I get surprises. I get shocks. But I also learn that certain wines remain stubbornly cheaper than my estimate of their real worth. ‘Real’ is measured in the pleasure and satisfaction they give me.
Isn’t it true that some names will always fetch a substantial premium because they are capable, at their best, of reaching the sublime heights? Or at least a level of recognisable distinction that, as it were, gets them nodded through. OK for banquets, let’s say. Labels, of course, play the key role. I love the story of the prosperous fellow giving a party who opens bottle after bottle of Krug. ‘You idiot,’ his friend says. ‘You don’t honestly think they know the difference?’ ‘No,’ says the host, ‘but they can all read.’
Every ambitious wine merchant claims, and works at, finding wines to sell that are ‘close to’ or ‘just as good as’ the famous names. Sometimes it really works. Many years ago, when Tony Laithwaite began to sniff around the co-ops of the three-quarters of France south of the hallowed regions, I followed him, meeting enthusiastic growers and inspired oenologue-consultants with labels no one had heard of. He followed the rugby; lots of good growers played in the scrum. Given the opportunity, some technical help (and after a bit of haggling), their new-minted labels filled the most successful mail-order list in history. Australia followed; then Bulgaria, Chile, New Zealand…
Seeing what was possible, plenty of others had a go. In the 1960s (yes, quite a while ago), almost everything beyond Bordeaux and Burgundy came with a humble submission – if not quite an apology. Les demoiselles (‘maidens’) they were sometimes called, in a way only the French would come up with. We’re talking about the Rhône and the Loire! Gerald Asher at merchant Asher Storey & Co blazed the trail; sadly a much better wine-sleuth than businessman. (Now he’s doing fine in California.) Then, by 1970, the New World’s wines, grown under a hotter sun, started flowing under our bridge. The big change? The penny had dropped that money spent on refrigeration (cooling the grape must, slowing the fermentation) was never wasted.
Overheard outside an Irish pub: ‘Is this a private fight, or can anyone join in?’ Anyone could, and the rest is history.
