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Lorraine Mace |
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Surviving Judgement Day |
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My qualifications to judge wine could be written in large letters on the back of a small wine label. But when asked to attend the annual wine judging of the Vignerons Indépendants de France, I didn’t even consider declining. Each year, vintages from all over France are judged. The invitation called for arrival at 8 am impérativement. By 8.45 over 600 participants had been directed to tables. Fifteen bottles of wine stood on each table, the contents hidden by numbered covers. Napkins were handed out, water and bread to cleanse and neutralise the palette positioned at the ready, and we were off. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock and I had a glass in my hand. It was going to be a long day. The professionals waxed lyrical over the appearance and bouquet of the first wine. Swirling the glass and inhaling deeply, they recognised several fragrances that completely eluded me. I sipped, savoured, and swallowed. My companions made little bubbling noises, deep in thought, before expertly spitting into the container that I’d taken to be a wine cooler. We had a brief discussion then marked the wine on our score sheets. Well, to be truthful, they discussed and I agreed. As the morning progressed my mouth became dryer and my senses swam. I’d picked up the spitting routine, but my technique needed refinement, as I still swallowed a little of each wine. I began to detect aromas, but kept quiet. The only two I could identify were coffee and fish, and I didn’t feel that announcing ‘café et poisson’ would win me any friends. We eventually reached the end of the white wine tasting and decided on the medal contenders. The bottles were then replaced with seventeen bottles of red. To my palette they were all superb. Unable to perceive the subtle differences between them, I left my colleagues (any more wine and they’d have been my best friends) to decide which bottles to nominate for medals. Afterwards we were directed downstairs for a pre-lunch aperitif. (Hic) During lunch we were invited to taste (and spit or not, as one wished) any or all of the wines from cases placed next to each table. Everyone sipped and spat apart from one gentleman, who was having some difficulty keeping his eyes open. In fact, one eye resisted all efforts at control and the eyelid drooped forlornly. He continually filled his glass to the brim and drank deeply. Soon both eyes were shut and he’d developed a sway, his ability to remain upright on the chair was profoundly impressive. More bottles arrived and my taste buds held up the white flag of surrender. After lunch we were directed to coaches waiting to take us to designated wine farms. Our determined imbiber lifted himself with great dignity and went to find his coach. He’d drunk enough to inebriate a small village, but was able to walk without a stagger, très formidable. At the wine farm there were three different vintages to taste, but I’d reached saturation point. I was ready to climb on the wagon. I’d even build one first if necessary. Meanwhile our semi-somnambulant lunch companion drank all three with alacrity. I was in awe of his capacity. The next stop was a bottling plant, followed by a tour of a cave with yet more tasting. Alcoholics Anonymous had never looked more inviting. Dry of mouth and heavy of head, I was amazed I could still stand. I hope I get an invitation next year After all I now know so much more about wine, not least how to spit it out. © Lorraine Mace 2005 |
