Dr. Johnson, when not on his water diet, was known for the strength of his head and once famously drank thirty-six gla.s.ses of port at one sitting "with a sugar-lump in every gla.s.s" without showing any effects. But port port could cover a mult.i.tude of wines, some of them sinful. When Johnson challenged his friend and benefactor, the wealthy brewer Henry Thrale, whom Johnson referred to as his "Master," to a drinking compet.i.tion, it was not port he suggested. In the presence of f.a.n.n.y Burney, he said: could cover a mult.i.tude of wines, some of them sinful. When Johnson challenged his friend and benefactor, the wealthy brewer Henry Thrale, whom Johnson referred to as his "Master," to a drinking compet.i.tion, it was not port he suggested. In the presence of f.a.n.n.y Burney, he said: I wish my Master would say to me, "Johnson, if you will oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon," and then we will set to it, gla.s.s for gla.s.s, till it is done; and after that, I will say, "Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will call for another bottle of Toulon," and then we will set to it, gla.s.s for gla.s.s, till that is done; and by the time we should have drunk the two bottles, we should be so happy and such good friends, that we should fly into each other's arms, and both call together for the third!

Three bottles of Toulon might have been enough to set Thrale a-going-according to Johnson, "his conversation does not show the minute hand, but he strikes the hour very correctly"-but what actually was it that he was thinking of? Go into a restaurant or a bar now and call for a bottle of Toulon-we have conducted this experiment so that you do not have to-and you'll be met with blank looks. Explain that Toulon was, in the eighteenth century, a center of the French wine trade, and that the wines of Toulon would probably now, geographically, fall into the Cotes de Provence, and some light will dawn, resulting in the offer-the odds are still roughly four to one-of some light, dry rose, the stuff of holiday memories on the Cote d'Azur. The Provencal wine growers are making efforts to move out of this frisky, slightly frou-frou ghetto, mindful perhaps of their heritage as arguably the most ancient wine-growing area of France; certainly the Provencal landscape of vines, olives, and lavender would have been familiar to the ancient Romans, though Narbonne disputes the claims of Ma.r.s.eilles to precedence in the matter. Whatever the historical truth, Provencal growers are leavening their Cinsaut-and Grenache-based roses with some serious red wines. Two of the essential varietals in red and rose Cotes de Provence, Mourvedre and Tibouren, have ancient roots in the region, and Syrah has been identified as being the progeny of two other grapes from southeastern France, Dureza and Mondeuse Blanche. Somehow it is contrary to nature to imagine the Great Bear, the tremendous, squinny-eyed, skew-wigged, dropsical Johnson, planning to illuminate his and Mr. Thrale's friendship with the sort of cool rose more suited to balmy evenings on restaurant terraces in Gordes or St. Paul de Vence, dreaming of selling up and moving to the sun. Far more satisfying to think of the two of them working happily through the third bottle of something more akin to a new-style Provencal red, ideally from Bandol, with Mourvedre, Tibouren, and Syrah's forebears working in their veins.

And yet ... Johnson was opinionated about wine, but no sn.o.b. After all, it was he who wrote to his friend Samuel Richardson asking to be rescued from the bailiffs. "I remember writing to him from a sponging-house"-where debtors were confined until their friends could spring them by paying their debts-"and was so sure of my deliverance through his kindness and liberality that, before his reply was brought, I knew I could afford to joke with the rascal who had me in custody, and did so, over a pint of adulterated wine, for which, at that instant, I had no money to pay." Conviviality and friendship, as ever, took precedence over what was in the bottle. Perhaps it was, after all, a skinny quotidian rose he had in mind.

Why is hock linked to Queen Victoria?

ACCORDING to Dr. Johnson in his to Dr. Johnson in his Dictionary, hockamore Dictionary, hockamore (the English rendering of (the English rendering of Hochheimer Hochheimer) and its shortened form, hock hock, referred to "old dry strong Rhenish," that is, Rhine wines made primarily from the Riesling grape. This was in the eighteenth century, and England had been importing Rhenish wines since the medieval period-Samuel Pepys notes in his diary in the 1660s his regular visits to "Rhenish wine houses." In transport terms, it was an easy journey for the wine: by barge down the Rhine, stopping only to pay tolls at every pa.s.sing castle, and by ship across the North Sea. Thomas Jefferson noted in 1788 that the wines of Hochheim, along with those of Rudesheim and Johannisberg, were the most expensive in the Rheingau, and indeed, hock was one of the world's most expensive wines in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Michael Broadbent has pointed out that at the Christie's sale in 1808, a dozen bottles of "Very Old Hock" sold for over 10, the highest price for any wine at auction between 1766 and the 1880s.

Thus, before Victoria was even thought of, hock was a fashionable wine in England. Why, then, do wine cata logues ascribe to Victoria the responsibility for the wine's popularity? Most wine merchants do not claim to be historians, but the story of Victoria and her liking for hock is part of the wine trade's folklore. Undeniably her devotion to her consort, the German-born Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, led her to embrace many things German, including their wines. When they traveled to Germany in 1850, they visited the town of Hochheim, and the linking of hock and Hochheim was obvious. And what royalty did, many others followed.

What is sad is the falling into desuetude of the term hock hock to refer to wines of quality. By the 1970s, a hock was a generic white German wine, usually sweetened, which could regularly be found in large bottles on the bottom shelves of supermarkets. to refer to wines of quality. By the 1970s, a hock was a generic white German wine, usually sweetened, which could regularly be found in large bottles on the bottom shelves of supermarkets.

Ceremonial: shall we combine?

IF YOU SHOULD be invited to dine at High Table at one of Britain's oldest universities, your host may well ask this question, which is less sinister than you might think. "Combination" is one of the most appealing of the many wine-based ceremonies, and a sort of reversal of the old (and thankfully now defunct in civilized society) custom in which the women retire to the drawing room and the men stay behind at table to get blind drunk (in the eighteenth century) or to bore each other with talk of money and off-color jokes (the nineteenth and twentieth centuries). be invited to dine at High Table at one of Britain's oldest universities, your host may well ask this question, which is less sinister than you might think. "Combination" is one of the most appealing of the many wine-based ceremonies, and a sort of reversal of the old (and thankfully now defunct in civilized society) custom in which the women retire to the drawing room and the men stay behind at table to get blind drunk (in the eighteenth century) or to bore each other with talk of money and off-color jokes (the nineteenth and twentieth centuries).

College dining is, of course, collegiate in nature, with the students and Fellows (the senior members of the college) eating in the same room, generally simply called "Hall." But instead of the junior members being thrown out like so many ladies, the Fellows and their guests throw themselves themselves out, retiring to drink wine-usually port, claret, or a sweet dessert wine. out, retiring to drink wine-usually port, claret, or a sweet dessert wine.

In other words, they combine with each other. (Cynics say that the tradition arose so that the senior members could get blotto without setting a bad example to the juniors, though the more observant might say that it works both ways and is merely the civilized turning of a mutual blind eye. But things are more decorous these days, anyway.) Customs vary. At Magdalene College, Cambridge, for example, people sit in groups of two or three at small occasional tables arranged in a semicircle, looking out over the courtyard and illuminated by candlelight, and the wines are brought round by the most junior Fellow present. The strict rule is that you may not, as you sip your claret and nibble your Bath Oliver biscuit, sit next to the people you were sitting with at dinner.

At other colleges, they proceed to another version of the dining table, where, as well as biscuits, there may be cheese, fruit, nuts, and a collegiate snuffbox; in these cases the wines are kept in circulation, and strictly in a clockwise direction, so that each person gets the bottle presented to his or her right hand (and hard luck if you're a southpaw).

Some years ago we had the good fortune to sit next to a distinguished woman, no longer young, who had acquired her husband-a lord, no less-by virtue of this tradition. He had invited her to High Table at his college, and after dinner, distracted by the presence of her beloved, she had inadvertently pa.s.sed the wine-"a rather indifferent Sauternes," she said; "I remember it clearly"-the wrong way wrong way. The ancient don on her right was startled and perplexed, she said. Quite obviously he didn't know what to do at the sight of a bottle appearing by his left hand.

"Then I had a flash of inspiration," she said. "I noticed the old chap was in a wheelchair. So I stood up, took his brakes off-I was a nurse at the time, my dear, so I knew all about wheelchairs-and wheeled him an entire circuit of the table in an anti-clockwise direction in an anti-clockwise direction. I thought that if he arrived at the wine anti-clockwise, it would be the same as if the wine had arrived at him clockwise. Saved the day. Well Well. My beau watched entranced and afterwards said it was the most impressive thing he'd ever seen, that it was quite clear that I'd do I'd do, and would I do him the honor of becoming his wife. So that that, my dear, is how I became Lady ---."

Combining is seldom so literally interpreted. But it remains a charming tradition of commensality over wine. (And one small word of advice: there is no need for even the shyest to find themselves conversationally stuck. All you need to do is turn to your neighbor at such an occasion and say, "Tell me, what are you working on at the moment?" And he will tell you; boy, will he tell you.)

What wine is "pampered by the sun"?

GERMANY'S southernmost border runs in a wiggly line for 250 miles east-west at between 47 southernmost border runs in a wiggly line for 250 miles east-west at between 47N and 48 and 48N. This means that all all of Germany's vineyards are north of the great French winegrowing regions of Burgundy, Bordeaux, and the Rhone. It is for this reason that Germany's production, like England's, is mainly of white wine. However, the southwest corner of the country, Baden, around Freiburg im Breisgau, is proud to be one of the hottest regions of Germany. To the visitor, Baden has almost a Mediterranean feel, despite its being a long way north of the sea. Here, three-quarters of the total acreage is given over to red grapes, primarily Pinot Noir, called Spatburgunder in Germany. The climate also means that Baden whites are generally more alcoholic than other German whites. This is because the sunshine enables the natural sugars in the grapes to rise to a higher level than is possible in the cooler north of Germany by harvest time, and the higher the sugar level, the higher the alcoholic strength. Baden wine is promoted as of Germany's vineyards are north of the great French winegrowing regions of Burgundy, Bordeaux, and the Rhone. It is for this reason that Germany's production, like England's, is mainly of white wine. However, the southwest corner of the country, Baden, around Freiburg im Breisgau, is proud to be one of the hottest regions of Germany. To the visitor, Baden has almost a Mediterranean feel, despite its being a long way north of the sea. Here, three-quarters of the total acreage is given over to red grapes, primarily Pinot Noir, called Spatburgunder in Germany. The climate also means that Baden whites are generally more alcoholic than other German whites. This is because the sunshine enables the natural sugars in the grapes to rise to a higher level than is possible in the cooler north of Germany by harvest time, and the higher the sugar level, the higher the alcoholic strength. Baden wine is promoted as von der Sonne verwohnt von der Sonne verwohnt, which translates as "pampered by the sun." As applied to children, the usual English translation of verwohnt verwohnt is "spoilt," but this translation would not, perhaps, convey exactly the nuance desired. is "spoilt," but this translation would not, perhaps, convey exactly the nuance desired.

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Was Pliny the first Robert Parker?

GAIUS PLINIUS SECUNDUS, known to posterity as Pliny the Elder, is probably remembered primarily for being killed, perhaps by sulfur fumes, perhaps by a heart attack, as a result of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. But in his own day, for centuries thereafter, and among those today who are interested in the ingathering of knowledge, Pliny was famous above all for his known to posterity as Pliny the Elder, is probably remembered primarily for being killed, perhaps by sulfur fumes, perhaps by a heart attack, as a result of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. But in his own day, for centuries thereafter, and among those today who are interested in the ingathering of knowledge, Pliny was famous above all for his Naturalis Historia Naturalis Historia. In its thirty-seven books, he surveys all of nature-animal, vegetable, and mineral, and sometimes human. He is indefatigable. His nephew and adopted son, Pliny the Younger, wrote about his uncle's work habits (Letters (Letters 3.5.1416): 3.5.1416): In retirement only the time for the bath deflected him from his studies. (When I say "the bath," I mean when he was in the water, for when he was being sc.r.a.ped and toweled, he was either listening to or dictating something.) When on a journey, as though freed from other preoccupations he devoted himself solely to study. His secretary sat by him with a book and writing-tablets; in winter his hands were shielded with gauntlets so that not even the harsh temperature should deprive him of any time for study. For this reason even when in Rome he was conveyed in a chair. I recall his rebuke to me for walking: "You could," he said, "have avoided wasting those hours." For he believed that any time not devoted to study was wasted. It was through such concentration that he completed those numerous volumes [of Naturalis Historia Naturalis Historia].

He clearly lived up to the conviction he wrote in the Preface to Book XVIII: Vita vigilia est Vita vigilia est-life is being awake.

Pliny was born in AD AD 23 and went through several careers. He was an equestrian or cavalry officer, serving in Germany; he then had a very active legal practice; following this, he was appointed to a number of high procuratorships-that is, he was a senior civil servant-in which he won a reputation for integrity. Finally, in semiretirement, he was given command of the Misenum fleet, that part of the Roman navy stationed in the Bay of Naples. His sense of duty plus his curiosity killed him: when Mount Vesuvius erupted on August 24, 79, he led a detachment to the disaster area, landed at Stabiae, went into the city, took a nap, left it too long, and, when he was dragged out to the beach, collapsed. It was this curiosity that drove him to learn, and duty that drove him to write up what he had learned. His literary work was carried out alongside his official work, which apparently did not suffer from a lack of his attention. His output was phenomenal, but all that remains is his 23 and went through several careers. He was an equestrian or cavalry officer, serving in Germany; he then had a very active legal practice; following this, he was appointed to a number of high procuratorships-that is, he was a senior civil servant-in which he won a reputation for integrity. Finally, in semiretirement, he was given command of the Misenum fleet, that part of the Roman navy stationed in the Bay of Naples. His sense of duty plus his curiosity killed him: when Mount Vesuvius erupted on August 24, 79, he led a detachment to the disaster area, landed at Stabiae, went into the city, took a nap, left it too long, and, when he was dragged out to the beach, collapsed. It was this curiosity that drove him to learn, and duty that drove him to write up what he had learned. His literary work was carried out alongside his official work, which apparently did not suffer from a lack of his attention. His output was phenomenal, but all that remains is his Naturalis Historia Naturalis Historia.

Book XIV is devoted to the vine and wine. He lists, he describes, he considers, and he often p.r.o.nounces. "But where," he asks, "can we better make a beginning than with the vine?" He describes the various ways of cultivating the vine, and follows this with a discussion, which is pages long, of the many varieties of grapes and their uses. He talks about famous wines of former times, the oldest of which was the wine of Maronea grown in the seaboard parts of Thrace, as described by Homer. He also celebrates a more recent vintage, the vintage of Opimius, called such because it was the year of the consulship of Lucius Opimius; this was 121 BC BC, and it was probably as memorable because it was also the year of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Gaius Gracchus "for stirring up the common people with seditions" or proposals for reforms. That year the weather was so fine and bright ("they call it the 'boiling' of the grape") that wines from that vintage, according to Pliny, still survived nearly two hundred years later. He did add, however, that they had "now been reduced to the consistency of honey with a rough flavor, for such in fact is the nature of wines in their old age." Nevertheless, if an amphora of this wine cost a hundred sesterces the year it was made, 160 years later a hundred sesterces would buy only one-twelfth of an amphora of the wine-"so large," he exclaims, "are the sums of money that are kept stored in our wine cellars! Indeed there is nothing else which experiences a greater increase of value up to the twentieth year-or a greater fall in value afterwards, supposing that there is not a rise of price." The Opimian vintage was an exception, because it continued to improve beyond twenty years-although clearly not for two hundred.

Pliny predated the 1855 cla.s.sification technique by nearly two thousand years when he listed Italian wines in order of merit, for, he says, "who can doubt ... that some kinds of wine are more agreeable than others, or who does not know that one of two wines from the same vat can be superior to the other, surpa.s.sing its relation either owing to its cask or from some accidental circ.u.mstance?" He then cla.s.sifies Italian wines into first-, second-, third-, and fourth-cla.s.s wines, other wines, and foreign wines. He does not, however, follow fashion blindly. Many commentators have exalted Falernian wine, and indeed, he remarks that "no other wine has a higher rank at the present day." Pliny, however, puts it into the second cla.s.s, although he does praise the estate of Faustus because of "the care taken in its cultivation;" but, he adds, "the reputation of this district also is pa.s.sing out of vogue through the fault of paying more attention to quant.i.ty than to quality." Modern parallels leap to mind.

Finally, he is firm on the vexed question of terroir terroir. In his discussion of the areas in Italy where good wines were made, he gives Campania as an example of a region that, "whether by means of careful cultivation or by accident," good wines had recently been produced from new areas of cultivation. On the other hand, there were areas where decent wine would never be made, no matter what efforts were taken: "as for the wines of Pompei [sic], their topmost improvement is a matter of ten years, and they gain nothing from age; also, they are detected as unwholesome because of a headache which lasts till noon on the following day." Therefore, "these instances, if I am not mistaken, go to show that it is the country and the soil that matters, not the grape, and that it is superfluous to go on with a long enumeration of kinds, since the same vine has a different value in different places." In any case, "everyone has his own favorites," and "I would not deny that other wines also deserve a high reputation, but the ones that I have enumerated are those on which the general agreement of the ages will be found to have p.r.o.nounced judgment."

So what can we say about Pliny as wine judge and wine writer? First of all, he was almost unbelievably hardworking; he also tended to castigate those whom he thought were not working as hard. His curiosity was capacious and his command of detail admirable. Although he was willing to admit that others might think differently, he clearly saw himself as having the last word. His work is still read with pleasure and profit two thousand years after his death: will the same be said of any of today's well-regarded wine writers two millennia hence?

Which Liebfraumilch isn't Liebfraumilch?

POOR LIEBFRAUMILCH has had a bad press in recent years, perhaps because of its a.s.sociations with branded supermarket wines such as Blue Nun, the sweetish, fruity, ma.s.s-market harbingers of faux sophistication and nightmarish Abigail's Parties in carefully managerial housing estates. has had a bad press in recent years, perhaps because of its a.s.sociations with branded supermarket wines such as Blue Nun, the sweetish, fruity, ma.s.s-market harbingers of faux sophistication and nightmarish Abigail's Parties in carefully managerial housing estates.

Poor Liebfraumilch. You couldn't call it glamorous. Blue Nun's main compet.i.tor in the 1970s, for example, was that icon of unsophistication, Mateus Rose. And the fruity, low-acid Muller-Thurgau varietal from which most cheap Liebfraumilch was made was largely grown because it was a more profitable crop than k.n.o.bbly, proletarian old sugar beets. No, not glamorous.

Poor Liebfraumilch. Its name isn't even German, but a sort of pidgin Deutsch; the real version would be Liebfrauenmilch-"beloved lady's milk"-a reference to the Virgin Mary (just as the Blue Nun herself bore striking resemblances to the traditional iconography of Mary, but not enough to rouse the Catholics).

Despite its multiple, generic, and downscale by-blows, the original Liebfraumilch, from the Liebfrauenstift-Kirchenstuck, the vineyards around the Liebfrauenkirche in Worms, can still be had. But Madonna Liebfraumilch, as it is labeled, is not a Liebfraumilch. It is far too posh for that, being officially a "QmP"-a Qualitatswein mit Pradikat, the top level of the German cla.s.sification-while its decla.s.se relations are mere Deutscher Landwein, one up from the bottom.

Poor Liebfraumilch.

What wines did Chaucer's pilgrims drink?

BORN THE SON and grandson of vintners (wine importers), Geoffrey Chaucer, who lived from c. 1343 to 1400, was primarily a civil servant, although of an exalted sort. He had married the sister of the third wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and younger son of King Edward III, and Gaunt's patronage was important in securing Chaucer's appointment to various positions. But Chaucer had another life, that of a reader, translator, and writer of books; and grandson of vintners (wine importers), Geoffrey Chaucer, who lived from c. 1343 to 1400, was primarily a civil servant, although of an exalted sort. He had married the sister of the third wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and younger son of King Edward III, and Gaunt's patronage was important in securing Chaucer's appointment to various positions. But Chaucer had another life, that of a reader, translator, and writer of books; Canterbury Tales Canterbury Tales is only his most widely known. is only his most widely known.

Wine was plentiful in England. Part of Chaucer's payment for some years was a jug of wine each day, while later on he was to receive a cask of wine each year. Wine makes a frequent appearance in the Tales Tales, although what type of wine is often unclear. In the Prologue, for example, the Summoner drank strong red wine, while the Host at the Tabard, a high-cla.s.s hostelry, provided strong wine for the group of pilgrims. What was it? The obvious answer should be red wine from Bordeaux, which at that time still belonged to the English Crown. But most Bordeaux wine was not "strong": rather, it was very light red (what the French called clairet clairet) or even the color of a rose. Indeed, Hugh Johnson in his Story of Wine Story of Wine points out that it was what the French called a points out that it was what the French called a vin d'une nuit vin d'une nuit. The grapes were trodden, and the wine fermented on the skins in the vat for no more than twenty-four hours-a single night-before the liquid was run off into barrels to ferment as a clear, pale juice. A small proportion of the must (juice) was left in the vat with the skins to become redder, but the resulting wine was too harsh and dark to serve on its own; some would be added to the paler wine to darken it and give it some "edge." Johnson compares it to modern Beaujolais Nouveau. The Tabard was too upmarket to give the pilgrims the inferior wine, and therefore it seems likely that Chaucer's "strong wine" must have come from elsewhere.

A strong possibility is that it was wine from Spain. From about 1250, wine was regularly shipped from Bilbao to Bristol, Southampton, and London. The best wines were very good: when prices were fixed by Edward III in 1364, the best Spanish wine cost the same as the best Bordeaux. Coming from a hot climate, the wines were high in alcohol and therefore strong. It is arguable, then, that the Host's strong wine was a good-quality, alcoholic red wine from Spain.

Chaucer mentions other wines, including the aromatic and flavored. One was Ypocras or Hippocras, drunk as an after-dinner digestif or served with cakes as a late-night collation. This was made with either red or white wine, although red was usually preferred, as its greater robustness was thought to aid digestion. According to The Customs of London The Customs of London (1811), you should take a quart of red wine, an ounce of cinnamon, a half ounce of ginger, a quarter of an ounce of white pepper, and half a pound of sugar, bruise the spices, and put the sugar, spices, and wine into a woolen cloth made for it. You then let it hang over a vessel until the wine has run through. Other recipes call for bringing the wine to a boil with the spices and honey (rather than sugar, which was relatively rare and expensive), straining it through a muslin bag, bottling it, and leaving it to mature for a month. The name came from Hippocrates's sleeve, which this bag was thought to resemble. Hippocras was clearly a type of mulled wine, and its popularity continued well into the seventeenth century, when Pepys enjoyed it. It evolved into hot punch, the eighteenth-century favorite in both Britain and the colonies. (1811), you should take a quart of red wine, an ounce of cinnamon, a half ounce of ginger, a quarter of an ounce of white pepper, and half a pound of sugar, bruise the spices, and put the sugar, spices, and wine into a woolen cloth made for it. You then let it hang over a vessel until the wine has run through. Other recipes call for bringing the wine to a boil with the spices and honey (rather than sugar, which was relatively rare and expensive), straining it through a muslin bag, bottling it, and leaving it to mature for a month. The name came from Hippocrates's sleeve, which this bag was thought to resemble. Hippocras was clearly a type of mulled wine, and its popularity continued well into the seventeenth century, when Pepys enjoyed it. It evolved into hot punch, the eighteenth-century favorite in both Britain and the colonies.

Another heated and flavored wine that makes an appearance was clarree, which apparently took its name from vinum claratum vinum claratum, or clarified wine. The base here was sweet white wine, which was first boiled with honey, and to which were added cinnamon, cardamom, white pepper, and ginger; as with Hippocras, clarree was then strained and left to mature.

One wine mentioned by Chaucer, Vernage, was not a concoction as were the others. Rather, it was a wine of great luxury from Italy, and was made from the gentle pressing of dried bunches of grapes-in effect, from raisins. It was very sweet and relatively high in alcohol. By the early fifteenth century, however, it had practically ceased to be imported into England, although, according to one writer, it had a beautiful red color and aroma, it was not too sweet, and it had an exquisite taste. But it was too expensive to be widely available in public inns: only three out of some four hundred in London served it, and these were undoubtedly inns patronized by the Quality.

There are at least two possibilities for the indeterminate nature of the wines in Canterbury Tales Canterbury Tales. First of all, specific types of wine were usually irrelevant to the stories, and Chaucer himself reportedly did not care overmuch for wine. But the other was that having much detail as such was unusual, although the purchaser presumably did know the country of origin of the wine he bought. (But what was was the Pardoner's "white wyn of Lepe," which was a "wyn of Spaigne"?) When you purchased wine, you usually depended on the merchant, ordering from him, say, five casks of wine from Gascony or a b.u.t.t of malmsey or two casks of Rhenish. The merchant would then supply it, but it is doubtful whether a list of estates and appropriate tasting notes were included with the delivery. the Pardoner's "white wyn of Lepe," which was a "wyn of Spaigne"?) When you purchased wine, you usually depended on the merchant, ordering from him, say, five casks of wine from Gascony or a b.u.t.t of malmsey or two casks of Rhenish. The merchant would then supply it, but it is doubtful whether a list of estates and appropriate tasting notes were included with the delivery.

What was the ambrosia of the G.o.ds?

THIS IS A question that's bound to come up sooner or later, often (in our experience) triggered by something special from Chateau d'Yquem or a particularly fine Tokaji, maybe a Banyuls or a gla.s.s of Klein Constantia. Whatever, the thing that sets them off-"Ah, the ambrosia of the G.o.ds!"-is usually something sweet and white. question that's bound to come up sooner or later, often (in our experience) triggered by something special from Chateau d'Yquem or a particularly fine Tokaji, maybe a Banyuls or a gla.s.s of Klein Constantia. Whatever, the thing that sets them off-"Ah, the ambrosia of the G.o.ds!"-is usually something sweet and white.

Sometimes they may say nectar nectar instead of instead of ambrosia ambrosia, but the truth is, it makes little difference: the words seem originally to have been used interchangeably, though ambrosia ambrosia has some seniority in the matter. Subsequently, nectar seems to have become the drink of the G.o.ds, and ambrosia their food, but that's more from custom than precision-precision being unattainable because it's unlikely that there are any G.o.ds on Mount Olympus, and if there were, we wouldn't know what they drank. has some seniority in the matter. Subsequently, nectar seems to have become the drink of the G.o.ds, and ambrosia their food, but that's more from custom than precision-precision being unattainable because it's unlikely that there are any G.o.ds on Mount Olympus, and if there were, we wouldn't know what they drank.

The word ambrosia ambrosia, in this context, may be one of those fascinating coincidences that give rise to false but enduring a.s.sociations. It may be derived from the Greek for "immortal"-hence its a.s.sociation with the G.o.ds-but is far more likely to come from the same root as amber amber and to mean "sweet-smelling." A similar word- and to mean "sweet-smelling." A similar word-amrita-is used for the food of the Hindu G.o.ds, and the most probable explanation is that both ambrosia and nectar are forms of honey. The drink of the G.o.ds, therefore, was mead, an ancient alcoholic drink made from honey fermented with water and yeast, and frequently flavored with fruits and herbs or secondarily fermented with raisins. Mead has been around for at least three thousand years: Pliny and Aristotle both discuss it (Pliny called it milit.i.tes milit.i.tes and differentiated it from honey-sweetened wine), and Anglo-Saxon heroes drank and roared in the mead hall. Though largely obliterated in modern Europe by wine and beer, it has ironically returned to public consciousness-at least in certain quarters-by its reappearance as the drink of choice in Dungeons & Dragons games, pseudo-medieval fantasy fiction, and the many computer games that echo the genre. and differentiated it from honey-sweetened wine), and Anglo-Saxon heroes drank and roared in the mead hall. Though largely obliterated in modern Europe by wine and beer, it has ironically returned to public consciousness-at least in certain quarters-by its reappearance as the drink of choice in Dungeons & Dragons games, pseudo-medieval fantasy fiction, and the many computer games that echo the genre.

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Curiously, some sources won't have it. In this translation by James Davidson, Hermippus, the one-eyed Athenian comedy writer of the fifth century BC BC, has the G.o.d Dionysos talking about wine, including the Mendaean wine, with which the G.o.ds themselves wet their soft beds. And then there is Magnesian, generous, sweet and smooth, and Thasian upon whose surface skates the perfume of apples; this I judge by far the best of all the wines, except for blameless, painless Chian.

This last suggests that even Dionysos himself, the G.o.d of wine, was not immune to hangovers.

Did Clarence really drown in a b.u.t.t of malmsey?

ACCORDING to Shakespeare's to Shakespeare's Tragedy of Richard III Tragedy of Richard III, Act I, Scene IV, George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, brother of King Edward IV and of the soon-to-be King Richard III, is murdered in the Tower of London in the following manner: SECOND MURDERER: ... Come, shall we fall to work?FIRST MURDERER: Take him on the costard [head] with the hilts of thy sword, and then chop him in the malmsey-b.u.t.t in the next room.SECOND MURDERER: O excellent device! and make a sop of him.[...]SECOND MURDERER: Look behind you, my lord.FIRST MURDERER: (Stabbing him.) Take that, and that. If all this will not do, I'll drown you in the malmsey-b.u.t.t within.(Exits with the body.) The Duke of Clarence, age twenty-nine when he died, was a turbulent, treasonous nuisance. Shakespeare has him dream, on the night before he was killed, about drowning in the sea (prescience!) and going to h.e.l.l, where the ghost of a man he had killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury calls him "false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence." He had joined with his father-in-law, the Earl of Warwick, the most powerful man in England save the king, in attempting to overthrow his brother King Edward IV, imprisoning Edward and executing Edward's father-in-law and brother-in-law. Although forgiven by Edward, Clarence continued to involve himself in other plots and conspiracies during the Wars of the Roses, always hoping to supplant him as king. He was arrogant and unstable, wholly lacking in political skills, and full of wild talk. By 1477, he was morbidly-some say paranoically-suspicious, convinced that Edward wanted him murdered. He even burst into a session of the Privy Council, shouting wild accusations against some of Edward's followers. Edward had had enough, and in January 1478, he charged him with treason. The Bill of Attainder (an Act of Parliament used to convict political opponents of treason without having to go to the bother of putting them on trial) was pa.s.sed by both the House of Commons and the House of Lords, and on February 18, 1478, he died-or, as it was put, Clarence was no more. The story that he was killed as tradition says has some contemporary support. Dominico Mancini, an Italian scholar who visited England from about late 1482 until just before Richard's coronation, wrote five years after the event that Clarence was "plunged into a jar of sweet wine;" Philippe de Commynes wrote in his Memoires Memoires fewer than ten years later that " fewer than ten years later that "Le roy Edouard fist mourir son frere, duc de Clarance, en un pippe de malvoisie, pour ce qu-il se vouloit faire roy, comme l'on disoit." Furthermore, he says that Clarence was invited to choose the manner of his death, and he chose to be drowned in a b.u.t.t of malmsey. On the other hand, Shakespeare has him stabbed, which does not appear in his historical sources, so perhaps he at least did not entirely believe the tale.

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When we think of malmsey now, we think of madeira wine, but for Shakespeare this was not the case. The island itself was only discovered in the fourteenth century, and it was only near the end of the sixteenth century that a wine industry was fully established. The term, in fact, was used for a range of unusually rich, sweet, long-lasting white wines produced in Greece, on the Ionian Islands, and on some of the Cyclades, but especially on Crete (then called Candia), which was the source of the best and most luxurious malmsey wine. The name malmsey malmsey is actually a corruption of the word is actually a corruption of the word Malvasia Malvasia ( (malvoisie in French, as per Commynes), the name of the grape, and did not refer to a specific wine; rather, it denoted any strong, sweet wine from Greece and the islands of the eastern Mediterranean. The size of a b.u.t.t was also different from the modern equivalent: while today it is 172 gallons, in 1483 a b.u.t.t held only 108 gallons, but this was still large enough to drown a man. in French, as per Commynes), the name of the grape, and did not refer to a specific wine; rather, it denoted any strong, sweet wine from Greece and the islands of the eastern Mediterranean. The size of a b.u.t.t was also different from the modern equivalent: while today it is 172 gallons, in 1483 a b.u.t.t held only 108 gallons, but this was still large enough to drown a man.

Many modern historians think that the whole story is ridiculous, and tend to restrict themselves to remarking that Clarence had been condemned to death and died in the Tower. There is the possibility, however, that at least part of the story is correct: that he died in a b.u.t.t of liquid, but that it was not malmsey. This was the argument put by John Webster Spargo in an academic article some three-quarters of a century ago. Because historians over the years appear to have a.s.sumed that this was a method of execution known nowhere else, it therefore could not be authentic: rather, it was merely a jest. However, Webster argues that in the Netherlands, there were examples of those charged with heresy being drowned in a vessel of water. He then cites a business letter written in 1479 as evidence that malmsey was common in London at the time, and thus the presence of a large wine barrel in the area of the Tower that housed n.o.ble prisoners also would have been common. (It was the merchants of Venice who created the demand for malmsey in England.) But what was in the barrel? Webster argues that "if the b.u.t.t had still contained wine at the time of the execution, it would not have been available for occupancy by Clarence, for the head of the barrel would still have been intact." His conclusion was that it was an old malmsey b.u.t.t, which, still having a capital value, had had its head knocked out and been filled with water to keep it from drying out. There is an additional argument against death by sweet wine: both murderers refer to a malmsey-b.u.t.t, not a b.u.t.t of malmsey-and there is a distinct difference between a water bucket and a bucket of water.

We shall, of course, never know for sure, but what is certain is that the First Murderer's announcing to Clarence that "I'll drown you in the water-b.u.t.t within" would not have quite the same romantic resonance.

Can anyone remember why we drink to forget?

THAT REMINDS US of the one where this guy is getting plastered in a bar and the barman says, "You've had enough, pal," and the guy says, "No, no, you can't do this to me, I'm drinking to forget," and the barman says, "Forget what?" and the guy thinks for a bit and says, "I can't remember." of the one where this guy is getting plastered in a bar and the barman says, "You've had enough, pal," and the guy says, "No, no, you can't do this to me, I'm drinking to forget," and the barman says, "Forget what?" and the guy thinks for a bit and says, "I can't remember."

That reminds me of the one ... The cry of the bar room bore throughout history. But there's some truth in the joke: we do try to drown our sorrows in wine. Alas, there is also some falsehood in the joke, because-as anyone who has lived with a drinker knows-it simply doesn't work. After a while, even the most hardened drunk becomes maudlin. Color, bouquet, taste, finish-all are subsumed in an onrush of terrible ... The cry of the bar room bore throughout history. But there's some truth in the joke: we do try to drown our sorrows in wine. Alas, there is also some falsehood in the joke, because-as anyone who has lived with a drinker knows-it simply doesn't work. After a while, even the most hardened drunk becomes maudlin. Color, bouquet, taste, finish-all are subsumed in an onrush of terrible remembering remembering, as grievances and hurts bubble to the surface on a tide of tears.

The drunk never remembers anything new to be sorrowful about. The reminiscences seldom vary: his mother was cruel to him, his father abandoned him, his wife had an affair, he was bullied at school and unappreciated at work. All are legitimate sadnesses, but through the refracting gla.s.s of wine they are magnified, rehea.r.s.ed, and magnified again. We may drink to forget, but what we forget is ... how to forget.

And now science has come out in support of the terrible memoriousness of the drunk. An article published in the Journal of Neuroscience Journal of Neuroscience in 2007 declared that moderate amounts of alcohol offer the brain a challenge to which it responds by improving memory. in 2007 declared that moderate amounts of alcohol offer the brain a challenge to which it responds by improving memory.

But one has to judge intake carefully. One of the article's authors, Professor Matthew During of the University of Auckland, told the Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph that "contrary to popular belief, our work suggests that heavy drinking actually reinforces negative memories." that "contrary to popular belief, our work suggests that heavy drinking actually reinforces negative memories."

Which still doesn't explain why it also makes the opposite s.e.x look so very much more attractive.

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When is antifreeze a bad thing?

FOR SEVERAL YEARS in the early 1980s, there was a run of high-yielding harvests in Austria. This increase in the quant.i.ty of grapes was a real threat to the wine industry, because the grapes made thin, acidic wine. Unfortunately, the overwhelming proportion was bulk wine produced for German supermarkets and other large consumer outlets, and they wanted what their customers wanted: cheap, medium-sweet wine. In desperation, many of the brokers dependent on that market decided to sweeten the wine. The problem was, sugar could be detected, so, reportedly on the advice of a wine consultant, the bulk wine producers added diethylene glycol, whose primary use, it was said, was as a component of antifreeze for automobiles. It was indeed not detected. What broke the scandal was the attempt of one producer to claim the cost of the diethylene glycol as a business expense on his tax return. in the early 1980s, there was a run of high-yielding harvests in Austria. This increase in the quant.i.ty of grapes was a real threat to the wine industry, because the grapes made thin, acidic wine. Unfortunately, the overwhelming proportion was bulk wine produced for German supermarkets and other large consumer outlets, and they wanted what their customers wanted: cheap, medium-sweet wine. In desperation, many of the brokers dependent on that market decided to sweeten the wine. The problem was, sugar could be detected, so, reportedly on the advice of a wine consultant, the bulk wine producers added diethylene glycol, whose primary use, it was said, was as a component of antifreeze for automobiles. It was indeed not detected. What broke the scandal was the attempt of one producer to claim the cost of the diethylene glycol as a business expense on his tax return.

The result was utter disaster. The Austrian government announced that about 300,000 liters of the wine had been shipped to Germany, but then it was discovered that in the city of Cologne alone, 490,000 bottles of tainted wine had been impounded. German orders were canceled. The U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms announced that twelve brands of wines imported from Austria had been found to be contaminated, and they advised consumers to drink no Austrian wines at all until all had been tested. As some hundreds of Austrian wines were imported into the United States, this was expected to take some time. Adulterated wine was also discovered in the Netherlands, France, Britain, Switzerland, and Poland. Matters were not helped when it was revealed that a Beerenauslese that had won a gold medal the previous year had been dosed to increase its body and sweetness. Austrian wine exports virtually ceased. The small village of Rust in Burgenland hung a banner over the highway proclaiming that it was "the prettiest wine-growing town in Austria-with unadulterated wine." Nevertheless, a Ruster Beerenauslese 1983 was found to have been adulterated.

Nor was it the Austrian government's finest hour: they had waited for three months after the discovery before warning the public. They were then forced to react by the furor. It was reported that at least thirty-eight companies were involved, and, fairly rapidly, two of the men involved found themselves in jail. Of more permanent benefit, Austria pa.s.sed what are possibly the strictest wine laws in the world, which carry significant penalties for those who break them.

Many Austrian producers, as well as those who drink Austrian wine, now believe that the scandal was the best thing that could have happened to the industry. Many middlemen were forced out of business, and the producers therefore had to deal directly with customers themselves-and this encouraged the production of better wines. This was helped by a generational change, as younger winemakers, many familiar with the wine world outside of Austria, succeeded to positions of responsibility. The watchword became quality, with the result that Austrian wines today can hold their own with some of the best in the world.

There is an irony in all of this. It was probably the case that the scandal fed on what was an easily understood threat: drinking antifreeze. In fact, most antifreezes consist mainly of ethylene glycol, not not diethylene glycol: diethylene glycol would only be half as good in preventing your car's radiator from freezing up. Therefore, what was added to the wine may not have been nice, but it was not antifreeze. This simple misconception probably reflects the regrettable lack by most journalists of a basic knowledge of chemistry. diethylene glycol: diethylene glycol would only be half as good in preventing your car's radiator from freezing up. Therefore, what was added to the wine may not have been nice, but it was not antifreeze. This simple misconception probably reflects the regrettable lack by most journalists of a basic knowledge of chemistry.

Care for some Gevrey-Chambertin with those organ pipes?

THE MONASTIC PROFESSION has always been curiously compet.i.tive, and nowhere more so than in Ottobeuren, just thirty miles as the crow flies from Weingarten and the birthplace, in 1710, of Karl Josef Riepp. On the death of their father, Riepp and his brother Rupert moved to Strasbourg to learn organ building with the great Andre Silbermann. In 1741, Riepp married a woman from Dole, formerly capital of Franche-Comte in the Saone Valley, before settling in Dijon. Not content with confining himself to organ building, Riepp was admitted to the wine merchants' corporation of Dijon in 1748. has always been curiously compet.i.tive, and nowhere more so than in Ottobeuren, just thirty miles as the crow flies from Weingarten and the birthplace, in 1710, of Karl Josef Riepp. On the death of their father, Riepp and his brother Rupert moved to Strasbourg to learn organ building with the great Andre Silbermann. In 1741, Riepp married a woman from Dole, formerly capital of Franche-Comte in the Saone Valley, before settling in Dijon. Not content with confining himself to organ building, Riepp was admitted to the wine merchants' corporation of Dijon in 1748.

Twelve years later, the monks of Ottobeuren decided to commission a new organ for their new basilica-and one that would outshine Gabler's instrument at Weingarten. Despite Gabler's having enrolled his son as a novice in the Ottobeuren monastery, word of the chaos of the Weingarten contract had reached the monks' ears. Riepp put in a bid; not only was he an Ottobeuren man, but he was also, unlike Gabler, actually an organ builder. It was time for the return of the native: Karl Josef Riepp got the contract.

Promising the monks a fine instrument in the new German style, Riepp nevertheless delivered, between 1761 and 1766, a tremendous, powerful, and magnificent instrument in what was unmistakably the French French style. The monks of Ottobeuren didn't complain, for every time Riepp sent a consignment of organ pipes up from Dijon, he included a few "sample" cases of his wines; by then, he was no longer just a merchant, but owned vineyards in Vosne-Romanee and Gevrey-Chambertin, and his vintages were gaining a reputation for themselves. style. The monks of Ottobeuren didn't complain, for every time Riepp sent a consignment of organ pipes up from Dijon, he included a few "sample" cases of his wines; by then, he was no longer just a merchant, but owned vineyards in Vosne-Romanee and Gevrey-Chambertin, and his vintages were gaining a reputation for themselves.

Predictably, the "samples" produced firm orders in return, and-despite Riepp's declaration that "if there are better organs in Europe, then my name's Jack"-it seems that he made more money on the wine than he did from the organ.

Karl Josef Riepp died in Dijon on May 5, 1775, leaving a certain degree of financial confusion and some n.o.ble vineyards to his wife, Anne-Francoise, and some equally n.o.ble organs to posterity. And, of course, some very happy monks.

Did Slovenia turn the British into a nation of wine drinkers?

IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, the Germans referred to England as the land the Germans referred to England as the land ohne Musik ohne Musik (without music); it could certainly be argued that, at least until the 1970s and 1980s, Britain was the land (without music); it could certainly be argued that, at least until the 1970s and 1980s, Britain was the land ohne Wein ohne Wein. This is not, of course, to say that wine was not drunk; rather, beer was the usual drink, supplemented by gin. A special occasion might call for champagne; Christmas certainly called for a gla.s.s of (usually sweet) sherry. But as for wine's making a regular appearance with meals, this was relatively rare, even among the upper-middle and upper cla.s.ses, the traditional buyers and drinkers of wines.

The Second World War appears to have changed this. Many Britons spent at least part of the war in France and, especially, Italy, where the south was occupied by the British and American armies from 1943. Many soldiers there discovered the regular-and for those countries, normal-pleasures of a gla.s.s of wine with their meals or over conversation with friends, and when they returned home, they wanted to continue this new way of life. But what to drink? Fortunately, Slovenia came to the rescue and provided a wine that took the new drinking cla.s.ses by storm, becoming the best-selling white wine for several de cades. This was Lutomer "Riesling."

This wine came from the region of Podravja, and the actual grape is the Laski Rizling-the Germans were outraged at the theft of the name of their revered grape, and forced the Slovenians to change it and use its proper name. The grape must (juice) was fermented at the winery, shipped in bulk to Ljubljana, substantially sweetened with unfermented grape juice (sussreserve) and perhaps some extra sugar, fortified with sulfur to keep it from going off, shipped in tankers to the London docks, stored, and bottled as needed. Britain became awash with medium-sweet white wine. It went down easily, it was cheap, and it gave an added touch of sophistication to many British house holds. Everyone needs a starter wine-few are born preferring a grand cru grand cru claret or an acidic muscadet-and for many Britons, Lutomer provided it. Most went on to develop a taste for dryer wines. But there was one regrettable result, which was that a liking for sweet white wines, whatever the quality, is now often perceived as the mark of a person who lacks sophistication, and who certainly knows nothing about wine (except that she knows what she likes). claret or an acidic muscadet-and for many Britons, Lutomer provided it. Most went on to develop a taste for dryer wines. But there was one regrettable result, which was that a liking for sweet white wines, whatever the quality, is now often perceived as the mark of a person who lacks sophistication, and who certainly knows nothing about wine (except that she knows what she likes).

Does the wine of Antipaxos exist?

H. G. WELLS wrote a story called "The Magic Shop" that is centered upon, not surprisingly, a magic shop. His narrator finds it on London's Regent Street, although "I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its position." wrote a story called "The Magic Shop" that is centered upon, not surprisingly, a magic shop. His narrator finds it on London's Regent Street, although "I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its position."

There are wines like that, and perhaps the wine most like that is the fabled wine of Antipaxos. Trawl the Internet, rummage through the books, and you will find numerous references to it ... but all of them different, always over the way and a little inaccessible. Some say it is light and white and fragrant, others that it is rich and red; some say you will occasionally find it for sale, others that it is never never sold, but kept-it is made in tiny quant.i.ties, of course-for the families who make it. Occasionally a writer who has fallen under the spell will recount the tale of a taverna owner who takes a particular liking to him or her ("I felt that Ta.s.sos and I had become firm friends") and produces an unlabeled bottle from some secret recess that transports them into a strange and hazily contemplative mood as they stumble home through the olive groves ... sold, but kept-it is made in tiny quant.i.ties, of course-for the families who make it. Occasionally a writer who has fallen under the spell will recount the tale of a taverna owner who takes a particular liking to him or her ("I felt that Ta.s.sos and I had become firm friends") and produces an unlabeled bottle from some secret recess that transports them into a strange and hazily contemplative mood as they stumble home through the olive groves ...

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Well, Antipaxos itself exists, for sure, a mile or so south of the tiny Ionian island of Paxos. Paxos itself is an odd place: legend has it that a ship, piloted by one Thamus, was sailing from Italy to Greece, and as it pa.s.sed the Paxos sh.o.r.eline, a voice cried out, "Thamus, when you get to Palodes, be sure to proclaim that the great G.o.d Pan is dead."

And Antipaxos is a mere speck in comparison. But we have had the Antipaxos wine and can solve the mystery. The wine of Antipaxos is a slightly sweet, quite heavy white wine, light red in color, a bit like a Beaujolais; it's notably heavy and alcoholic, quite chewy with tannin, while at the same time being dry and amber-yellow with a hint of eucalyptus and honey, dark, almost black, and heavily fruited with blackcurrant and raspberry.

In other words, it's any number of things. Each time, one is told that this this is the genuine, the is the genuine, the only only Antipaxos wine, whether it's on sale in the bakery in Gaios, the tiny capital of the island, or produced by a local from the depths of his olive-oil ware house in a plastic gas can, or materialized from the cellar of a Lakka taverna in an unlabeled bottle, or however it comes. Antipaxos wine, whether it's on sale in the bakery in Gaios, the tiny capital of the island, or produced by a local from the depths of his olive-oil ware house in a plastic gas can, or materialized from the cellar of a Lakka taverna in an unlabeled bottle, or however it comes.

It is, in short, a mystery. For the wine bluffer, this is a G.o.dsend. If anyone speaks of the mysterious Antipaxos, you can simply say, "I know it well," and describe anything that comes into your head, secure in the knowledge that, at some time or other, someone will have drunk something called Antipaxos that is exactly exactly as you have described as you have described. It is indeed a veritable Proteus of wines, a shape-shifter, an elusive reminder that some things are beyond our ken. It would, of course, be a simple matter to putter over to Antipaxos, climb the hill, and ask a few questions, but that, we feel, would somehow spoil it. Much better to let it remain as it is: wine's equivalent of the Magic Shop.

When should wine smell of petrol?