The taxi driver turned up in a peaked cap and Mercedes. So far, so good. Alas, as we got closer we spied the long greasy, grey plait down his back, the remarkably stained t-shirt, patchwork leather waistcoat and arms a 19th century sailor who had done time in the lag would have flexed with pride. The 80s E Class had apparently been to the moon and back (carrying chain smokers by the look of the munificently overflowing ashtrays in the back) and probably lost all vestiges of shocks and springs sometime in the early 90s - Jane and I travelled the bumpy roads to our destination bearing a close resemblance to a pair of be-lipsticked nodding dogs.
Our destination was the Victory Hotel, a McLaren Vale icon (could we have been anywhere but Australia with a taxi driver like that?) and recommended to us by any number of wine aficionados. But as we swept up in bouncing, smoke-infused style, the basic pub frontage complete with a few scruffy local lads and their sheilas smoking on the veranda made us wonder if perhaps a handle of XXXX might be our lot for the night.
It just goes to show how wrong first impressions can be. The menu was well-stocked with the smartest of gastro pub food, the service was friendly and competent and.......... there was the most unbelievable underground cellar simply chock-full of delicious, interesting and old wines. Purpose built, with side alcoves and even a secret room containing the very best riches, it was a glorious muddle of boxes, bottles, countries, regions and vintages and all very sharply priced (not far off retail which is especially good when considering the bottle age of most). The staff was happy to let us wander at will and even proffered glasses of Champagne to sip whilst goggling at this unexpected treasure trove.
We spent a good half an hour fossicking and unearthed a superb Raveneau Grand Cru Chablis and a sublime 1995 Wendouree Cabernet, perfect accompaniments to the delicious meal. After the mains, we had another fossick with the intention of finding something sweet to go with the cheese but spent so long down there we realised we were likely to miss our pre-booked return taxi. The thought of ending our days to the sound of duelling banjos meant we had to hotfoot it back upstairs to pay the bill and catch our ride. Just as we left, I spied a box we had not yet examined and in it found a bottle of Les Forts de Latour. In the Aladdin's cave of the Victory Hotel, a Bordeaux second wine didn’t really merit a second glance but this was 1975 - my year - so I quickly grabbed it and they popped it on the bill. Out the door to the taxi. When asked if he had had a good night, our driver growled, "Yep, I reckon. Nobody's puked yet" which effectively silenced us for the rest of the trip (though not unfortunately the driver who proceeded to regale us with stories and photos of his Harleys as we pogoed our way back to Port Wilunga).
When safely back home in Taupo, I wondered if I may have been a bit rash. After all, second wine, middling year at best, and who knew what the bottle’s provenance was? But the fill level looked good, I hadn't paid that much (snorts from husband at the Visa bill aside) and it was the first bottle of this vintage I had been able to lay my hands on. Happily, my birthday falls on a day of general revelry in December so I dutifully cracked it open.
It was delicious. An absolute stunner. I admit I wasn't expecting much (thinking it likely to be rather dried out and overly tannic) but it was fragrant, perfectly balanced, still surprisingly richly fruited and was as enticingly perfumed, expressive and evolutionary as one would expect from a First Growth of a good year. Heh heh, 1975 is obviously a year for those that age well, even if I do say so myself.
The colour was good, garnet with a slightly faded brickish margin. The bouquet was of faded berryfruit, dried hay, old leather, lots of cigar box and autumn leaves, tomato leaf, plenty of red currants and exotic spice. It was quite pungent with a slightly barnyardy whiff and opened up to lots of graphite and cassis over time.
The palate was soft and lovely, still surprisingly fruity, very elegant with wonderful balance, depth and length. Tannins were firm but ripe and silky, no evidence of hardness or drying out and there was fine, still nervy acidity which gave good freshness to the developed fruit (predominantly red and black berries, not much plum). Alcohol was not stated but tasted around 12%ish? In any event, I drank the whole thing (well, the occasion did merit such an act) and still awoke with a clear head with which to start the new year.
This was a wonderful wine, not least because it was an unexpected treasure found in an unlikely place and because it surpassed my (admittedly lowish) expectations. What made it extra charming was its character, subtlety and grace and the continuity of interest it offered as it unfolded in the glass and bottle. It was classically Bordeaux in style but also possessed its own personality and the depths which had come with age. It was an excellent example of why this region and its wines are so hallowed, reminding one of the Denis Dubourdieu comment about Bordeaux being both history and geography in the bottle.
In all, a wine that turned out to be not only a lovely birthday present to myself and a reminder of the pedigree and longevity of the Médoc but also a lesson in making sure one doesn’t overlook the gifts that dodgy-looking taxi drivers and apparently nondescript Aussie pubs may bring. An auspicious start to the new year to be sure!
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