What I’m Drinking Tonight
Vintage-wise, I’ve lived a pretty charmed life. I graduated HS in 1982, took my University degree in 1986, and I got married in 1989. Those are simply the 3 finest wine years of the past century. Sadly, my parents lacked the knowledge at the time to properly commemorate (oh fine, I split the infinitive: “commemorate properly”. And to boldly go where no man has…) the first two events with a case or two of delightful treats, and I sadly lacked the depth-of-pocket to properly attend to the later event. But I have managed over the years to scrape and scrabble out a few bottles of my favorite chateau. Unfortunately from a wine standpoint, my daughter was born in 1993, which was an awful year everywhere. I don’t think she had anything to do with it.
Anyhow, what started me thinking along these lines was an article in Friday’s Wall Street Journal, where the folks who review the wine talked about coming across the bottle of 1989 Chateau Latour in their cellar and wondering “is it time?” I must confess the exact same thought occured to me over Christmas. I have a few bottles of Latour, and they’ve been with us for many years, from apartment to apartment to rented house to owned house, kept under the best conditions I could manage but conditions far from ideal, and I thought “should I…should I?”…and I didn’t. I haven’t. I couldn’t. It’s a strange love affair that we have with those special bottles. We remember where we bought them, how we’ve cared for them. We guard them like precious children, waiting for that special moment to open and enjoy them. Is this particular moment special enough? Do you know how much this bottle is worth! When will they be ‘perfect’? When is the right time? When it’s opened, it’s gone forever. There’s a finality there that stays the hand. Oh, the torments we put ourselves through! And there have been times when I waited too long, when years of excited expectation are lost in a powdered cork, in a flat, dead wine, in a sour vinagrette.
So the article made me think. By gum, I’m opening one tonight.
It’s close enough to my birthday, so that can be the reason. But the real reason is I love life. I love my wife. And I love wine. What the heck other reason do I need?
So I bought a big honking rib roast. I’m making a nice sage-accented side of new potatos and canelli beans. We’ll have a salad with a bleu-cheese vinagrette dressing.
And we’ll open this
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Update and bump below the fold
Well, I am quite pleased. When I first tasted it it had a sourish smell, but as it opened up during dinner it became quite nice. It still had a good deep ruby color, with no trace of the brick-red sign of over-the-hill-ness around the edges, and very smooth tannins with still some lovely fruit. Very impressive for a 20 year old wine that has been schlumped from closet to closet! Chateau Latour simply rocks.
Swill Food and Grog | Crusader | 
January 14, 2006 10:15 pm
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BASTARD !!
Well, this poor dear has had a rough childhood. I hope she has survived…
Bothered about splitting an infinitive? So you bought into that myth, eh?
It’s okay, kid. A lot of seemingly bright people have fallen for that lie.
I’m not bothered by it at all. But I had a PhD in English looking over my shoulder as I typed.
The Ph.D. bought into the lie? It’s sad, really.
It’s a job security issue, Ken.
I’ll pos pics of the food later. tright now i’m having a little trouble focusing,
damn fingers
Oh please: the rule against splitting infinitives was made up by Classics-obsessed late-19th-century Oxford Dons who wanted every language to work just like Latin. Um, huh? In Latin it’s IMPOSSIBLE to split an infinitive: it’s one word! Split infinitives are part of what makes English the richly different language it is, so split away.
As for the Latour, I’d best not contemplate that too much lest I boil myself in envy.
I had to look it up, as I had no idea what you pretentious English twit types were talking about.
Right on, Dave. And for those who worry about such things, the same weirdos invented the lie about ending sentences with prepositions.
“That is the sort of arrant pedantry up with which I shall not put.” — Winston Churchill