But how many do? How many start, toddle along for a bit and then finish, all without very much happening?
I’m not sure that a short story is the right comparison – even the shortest is too long for the compressed experience of a mouthful of wine. A poem, perhaps. Not the Inferno: too long. Not The Lady of Shallot: too – well, just too. John Donne? Depends on the wine. How about a Shakespeare sonnet? ‘Shall I compare thee to a Cabernet/ Thou art more lovely and more temperate’ – that sort of thing? It’s not a bad comparison: that perfectly controlled development, then the resolution in the last two lines. Wines should emerge on the palate; different notes should pop up, perhaps to be reabsorbed as others take over. What I’m talking about is complexity.
I have been to several tastings lately where highly accomplished winemakers have talked at some length about the complexity and fascination of their wines. And then, when I taste them, I wonder if we’re talking about the same wines. Even allowing for the demands of salesmanship, the gap between the talk and what’s happening in the glass is a bit much. One starts to fidget, talk to one’s neighbor, doodle on the tasting sheet. The wines, in all cases, have been perfectly all right, and sometimes even beautifully balanced and polished. But complex? No. Not remotely. They start, they go on for a bit, and they finish. They have nothing to say except Hello – even if their accent is perfect.
This is where I am really glad I am not a winemaker. How do you get complexity into a wine? The grower’s answer would be terroir: great terroir gives complexity. Which it does, once you’ve worked out how to turn its quirks to your advantage. Historically, if you had a wealthy, demanding, often urban market, then you had every inducement to plant better grapes and make the best wine you could.
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