A Man of Polite Learning

BY NEAL MARTIN | MARCH 26, 2020

Author’s Note

“A Man of Polite Learning” was published on the original Wine-Journal in March 2005, as evidenced by references to pre-scandal Lance Armstrong and Sideways. I have made only minor edits to the original, tidied up the misspellings and grammatical faux pas that must have irked Broadbent when he read it. Otherwise, you are reading what appeared back then. Perusing the text after such a long time, I had forgotten how punchy and pugilistic Broadbent could be. He did not mince his words. Remember, this was written in the wake of the furor over the 2003 Pavie, and the argument over English versus American palates was raging. Naturally I wanted to broach the subject of Robert Parker, and readers should note that this was a couple of years before I joined The Wine Advocate. When I composed the article, I strove to preserve Broadbent’s voice, and I hope that comes through.

A Man of Polite Learning

Since its immaculate conception I have maintained that any self-respecting website devoted to fine wine would be unconsummated, incomplete, without baptism by the man whose name is synonymous with that very subject and whose epic odyssey through the iconic wines of the last two centuries is unparalleled. The man in question is, of course, Michael Broadbent MW. To many he is the quintessential English gentleman replete with cast-iron pushbike, trilby and ambassadorial demeanor; a savant blessed with an authoritative aura, a man of magnetic gravitas. Yet he is also a man surfeit with charisma and chutzpah; that glint in his eye and that cheeky smile and coruscating salacious wit. He is a man that can hold an intellectual discussion upon fine wine, art or maybe opera and finish it off with a satyrical (sic) punchline.

I asked Jancis Robinson MW about her first meeting with the indomitable Broadbent. “I met him so long ago I can’t even remember when or how,” she answered. “That’s all I can volunteer on our early days, I’m afraid. We’d have those First Growth dinners every year chez Penning Rowsell, the Broadbents always tearing in very late and then dashing off through the Cotswold lanes afterwards back to their place outside Bath [Chippenham Lodge].”

In the early days of my career I glimpsed Michael Broadbent around London’s tasting circuit, usually rubbing shoulders against the hegemony of established British wine writers. Broadbent seemed to dwarf them all not only in terms of his physical stature but as an incarnate encyclopedia of fine wine. He was the doyen, the guv’nor. Later I became acquainted with him in a professional capacity helping to organize a prestigious tasting in Tokyo. This is where I met the Michael Broadbent with acute business acumen and professionalism. He approached the event with enormous gusto, punctilious about every last detail. Here I also witnessed the showman. Espying a grand piano in the reception of the restaurant, he waltzed over to tickle the ivories and warmed up attendees with a burst of Chopin before the serious business of analyzing wines began.

But who is the real Michael Broadbent? Auctioneer? Wine-writer? Wine critic? Showman? Lothario? Was he the same man portrayed in print, a man whose sybaritic life reads like an endless round of fantastical tastings? A peripatetic bon viveur whose social calendar is busier than Kate Moss’s? One interview has severe limitations. A half-century of experience cannot be condensed within a two-hour conversation. However, spending time alone with him in his London pied-à-terre, I glimpsed the man behind the public persona, the real Michael Broadbent.

I am scheduled to meet Michael in his Mayfair office that is conveniently located within spitting distance of Justerini & Brooks and Berry Bros. & Rudd. The streets around St. James’s Palace cater for the English gentleman: bespoke tailors, hosiers, milliners, accoutrements for the imminently jobless huntsman and, of course, fine wine merchants. In fact, I meet Michael outside on the street, immediately recognizable by that flash of trilby in the distance. He apologizes for his tardiness and asks me to wait in the reception while he posts a letter, and when he returns, suggests we conduct the interview at his London apartment rather than the more sterile surroundings of his office. I leap at this opportunity because you can tell much about a person from their abode.

We set off through Green Park towards the namesake tube station. Presumptuously I had assumed that a man of his standing would have eschewed public transport a long time ago. I know that I would. He is renowned for commuting to work on his Dutch bicycle that poses alongside him each month for his column in Decanter magazine and for cynics suspecting that it is merely a prop to enhance his image, I can vouchsafe many occasions when he has pedaled to a meeting, as one might expect Lance Armstrong. I also assumed that his pied-à-terre must lie close to his office because he is not in the flush of youth. Now I realize that his commute entails a three- or four-mile cycle through congested West London, patently a precarious journey that keeps this septuagenarian in fine fettle. Monitoring the physical expansion of some wine critics on the London tasting circuit, they can only dream of similar physique when they reach his age... if they get that far.

Above the racket of the tube train we small-talk about mutual colleagues and whether I had seen the recently released film Sideways. He seems vexed about where he will be able to view what he must presume is an art flick, unaware that it is on general release. We eventually arrive at our destination, Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where his wife Daphne has just had a prescheduled check-up. She pulls up in the car to collect her husband and his interloper. Daphne is a diminutive woman whose spirit seems inversely proportional to her size. They swap places so that he can drive. For one scary moment I fear that I have witnessed the untimely demise of Michael Broadbent as a pugnacious driver comes within inches of flattening one of the world’s greatest authorities on wine under the wheels of his white Ford Transit. What an ignominious end! Doesn’t the van driver know who Michael Broadbent is? I guess fine wine is a parochial world and an elderly man obstructing the road to one person is an icon to another.

Daphne sits in the back and Michael drives. He explains that his ecologically minded car is duel fuel, switching to electricity whenever the onboard computer deems it possible. Pedal-bikes and pollutant-free cars: Michael Broadbent can rest assured that his contribution to the ozone layer is minimal. We drop Daphne off and Michael quips that she is off to have her legs waxed; she retorts that he does the same with his chest hair. Broadbent’s better half and partner-in-crime obviously shares his humor and repartee, as well as countless fine wines.

It is a five-minute drive to his London flat. It is not one of those designer-built goldfish bowls that encroach upon the length and breadth of the Thames, but a modest post-war construction equipped with fully malfunctioning lift that had apparently taken nine months to repair and a musty air that always reminds me of old blocks of flats. It might well be architecturally incongruous but his pied-à-terre does boast a panorama over the curvaceous Thames, beyond which lies a wetland bird sanctuary currently veiled in mist. We stand and take a few seconds to admire the view.

“The boat race takes place on this part of the river,” he tells me. I picture him sketching the scene on a Saturday afternoon as the Oxbridge teams glide past.