Future Memories: DRC 2022 In Bottle
BY NEAL MARTIN |
“Do you remember the first time?”
“Maybe. A lot of life has passed between then and now. But one bottle sticks in the mind. I was living in my first flat, a single-bedroom pad in Crystal Palace, roomy with a high ceiling, shabby-chic but more shabby than chic. The dinky kitchen was painted in bold rustic hues, ochre and olive green, with copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling plus a small wine rack of around 20 bottles—none of which were remarkable except one. That was the 1992 Grands-Échézeaux from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
“Where did you get that from?”
“It was a Christmas gift, a festive incentive to keep the orders rolling. In 1996, I had just begun my first job in wine, buying and shipping vino for the burgeoning Japanese market. That gift of a DRC sounds extravagant today, but keep in mind that back then, it was not particularly expensive, simply a Burgundy deemed one of the best. In any case, I didn’t care about monetary value. It was a chance to enjoy a delicious wine and further my education. The bottle was awaiting the right moment.”
“And that was when?”
“An old school friend and his better half came for dinner. We were classmates at grammar school. We both had a competitive streak. Who achieved the highest grades? Who had the coolest taste in music? The usual teenage stuff. Maybe that desire to outperform hadn’t completely faded and coerced me to pull out the Grands-Échézeaux. I rustled up sea bass and new potatoes, the outer limits of my culinary skills. My opening gambit, a 1973 Meursault from Robert Ampeau, smelled of old socks and went down the sink. Not to worry, as my precious DRC was about to ride to the rescue.”
“Did it?”
“No. Ninety-two was a great vintage for white Burgundy, but the reds suffered excessive yields. Alas, I was unfamiliar with the minutiae of vintages. Even a bottle the pedigree of DRC was unable to disguise its stalkiness, a Scrooge-like meanness. We sat around the table willing the wine to live up to expectations until I admitted that it didn’t taste particularly pleasant. It was a valuable lesson. A label, a reputation, is no guarantee of quality. This principle became a cornerstone of how I approach criticism: never prejudge the wine in front of you. In any case, a few months later, I was fortunate to drink a bottle that elicited pure elation.”
“What was that?”
“A 1990 Richebourg. It was a long boozy lunch at The Arches, a local bistro whose patriarch, the late Harry Gill, was a fanatic wine collector and had accumulated a deep well of DRC, as he was wont to remind you every time you visited, bless him. He had invited some reprobates from the wine trade to partake in a few bottles, and each of us had given a weak excuse to the office as to the reason why we wouldn’t be returning to our desks. We crammed into a small patio area in the rear of the bistro, a sun trap on that hot June afternoon. We were all young and rowdy back then, full of tit-for-tat banter and bonhomie, devotees to the joy of wine. We had already martyred several bottles when Harry announced in his own inimitable way that he would open something “proper.” Before I had time to untangle “proper” from its surrounding expletives, I spotted that familiar black-and-white font. Funny how a font can incite a rush of endorphins. I held out my glass and soon enough, Richebourg glistened like liquid ruby in my glass, refracting the sun’s rays. Its aroma was intoxicating. It tasted of flamboyance, luxurious and brimming with grandeur. The “lunch” lasted way beyond closing time, wanton libation having erased the details of the last hours. Yet the following morning, nursing the worst hangover ever inflicted upon humankind, I considered the nausea was worth it…because of that Richebourg.”
“Did you write about it on your fledgling website?”
