neither critique nor review…

He may have been given this as a sample which means the story he pulls from delving into its depths may be convoluted. There may be a favorable kickback in mind for a handshake crony, a pat on the back for his favoritism, and then a little extra something special slipped into the goody-bag for later. Objectivity lost. Purity compromised. There cannot be anything to wine but that which resides in the strictest technical sense. There are metrics to be honored. There must be standards.

He had asked for the bottle to come without a label, knowing visualization outside of the glass can influence taste. In the old times this was never a problem, being able to crawl down into the deepest and darkest cellars, dusting off the bottle, understanding that the winemaker new what it was without demarcation.  But now his distaste for bar codes has cast so many a negative spell on wine that deserved a fairer look. And now this degrading solicitation with expectation lurks before his nose and as he stares into the glass, closing his eyes, he can only hope the journey leads down an un-manicured path.

Many of the old vineyards are mostly trampled or uprooted. The hills upon hills of sweet flowers and vines along Rasteau are now sparse and in-between, mostly flattened where tanks tread and armaments are fortified as if one world war fought on mother soil wasn’t enough. All the good vintages, if found, are shipped via rail back to Germany. We thought they’d stay in Bordeaux and Champagne but their thievry and gluttony knows no bounds. And now the only scent in the air is that of the oils of broken machinery and fear. But tonight this negociante’ need not give up these spoils so easily. Even with the risk of severe punishment, the occupiers will not take this one. Its fruit will give its all in time and we will allow it to take us back home and we will bury the bottle deep when finished. Tonight there will be but one execution.