Wine

To chablis or not to chablis

Edward Heathcoat Amory

If Dr Johnson believed claret was a liquor for boys, what would he have thought of a liquid life confined to mere white wine? Its red sibling has a long and honourable history; even the Psalms sing of a cup in the hand of the Lord, in which the wine is red. But chablis and champagne have no such pedigree. It is hard to imag- ine a flute of Dom Perignon clasped in Jehovah's horny palm, nor do I suppose that Noah, the first vintner, went on his famous bender on chilled Chablis.

Growing up, I eagerly embraced this tra- dition of oenological racism. A cousin by marriage in Bordeaux, Peter Sichel, owned one good vineyard, Château d'Angludet, and part of an excellent one, Château Palmer. As a result, there was a supply of both in our cellar, along with serried racks of port which my father had bought cheap- ly around the time I was born. White wine was' a second-class citizen, with the Wine Society's basic white burgundy confined to a damp corner, along with the mouldy heads of several animals brought back by an ancestor from some hunting trip to the Dark Continent.

As I grew older, my devotion to the blude-red wine grew. I went grape-picking

Before we start, has this thing got any air bags?'

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for my cousin in Bordeaux, back-breaking work for an over six footer when the vines were only three foot high. A team of pasty English people competed against French gypsies. The Romanies picked five times as fast as the Anglo-Saxons, and a foul- mouthed overseer drove us on with a tor- rent of French abuse. Unlike my cousin and travelling companion, I failed to pluck any of my female fellow pickers from the vine. But the consolation prize was unlimit- ed quantities of drinkable red in the evenings.

Then I went to university in Bristol and discovered a wonderful wine merchant, Avery's, which had huge quantities of very old burgundy, much of it presumably beefed up with brandy, in its cellars. For a modest amount, you could take pot luck. Some were dreadful, others drinkable, and a few, like one half bottle of 1953 Bonnes- Mares, sublime. Sadly, time and commerce have taken their toll. The Avery's gold- mine has gone to auction, guzzled by a nation in which wine-drinking has, in 15 years, been elevated from an elite hobby to a national pastime. By the time I left the West Country, I was a confirmed red wine drinker, and nursed a healthy loathing for scrumpy. When I was married, several of my father's friends gave us claret as a wedding present. I was thrilled, for a moment. Then I remembered that Alice, my new wife, did not drink red wine. Along with many of her family, she found that it gave her migraines. It was a dilemma. Wedding pre- sents which could only be enjoyed by half of the new alliance were, perhaps, not what the clergyman had in mind when he deliv- ered the homily about sharing our lives. There was nothing for it. I rang up Berry Bros, the source of a number of our gifts, and arranged for a swap. We would have champagne and white bordeaux instead.

It was an early, and not particularly painful, marital compromise, but marked the beginning of the end of my love affair with burgundy and bordeaux, pinot noir and cabernet sauvignon. Like a long-time friend in similar circumstances, we were first reduced to meeting for lunch, and then the odd evening out with the boys. Gradually, our relationship deteriorated as I became closer to white wines. There was a Vernaccia di San Gimignano, Terre di Tufi, produced by Teruzzi and Puthod, which made me realise that my holiday romance with Italy could continue in colder northern climes. Then came several bottles of Condrieu, Coteaux de Vemay, from Georges Vemay, which exploded on the palate like nothing else I had ever tasted.

If you chose the right white, I discovered, it would stand up to anything from steak to grouse, and all my old snobberies were dis- solved. Great whites might appear more formal on the outside, but once you got to know them they could be just as passionate in the glass. I found myself opening a bot- tle of white even when I was in on my own for the evening. Over time, red wine and I had less and less in common. We drifted apart.

The end came when my father asked me whether he should sell his port. He no longer drank it, nor did his contemporaries, and neither did I. My friends at Berry Bros explained that Britain had lost the taste for vintage port, but it was still popular in 'Charles! Have you called a girl?' America. They would be prepared to buy it with a view to selling to the American mar- ket. After some heart-searching — after all, these bottles had been sitting in the cellar for almost as long as I had been alive — my father decided to sell. We concluded that the proceeds should be spent on white wine and champagne.

We tried a number of bottles, and on a subsequent visit my father and our friend from Berry's took several more bottles to a restaurant for in-depth investigation. More research may be necessary. Alice feels she may need to do some careful study of her own.

In the meantime, from my preliminary inquiries, I can recommend Berry's own- brand champagne. Wonderful, biscuity, well-priced, I have bought several cases and consigned them to the cellar for five years, as even non-vintage tastes better with a bit of bottle age. For something a bit more refined, the Pol Roger '88 is very civilised, polite, and perhaps a little too restrained for my taste; but my father has bought some. The Pol Roger '89, RD, was more of a disappointment, with little struc- ture or excitement, although I may well have had a bad bottle.

I shall probably spend most of the money on a Meursault. The one I tasted and refused to spit out, was a Meursault L'Ormeau 1996, from Boyer-Martenot — a thick mouthful, which I will keep for ten years, although Berry's claim it will taste better after only five. For a more refined but even more long-lasting option, I may buy some chablis, perhaps Billaud-Simon's 1996 Premier Cru, Mont de Milieu, which is built for the long haul. The thought of these wines gives me a thrill, because I imagine drinking them together with Alice in ten years' time or more. I have only one worry. Her mother, who all her life has been unable to drink red wine for fear, like her daughter, of migraines, recently decided to give it another go. Imagine her surprise when she discovered that not only did it no longer have any negative effects, but she loved it. Now the Thomson household is back on claret, and my mother-in-law is busy mak- ing up for lost time. As an insurance poll()' against the same thing happening to Alice, I'm keeping a few bottles of the amazing Hermitage La Chapelle 1983, from Paul Jaboulet, which will be at its best in 30 years' time. For the moment, however, 1 am wedded to white, and have put my youthful flirtation with reds behind me.

Berry Bros and Rudd: 3, St James's Street, London SW1; tel: 0171 396 9600.

Many of these wines are available from Fort- num & Mason, 181 Piccadilly, London Wl; tel: 0171 734 8040.