The other night I was sitting on the sofa reading a wine book and came across a mention of a particular wine. But not just any wine. This was the legendary Chateau d’Yquem 1989, possibly one of the greatest vintages of one of the greatest dessert wines in the world. I was instantly transported back to Bordeaux in August 1999, when I had tasted this wine, and I have to confess that I actually started to salivate a bit at the memory of this fabulous, incredible (and expensive, of course) wine.
But the thing is, when I turned and mentioned it to my husband, who had shared the bottle with me, he said, “Oh, yes… I remember that”. And then went back to watching the television. I said, “Don’t you remember how rich, and complex, and lengthy and concentrated and…”… “Oh yes”, he said, “Yes, it was nice wine”.
Nice???? A wine most wine lovers would give their eye-teeth to have a glass of? And he remembers it as being nice, in the same way that he thinks a biscuit is nice. This of course then had me puzzling over our different responses. After all, the wine in the glass was the same, so why did I have an almost Pavlovian reaction to its memory whereas Matthew just remembers it as something vaguely pleasant.
Leaving aside the fact that he is a bit of a philistine and generally prefers lemonade to wine (surprisingly useful when it comes to having a sober driver and not having to share really delicious wines that come my way), it was an interesting illustration of the way in which wine elicits such a wide range of emotions and reactions in people. There are those like me, who find it an endlessly fascinating drink, across all quality levels and styles and respond to it in both an emotional and intellectual manner; there are those for whom it is just another, albeit tasty, thing to put in their mouth, and those for whom it is just a means to an (inebriated) end. And then there are those who may have an interest in wine, but purely speculative and practical – these are the wine investors who collect the fabulous wines of the world but do so in order to make money. While I can see why someone might do this, I know that I could never in a million years buy a bottle without the express intention of opening it at some point in time. The anticipation of and speculation about its contents would wear away at me and I would finally crack like a greedy child with a lolly jar, and have to open and drink the wine. Much like art, wine is about pleasure for me and while I do indeed possess some valuable bottles, they lay awaiting the correct hedonic rather than financial moment in time.
But even I don’t have a salivatory response to all wines (honest!). I imagine I would have tasted around 10,000 wines over the last ten years and there are probably fewer than one hundred or so that are lodged in my consciousness forever. But those that have, I can remember their names, vintages, where I drank them and with whom and why they were so damn good. But my husband has probably had maybe a third of these particular wines with me, and while he remembers the dinner or tasting we were at, and the funny story a friend told, and the fantastic dish of duck or whatever… as for the wine, well, he’s certain there was probably something tasty to drink there, but who knows what it was?
It’s a strange thing, this attraction to wine (and I know it’s not just the alcohol as excepting Pimm’s I loath spirits and only drink beer if it’s a really hot day after a really long wine tasting). I just love the complexity of wine, the astonishing range of flavours and aromas, the way it can remind you of everything from warm spring rain to a sweaty horse saddle. I love the way there is a wine to suit every mood and occasion, and I love the fascinating history, art and science behind its production. And with those really astonishing few wines that are stuck in my brain forever, I loved the fact that they were the epitome of all those things. They had intensity and balance, concentration and elegance, length and grace. They often had pedigree, but some were probably technically mongrels. All were wines that crept into my very soul. And made me drool. While I think it’s strange that not everyone else shares that response, and I can’t figure out why Matthew is just as happy with his Schweppes, I suppose I should just be grateful that at least next time I won’t need to feel guilty about not sharing the 1989 Yquem!