Two Men In a Car (A Businessman, a Chauffeur, and Their Holidays in France). Mike Buchanan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ my bag on the coach I had a copy of the weighty 5th edition of The World Atlas of Wine by Hugh Johnson and Jancis Robinson. I rifled through it and soon came to the section with serving temperature recommendations for a wide variety of wines. The ideal temperature for a Médoc wine is in the region of 14^oC – 18^oC. I couldn’t resist showing them the table whilst explaining generously that of course the wine would warm in the glass in a warm environment, and Italians in my experience liked their wines a little warmer. The couple read the text and table without a word and were markedly cool – ironically – towards Paul and myself for the remainder of the day.

      Château Lynch-Bages is a ‘fifth growth’ in the 1855 classification but for many years has been regarded more highly, and priced accordingly. It is situated in the southern half of the Pauillac commune, the region around the town of Pauillac. Three of the current four Premier Grand Cru estates are based in this commune, namely Château Latour, Château Mouton Rothschild, and Château Lafite Rothschild. The fourth, Château Haut-Brion, is in the Graves region of Bordeaux.

      At Château Lynch-Bages the bilingual – and rather solemn – young tour guide of the female persuasion walked us through the on-site winery, and explained everything in the minutest detail, including the change from the wooden vats used for fermenting up to the 1970s, to the modern stainless steel vats. The old wooden vats, and associated equipment, had been retained in an excellent museum. The enormous physical effort of winemaking in the old days, compared with the mechanised processes of the modern era, was apparent.

      At various places in the old winemaking area, and particularly on the first floor, were examples of modern art paintings, very large, produced by a German artist whose name I was determined not to record. I remarked to a few of my fellow tour members, ‘German merde. Makes a change from French merde!’, which resulted in some vigorous nodding of heads. I took photographs of several paintings, not quite believing how awful they were. By this time, a number of the tour members – notably the English-speaking ones – had become quite vocal in their criticism of the art. ‘Wouldn’t have one if you gave it to me’, someone remarked. Paul, as usual, had the last word on the subject, ‘The château owners really shouldn’t buy art when they’re pissed!’ I could only agree.

      In Bordeaux I had bought a bottle of 1981 Château Lynch-Bages for around 120 euros, and wasn’t about to give up this opportunity to ask our tour guide if she knew the vintage. The timing of my question was very fortuitous, she declared gravely, for she herself had been born in 1981, and she’d drunk a bottle of that very vintage the previous weekend to celebrate her birthday. She declared it excellent, which pleased me. But then, what else would she say? I was reminded of the response I had from a lady working in a wine shop in Burgundy many years previously, after I’d enquired whether a particular bottle – a rather expensive one – was from a ‘good’ vintage. ‘Zey are all good vintages, monsieur’, she had replied tersely. I’m quite sure she believed it.

      The lunch at a restaurant some distance from the château was a major disappointment. I assumed someone in the wine tour business had negotiated an onerous contract with the restaurant, and we were to suffer as a result. It emerged that both the starter and the main course were to consist of fish. We hadn’t been informed of this, nor were we offered an alternative. The starter of a tiny pickled sardine, with a little salad, set the tone for what was to come. A young lady from New Zealand picked at it nervously, as if she believed it contained a hefty dose of polonium. She ate a tiny portion of the sardine before abandoning her heroic effort.

      A bottle of a modest Médoc was served with the first course, and one of the men on our table somehow managed to divide it equally between the ten people on the table, a feat that would have been quite beyond me.

      The main course consisted of a fillet of indeterminate white fish wrapped in a short length of paper-thin ham. Now I’m not a great fish eater myself, so I started at one end of the fillet, only to find five or six very sharp bones. I gave up in disgust, but ten minutes later made a renewed effort, and found those had been the only bones in the fillet.

      A single bottle of 2001 Lynch-Bages accompanied the second course, and it was excellent. I looked forward to the 1981 with even greater anticipation. Paul then asked for a glass of white wine, but the maitre d’ explained there would be a supplement for white wine, whereupon Paul’s face became an ominous-looking purple. I told the maitre d’ that was fine, ordered the white wine, and with some effort calmed Paul down. He was still moaning bitterly about the matter a week later.

      The final course was a choice between cheese, and a pineapple slice cooked with brown sugar, and ice cream. I opted for the cheese, and was duly presented with two small pieces, which combined were maybe the size of a Dairylea triangle, and two grapes – one green, one red. Paul had opted for the pineapple option, and needless to say he wasn’t impressed.

      The third château and estate was Château Pichon-Longueville-Comtesse-de-Lalande, on the extreme southern border of the Pauillac commune, adjacent to the more famous Château Latour estate. The coach tour guide spoke at length about the estate, explaining that she was writing a book on the estate and its history.

      Before we tasted the wine we were shown two museums of objects belonging to the owners. The first had examples of glass objects up to the nineteenth century, and objects related to wine and winemaking. The quality level was outstanding. But the upstairs museum was a real eye-opener, displaying a collection of large ornamental glass objects of exquisite quality, all produced in the 20th or 21st centuries. They merited a visit to the estate on their own. I took a number of photographs, but they didn’t do them justice.

      We were permitted to walk on the manicured lawn behind the château, and to admire the gardens, swimming pool and more besides. There were worse families to be born into than this one, Paul and I reflected.

      We were given a small glass of the 2004 vintage to taste, and while it was pleasant, it didn’t compare with the 2001 Lynch-Bages. But I gratefully downed both my own glass and Paul’s, and remarked to Paul how beautiful the house and grounds were. He agreed, adding, ‘Yes, we could almost be in England!’

      We returned to Mirambeau just as the Super U was about to shut. A short woman of maybe 60 years of age crossed in front of the car, and we both agreed she was possibly the ugliest woman we’d ever seen. Une trogette of the highest order. A minute later a short man in a rusty old Peugeot parked and emerged from his car, and we both agreed he was possibly the ugliest man we’d ever seen. Un trog of the highest order. Paul speculated that pork chops would have to be hung around the necks of these people to persuade the village dogs to play with them.

      Both shared an endearing feature, the lower jaw jutting out prominently beyond the upper jaw. We speculated they might be related, the result of a bizarre genetic experiment in the area or – more likely – the outcome of extensive inbreeding in the Mirambeau area over several centuries. John Prescott would be a real ‘looker’ in these parts.

      On the way back to the gite we stopped at a zebra crossing for an old lady of extreme frailty. Unfortunately we stopped when she was only a yard or two into the crossing, and at two or three points in her lengthy journey across the road she actually stopped, presumably to recover her strength. We were worried that she might actually have expired at one point, because with two sticks she was no more likely to fall over than a three-legged table.

      So agonisingly slow was her progress that I reflected I had plenty of time to go to the car boot, get my camera out, and take a picture of the heroic woman. She managed a feeble wave of appreciation once she’d crossed, as if nobody had ever stopped for her before. Paul moaned with some feeling that if he hadn’t stopped we’d have still passed five yards in front of her, and returned to the gite half an hour earlier.

      That evening Mark – from the adjoining gite – told us СКАЧАТЬ