Diary of a Wine Writer

I work like a demon today, finishing off Willi Schaefer and then making in-roads into Weingut Dönnhoff, with Helmut’s son Cornelius imparting useful information by e-mail. In between all this I am organizing my horrendously busy, spaghetti-like Bordeaux itinerary. It is not the visits that take up so much time: it is the logistics of the whole thing, booking the hotels, working out how to get from A to B via G, Z and Q within minus 5 seconds. The two weeks I am down there has no days off, frighteningly early morning starts and midnight finishes, countless chateau visits, Union de Grand Cru tastings, negociant tastings, private tastings, blind tastings, verticals tastings, dinners and lunches. I am always offered invitations to stay at this or that chateau, but I politely refuse to maintain my impartiality and book the cheapest shack that Bordeaux has to offer. In fact, I should just attach an old caravan to the back of the car and camp in the lay-by overnight.

In the afternoon, I catch the train into London for Linden Wilkie’s 1962 Bordeaux horizontal, where I am reminded of the brilliance of mature Sauternes, in particular a spellbinding citrus-fresh Chateau Coutet that dares challenge the supremacy of Yquem. Afterwards I join a small party of friends for a pizza at “Strada” where we make use of Aiko’s 2-for-1 meal vouchers. My scallop risotto takes a long time coming, but is worth the wait and fills a hole. I become embroiled in an animated discussion about bankers’ bonuses and Gordon Brown’s persecution of the rich. Much to my surprise, my suggestion of castrating the upper class and installing asylum seekers in their place does not win unanimous approval.