Two buzzes sounded in quick succession. Everyone stopped and looked up. There was a cross next to Paul, the flamboyant London wine merchant, and a second against Fernanda. How far had I progressed? Maybe thirty wines. Not even one fifth of the way through. With five lives, I could only afford one mistake every thirty-six wines. Push on.
A series of Chardonnays slowed me down – a winemaker can cloak such wines with oak, obscuring the tell-tale character of the fruit, and the variation between vintages can trick you into thinking the wine is from a different country completely. I had to concentrate, hard.
The Italian Chardonnay from Friuli was elegant and lean, like the recently widowed owner who had shown me round her picturesque hillside winery before showing me round her house, then her bedroom. A Marlborough Chardonnay spoke of the cooling Pacific breeze, a bite of green apple and mineral-rich soil. A white Burgundy was richer but immaculately balanced, a Barossa Chardonnay less poised but rewarding if you know what you’re doing, like bedding a female rugby player after eight pints of Victoria Bitter.
I spotted the white Rioja straight away. It was a mean trick by the Institute to place such a similarly oaked white next to the Chardonnays, but there was no mistaking the hints of almond and hazelnut over the rich fruit, nor could I supress the memory of a night in Madrid when Sofia, a student of radical feminist studies, grabbed my belt with one hand and fed me salted almonds with the other, ordering me to whisper non-patriarchal filth into her ear.
Frog was looking pretty impressed. I had tried to block the noise of the buzzer, which was now sounding every couple of minutes. I had to concentrate! I lifted the next glass, sending the golden liquor spinning within the deep crystal bowl. But perhaps a tiny speck of hubris had lodged itself in my palate, for as I nosed into the rim and inhaled, a vivid scene exploded before me. A fabulous, voluptuous young woman, with shoulder-length black hair, sat opposite me, cross-legged, on a too-small bed. She blew smoke through the open window as I refilled two glass tumblers with a simple wine, a bottle of local Athenian plonk.
“Savatiano, Attica region,” I said confidently.
Frog took a step back and immediately raised his hand. The buzzer sounded and my blood ran cold. My eyes rose to the screen and, sure enough, there was now a red cross next to Hart. I wasn’t doing too badly, everyone except Fritz, the most intensely intellectual of our group, had at least one cross against their name, some had two or three. But it knocked my confidence for a moment. How had I got it wrong? I took another sniff.
“No point in dwelling, Mr Hart. You don’t get a second chance.”
Sod off, Frog, I thought. I was determined to work out how I’d made the mistake – the vision of my Greek filenáda had been so vivid. Then I remembered. It was a lads’ holiday on the island of Ios, we’d got together with a larger group of foreigners and were having a roaring old time in a small taverna. I was chatting to the waitress, insisting on the best wine in the house while my yokel friends screamed for cheap plonk. She was amused at my pretensions, and when my companions were ready to move on I stayed behind. We drank Assyrtiko, from the nearby island of Santorini. It was only later that night, as she flicked cigarette ash into an empty tobacco tin on her window sill, her generous breasts shining in the moonlight, that we moved onto the cheap bottle of Savatiano.
I had confused my chat-up wine with the post-coital plonk. For a moment, I was embarrassed and ashamed. Pull yourself together, Hart, I muttered. You have another hundred wines to taste. I realised I was quite significantly under the influence of alcohol.
I took a deep breath and pushed on. There were only a few more whites and I nailed them one at a time, carefully but confidently. A Chenin Blanc from Savennières, bright with apple and pine, a touch of wet face flannel on the finish. Another Chenin from South Africa’s Swartland, more generous in fruit, rather less flannel. A star-bright juicy-sweet Riesling from the Mösel, followed by a more muscular, dry one from Western Australia.
Then the final white, an incredible, perfumed riot of flavour. It was a Torrontés from Argentina, almost certainly from the high-altitude Salta region. Frog nodded. I had drunk a similar bottle with Valentina the day before she flew back to Mendoza for Christmas. She’d challenged me to bring the highest-altitude wine I could find and promised that, on that night, I could thrust into her as many times as there were metres in the altitude of the vineyard. A three-hour round trip to an obscure Sussex wine merchant later, I arrived at Valentina’s apartment and presented the Salta Torrontés, made from grapes grown at 2,150 metres. She was delighted and so began our climb, Valentina counting out loud in breathless shouts. Gazing at her shapely bare derriere, I have to confess I reached my summit rather earlier than I intended, but I do recommend it as a memorable way to learn to count in Spanish.
4.2
Come On, You Reds
By the time I reached the rosé I realised I had an enormous erection. I suspected I’d been sporting it all the way through the tasting. Hells bloody bells, what had Madame Joubert put in her new, souped-up blend?
I cantered on through the pink wines, knocking off the first few – a slightly cloying Cabernet from Chile, a semi-sweet juicy number from the Loire, a deep pink from Provence, generous and knowing. Then another mistake and Frog’s hand shot up once more. A rosé Merlot, but I’d assumed it was Australian and, of course, it was Californian. Silly mistake, I should have spotted the influence of the Pacific fog, rolling through the Monterrey vineyards, but my rosé experience was less broad than it should have been.
I glanced at the stopwatch, which showed just over an hour remaining. The rosés were now behind me and I marched on into the reds. The first were light, more like deep pinks than reds. There was a bubble-gum Gamay from Beaujolais, evoking an energetic, no-knickers cycling holiday around the Mâconnais with my French exchange partner. A Ruby Cabernet from California’s Central Valley, a Cabernet Franc from Anjou, then straight away I spotted the cheeky, earthy notes of a Bulgarian Merlot, just like the wines I used to enjoy with Georgi at his favourite Plovdiv restaurant.
Then another buzz sounded, not me thank God, but this time accompanied by a howl and the sound of tinkling glass. The audience gave an ahh! of dismay and I looked towards the commotion. Fernanda had incurred her fifth penalty and was standing dejected, half-way down her table.
“Ms Guerra has sinned against the gods,” intoned the Invocator. “Take her from this place,” he added rather cruelly. Her Frog stood, head bowed, as a bearded man with a staff took Fernanda’s arm and led her to the exit.
And so we were fourteen. I glanced up at the board. Fernanda’s name had been struck through and three other Initiates had incurred four crosses. Several more had three and nearly all the rest, including yours truly, had two. The exception was Fritz, the uber-focused German, who had just one cross. That must have annoyed him, I smirked to myself.
But I was a long way from the finishing post. I estimated I’d knocked off around one hundred wines but I already felt more than a little unsteady – hardly surprising, considering I had swallowed one hundred mouthfuls. I prayed the pasta would continue its job of lining my stomach. Fifty minutes left and counting.
A few more reds knocked off. Lots of Pinot Noir, a wine of which I am a close student. There was a cold-eyed, perfectly fruity number from Chile’s Limari Valley, right on the edge of the Atacama Desert. An elegant little drop from South Africa’s Hemel-en-Aarde Valley, wearing its considerable sophistication lightly. A dry, gorgeously herbaceous gem from New Zealand’s Central Otago. I shuddered slightly at the memory of that one, not because the wine was bad – far from it – but because I had crowned a wine tasting with a bungee jump over the Kawarau River. At the top of the first bounce I regurgitated a spittoon-worth of Pinot Noir and, unfortunately, caught up with it on the way down again.
The buzzer sounded twice more. When it happened a third time, within the same minute, I knew some of my fellow Initiates were starting to flag. Never mind them, Felix, stay
focused.
The next couple were red Burgundies. A young Hautes-Côtes de Nuits and an aristocratic Vosne-Romanée. Maps of vineyards and soil topography reeled through my mind – this was a minefield of overlapping regions and confusing appellations. A whiff of horse stables and cough medicine announced a couple more Burgundies, then the wines were growing bolder, richer, as the focus switched to Bordeaux and some heavier grape varieties – a muscular Fitou, a silky Malbec, rich Rioja and assertive Chianti.
Then my Frog’s hand wavered before lifting high.
“Fuck!” I swore, like a drunken arsehole, which is exactly what I was.
Frog hadn’t been too sure of that one, I must have been close. Wrong sub-region within Chianti, no doubt. Another schoolboy error but the fatigue was starting to bite and I could feel the layers of red tannin building on my teeth and lips.
Another buzz and this time a shout of frustration rang out, alongside a sigh of sympathy from the audience. Vicente Casales, the sommelier from Madrid, was out. He marched from the hall under his own considerable steam, a bearded staff-bearer hurrying after him.
“Señor Casales has sinned against the gods!” hammed the Invocator, gravely.
Another oaky Rioja. Then a Ribera del Duero, a neighbouring region that uses the same Tempranillo grapes. A filthy trick but I’d spotted it. Up yours Minstrels. My many days of study in the vineyards of Castile had served me well, not to mention my evenings careering through the bars of Valladolid, horny as a Pamplona bull after a Viagra enema.
Another buzz and a scream like a banshee. It made me jump and I nearly spluttered my Uruguayan Tannat across the clean linen. Thank the gods I didn’t – it would have meant instant disqualification. Letitia Tressingham-White, the humourless upper-class bore who loved to boast about the size of her father’s wine collection, had just incurred her fifth buzz.
“Damn you! Damn you all, you beasts! How can anybody be expected to do this? It’s impossible, impossible!” She burst into tears and was escorted to the exit.
“Ms Tressingham-White has sinned against the gods!”
I looked up at the board – and nearly toppled over backwards from vertigo. Christ, I was as pissed as a priest at Christmas. When I finally focused, I saw the board was a sea of red crosses. Three were now out, five more had four crosses, the rest of us had three, barring Fritz with just one.
More wines. A Primitivo from Puglia, the heel of Italy, bursting with dark, cooked plum and fig. Then a leap to the Alpine end of the same country, a stunning old Barbaresco, bubbling with rustic fruit, crushed tomato leaves and a hint of silage.
Another buzz. “Merde! Merde!” Hervé had lost his last life. But the studious young sommelier was not going without a fight. He swept a dozen wine glasses onto the floor, where they shattered and tinkled on the floorboards. A bearded staff-bearer came running and prodded Hervé with the carved pinecone at the end of his staff. Hervé grabbed it and a tussle ensued, with two more staff bearers grabbing him from behind. He was dragged bodily from the hall, cursing in French all the way to the door.
There was quite a noise from the audience now, until the Invocator banged his staff on the ground. “Monsieur Moreau has sinned against the gods!”
No sooner had the door swung shut than another commotion erupted right behind me. It was Alessandra, the Italian buyer. She had fainted from over-drinking, collapsing face forward onto the table, red wine pooling around her head like a particularly gruesome murder scene. The bearded wonders were being kept busy, and they sweated as they dragged the unconscious young woman to the door, her legs trailing behind her.
“Signora Rey has sinned against the gods!”
The wines, the wines. How many more to go? Maybe thirty? They were all hefty numbers now, full bodied and taking no prisoners. A huge Jumilla, grown just inland from Alicante, pregnant with oozing, jammy fruit. A rich young Saint Emilion, arrogantly flaunting its cassis and cigar box bouquet. A Pinotage from Stellenbosch, fat and self-satisfied like a wealthy old boer.
Another buzz and a glass slammed on the table. It was Calandra Kritikos, the Greek winery owner. She strutted down the hall, head held high. Unfortunately, under the influence of nearly two hundred glasses of wine, not to mention an impressively high pair of heels, she stumbled and fell headlong on the floor. She picked herself up and weaved to the doorway.
“Ms Kritikos has sinned against the gods!”
“Gamo ton Christo sou!” she shouted, raising her middle finger to the Invocator. Good for her, I thought.
I was down to the last twenty or so, with eighteen minutes left. The Aussies were out in force now, with blockbuster fruit and hefty alcohol. A Coonawarra Cabernet. A Barossa Shiraz. Great wines, but by this stage it was like being mugged by a giant prune in brandy. Then another deep, chocolaty wine. Portuguese, from the south, a Trincadeira, I was sure of it. Where had I tried it? The Algarve? No, must be from the Alentejo, all that coffee and spice.
Frog’s hand went up and the buzzer sounded. Fuck it! Must have been the Algarve after all.
I stumbled for a second and had to grasp the table. Christ on a bike, I didn’t think I could make it. The remaining glasses swam and doubled before my eyes. Another buzz sobered me up and I heard tears. The audience ‘ahhh’d’ in sympathy. It was Enrica, another Italian lady. She leant over the table and puked heavily through her tears. The audience changed to an appalled ‘uuurgh’ and several Frogs came running with buckets of sand, which they poured over the vomit, presumably to mask the smell. One of them offered Enrica his empty pail, which she used to evacuate the rest of her stomach before she was escorted out.
I took long deep breaths and checked the scoreboard. There were eight of us left. Then the buzzer sounded once more. Before my eyes, Paul Unterman, the flamboyant English wine merchant, incurred his final penalty and his name was struck through.
“Oh bugger,” he declared, as he staggered to the door, leaning on a staff bearer. “Farewell, farewell dear Minstrels! I tried!” The audience applauded, somewhat drowning the Invocator’s florid declaration of sin.
So there were seven of us left – five in last-chance saloon, with four crosses each, while Hugo had three and, astonishingly, the forensic Fritz had just two. I stood up straight, keeping my hand on the table for support. If only I could dose myself with my other sachet of Madame Joubert’s. But Frog was hovering at my elbow, not to mention the eyes of hundreds of Minstrels upon me.
There were ten minutes left on the countdown clock and a dozen glasses remaining. With every sinew, I focused on the remaining wines. Take it steady. A Napa Valley Cabernet, a couple more Bordeaux, an aged Barolo. Good work, that’s four more down.
What the fuck was this? It tasted funky, like a crazed cider-maker had dipped his dong in the barrel and thrown in a mouldy apple for good luck. It was cloudy and had a very slight fizz. Of course, it was one of these lunatic ‘natural wines’ – sulphur-free, meaning every stray yeast cell and wild bacterium was having a shag-a-thon in the bottle. Who was idiot enough to make a wine like this? It had to be French. It was relatively light, from a cooler part of the country. The Loire? Yes, that was it. A Cabernet Franc, I was sure of it. Saumur-Champigny.
Frog nodded. Thank the gods. I was down to the last half-dozen. Five minutes on the clock. Shit!
The audience burst into a round of applause. Fritz had completed the tasting with only two penalty points. Then the applause rose again. I saw Valentina with her arms in the air, shouting with glee, she’d made it too. I stole a glance at the others. Hugo, right next to me, was on his fourth-last glass. He was sniffing and frowning at it. Russell, an insufferably arrogant sommelier from a celebrity restaurant in Mayfair, was down to the last six, same as me. Tallah, a Lebanese lady who ran a specialist wine importer, was further behind, maybe twenty more to go. I didn’t fancy her chances.
The applause faded quickly, everyone conscious of the intense pressure on the remaining Initiates. Next wine. It came straight to me, Portuguese ag
ain, from the Douro Valley. It brought back the riverfront in Porto, picking at olives and sheep’s milk cheese as the sun set, watching the metro trains rattle over the old iron Luís I Bridge.
Five to go. This was a Malbec from Mendoza, a humdinger of a wine, glistening with tarry fruit. Valentina must have smiled when she tasted that one. She’d probably made the wine herself.
Four more. I picked up the glass and gave the stem a little flick. I gave a little gasp and couldn’t believe my nostrils. What a cunning, evil joke to play. It was a Shiraz, obviously. But equally obviously, it was a Rhone wine, a Côte-Rôtie. Any expert would tell you that… but I knew it wasn’t, because I’d drunk this very wine sitting next to a fire in the Karoo, shortly before I was molested by a leopard. It was one of Wikus’s.
“Shiraz. Swartberg Pass, Great Karoo border,” I whispered to Frog, nonchalantly.
I could see he was absolutely astonished. This one was supposed to knacker everyone. In your face, Minstrels! I looked over at Hugo, he’d been nursing it for a couple of minutes and he could tell there was something funny about it. He whispered in his Frog’s ear and the arm went up. Oh dear. At least he had one life left. But snotty little Russell didn’t. He was on his last life and I would have paid good money to see him cock it up. But I didn’t have time to dawdle – I had three wines left and ninety seconds on the clock.
I lifted the third-last glass. It was sweet and cloying, they had picked dessert wines for the final three. This was a Rutherglen Muscat, a gorgeous Aussie number. I recalled drinking it by the gallon on my Charlie’s Cellar educational trip down under.
Next was a vintage Port, no mistaking it. Single estate, I was pretty sure I knew the exact one.
Last glass. A buzzer sounded. It was Russell. Sure enough, he’d been brought down by Wikus’s palate-bending wine. I could hear his whining: “Well what is it then? It’s a Côte-Rôtie, dammit! Tell me what it is then!”
There was another round of applause, not for Russell’s eviction but for Juliette, a French wine journalist. She had completed the tasting. I saw her stagger from the end of the table into Valentina arms, giving her a big hug. Then the applause rose again, together with cheers of bravo! Hugo had made it home too.
Corkscrew Page 22