Complex, Not Complicated: 2017 DRC in Bottle
BY NEAL MARTIN |
6:26am – Throw off the duvet and let out a sleepy “Hoorah” because it is DRC Day, which ranks between Christmas Day and my birthday in terms of anticipation. The new bottled vintage will be lined up for inspection at UK agent Corney & Barrow. Of course, I will assess it as objectively as any other wine – granted, not easy to do when face to face with such an icon. However, it would be an abdication of responsibility if I did not place the latest releases within the context of previous vintages and those producers disadvantaged by not being called “Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.” What I really enjoy about this tasting is contrasting vineyards side by side: same grape, same producer and same approach. How will they perform as a team? Who’s the strongest player? Do they remain faithful to the DNA of the vineyard, or will one of them throw you a curveball? I’ll find out later.
6:55am – What to wear at the DRC tasting? This question confronts me every year. In the early days it was easy: suit and tie. Things were more formal back then. You would not be allowed in if your brogues were scuffed or your pinstripes creased. Nowadays, wine tastings have become a tad more informal because slovenly attendees without an ounce of sartorial flair (like yours truly) began loosening their necktie and then binning the suit altogether. But it’s DRC. One must make an effort. I opt for smart trousers, slim-fit shirt purchased to show off my recently acquired slim-fit torso, and leather ankle boots whose innards have fallen apart but remain in service. Smart casual. Sorted.
7:05am – Read my Brian Eno “Oblique Strategy” of the day. Yes, I’m an Enophile. It tells me to “Remove specifics and convert to ambiguities.” Hey, Eno, that’s been my strategy for wine tasting since day one!
7:10am – What breakfast precedes a DRC tasting? The answer is my wife’s 100-point homemade granola. Mrs. M is to breakfast cereal what Aubert de Villaine is to Pinot Noir. My daughters, dressed in school uniform and half asleep, ask what I am doing today in that familiar monotone teenage mumble. “I’m going to be tasting Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” I answer, ignoring Eno’s advice to remove specifics. Neither offspring registers a flicker of interest. The eldest dives back into her chemistry book so that the periodic table can be imprinted onto her cerebral membrane. Maybe I should revise for my tasting; I peruse my barrel tasting notes and comments. Perhaps all invitees should complete a multiple-choice examination on their way out. (What is the yield for the Corton? On what dates was La Tâche bottled? In 2017, who replaced Bernard Noblet, maître-de-chai since 1985?) Anyone failing the test will be escorted to a private room by a Corney heavy and not allowed out until they have written “The Democratic Republic of Congo is not the same as Domaine de la Romanée-Conti” a hundred times. The lowest scorers will not be invited back. (FYI, the answer to the last question is Alexandre Bernier, who had worked alongside Noblet for the last eight years.)
7:25am – Wait for Number 37 bus to Guildford train station. Bloody hell, it’s nippy this morning.
7:35am – Bus cancelled. Emergency Uber.
7:50am – Arrive at Guildford station. Naturally, the South Western Railway ruins my cunning plan to arrive at the tasting early. A train has died on Platform 5 and is currently waiting for the undertaker. Irritated commuters are herded onto another platform, where we cram onto a stuffy, overcrowded train. Instead of spending my journey writing, I am forced to stand in the aisle. To compensate for our discomfort, instead of the fast route, our train driver takes the longer scenic route to Waterloo. Cheers, mate.
9:00am – After a stationary 10 minutes just outside Waterloo station, the train driver presumably finishes his Sudoku puzzle and decides that yes, he will drop off all his irate passengers at their destination so that they can work and keep the country afloat.
