since relatively little supermarket wine is much older than that, this does not much matter. And for fast-moving, lower-value wine, such as that of large-scale New World producers or the supermarkets' own labels, plastic corks were for some years the closure of choice.

But times have changed, because now there is the screw cap, the most successful of the three in preventing oxidation. They give a perfect seal, do not cause taint or suffer from quality variation, and can be opened with the bare hand. Indeed, they have been known to protect white wine for ten years. The problem is presentation: do screw caps still imply a cheap wine or remind too many consumers of opening a bottle of vinegar?

The current state of play seems to be as follows. Most producers of premium wine, and especially of red wine, use natural cork, not least because they believe that their traditionally minded customers would be outraged if anything other than cork stoppered their bottles of wine. At a lower price level, and for wines which are meant to be drunk young, the use of plastic corks is still widespread, but they are increasingly being supplanted by screw caps. The screw cap was for some years primarily used for the cheapest wines, but today, here and there-especially in New Zealand, Australia, and California-increasing numbers of quality wine producers have adopted it. But the status hierarchy remains: do you prefer that the wine you drink be protected by a metal screw cap, a length of extruded plastic, or a piece of bark? The ceremony of removal of a cork by a skilled wine waiter is a wonderful one, even down to the suspicious sniffing of the cork, but the results seem to be depressingly uneven.

Does wine really provoke the desire and take away the per for mance?

IT'S BEEN the b.u.t.t, as it were, of jokes since time immemorial, summed up by a drunken porter: the b.u.t.t, as it were, of jokes since time immemorial, summed up by a drunken porter: PORTER: Faith sir, we were carousing till the second c.o.c.k: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. Faith sir, we were carousing till the second c.o.c.k: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.MACDUFF: What three things does drink especially provoke? What three things does drink especially provoke?PORTER: Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the per for mance: therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the per for mance: therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.

Now we know it vulgarly as the "brewer's droop," but it might as well be the distiller's or, indeed, the vintner's, were it not for the popular understanding that there is something a little more delicate about the wine drinker's sensibilities that prevents him (for this particular affliction is confined to men) from making a human wineskin of himself to such an extent. It is, after all, "drink," as the Porter says; and there is no record of what they were carousing on on "till the second c.o.c.k." And "drink" in this case means alcohol: more accurately ethanol, or, as doctors waggishly call it, EtOH. "till the second c.o.c.k." And "drink" in this case means alcohol: more accurately ethanol, or, as doctors waggishly call it, EtOH.

But is there any evidence that drink really does does take away the per for mance? That it provokes the desire, taken in the right mea sure, seems unequivocal: "beer goggles," with their strange illuminating power of augmenting the beauty of whoever is seen through them, are available through the foot of a winegla.s.s, too, and perhaps are even rosier (though again, the effect is attributed to beer as another tribute to the greater delicacy of the wine-bibber). take away the per for mance? That it provokes the desire, taken in the right mea sure, seems unequivocal: "beer goggles," with their strange illuminating power of augmenting the beauty of whoever is seen through them, are available through the foot of a winegla.s.s, too, and perhaps are even rosier (though again, the effect is attributed to beer as another tribute to the greater delicacy of the wine-bibber).

And the mechanism of these magic gla.s.ses is clear, too. Contrary to how it may initially seem, after that first soothing yet invigorating pair of gla.s.ses when the company grows more welcoming, the room warmer, and the wits sharper, alcohol is in effect a depressant. Even champagne, twinkling in its flute, hides a blackjack in its innocent petillance petillance, and in the heel of every fine burgundy lurks a thug with a sock full of wet sand.

We perceive it otherwise because the depressive effects of ethanol seem to work from high to low, in terms of brain function. First to go is that which makes us most human: our finely calibrated tool kit of social inhibitions. Then goes the judgment-just a little but certainly enough-then the volume control and, presently, spleech itselth; the legs wobble, balance fails, the gorge rises. And if all this is not enough (and by this point, as many of us may have experienced in youth, only a direct message from G.o.d would be enough) and the victim goes on drinking, eventually consciousness will recede and the sodden cerebellum may decide that breathing itself is no longer worth the effort.

We aren't concerned with such extremes here. We are not even venturing into the degree of drunkenness that makes so many of our city centers such h.e.l.ls of roaring and midriff after dark. Let us instead stop at the moment when the initial inhibitions have broken down. A man may spy a woman who, his judgment suspended by hock, suddenly appears to him the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Normally, he would keep his counsel, but he drains another gla.s.s and weaves over to her; sober, he might say, "h.e.l.lo," but, a little illuminated, he will say meaningfully, "Well, hel-lo," perhaps even with an invisible exclamation mark and question mark afterward, like this: "Well ... hel-lo!?"

What will happen next is equally predictable. He will, unless rebuffed (which he will not be; she too is slightly lit up), bring them more wine; he will also gaze into her eyes. Science has proven this Science has proven this. People under a pleasant degree of intoxication make longer eye contact than the virtuously sober. Science has also proven that if two people of opposite s.e.x (or two of the same s.e.x, if that is their natural inclination) gaze into each other's eyes for more than about fifty seconds, a powerful and rationally inexplicable sense of attraction forms between them. (This is unlike what happens if you do the same experiment with two heteros.e.xual men: after the same length of time, both report feeling a powerful, yet entirely unprovoked, desire to punch each other on the nose.) And now the stage is set. Desire has been provoked. A couple more gla.s.ses, or, if at dinner, an armagnac for him and a green Chartreuse for her, and the curtain falls on the first act.

The second act takes place in a taxi; then in his, or her, apartment; then in his, or her, bedroom; and is none of our business.

The third act curtain rises upon a man with his head in his hands claiming that he must be tired-he has been working terribly hard recently-and a woman making soothing observations about how it's all right and not to worry, while the ghost of the Porter cackles knowingly in the background.

But is there any truth in it is there any truth in it? Hunt through the libraries, trawl the Internet, and you will find thousands upon thousands of a.s.sertions that so it is: so it is: drink takes away the per for mance. Look more carefully, though, and it begins to acquire something of a slightly shady air. Dr. Irwin Goldstein, who founded the Inst.i.tute for s.e.xual Medicine at Boston University Medical School, told a television audience that "alcohol use was actually not a statistical indicator of erectile dysfunction unless and until the alcohol consumption was fairly excessive. There are lots of reports that minor use of ethanol actually prevents vascular disease, which turns out to be probably the basic underlying dysfunction." In other words, a few drinks keep the pipes clear and should make things better, not worse. And the authoritative drink takes away the per for mance. Look more carefully, though, and it begins to acquire something of a slightly shady air. Dr. Irwin Goldstein, who founded the Inst.i.tute for s.e.xual Medicine at Boston University Medical School, told a television audience that "alcohol use was actually not a statistical indicator of erectile dysfunction unless and until the alcohol consumption was fairly excessive. There are lots of reports that minor use of ethanol actually prevents vascular disease, which turns out to be probably the basic underlying dysfunction." In other words, a few drinks keep the pipes clear and should make things better, not worse. And the authoritative Merck Manual of Geriatrics Merck Manual of Geriatrics-not, alas, a listing of the distinguished and venerable, but an extensive guide to the frailties of humanity under the scourge of time-does acknowledge that alcohol may may be a contributory factor in be a contributory factor in up to up to 25 percent of cases, but it makes the same claim for anticonvulsants, anti-infective agents, antiarrhythmics, adrenergic blockers (centrally or peripherally acting), beta-blockers, calcium channel blockers, anxiolytics, antidepressants, antipsychotics, cocaine, lithium, narcotics, anticholinergics, acetazolamide, baclofen, cimetidine, clofibrate, danazol, disulfiram, interferon, leuprolide, naproxen, and others besides. 25 percent of cases, but it makes the same claim for anticonvulsants, anti-infective agents, antiarrhythmics, adrenergic blockers (centrally or peripherally acting), beta-blockers, calcium channel blockers, anxiolytics, antidepressants, antipsychotics, cocaine, lithium, narcotics, anticholinergics, acetazolamide, baclofen, cimetidine, clofibrate, danazol, disulfiram, interferon, leuprolide, naproxen, and others besides.

None of which, however, is known for provoking the desire; nor would they have made such a good speech for the Porter.

So the answer to our question is: it seems to, sometimes, but we don't really know why.

Yet what a fragile flower the act of love proves to be, particularly from the male's point of view. Cast by a harsh world in the character of ravening satyr, he is truly so delicate that the very elixir of a southern hillside needed to brace him up to approach his desire can prevent him from consummating it-though the reason would seem to be not alcohol itself but an excess excess of alcohol. Falling asleep, an attack of the whirling pits, a raging thirst, or an attack of nausea are equally effective at terminating a night of pa.s.sion before it has begun. The fault (as Shakespeare almost observed) is not in our gla.s.s but in ourselves. of alcohol. Falling asleep, an attack of the whirling pits, a raging thirst, or an attack of nausea are equally effective at terminating a night of pa.s.sion before it has begun. The fault (as Shakespeare almost observed) is not in our gla.s.s but in ourselves.

What was a "comet wine"?

DID YOU EVER briefly wonder what was meant (in "The Stockbroker's Clerk") when Dr. Watson says, "Sherlock Holmes c.o.c.ked his eye at me, leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face, like a connoisseur who had just taken his first sip of a comet vintage"? In the nineteenth century, French wine-makers believed that comets were hot objects, and that this heat produced particularly good grapes. Therefore, they claimed, years when comets appeared were great vintage years. This conviction apparently began with the appearance of Flaugergues's Comet in 1811, which happened to coincide with a hot, dry summer. According to Michael Broadbent in his briefly wonder what was meant (in "The Stockbroker's Clerk") when Dr. Watson says, "Sherlock Holmes c.o.c.ked his eye at me, leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face, like a connoisseur who had just taken his first sip of a comet vintage"? In the nineteenth century, French wine-makers believed that comets were hot objects, and that this heat produced particularly good grapes. Therefore, they claimed, years when comets appeared were great vintage years. This conviction apparently began with the appearance of Flaugergues's Comet in 1811, which happened to coincide with a hot, dry summer. According to Michael Broadbent in his Vintage Wine Vintage Wine, this "comet vintage" was possibly the greatest vintage of the nineteenth century throughout the European wine regions.

During the nineteenth century, the night skies appear to have been littered with comets, with at least three dozen of them making an appearance. The question was, did great vintages coincide with the appearance of comets? If one compares Broadbent's listing of outstanding wines of Bordeaux during this period, the answer is yes: 1811, 1825, 1844, 1846, 1847, 1848, 1858, 1864, 1865, 1870, 1875, and 1899. However, it is immediately noticeable that this is only a dozen years, and they do not include, for example, 1835, when Halley's Comet made its periodic appearance, nor the years of the Great Comets of 1843, 1861, and 1882. However, with nearly every decade combining at least one great vintage with a comet, it is clear why the French wine brokers latched on to a great marketing opportunity, with advertis.e.m.e.nts in newspapers and entries in cata logues listing comet vintages: it was a claim that the wine-drinking public was apparently willing to believe.

What did Dr. Johnson challenge his Master to drink?

HERE BEFORE US as we write is a rare first edition of Dr. Johnson's epic 1755 as we write is a rare first edition of Dr. Johnson's epic 1755 Dictionary Dictionary ... no; let's give it the full ceremony of its t.i.tle: ... no; let's give it the full ceremony of its t.i.tle: A Dictionary of the English Language in whichThe WORDS WORDS are deduced from their are deduced from their ORIGINALS ORIGINALS and andILl.u.s.tRATED in their in their DIFFERENT SIGNIFICATIONS DIFFERENT SIGNIFICATIONSby EXAMPLES EXAMPLES from the best from the best WRITERS WRITERS.

How does this most convivial and clubbable of men-he defined the word club club as "an a.s.sembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions"-define as "an a.s.sembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions"-define wine wine?

Soberly enough.

"WINE," he writes: "The fermented juice of the grape," and that (compare the EU definition) is that. Straightaway, Johnson is off on a list of supporting quotations, beginning with Shakespeare ("The wine wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees / Is left this vault to brag of") and working through the Bible ("Be not amongst of life is drawn, and the mere lees / Is left this vault to brag of") and working through the Bible ("Be not amongst wine wine-bibbers, amongst riotous eaters"), Bacon ("Where the wine wine-press is hard-wrought, it yields a harsh wine wine that tastes of the grape-stone"), Sandys, Milton, Herbert, and Pope, ending with the satiric Swift ("If the hogshead falls short, the that tastes of the grape-stone"), Sandys, Milton, Herbert, and Pope, ending with the satiric Swift ("If the hogshead falls short, the wine wine-cooper had not filled it in proper time").

His secondary entry is a quote from Arbuthnot, which goes straight to the point discovered by anyone who has ever had a gla.s.s of terrible homemade parsnip wine, and, indeed, by elephants, who allegedly throw fruit into water holes and come back later when it has fermented: "Preparations of vegetables by fermentations called by the general name of wines wines, have quite different qualities from the plant; for no fruit, taken crude, has the intoxicating quality of wine wine."

A modest enough explanation of one of the most far-reaching discoveries of all time, but then, surprisingly enough for the great conversationalist of his age, Dr. Johnson forswore his drinking, thereafter more likely than not to be confining himself to water when those about him were downing the stuff by the bottle. Yet there were few subjects on which he enjoyed conversing more than wine, one of which brought about his celebrated quarrel with the artist Sir Joshua Reynolds. In the middle of a discussion about wine at the house of General Paoli, Johnson, fueled on nothing more than water, suddenly bellowed, "I won't argue with you any more, Sir. You are too far gone." Far from taking it on the chin, the great painter snapped back, "I should have thought so indeed, Sir, had I made such a speech as you have now done." It wasn't the only occasion, either: at Richard c.u.mberland's house, Johnson asked for another cup of tea, only to be told by Reynolds that he had already had eleven cups. "Sir," roared the Great Bear, as he was known, "I did not count your gla.s.ses of wine. Why should you number up my cups of tea?" But the occasion ended in laughter.