The Lord Giveth…Burgundy 2023

 BY NEAL MARTIN | JANUARY 9, 2025

Côte de Beaune: Beaune | Chassagne-Montrachet | Meursault | Pernand, Aloxe & Ladoix | Pommard | Puligny-Montrachet | St. Aubin, Mothelie & Maranges | Volnay

Côte de Nuits: Chambolle-Musigny | Fixin & Marsannay | Gevrey-Chambertin | Morey-Saint-Denis | Nuits Saint-Georges | Vosne-Romanée

Though not explicitly written in the Bible, God is a huge admirer of MC Hammer. Hoping to hear His favorite nineties rapper-turned-preacher, together with Mother Nature, they are heading to Clos Vougeot for the “Hooray for Hip-Hop!” all-nighter. Indeed, few are aware that when DJ Kool Herc invented hip-hop in ‘73, he set up a trestle table next to his decks where dancers could sample fine wine and caviar. Attired in a backwards baseball cap, MC Hammer-approved silk parachute pants and an eye-wateringly-priced hoodie woven by jobless Bordeaux winemakers in a sweatshop just outside Dijon embroidered with “BRONX2BURGUNDY” on the back, they enter the hallowed medieval walls full of expectation…

There is no MC Hammer.

It is not “Hammer time.”

His ears are assaulted by “Straight Outta Corton” by W.W.A. (Winemakers With Altitude). Its lyrics describe the turf war between “East” and “West” winemakers on the Hill of Corton; pimps selling illegal Maria Thun treatments on the backstreets of Pernand-Vergelesses and being hassled by undercover INAO officers for brandishing rusty secateurs. A guest rap by Notorious DRC, an expletive-ridden tirade against degenerating 161-49 rootstock, had caused outrage across France and prompted nurseries to refund anyone who kept their receipt from the 1980s.

God tries to enter the roped-off VIP section where flagons of 1947 Romanée-Conti are being poured with ham sandwich triangles and cold sausage on sticks. A bouncer in a tight-fitting tuxedo places a gorilla-like hand on God’s shoulder.

“Your name’s not on the list,” he snarls.

“But I am the Supreme Being!” God exclaims. “I invented the entire Universe.”

His protest falls on deaf ears. Talking of which, He can barely hear Himself speak over the din. How He rues turning down an invitation to the rival “Punk at Pommard” festival, even though that sees more spitting than an overcrowded hall during Les Grands Jours. Alternatively, there is the “Gevrey Goes Goth!” weekender, though you have to put up with Robert Smith clones looking more depressed than Bordeaux primeur sales.

The vineyards at Clos de Vougeot.

“Mother Nature,” God bellows. “What are your plans for the 2023 vintage? No frosts or hail. Nothing nasty I hope.”

“Nah darlin’,” she squawks. “I’m gonna give ‘em lots ‘n lots of lov-er-ly grapes. Mountains of ‘em!”

“That is most kind…”

“But I’m gonna slip ‘em a surprise ‘eatwave just before ‘arvest and give ‘em pickers rosy suntans.”

“Sorry. Didn’t catch that. It’s so ruddy noisy. Any plans for 2024?”

“Ha-ha,” she cackles, “Gonna screw ‘em completely. ‘ailstorms, rot and rain. Gonna be biblical. Old Testament.”

“Sorry. Can you repeat that?”