SOME FRIENDS TOOK ME TO DINNER

On the country out past the edge of Champagne viticulture spread rolling wheatfields. I shall never forget their aroma one day just before harvest when there came a sunshower. Good champagne often smells like this. But this new baby on the left is more like malting barley ready to go after the same light rain. I remember Remi Krug talking about brioche aromas in his family's wine one night while we were getting properly Krugged. This is past Chet Baker with strings in that division. It is a sinful fleshy utterly memorable drink.

I first wrote memorable luxury but it is in fact a drink. Even the perfidious miasma of over-peated whisky from Tasmania that woke me with this morning's first exhalations fell to the memory of this dream all over my mouth.

Certain the end of time was nigh, some friends took me to dinner last evening. Aged steak from Ian at Ellis the butcher on the charcoal. Sit back. Drink. Remember to eat. Chew.

The Chardonnay was as fresh as a lemon; the red ones with a Big House on the front became a sensuous swoon through the high cirrus of Bordeaux, with very deep soul. The one in the middle with the gold ink took the cake. Was the cake. Nearly impossible. Totally Bordolating.

Sorry if it's not gold. I'm colourblind.

In cheeky contrast to these was the thinking man's stubby. The Pinot despatched after the Chardonnay was a totally rakish brat of a thing from barrels which musta been made by a mathematician. Black snake. Astonishing. Whip me.

In the morning the whole goddam world was still there. But it has a better tint. So I made a photograph of the empties before my morning toast.  

Just plain dry toast with nuthin' thanks.