A Layman's Wine Explorations 21

by William Powell

Honestly—what person with even a modicum of common sense invites me on an outing with a wine tasting? Certainly nobody who has had to endure more than two instalments of this column. And nobody who has known me for more than two days, either. You simply don't put yourself through that—or me, for that matter.

Jan is Dutch

Now, in Jan's defence, you could point out that he's Dutch ... no idea whether they have a higher pain threshold or simply know nothing about German wine culture ... but somehow I feel that it ought to count in his favour (Leave the man alone, he's Dutch ...). Besides, I really did let myself be blinded by the guest list.

Jan told me that he regularly takes this trip with work colleagues and old university friends. Jan is an accountant and previously studied business informatics. Was it really so wide-eyed of me to expect a horde of nerds in sweater vests? Was I naive to think that the lads would join in with the wine tasting but otherwise stick to their passion fruit juice spritzers? Apparently!

Bruce Dickinson and Lars Ulrich

Perhaps all the Anthrax and Iron Maiden T-shirts that leapt out at me as I climbed into Jan's old VW camper van should have been a warning. But the lads with their pale faces, skinny little arms and clearly visible beginnings of beer bellies still looked incredibly harmless. And they were nerdy, too! Sort of. And there were bottles of passion fruit juice spritzer doing the rounds. At first. At some point later on, cone-shaped cigarettes with a very distinctive smell of dried cannabis were also being passed around. But in between, we were still chugging along—spurred on by Bruce Dickinson and Lars Ulrich—through a warm, sunny autumn day towards the tranquil Mosel. Funnily enough, that's where the first gaps in my memory of the trip in general, and the village in particular, start to appear.

Graacher Himmelreich

Now, Graach may be a pleasant, picturesque little spot, but it doesn't exactly cry out to be described at length. Yet there is more than just vague evidence that my feeble powers of recall aren't solely down to Graach on the Mosel's lack of appeal. The wine tasting took place in a very lovely vaulted cellar with lots of wood and dim lighting, and even I agreed with the general consensus that the Domprobst Kabinett Riesling tasted very, very delicious indeed. And—just like everyone else—I felt that we urgently needed to lay in an adequate supply of this blessed beverage.

Skinny-dipping for everyone

From this point on, opinions about what happened differ loudly, and even the video evidence presented doesn't really convince me. After all, I'm dealing with software specialists here. How am I supposed to know what tricks they might have pulled to make things look the way they do now? After all, I've never re-enacted the dance from Risky Business. Never! I didn't even remember that scene existed, and I thought the film was rather stupid anyway ... at least, that's what I've convinced myself of by now.

Besides, I haven't been a fan of skinny-dipping since university. Who jumps naked into a river in late September, anyway? Not me! And who, pray tell, is that naked, singing person in this shaky phone video really supposed to be? Maybe it's Bigfoot! Pah. 

Three to 4 bottles in the van

What saddens me most is that, to this day, nobody has apologised for the fact that I came to in the van's cramped load space, wet and tightly curled up. You don't do that to older people who are evidently recovering from anaphylactic shock. The lads didn't even try to find out what I must have reacted to so badly. And the cheekiest thing is that they all insist I'd already gone wild after the second bottle, while everyone else had put away at least three or four bottles each.

The part of the journey home that I was still aware of passed in icy silence. At least on my part. What did I care if the others passed the time singing merrily? The only thing that softened me up was that, as I got out, they pressed a full case of Graacher Domprobst into my trembling hands. It's now sitting right at the back of the cellar and is not to be touched. Certainly not by my wife. The treacherous woman had Jan send her the video footage and bursts into hysterical cackling every time she watches those vile fakes. Did I mention that I hate people with smartphones?