Is This Bottle Corked? Part 2

White burgundies from the 1995 to 1999 vintages became notorious for not keeping and improving as their purchasers had expected. On being opened in the early 2000s, when they should have been drinking well, they were found to be maderized. A particularly plausible explanation is that not enough sulfur dioxide had been put into the wine at bottling. Winemakers try to protect the flavor of the wine by adding a small amount of sulfur dioxide, recognizable by the acrid smell of burning matches. In the early 1990s, however, critics complained that the smell of sulfur dioxide was too strong, and consequently many winemakers in Burgundy cut back on the amounts they used. Whether or not this is the correct explanation (there are other theories), such was the dismay and outrage-for these were expensive wines-that Web sites were set up to exchange horror stories. Whatever the causes, huge numbers of bottles were found to be maderized, and whole cases of wine were poured down the sink.

Why do we drink red wine too hot?

YOU ARE TIRED and hungry after a long, hot, sunny day, and you have decided to go to your local Italian restaurant for some comfort food, such as lasagne or ravioli. In spite of the open windows, the restaurant is hot from all of the people and the continual cooking. You order some of the restaurant's decent and reasonably priced red wine to go with their excellent food. The bottle is opened, but the wine is warm, and it tastes rather limp. You boldly ask the waiter for a bucket of water and ice, and partially submerge the bottle in it. After ten minutes, you find that the wine has cooled nicely and now tastes as you expected. and hungry after a long, hot, sunny day, and you have decided to go to your local Italian restaurant for some comfort food, such as lasagne or ravioli. In spite of the open windows, the restaurant is hot from all of the people and the continual cooking. You order some of the restaurant's decent and reasonably priced red wine to go with their excellent food. The bottle is opened, but the wine is warm, and it tastes rather limp. You boldly ask the waiter for a bucket of water and ice, and partially submerge the bottle in it. After ten minutes, you find that the wine has cooled nicely and now tastes as you expected.

Hugh Johnson, in the inside cover of his annual Pocket Wine Book Pocket Wine Book, has a chart of recommended drinking temperatures. The range for red wines is from 11C for Beaujolais (for an approximate Fahrenheit equivalent double the centigrade and add 30, so 11 for Beaujolais (for an approximate Fahrenheit equivalent double the centigrade and add 30, so 11C is 52 is 52F) to 64F for the best red Bordeaux and other top reds. For "standard daily reds," he recommends 5557 for the best red Bordeaux and other top reds. For "standard daily reds," he recommends 5557F. The Italian restaurant stores the wine on shelves that can be seen by the diners, and thus your bottle has reached a temperature of, say, 81F: the wisdom of the ice bucket is confirmed.

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Go back a hundred years and imagine that it is wintertime. Some wine-drinking gentlefolk have the butler bring up a bottle of their best claret from the cellar, which has a temperature of about 50F. They may be well off, but keeping their high-ceilinged dining room much above 64F is well nigh impossible. Consequently, they have the bottle opened and left in the dining room for several hours to allow it to warm to the right temperature. In the summer, when the dining room is rather warmer and the cellar may be at 59 is well nigh impossible. Consequently, they have the bottle opened and left in the dining room for several hours to allow it to warm to the right temperature. In the summer, when the dining room is rather warmer and the cellar may be at 59F, they will not have to wait as long before the wine is at the perfect temperature-that is, winter room temperature-to be best appreciated.

Nowadays, most wine drinkers lack both cellar and servant, but they do have central heating. Winter or summer, if they leave the wine around the house or, worst of all, just keep it in the kitchen, they will regularly be drinking red wine at a temperature that unbalances the flavors. The idea that wine ought to be drunk at room temperature or chambre chambre is no longer a good one. Room temperature has outpaced the traditional advice, and too many wine drinkers fail to store the wine in a cool environment in the first place. is no longer a good one. Room temperature has outpaced the traditional advice, and too many wine drinkers fail to store the wine in a cool environment in the first place.

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So, in the absence of any cool storage for your red wine, you need to do the opposite of what the gentlefolk of 1908 did, which is to cool it. If you haven't got any ice handy, you can use the refrigerator: it is not as fast as the bucket of water and ice, but it works. Your fridge is at about 44F, and it takes about one hour and forty-five minutes for a bottle of wine to split the difference of temperature when moved from one place to another (this conclusion is the result of original research first revealed here). So if the house is at 70F and you are drinking a "standard daily red," one hour and forty-five minutes in the fridge will bring it to the correct temperature (57 and you are drinking a "standard daily red," one hour and forty-five minutes in the fridge will bring it to the correct temperature (57F) for pleasurable drinking.

Why do we drink white burgundy too cold?

LET'S SAY that you've decided to have a roast chicken for dinner, but you're not in the mood for a good claret; you settle on a nice white burgundy or California chardonnay instead. A few minutes before you take the chicken out of the oven, you take the burgundy out of the fridge. It is delicious, and goes very well with the chicken. After dinner, you cork the bottle and leave it on the table, intending to return it to the fridge before going to bed. However, at that point, you decide to pour yourself another gla.s.s. To your delight, it is even better: as it has warmed up, it has developed, and aromas and flavors you had failed to notice before now suffuse your nose and mouth. that you've decided to have a roast chicken for dinner, but you're not in the mood for a good claret; you settle on a nice white burgundy or California chardonnay instead. A few minutes before you take the chicken out of the oven, you take the burgundy out of the fridge. It is delicious, and goes very well with the chicken. After dinner, you cork the bottle and leave it on the table, intending to return it to the fridge before going to bed. However, at that point, you decide to pour yourself another gla.s.s. To your delight, it is even better: as it has warmed up, it has developed, and aromas and flavors you had failed to notice before now suffuse your nose and mouth.

Most people drink white burgundy too cold because they probably haven't noted the advice of the great and good wine experts, and even if they have, it's just as difficult in a modern environment to avoid drinking white burgundy too cold as to avoid drinking red wine too hot. The British wine writers Oz Clarke, Hugh Johnson, and Jancis Robinson all agree that a complex wine such as a white burgundy should be drunk much warmer than other white wines. Johnson's recommendation is 57 to 59F, actually a little warmer than his recommendation for "standard daily reds."

Most people don't have cellars, so they tend to keep white wines in the refrigerator. For most whites the temperature of the refrigerator (44F) is closer to the best drinking temperature than is the temperature of the house-but for white burgundy or most reds, neither the refrigerator nor the house is much good. The temperature of a modern house is probably 70F in the winter, thanks to central heating, and hotter in the kitchen and in the summer. If the house is indeed at 70 in the winter, thanks to central heating, and hotter in the kitchen and in the summer. If the house is indeed at 70F and the refrigerator at 44 and the refrigerator at 44F, then keep the burgundy in the refrigerator, taking it out and leaving it out in the house for about one hour and forty-five minutes before drinking it; alternatively, leave it in the house and put it in the refrigerator for the same amount of time. Either way, the wine will have got to about 57F. And in a restaurant, don't leave the white burgundy in the ice bucket for too long.

Alas, getting the temperature right won't help if the white burgundy is oxidized. But if it is in good condition and also served at the right temperature, bliss.

What does the Six-Day War have to do with wine?

WHAT A CAPRICIOUS lot we are; how quickly fashions change. A little over a hundred years after Cicero's comment suggesting that old wines tend to go sour, along comes the Gospel of Luke, declaring (in lot we are; how quickly fashions change. A little over a hundred years after Cicero's comment suggesting that old wines tend to go sour, along comes the Gospel of Luke, declaring (in chapter 5 chapter 5, verse 39) that "no man having drunk old wine immediately desireth new: for he saith, The old is better."

Of course, we don't know what the author of Luke meant by "old" and "new" wine. What we do do know is that viticulture was known in Palestine, Judea, or Israel (or whatever the land was called at any particular time) at least a thousand, and possibly two thousand, years before Luke: the Book of Deuteronomy (chapter 8, verse 8) specifically praises the vine, and the Song of Solomon begins with an erotic linking of love and wine: "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine." And Noah got drunk on wine, which led to a know is that viticulture was known in Palestine, Judea, or Israel (or whatever the land was called at any particular time) at least a thousand, and possibly two thousand, years before Luke: the Book of Deuteronomy (chapter 8, verse 8) specifically praises the vine, and the Song of Solomon begins with an erotic linking of love and wine: "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine." And Noah got drunk on wine, which led to a lot lot of trouble. of trouble.

But in modern times, the wines of Israel have had-at least from the wine lover's point of view-a patchy time of it, not least because of the Jewish dietary laws. The principles of kashrut kashrut, which set out which foods are forbidden because they are "unclean" (the rules derive mainly from the Book of Leviticus and serve as the laws of the Temple priests, described by one rabbi of our acquaintance as "instructions for the greatest barbecue in the history of civilization"), would at first sight not seem to apply to wine. But what anthropologists are keen on calling "foodways" are intricate and fundamental to a culture. In the old triad: "I eat normally, you are picky, they are fanatics."

Wherever you stand on kashrut kashrut, the rules are, to say the least, interesting. Wine cannot be kosher if it might have been "poured out to an idol." Wine that has been boiled cannot be used for idolatry, so it remains kosher even if it has been touched by an "idolator." Wine cannot be kosher if it has been touched by someone who believes in idolatry, or if it has been produced by Gentiles. And there are a number of prohibitions about "mingling"-nothing really to do with wine, but designed to prevent Jews and non-Jews mixing together in, shall we say, too relaxed a fashion, which might lead to intermarriage.

All this is taken very seriously by frum frum-highly devout, Orthodox-Jews. And it might be said not to have had the best effect on Israeli winemaking. For a start, the mevushal mevushal, or boiled, wines really never stood a chance. Cooking the wine ruins it, as anyone who has tried microwaving a bottle and overshot the mark will have discovered. The result is thin, feeble, purplish stuff not really fit for drinking. Some winemakers now use flash pasteurization and a.s.sert that this does not harm the wines and may even improve them, but the main reason for doing it is so that your Catholic waiter can draw the cork and pour your wine without it ceasing to be kosher.

The supply of kosher wines was for many years effectively monopolized by the Israeli drinks giant Carmel. As New York Times New York Times wine writer Howard G. Goldberg put it: "Its merchandising in the American-Jewish market had long coasted on a mishmash of Zionism, economic and political and social support for Israel, sentimentality, generations of brand familiarity, Pa.s.sover seder requirements and similarity to sweet Manischewitz. Quality? Forget it." wine writer Howard G. Goldberg put it: "Its merchandising in the American-Jewish market had long coasted on a mishmash of Zionism, economic and political and social support for Israel, sentimentality, generations of brand familiarity, Pa.s.sover seder requirements and similarity to sweet Manischewitz. Quality? Forget it."

But the Six-Day War in 1967, which resulted in Israel capturing the Golan Heights, and the Yom Kippur War of 1973, which secured its position, marked a change in Israeli winemaking, which moved, figuratively and literally, upward. The Heights proved perfect for viticulture, and the modern Israeli wines started to appear. Now, with the expertise of winemakers who learned their craft in France, Australia, and the United States, the Heights are producing some international-cla.s.s wines, and the Galil Mountain winery, for example, is producing over a million bottles a year.

Foodways, religions, wars, and wine: once again, we see at least a glimpse of the unexpected interconnectedness of things.

"Wine diamonds": what are they, and are they dangerous?

IN THE OLDEN DAYS, say forty years ago, most white-wine drinkers expected to find crystals left as a deposit in wine. These crystals (usually pota.s.sium hydrogen tartrate) mostly stick to the gla.s.s and thus are not swallowed; even if they were swallowed, it would not matter in the least, because they are harmless, if a bit crunchy. However, younger wine drinkers can, naturally, fear that their presence is a fault in the wine. Indeed, many producers nowadays go to considerable lengths, possibly losing quality in other respects, to avoid crystals. Those who do not try to avoid crystals instead have renamed them: as one German label reads, "This wine contains Wine Diamonds, which are an entirely natural deposit." Another highly respected German producer is more blunt: " say forty years ago, most white-wine drinkers expected to find crystals left as a deposit in wine. These crystals (usually pota.s.sium hydrogen tartrate) mostly stick to the gla.s.s and thus are not swallowed; even if they were swallowed, it would not matter in the least, because they are harmless, if a bit crunchy. However, younger wine drinkers can, naturally, fear that their presence is a fault in the wine. Indeed, many producers nowadays go to considerable lengths, possibly losing quality in other respects, to avoid crystals. Those who do not try to avoid crystals instead have renamed them: as one German label reads, "This wine contains Wine Diamonds, which are an entirely natural deposit." Another highly respected German producer is more blunt: "Mit zunehmender Flaschenreife kann Weinstein ausgeschieden werden. Es sind Salze der Weinsaure, die in keiner Weise den Geschmack beeintrachtigen. Ein Grund zur Reklamation bzw. Ruckgabe des Weines ist somit nicht gegeben." In English: "With increasing bottle age, pota.s.sium hydrogen tartrate can separate out ... [which] in no way impairs the taste. This is no reason for complaining or expecting your money back."

What links Papuan pigs, peac.o.c.ks, and Petrus?

THERE IS ALWAYS a a vin du jour vin du jour, just as there is always a plat du jour plat du jour, the difference being that the former is most clearly distinguished by its price. Currently, it's Petrus: unarguably one of the great Pomerols, it has nevertheless acquired a bit of a name for itself as the choice of the sort of people we hate in restaurants (unless we are restaurateurs, in which case they are the sort of people we love).

The stories come round regularly of slicked-back roaring derivatives traders running up five-figure bills as they knock back the stuff at $10,000 a bottle, bellowing with excitement and hubris as they try to outdo each other. Unlike some Chinese newcomers to the Bordeaux grands crus grands crus, these young men (for so they usually are-time travelers from the 1987 film Wall Street Wall Street in att.i.tude if not in dress) seldom if ever soften the edges with a mea sure of Sprite or Coca-Cola. But all the same, in the majority of cases it's fair to say that the people at that table over there who are ruining your evening aren't drinking Petrus. They aren't even drinking wine. in att.i.tude if not in dress) seldom if ever soften the edges with a mea sure of Sprite or Coca-Cola. But all the same, in the majority of cases it's fair to say that the people at that table over there who are ruining your evening aren't drinking Petrus. They aren't even drinking wine.

They are drinking money.

The whole purpose of the process is to display their excess of wealth. It's an evolutionary strategy for reproduction that finds its corollary in the peac.o.c.k's tail: an unnecessary and, frankly, burdensome piece of flashiness that exists purely as a declaration that the owner can afford it.

The traders might also be surprised to learn that they are reenacting a timeless ritual that elsewhere is performed with pigs. In the Moka ceremonies of Papua New Guinea, the "big men" vie for status and power by making, and receiving, gifts of ever finer and fatter pigs. The same principle is at work in the Kula and Sepic Coast exchanges of Papua New Guinea and, perhaps most famous, the potlatch ceremonies of many Pacific Northwest tribes, including, most euphoniously, the Nuu-chah-nulth and the Kwakwaka'wakw, although the word potlach potlach itself comes from the Chinook. itself comes from the Chinook.

The crucial thing about potlatch is that status is determined not by what you have but by what you give away. And even though missionaries tried to stop the Native Americans from holding potlatch ceremonies (which were apparently the biggest impediment to making decent Christians out of peoples who regarded themselves as perfectly decent anyway), the practice, once you get your eye in, can be seen all over the world in some strange guises. Admire a Gulf princeling's wrist.w.a.tch and he will give it to you. Admire a man's wife in an "alternative lifestyle" community-Cap d'Agde in southwestern France, so they say, or those strange conventions that tend to pop up in Las Vegas-and he will invite you to take her upstairs. Stories abound of tribes (usually unspecified) among whom potlatch is taken even further: admire, say, an intricate, priceless ancestral carpet and the owner will shrug, murmur, "What, this old thing?" roll it up, and hurl it on the fire, which presumably is kept blazing for just such an occasion.

In the West, though, we are more circ.u.mspect. Gifts of great value tend to be given only to those from whom the giver has at least a sporting chance of getting them back. And a Russian oligarch whose wife is weighed down with glittering jewelry might be said not to be practicing potlatch at all: he is not distributing his wealth but displaying it. There's all the difference in the world.

But when it comes to things that are by their very nature evanescent-who would drink that $10,000 Petrus two days after the cork was drawn?-Western culture is more liberal in its potlatch ceremonials. To give your guests a fine claret or a perfect Yquem is considered a compliment to them, and a reflection of the host's standing. There is still the problem of price-what if your guests don't know how much that bottle of La Tache cost you?-and so those who are anxious that the full ceremonies be observed do so either outside the home, in a restaurant where everyone can see the wine list (or at least the bill), or with something whose price is all too well known.

And it is this position that Petrus occupies. There can be few, even the dedicated beer drinker with the palate of a vulture, who do not know that Petrus is very pricey, and forms an opinion of their host accordingly.

Not that it always works: a cartoon in Punch Punch by the late Michael ffolkes showed a peac.o.c.k in full glorious display saying bemusedly to a drab and unimpressed peahen: "What do you mean, 'no'?" by the late Michael ffolkes showed a peac.o.c.k in full glorious display saying bemusedly to a drab and unimpressed peahen: "What do you mean, 'no'?"

Particularly now that the more raucous Petrus drinkers have been shown up as the very people who have, temporarily at least, brought the United States and satellite economies into the mire, we might suspect that, as with peac.o.c.ks, so with men....

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Is the new Beaujolais in yet?

IN 1977 Mike Leigh's brilliant play Mike Leigh's brilliant play Abigail's Party Abigail's Party presaged the British wholehearted embracing of upward mobility and conspicuous aspirational materialism. And wine, of course, played its part. Even more than thirty years on, the unspeakable Beverly (played in the original TV production by Alison Steadman, who managed to look like a frantic trucker in drag) continues to arouse knowing and derisive laughter from the posh part of the audience when, given a bottle of wine by the frozen, thrifty Ange, she looks at the label, cries, presaged the British wholehearted embracing of upward mobility and conspicuous aspirational materialism. And wine, of course, played its part. Even more than thirty years on, the unspeakable Beverly (played in the original TV production by Alison Steadman, who managed to look like a frantic trucker in drag) continues to arouse knowing and derisive laughter from the posh part of the audience when, given a bottle of wine by the frozen, thrifty Ange, she looks at the label, cries, "Ooo "Ooo, nice, Beaujolais, I'll just pop it in the fridge, okay?"

How we laugh. Red wine? In the fridge? In the fridge? Honestly. These people. How embarra.s.sing. Honestly. These people. How embarra.s.sing.

Beaujolais itself was, in the late 1970s, a little suspicious. In 1972 a Sunday Times Sunday Times journalist, Allan Hall, had issued a challenge to readers. The idea of the Beaujolais nouveau (or journalist, Allan Hall, had issued a challenge to readers. The idea of the Beaujolais nouveau (or primeur) primeur) was originally a sort of local knees-up to mark the end of the harvest and to drink the was originally a sort of local knees-up to mark the end of the harvest and to drink the vin de l'annee vin de l'annee, the first of the new wine. It was decided in 1938 that the new wine could only be sold sold after December 15, but the restrictions were countermanded by the Beaujolais growers' union, the UIVB (Union Interprofessionelle des vins du Beaujolais), in 1951, who cannily put a formal date on the release of the new wine (which, since 1985, has been fixed as the third Thursday in November), so making it a special occasion of sorts. after December 15, but the restrictions were countermanded by the Beaujolais growers' union, the UIVB (Union Interprofessionelle des vins du Beaujolais), in 1951, who cannily put a formal date on the release of the new wine (which, since 1985, has been fixed as the third Thursday in November), so making it a special occasion of sorts.

Allan Hall's challenge was simple: who could be the first to bring back bottles of the nouveau to Britain?

He wasn't the first to have the idea-that slightly dubious honor must go to Georges Duboeuf, the negociant negociant, who had established the idea of a race to Paris with the new wine-but Hall brought it to Britain, where it was enthusiastically taken up, despite the fact that nine times out of ten the vin de l'annee vin de l'annee was not really worth drinking. People competed in cars, on trains and motorcycles, and by light aircraft and helicopter, and every wine bar worth its salt was hung with tricolor bunting and the phrase " was not really worth drinking. People competed in cars, on trains and motorcycles, and by light aircraft and helicopter, and every wine bar worth its salt was hung with tricolor bunting and the phrase "Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrive!" By the 1990s, the Beaujolais race had spread across Europe, to America and into Asia, and in due course the American market had its way and the slogan changed to "It's Beaujolais Nouveau Time!"

All very clever-particularly for the American industry, which heavily promoted the wine for Thanksgiving, which, by luck or by providence, falls precisely a week later.

So all in all, the sales of Beaujolais rose and the reputation of Beaujolais fell.

But times change and tastes change and, back at Abigail's Party Abigail's Party, the hoots of laughter at her gaffe about the fridge now inspire superior smiles from the even posher part of the audience who regard themselves as the real real cognoscenti. For the fashion now-and with a young Beaujolais, fruity and low in tannin, it's a thoroughly good fashion for once-is to drink it lightly chilled. cognoscenti. For the fashion now-and with a young Beaujolais, fruity and low in tannin, it's a thoroughly good fashion for once-is to drink it lightly chilled.

As a footnote, at one point in the play the terrible Ange suggests, as a "very economical" dish, sardine curry. It's not an idea to dwell on, but when we wonder what goes nicely with a curry we might indulge in some 1970s nostalgia and imagine a plate of curried canned sardines with a nice new Beaujolais straight from the fridge.

Or not.

A gla.s.s of cryogenic wine, anyone?

LET'S SAY you're in Germany on business and you want to impress your colleagues with your familiarity with a wine list as well as with the depth of your pockets. Order a bottle of Eiswein. It is unbelievably sweet-some Germans put a drop or two of cognac on the top just to cut the sweetness, which seems somehow to miss the point-and stunningly expensive. Eiswein-literally, "ice wine"-is made from grapes that have frozen as hard as marbles in temperatures of at least 18 you're in Germany on business and you want to impress your colleagues with your familiarity with a wine list as well as with the depth of your pockets. Order a bottle of Eiswein. It is unbelievably sweet-some Germans put a drop or two of cognac on the top just to cut the sweetness, which seems somehow to miss the point-and stunningly expensive. Eiswein-literally, "ice wine"-is made from grapes that have frozen as hard as marbles in temperatures of at least 18F. In Germany, on the first November or December day when this temperature is reached, pickers stumble out into the dark and, between 5 A.M. A.M. and 8 and 8 A.M., A.M., pick the grapes, which are then taken straight to the winery and pressed. The water has frozen out as pure ice, so the acidity, sugar, and flavors are concentrated in the remaining liquid. When the juice runs, the ice crystals are left behind in the press. Riesling Eiswein, a mouthful of which is a celebration of fragrant sweetness and racy acidity, commands a phenomenal price. pick the grapes, which are then taken straight to the winery and pressed. The water has frozen out as pure ice, so the acidity, sugar, and flavors are concentrated in the remaining liquid. When the juice runs, the ice crystals are left behind in the press. Riesling Eiswein, a mouthful of which is a celebration of fragrant sweetness and racy acidity, commands a phenomenal price.

But Germany is not the only country that has both grapes and frost. Strong compet.i.tion for Eiswein comes from Canadian Icewine. Canada has a real advantage over Germany. German winemakers are not guaranteed such cold weather, while in Ontario, 18F in winter is normal. The Canadians wrap themselves up in parkas and fur hats, head out to the vineyards, and pick the grapes while kneeling in the snow. Because winter in Canada is pretty predictable, the cost of Icewine is rather less than that of Eiswein. This matters, but it is also the case that, although the mode of making the two wines is similar, the results are very different. While Eiswein is sweetness with a streak of acidity, Icewine, with higher sugar levels at harvest time, is higher in alcohol and a marvel of opulent, honeyed sweetness. in winter is normal. The Canadians wrap themselves up in parkas and fur hats, head out to the vineyards, and pick the grapes while kneeling in the snow. Because winter in Canada is pretty predictable, the cost of Icewine is rather less than that of Eiswein. This matters, but it is also the case that, although the mode of making the two wines is similar, the results are very different. While Eiswein is sweetness with a streak of acidity, Icewine, with higher sugar levels at harvest time, is higher in alcohol and a marvel of opulent, honeyed sweetness.

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Of course, what you are really paying for is rarity. In Canada, the right natural conditions are more common than in Germany. However, a freezer operating at the right temperature will achieve exactly the same effect. So there is another choice: the use of cryoextraction to artificially produce the same type of wine-though not with the same rarity. Freshly picked grapes are frozen overnight in a special cold room and then pressed immediately. (The colder the room, the more concentrated the juice, but the smaller the volume. Therefore, the winemaker can create what he wants at the retail price he wants.) In England, where the right natural natural conditions are hardly ever likely to prevail, one wine-maker uses freezing to produce what he calls "cryogenic wine." Since the early 1980s this technique has been used increasingly in Sauternes, even by the most notable producers. The 1987 weather in Sauternes was so wet that many estates marketed no wine at all; those who did may have saved their wine by a little freezing. You could be tempted to look on a bottle of 1987 Sauternes with a speculative eye. conditions are hardly ever likely to prevail, one wine-maker uses freezing to produce what he calls "cryogenic wine." Since the early 1980s this technique has been used increasingly in Sauternes, even by the most notable producers. The 1987 weather in Sauternes was so wet that many estates marketed no wine at all; those who did may have saved their wine by a little freezing. You could be tempted to look on a bottle of 1987 Sauternes with a speculative eye.

Ceremonials: why did Alcibiades arrive drunk?

FOR ONE OF THE foundation stories of Western thinking, Plato's foundation stories of Western thinking, Plato's Symposium Symposium begins in an alarmingly confusing way. Written around 385 begins in an alarmingly confusing way. Written around 385 BC BC, it tells the story of a dinner party and, more important, of a long discussion by the guests on that most enduring of topics, the nature of love. But it is not narrated by Plato himself: the story is told by one Apollodorus (literally, "G.o.d's gift"), yet even he doesn't tell it straight. Apollodorus tells us that he was asked about this party "the day before yesterday" by one Glaucon, who thought it had just happened. "Not at all," says Apollodorus; "it was when we were children, and I was told about it by Aristodemus, who said he was there, and I asked Socrates about it, too, and he agreed with what Aristodemus said, so since I already told Glaucon about it, now I'll tell you ..."

There can be few more irritatingly oblique ways of starting a story, and one might suspect that, before sitting down to write, Plato himself had been at the Chian. But he pretty soon gets a grip on himself and begins his tale.

The discussions of love run smoothly enough until, well into the party, their debate is interrupted by a roaring and shouting in the courtyard. It is the rugged and heroic Alcibiades, reputedly the most handsome man in Athens (and with whom Socrates is madly in love; this was cla.s.sical Greece, after all), who has arrived with a (euphemistically named) flute girl and a group of friends. They are all pickled. Alcibiades can barely walk and is wreathed in ivy, violets, and ribbons. Announcing himself as "drunk, utterly sozzled," Alcibiades is invited in, settles down next to Socrates (with whom he exchanges insults and suggestive and slightly arch promises), and demands more drink. Everyone else is still sober, he declares, and that's not fair. "Until you are in adequate drinking order," he says, "I appoint myself as symposiarch symposiarch." He calls for a big cup, then changes his mind and demands the wine cooler, which holds more than half a gallon, and drains it dry. Then he tells them to fill it up for Socrates, "not that it will have any effect on him. He can drink any amount without getting drunk."

This all unpacks rather nicely. Given what we think we know about the ancient Greek symposium-literally, a "drinking party"-we might a.s.sume that any not entirely sober-minded person would take care to build up a head of steam before arriving. The proceedings seem, initially at least, pretty strait-laced, verging on the stupefyingly dull. Like so many aspects of life in ancient Athens, the drinking party was, theoretically at least, as highly ritualized and rigidly organized as any Rotary Club dinner.

We know a reasonable amount about what they actually drank. They preferred a degree of sweetness in their wine but didn't attach so much value to its age (perhaps because of cellaring problems; a few hundred years later, the Roman Cicero wrote that "just like wine, so not all men turn sour with old age," suggesting that an old wine was not necessarily a good wine). The best wines were said to come from the islands, especially Chios, Thasos, Lesbos, and Cos. Chian wine could be dry, medium, or sweet, but it was generally white and light-bodied, and much favored in Athens. It might or might not be resinated, and it could be very expensive. Thasian wine was noted for its fragrance, with a hint of apples. It was usually red or even black; in Thasos itself it might be sweetened with honey. Coan was white and strongly flavored with seawater; Lesbian wine also had a flavor of the sea but was not mixed with seawater. Some of it was on the light side, but Lesbos also produced one of the greatest wines of the Greek world, Pramnian. This was rather like Tokaji Essence today, made from the syrup oozing from the grapes under their own weight, before the grapes were pressed.

To choose the wine, a symposiarch symposiarch, or master of ceremonies, was appointed in advance. The symposiarch decided what wine would be drunk (Thasian, Chian, Lesbian, or whatever suited his taste), to what degree it would be diluted with water, and whether that water would be fresh or seawater, a very strange idea to our tastes. He would also decide upon the topic of conversation, and who would speak when. Imagine listening to a man in a beard explaining that tonight "we shall consume a rather, em, agreeable agreeable wine from the Isle of Cos, diluted in, um, a ratio of, I suggest, er, two parts seawater, three parts freshwater, and two parts of wine, except for the after-dinner libation to Agathos Daimon, of course, ha ha. Then the conversation will be upon, ahem, wine from the Isle of Cos, diluted in, um, a ratio of, I suggest, er, two parts seawater, three parts freshwater, and two parts of wine, except for the after-dinner libation to Agathos Daimon, of course, ha ha. Then the conversation will be upon, ahem, s.e.x s.e.x ..." ..."

And after that there would be the songs, and then the flute girls, and the hetaerae hetaerae (a sort of courtesan-c.u.m-geisha). It is all too easy to imagine the weary guest thinking, "Merciful heavens, do we (a sort of courtesan-c.u.m-geisha). It is all too easy to imagine the weary guest thinking, "Merciful heavens, do we have have to have the flute girls ...?" to have the flute girls ...?"

One way of dealing with it was, as Alcibiades worked out, to stoke up before you arrived. But the ritual and particularly the dilution of the wine (the libation was the only point where neat wine pa.s.sed the lips) were all part of the Athenians' golden rule that the worst thing a man could do was lose control lose control. Remaining in command was the vital thing for these people: in command of the body, in command of the thoughts, in command of one's speech, in command-as much as was compatible with the caprices of the G.o.ds-of one's destiny (though not, perhaps, quite as much in command of one's house hold as one might wish, as witnessed by many Greek comedies, above all the Lysistrata Lysistrata of Aristophanes, in which the women go on a s.e.x strike until their husbands agree to stop waging war all the time). of Aristophanes, in which the women go on a s.e.x strike until their husbands agree to stop waging war all the time).

In particular, the Greeks disliked Mothon, the goblin-spirit of drunkenness (and b.e.s.t.i.a.lity), and believed that only barbarians-like the Scythians and Thracians-drank their wine neat. Hence the dilution of the wine. Even half-and-half with water was considered risky, and the preferred dilution was five parts water to two parts wine. As we all know, it's perfectly possible to get drunk on watered wine; you simply have to drink more. But dilution certainly shows the intention intention of controlling one's drinking, and hence oneself. of controlling one's drinking, and hence oneself.

Yet it was not infallible. James Davidson, in his scholarly and wonderfully entertaining study of the ancient Greeks' appet.i.tes, Courtesans and Fishcakes Courtesans and Fishcakes, recounts "a bizarre story told by Timaeus of Taormina" (now a popular Sicilian tourist resort: "Book your Charme Accommodation and enjoy the Sun of Taormina!" announces the Web site) that "ill.u.s.trates graphically the sense of separation between the world within and the world without the drinking-party": In Agrigentum there is a house called "the trireme" for the following reason. Some young men were getting drunk in it, and became feverish with intoxication, off their heads to such an extent that they supposed they were in a trireme, sailing through a dangerous tempest; they became so befuddled as to throw all the furniture and fittings out of the house as though at sea, thinking that the pi lot had told them to lighten the ship because of the storm. A great many people, meanwhile, were gathering at the scene and started to carry off the discarded property, but even then the youths did not pause from their lunacy. On the following day, the generals turned up at the house, and charges were brought against them. Still sea-sick, they answered to the officials' questioning that in their anxiety over the storm they had been compelled to jettison their superfluous cargo by throwing it into the sea.

"Still sea-sick" is rather splendid, but the most telling words are these: young men young men. As generation after generation has found out in the two and a half thousand years since, you can regulate, ritualize, formalize, and even legislate as much as you like. (For the ancient Greeks-as for most of Europe now-eighteen was the age at which Plato suggested you could start to drink. Unlike most of Europe now, he also said that once you were over forty, and therefore old old, you could summon up Dionysos and go for it.) But then, as now, throw young men into the mix, and it can all go quickly overboard.

Did the 1855 Bordeaux cla.s.sification have anything to do with quality?

THIS HANDY setting-out in categories of the so-called best wines of the left bank of the rivers Gironde and Garonne has an apparently unbreakable hold on the throat of the wine trade and of the more affluent consumer. It must be said at the outset that any relationship between this cla.s.sification and quality was indirect. In 1855, Prince Napoleon-Jerome, organizer of the Emperor Napoleon III's 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris, asked the Bordeaux Chamber of Commerce for a comprehensive exhibition of the wines of the Gironde, to be arranged by category. It was based on the red wines of the Medoc and on the sweet white wines of Sauternes-Barsac. St. Emilion's cla.s.sification had to wait until 1955 and that of the Graves until 1953 (reds) and 1959 (whites), while Pomerol still awaits its equivalent measured consideration. setting-out in categories of the so-called best wines of the left bank of the rivers Gironde and Garonne has an apparently unbreakable hold on the throat of the wine trade and of the more affluent consumer. It must be said at the outset that any relationship between this cla.s.sification and quality was indirect. In 1855, Prince Napoleon-Jerome, organizer of the Emperor Napoleon III's 1855 Exposition Universelle in Paris, asked the Bordeaux Chamber of Commerce for a comprehensive exhibition of the wines of the Gironde, to be arranged by category. It was based on the red wines of the Medoc and on the sweet white wines of Sauternes-Barsac. St. Emilion's cla.s.sification had to wait until 1955 and that of the Graves until 1953 (reds) and 1959 (whites), while Pomerol still awaits its equivalent measured consideration.

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The task was eagerly undertaken by brokers (courtiers) (courtiers), who were considerably more interested in the commercial possibilities arising from the exhibition than in anything else, although they were also keen to impose some order on a chaotic market. Their approach was, first, to list sixty of the leading chateaux of the Medoc plus the great wine of the Graves, Haut-Brion, categorizing them as premiers, deuxiemes, troisiemes, quatriemes premiers, deuxiemes, troisiemes, quatriemes, and cinquiemes crus cinquiemes crus (growths), and, second, to list the best sweet white wines of Sauternes and Barsac in two categories, (growths), and, second, to list the best sweet white wines of Sauternes and Barsac in two categories, premiers premiers and and deuxiemes crus deuxiemes crus, with Chateau d'Yquem on a pinnacle of its own as premier cru superieur premier cru superieur. But they did nothing so unnecessary as to taste the wines in order to put each in its rightful place. Rather, they listed the wines in descending order according to the prices they fetched in the market, a.s.suming that the prices reflected the relative quality of the wines. There had been earlier cla.s.sifications of quality, a rough one in 1647 and another in 1767, and these provided a context. They also paid some attention to lists compiled by well-known connoisseurs such as Thomas Jefferson and the respectively English and Scottish connoisseurs and writers Cyrus Redding and Dr. Alexander Henderson. The list was then issued through the Chamber of Commerce.

The list is undeniably useful to wine merchants and for those wine buyers unable to taste before buying-that is, most of them-but it has significant flaws. First of all, it seems to be virtually immutable, with only one new entrant into the cla.s.sification of premier cru premier cru, Mouton-Rothschild in 1973. This also means that chateaux whose quality demands that they should be elevated to a higher cla.s.sification, those whose depressing level of quality should cause them to be thrown out, and those wines cla.s.sified cru bourgeois cru bourgeois whose quality should admit them to the system are frozen in the positions they held when the dance ended in 1855. Second, the wines around Margaux were the focus of the brokers, while those situated further north, particularly those around St. Estephe, were largely disregarded. This was overwhelmingly because the lack of a railway to the northern Medoc meant that transport costs to the city of Bordeaux were high. And third, the mergers, acquisitions, and breakups affecting virtually all of the estates over the past century and a half mean that the fundamental basis of the cla.s.sification-that of a wine produced from the grapes grown on land belonging to a named estate-is, at the least, muddied. The whole situation supports the theory that the human quest for certainty is stronger than the desire for a more truthful ambiguity. whose quality should admit them to the system are frozen in the positions they held when the dance ended in 1855. Second, the wines around Margaux were the focus of the brokers, while those situated further north, particularly those around St. Estephe, were largely disregarded. This was overwhelmingly because the lack of a railway to the northern Medoc meant that transport costs to the city of Bordeaux were high. And third, the mergers, acquisitions, and breakups affecting virtually all of the estates over the past century and a half mean that the fundamental basis of the cla.s.sification-that of a wine produced from the grapes grown on land belonging to a named estate-is, at the least, muddied. The whole situation supports the theory that the human quest for certainty is stronger than the desire for a more truthful ambiguity.

Have some madeira, m'dear?

She was young, she was pure, she was new, she was nice She was fair, she was sweet seventeen He was old, he was vile, and no stranger to vice He was base, he was bad, he was mean So begins Flanders and Swann's great hymn to the evil seducer, which manages to entangle the innocent madeira in its toils, and not since Clarence drowned in his malmsey b.u.t.t has this harmless and indeed benevolent drink taken such a blow to its reputation. The innocent escapes in the end, but not before: Unaware of the wiles of the snake-in-the-gra.s.s And the fate of the maiden who topes She lowered her standards by raising her gla.s.s Her courage, her eyes and his hopes ...

How did madeira come to be linked with the wiles of elderly rakes, so that no man now could offer a girl a gla.s.s of it without hearing an admonitory voice whispering in his ear and feeling himself twirling an imaginary mustache?

Madeira is such an innocent drink, and for a very long time one that arrived at adulthood only after severe trials. Originally unfortified, it was found to suffer on the long sea journey from its home in the mid-Atlantic; in the second part of the seventeenth century, it became clear that madeira fortified with brandy was somehow improved during the voyage to India, in the ships of the East India Company, and became even better if it made the round trip back again, gaining the status of vinho da roda vinho da roda.

As North America expanded, a new market for madeira grew, to such a degree that by 1800 fully a quarter of all madeira was being sold there; the Declaration of Independence was sealed with a toast of madeira in 1776.

But history and biology dealt madeira some harsh blows. First powdery mildew and then the phylloxera louse almost obliterated the vineyards; production had hardly got back to normal when first the Russian Revolution struck in 1917 and then the Volstead Act of 1919 brought Prohibition to America. Madeira never recovered its position in the market, and now there are a mere handful of shippers.

The most-planted varietals used in madeira are the Tinta Negra Mole and the Complexa grapes, though the traditional Sercial, Bual, Malvasia (Malmsey), and Verdelho grapes, which produce far better-quality Madeira, are making something of a comeback. Modern methods of production-particularly versions of the estufa estufa system, which mimic the effect of the round-trip sea voyages that fell out of use in the early twentieth century-produce cheaper and medium-quality wines, while the best are still allowed to mature naturally in "lodges" for twenty years or more. system, which mimic the effect of the round-trip sea voyages that fell out of use in the early twentieth century-produce cheaper and medium-quality wines, while the best are still allowed to mature naturally in "lodges" for twenty years or more.

As the authors of the Oxford Companion to Wine Oxford Companion to Wine point out, "Madeira is probably the most robust wine in the world." There's practically nothing that can go wrong with it. Indeed, the opposite may even be true: the infamous monk, rake, and orgiast Rasputin, having eaten a plate of cakes, each containing enough cyanide to kill a normal man, was given a gla.s.s of even more heavily poisoned madeira; he sipped it like a connoisseur and demanded more, on account of a "slight irritation" in his throat; the second gla.s.s seemed to soothe him and he asked his poisoner, Prince Yusupoff, to sing to him. (It took another song, five shots through the heart with a revolver, and his head battered in with a lead-loaded cane before Rasputin finally expired. point out, "Madeira is probably the most robust wine in the world." There's practically nothing that can go wrong with it. Indeed, the opposite may even be true: the infamous monk, rake, and orgiast Rasputin, having eaten a plate of cakes, each containing enough cyanide to kill a normal man, was given a gla.s.s of even more heavily poisoned madeira; he sipped it like a connoisseur and demanded more, on account of a "slight irritation" in his throat; the second gla.s.s seemed to soothe him and he asked his poisoner, Prince Yusupoff, to sing to him. (It took another song, five shots through the heart with a revolver, and his head battered in with a lead-loaded cane before Rasputin finally expired. Do not try this at home Do not try this at home.) Whatever their powers in that case, it is certainly true that the best madeiras are almost immortal themselves and can age in the bottle almost indefinitely. And as a bonus, a bottle of good madeira can last for several months after opening, although we personally have never put it to the test; it seems rather pointless to just leave it there, as the reader will surely agree.

But therein lies our seducer's fatal error. "Eager to carve one more notch / On the b.u.t.t of his gold-headed cane," the cad declares that "once it is open you know it won't keep."

"It won't keep"? Feh. Exposed as a liar-to us, if not to the object of his evil l.u.s.ts-the roue is defeated. The innocent rushes away down the corridor, his words-"Have some madeira, m'dear"-echoing in her mind: Until the next morning, she woke up in bed With a smile on her lips and an ache in her head And a beard in her ear 'ole that tickled and said "Have some madeira, m'dear."

Did religion save the California wine industry?

FROM ITS VERY beginnings in the seventeenth century, the United States was a hard-drinking country. By the mid-nineteenth century, whether in the towns or out on the prairie, the drunkard stumbling out of the saloon and reeling down the street was a familiar sight. Sentimental poems about children asking their fathers to stop drinking and songs about drink, degradation, and death were widely popular, and slogans on the line of "Drink is the curse of the working man" became a driving theme of societies that were set up to combat the demon rum. Chapters of the Women's Christian Temperance Union (founded in 1874) and then the Anti-Saloon League (founded in 1895) sprang up around the country, encouraging individuals to "take the pledge" against drink and lobbying the state legislatures to pa.s.s laws turning a state from wet to dry. The various Protestant churches were strong allies of the movement. The goal evolved from temperance to abolition, and immediately after the First World War, this was accomplished: the Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Const.i.tution, known as the National Prohibition or Volstead Act, became law. Therefore, from January 16, 1920, until December 5, 1933, the commercial production and sale of "intoxicating liquors" was forbidden-and because the definition of an intoxicating liquor was one with an alcohol content of 0.5 percent or higher, wine was caught in the net. beginnings in the seventeenth century, the United States was a hard-drinking country. By the mid-nineteenth century, whether in the towns or out on the prairie, the drunkard stumbling out of the saloon and reeling down the street was a familiar sight. Sentimental poems about children asking their fathers to stop drinking and songs about drink, degradation, and death were widely popular, and slogans on the line of "Drink is the curse of the working man" became a driving theme of societies that were set up to combat the demon rum. Chapters of the Women's Christian Temperance Union (founded in 1874) and then the Anti-Saloon League (founded in 1895) sprang up around the country, encouraging individuals to "take the pledge" against drink and lobbying the state legislatures to pa.s.s laws turning a state from wet to dry. The various Protestant churches were strong allies of the movement. The goal evolved from temperance to abolition, and immediately after the First World War, this was accomplished: the Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Const.i.tution, known as the National Prohibition or Volstead Act, became law. Therefore, from January 16, 1920, until December 5, 1933, the commercial production and sale of "intoxicating liquors" was forbidden-and because the definition of an intoxicating liquor was one with an alcohol content of 0.5 percent or higher, wine was caught in the net.

It was the California wine industry, by far the largest in the country, that got hit in the stomach. There were about seven hundred wineries in the state and most of them soon closed down, with the winemakers receiving no compensation. Many of the wineries were simply broken up. The situation was not the same for growers, however, because not only did vineyards continue to be tilled, but the acreage doubled between 1919 and 1926. This curious anomaly can be explained by three loopholes in the law: the "fresh grape deal," sacramental wine, and medicinal wine. The first arose out of Section 29, which allowed the householder to make "nonintoxicating cider and fruit juices exclusively for use in his home" up to a limit of 200 gallons; because there was no explicit ban, it was interpreted as allowing home winemaking. Thousands of railway carloads of grapes headed east each year at vintage time to meet the demand, which came in particular from immigrant families living all over the country. Leon D. Adams in The Wines of America The Wines of America gives an account of American ingenuity in evading unpopular laws: packages of pressed grapes, called wine bricks, were shipped to these domestic winemakers, along with a yeast pill that the purchaser was advised not to use, "because if you do this, this will turn into wine, which would be illegal." The premium was on red grapes that could be shipped safely, with the result that plantings of Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir were pulled up and replaced with st.u.r.dier, if decidedly inferior, grape varieties such as Alicante Bouschet, Carignan, and Pet.i.te Sirah. Vineyards of first-cla.s.s white wine grapes virtually disappeared during the 1920s. In other words, bad grapes drove out good, as far as winemaking was concerned. gives an account of American ingenuity in evading unpopular laws: packages of pressed grapes, called wine bricks, were shipped to these domestic winemakers, along with a yeast pill that the purchaser was advised not to use, "because if you do this, this will turn into wine, which would be illegal." The premium was on red grapes that could be shipped safely, with the result that plantings of Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir were pulled up and replaced with st.u.r.dier, if decidedly inferior, grape varieties such as Alicante Bouschet, Carignan, and Pet.i.te Sirah. Vineyards of first-cla.s.s white wine grapes virtually disappeared during the 1920s. In other words, bad grapes drove out good, as far as winemaking was concerned.

The second loophole was the making of sacramental wine for both Christian and Jewish congregations for use in religious ceremonies. A number of Irish and Italian wineries had close relations with members of the Roman Catholic hierarchy, and they continued to make wine all through the period. But however many Christian priests and pastors of various sorts there were who required wine for holy communion, their numbers could not match those of rabbis. Again according to Adams, there was a remarkable revival of religious fervor during the 1920s: "The Jewish faith requires the religious use of wine in the home. Anybody could call himself a rabbi and get a permit to buy wine legally, merely by presenting a list of his congregation. Millions of all faiths and no faith became members of fake synagogues, some without their knowledge when the lists were copied from telephone directories."

The third loophole was medical. It was legal both to make and to sell wine for medicinal purposes, and there was an astonishing increase in illnesses that required treatment with, for example, Paul Ma.s.son's "Medicinal Champagne." Of course, brandy had been used for medicinal purposes for centuries, so the concept was not wholly alien.

The period of Prohibition saw a sharp increase in criminality, with the term bootlegger bootlegger, used to refer to someone who smuggles liquor and other alcoholic drinks, coming into wide use. Respect for the law appeared to be collapsing, and increasing numbers of Americans became fearful about the threat to the very nature and fabric of the United States. In the 1932 presidential election, a plank in the Democratic Party's platform called for the repeal of Prohibition, and with Democratic victory, the forces for repeal triumphed. The Twenty-first Amendment to the Const.i.tution repealed the Eighteenth, and from December 6, 1933, Prohibition was no more.

Most of the wineries in California, however, appear to have been caught off guard, and only a very few had stocks of decent wine on hand to sell to a thirsty public. Those that were rapidly reopened were very poorly equipped, with broken and rusty machinery and premises contaminated with disease. The wine made in these situations was, naturally, dire. This did not help sales. Indeed, of the 800 wineries that were reopened or newly established by 1934, only 212 were still in business four years later. Another difficulty with which wineries had to cope was a profound change in the style of wine that the majority wanted to drink. Before Prohibition, the preference had been for dry wine; thirteen years later, the situation was reversed, and by 1934, sweet wine, often fortified, outsold dry wine by three to one. This situation worsened considerably over the next several de cades, so California was producing, and Americans were drinking, (often bad) sweet wine rather than dry.

In short, Prohibition came very close to destroying the California wine industry. It drove away a half generation of young winemakers, who had to make a living in other ways. It took a generation or more to grub up the inferior vines and replace them with new plantings of cla.s.sic wine grapes. It destroyed a growing American taste for good wine, replacing it with a taste for bad, often sweet, wine: most Americans who drank wine at all during Prohibition drank only homemade wine of, at best, indifferent quality. The requirements of religious observation did indeed help to save enough of the industry to enable it to live and fight another day, but considering that organized religion had been a strong force behind the success of Prohibition in the first place, it seems only fair. The fact that religious observance appeared to require, or at least to accept, distinctly inferior sweet wine can only be regretted.