Is This Bottle Corked? Part 5

IT IS QUITE possible that relatively few people would respond favorably to an invitation to try a gla.s.s of wine because it has notes of petrol in the bouquet. The others would be foolish not to grab the gla.s.s. Petrol is a benchmark aroma identifying a good riesling with some age. Young European rieslings with any quality at all overwhelm the senses with aromas of flowers and often of lime; those from hotter climates may include tropical fruit in the list. But as they begin to age, they change. The flowers begin to develop into honey, and the notes of petrol emerge more and more. By the time a great German or Alsace riesling is, say, twenty years old-and riesling can age and age-the combination is quite sublime. Many wine drinkers have failed to grasp the pleasures they are missing. The result, for those of us who do, is that the wines can be wonderfully underpriced. possible that relatively few people would respond favorably to an invitation to try a gla.s.s of wine because it has notes of petrol in the bouquet. The others would be foolish not to grab the gla.s.s. Petrol is a benchmark aroma identifying a good riesling with some age. Young European rieslings with any quality at all overwhelm the senses with aromas of flowers and often of lime; those from hotter climates may include tropical fruit in the list. But as they begin to age, they change. The flowers begin to develop into honey, and the notes of petrol emerge more and more. By the time a great German or Alsace riesling is, say, twenty years old-and riesling can age and age-the combination is quite sublime. Many wine drinkers have failed to grasp the pleasures they are missing. The result, for those of us who do, is that the wines can be wonderfully underpriced.

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An omelette and a gla.s.s of wine?

THE QUESTION-sans question mark-comes from the great Elizabeth David's collection of cookery and food writing, published in 1984. It conjures an image of perfect simplicity and perfect eating and drinking. We can smell the lavender and the fig trees and feel the heat of the sun. And such perfection requires neither great expense nor great luxury, just attention to detail and the careful matching of ingredients.

Which is odd.

We know, almost certainly, the precise omelette Miss David had in mind. It was l'omelette de la Mere Poulard l'omelette de la Mere Poulard, as made by the proprietress of the Auberge de Saint-Michel Tete d'Or at Mont Saint-Michel, who died in 1931, age eighty, but not before revealing the "secret" of her celebrated omelettes: Je ca.s.se de bons oeufs dans une terrine, je les bats bien, je mets un bon morceau de beurre dans le poele, j'y jette les oeufs et je remue constamment.

Good eggs, bowl, mix, frying pan, b.u.t.ter, keep 'em moving ... and that's that. So much for the omelette. Now: what about the gla.s.s of wine?

And here's the problem: it's an absolute given that two things that never never go well together are wine and eggs. go well together are wine and eggs.

Contemplate a boiled egg, b.u.t.tered toast, and a gla.s.s of Brouilly, and your mental taste buds rise in rebellion. A Trockenbeer -enauslese with two fried eggs? Oh dear. Scrambled eggs and a fair young Beaujolais? No. No No. The palate quite correctly rejects the combination, and it is nothing to do with the choice of wine. Any Any wine will seem disgusting with eggs, and the taste of both will be ruined. True, there is a French dish, wine will seem disgusting with eggs, and the taste of both will be ruined. True, there is a French dish, oeufs a la meurette oeufs a la meurette, in which the eggs are poached with wine, but even Homer nods.

Why eggs and wine should not mix is unclear. We suspect sulfur has something to do with it; perhaps, too, that is why the humble (it has much to be humble about) Brussels sprout is also wine's enemy. As is that signifier of luxury, asparagus. eggs and wine should not mix is unclear. We suspect sulfur has something to do with it; perhaps, too, that is why the humble (it has much to be humble about) Brussels sprout is also wine's enemy. As is that signifier of luxury, asparagus.

A shame. But the Brussels sprout, if you must, can be accompanied with a good Normandy cider with no loss of face to either; asparagus can be indulged in before the first wine is poured; and as for the omelette, Guinness Imperial Russian Stout carries away the laurels, lightly chilled on a hot day.

So what was Miss David thinking of?

We should remember that her first book was published in 1950, when Britain was still afflicted with postwar shortages, the hideous memory of snoek and Woolton pie still vivid. Food was fuel, not sensual pleasure, and pretty poor fuel, too. Even acknowledging the pleasures of the table was the first step to becoming a terrible garlic-smelling, tax-evading, siesta-taking foreigner.

Into this gray climate, Miss David brought not so much a recipe book as a glimpse of better things. What could be better, in a nation still reeling from powdered egg, than a perfect omelette? What better to take away the taste of sour, watery war time beer than a gla.s.s of wine? And the combination of the two lit up the imagination, whether or not it worked in reality. After all, people dream happily of making love on a tropical beach, and thoughts of sunburn, insects, and all-pervading sand never enter their heads. Miss David was simply conjuring up a mood, and conjuring it beautifully.

Also, of course, the pleasures of the table, like all such delights, are as much enjoyed in antic.i.p.ation as in reality. And we have to admit that, as a temptation to sensual speculation, An Omelette and a Bottle of Stout An Omelette and a Bottle of Stout just somehow doesn't work. just somehow doesn't work.

How about a gla.s.s of fermented grape must?

ACCORDING TO THE European Union definition, "fermented grape must," no matter how unattractive it sounds, is wine. Grape must is what you get by crus.h.i.+ng grapes; the word European Union definition, "fermented grape must," no matter how unattractive it sounds, is wine. Grape must is what you get by crus.h.i.+ng grapes; the word must must derives from the Latin adjective derives from the Latin adjective mustus mustus, meaning "fresh" or "new" (that is, the juice before fermenting it to make wine). The problem is that the English word musty musty, which is not derived from the Latin (it is probably derived from moist moist), means "moldy."

So long as the label says wine wine and doesn't refer to must, no one is going to be put off drinking the liquid in the bottle. However, those who choose to make very low-alcohol wines have a problem: and doesn't refer to must, no one is going to be put off drinking the liquid in the bottle. However, those who choose to make very low-alcohol wines have a problem: EU regulations. One Italian winemaker, by stopping the fermentation of the natural grape sugars long before they are all used up, produces an interesting sweet red wine with only 5 percent alcohol. Under the regulations, he's not allowed to call it wine, but he is allowed to use the word must must. Therefore, he labels his wine mosto parzialmente fermentato mosto parzialmente fermentato, or "partially fermented must." Perhaps it sounds better in Italian.

Shall we have a gla.s.s of raisin juice?

THE CAREFUL READER of "Yes, but what exactly of "Yes, but what exactly is is wine?" will have noted that, according to European Union regulations, wine must be made from fresh grapes, which are defined as "fruit of the vine ... ripe or even slightly raisined." This could be slightly confusing, since wine?" will have noted that, according to European Union regulations, wine must be made from fresh grapes, which are defined as "fruit of the vine ... ripe or even slightly raisined." This could be slightly confusing, since raisins raisins in French just refers to grapes, while in English a raisin is a dried grape. in French just refers to grapes, while in English a raisin is a dried grape.

The method of drying grapes before crus.h.i.+ng them to produce the juice or must that is fermented to make wine was practiced by the ancient Hitt.i.tes and by the Greeks in the time of Homer. (The Hitt.i.tes, who had a remarkable empire from about the seventeenth to the thirteenth century BC BC in what is now central Turkey, have regrettably faded from the group memory, unlike the Greeks. The first written diplomatic treaty that survives, which is inscribed on gold and which is an agreement to carve up Syria, was agreed between the Hitt.i.tes and the Egyptians. Uriah the Hitt.i.te has a walk-on part in the Bible: coveting Uriah's wife, King David sent Uriah into battle and certain death.) in what is now central Turkey, have regrettably faded from the group memory, unlike the Greeks. The first written diplomatic treaty that survives, which is inscribed on gold and which is an agreement to carve up Syria, was agreed between the Hitt.i.tes and the Egyptians. Uriah the Hitt.i.te has a walk-on part in the Bible: coveting Uriah's wife, King David sent Uriah into battle and certain death.) Nowadays, the three best-known wines made from grapes that have been dried are all Italian: Vin Santo from Tuscany, and Amarone and Recioto della Valpolicella from Veneto. The effect of the drying is to concentrate the natural sugars (glucose and fructose) before the fermentation is begun, which gives greater sweetness and/or alcoholic strength to the finished wine.

Amarone is a dry red wine that used to be prized by some drinkers for its high alcohol content, exceeding 15 percent (which is, unfortunately, not so unusual nowadays). Recioto della Valpolicella is a sweet red wine, notable for going very well with chocolate desserts.

Ceremonial: will you take wine?

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE to ascertain whether it was George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wilde who first observed that Britain and America are two countries separated by a common language. Wilde uses the phrase in to ascertain whether it was George Bernard Shaw or Oscar Wilde who first observed that Britain and America are two countries separated by a common language. Wilde uses the phrase in The Canterville Ghost The Canterville Ghost, while a 1951 dictionary of quotations attributes something similar to Shaw, but without giving a specific reference.

But it's true, and also true that the two countries are separated by common customs. Take, for example, the oddly stilted but rather charming custom of "taking wine." We don't refer here to bringing a bottle of something nice along to a friend's house for dinner, but to the formal business conducted at Masonic guest nights, Rotary Club dinners, and so forth. Here's a Masonic version, from the United States: During dinner the Master of the Lodge MAY MAY "Take Wine" in the English manner with various brothers. This action will be announced, and presided over by the Wors.h.i.+pful Brother who is serving as "Toast Master" or "Master of Ceremonies" at Table Proceedings. The announcement of wine-taking is made by the "Toast Master" in a single sentence, i.e.: "Brethren, the W.M. will take wine with his Wardens." Whereupon, the Master and the Brother(s) designated for the honor rise and the Master may make remarks recognizing the honoree(s), who then salute one another with their gla.s.ses and drink, then resume their seats. The Master may call on one of the honorees for his comments. "Take Wine" in the English manner with various brothers. This action will be announced, and presided over by the Wors.h.i.+pful Brother who is serving as "Toast Master" or "Master of Ceremonies" at Table Proceedings. The announcement of wine-taking is made by the "Toast Master" in a single sentence, i.e.: "Brethren, the W.M. will take wine with his Wardens." Whereupon, the Master and the Brother(s) designated for the honor rise and the Master may make remarks recognizing the honoree(s), who then salute one another with their gla.s.ses and drink, then resume their seats. The Master may call on one of the honorees for his comments.ONLY THOSE WHO ARE CALLED TO TAKE WINE WILL STAND. THE REMAINDER OF THE COMPANY WILL REMAIN SEATED.If the Toastmaster or the Master calls for the Brethren to take wine with a particular guest or other Companion, then ALL STAND ALL STAND. It is considered polite for short applause after each wine-taking.

Only a churl could take exception to this process, although it does seem a little elaborate. But the odd thing to an English eye is the phrase "in the English manner." We have indeed seen this done at formal English dinners, though only seldom, and the usual comment is that this must be an American custom that has found its way across the Atlantic, the Americans being less reticent about declarations of brotherhood (or sisterhood) than the British.

Whatever the case, we are glad to see it, and will happily "take wine" with anyone who cares to suggest it.

Is wine becoming more alcoholic?

WINE IS DEFINITELY more alcoholic than it used to be. The tendency toward a higher level of alcohol began with Californian, Australian, and other New World reds. In the introduction to his more alcoholic than it used to be. The tendency toward a higher level of alcohol began with Californian, Australian, and other New World reds. In the introduction to his Pocket Wine Book 2008 Pocket Wine Book 2008, Oz Clarke complains of winemakers "following the False High Priest of superripeness"-could this possibly be Robert Parker? -and producing the consequent high alcohol levels. Even France has succ.u.mbed, he says. Red Bordeaux used to be 11.5 to 12.5 percent alcohol, and now there are wines over 14.5 percent alcohol. Too much alcohol for a particular wine style spoils the taste and makes it hard to enjoy more than a gla.s.s.

The British government is becoming concerned about problem drinking in the middle cla.s.ses. They are increasing their alcohol intake, which, given the increasingly high levels of alcohol, rises even if the volume of wine they consume does not increase. In a rather obscure effort to deal with this, London is urging the EU to make it easier to sell wines with an alcohol level as low as 6.5 percent. Ridiculously, the British Food Standards Agency has in recent years had to impound low-alcohol wines in order to comply with EU rules.

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If you don't want to wait for the EU regulations to be changed, try some older German rieslings, which should be well below 10 percent alcohol.

What was all that about Mateus Rose?

HOW IS IT that some wines simply sum up a specific period? For 1960s Britain, it was probably Blue Nun Liebfraumilch or perhaps Bull's Blood. For America in the same period, Thunderbird and Lancers spring to mind. In the 1970s, after a heated race between them, Mateus Rose won the day. The very name, to those who were alive then, conjures up images of the inevitable steakhouse-in all probability, Britain's long-gone Berni Inns chain-with shrimp c.o.c.ktail to start, then a rump steak with "all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs" (an entirely flavorless tomato, half a dozen pallid b.u.t.ton mushrooms fresh from the can, and rehydrated dehydrated catering "peas"), concluding with Black Forest Gateau and a "specialty coffee," usually called "Irish," which meant the sort of coffee that today would make even a trainee barista faint with horror, laced with whisky, and topped with a strange, slimy layer of floating cream. All "washed down"-that was the phrase they used-with a bottle of Mateus Rose. that some wines simply sum up a specific period? For 1960s Britain, it was probably Blue Nun Liebfraumilch or perhaps Bull's Blood. For America in the same period, Thunderbird and Lancers spring to mind. In the 1970s, after a heated race between them, Mateus Rose won the day. The very name, to those who were alive then, conjures up images of the inevitable steakhouse-in all probability, Britain's long-gone Berni Inns chain-with shrimp c.o.c.ktail to start, then a rump steak with "all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs" (an entirely flavorless tomato, half a dozen pallid b.u.t.ton mushrooms fresh from the can, and rehydrated dehydrated catering "peas"), concluding with Black Forest Gateau and a "specialty coffee," usually called "Irish," which meant the sort of coffee that today would make even a trainee barista faint with horror, laced with whisky, and topped with a strange, slimy layer of floating cream. All "washed down"-that was the phrase they used-with a bottle of Mateus Rose.

It was a masterpiece of wine branding: the characteristic squat bottle, the picture of the elegant castle on the label, the sweetish inoffensiveness of the vaguely petillant petillant wine inside. It went perfectly with the entire repertoire of British middle-of-the-market dining out, from A to B, and was somehow redolent of flared trousers, mushroom-brown polyester safari jackets, Hush Puppies shoes, and round-collared jersey-knit patterned s.h.i.+rts. If you inhaled deeply, you could almost smell the memory of patchouli. wine inside. It went perfectly with the entire repertoire of British middle-of-the-market dining out, from A to B, and was somehow redolent of flared trousers, mushroom-brown polyester safari jackets, Hush Puppies shoes, and round-collared jersey-knit patterned s.h.i.+rts. If you inhaled deeply, you could almost smell the memory of patchouli.

For many of us, Mateus Rose was last seen being wielded by the ghost of Manuel in a sort of revenant Fawlty Towers Fawlty Towers, where the Dining Experience was summed up, in one episode, by a man trying to change his dinner order only to be told by Sybil, "I'm afraid it's a bit late; chef has has opened the opened the tin tin." We moved on, and Mateus Rose (one always always mentioned the Rose part, as if there were many other forms of Mateus to choose from) stayed behind. mentioned the Rose part, as if there were many other forms of Mateus to choose from) stayed behind.

For the economist, influential blogger, and self-confessed head of the shadowy international scandium oligopoly Tim Worstall, who lives in Lisbon, Mateus never went away: It's simply one brand of the rose version of one of the great Portuguese traditions, vinho verde vinho verde, meaning green wine, or young wine. White, red, rose, dry, semi-dry (and very rarely, sweetish), great racks of the supermarket shelves are taken up with it ... and, yes, the Portuguese really do buy it. It isn't just some crud whipped up to sell to the ignorant Brits.

Not that we wish to accuse Worstall of being disingenuous or overloyal to his adopted country, but there is a little more to it than that. The truth is that Mateus Rose is almost entirely the creation of a marketing genius, Fernando van Zeller Guedes, who founded the Sociedade Comercial dos Grandes Vinhos de Mesa de Portugal in 1942 (now in third-generation family owners.h.i.+p and known as SOGRAPE Vinhos SA). What Guedes was after was a wine with a clearly Portuguese ident.i.ty but which would appeal to an international-and not necessarily wine-drinking-market. He was, in a sense, trying to scoop up the beer drinkers from one side and the soda drinkers from the other. And he succeeded. Mateus Rose achieved an almost unheard-of brand recognition, and this before the days of sophisticated demographics, computerized market research, or any of the other tricks of twenty-first-century branding.

What he did have (apart from a fairly average vinho verde vinho verde made from red Douro varietals such as Baga, Tinta Barroca and Rufete) was made from red Douro varietals such as Baga, Tinta Barroca and Rufete) was image image. The bottle-lifted from the traditional Franconian Bocksbeutel Bocksbeutel-was simultaneously unlike any other ma.s.s-market wine bottle, but with the odd familiarity of the military water canteen. As for the label, it does indeed show the Casa de Mateus, but the stuff has never been made there. The current count's grandmother made a shrewd deal with Guedes, allowing him to use the Casa on his label in return for a supply of grapes for fermentation and resale, an agreement that lasted until Portugal's April Revolution of 1974.

But like all brands unless carefully nurtured, Mateus Rose fell into the abyss of unfas.h.i.+onability. For anyone pa.s.sing as a sophisticate in the 1980s, to order-or even acknowledge the existence of-Mateus meant instant loss of credibility. A publican in the family told us that he had visited the Mateus winery. "Not to buy," he said hurriedly, "just to see. And what I saw ... I made a solemn vow I would never speak of it never speak of it." Pure bravado, of course, but it showed how decla.s.se Mateus Rose had become. The wine remained the same, but the image had failed.

And there was worse to come. On the Whisky Magazine Whisky Magazine Web site for December 26, 2006, one "daisy12chic" posted a message headed "Mateus Rose" ( Web site for December 26, 2006, one "daisy12chic" posted a message headed "Mateus Rose" (sic), whose text would have made Guedes's hair stand on end. "We have a bottle," the message read. "I am including the image. Not sure what it is-might be wine. Thanks!"

How are the mighty fallen. Yet the company is not giving up the struggle. The Mateus Rose has been reformulated, the bottle redesigned, and other wines-an Aragones, a s.h.i.+raz, a Tempranillo, and an unspecified Mateus White-have been added to the range.

Who knows-in a world exhausted by intricate televisual gastronomy, where even Delia Smith has now written a book on how to cheat at cooking, the 1970s may yet return to our dinner tables, and Mateus may once again come to symbolize the good life.

Is English wine any good?

THE ANSWER TO this question is yes-and some of it is very good. It is primarily white and sparkling, and there is not very much of it. England and Wales have fewer than 3 square miles of vines for winemaking. Even in England, only a minuscule proportion of the wines on sale are English, and outside of England, you are likely to encounter English wines only when you attend a reception at your local British emba.s.sy. this question is yes-and some of it is very good. It is primarily white and sparkling, and there is not very much of it. England and Wales have fewer than 3 square miles of vines for winemaking. Even in England, only a minuscule proportion of the wines on sale are English, and outside of England, you are likely to encounter English wines only when you attend a reception at your local British emba.s.sy.

The relatively cool English climate and its often cloudy weather are the reasons for the skepticism implied by the question. Winemaking in the world is largely confined to two belts: from 30 to 50 north of the Equator and from 30 to 50 south: beyond 50 north and south, it is too cold for grapes to ripen, while in the reaches between 30 north and south, there is no cold season to allow the vines to rest. Only the tiniest bit of England, the tip of the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall, just sc.r.a.pes into the vine-growing belt. Yet the temperature is not the most crucial consideration; rather, it is suns.h.i.+ne. Vines normally require a minimum of 1,500 hours of suns.h.i.+ne, with more needed by red than by white grapes. One drawback to growing vines in En -gland is immediately obvious. The other is the propensity to rain all year all year, in contrast, for example, to the Mediterranean or California, where there are wet seasons and dry seasons. The dry, sunny weather before the grape harvest that is characteristic of those two areas is a gift to winemakers: the weather concentrates the sugars in the grapes, and the subsequent fermentation converts the sugars into a high level of alcohol. A lack of sunny weather means a lack of sugars and a high level of acidity. Too much rain fosters disastrous rots, and if by some dispensation from heaven rot is held at bay, the vines will suck up the rainwater and thereby dilute the grape juice.

Nevertheless, time and again attempts have been made to grow grapes. First came the Romans, who invaded, first in 55 BC BC and again in and again in AD AD 43, conquered, and held England for three centuries. They planted vines, possibly for winemaking (opinions differ). In any case, whether they produced it or imported it, they left many Britons with the habit of drinking wine. Later, the influence of the Church was crucial, because all inst.i.tutions from tiny parish churches to great monasteries required wine for communion. This cultivation of vines was facilitated by the warming of the northern European climate for eight centuries until the mid-thirteenth century, when it began to cool, thereby worsening the conditions for growing grapes. A century later, the Black Death (134849) wiped out one-third of the population of Europe, which meant that abbeys and monasteries no longer had access to the necessary labor to continue to cultivate all of their own land, and increasingly leased it out. Tenants wanted to produce fast-growing cash crops, not vines that needed tending for years, and vineyards were grubbed up. King Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s, which saw the land and buildings sold off or given away, condemned most of the remaining vineyards and ended winemaking on any scale in England. By the late seventeenth century, when the climate had become considerably colder, the diarist Samuel Pepys described the few English vineyards as "brave plantations." 43, conquered, and held England for three centuries. They planted vines, possibly for winemaking (opinions differ). In any case, whether they produced it or imported it, they left many Britons with the habit of drinking wine. Later, the influence of the Church was crucial, because all inst.i.tutions from tiny parish churches to great monasteries required wine for communion. This cultivation of vines was facilitated by the warming of the northern European climate for eight centuries until the mid-thirteenth century, when it began to cool, thereby worsening the conditions for growing grapes. A century later, the Black Death (134849) wiped out one-third of the population of Europe, which meant that abbeys and monasteries no longer had access to the necessary labor to continue to cultivate all of their own land, and increasingly leased it out. Tenants wanted to produce fast-growing cash crops, not vines that needed tending for years, and vineyards were grubbed up. King Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s, which saw the land and buildings sold off or given away, condemned most of the remaining vineyards and ended winemaking on any scale in England. By the late seventeenth century, when the climate had become considerably colder, the diarist Samuel Pepys described the few English vineyards as "brave plantations."

By the early twentieth century, the commercial growing of grapes for wine in England had virtually disappeared. The man responsible for the new dawn was Ray Barrington Brock, managing director of a firm of scientific instrument makers, who was a keen gardener and who saw the growing of grapes as a challenge. The overall question was how to grow grapes in a cool-and relatively wet-climate. In 1945, Brock founded the Oxted Viticultural Research Station (he lived in Oxted, Surrey), the first part of which was established in his own garden, and there for the next quarter century he experimented with hundreds of varieties of grapevine, most of which were failures in the English climate. He funded all of this himself, partly by the sale of vine cuttings and the books and pamphlets he wrote on the subject, but primarily from the profits of his main business, having remained in full employment during his years of research. For fifteen years he was able to offset the expenses of the research station against his other income, but in 1960 the tax inspector decided that it would never make a profit and was therefore not a business that could attract tax relief. Brock's devotion to the cause and his financial sacrifices earned him two enduring rewards: the Jones-Bateman Cup for original research into fruit culture from the Royal Horticultural Society, and a position in history as the founding father of the British commercial wine industry.

A beneficiary of Brock's work was Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones, GCVO, CMG, MC, DL, the first man in the twentieth century to plant a vineyard in England with the intention of making wine for sale on a commercial basis. It was established in the winter of 1951 at Hambledon in Hamps.h.i.+re, and four years later the first bottles went on sale, a fact that caused a small media frenzy. Salisbury-Jones himself was an a.s.set in awakening the public to English wine: he was tall and imposing, had had a distinguished, if sometimes colorful, military and diplomatic career, and was a notable presence in any a.s.sembly. His wines improved markedly over the years and sold widely, and Hambledon became one of the first English vineyards to export wine to the United States.

There are now many small and medium-sized wineries in En -gland and Wales. Although some growers persist with red wine grapes, most of the wine produced is white. The glory of English wine, however, is sparkling wine, at least two of which are of international standard. Global warming, while not precisely providing the south coast of England with a Mediterranean climate, has nevertheless made it easier to grow grapes. Indeed, the climate in Suss.e.x, home of the best of these wines, is not so far removed from that of the Champagne region of France a century ago. Suss.e.x also has a similar terroir terroir, sharing the chalk-based soil that runs from Champagne through the White Cliffs of Dover to Suss.e.x. Indeed, there are repeated reports of French champagne firms sniffing around Suss.e.x for possible purchases of land, which, as expensive as land is in England, is spectacularly less so than land in Champagne.

In short, while there is in England, as in all winemaking countries, wine that is merely drinkable, a decent amount of English white wine is very good-and many of the sparkling wines are excellent.

Gla.s.s of prewar lemonade, chaps?

JAMES BIGGLESWORTH-"Biggles"-was (or is) the fictional First World War fighter ace who stars in the stories by Captain W. E. Johns and upon whom Snoopy, the beagle fantasist in the Peanuts Peanuts strip, models himself when seated on the dog house roof, scarf magically blown back in the non ex is tent slipstream as he narrates his own adventures to himself ("Here's the famous World War One fighter ace ..."). strip, models himself when seated on the dog house roof, scarf magically blown back in the non ex is tent slipstream as he narrates his own adventures to himself ("Here's the famous World War One fighter ace ...").

Biggles is presented as an inspiring leader of men, a red-hot pi lot, and a man of fierce loyalties, given to the red mist descending over his eyes in the face of injustice, but otherwise the preux chevalier preux chevalier, a warrior of honor. The First World War books reflect, accurately in many ways, the realities of life for a British pi lot in France-not least the remarkable unpreparedness of the new aircrew for active service (some arrived in France after a mere 17.5 hours of flight training) and their appalling life expectancy of, on average, just a couple of months.

But in one significant way, Biggles is different. After a particularly grueling mission, he is p.r.o.ne to announce to his fellow pi lots that he's off into town, where he's heard there's a place where you can still get prewar lemonade. His squadron competes with others for a case of lemonade donated by a colonel. Lemonade is Biggles's drink of choice. Lemonade? Lemonade? In In France France? Among the notoriously hard-drinking, dangerous-living fighter pi lots? Surely not.

Nor was it, indeed. The great prize in France at the time was wine, and for "prewar lemonade" we should read "pre-phylloxera wine." Literally. W. E. Johns's publishers had decided that wine drinking set the wrong example, and told Johns so. Like anyone who enjoys a gla.s.s or two, Johns took this glumly, and responded simply by changing every reference to "wine" to "lemonade."

So Biggles was really one of us, after all.

Would this be the vin du pays?

ONE THING we don't hear much about these days is whether or not a particular wine "travels well." There was a time when some antipodean wines had a reputation for being a bit sketchy in that regard, but it was nothing to do with traveling well or badly; it was simply that as many as one in twelve bottles was corked. The explanation was that, in a sense, it was the we don't hear much about these days is whether or not a particular wine "travels well." There was a time when some antipodean wines had a reputation for being a bit sketchy in that regard, but it was nothing to do with traveling well or badly; it was simply that as many as one in twelve bottles was corked. The explanation was that, in a sense, it was the corks corks that didn't travel well; being furthest from Portugal, the New Zealanders were paying the price. So they changed over en ma.s.se to screw caps, and the problem was solved. that didn't travel well; being furthest from Portugal, the New Zealanders were paying the price. So they changed over en ma.s.se to screw caps, and the problem was solved.

It's easy to see why wine's tolerance of travel was once an issue. When southern French wines were s.h.i.+pped out of Toulon their journey could be hazardous beyond just the inconveniences of poor winds, high seas, dismasting, and bilge-polluted barrels; there were the frequently war-afflicted Straits of Gibraltar to contend with, and then the notorious Bay of Biscay, through which consignments from Portugal also had to pa.s.s.

Add to that the perils of lurching oxcarts, careless stevedores, rutted roads, perilous mountain pa.s.ses, and all the heartaches and the thousand natural shocks that wine is heir to, and one can see how the question arose, particularly in Britain, where there was precious little vin du pays vin du pays available. available.

Now, of course, things are different. Fast, smooth container s.h.i.+ps, speedy road transport, bottling on site or s.h.i.+pping in stainless-steel vessels, temperature-controlled transport, and, of course, the expensive but stress-free air transport (for ordinary freight, not "self-loading freight," as the airline industry refers to pa.s.sengers): all these have rendered wine's voyage from its birthplace to the table infinitely less fraught.

Yet we should not forget the psychological perils of traveling wine. That crisply volcanic Greco di Tufo that so coolly charmed the palate in the little restaurant off the via Monserrato seems pale and thin back in Manchesters England and New Hamps.h.i.+re alike; the enchantingly idiosyncratic Antipaxos wine (and depending which version you got) so redolent of the wine-dark Ionian does not send your guests back in Dusseldorf or Melbourne into quite quite the rhapsodies you expected. The delights of the the rhapsodies you expected. The delights of the vin vin so often require the presence of the so often require the presence of the pays pays.

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And even that does not always work. The historian, Arabist, author, traveler, wine connoisseur, and bon vivant Raymond Flower is the sort of figure England once exported around the world. Now there are sadly few of him, and none who could, as he legendarily (or perhaps mythically) did, spend a year living at the Palace Hotel, St. Moritz, to write a book about it.

Flower's place in the oenophiles' hall of fame rests on his book Chianti Chianti, a history of the region largely told through wine. But his place in Valhalla itself is ensured by a story we heard from his own lips many years ago, at his adopted home in a medieval torre torre in Tuscany. in Tuscany.

He was being visited (he recounted) by the late Marika Hanbury-Tenison, gastronome, food editor, and cookery editor of the London Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph. It can, even for so accomplished a host as Flower, be a nerve-racking business entertaining such a one at dinner, so, he said, he laid it on a bit.

Sitting on the terrace of his house, which stands, like all such ancient fortified buildings, on a small hill, with the Chianti dusk falling gently and the scent of his lemon trees on the air, he filled her gla.s.s.

"This," he said, "is my own wine."

"Is it, Raymond?" said Mrs. Hanbury-Tenison. "In what sense?"

"Made from my own grapes," he replied.

"And where are your vines?"

Raymond Flower gestured modestly down the hill beyond the dusty lane and across to where the land rose again.

"There," he said. "Not two hundred yards from where we are sitting."

She raised the gla.s.s to the light; swirled; inhaled; tasted.

"Really," she said. "Two hundred yards?" A gleam of pure and joyful mischief came into her eye. "Doesn't travel very well, does it?"

Is there still a place for feet in winemaking?

IN OLDEN TIMES, grapes were crushed by foot; there are ma.s.ses of illuminated ma.n.u.scripts and tapestries showing the grapes were crushed by foot; there are ma.s.ses of illuminated ma.n.u.scripts and tapestries showing the vendange vendange or harvest, with people treading grapes in round wooden tubs. Alas for tradition, there are very few places left in which this occurs. There are small producers in Burgundy, the Loire, Germany, Languedoc, and Rioja that do, and biodynamic producers are sometimes tempted and occasionally succ.u.mb, but the only serious treading for commercial production takes place in the Douro in Portugal. More than tradition is involved, however: it is actually the best way of crus.h.i.+ng the grapes for premium port. or harvest, with people treading grapes in round wooden tubs. Alas for tradition, there are very few places left in which this occurs. There are small producers in Burgundy, the Loire, Germany, Languedoc, and Rioja that do, and biodynamic producers are sometimes tempted and occasionally succ.u.mb, but the only serious treading for commercial production takes place in the Douro in Portugal. More than tradition is involved, however: it is actually the best way of crus.h.i.+ng the grapes for premium port.

For port, the grape must, or juice, is fermented for only two days, at which point grape spirit (aguardente) is added to stop the fermentation while there is still a lot of sugar present in the must. (According to Maurice Healy in Stay Me with Flagons Stay Me with Flagons, the 1897 Sandeman vintage port was fortified with Scotch whisky.) This means that the must spends a much shorter time in contact with the skins than is normal for red wines-ten days for a fine red Bordeaux but no more than forty-eight hours for a port-and because this is the period when the color, tannins, and flavor compounds leach from the skins into the must, the maceration process must be as vigorous as possible.

Until the 1960s, every farm in the Douro had a winery equipped with a lagar lagar, usually built from granite, which was about two feet deep and anywhere from ten to thirty feet square. This is where the grapes were crushed and the fermentation took place. At those farms where lagares lagares are still used, the process is fundamentally the same. The are still used, the process is fundamentally the same. The lagar lagar is filled over the course of a day by pickers dumping their baskets of grapes into it to within about ten or so inches from the brim, although at some places they might go through a hand-turned roller-crusher first. The grapes are then trodden by the vintagers. The human foot is ideal for pressing grapes, because it breaks them up without crus.h.i.+ng the pips, which would release bitter flavor compounds into the must. The number of men is also important, because fermentation can be hastened or r.e.t.a.r.ded by the heat of their bodies helping the working of the yeasts. Ideally, there should be two men per pipe (2,180 gallons). is filled over the course of a day by pickers dumping their baskets of grapes into it to within about ten or so inches from the brim, although at some places they might go through a hand-turned roller-crusher first. The grapes are then trodden by the vintagers. The human foot is ideal for pressing grapes, because it breaks them up without crus.h.i.+ng the pips, which would release bitter flavor compounds into the must. The number of men is also important, because fermentation can be hastened or r.e.t.a.r.ded by the heat of their bodies helping the working of the yeasts. Ideally, there should be two men per pipe (2,180 gallons).

A good tread results in a deeply colored must, with fermentation beginning at the outset, not, as with red wine, after the crus.h.i.+ng of the grapes is finished. To ensure this, the treading is done in stages. First comes the cut or corte corte. The men line up in three or four rows, shoulder to shoulder, and with arms linked. They march on the spot, while the man in charge of the group of pickers sets the rhythm by shouting "one-two" or "left-right," their feet crus.h.i.+ng the grapes against the stone floor of the lagar lagar. This is dead monotonous. Periodically, the lines will move one step backward or forward in order to crush a new set of grapes. This goes on for two, or more likely three, hours. Then, at about 10 P.M., P.M., liberdade liberdade (freedom) is declared, with cups of (freedom) is declared, with cups of aguardente aguardente and cigarettes handed out. Treading is continued, but now to the accompaniment of an accordion (real or recorded), or a drum, or a local group providing folk tunes. Depending on the amount of and cigarettes handed out. Treading is continued, but now to the accompaniment of an accordion (real or recorded), or a drum, or a local group providing folk tunes. Depending on the amount of aguardente aguardente drunk, the treading can become quite lively, and certainly the treaders in their shorts will have purple pulp up to their thighs. This dancing around has a purpose beyond indulging high spirits: whole grapes are colder than the must, and often in corners, but also elsewhere, the dancing feet discover untrodden grapes. It all ends about midnight, by which time there should be no whole grapes left, just a ma.s.s of broken skins and juice. Traditionally, the test of the completeness of the extraction was to pour a little of the juice across a white plate: if it left behind a streaky red stain, it was enough. drunk, the treading can become quite lively, and certainly the treaders in their shorts will have purple pulp up to their thighs. This dancing around has a purpose beyond indulging high spirits: whole grapes are colder than the must, and often in corners, but also elsewhere, the dancing feet discover untrodden grapes. It all ends about midnight, by which time there should be no whole grapes left, just a ma.s.s of broken skins and juice. Traditionally, the test of the completeness of the extraction was to pour a little of the juice across a white plate: if it left behind a streaky red stain, it was enough.

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Yeast is seldom added, because the ambient yeasts from the outsides of the skins of the grapes themselves will begin the fermentation by working on the sugar. By morning, the skins will have floated to the surface, and as fermentation progresses, a "cap" or crust will form. Planks are laid across the lagar lagar, and men with special poles called macacos macacos will push the cap below the surface until the desired color and sugar levels are reached. The juice is then run off the will push the cap below the surface until the desired color and sugar levels are reached. The juice is then run off the lagar lagar into a vat that is already one-fifth full of into a vat that is already one-fifth full of aguardente aguardente, whose alcohol content is normally about 77 percent. When the two are mixed together, the yeasts are killed and the fermentation stopped. The maturing process then begins.

The use of feet rather than crus.h.i.+ng machines results in port of a much higher quality, because, as noted above, feet ensure a higher extraction of the color, tannins, and flavor compounds without the danger of crus.h.i.+ng the pips. The problem is that it is a very labor-intensive process. During the 1970s, the local youth began to leave the area: many of the young men were sent to fight Portugal's colonial wars in Mozambique and Angola, and both s.e.xes went to the cities, where both job opportunities with much higher pay and excitement were in much greater supply than in the villages of the Douro. As a consequence, in the 1990s, many of the port producers began to bring in machines to supply the labor that humans were increasingly less willing to provide. Only the truly premium ports are now the result of feet.

Why did native American wine grapes make such bad wine?

WHEN THE FIRST colonists came to eastern North America in the early seventeenth century, they found ma.s.ses of grapevines crawling up trees, snaking along the ground, and forming thick natural hedges. Grapevines meant wine, and wine meant that the colonists would not have to drink water, a liquid well known to cause illness and even death. In England, there was beer and ale, but in order to plant barley and hops, you needed what was then unavailable: a strong plow and oxen to pull it. Therefore, wine it would be. The first Englishmen emigrated to Virginia in 1607, but they did not seriously attempt to make wine in any quant.i.ty for some years, in spite of the urgings of the London shareholders in the enterprise, who were keen that wine should be made and exported from America. They wanted to make money from their investment in the colony, which, they thought, provided the right conditions for growing wine grapes. Furthermore, if the English wanted wine, they had to import it, and it was preferable that this money be kept within the empire, rather than going to those enemies of England who made wine. The Virginians sent a s.h.i.+pment of wine to London in 1622, but it spoiled en route and was unsaleable, and that ended that venture. In Ma.s.sachusetts, the first Puritans emigrated in 1630, and tried to make wine during their first year. The result was so dire that they pet.i.tioned London to send out some French wine-makers to show them how to do it. But if their winemaking was at fault, even more so were the grapes. colonists came to eastern North America in the early seventeenth century, they found ma.s.ses of grapevines crawling up trees, snaking along the ground, and forming thick natural hedges. Grapevines meant wine, and wine meant that the colonists would not have to drink water, a liquid well known to cause illness and even death. In England, there was beer and ale, but in order to plant barley and hops, you needed what was then unavailable: a strong plow and oxen to pull it. Therefore, wine it would be. The first Englishmen emigrated to Virginia in 1607, but they did not seriously attempt to make wine in any quant.i.ty for some years, in spite of the urgings of the London shareholders in the enterprise, who were keen that wine should be made and exported from America. They wanted to make money from their investment in the colony, which, they thought, provided the right conditions for growing wine grapes. Furthermore, if the English wanted wine, they had to import it, and it was preferable that this money be kept within the empire, rather than going to those enemies of England who made wine. The Virginians sent a s.h.i.+pment of wine to London in 1622, but it spoiled en route and was unsaleable, and that ended that venture. In Ma.s.sachusetts, the first Puritans emigrated in 1630, and tried to make wine during their first year. The result was so dire that they pet.i.tioned London to send out some French wine-makers to show them how to do it. But if their winemaking was at fault, even more so were the grapes.

For winemaking, the best species is Vitis vinifera Vitis vinifera, which today is used for 99 percent of all of the wine consumed in the world. However, V. vinifera V. vinifera was not native to eastern North America, and when attempts were made in the eighteenth century to import cuttings and grow it in the colonies, the vines were destroyed by the significant variations in climate of the northeastern seaboard or by diseases such as phylloxera, to which native American varieties were largely immune. The most important native grapes were was not native to eastern North America, and when attempts were made in the eighteenth century to import cuttings and grow it in the colonies, the vines were destroyed by the significant variations in climate of the northeastern seaboard or by diseases such as phylloxera, to which native American varieties were largely immune. The most important native grapes were Vitis labrusca, V. riparia Vitis labrusca, V. riparia, and V. rupestris V. rupestris. V. riparia V. riparia has often provided the rootstock on which varieties used in Europe are grafted, while it was has often provided the rootstock on which varieties used in Europe are grafted, while it was V. labrusca V. labrusca that was more often used for making wine. that was more often used for making wine. V. labrusca V. labrusca, the main example of which is the Concord grape, makes a wine that gives off an almost rank aroma-or, as Jancis Robinson puts it in her Vines, Grapes and Wines Vines, Grapes and Wines, "oozing the musky smell of a wet and rather cheap fur coat which wine tasters have agreed to call 'foxy' in their tasting notes." Attempts have been made to cross it with other grapes, but in almost every case (Seyval Blanc is one exception), the foxy odor of V. labrusca V. labrusca dominated in the resulting wine. Nevertheless, at least it survived under American conditions and made wine production possible, although it must be said that, throughout the nineteenth century, reported reactions of those who had tasted French or German wine were that American-made wine was bad, even verging on the undrinkable. However, with American victory in the Mexican-American War of 184849, the Southwest and California were annexed by the United States-and California, where vines for winemaking were first planted by the Spanish Franciscan missionary Father Junipero Serra in 1769, brought dominated in the resulting wine. Nevertheless, at least it survived under American conditions and made wine production possible, although it must be said that, throughout the nineteenth century, reported reactions of those who had tasted French or German wine were that American-made wine was bad, even verging on the undrinkable. However, with American victory in the Mexican-American War of 184849, the Southwest and California were annexed by the United States-and California, where vines for winemaking were first planted by the Spanish Franciscan missionary Father Junipero Serra in 1769, brought V. vinifera V. vinifera into the Union. Subsequently, when discussing American wines, some commentators made an exception for wine from California. In defense of the major into the Union. Subsequently, when discussing American wines, some commentators made an exception for wine from California. In defense of the major V. labrusca V. labrusca grape, the Concord, it is profitably used for grape juice and grape jelly on a commercial scale, and there has evolved a sweet wine that many enjoy. grape, the Concord, it is profitably used for grape juice and grape jelly on a commercial scale, and there has evolved a sweet wine that many enjoy.

What can you do with leftover wine?