Last night we had a person for dinner who possibly likes artisanal wines even more than I do. And so I opened my one great bottle, a 1990 Chablis Grand Cru, made from 70 year old vines. Old vines are like old people – they have the wisdom and capacity to produce something infinitely more complex than their young counterparts, but they do it at a dwindling pace, so that the yield becomes less each year. At some point you have to scrap the whole batch because you can’t afford to keep it going, even though the grapes can be phenomenal. I bought this wine from a winemaker (Sebastian Dauvissat) who was young enough to be in high school when it was bottled. His enthusiasm was magnificent. I almost wanted to devote myself to a life of viticulture from that moment onwards. I think I’d be good at pruning vines during the short winter days.
Opening the bottle was much less satisfying than knowing it was waiting, retaining perfection, wisdom, maturity. But it had to be done: at some point you have to let go of your stored savings, be they material (wine?) or otherwise, and live.
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