A Layman's Wine Explorations 5

by William Powell

Yes, really — that is exactly the right word, because for a long time wine, to me, was something for people with that kind of natural arrogance that has a lot to do with a general attitude of “Kissmyassifyoudon'tlikeit” and that I — coincidence? — strongly associate with the French.

Blame the French

The first French girl I ever met is probably to blame. Sandrine was 14, came from St. Denis and was staying with my girlfriend at the time for three weeks on an exchange. She brushed me off so mercilessly at “Hello, je suis” … that I was prone to tearful introspection for three days, and even afterwards I felt like Little Dummy with Fluffy Ears whenever Sandrine was around. And at 15, too. That is supposed to be the time when you go out, slay dragons without a second thought and know everything better than everyone else anyway. But that only works if you don't give in to introspection, because who honestly wants to know what goes on in the brain and soul of an adolescent? Not me! I didn't want to back then, either. Yuck!

Guts and nothing more

Anyway, after that I probably lacked the guts for a while to surround myself with things that might — at least at first glance — have made me feel insecure. Girls, for example … or poetry … or the names of French wines. The beers in our area were called Heylands, Schwanen or Eder. There was no fuss, and the only frill surrounding these products was the Märzen that Heylands released every spring. Otherwise, you had a choice between Export and Pils, with the latter costing 25 pfennigs more per bottle, which made choosing very easy. Speaking of bottles — apart from the labels, they were absolutely identical. Brown, medium-height and very sturdy. Beer bottles, basically.

Red, outstanding wine

And then you go to a restaurant with a girlfriend's parents (yes — I know — I was going to give that up), get handed a wine list and read things like Château de Lagorce Rouge, Domaine de Rabasse "Cuvée Prestige" Côtes du Rhône or (almost the worst of all) Seigneur Jean de Roze. Excuse me … snot? You can't say that … actually, you can't say any of it. And what did I say instead? “Ummm — you don't happen to have a beer, do you?”

Of course they didn't. The question also earned me a pair of rolling eyes from the girl opposite me (never mind her parents). “What sort of thing do you like?” the waiter asked, trying to salvage the situation. “Beer, obviously!” grumbled my ex-girlfriend.

Red cat

What I eventually got was something like Félines rouge (apparently it had something to do with a red cat), and of course — despite all my senses being as unsettled as they could possibly be — it tasted quite delicious. Beer probably wouldn't have — not even French beer … especially since I couldn't even order it, because to this day I don't know how to order one of those Demi Pressions properly.

Wine trip to France — Champagne

I've made progress with wine. These days, Chardonnay rolls off my tongue just as easily as Bordeaux or Château Desmirail Troisième Cru Classé … all right — that last one was a lie.