Petronella Wyatt
My late father, Woodrow Wyatt, adored old Champagne, preferably drunk from a silver mug. This non- plussed dinner guests who couldn't understand why their glasses were snatched away in favour of ancient looking tankards. But they soon dis- covered that there was nothing like a Victorian goblet to set off the splen- dour of vintage Krug.
I had heard about Krug ever since I was 13. It was more than a Champagne, almost an Olympian nectar. A friend of the family promised me a magnum on my 17th birthday. We raided the cellar for some silver mugs. It was May and the warm spring sunshine glittered off the handles, reflecting light so that it danced in the air like Champagne bub- bles. The opening of the magnum was done with the reverence of someone excavating a great and precious find. The bouquet that emanated from what lay within was unforgettable; it had overtones of musk. The colour of the Champagne was not yellow but dusk on a June evening. I remember feeling impiety at placing one's lips on so love- ly a creation.
Such feelings were soon over- come, however. We put on some Duke Ellington records, rolled up the carpet and danced. All too soon the contents of the magnum had been exhausted. I think we moved on to another Champagne but it was like eating offal after caviar. My kind family friend promised me another magnum of Krug when I was 21. No one ever yearned as much as I to grow older.
Previous page
